Just Between Us (The Kings)

What the fuckis up with this town?

First of all, Outtatowner? What the hell kind of person names a town like that? Secondly, yesterday was my first morning there, and it started with an egged car and a chest full of half-warm whole milk.

Let alone the fact I could press charges for aggravated assault, but that blouse was an Adam Lippes in silk charmeuse.

I pouted as irritation rolled over me. I really loved that shirt.

There was probably some gang of misfit youths who roamed the streets like Lord of the Flies or some shit. The boys only laughed harder when I shouted Where are your parents? at their backs, which proved this town was likely full of nothing but rowdy, pint-size thugs.

My toe tapped with impatience as I considered how I was ever going to make this job work.

Is that . . . a man wearing Moon Boots in summertime?

As if it weren’t a bizarre sight, I tracked the elderly man’s movements. He sauntered up the sidewalk, smiling and waving like he was the mayor of this godforsaken town.

Shit.Maybe he was.

As he shuffled past me, he smiled and tipped an imaginary hat in my direction. “Ma’am.”

I only blinked, schooling my face not to contort into its naturally prominent resting bitch face.

That face had served me well in my career but oftentimes made my approachability next to nothing. Sometimes that also worked in my favor. However, if my goal was to fly below the radar and gather information on the town’s most prominent resident, I needed to be careful.

Today I would be meeting with JP King regarding his interest in hiring a business consultant, and I needed to nail it. I was fully prepared and had even stashed a spare outfit in my car . . . just in case.

I headed straight for the offices of JP King at King Equities. The main offices were housed in Chicago, but the local offices in Outtatowner, Michigan, were the hub, since apparently that was where Russell King often spent his time. The mere name Russell King was revered in many circles. Everyone knew him. He was a ruthless businessman, and his bold reputation preceded him.

Color me surprised when his son reached out requesting a private meeting to discuss the future of King Equities—I hadn’t even realized Russell King had a son.

Despite our many conversations and him speaking in veiled terms, I saw JP King’s intent for what it was. He was staging a coup—the unexpected and hostile takeover of his father’s company.

Many in my position might walk away from complicated family dynamics that could leave one side in ruin, but that wasn’t for me to have feelings about.

I needed the paycheck and the redemption.

It was business.

And I was damn good at it.

Brushing away any lingering nerves, I rang the buzzer for the offices of King Equities, located on the upper level of an aging corner building downtown.

“Hello?” A young woman’s singsong voice answered.

“Veda Bauer here to see Mr. JP King, please.” I smoothed a hand down my hip, settling my nerves.

“Okee dokee artichokey!” the voice cracked through the speaker.

What the hell?

The door buzzer crackled, and I entered the building. It was stuffy, with little airflow and a stale scent that was borderline nauseating. A row of closed doors lined one hallway, and a flight of wooden stairs led to more office spaces upstairs.

“Up here,” a man’s deep voice called from the top of the stairs.

I glanced up and spotted who I assumed was JP King, dressed in a black suit, tie, and jacket. I nodded and climbed the rickety stairs, clutching the handrail so I wouldn’t slip in my heels.

When I reached the top, JP held out his hand. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

I planted my hand in his, holding his intense gaze and providing the type of firm handshake that proved I wasn’t fucking around and that I belonged with the big boys.

I lifted a sculpted brow as I took in the dingy space. “Satellite office?”

JP shifted in his suit, subtly adjusting his perfectly straight silk tie. “Something like that.”

He gestured for me to follow him down the upstairs hallway. The door to his office was unlabeled, and he pushed it open, allowing me to enter first.

Inside, I found the source of the woman’s voice. Grinning behind a single antique desk was a pretty woman wearing what looked like nurse’s scrubs. Her chin rested on her hands as she smiled and watched us.

“Ms. Bauer, my sister MJ.” JP gestured toward the pretty young woman, who wiggled her fingers at me. “She was just leaving.”

The woman’s face twisted, and she stuck her tongue out at him. When she stood, I noted she was short and had a pep in her step that revealed an innate youthfulness.

I couldn’t relate.

She stuck out her hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Veda.”

She slipped her warm hand into mine, and I softened toward her. It wasn’t often I was greeted with sweetness, and the unexpected exchange struck a chord.

I smiled. “The pleasure is mine.”

JP flicked his head toward the door. “Go.”

His little sister snarled as she rolled her eyes. “Grouch.”

Once we were alone in the office, I looked around. Piles of banker’s boxes were stacked along one wall, and the single rickety desk faced a curved wall of windows. With a little TLC—a.k.a. a total gut job—the office space wouldn’t be half-bad.

I gave him a flat smile. “Charming.”

JP scoffed. “Her or this shithole?”

I didn’t respond, instead allowing him to draw his own conclusions.

He sighed and dove right in. “I appreciate you meeting me here . . . and also keeping the details of this meeting private. Even so, I assume you’re comfortable signing a nondisclosure agreement?”

Ice ran down my back, but I schooled my face. An NDA for an introductory meeting? It’s worse than I assumed, which is saying something.

I supplied a flat smile. “Of course.”

After reviewing his iron-clad NDA, I signed it. Something unexpected and unnerving was occurring at King Equities, and the part of me who loved a mystery was wholly intrigued.

JP smoothed a hand down his suit jacket. “If you were to come on board, we would provide a monthly retainer for your services.” JP slid a folded piece of paper across the dusty desk. I opened it, attempted not to balk at the astronomical number, and closed the paper.

JP watched my movements, attempting to read my reaction, but I remained calm, despite my heart thrumming at the base of my neck.

His steely gaze was relaxed and confident. Despite his young age, he had a ruthlessness that would serve him well. “Your experience with corporate law is unrivaled and something I anticipate will be of value to me, which is why I called. After your contract with Franklin & Mirth ended, I assumed you would be available.”

So he knew what happened in Chicago. Fucking perfect.

I took a small steadying breath. “Add twenty percent and you’ve got yourself a deal.” I stuck out my hand and willed it not to shake.

JP immediately gripped it, and our verbal agreement was set. “Done. I’ll have the paperwork drawn up.”

I smirked. “Are you sure your secretary can handle it?”

His jaw clenched. “I’ll draw up the contract myself.” A small sigh escaped him. “My siblings like to meddle. This is going to get dirty, and they don’t understand my father the way I do. I’d like to keep them as far away from this as possible.”

Close relationships and warm familial bonds were not something that pulled on my heartstrings. “That won’t be a problem,” I assured him.

Relieved, JP exhaled. “Then let’s get started.” He hauled up a banker’s box full of paper and leaned his forearm on it. “As I mentioned before, I need you to look at everything. Go through the books. Talk with people. Something is off, and I can’t allow my father to run this business into the ground.”

I held his stare, unafraid for him to see that he couldn’t feed me that line of bullshit.

I was no fool.

I’d done my homework, and King Equities was in no way at risk of failure. In fact, the business had been making more money in recent years. Its investments were solid from a business standpoint. I’m sure the mom-and-pop shops that were bought and divided for profit would have something different to say about it.

“What exactly am I looking for?” I asked.

“Anything. Everything.” A serious line flattened his stern mouth. “Whatever you find, I want to know about it . . . the good and the bad.”

I paused, waiting for him to divulge more, when he finally lifted his chin. “When he falls, he’s not taking us down with him.”

I impassively scanned the piles of boxes haphazardly lining the wall as excitement bloomed under my skin. “Then I guess it’s best I get started.”

Drained after a grueling day digging through old paperwork, I climbed the stairs of my newly rented apartment. JP knew someone who knew someone and by the end of the afternoon, was able to find a place for me to stay at an obscene price.

Covered in a grimy layer of dust, my shoulders screamed at me. I pressed my thumb into the papercut on my middle finger and cursed that stupid fucking box.

My preliminary investigation into King Equities revealed a wildly successful business with varied assets and a diversified portfolio. Russell King had used old family money to start his business and turn a small acquisitions firm into one of the largest mergers-and-acquisitions businesses in the Midwest.

On the surface it appeared typical—King Equities would facilitate the buying-and-selling process, guiding the companies—though JP’s gut instinct was correct. Something was off. I didn’t yet know what that was, but I was determined to get to the bottom of it.

My temporary living space was a cramped apartment, and the walls were so thin I could hear the neighbor’s television as though I was listening in my own living room.

Looking around, I sighed and slipped out of my heels with a delicious moan. I needed a hot shower, a full belly of lobster carbonara from my favorite Italian place, and a tall glass of buttery chardonnay.

The kitchen light blinked to life, casting a glaring yellow fluorescence across the small kitchenette. I padded to the refrigerator, untucking my blouse from my skirt and rolling my shoulders.

The sad fridge held a few green olives, some peppered turkey slices, and half a loaf of sandwich bread. I was too exhausted for a trip to the grocery store and attempted to make do with the offerings of the local convenience store in town after work.

I arranged the sad contents of the fridge onto a small plate and uncorked the half-full bottle of white wine from last night.

Girl dinner it is.

Once that first check from JP King cleared, I was giving myself an upgrade. The fact he didn’t balk at my negotiation irritated me—I should have asked for more.

Still, after the humiliation I’d faced in Chicago, having any position was a stroke of luck in my favor.

Our circle in the business world was impossibly small, and people liked to gossip. Sharks in the water could always smell blood.

With my pathetic attempt at a charcuterie board and a paper cup of white wine, I plunked myself onto the couch and flipped on the television to drown out my neighbor’s episode of Law & Order.

When nothing caught my attention, I took another sip of wine and eyed my phone.

That’s one way to kill time.

Nerves and curiosity tickled my belly. It had been a year since I’d first logged on to the Pulse app. No one could escape hearing murmurs of the app’s appeal. It seemed like, overnight, people had flocked to the app and launched it into a resounding success.

I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about . . . until I stumbled on a small corner where everything changed.

I nibbled my bottom lip as my index finger hovered over the icon.

Would he message me again?

One lonely night after a particularly hard day at the office, I was scrolling, a little tipsy, and had fired off a rude comment. To my dismay, the creator actually responded. His messages were witty, and he didn’t shy away from the bitchy banter I dished out.

He didn’t need to know that part of the reason his content annoyed me was how fucking hot it was. On his main page, he didn’t take off his clothes like some of the other creators, but rather, he talked. Sometimes it was subtly sexy; other times it was him pretending to simply inquire about the day. He’d give motivational snippets, and before long I found myself logging on and watching before work, just to add a little pep in my step and feel something before I headed to the office.

How dare he.

I opened the app, and a hum of excitement danced through me when I saw the little red icon indicating a new video for me.

Well . . . for me and the thousands of other sad, lonely women who were pathetic enough to pay for a fictional man to be nice to them.

It had started as nothing more than a challenge. All you had to do was ask nicely.

Mr.Right.Nowoffered a code to access his exclusive content—content that was oftentimes spicier than the motivational morning messages on his main content page.

MsBlackCat:If you need to meet your code gifting quota, I can pretend to be impressed.

My bristly response didn’t scare him away. He sent the access code and nothing else. The next day there was a video waiting, and I fell down the rabbit hole of a suit-wearing sex god covered in an ungodly number of tattoos.

No man had any right to be that freaking hot.

It had been a few days since I had last logged in, and my fingers tingled as I wondered what waited in that inbox. I knew from experience that the videos he shared privately were different from his main content. His exclusive content was magnetic and mouthwatering. My thighs squeezed together in anticipation.

Deep down I knew logging on and watching his videos was a crutch—a way to zone out and not feel my way through my pathetic, empty existence, but I didn’t care. There was something exhilarating and wrong and hot about having this tiny piece of myself that no one was privy to. I didn’t admit aloud how tragic it was, but so many times it felt as though he was speaking directly to me.

On an inhale, I opened the message.

The room he was in was dark, but his bare chest was illuminated by some kind of background lighting. He was sitting on his couch, a white dress shirt unbuttoned and a pair of black slacks hugging low on his sculpted hip bones. The clasp of his slacks was undone. The zipper dangerously low.

I had no idea what his face looked like, but over the months I’d memorized every single tattoo.

The dagger on his finger. Red flag.

The red lips on his collarbone. Red flag.

The skull that peeked out of his shirtsleeve and seeped onto the back of his hand. Red fucking flag.

My blood hummed.

“Hey, Precious.” The gravelly rasp of his voice melted over me, making me instantly forget this message was likely recorded for thousands of other women. “I missed you today.”

I swallowed hard, hanging on to his every word as my eyes closed and I listened, melting into the couch.

“You know,” he continued, “whatever happened happened. I know you want so badly to go back and change things, but you can’t. You gotta loosen your grip.”

My eyes fluttered open to watch his wide palm stroke absently across his broad, inked chest, then down his right thigh as he spoke. My breath caught.

“You gotta free up that mental space and make room for the future. Step by step. I know you think it’s gonna be tough, but so are you. Remind yourself you’re not starting from zero—you’re starting with experience. All right? Take it easy. Sit back. Relax.”

On the word relaxMr.Right.Now shifted, and I caught a glimpse of the massive bulge between his thighs. Awareness sparked low in my belly, radiating lower until my whole body buzzed.

Please let tonight be a night you do it.

I licked my lips. Sometimes Mr.Right.Now’s videos led to his hand dipping below his waistband, freeing the biggest cock I’d ever seen and stroking it, talking with that deep voice of his until we both came.

Instead, his hand only grazed the outline of his cock. He continued to tease, talking about innocuous things in a way that always felt downright filthy until my body was aching for more. My fingertip circled my clit through my underwear.

Please.

Instead of giving me what I craved, a dark chuckle floated out of him. “Good night, Precious.”

The video ended and I slumped over, groaning into the back cushion on the couch before releasing a muffled scream into the fabric.

A notification sounded and flashed in the corner of the app. I sat upright, looking at my phone.

Mr.Right.Now is online.

I quickly tapped to open the chat and bit my lip as I typed, excited to banter with him a little after his video had gotten me so primed.

MsBlackCat: Wow. You really know how to disappoint a woman.

Mr.Right.Now: Needed more, did you?

He had no idea.

MsBlackCat: Long day.

Mr.Right.Now:You know, I can probably help with that.

Text bubbles popped up and disappeared. I held my breath and waited, curious what more he was going to say.

<video chat requested>

My phone vibrated with the incoming video chat. Panic seized my chest and I stared.

The vibration of the incoming call jolted me back to reality, and I quickly exited the app, then tossed my phone across the couch like a snake about to strike. I stared at it as breaths sawed in and out of me.

Mr.Right.Nowand I had never, ever video messaged.

Absolutely not. No fucking way.

I dragged my hand through my long hair as my eyes stayed locked on the phone like he could come crawling through it at any moment.

You are being ridiculous.

I quickly cleaned up my plate and cup before plopping onto my bed like a starfish and staring at the ceiling. Lonely, frustrated, and edgy, I cursed myself for not having the balls to answer the video chat.

Why would he message me like that?

It was a boundary we hadn’t crossed—hadn’t even discussed—and I didn’t know how I felt about how real that made everything seem. Pulse was supposed to be a secret—something no one else knew about.

I chewed my lip, too intrigued and keyed up to resist. After a few minutes I padded into the living room to retrieve my phone. I opened the Pulse app, and there was a new message waiting for me. Out of stubborn pride, I refused to look at it and instead replayed his video until I fell asleep to the sultry sound of his voice.