Page 24 of Played
I shake my head. “Nah, but thanks.”
“Aw.” She plants a kiss on my forehead. “This will not be your first broken heart, my sweet, sensitive boy.” Then she wraps me in a hug, enveloping me in the sweet scent of her flowery perfume. “And any boy who does not appreciate the wonder that is you, mijo, does not deserve another moment of your time. And he is definitely not worth the salt of your tears.”
If only that were true, Mom.
I barely slept at all,and as soon as I wake up, I check my phone. No word from King, and now I’m really worried. If I don’t speak to him today, I might consider asking my dad if we should call the cops.
I call him for what must be the fiftieth time, and to my utter relief, he picks up. He speaks before I have a chance to. “Will you stop fucking calling me! Stop texting. Stop everything. I told you?—”
“I don’t fucking believe you, King. We?—”
“There is no we, asshole. It was fake. Every cringeworthy, painful second of it. I don’t even fucking like you. Now leave me the fuck alone. Go beg some other dirty little fuck to let you suck his cock.”
White-hot pain lances through my chest. He can’t mean any of this. His father must be there, making him say this stuff. “King, please, just?—”
“Don’t call me again. Fucking freak!”
The line goes dead.
My heart breaks.
I don’t believe him.Can’t believe him. What King and I had means something, and I don’t care what he said, it must have been his father’s influence. Only yesterday afternoon we were making plans for the future. He leaves for school next week—Harvard, where Nathan and Drake are studying too. And next year I’ll be there as well, and we can stop sneaking around so much. Nathan and Drake are in an apartment off campus, andmy mom and dad will let me do the same after my first year. Then King and I could have all the privacy we want. And after college…
I shake my head, refusing to cry again. Everything couldn’t have changed in the space of a few hours. It has to be his father making him say those things. He doesn’t have the best relationship with his parents, and he’s terrified to come out to them, a fact that bewilders me when my own parents, and my brothers, have been nothing but supportive. But having met his father last night, I can totally understand why.
Still, I’m not about to let his father ruin this for us. I’m not scared of him. Kyngston Worthington might be a big-shot investment banker, but my dad and brothers would eat him for breakfast. Obviously, King doesn’t feel strong enough to stand up to him, and I’m not going to lie in bed all day and leave him to face this alone.
With that thought in mind, I grab the keys to my Jeep and head to King’s house. I’ve never visited him there before, but I know where it is. When we first started dating, I drove past the place. The imposing mansion on the outskirts of the city looks about as inviting as a root canal.
The wrought iron gates are open when I pull up, and my tires crunch over the gravel driveway. This place is creepy as hell, and I have no idea what I’m walking into. But I glance around and note King’s blue Audi, the same car where we shared our first kiss, and it reminds me why I’m here.
I climb the few stone stairs leading to the door, my legs shaking with each step, and ring the doorbell. A lady with gray hair wearing a pale gray dress and cardigan opens it and inquires who I am.
I roll back my shoulders. “I’m here to see King.”
“One moment, please,” she says. Then she closes the door and disappears.
I shuffle my feet, absentmindedly kicking at the stone wall beside me. I almost pass out when a stone comes loose, but before I can put it back, the door opens again.
“You!” Kyngston Worthington III booms.
I glare at him. He doesn’t intimidate me—not much anyway. “I want to speak to King.”
He glares at me.
“Please, sir.”
His eyes narrow, and right as I’m sure he’s going to tell me to leave, he opens the door wider and invites me in. Hesitantly, I follow him inside. The air is thick with the overpowering scent of disinfectant, but what’s most stark is the lack of any noise. I’ve grown up with four brothers, and even when nobody else is home, it seems our house is never silent. This place is like a mausoleum.
“This way,” Kyngston orders, and I follow obediently, my anxiety spiking with each step I take.
“Where is King?” I ask, hating the slight tremor in my voice.
“Kyngston is out,” he replies coolly, opening a door and gesturing for me to walk inside. I peer into what looks like a study, and against my better judgment, I step over the threshold. I want to see King, and as uncomfortable as this is, I’m not going to get to unless I at least pretend to be polite and respectful to this guy. Not that he deserves it.
He closes the door behind him, and I shift uncomfortably. The faint smell of cigar smoke and brandy lingers in the air.
“Mason, is it?” he asks, his eyes narrowed on my face.
