King of the Causeway, a King Series Novella Read online

  Or maybe, it’s something much much worse.

  Chapter 2

  Ray

  “This house is gonna be fuckin’ epic after the addition is finished. Wish I thought of it when I still lived here. Remind me, did you guys decide yay or nay on my red room suggestion?” Preppy asks. He hands me a bowl of popcorn and plops down on the couch.

  I toss a kernel at Preppy.

  He catches it in his mouth. “I’ll take that as a no. I should’ve known ya’ll were a bunch of prudes.”

  “Oh yeah? Where’s your sex dungeon? Because I don’t remember seeing one in your house the last time we were over.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Are you kidding me? If it wasn’t for the kids and that whole inappropriate thing Dre keeps reminding me about, I’d have a whole sex house.”

  King showed me the progress being made on the addition to our house this morning. It’s all framed out now and ready to become a new master suite, additional bedroom, kitchen expansion, and big sound proofed playroom for the kids. It will take a few more months to complete, but Preppy’s right. When it’s all done, it’s going to be amazing and provide our growing family some much needed additional space. No red room. Although, now I’m thinking about sex again. Or the lack thereof.

  Like I need more things to feel frustrated about right now.

  “What the fuck is going on with your face?” Preppy asks, leaning in and squinting to get a better look at me.

  I cover my face with the blanket, and he pulls it back down.

  “I mean it. Why you frowning? Boss man ain’t laying the dick down like he used to or something?”

  “Or something,” I mutter, popping a few kernels into my mouth. It doesn’t help.

  It’s not King. Or sex. Or sex with King.

  Which is a problem, but it isn’t the problem.

  Preppy chomps on another handful of popcorn. “You know, they make medicine for that now. Say the word, and I’ll get your boy some shit that will make his dick into a fucking shuttle launch.”

  I sigh and make sure the gaggle of our combined kids aren’t listening. They aren’t; all six of them are engrossed in the movie currently playing on the tv. “No. He doesn’t need drugs. At my most recent doctor’s appointment, they put the smack down on our sex life until the baby is born.”

  “You mean until six weeks after the baby is born,” he corrects.

  Fuck. I forgot about the wait time. “Thanks for the reminder.”

  He tosses a popcorn at me and it lands in my hair. “Anything to assist you with your sexual frustration. When Dre had the twins, that was a rough six weeks. Gave myself dick-rope burn.”

  “How did you get...” Understanding dawns on me. “Never mind. I get it.” I lower my voice. “But so much that you gave yourself rope burn? Really?”

  “Yup.” He turns to face the TV. “Didn’t help that I used a rope.” Preppy’s face turns serious. He nods. “Yeah, with a rope.”

  Time for a subject change. My thoughts turn to this morning’s unsettling weather report. “I just wish this storm would pass so we could keep going on the construction.”

  Preppy waves his hand in the air like he’s sweeping my worry away. If it were only that easy. “It’s a baby storm. A cat one or two. It’s not even supposed to make landfall. It will swirl around off the coast for a few days and make its way toward its final destination and unfortunately some other undeserving town.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better about it?”

  “Take it up with Mother Nature,” Preppy responds. He raises an eyebrow suggestively. “But think of how happy you’ll be rubbing one out in your new clawfoot tub if it makes you feel any better.”

  I chuckle. “Yeah, masturbating in my new tub makes me feel much better about the potential catastrophic destruction of a town and possible loss of life.”

  “Then, my job is done here. You’re welcome.”

  I think of all the work King has put into making my drawing for the new rooms of the house a reality. The man really would stop at nothing to make me happy.

  You won’t be happy. Not in the tub. Not anywhere. You can’t be happy. Not anymore, the voice inside my head taunts. The one that fills me with needless yet endless amounts of worry and doubt.

  I will the voice away. Whatever this is looming over me is just like the storm lingering off the coast. It’s temporary, and it will pass. It has to pass. Besides, I have love, and therefore I have everything.

  And that love comes in all shapes and sizes. Romantic love like the kind I feel for King comes with passion, attraction. Parental love comes with a need to protect, a deeper love than any in the world. Then, there’s the kind of love that comes in the form of friendship. Chosen family. Currently, it’s in the form of the blond, tattered and scarred, tattooed man snuggled under a soft blanket on my couch, who is currently mindlessly rubbing my swollen feet.

  “Mommy, what’s mastered-batoning?” Max asks, looking over her shoulder.

  “You mean masturbating,” Bo replies before the shock of my daughter’s question has a chance to set in. “Also referred to as self-pleasuring. It’s the stimulation of the genit—”

  Preppy claps his hands together. “Okay! That’s enough of that. Are you ready guys? This is the best part!” He points to Bo and whispers, “No more listening to adult talk.”

  Bo shrugs. “Then, don’t adult talk in a room full of kids. Or, and this is merely a suggestion, but you both may want to consider working on the volume of your whispering.”

  Preppy opens his mouth to reply, then shuts it. He purses his lips, then settles back on the couch. “Touché.”

  Sammy, Max, and Preppy’s twin girls, Taylor and Miley are all lying on the floor on their stomachs while Bo opts for the recliner. Nicole Grace is on the floor, too, but she’s already asleep with her purple blanket shoved in her mouth in a way that used to make me think she was trying to choke herself.

  "Here it comes!” Preppy points to the TV, and the kids all clap with excitement as Moana begins to sing her first song. Preppy sings along, and the kids follow.

  I smile at my friend who is a literal juxtaposition of a character. Loving yet foul mouthed. Sexual and crass but loyal to the wife he's hopelessly in love with. A party animal but one of the best fathers I've ever witnessed. When the song is over, they all clap and continue to watch the movie.

  “What?” Preppy asks when the song ends and he catches me staring at him.

  "You're a good guy, Preppy,” I say, because I mean it. Grace was right all those years ago. It’s possible to be a bad boy yet a great man. I’m lucky enough to know and love several such men and call them my family.

  "You're only saying that because I'm currently rubbing your pregnant Flintstone feet."

  "Hey," I chide, lifting said Flintstone feet from his lap.

  Preppy rolls his eyes and pulls them back, continuing my much-needed foot massage. “Dre loves the shit out of me, but I have no doubt that she loved me even more when she was pregnant. I'd spend hours robbing her cute swollen feet."

  I shake my head. "I'm saying you're a good guy because you are."

  He shrugs. "I'm good-ish, or like good adjacent. Maybe. Possibly. Probably not.”

  I smile. "That sounds about right.''

  "Daddy?" Taylor asks turning around and staring at us with her huge doe eyes and cherub cheeks. "Moana is brown, right?"

  Preppy's eyes grow wide. "Oh, yeah, I guess,” he answers with a where is this going look in his eyes that as a parent I am all too familiar with.

  "And I'm white, right? " she asks, tilting her head. A little black tendril falls over her eye, and she blows it away only to have it fall right back.

  "Uh, huhhhh...," he replies, shifting his eyes to me, then back to one of his twins.

  Taylor smiles up at her daddy. "But, we're all the same inside, right?''

  Preppy blows out a sigh of relief and smiles down at his darker-haired twin daughter. There’s pride in his voice.
“Yeah, kiddo, we're all the same inside.''

  Satisfied, Taylor turns back to face the TV while Preppy stores at her for a few silent moments before speaking again. “You never hold your breath until the moment when you think your toddler is about to come out to you as a racist.''

  I chuckle. “Well, you're doing something right. She's barely three years old and has recognized that although people might look different, we're all the same. She's smart. Observant. Kind.''

  "She gets all that from her mother," Preppy says, clearing his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the compliment. Which is very unlike him. Normally, he leaps at the chance to accept a compliment like he’s receiving an Oscar.

  I press my foot against his still hand, and he resumes rubbing my swollen feet. "Give yourself some credit for being a decent human.”

  He smirks.

  I roll my eyes. “A decent human, at times.”

  “A reminder that you’re the one who pushed King and I together when we did everything in our power to pull ourselves apart.”

  "Pffft, the two of you were so perfect for each other, you could be blind and deaf and still know you were meant to be.”

  "I think there’s more to it. I think you knew we'd be happy. That he'd be happy.''

  "That, or I just didn't want you to leave so I made sure you'd stay. It's more selfish than you’re making it out to be."

  "Uh, huh. You keep telling yourself that, Prep. Meanwhile, you're here rubbing my feet and watching Disney movies with the kids. But I promise, your secret good parenting and being a good friend is safe with me.”

  “You know I love me some motherfucking Disney,” Preppy replies.

  “I love me some motherfucking Disney, too!” Bo chimes in, repeating his father’s words. He’s the only child not sitting on the floor. Instead, he’s sitting with his legs crisscrossed on the recliner wearing a pink and yellow plaid bow tie that matches Preppy’s.

  Preppy tries to hide his crooked smile and narrows his eyes at his son. “Bo, what did we say about using those kinds of words?”

  Bo recites his answer without apology, like he’s remembering them from a textbook. “Not to say them in front of my mother, my sisters, or my teachers because they don't understand that swearing is a sign of emotional intelligence according to recent medical psychological studies in major publications. And socially not acceptable for an eight-year-old to use in public because it makes mom look like she’s not doing her job when we all know that my terrible language is all your fault.”

  Preppy nods. “That’s right.”

  Bo points to the TV. "But Disney movies are motherfucking awesome because behind all the singing and princesses, they’re really morbid. Did you know that Moana is one of the few Disney movies where the parents don't die in the beginning? Although the grandma kicks it, but then, she becomes a stingray, so that’s pretty awesome.”

  "Yeah, it is pretty awesome,” I reply. I look from Bo to Preppy. “You know, he might not be your blood, but he is so your kid.” I chuckle. “In every way.”

  "Yeah, yeah he is. But, he's smarter than I'll ever be,” Preppy says, staring at his son.

  "I think he’s smarter than any of us will ever be,” I add.

  Bo takes a handful of popcorn and shoves it into his mouth. “That’s true because my IQ is one fifty six. Technically, I’m smarter than 97% of the population will ever be.'' He turns back to the movie.

  “He’s right. We need to work on our whispering skills,” I whisper as low as I can manage. “You know, it’s crazy seeing you as a dad, Preppy. Do you ever miss the way things were before you had kids?”

  Preppy frowns. “What? Like do I miss having sex with anyone and anything in any manner of my choosing without giving a fuck if it’s wrong or right or demented?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Nope. And let’s face it, in most ways, I’m still the same ole me. I’m married, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t find most bitches––I mean, women––sexy as fuck anymore. And it doesn’t mean that I still don’t want to do horrible, deplorable, dirty—”

  I cut him off. “I get it.”

  “The only difference is that now I only want to do those things with Doc.” He looks to where the twins are both asleep on their stomachs next to the equally passed out Max and Sammy, then back to Bo, who has a notebook on his lap, scribbling in the pages. “You already know I didn’t have a family growing up. Now, I get to be in one. My only goal is not to fuck them up too much and let them be themselves.”

  Tears well up in my eyes. I try to hide them by turning back to the tv while willing them away.

  Preppy pauses his hands on my foot. “You okay, kid? You seem a bit off, and I’m an expert at sexual frustration, but this seems like something else. You normally laugh when I say stupid shit, and now the laugh either isn’t there or…I don’t know, just not what it used to be.”

  Great, another person that’s going to be asking me if I’m okay every twenty minutes. I force a smile. “I’m fine. I really am. It’s just a sweet movie. And you know, hormones and shit.” I sniffle.

  Preppy’s frown says bullshit, and I can feel his gaze penetrating my façade through my temple. “It wasn’t that sweet. And I’m not just talking about today either. You’ve been like this for a while now.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like your best friend died, but I already did that so…what is it?”

  I don’t answer because I’m not sure how to answer. The same reason I haven’t explained it to King. How can I explain to them a feeling that I don’t quite understand myself? Plus, I know how heavy the weight of worry feels, and I don’t want to pass it off to them and have them concerned about me when I’m not even sure there’s a reason to be concerned.

  Preppy snaps his fingers. “Wait, I know. You didn’t laugh as much because you’re afraid that you’re gonna pee. That happened to Dre when she was pregnant and laughed too hard. A little after she was pregnant, too. She was embarrassed, but I didn’t mind. I actually kinda like it when—”

  “It’s nothing,” I blurt, not wanting to hear the end of that sentence although mentally I’ve already heard it all. “I’ve just been a little tired.”

  He doesn’t look convinced. “You sure?”

  I smile and try to make it as genuine as I can muster. “I’m sure. Plus, pregnancy mixed with exhaustion equals emotional. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  “I tell you what. You go to bed, and try to rest. I’ll finish the movie with the kids, and I’ll wait for boss man to get home before we head out.”

  I’m about to argue with him when he insists. “Bed, kid. Now. If not, I’ll have to consult with that barbarian of a husband of yours, and you’ll be accosted with the Brantley King edition of the inquisition until one or both of you dies from mental exhaustion.”

  I don’t want to have the same conversation with King again. I don’t like lying to him, but I am fine. Or, I will be fine.

  Or I hope I’ll be fine.

  I concede to Preppy’s offer and maneuver my huge belly so I can shift to the side and stand from the couch. “Thank you.”

  I’m halfway down the hall when I hear Preppy. Again, Bo was right. He does need to work on his whispering skills. “Okay, kids. She’s gone. Who wants some cocaine?”

  I look over my shoulder and find Preppy silently laughing at his own joke. “They’re all asleep,” he continues, pointing to the floor. “And you, of all people, know I’d never give my blow to kids. They ain’t got no money or collateral.”

  Chapter 3

  King

  My hands may be slightly cleaner these days, but my cash is still dirty as fuck. And at this moment, someone is trying to fuck with what’s rightfully mine. What I’ve spent two decades building in this town.

  When it rains, it fucking floods.

  I’m not talking about Hurricane Polly, either, although that’s not exactly helping matters.

  The latest shit storm was last night. Nine a
nd Pike, along with one of Bear’s guys they call Badger, were moving a shipment of blow when it was jacked on the middle of the fucking causeway. MY fucking causeway, by some wannabe thugs for hire.

  Unluckily, I’m the one who fronted the fucking cash. Like I need more shit to be worried about right now in addition to Pup and whatever the fuck it is she’s keeping from me. I’m somewhere between angry and confused that she’s not being honest with me, and I hate to fucking admit, hurt.

  Which just makes me even more angry.

  I step into the framed addition to the house. Pup really did draw up a great plan. When it’s done, it will be a new master suite, a kitchen addition, and a huge playroom for the kids. What Pup doesn’t know is what else it will include, but I plan on holding onto that bit of information from her until its complete and every room looks just as she’s imagined.

  Currently, it’s just a place that smells like sawdust—I spy Pike and Nine waiting for me inside the framed walls—and bad fucking news.

  Pike is mindlessly twirling his handcuff bracelets around his wrists with his back against one of the studs. His chin-length beach boy hair falls into his battered face. There’s a cut above his right eye and a blood stain where he’s bleeding through the bandage. There’s a bruise under his other eye.

  Nine is on his phone, but looks up when he hears me approach and shoves it back into his pocket. I consider the kid my protege, and not just because he’s Preppy’s brother, but because he’s smart as fuck, violent when the situation calls for it, and willing to take direction. He’s the next generation. The Prince of Logan’s Beach.

  If he doesn’t fuck it up before he even gets started.

  Nine, as usual, doesn’t waste any time getting down to business. He turns over a neon orange bucket and takes a seat.

  “Tell me everything.” I demand. “What the fuck have you found out?” I light a smoke to give my hands something to do besides tear down the wood surrounding us and breaking it over my knee.