Rip #2
We’re at the mini golf place by the clubs and balls, waiting for Kingsley to show up so we can start working.
The air’s thick and gross, the sun’s just peeking out, and I’m already running on pure simmering irritation.
What’s the point in meeting an hour before the gremlins and their parents arrive if by the time we start, they’ll already be here?
To think I could be back at home enjoying my life with a drink in one hand and a lady in my arms, a pleasant end to a long day of negotiating and closing deals, or shaking down a bastard who won’t cooperate with the Requiem. Instead, I’m trying to make a friend like we’re in the damn third grade.
We wait in silence until I check the time again. “Now it’s five minutes.”
“Rip, don’t start,” Thomas sighs, giving me that look.
It doesn’t take much to set me off, but Kingsley has done an exceptional job of getting under my skin in the two days we’ve known each other, and he’s only making it worse. It’s one thing to speak as little as possible to me, but it’s another to waste my precious time.
“I’ll be damned if he thinks he can get away with showing up on his own convenience, as if we don’t have lives.”
“I don’t think that,” a voice declares from behind me.
I spin around. Kingsley, in his loose jeans and baggy T-shirt, stares at me with something just short of offense.
Shit. I wouldn’t have said that to his face. “I’m glad you showed.”
“I wasn’t going to bail.” His tone comes out forceful, and his hardened gaze lingers on me with a flicker of something I can’t quite decipher. “This is my job, just like it’s yours.”
I don’t take my eyes off him, and a tension so thick you could cut it with a knife lingers between us. Even with his shoulders down and empty eyes, hands jammed in his pockets, he’s still got that breath-taking charm everyone raves about.
There was this friend of Thomas’s a few years ago who was out to get us, and I didn’t like him from the start. One can imagine how much I gloated when it came out that he was the son of someone Mother had fucked over and was here for revenge. Reading people is a skill of mine.
But Kingsley? I can’t figure out a damn thing. Everything about him is contradictory. That’s probably why I felt so intrigued by him at the club.
Thomas clears his throat, drawing attention to himself. “Good morning, Kingsley. So, we have visions of what we want to film, but we will need your help. Next to Xavier and Mya, you’re the face of Beaumont Grand, and we can capitalize on that if we do it right.”
Spoken like a true social media enthusiast, my brother.
Kinglsey raises a brow. “By playing mini golf?”
“Precisely.”
Thomas goes into detail about Kingsley’s part.
He’ll shoot a few shots and play like any other guest, then give Thomas’s rehearsed pitch about how exciting family putt-putt is and how this is the ultimate vacation destination.
As my brother explains, Kingsley nods loosely, and I can’t tell if he’s truly listening.
As soon as Kingsley grabs his club and ball, he’s off to the first course, and Thomas and I are right there with him, cameras and scripts in tow to start filming. I tote the equipment with my chest raised and confidence in my gaze, hoping it makes me look like I’m a seasoned pro at this.
We do a few generic shots of Kingsley hitting the ball. He swings so lazily, like he’s not even trying, and it’s as if he’s being held at gunpoint with every shot, but somehow they still go in. He may not like putt-putt, but he isn’t so bad at it.
I hope the audience enjoys seeing Kingsley’s face enough that it won’t matter how much he looks like he’s counting the seconds.
Time drags on, and then suddenly the golf course is open and packed with people. We have to rush to get all the filming done in this one sitting, but luckily, we capture some nice shots with families in the background.
Once we get all the clips Thomas said we needed, we make our way to the exit to discuss the last few things we need. We’re near the exit when Thomas needs to take a leak, leaving me to wait with Kingsley.
This is my shot to break the ice and make up for being a twat earlier. I need to figure out how to break the brick wall Kingsley surrounds himself with sooner rather than later, otherwise I’ll be spending more time than needed in Louisiana.
But before I do, a child appears before me.
The little girl with blonde hair down her back points behind me. “Can you give me the blue one, please?”
I take a second to understand what she’s talking about. Oh, I’m standing in front of the rack of golf balls.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I quirk a smile. “Sure.”
I turn around and search for the blue ones. It should be a simple task—grab one of the dozens of blue golf balls and hand it to the little girl. But the two containers to the far right, meant to be blue, mesh together, making it nearly impossible to tell them apart. I have no clue which to pick.
Seconds pass as I stare at it, dumbfounded, before I guess and pick one up. I bend down and hand it to the child.
I hope it’s blue. “Here.”
Her eyes narrow at the ball, but then her smile returns. “Thank you!”
I tug at my clothes while standing up. That never gets any easier, but it’s either guess or let everyone I talk to know I’m colorblind. The latter always brings on a never-ending slew of questions that I don’t have the time or energy for.
Which means I swap those for people looking at me like I’ve grown an extra eye when I can’t pick a color, exactly like Kingsley’s doing right now. I meet his gaze and my brows furrow, asking, “What?” But he doesn’t look away, jaw clenched, stance firm, challenging me.
“Do we have an issue?” he asks.
I feign a gasp. “So he speaks.”
His lips form a line, unamused. “Only when it’s worth my time.”
“Is this worth your time?” I wait for a response, but he only nods. “Doesn’t seem like it. Out of curiosity, how do you think this persona will go over with the public? Surely they’ll notice your drastic personality change, which, by the way, is like whiplash from the way the media portrays you.”
“I don’t think that’s any of your concern.”
“Seeing as I’m the one making sure these advertisements reach the people, I say that it is.” Shrugging, I turn my back. “I’m only suggesting stuff, but what do I know? I’m only an employee.”
Kingsley stands before me, arms folded across his chest. “Yeah, you’re my employee. I’m your boss, and your attitude will get you nowhere but out the door.”
He holds his glare, and I give it right back. We’re practically the same height, me maybe a smidge taller than him, but nowhere near enough to make him look up at me.
King’s so close I can feel his breath. With two fingers, he taps my temple and says, “Get that into that pretty little head of yours, darling.”
I throw my head back, moving away from his touch as heat crawls up my neck. Darling. It’s so condescending coming from his mouth; he’s patronizing me.
So why don’t I hate it?
Perhaps the same reason I don't mind how his hand has now brushed against my upper thigh a total of three times, despite my best efforts to believe otherwise. Is he even aware that he’s doing it? Doubt it, but I sure am.
I can’t start thinking this way. My goal is to work, gather intel on him, and maybe kill him if it comes down to it. Not fight off a boner every time the man I’m working against happens to brush his hand against my thigh.
He said he’s my boss. If we’re being technical, his parents are above me, but saying that out loud sounds ridiculous. Hell, what am I saying? None of them are above me because this isn’t my fucking job.
Yet another reason we need to speed this along. Kingsley hasn’t got a clue who I am or where I come from. He may think he has the power here, but if things go to shit, he’ll be the first one to feel my tight hands around his throat, squeezing until the light leaves his eyes.
Because if things do fall apart, they’ll take us out if we don’t take them out first.
Kingsley, only inches away, doesn’t move until I give a sharp nod, the fucker.
“Kingsley.” Thomas stands before us again, out of the loo—thank goodness. “We got some good clips to use, so I’ll get started on this right away. Can we do another session tomorrow?”
“That’s good with me.” He gives a closed-lipped smile.
Thomas yaps to Kingsley about what tomorrow will entail, and I follow in silence, shocked at how much my brother has already planned. I have to hand it to him; he’s stepped up his game.
Kingsley listens to Tommy, but doesn’t have much to add as per usual. I’m clutching my pants, chest still tight from what he said. Not only are we off to a bad start at the friendship thing, but he probably loathes me.
I haven’t got him all figured out, but I did see something. Kingsley’s words, albeit few, are very calculated. He has a certain way about him; his eating, his posture, and his fashion all appear thrown-together, but he clearly thinks them through. It’s like he stepped out of some glossy magazine.
Similar to that of a prince.