Page 40 of Played
“I’m outside.” He sounds small. Lost. Not at all himself.
Between the rain and the fact that I’m thirty floors up, I don’t expect to be able to see him. Still, I walk to the window and peer down at the street below. How does he know where I live? “What the hell are you doing here?”
The rain hammers against the pavement and parked cars, but I can’t see him. “Your d-doorman won’t let me in.” He sounds like he’s shivering.
Of course he won’t. Still doesn’t answer my question. “What do you want, King?” I press my forehead to the glass, hoping for a glimpse of him. Not much can be seen from up here other than the streetlamps.
“I don’t… I dunno, Mase. He’s… and I didn’t know…” He sobs.
Fuck, is he crying? Panic bubbles up in my chest. “King, what’s happened?”
“He’s dead, Mase.”
Is he talking about his grandfather? After seeing them together, it’s hard for me to imagine that he’s close enough to anyone else to be this upset about their death.
“I didn’t know w-where else to go,” he adds.
Fucking hell. My heart cracks in two at the desperation in his tone. “My doorman will let you in. Go hand him your phone.”
There’s a shuffling sound, and a few seconds later, I speak to Bill and ask him to show King to my private elevator.
The line goes dead, and without thought for the fact I’m wearing only my shorts, I jog out into the hallway in time to see the light indicating the elevator is traveling up. My heart beats in my throat while I wait for him. He sounded so distraught, and he must be to have come here. To have come to me, of all people.
The elevator doors open, and he steps out, shoulders slumped and his dripping T-shirt plastered to his skin. He looks up, his dark-green eyes full of tears when they meet mine. “He’s dead.”
“Arthur?”
He gives a single nod.
“Shit. I’m sorry, King.” I take a few steps toward him.
“I didn’t know where else to go. I didn’t…” He screws his eyes closed and shakes his head, sending droplets of rain flying from his head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have…” His shoulders shake, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck!”
If King is here, that must mean he has nowhere else. Nobody else. I have no idea how painful that must be. Losing my mom was devastating, and it ripped out my heart, but I still had my brothers and my dad to turn to. Instinct takes over, and I rest a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay that you’re here. Come on in and I’ll get you something to drink. You can get dry and then you can talk. Or you can just sit. Okay?”
He opens his eyes again and nods, and he looks so vulnerable and un-King-like that it’s easy to forget how mad I was at both of us a few minutes ago. He follows me through the open-planspace, and I gesture for him to sit at the kitchen island while I pour him a Scotch.
After checking he’s okay, I leave him to grab some dry clothes. He decides to change out of his wet clothes right there in my kitchen, and I distract myself by pouring a bag of chips into a bowl, anything to avoid staring at him while he undresses. Anything to avoid him catching me staring.
By the time I’ve set out the chips and some dip, he’s wearing my sweats but has annoyingly left the T-shirt on the kitchen island, and now I’ll be forced to stare at his chiseled physique while we talk. Great.
He rolls his neck. “It’s kind of hot in here. You don’t mind if I don’t wear that, do you?” He looks to the folded T-shirt.
It is hot in here. I like it hot because I enjoy walking around here in only my shorts, like I am right now. Fuck, if I knew he was coming over, I would have turned the thermostat down forty degrees and left my suit on. He’s finished his Scotch, so I pour him another and take a seat across from him. “I’m sorry about your grandfather.”
He knocks back his drink and drops his head, scrubbing his hand over the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’m sorry I turned up here like this. I guess I didn’t want to be alone, and I didn’t know where else to go.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
He glances around. “I haven’t interrupted anything, have I?”
I shake my head. Unfortunately, since you walked back into my life, there has been very little to interrupt. Wisely, I keep that thought to myself. “Your grandfather seemed like a real nice guy,” I say instead, steering the conversation to safer, less likely to give me an inappropriate hard-on, territory.
“He was.”
“He was your mom’s dad, right?”
King nods vigorously. “Yeah. My dad hated him. And vice versa.”
