12. Rip
Rip
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Staring at this bright screen in the dark, I’ve hit another dead end. I’m not surprised—I haven’t been for a long time, but it’s still disappointing. Still, it won’t make me stop searching.
Because one of these days, something promising about my parents’ whereabouts is going to come up.
I do a few more Google searches of different variations, searching from articles to pictures to bloody anything that could give me a hint. But somehow, while clicking around, I find myself browsing stuff about the Beaumonts. Specifically Kingsley.
I can’t help it. After watching him gnaw the skin off a man’s neck a few hours ago, he won’t leave my mind. That’s not an easily forgettable sight.
He was getting his arse beaten—pathetically, at that. Instead of giving up like anyone else would have, his eyes flashed with an animalistic glare, and he found a way to come out on top. That dark, yet isolated look in his eyes was like seeing a completely different person.
Kingsley is a lot more interesting than I thought. I want to know what it’s like inside that pretty little head of his.
I browse through photos of Kingsley and his family from various years. There are loads of photos from business events, going way back to when Kingsley and his sisters were little kids. Even then, they had perfected that “my parents are important, so I am too” smile.
I discover a photograph depicting Kingsley with a trophy in his hands, his face split by a wide grin. Considering his acne, lack of facial hair, and the eagle mascot on his muscle shirt, this has to be him at his private high school.
He’s got a pretty standard build for a teenage guy who’s as active as I’m sure he was when the photo was taken. Seeing him hours ago does not attest to that.
Clearly the difference hasn’t impacted his fighting abilities. If he can’t use his strength, he’ll use his bloody teeth. But comparing him now to this picture only raises more questions in my head.
It’s like with every day that passes, I unlock more lore about the prince.
I’m about to log off for the night, but my eyes get caught on a picture. Blue eyes, robust cheekbones, and a characteristic buck-toothed grin. The only thing missing is the tattoos, but those can be covered up. Those features could belong to anyone, yet the woman feels so familiar.
There is no way. Last time I saw my mother, I was eight. Fifteen years later, it’s stupid to think I would recognize her so easily.
But what boy could forget his mother’s face? Especially the one of a mother who abandoned him.
My heart races as I save the photo, then inspect every pixel. I have been looking for years; the Requiem has searched high and low, and none of us came across a picture of her shaking hands with Xavier Beaumont.
When I click on the picture, it takes me to an article. “Xavier Beaumont donates $50,000 to New Horizon and Recovery charity.” Beside the blonde woman, many charity volunteers and people who’ve recovered from drug addiction are also seen shaking hands.
Is Mum a volunteer? Did she get clean?
Is that even my mother?
The picture was taken four months ago in a small town about two hours from here. That means she could still be here. Does the Requiem know about this? Is this why they sent us on this mission?
I have another task for Jordan: find out everything he can about New Horizon and Recovery. It’s better to be sure it’s really her before jumping into the rabbit hole of finding her.
“Rip!” my brother shouts, pulling me out of my thoughts.
Jesus, Tommy. Not now. “What?”
“Come see.”
I facepalm. My brother always has a knack for interrupting at the very worst times. Thinking it’s about Ryland, I head to the front door, and I nearly cough up a lung when I see Kingsley there.
Thomas and I have been on edge all night after having to rush out of the club.
As soon as Kingsley won, we took off, figuring we’d already overstayed our welcome.
Despite the crowd, I felt like we stuck out like sore thumbs.
People at Crowncrest who had any clue about us would recognize us in a heartbeat.
And I could’ve sworn I locked eyes with Kingsley.
We figured we had slipped away unnoticed, but to be cautious, we moved Ryland to Tommy’s bedroom.
If Kingsley or anyone else showed up at our door unexpectedly, we’d be covered, and we wouldn’t have loud-mouthed Ryland as a liability.
It’s a good thing we did because about an hour ago, we got a knock on the door from one of the “staff” asking whether our hot water heater was working.
“The prince has arrived,” I say coolly.
Victor really messed up his pretty face. His forehead’s bruised, his lip is cut, and he’s got his hand on his side like it’s hurting, but he’s trying to hide it. My jaw clenches as I stare. I can’t believe that arrogant dick did that to Kingsley.
Pretty face. Oh, what am I, a teenage girl? That is the last word I need to use to describe him.
He leans against the doorframe. “Miss me?”
I force a grin. “Not that I don’t love spontaneous house calls, but it’s past ten. Tommy and I were getting ready to cuddle before bed. Did you need something?”
Thomas rolls his eyes, but my comment gets a half-smile out of the prince. “Bed so soon? It’s Saturday. I was wondering if you wanted to grab a couple of beers.”
A month ago, it was like pulling teeth to get Kingsley to respond to me, and now he wants to grab a couple of beers? Bloody hell, he must be onto us, or at least a tad suspicious.
Which means we were right to stash Ryland away. Who knows who else will search our place out of suspicion and find their dimwit bodyguard zip-tied to a pipe in the closet?
With tensions so high, drinking with King probably isn’t the best idea, but I have no good reason to turn him down. Thomas will have to babysit Ryland and watch the perimeter because there is no way I’m doing that. Instead, I have to do damage control.
“I’m always down for a beer,” I say, turning to my brother. “But Thomas has had a bit of a headache, so I’m not sure he’ll want to come.”
My brother, understanding immediately, nods. “Maybe another night.”
“That’s too bad,” Kingsley clicks his tongue. “Are you going dressed like that, Rip?”
I glance at my creased tee and jeans I pulled out of the laundry, my quick choice to get out of my incriminating Fight Club threads.
“Yep. You don’t like my style?”
He smirks, but doesn’t comment. “Let’s go.”
I follow Kingsley’s lead, but as I’m closing the door, I catch Thomas’s eye. I mouth “stay alert,” and he gives me a sharp nod.
There’s a black vehicle with windows tinted black as tar parked outside, and Kingsley leads us to it. He opens the back door and beckons me to come in. I look him over, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling.
This feels calculated.
His gaze is so sharp it’s like he’s staring into my soul. But alas, I climb in so he won’t wonder why I’m dragging my feet. Shit. I’m being paranoid, and that worry is more likely to expose me than anything else.
We ride in silence. While Kingsley’s lost in thought, I’m watching every turn we make, making sure we’re not heading anywhere we shouldn’t be. Eventually, we pull up to a bustling nightclub, and I can finally let out a breath.
When we get to the door, King says something in the bouncer’s ear like they know each other, and he lets us right through. Perks of your family being well known: you don’t have to wait in the hour-long line.
Instead of heading to the bar, I follow him up the roped-off stairs. We walk into the VIP area, complete with hidden booths and private servers, and nobody bats an eye. I’m sure they’re way too high to even notice what’s going on, seeing as there’s white powder all over the tables.
I understand this area is private with a bodyguard, but how is anyone so casual about open cocaine at their venue? Well, everyone here is likely a rich fuck who’s buddies with the owner, and it’s not like they’d tell on themselves.
Kingsley sinks into the velvet chair, huffing like his shoulders are carrying all the world’s problems. It’s a spacious booth, large enough to fit six people, but when I sit beside him, there are only a few inches of space between us.
No sooner have we sat down than a woman with a tray, wearing a tight top and short skirt, approaches us.
“Long time no see, Mr. Beaumont,” the woman says sweetly. “We missed you.”
“Yeah, I’ll take my usual.” He cracks a half-smile as he gestures to me. “And my friend here will have…”
“Whatever he’s drinking, I’ll do the same,” I say.
She writes our drink orders down. “Any food? We have small foods like appetizers.”
“Chips and salsa?” I ask, and both she and Kingsley nod. Awesome, I’m starving.
The server writes it down and then goes to get our food. I hope she tells the DJ to lower the music, too, since it’s still blaring in my ears despite us being in a separate area.
“We get appetizers?"
Kingsley shrugs. “It’s a VIP thing.”
“Is the coke also a VIP thing?”
His eyebrows knit together, but he stays quiet. King kicks his legs up on the table and rests his arms behind his head, relaxing. If this is how chill he is before he’s got a drink in him, I wonder how calm, and hopefully talkative, he’ll be afterward.
As we wait for our drinks, I look around. Our booth is tucked away in the back, and you can only see half of it from the main area. Is that intentional? Not that it matters, since all the old heads around us are too busy with their own stuff to care about what we’re doing.
Our drinks and chips arrive, and I dive right in. Kingsley’s clearly eager too, asking for another drink before he’s even finished his first.
Covering my mouth as I chew, I ask, “What happened to your face?”
“A fight,” he says simply.
“Did you win?”
He nods. “You should see the other guy.”
I did, and I would hate to be him.
“So, what have you and Thomas gotten up to today? Were you working on the footage from the restaurant? I notice you haven’t posted that yet.”