Page 29 of The King (Masterpiece Duet 1)
I reach my apartment and slam the door, relieved to have made it in time.
In the kitchen I grab the cream-colored phone with its tangled spiral cord. The number comes to me by heart. I only had to see it once to remember it forever.
He answers on the second ring. “Penny?”
“He’s here.” Only then do I realize I’m out of breath, my lungs burning. “He followed me home.”
“In your apartment?”
“No,” I say on a harsh breath.
A knock comes at the door, loud and hard enough to shake the walls.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
“Stay there,” Damon says, his voice as sharp as a blade. “Wait for me. I’m coming.”
Daddy blinks at me from his recliner, clearly woken from a nap. His eyes are cloudy, as if he took the pain meds for his knee. As if he took too many pain meds. “Who is it?”
I don’t know whether he means the door or the phone. I shake my head, clinging to the receiver with both hands. “How far are you?” I whisper.
He swears. “Farther than I should be. He must have planned this. He left breadcrumbs out of the city.”
“You’re not close,” I say, the note of finality harsh to my own ears.
Damon says more about how he’s on his way, about holding on. It all mixes with the chaos in my head, the sound of rising water, the sound of currents swirling around me. The line goes dead. There’s no help. No time.
Another knock, at almost the exact same volume.
“Penny?” Daddy says, his face gone pale.
“It’s Jonathan Scott.”
Surprise flickers across his face. “He’s here?”
Blood pumps through my veins. My body fights what’s happening as much as my mind.
Don’t fight them. Except I can’t seem to stop.
“Open it,” Daddy says, his voice fearful now. “It will be worse if we don’t.”
I leave the chain in place while I open the door, a feeble defense. A sliver of Jonathan Scott appears, as slick and as smooth as ever. “You,” I say, surprised my voice doesn’t tremble.
“Me. May I come inside?” It’s not really a question.
“Who are you?” I say, because I’m stalling. I want Damon to magically appear in the dimly lit hallway, but he won’t. He won’t make it in time. What will happen without him?
What will happen to bait when the trap doesn’t work? It gets eaten.
“The owner of this building.”
I swallow hard. He’s the owner? Which means that he already has access to my apartment. He can come inside. He can burn the place down for all that the law can touch him.
“You’re not the super,” I say, still stalling.
“He works for me.”
The super is a disgusting human being, which suits this place perfectly. Hurry, Damon. “How do I know I can trust you?”
I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
He smiles. “You definitely can’t trust me. Run and tell your daddy that Jonathan Scott is here.”
I slam the door shut, staring at the peeling white paint on the door, the rusted metal chain. “Oh God,” I whisper. “What do we do?”
There’s a brief but potent fantasy where I fling myself out of the window. Three stories down. That would be enough to end things, wouldn’t it? That would be enough to save me?
Bodies want to go on living, no matter what happens to them.
It only makes it worse.
“Open the door,” Daddy says, his voice panicked.
“Help is on the way. We just have to let this play out.” I take deep breaths. My voice comes out even. Only my blurring vision gives any hint to the turmoil inside. “Everything will be fine.”
It doesn’t even sound like a lie.
A sound of an animal in pain fills the room. It’s coming from Daddy. Not me, not me. “I’m sorry, Penny. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t think he’d come here.”
There’s a wrench in my chest. A horrible turn of grief already tight. “What did you do?”
“I entered the poker game.”
I’m not even a person anymore. Not flesh and blood. None of the soft curves the men would want. I’m clockwork, made of metal and wood. Unfeeling. Unflinching in the face of familial betrayal. “How is that possible? How could you do that without my permission?”
How could I mean so little to you?
That’s not what I’m asking. I want to know the mechanics of it.
Which gears turned to make this beating heart.
He uses his damp T-shirt to wipe his forehead. “I told them you agreed.”
“And if I open the door and tell him I refuse?”
His face turns pale. “Then I’d have broken my word to Jonathan Scott.”
And we both know what that would mean. Death. A particularly painful one.
The irony is that I would probably still be part of the pot. That’s the merciless version of justice he used to rule the streets. It would mean the end of us both. Mutually assured destruction. Neither of us have a choice now.
