20. Kingsley
Kingsley
Iweave my way through the masses, my arms brushing against others, and “excuse me” is an easy reflex. It’s rehearsed and ready, like it is at every party we throw.
Sipping my wine as I walk, I search for my father. He messaged saying he’s with Buster Crenshaw and some other pals, and I need to be there. Knowing how boring listening to him and his buddies talk is, I’ll need a couple of drinks to cope.
Away from the crowd, Mom and Dad are in the corner with their confidantes.
The Crenshaws, Moonclafs, and Kumars are among the wealthy crime families my family does business with.
They often leverage these gatherings for casual business discussions while simultaneously maintaining a good public image.
See, the press love to find their way into private events and sneak pictures, but they don’t realize that is the very reason the parties are thrown.
This way, they see the rich as boring business folks, doing boring business stuff even at private events, clearing up any thoughts about us doing illegal activities.
With the buzz of Aralynn’s arrest running around, we need some boredom in our lives.
Beside my mother in a long, purple dress and holding a drink in her hand is Odette. I rub my eyes, and she’s still there. I can’t believe it. Odie would rather go to jail than attend one of our parents’ business parties.
“Good afternoon,” I greet the group.
They greet me back in their posh tones and then continue their chatter. I lock eyes with Buster Crenshaw, then quickly avert my gaze as my chest squeezes in on itself.
He has his daughter’s eyes.
And the eyes of yet another person who can’t understand why I didn’t ride at dawn for the murder of Sylvie, but has also never asked me.
Not that I ever want to relive that day, but if one can’t ask me what they’re so desperate to hear, then they don’t have the right to criticize me over the decisions I make.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” I whisper to Odie.
“With all the commotion about Ara, I figured showing my face would do some good,” she says.
“Kingsley.” A deep voice pulls my attention. It’s my father’s.
All eyes are on me. “Yes?”
“We were telling them about your great work on Beaumont Grand. You’ve been giving it your all for those social media videos, haven’t you?” Mom asks, her smile radiating genuine pride.
I straighten my back. “Yes. Our new social media managers and I have been doing everything to improve business, and it’s been working tremendously.”
“Yes, yes, I’ve seen some of those videos. Bright boy you’ve got there, Beaumont,” Caesar Moonclaf compliments sharply, rubbing his scrubby beard. “I wish my son, Henry, was more like you. Hey, maybe we could use your expertise to promote my investment firm.”
Dad’s laugh booms. “Can’t steal my money maker from me, Caesar. Use your own children.”
The group erupts into laughter, and I join in. God, I hope when I grow old, I don’t find lame shit like this humorous. Somebody kill me now.
“I’m glad the boy is much better at helping the resort than he is at his other duties,” Buster remarks offhandedly, as if he didn’t just insult me. “Maybe he should take over that job instead, Xavier.”
Dad’s gaze remains steady, but when he lays a hand on my shoulder, he squeezes with considerable force. “Kingsley can handle both.”
“I believe it,” another man, Kumar, adds. I never bothered committing his first name to memory. “We used to talk about the feared man Kingsley would become, and now we’re looking at him in the flesh! If he’s anything like he was before the…”
Kumar pauses, hoping someone will fill in the blank. He looks at Buster, but Buster doesn’t acknowledge it.
“…before the incident, then he can handle everything. My people know better than to underestimate Kingsley Beaumont.”
Odie wraps an arm around my shoulders. “My brother is scarier than people like to admit. He took some time off, but wouldn’t we all after what happened?”
Grateful as I am, I’d rather she stop digging me into a hole. With the anger Buster has for me, all she is doing is helping stir up a tense conversation between me and my dead fiancée’s father.
We already had one of those the week after her murder.
When Buster couldn’t find me, he went after my dad, blaming him for setting up Sylvie’s murder for some bigger gain.
When Dad denied it, he told my father he had a worthless son because all I could do was sit on my ass instead of going after the guy who killed his daughter.
It was a wonder how they got out of that argument without creating a feud.
He never spoke of Sylvie again after that—at least not to us. We didn’t sever ties between our families, but now a silent weight rests upon us. So, we don’t need a heated fight for the press to go crazy over.
“I suppose.” Buster sips at his drink, eyes anything but friendly. “My daughter was the best thing to happen to Kingsley, so I expect him to have struggled after her murder. Clearly, he has and continues to.”
And continues to. Is the asshole trying to start something? My fists clench at my sides, but Odette’s gentle hand on my arm grounds me.
Dad claps his hands before his waist, voice steady. “I’m not sure what you’re implying, Buster.”
“Nothing, of course. I noticed how little Kingsley has done since that tragic day. Social media videos are great, but I’m sure there are better things your son could spend his time on. Maybe something pertaining to the death of his beloved fiancée.”
Dad’s pupils narrow into slits as Mom’s mouth twists into a grimace. She’s never liked the Crenshaws to begin with. When Dad suggested I marry Sylvie, it took a lot for her to come to terms with the idea. I don’t know what issues she has with them, but Buster has only made it worse.
“And what have you done pertaining to Sylvie?” Mom presses, her eyebrow perking up in a gotcha moment.
“Plenty,” he states.
The way he carries himself, like a saint on a pedestal who went all out for his daughter, makes me nauseous. He was a jackass who took his anger out on his daughter through harsh words and bruises. Sylvie’s life was hell with him, as much as she hated to admit it.
What right does he have to blame me for not acting more when he treated her like a punching bag when she was alive?
I should have done something about it. Sylvie didn’t want me to, and while I wish I could say that’s the only reason I didn’t give Buster ten times the beatings he gave his daughter, that would be a lie.
I did nothing because I do nothing unless I’m told. Fuck. How am I supposed to be a leader if I can only act on others’ commands?
The conversation shifts to something lighter, glossing over the tension with Buster. They mastered this ability ages ago, recognizing that holding petty grudges with one another would lead to their ruin. I’m standing here, hands behind my back, trying to breathe slowly and calm the fire in me.
“Dad,” Odie blurts out in the middle of their conversation. “I’m a little chilly. Can Kingsley be excused to grab my jacket?”
My sister bats her eyelashes at our dad, and he nods. “That’s fine.”
I mouth a “thank you” to my sister as I back away. As much as I don’t give her credit for it, Odette always knows how to come up with the best excuses when I’m in a bind. It also helps that she’s Dad’s favorite.
I’m weaving through the crowded house, bumping into tipsy adults on my way to the patio. Stepping outside, the crisp winter air feels amazing. I take a big gulp, and it’s like heaven compared to that cramped, stuffy room I was in.
Gazing into the night sky, I see all the stars. The night sky is my escape when the pressure of being the Crowncrest and my daily grind gets overwhelming. I’ve spent hours staring into the sky, counting each speck until I can’t anymore.
They don’t judge. They can’t fucking talk, let alone criticize me. The twinkling stars in the night sky make me wonder if they, despite their silence, feel more than I do.
“Beautiful night?” A painstakingly familiar voice asks from behind.
I suck in a heavy breath. Even when I desperately want to be alone, Rip has his way of showing up.
Leaning on the railing, I’m quiet, watching the yard from the patio.
Rip pops up beside me, leaning on the railing in the same way.
Even though the music is faint, I can still make out the tune.
It’s classical noise pollution that I swear no one in there genuinely listens to, and it sounds like knives scraping my eardrums, and it’s all I have to focus on, so I don’t stare at Rip.
“That conversation seemed tense,” he tries. Keeping my eyes on the dark sky, I nod.
I need a goddamn break. A break from trying to prove myself for the Crown, a break from searching for the mole, a break from everything surrounding Sylvie. A break from Rip.
He grips my shoulder, and it reminds me of how my father did. “Don’t ignore me, King. You know how much that irritates me.”
“Aren’t you just full of love,” I say, my tone dripping with sarcasm.
Rip removes his hand, and even through my jacket, the warmth fades. “I do try.”
Our arms touch, and his hand is near mine, our fingers grazing. Neither of us moves away. In the night’s cold, I don’t mind the contact.
But I’d be na?ve to think he only came to brush fingers, especially after our last meeting. That isn’t what our relationship has been, and it’s never what it will be. Hell, this whole thing was a mistake from the get-go, yet now it feels almost…. expected.
“I’m not here because I want your mouth around my dick,” he mutters, sounding like he’s held at gunpoint. The man knows how to read my mind. “Although that would be nice.”
The thought of it sends a pulse straight to my groin. “I said I would.”
Turning to him, I grip his waistband and pull him toward me, sparing not a second before my hand slides into his pants beyond his boxer briefs. I grasp his dick, and he grips the back of my neck and my waist, squeezing me as he inhales sharply.