Kingsley
Idon’t wake until four p.m.
My sister and I didn’t make it back until two in the morning, and naturally, I slept the day away.
It wasn’t as if I planned to leave the house anyway, nor was I expected to.
All the meaningful tasks go to everyone else, like intel gathering, making deals, and roughing up those who think they’re above the Crowncrest.
The Crowncrest is a major crime outfit my ancestors started ages ago, which has since been passed down to my father, and has recruited different folks from all over. What began as a small Black gang has grown into one of the most extensive and powerful crime organizations in the world.
My sister Aralynn is in Italy doing all the entertaining jobs, yet the most interesting work I’ve received in the last year is waiting for cargo shipments at the dock, and even that’s not frequent.
My sisters are getting all the work I used to handle, and if I had any fucks left to give, I’d be fuming.
And that isn’t me saying my sisters aren’t bad-ass; both Aralynn and Odette could individually take down a group of five men in a matter of minutes thanks to the extensive, borderline abusive training we endured growing up.
But considering I’m the one to step up when Dad bows out, giving all the jobs to them has to be a poor decision.
I’m sure if I pushed back on my dad, he’d have me doing all my old tasks again, but finding my will to care lately has been impossible. So instead, I spend most of my time either checking off shipments, managing the resort, or letting the hours pass as I do nothing in my bedroom.
My parents own a hotel chain called Beaumont Grand Hotel they just couldn’t see it.
The man I was before would have slit the throat of the bastard who took my wife from me. That was who everyone was expecting, and who everyone still wants. He was my father’s successor, the future leader of the Crowncrest, the one destined to lead.
But now they only have me. I’ll have to teach them to love me.
I lean forward to get in better earshot of their private conversation, but then it hits me.
Throughout my twenty-one years of living, I have never overheard a conversation between my parents that I wasn’t supposed to.
With all the enemies they have, Xavier and Mya Beaumont don’t let people eavesdrop on them—not even their children.
They know I’m listening, and they want me to.
I step into the doorway, hands behind my back and chest up, right before my parents. They’re in the bedroom’s center, eyes on me before I even make an entrance.
Mom presses her hand against her chest, eyes battling between affection and apprehension. She walks up to me on her long, toned legs and wraps me into a bear hug, making my face nuzzle into her afro.
“Good afternoon,” she whispers.
My movements are rigid as I pat her on the back. “Afternoon.”
She steps back, and my dad comes beside her. The silence is thick between us, but I don’t fill in the gap.
“Kingsley,” Dad says, his gaze dark as he looks at me. “We have a job for you.”
“Is a parent angry their kid got his hand stuck in the mini golf hole again?” I ask dryly, since the only thing I’ve been good for lately is making cameo appearances to frustrated guests, soothing them with discounts and free items so they’ll stop whining.
“No, son. We have a real job for you. I feel it’s time for you to get back into the business, don’t you think?”
If it means I don’t have to keep doing the busy-work jobs we pay others to do, I’m down. Maybe returning to how things used to be might bring back a fraction of the intense, yet unburdened manner in which I used to live.
“Well, what is it?”
The corner of my dad’s lip tugs in a sly grin. I look to Mom, but her neutral expression has been indecipherable for as long as I can remember. What the hell is this job?
Dad’s shoulder brushes against mine as they leave the room. He speaks with his back to me. “We will explain at tonight’s dinner. Dress nicely, King.”
My stomach knots. “Business dinner?”
Mom turns over her shoulder, her brows knit together. “Yes. Would you rather a business breakfast? Lunch?”
Her tone is condescending, but it’s more because she’s confused than anything else, even though she knows I’ve always disliked sitting at tables with old heads talking endlessly about numbers and figures.
Dinners with families like the Moonclafs and Crenshaws, where we discussed the less legal aspects of our lives, were at least interesting. The ones with investors? Not so much.
And for other reasons, the dinners have been much shittier than usual lately.
I shake my head.
“It’s at six,” Dad says after a pause.
“Alright,” I mumble, eyes trailing to the ground.
With her arm around her husband, Mom’s cinnamon eyes stare straight into my soul. “And please don’t pick at Zara’s food like you haven’t been eating it since you were five. It is childish behavior in front of everyone, sweetheart. And I’m sure it doesn’t make Zara feel good.”
Zara has been our chef for as long as I’ve been alive, and is by far the staff member I’m closest to.
This is the woman who used to make me pancakes for breakfast every day because I’d ask.
I’d never want to make her feel as though I don’t enjoy her food, but I think the part of me that died with Sylvie was the same part that used to gobble up Zara’s cooking like I’d never eaten before.
They leave me to get myself ready, and I fight the urge to go for a drive to avoid this dinner I’ve had no time to mentally prepare for. My sisters and I have been attending them since we were young kids, and they haven’t gotten any better.
We used to sit and watch the meetings when we were kids. Later on, Dad began bringing us into the discussions and teaching us the ins and outs of their discussions and the business language they used. He used to say that the better deals were sealed in meetings where food was involved.
He’s always put more focus on teaching me, aiming for me to succeed him, and he taught me more than the business stuff.
By the time I was eighteen, he felt he had sufficiently shaped me to have our men take orders from me.
Being the one to call the shots, though under my father’s watchful gaze, was a lesson in itself.
The members of the Crowncrest are still to take orders from me, but I’m not in on the business much anymore, so there hasn’t been a need to. They listen to Aralynn and Odette more than they do me.
For dinner, I put on slacks and a white button-down shirt, and I style my hair with a shit-ton of curl cream and gel. I look decent enough for tonight.
With a nervous churn in my stomach, I push open the large double doors, revealing the marble dining table so long it spans the room.
As the sun sets, its light pours through the expansive windows, making the flower statues in the corners sparkle, especially the one that’s missing a large petal.
My cousin and I chipped it while horsing around as kids, and they’ve yet to replace it.
All fifteen heads in the room turn to me. With a swift glance, I don’t spot any unfamiliar faces.
I take the only empty seat left next to Odette. Eyes fixed on the table, I mumble, “Sorry for interrupting.”
“It’s alright, King. You haven’t missed a thing,” Uncle Santiago assures me. “Now that we’re all here, let’s get started.”
Odie side-eyes me, her eyes saying, You’re late. I give her a meaningless shrug. I’m not late, I had two minutes to spare. My sister purses her lips, unconvinced, but says nothing else.
Judging by the lack of presence from our allies’ families, this is a dinner to discuss the resort’s finances. Great. My father introduces a new person to our gathering, but I pay no attention to who it is.
I don’t even see the point in my being here. If we’re speaking about the resort, then what does it have to do with a job for me?
With a flick of her lengthy hair, dyed blue to hide the grays, Zara struts in, a tray of shrimp cocktail bowls in hand. She puts one in front of each of us, beaming with pride over her creation, and I’m trying my hardest not to make a distasteful face.
I dip the tail into the red sauce, and excess drips back into the cup. While everyone else is chowing down, I take my time, chewing it like it’s a drag. It’s foreign on my tongue, and each swallow is like a rock going down my throat. When will dinner be over?
“Which is why one of our conditions is for my son, Kingsley, to be a part of these advertisements.”
My ears perk at the mention of my name, and when my head shoots up, eyes are already on me. Part of advertisements? Did I hear that right?
I ball my fist as I clear my throat. “I’ll be doing what, exactly?”
Dad adjusts his tie. “You’ll be partnering with Rip and Thomas in their two-week marketing campaign here at the resort.”
I can’t stop the pull of my face into a puzzled scrunch. I think I need to get my ears cleaned because there is no way I heard that correctly. “Marketing campaign?”
A collective sigh sounds from those around me, and Mom pinches the bridge of her nose.
Shit. This must be the solution for our last marketer who lost the job a month ago. Well, he didn’t only lose his job—he lost his life, but the rest of the world doesn’t know that. It’s what happens when you poke around in places that you shouldn’t.
But seriously, this is the job Dad has for me? Babysitting his new, temporary social media managers and making sure they don’t stumble too close to people and places they shouldn’t?
I almost laugh. Here I was expecting to get a proper task to set me back on the path of leading the Crowncrest. Instead, I get to play civilian for two weeks.
“We’re very good at what we do,” a familiar voice says.
Where have I heard that voice before?
The deep voice continues, “Having the son of Beaumont Grand in our social media advertisements will probably double engagement, even in the two short weeks we’ll be here. And longer, should we be hired long-term.”
My teeth clench as I keep my gaze on my parents. I want to look. No, I have to look because it’s rude not to. Damn it, Kingsley, turn your head and see who’s speaking.
I don’t need to. I’d recognize that incredibly British tone anywhere.
Turning my head to the right, about six people down in the middle of the table, is the guy from the bar. The man with tattoos decorating his whole body and ocean-blue eyes. The guy with the odd name.
Rip.
Our eyes meet the moment I turn, and his stare makes my heart skip a beat. What the hell are the odds of him being the new job my parents have for me?
A sharp pain erupts in my side, and I turn to see my sister had elbowed me. She mouths, You’re staring.
“Oh,” I mumble. “Fun.”
Odette lets out a big-ass sigh.
“Are you good in front of a camera?” the guy beside Rip asks. Thomas, that’s what my dad called him.
I quirk a smile as best I can. “I’ve been in front of cameras my entire life.”
“Which is perfect,” Uncle Santiago speaks for me. “I think you boys will get along great.”
Rip’s lips pull into a closed-lip grin. “So do I.”