Page 52 of Kneel with the King
I glance down. He’s a shadow, barely a silhouette against the bright, afternoon sun. Jacques and Walter are a good twenty feet away, so it feels like we’re all alone out here.
“No,” I say flatly.
A pause. “Too bad.”
The rope jerks slightly—controlled, but enough to make my stomach flip.
“You fucking prick?—”
“You’ll be fine. I’ve got you.”
He begins lowering me—slow, steady, just enough sway to keep me off-center. The ground rises beneath me, but I can’t relax. Not with him in control.
When my feet hit dirt, I spin to face him, yanking the helmet from my head.
“You enjoyed that.”
His expression is unreadable. “Maybe.”
“You could’ve dropped me.”
“I didn’t.”
I step in. Close enough to shove, or kiss, or scream in his face.
“Don’t push me,” I mutter so that people don’t overhear me.
King’s gaze drags down my face. Lingers at my mouth.
“You don’t need a push,” he says, voice low. “You’re already on the edge.”
He brushes a speck of dirt off my chest—so soft, so calculated, it might as well be a threat.
Before I can respond, someone calls out nearby—Walter, I think. “King! Asher! Group circle in five!”
King steps back, cool as a fucking cucumber. “Better pull it together,” he says. “Wouldn’t want Walter to think you’re falling apart again. You already made a scene earlier at brunch with that broken mug.”
He turns, walking away, leaving me both breathless and furious.
And the worst part of all? I’m still fucking hard.
At the Feet of the King
Asher
I fumemy way through the short group circle, hardly paying attention to King, or Walter, or the way Jacques’s eyes flick between King and me periodically. For a second, I wonder if he heard us arguing, but I can’t think about that right now.
On the hike back, I follow King silently, lips flat, nails biting into my palms. We don’t speak, which is fine with me.
The veins in my neck pulse, and I’m clenching my teeth so hard I’m afraid my molars might shatter. It’s thirty whole minutes to watch him effortlessly walk ahead of me, fantasizing about him falling off the cliff, or a boulder crushing him.
And in those thirty minutes, Istew.
I think of Brooklyn and whoever King’s supposed date was for this week, and it becomes glaringly obvious that he set this all up. But why? He said it wasn’t revenge, but it feels like that. If it’s not revenge, then why the hell is he doing this? Because I fired him ten years ago?
By the time we get back to the retreat, I’m shaking—fighting the heat coursing through my body, the edgy, twitchy feeling that has me seeing red.
I should go back to the room. Take a cold shower. Write some fucking pitch notes for Walter.
