Destructive King Read online

  So lonely?

  I understood loneliness probably as much as I understood rage.

  If rage was my soulmate.

  Loneliness was my heart.

  “Come on,” I barked. “Can’t have my dad seeing us argue by the pool again; he’ll just push me in and try to drown me.”

  She gasped.

  “I’m kidding, Annie.” I stomped toward the house and pulled open the door. “After you.”

  She moved around awkwardly, wringing her hands in front of her as I grabbed the Apple TV remote, and tossed it to her. “Watch whatever, drink whatever, but if you touch my fruit snacks, I’m going to end you.” I started running up the stairs, only to stop and look back. “And if you even think about turning on Hallmark or some shit where they’re all in a small town, and someone owns a damn goat farm, there will be blood.”

  I left her gaping after me.

  And hated myself a little bit more as I stripped in my bedroom, made my way into the bathroom, turned on the hot shower, and remembered the last time I was in there with her.

  Naked breasts sliding down my back.

  Legs wrapped around my waist.

  Hot mouths with velvet tongues tasting and retreating.

  I leaned my forehead against the tile wall and reached for myself. I imagined Claire. Her lips, her smile, even her laugh.

  And slammed my free hand against the tile over and over again when each time, Annie’s face took her place.

  The guilt resurfaced.

  The need for revenge.

  But this time, I didn’t stop.

  I gripped myself.

  My lust and anger boiling out of control, spilling over into the chasm where my heart used to be one.

  And with one damned whisper, uttered her name. “Annie.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Life is constant uncertainty. The only certainty is death.” —Sadhguru

  Ash

  I watched her sulk. The only difference was, this time, it was my job to be as physically close as possible, so nobody gave her shit. Only I’d run off to grab a coffee and decided that not a lot could happen across the lawn; besides, it had all been part of the plan, right? Count her tears, measure them against her, strike with finality.

  Instead, I was intrigued.

  And if completely honest, pissed at myself for my own damn mistake this last week, and chicken shit for not admitting it.

  She wasn’t the same girl she had been last year, and it bothered me that she was stronger than I was used to.

  I meant what I’d said.

  She was alone here on campus. I wanted her to experience what that felt like, the utter abandonment of everyone and everything you loved, the security, the knowledge, but instead, I was watching her.

  And she smiled.

  Over a fucking donut.

  Minutes ago, she’d been the weak sniffing creature I came to expect before she left for Italy, and then she’d straightened her shoulders, marched to the cafe next to where I picked her up on weekdays, ordered a donut, and was in the process of making it her bitch.

  I was about to join her when Tank beat me to it.

  He sat next to her.

  He made her smile.

  Which just reminded me that all I did was make her cry.

  He made her laugh.

  I made her scream.

  Good. Bad. Did it even matter anymore?

  All the choices I’d made that led us up to this point, where I had her where I wanted her, seemed irrelevant as she bit into that donut, as she chatted with him, put her hand on him.

  Touched his skin while using her mouth to communicate what I wanted all along.

  Her words.

  Her mouth.

  Her truths.

  Before I knew what I was doing, my legs were taking me over to where they sat.

  “Hey,” I interrupted, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans. I hadn’t had class today; no I’d insisted I could do recon all day along with the babysitting duty she knew nothing about. “You ready?”

  Tank eyed me up and down, his green eyes calculating. He wanted to punch me in the dick so bad, but he knew I was his boss; I owned him. So instead, he stood, shook my fucking hand, then gave her a curt nod and simply walked off.

  Fuck I loved my job sometimes.

  Her face fell right along with the donut; I caught the pastry just in time. “You don’t want any more?”

  “What?” Her eyes seemed unfocused, blurry. “Oh.” She looked at her hands. “Sorry, you’re right, that’s such a waste; I could probably salvage the rest for breakfast or a snack mid-day or—”

  “Are we not feeding you enough?” I snapped, not meaning to gain the attention of the people next to us, all of them frozen in place, ready to piss their pants at any minute.

  I snapped my fingers.

  Both couples moved from their booths.

  The tinkling of the bell over the door as it opened and closed and the steaming of milk behind the counter were our only musical companions as I stared her down. “So?”

  Annie looked away and swallowed. “It’s great. Your house, I guess my house, for now, I didn’t mean it like that. Your parents are extremely generous.”

  “They are.”

  “But…” She lifted her shoulder. “Sometimes it’s hard not to go backward, to default, you know?”

  Oh, I knew. Defaulting was what I did. Emotionally. Physically. Even spiritually. “So you default with your food?”

  Her lush lips curved into a smile. “I don’t mean to. I just… I know this sounds dumb, but—” She turned and gazed out the window, a look of wonder on her face. “I have exactly one good memory of my dad before I was fostered out, adopted by a new family. He took me to some local donut shop, and he let me pick out anything I wanted. He apologized for being… mean, and he was, don’t get me wrong.” A shudder traveled through her. “So mean. It was my last happy memory of him as if he was trying to make amends for the yelling, for the fear with Mom and me. The stupid donut gave me hope, and then…” Her hands started to shake as she grabbed a napkin.

  “And then…?” I prompted. Almost afraid to know her truth when earlier I would have killed for it, slit throats, taken souls.

  “And then,” she continued, “a man walked in with a gun. My dad blocked me. The gun went off. The donut went flying. I hid under the table. Then a hand with a glove on it reached out and grabbed my hair, pulling. I just remember it hurting so bad. I followed him, and he said I was his new daughter. My dad said something like, not this way, and the man let me go. Later that night, though, he came again, this time with more men. He said he would make things right, that I was his now. I had no idea what he was talking about at the time.”

  “And now?” I asked. “What about now?”

  “A pawn,” she simply said. “In a very dangerous game I didn’t know the rules to. He’s gone now; you made sure of that.” She rubbed her arms where a few pale scars remained. “My bruises are gone. But sometimes, I still felt them lingering. And sometimes… I wish I could still see them to know I survived them.”

  I cursed. “I would kill him again for you.”

  I tried to keep the rage at bay, remembering the bruises I’d see on her arms last year and the way I lost my shit, killing her adoptive dad without so much as blinking. It’s like he knew I was coming for him too, me and Junior, as we stormed the house with Tank, showing the De Lange associates we’d recruited just how dirty we got when someone threatened our own.

  A sad smile played at the corners of her lip, and she said softly, “I know you would.”

  “Annie?”

  “Yeah?” She finally locked eyes with me.

  “We should get home… so Mom doesn’t worry.”

  A quick swipe at her cheeks and she smiled and stood. “Right, sorry, yeah, so your mom doesn’t worry.”

  I grabbed her phone, ignoring her protests, and clicked through the tweets that had spread so many horrible rumors about us, my
expression tense. “This won’t last forever; it’s just because I’m me and you…” I eyed her up and down. “You’re you.”

  She flinched as if slapped but nodded her head like a good girl.

  Like a girl who did what she needed to in order to survive when all she wanted was to be the girl that was held so she could do more than that.

  So she could thrive.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “The truth that I have been seeking—this truth is death. Yet death is also a seeker. Forever seeking me. So—we have met at last. And I am prepared. I am at peace.”— Bruce Lee

  Chase

  The Past: Six Months After Claire’s Funeral

  My son was my life.

  My kids were my soul; they balanced me.

  Focused me.

  They made the blood staining my hands worth it. Nobody had ever told me that it was easier to kill than to parent.

  Easier to shoot someone first, ask questions later, than watch my son as his heart broke outside of his chest over and over again.

  He was stumbling back into the kitchen, slightly drunk, but at least he wasn’t wailing.

  The wailing is what got me.

  What got me those nights after Annie left.

  When he said Claire had visited… said goodbye to him as if she was an angel in heaven, when I compared her more to a succubus who took over souls. I couldn’t help it.

  I wasn’t a selfish little shit anymore.

  So when my son hurt… I hurt. When he cried… I cried. When he felt like killing something, I wanted to provide the volunteers.

  Annie had called earlier and said she was doing good, and I knew it was the smartest thing I could have done. Give them space. Because even though I saw what they couldn’t, they would destroy whatever good pieces that still existed before either of them stopped hurting.

  So sending her away was a kindness when I knew it hurt Ash more than he’d admit, bothered him that he was hurt by it more than he’d ever say out loud.

  Because he was my son.

  I still remembered hating Luc.

  Despising her light.

  Because it reminded me that I was in the dark, rocking in a corner, holding a bottle of Jack, and screaming until my voice was hoarse, just begging God to answer my pleas.

  To kill me too.

  “Ash.” I leaned forward as he came into the kitchen, dropped his key fob and wallet onto the counter, and then jerkily pulled out a chair. “Good night?”

  Dirt covered his shoes.

  His hands shook as he ran fingertips through his overly long whiskey-colored hair. A smudge of mud had attached itself to the right side of his cheek, and I knew the answer before he even said it.

  He’d lied again.

  Said he was going to hang out with Junior.

  “You go to her grave again?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he croaked. “The flowers Dad, they were gone, so I just figured, I figured.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “I failed her in life, I failed her so fucking bad, and I can’t even keep fucking flowers on her grave?”

  Could he hear the sound of my heart breaking right along with his as my breathing slowed to a near stop? Throat burning, I tried to swallow back the anger that was so often intertwined with the sadness.

  I reached for him and pulled him into my arms, not caring that he was fighting me, beating at my back, yelling at me to let him go.

  I held him, and I repeated his truth over and over again. “You’re good, Ash. You’re so good. You’re an incredible son. Friend. Brother. You are enough in this life and in the next, flowers or no flowers. You’re no failure.”

  “I am.” His voice cracked. “I can’t feel her anymore. I can’t feel her, and then I keep having dreams about our fights, about the times in the end when I questioned her loyalty. I did that. I pushed her.”

  I sighed. I didn’t have the answers. But I had my son.

  So I held him.

  “I feel guilty when it doesn’t hurt as much as it did.” He shuddered. “And then I hate myself for slicing open the wounds that already tried to heal, only to bleed again, only to feel again because of the guilt.”

  “Moving on.” I sighed. “Sometimes means allowing those wounds to heal for good, Ash. And if you can’t do that, then you’ll always be stuck in this place, where it’s your best friend’s birthday, and you’re falling asleep by yourself on Claire’s grave.” I pushed him a bit then. “It’s not the flowers that keep bothering you, is it Ash?”

  A solitary tear rolled down his cheek as he looked away. “What?”

  “You know you need to move on, and I think part of you sees glimpses of what that may feel like, returning to your new normal. You’re afraid.”

  Ash pulled away from me and stood. “I don’t know how to do life anymore, it’s like someone stole part of what made me work these last few years, and now I just feel so fucking lost.”

  “Sometimes being lost… is the only way to be found,” Phoenix said from the door.

  I hadn’t even heard him walk in.

  Junior poked his head out from behind his dad and then in two steps had Ash in his arms.

  On his birthday, he wasn’t partying with his friends; he wasn’t buying new cars or jet-setting around the world.

  Because I’d like to think we at least didn’t fuck up as parents, that at the end of the day, we may be justified killers.

  But we love just as much as we hate.

  And we protect our own.

  Phoenix locked eyes with me and then slapped Ash on the back. “I’m going to tell you what I told your dad so many years ago when he was ready to burn down his own house.”

  I snorted out a laugh.

  Phoenix began, “You have. You love. You lose. And then you live—the universe gives you no other choice but to wipe your tears, take a breath, and manage one small step and then another. One day ‘all you can do’ turns into what saves your soul.” He walked over to the table and grabbed a bottle of wine. “Now why don’t you go get cleaned up so Junior can at least see where he lands the good hits.”

  Ash’s head jerked to attention. “You came to spar? On your birthday? Where’s Serena?”

  “Sexually satisfied back in my room—sorry dads—at least Nixon isn’t here. I mean, can you even imagine—”

  A throat cleared.

  Junior hung his head. “Just walked through the door, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Nixon said in a lethal voice. “He did.”

  “Right.” Junior hesitated and then started sprinting down the hallway; Ash hurried after him with a choked laugh.

  And I knew one day, it would be all right.

  One day I wouldn’t hate myself for my part in this.

  One day I would tell him the story of loss, love, redemption.

  One day he would know his truth.

  That day, however, was not today, not with her blood still staining his hands, not with the dirt from her grave marring his body.

  One day.

  When his heart was full.

  When he could handle it.

  I’d sit him down.

  I glanced back down at my phone again and sent a quick text to Annie. “Sorry I had to hang up so soon—let them teach you some self-defense, and if you don’t start shopping, I’m going to start randomly shipping you clothes—and I’m a shit shopper.”

  She texted back right away.

  Annie: Okay. I’ll let him teach me. And I’ll go shopping again, it’s just hard.

  Chase: Life is hard. Let my money make it easier. Besides, you’re going to need armor when you get home.

  Annie: Armor?

  I smiled at the phone.

  “You ready for our meeting?” Nixon wrapped his knuckles against the table. “Or do you need to sext your wife in the next room some more?”

  “Nah, not my wife, Annie just won’t spend any Abandonato money.”

  Nixon whistled. “Can’t have that.”

  “Exactly.” I grinned. �
�Besides, she’s going to need to feel as healed on the outside as she does on the inside.”

  Nixon nodded in understanding while Phoenix pulled out a chair and started pouring wine into his glass. “Does she know?”

  “Nope,” I said quickly. “I think she’s lying to herself as much as my son is, were we ever this stupid?”

  Nixon shot me a glare. “You were, or should I say are?”

  “Who’s stupid?” Tex piped up after he walked into the kitchen, followed by Sergio, Dante, and Andrei.

  “You are.” Andrei patted him on the back.

  Tex reached for his gun.

  Everyone started arguing.

  And I typed a reply but decided not to send the text. Just in case it scared her.

  So I stared at the cursor and grinned.

  Chase: Love is war. Get ready to battle.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “No one ever told me that grief felt so much like fear.” —CS Lewis

  Annie

  I shoved my hands into my coat pocket as I made my way across campus to the usual meeting spot for Ash.

  For exactly one week, we’d been at this weird standstill where Ash drove me to class, basically shadowed me, and growled at anyone who approached, trained me whenever I showed up at the ring. And then let me watch TV in the guest house while he showered or did laundry.

  Sometimes Junior and Serena would pop over; other times, it was just Maksim and King, which usually ended in all of us watching some sort of horrible reality TV show because, in their words, Ash deserved a bit of torture since they couldn’t beat him in the ring.

  Twice they tried to nominate him for The Bachelor.

  And twice Ash threatened to leave them in tubs of ice with their kidneys’ missing; whatever that meant, sometimes I didn’t understand their sick senses of humor, other times I knew it was probably best I didn’t try.

  Ever since admitting my loneliness, it was like he assumed that if he just put people around me, it would be the same thing.

  But it wasn’t.

  I was just as lonely and just as terrified of admitting to him, telling him I missed laughing with Claire, missed the only true friend I’d ever had.

  Because bringing her up was like killing her all over again.