Page 65 of Deny Me
Dain didn’t respond and King stopped caring. The thread of the conversation slipped from importance as they reached his car. He was ready to be back with Charlotte, to hold her and breathe her in and pretend that horrible moment when he ran into Wes’s study and found him with a hole blasted through his brain had never happened.
Charlotte.He had to tell Charlotte about Wes. She might never forgive him.
Digging his keys out of his pocket, he glanced down at them before tossing them to Saint. “Hurry.”
His car was his baby, his pet, the only major indulgence he’d ever allowed himself. He used to joke that not even an apocalypse could get him to let someone else drive it. And he was handing it over to Saint without hesitation. King would probably wreck it on the way back to the mansion if he tried to drive anyway.
Saint didn’t argue, simply snatched the keys out of the air and rounded the car to the driver’s side. Most of the ride back was a blur—one minute King was buckling in; the next, they were waiting for the gate at the Alexander mansion to open and Saint was reaching over, gripping the back of his neck, squeezing him back into awareness.
“I’m truly sorry, King,” his friend said roughly. “I promise you, we’ll figure out what’s going on. This all feels just a little too convenient to me.”
King wanted to ask why, but the words wouldn’t come. He should know why, shouldn’t he? The why of Wes’s death mattered almost as much as the fact that he was dead, at least to King. If he allowed himself to think about it, to realize he might never know why, he might go insane. But—
The car stopped at the foot of the front steps. King got out, closed the door. Waited for the click of the locks. Even walked inside between Dain and Saint, all with his brain completely blank. In the foyer, Kim and Ben walked past the staircase toward the sitting room, coming to a stop at the sight of the three men moving their direction.
Dain put a hand on King’s back, urging him toward the stairs. “Why don’t you go on up?”
To Charlotte.The words went unspoken, but they all knew they were there.
“I’ll talk to the Alexanders,” Dain promised.
King was beyond nodding at this point, beyond looking at the couple who were about to experience so much pain. They’d treated Wes like a son, and now…
As he reached the second floor, a long, high wail echoed up from the foyer. Charlotte’s door, far down the hall, slammed open a second later, and she rushed out, her face full of fear. She slid to a stop when she saw King in her path. “What’s wrong with Mom?”
King kept moving forward, knowing that if he stopped, he would fall to his knees and not get up again. He took one step at a time, over and over, the invisible wire between them guiding him despite the tears once again crowding his eyes. He walked until he reached Charlotte and pulled her against him. Wrapped her in his arms. His chin settled on the top of her head because he couldn’t look her in the eye, couldn’t bear it.
“What’s wrong, King? You’re scaring me,” she whispered, though she didn’t pull back from his embrace.
King savored the feel of her for one more moment, a moment out of time before everything changed. Then he stepped back to take her hand. “We need to talk.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Charlotte blinked open her eyes, sighed, and rolled to her other side. If she hadn’t done the exact same thing five minutes ago—and been certain she would do it again in another five—she might have been able to settle. Unfortunately the same routine had played out for the hour since she laid down, so…
With another sigh she threw her covers back and stood. Her desk drew her, the possibility of work blocking out the thoughts like bricks in her brain, but work meant thinking about Wes, and despite the fact that his death seemed unreal, unbelievable, every time she thought about him, she started to cry.
A tear escaped, slithering down the side of her nose.Like I said…
She shouldn’t mind tears. Wes deserved far more than that, and yet every time the tears came, they made her angry. Made her want to rage, fight, rail against whatever, whoever it was that had made this happen.
Swiping angrily at her face, she walked to the window and looked blindly out on the moonlit yard.
The softclickof the door opening reached her, but she couldn’t be bothered to move.
“Angel?”
She squeezed her eyes shut tight and didn’t answer.
King crossed the room, the slide of his clothes against his skin the only way to track him. Something inside her unfurled, reaching for him, needing him. She slammed it shut. She didn’t—theydidn’t deserve comfort, especially not from each other. Not with Wes gone.
The heat of his body reached her, the faint leather-and-musk scent of his skin. He didn’t touch her. Could he read her thoughts, her body language? Know that she was denying herself, denying them because she needed the punishment? Typical response, right? That’s what a therapist would tell her. Friend commits suicide after you broke his fucking heart, and you punish yourself. Didn’t take Freud to figure that one out.
“Charlotte,” King said, the rasp of his voice sending a shiver down her spine. “You need to lie down. Get some rest.”
“Why? You’re not.”
“I—” He swallowed whatever he’d been about to say. Maybe he knew she couldn’t accept it, whatever it was. Words gave her something to fight against, to focus on. Without words…
