26. Rip
Rip
Idon’t know how long I’ve been behind the wheel of the Honda I’ve been calling my own.
I contemplate heading over to the ring, but I don’t feel like watching men jam their knuckles into others’ noses as much as usual.
The violence gets me going, but not being able to take part myself is next-level torture.
I need something to cool down the heat in my chest. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel, and I picture them being around my uncle’s neck instead. He’s the reason I’m about to lose my head.
If it hadn’t been for him and his foolish decision to murder Sylvie Crenshaw, I would have never met Kingsley Beaumont. I’d never know he existed, and I wouldn’t feel like I have to burn the world to ensure he remains untouched.
Really needing to take a leak, I stop at the closest building I can find here in Whereverthefuck, Louisiana.
I’m so far from New Orleans, finding any open places at this hour, let alone a town, is pretty lucky.
Thinking I’d need to fork over some money to use the restroom like I’ve had to before, I pull out a couple of dollars, but the man at the counter waves me off.
I’m ten times lighter after I piss. When I get outside, I look around the nearly empty lobby, with worn wooden floors, dim lights, and quiet country music.
The only people around are me and the guy at the counter, who is puffing away on a cigarette inside as if it’s nothing. What even is this place?
“You looking for the bar?”
I glance at the guy at the counter who’s leaning over and watching me. This joint has a bar?
I’ve nothing better to do, anyway. “Uh, yeah.”
The man points down the hallway. “Elevator is all the way down there. Fourth floor.”
Heading down the hallway, I shout, “Thanks, mate.”
A rooftop bar is what I need during this shitty night. I’ll get drunk, play some poker, maybe find a chick to bring home with me…
Yeah, as if that’ll ever fix the spell Kingsley has on me. All I’d be doing is imagining that it’s him I’m fucking. That’s the way he’s twisted my mind—no one else would be good enough. I don’t even have to try it to know.
Cool air hits me as I step outside, though it’s nowhere near the chill of Manchester’s December weather.
Still, strong heaters in each corner keep the rooftop warm.
Up here, it overlooks the town’s buildings, and all the lights below twinkle in the darkness.
The four-story building is the tallest in this quaint town, but it’s nice.
It’s easy to find an empty seat since there are hardly any people around. Not many folks want to hang out in the cold, even with heaters.
A guy walks up, notepad in hand, and asks what I want to drink. I ordered my go-to without thinking, completely distracted by the horrible screeching sounds in my ears. There is a woman on a stage, microphone in her hand, doing a horrendous cover of a country song I’ve never listened to.
Of course, I would walk in on karaoke night. My blood pressure is already spiking as my ears scream for help.
I shift in the metal chair, the cold, hard surface digging uncomfortably into my backside. As I wait for my drink, which I will desperately need to drown out the sound of the sorry excuse for a singing voice, my eyes zone in on a certain someone.
Across the rooftop, he’s seated alone at a table, a drink held loosely in his hand.
He’s so focused on his staring contest with the drink, the concert is basically background noise.
If I hadn’t done a double-take, I wouldn’t have noticed the prince sitting alone.
Or maybe I would have, because Kingsley Beaumont lives rent-free in my head.
A cool breeze washes against my face as I pull out my phone. I scroll to Kingsley’s contact.
Rip
Do you miss me?
Kingsley’s phone lights up, and after reading the text, he grabs it. His lips stretch into a wide grin, chasing away the earlier gloom.
Kingsley
What’s there to miss?
Rip
My stellar personality? My sexy tattoos and piercings? My huge cock? I can list more…
His little chuckle sends heat rushing through me. No one else makes him laugh like that. Not his parents, not his sisters, and certainly not Shawn. Me. I do that, and I’d make him laugh all the time if I could.
The server’s here with my drink and the nachos. Finally. My stomach was rumbling so loudly during the ride, it sounded like I hadn’t eaten in forever.
Kingsley
Okay maybe a little…
Rip
Which one? My cock?
I look up from my phone as King takes a deep, thorough breath. Seeing his reactions live feels like watching something off-limits, giving me a rush like when I jab my knife into a sorry man’s gut.
Kingsley
especially that
Rip
Do you want it now?
Kingsley
…I’m nowhere near the resort
And is sex the only thought that ever floats in your head?
Rip
Depends. Lately you’re the only thought in my head. So yeah. Sex with you
His fingers hover over the screen in a pause. King gives a little smile but doesn’t say anything back. He looks down, shoulders dropping, as if he’s wrestling with something. Let me into that complicated head of yours, Kingsley.
Rip
I’m to your left
His head pops up, and it takes him a second before he spots me on the other side of the room. I offer a small wave, and then he’s coming over to me. Beside me in the empty chair, he sits, drawing his coat tighter as his body trembles with the chill.
“What are you doing here?” is the first thing he asks, tone accusatory.
I gesture to the rooftop. “Trying to enjoy the chilly night and beautiful music.”
He purses his lips, unconvinced. “An hour and a half outside of town?”
I’m about to tell him about my long drive, but remember I’m not supposed to have a vehicle. Oops.
“I needed a change of scenery and somehow ended up here,” I say vaguely and then sip my drink.
Kingsley’s gaze lingers for a beat, then he sinks back into the chair with a sigh. He finishes his drink, lets out a quiet burp, and places the glass on the table. “How many drinks do you think they’ll let me have before they cut me off?”
I smirk. “Kingsley Beaumont, are you trying to get drunk?”
His eyes have a tipsy tingle to them. “No, but it’s been a hell of a long time since I have.”
“You’re King Beaumont. I don’t think they’re going to risk the wrath of your family if they turn you down,” I joke, even though I’m dead serious. Kingsley could drink their entire liquor supply and face no consequences.
The Beaumonts and their friends have a hold on every industry around here, according to what Jordan gathered.
Kingsley could shut this place down with just a look, even from way out here.
It’s exactly like the hold Uncle George has over Manchester.
I remember him making a fuss and closing the library over his daughter not being able to get more books when she still had some checked out. It was pretty fun to witness.
“I come here because they don’t know who I am,” he says. “It’s a hole in the wall, so I rarely run into people who know my name. And if they do, they don’t make a big thing out of it.”
“Is that why you come here? So you can just be you?”
Kingsley shrugs loosely. “It’s cool not having a camera on me or people asking nosy questions all the time.”
Things like that make me glad to be such an unknown entity in the Requiem.
Everyone in Manchester knows the Redgraves in the same way everyone in Louisiana knows the Beaumonts.
But since I’m not Rip Redgrave, son of Emma Redgrave, to the public, I’ve never dealt with the stressors of being a feared person’s kid.
It used to mess with my head. I used to want everyone to know who my parents were, but the fear of other crime organizations’ reactions to a lesbian leader overrode that longing.
Whatever. Being popular seems exhausting.
As the singer switches, the place goes from a country feel to a more city-like, cool atmosphere.
In baggy jeans and a fitted shirt, this next girl picked a rap song for her performance.
Her strong, in-your-face singing—sorry, shouting—is a lot, but it’s clear she has the song down pat.
It is a lot less painful to listen to than the last person.
I nudge his shoulder. “Do you ever get up there and sing?”
Kinglsey scoffs as if I’ve said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “Why would I sing?”
“I guess that would ruin your whole silent vibe, huh?”
King flips me off with a condescending smile. “I like watching other people embarrass themselves. I’ll fuck around, and the video of me singing will be all over the internet.”
I eat a cheesy chip, and even though the molten cheese burns my mouth, I keep a straight face. I like the feeling. “So? To hell with what the internet thinks about you.”
He rubs the back of his neck, oddly flustered. “You don’t get it.”
“I guarantee I understand more about you than you think, Kingsley.”
Jesus, saying shit like that, I might as well give it away that I’m not who I say I am.
I chew on another chip, noticing Kingsley’s eyes can’t pick between me and the food. Munching, I ask, “Are you hungry?”
King’s eyes meet mine, a flicker of uncertainty in them before he offers a hesitant shrug. That tells me all I need to know.
Whenever I think about his complicated relationship with food, my stomach twists. I don’t understand it, and I know asking him won’t give me all the answers. What I do know is that, for whatever reason, with me, he doesn’t pick at his meals. With me, I know he’s eating.
I take another chip, get some cheese on it, and hold my hand below to catch any spills. I bring it to his mouth, and he recoils as if he’s never tasted nachos in his life. But I stay put and hold it out, waiting for him to decide the cheesy chip isn’t the enemy.
It’s like something turns in his brain, and then he’s eating it right from my hand. It’s sweet, honestly. Intimate, even. And in a way, it’s good for both of us.