Page 20 of The King (Masterpiece Duet 1)
And then his hand rises. I should duck away. Anything, anything.
My heart thuds heavy against my ribs. Two knuckles. That’s the only part of his body that touches mine, at the top curve of my cheek. He strokes down in what could almost be innocent comfort.
Except that he doesn’t stop at my jaw.
His knuckles slide lower, to the tender skin of my neck. To the hollow at my throat.
When his hand finally falls away, I suck in an audible breath. He didn’t touch me anywhere that would make this dirty, but my body still hums like a car left running. Nowhere to go from here.
He leaves me in that diner feeling like I’ve transformed.
There are crescent moons left on my palm, tinted red from breaking the skin. I wash my hands. Force myself to breathe even. I have an entire shift to get through. Every coffee cup in the diner is empty after that little chat. I have work to do, shitty tips to earn, even though they won’t make a difference. Nothing I make will ever be enough.
Damon’s words ring in my ear, long after he’s left the diner.
A promise. A prayer. I swear to God you’ll be mine.
Chapter Nine
When I played dumb on the elementary school playground, I didn’t fully understand what I was turning down. Mrs. Keller made it sound wonderful, a school with all the math problems I could ever dream about, a place with teachers who paid attention to me. I felt the dark undercurrent, the same way I did on that river. Every muscle in my body clenched tight, my breath coming fast.
As I got older there were other men. Other offers.
I learned to put a name on what I wanted. Freedom. The freedom to decide where I go and when. The freedom to say who can touch me. The freedom to say no.
Some days I wondered if it was pointless to fight the currents. This is what the dark streets did to a girl. This is how they pushed us along, eddies swirling around us, sharp rocks at the bottom.
And like that day in the tube I fought the pull.
I pumped my legs as hard as I could, even if I knew I’d go under.
I put on my uniform and go to the diner, because that’s the way I swim here. My only source of money. And the whole time my mind whirs, working on other options, some loophole. Worrying at the problem until the edges are raw. My brain has done things, improbable things, almost impossible things. And now it fails me?
When the bell over the door rings at midnight I barely register the sound.
The air changes in the diner. Even the drunks and the exhausted truck drivers from out of town straighten in their seats. Ruth Mae ducks back into the kitchen. I know who it is before I turn around.
Jonathan Scott.
He’s sitting in the corner booth, soft as velvet, his edges undefined. I know he’s a man, flesh and blood, bone and ill-intent, but he seems somehow unreal. As if he’s made of smoke.
I grab the pot of coffee and cross the diner. He won’t see me cower. He won’t see me beg. I give him my bland waitress smile as I pour. “What can I get you?”
He glances at the counter, where I can feel four men resolutely not looking at him. He exudes a menace that’s unmistakable, enough to make men his size stiffen in fear.
“What kind of pie?” he asks, his voice mild.
“Peach.” Ruth Mae’s one concession to decent food. She makes them herself.
“I’ll have that.” Of course he will.
I give him a tight smile before returning to the counter. Only there do I exhale. Being around him is like being underwater. He steals all the air, all the space. Until I’m drowning.
There are other customers that want refills and plates cleared. That’s my excuse for not returning right away. But really it’s because I need to be away from him the same way I need oxygen.
When I cut a slice of pie, quick, sloppy, I take a deep breath.
All I want to do is slide the plate onto his table and leave.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
Trapped. “Penny.”
“How long have you been working here, Penny?”
The way he says my name, it sounds perverse. Like something dirty.
I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want to talk to him at all, but ignoring him feels like turning my back on a rabid animal—he would go in for the kill. “Two years.”
That’s not exactly true. I worked here longer in the back, scrubbing dishes so no one would know they had a kid working here. When I turned fifteen I got upgraded to waitress. Most people know I’m underage. No one cares.
He nods towards his coffee, still black in the mug. “I prefer two creams. Three sugars.”
