Bishop shrugs. “That was the fool me once I just spoke about. Can’t have a weakness. So if she really wants me, she needs to show that she can handle it.” He looks around the table. “Anyone else have anything they want to add, because speak now or forever hold your fucking peace.”
Silence.
“I think Tillie is talking to her.” All of us turn to Nate.
He shuffles in his seat.
“What the fuck do you mean?” Bishop growls, and I can see his easy demeanor slowly shift.
“I mean, I’ve caught her on the phone a couple times, and every time she sees me, she hangs up the phone, and when I ask her who she’s talking to, she says Bran Bran—” His eyes come to mine.
Fuck.
Fucking Tillie. I know I’ll be breaking our silent code of loyalty if I tell them it wasn’t me, but I’m a King before I’m anything else.
I shake my head. “Not me, fam.”
“Eh, what I suspected.” Nate shrugs, leaning back in his chair.
“But are you really surprised?” I say to Nate and then look between the two of them. The realization of everything dawns on me and I start laughing. “Damn. Love really turned you both slow as fuck.” I roll my eyes as the door opens and Hector enters. “Tillie is a girl’s girl. She looks after her friends. How are you surprised that she’s talking to Madison? If anything, at least you know she’s not fucking dead.”
I kick my legs out as Hector takes a seat on the opposite end of his son. The table is long, with ten seats, but both ends are for him and Bishop.
It’s tense when Hector clears his throat, and I don’t know if there’s something else happening between the two of them, or if it’s the whole Madison ghost that hovers over everything.
“You think she’s been talking to her for a while?” Nate asks, and I have his full attention.
I shrug. “It’s Tillie.”
Hector pulls out a cigar from the humidor and clips the end. “We’ve got something else we need to discuss, where’s Cash?”
“Out with Benny.”
The table grows quiet. I roll my eyes again. “He’s my cousin, not the fucking Devil.”
“So he’s out racing?” Hector further says, an eyebrow quirked.
Bishop shrugs. “Someone has to keep that going.”
“In my defense, I wanted to,” Eli says, raising his arm.
We all ignore him.
“What is it?” Bishop says to his father.
He flicks the ash off his cigar. “The old Riverside is reopening.”
“As in the old schools?” I fucking loved the old school. Was pissed when we had to be moved to the new building.
Hector nods. “The very same. We’re closing the one in the Hamptons and classes start back after the summer break.”
“I thought it was too old to have kids in, which is why they moved the school to the Hamptons?” Bishop questions Hector.
Hector shakes his head. “Not entirely true. We didn’t tell you all right away because you were only just stepping into your roles. We didn’t want to overwhelm you.”
I snicker. Pretty sure learning that our school was moving to a different location would be the least shocking lie we would learn.
“So what’s the story?” Nate asks.
“Since you’re taking the gavel this year, son, you will need to know all of the little cracks that we’ve hidden from you, and over time, you will know everything. But for right now, we need to talk about this.” His eyes flick to Nate. “Your father has pushed this, too, by the way. Pushy fucking bastard. He’s getting worse with age.”
“Why does it matter if the old schools are reopening?” I ask the question no one else seems to want to know, annoyed with the dancing around.
“Well, a few reasons,” Hector answers, and we all wait in silence for him to say what he needs to say. “And all of them impact each of you in one way or another.”
That has my attention.
“You.” He points to Bishop. “Because you’re going to be on the frontline to a decade long turf war. You.” He points to me. “Because you have something, or someone, in your possession that is far more valuable than you know, and you,” he finally says to Nate, and I have to pull in all of my instincts that are screaming to ask him what the fuck he means. “Because I promised Stuprum that I would protect your child from enemies, and I’m a man of my word.” Finally, he leans forward, unclasping the button of his suit jacket and resting his elbows on the table. “You should all, I, we, every King, be on high alert right now. Things are happening behind the shadows. There are movements happening that we’re not comfortable with.”
“We’re the motherfucking Elite Kings Club.” Nate waves off Hector. “Dare any dumb fucker to come near us and live to talk about it.”
“Well, that’s just it.” Hector shifts back in his chair, and for the first time ever, I see something foreign flash over his face. “It has.” Fear.
Saint
She’s so pretty it hurts. She has long dyed pink hair hiding her natural blonde. Not as blonde as me, but blonde. No one is as blonde as me naturally.
Her mouth is moving as she talks while zipping around the kitchen, flustered, her hair flying around the place. I have barely been able to get a word in. I hope she doesn’t think I’m rude.
“…so now I’m pregnant and my best friend isn’t here, her best friend has moved away with her boyfriend which, by the way, we wouldn’t be friends anyway. I don’t have any girlfriends except for those savages outside—” Her mouth stops moving. I realize she has stopped talking and she’s looking right at me. “Sorry, I’m not with it right now.”
I shake my head, running my sweaty palms over my thighs. “It’s fine. Really.” It’s sort of not. I don’t know how to talk to someone like this. Are most girls like this? I like her. Don’t get me wrong. She’s obviously fierce about the things she loves and I wouldn’t want to ever cross her, but she speaks at speeds I can’t catch. Maybe that comes from her confidence. She has a lot of it. She’s also so pretty.
She takes two steps closer to me, and I finally notice what she’s wearing. Skinny jeans and a Louis T-shirt that hangs loose on her figure. Her makeup is impeccable, her eyebrows perfect. You’re being weird.
“How old are you?” she asks simply.
“I’m seventeen.”
“When did you turn seventeen?” She examines me closely. When she looks me up and down, it isn’t in a way that makes me feel uncomfortable. In fact, I prefer it, because now I get to openly gawk at her without feeling like a weirdo.
“Three weeks ago.”
“Jesus,” she whispers. “You’re so young.”
“How old are you?” I find myself asking, because I wouldn’t think she’s much older than I am.
“I’m twenty.”
Huh. She doesn’t look it.
“You seem younger, though.”
My stomach flips. I have to fight the urge to reach forward and touch her hair.
“Anyway.” She brushes off our conversation. “You stay seated while I cook.”