Page 30 of King

“Christian. Isaac. Can you two give us a moment?” He speaks slow but his voice is hostile, especially since he doesn’t take his eyes off me.

“Sorry, Medusa.” With my cup in hand, Isaac turns around to leave.

“I thought you didn’t follow orders,” I say to his muscular back.

He looks over his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m not dealing with that tonight.”

Turning to look at Damien, I get what Isaac means by that. His clothes look like they’re in desperate need of an iron and his hair sticks up like a peacock. He's leaning to the side, belt undone, fair skin pale. Even though he looks a mess, that look in his eye still makes my heart do double-time. But I don’t think I want to deal with that either.

Christian must notice my apprehension because he speaks up, “I can hang back.”

This gets a growl from Damien, voice getting lower, “Leave.”

His eyes are still on me as Christian takes a look around the room. “You sure, man?”

“Get out!” His voice booms and it makes me flinch.

Christian grabs his letterman jacket, brushing Damien's shoulder as he passes. “Fuck. Whatever.”

I turn to walk away but Damien doesn’t let me. “Medusa.”

When I turn to face him he’s standing at the side of the doorway to what I assume is his room. “It’s Jo.”

“Snooping around is bad for your health.”

“Is that another threat?”

“Does that get you wet?” I roll my eyes and turn to walk away but he calls out again. “Wait, Jo." Hearing him say my preferred name makes me pause. "You came all this way. Might as well have a drink with me.”

Turning around, he’s gesturing to the room behind him. From the entrance, I can see it's like his outfits. All black everything, including an abstract chandelier hanging in the middle. What is it with rich people and chandeliers?

Damien turns around, leaving the door open. With an invitation, I can’t help but walk in behind him.

After what happened in the hallway, I'm smart enough to know I shouldn't be alone with Damien. So I'll blame this on bourbon.

His room looks like a rockstar's tour bus. Glamorous and trashed. Red neon lights line dark textured walls, ceiling painted like the night sky. Even with a Mac screen punched in and crap all over his bed, the space looks incredible, dark wood floors shining. Black chairs lay on their sides, empty beer bottles everywhere, some of them smashed.

A slow song with booming bass comes from another speaker I can’t see. Choosing not to find out where it's coming from, I stay put near the door as he tends to a small bar cart near his desk. The clinking of ice in a glass blends with the music. Followed by the pour of whatever alcoholic concoction he’s mixing up. Not that he looks like he needs any more.

“Is this what you expected?” He walks over with a glass, large pupils running up my outfit. He doesn’t hand the glass to me, instead, he takes a sip, eyes on my thighs. “Because you’re not at all what I expected. Didn’t know they made them like this in The Grove.”

Ignoring his comment, the twitch in my stomach, I let my eyes wander some more. He’s got old band photos on the wall, all in black and white. Pink Floyd, Metallica, Hendrix. An Interstellar poster hangs framed on one wall, a signed hockey jersey on another. Price. On a tall shelf sits glass bongs next to books and I spot a copy of The Great Gatsby.

“Sounds like we’re not so different.” I shrug, remembering his phone call as I do my best not to slur. The black sofa in the middle of the room has a toppled chess set. Next to it is an ERA yearbook, a pile of white powder on top. “None of my foster parents give a shit about me either.”

CRASH!

Damien’s glass hits the wall beside me before he slams the door. Using his chest, he backs me against it. “You don’t know me, Medusa.” The alcohol from his breath damn near burns my nose, his facade changing like the coin he flips.

“Oh, fuck off.” I push against his chest but he pins my wrists above my head.

He leans closer, a swoop of dark hair falling in front of his face. “Why are you here?”

“I was about to ask you the same question.” I hate how shaky my breath sounds. How much I can’t breathe with his face in front of me. Damien King is intense, and the way my body reacts to him is no different.

A dark eyebrow raises as his grip on my wrists tighten, his other hand brushing against my cheek. “Seems like you’re here to make my life hell,” he says.

“Maybe I am.”

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