Page 15 of King
Sure, a little after seven in the morning is too early to have a drink but the need to remove her from my thoughts is more intense today. Nothing good comes from obsessing over the impossible, the unattainable, and for this next meeting, my anger needs to be subdued so I don’t kill him.
Five years ago, at the age of twenty-six, I acquired Larsson Industries, and numerous other businesses expanding my reach into the business world and the criminal underworld outside my hometown of Uppsala, Sweden. My network in both worlds was now extensive and worth billions.
After immigrating to America and becoming a US citizen, I worked tirelessly to achieve what my father never could, taking Larsson Industries places he’d only dreamt of. His bastard took over his company and his criminal organization expanding both beyond anything he could ever do or imagine. And he hated me for it. His sons hated me for it. On many occasions, they all wished for my death, but it’s hard to kill the Beast. I should know. Many have tried including my family.
But I still live.
“Sounds good so far,” I say to myself, proud I at least got some words down.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Oh fuck!” My hand lands against my chest. “What the hell, King! Jesus fucking Christ. Can you make some damn noise? You scared the shit out of me.”
He laughs and it’s one of the most erotic sounds I’ve ever heard. Or it can be possible I’ve already lost my damn mind after meeting the man one time.
He sits in the lounge chair beside me, only a few inches separating us. I close the laptop. There’s no way in hell I’ll get any work done with him so close. He’ll take all my attention. The man is so sexy. In a beat-your-ass kind of way.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He removes a joint from behind his ear, lights it, then sticks it out to me. “No thank you.”
“You sure? It’s my new strain, Devil's Fruit Cake.”
Saint informed me his older brother owned his own grow farm, Sinners Grow.
I’m not sure why it surprises me that a motorcycle club would own legitimate businesses but according to Saint they own several.
“I’m not much of a smoker. The munchies fuck with my diet too much.”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
He takes a hit from it, then blows out the smoke.
“How did you know where I was?” I ask with a smile. “You aren’t stalking me, are you?”
“The silent alarm went off.”
My smile drops.
“Shit, I’m sorry, King. I hope I didn’t disturb you. I couldn’t sleep so I decided to get some air and some work done.”
“Nah. You’re good. I needed a break.” He arches his brow. “Couldn’t sleep, huh? I wonder why.”
A mischievous glint fills his eyes, and I scoff. “Whatever. Don’t flatter yourself.”
He chuckles, taking another hit from the joint, before putting it out, and sticking it back behind his ear.
Two hits? That must be some strong shit.
“I didn’t say a word.”
He leans against the backrest of the lounge chair and crosses his muscular arms across his broad chest then crosses his feet at the ankles. And yes, I followed the movement because his body is a damn masterpiece. A work of art. He has to spend countless hours in the gym for him to look like that.
“You didn’t have to,” I answer, but I can’t stop the smile from crossing my face. “It was written all over your face.”
“What was written all over my face?”
“That you’ve been thinking about me, sweetheart. That’s the damn truth. You know it and I know it too.”
