Page 23 of Played
Instead of doing that, he turns his attention back to King and hauls him up by the scruff of his neck, shaking him like a rag doll. “Explain yourself, boy!”
“We weren’t doing anything, sir,” King protests.
He shakes King harder. “I can fucking smell him on you, you filthy piece of shit. Do not lie to your father. Now try again.”
This is his dad? Holy shit. I take a cautious step toward them.
“I was just messing with him,” King says, and I stop in my tracks. “He fucking disgusts me too.”
I freeze now, my eyes darting between King and his father—Kyngston Worthington III. He releases his grip on his son who shrugs out of his hold.
“Tell him how we feel about dirty little perverts like him,” his father demands.
King’s face changes into someone I don’t recognize. His eyes fix on mine. “You disgust me,” he says, his tone dripping with venom. But that can’t be for me. It has to be for his father—the man making him do this.
“King?” I plead. “You don’t have to listen to him. Come home with me. We can?—”
“You think I’d go anywhere with you? Didn’t you hear me when I told you that you fucking disgust me? Did you think any of this was real?”
I blink at him, confused, not to mention scared of his father and what he might be capable of.
“This was a joke to see exactly how far you’d go, so that I can tell everyone about what a pathetic, needy, sick little shit you really are. I hate you. You’re a fucking freak! You think any of this is real? I’m not gay. Never have been. Never will be.”
I stagger back a step. He doesn’t mean any of that, but it still causes a physical ache in my chest.
I can’t breathe.
His father sneers at me, then directs his attention back to his son. “Let’s go.”
King doesn’t look at me before he walks away, toward the dark SUV that we didn’t hear driving down the road. We were too wrapped up in each other to notice anyone else.
I watch them drive away, overwhelmed with anger and betrayal and fear. What the fuck just happened?
“What’s wrong, my sweet boy?”Mom’s soothing voice makes me want to cry, but I choke back a sob and stare at the TV, pretending to be engrossed in some stupid show about college kids.
“Nothing, Mom.”
She sits beside me and cups my face in her hands. “You have been crying, Mason. Now, please tell your mama what is wrong so I can fix it for you.”
I wish it were that easy. “It was just a guy, that’s all.”
“A guy what? What did he do?” Her voice goes up about seven octaves, and then she curses in Spanish.
I’m still trying to process what happened myself. I’ve called King half a dozen times. Left voicemails. Sent text messages. I haven’t heard anything from him in hours, and I’m starting to worry that something’s happened to him. I can’t face telling my mom about any of it, so I downplay it all. “It was nothing. I was kind of seeing some guy, and he broke it off.”
She makes a horrified face. “Broke it off? With my beautiful, kind, sweet boy?”
Usually I wince at her over-the-top compliments, but they’re more than welcome tonight. I nod.
Cue more Spanish cursing. “Do I need to take out a hit on anyone?” she asks quietly, crossing herself. “Or have his home infested with fire ants?” There’s a twinkle in her soft brown eyes, but I have no doubt she would do either of those things if I asked her to.
“No, Mom. It’s fine.”
“I remember my first broken heart.” She lets out an exaggerated sigh. “His name was Miguel Fernandez, and he broke up with me the day before Valentine’s. Bastardo!”
I smile in spite of how lousy I feel.
“How about some ice cream, huh? I hid a tub of mint chocolate chip beneath the vegetables.” She waggles her eyebrows at me.
