bosses. It was his dues. He’d been the bad guy long enough, the boogeyman nobody wanted to stumble upon in the dark streets. And it had been thrilling at first.
King could still remember the first time one of the boss men met him in person. It took weeks of meeting with lesser members as they vetted him, tried to get his angle. When King was seated across from the paunchy, middle-aged man in the private dining room in Everest, one he hadn’t even known existed, it was a bit of a let down. The boss had milky blue eyes and skin like crepe paper. Nothing like Marlon Brando’s Godfather.
“King Smith. What kind of name is that?” the man had asked.
“It’s what my parents gave me. Sir,” he’d added on quickly.
“Yes, your parents. Chicago’s modern-day Kennedy’s,” the boss had said with a small laugh that sounded a bit girlish. “I’ve seen my share of rich prep school boys looking to sample the other side. Is that what this is about? You have something to prove to your daddy? You too good for his money?”
King’s face had burned. He’d hoped in the dimness of the restaurant, a bodyguard at attention on either side of the boss, that nobody noticed.
“No, Sir,” he’d said. “I just want to make my own money.”
“Top-rated schooling. Well-read, well-bred. I imagine you’d make a very nice living working for your family business. I hear it’s a bit more on the up and up than mine. Nepotism notwithstanding, but there’s politics in any business. Family or not.”
The boss nodded as the waiter presented a bottle of scotch. Two fingers worth were poured elegantly into crystal tumblers.
“Macallan 1952,” the boss said as he raised the crystal to his lips.
King followed suit and let the amber burn fire down his throat after holding it along the apex of his tongue for six seconds to smooth it.
“Fine and rare,” King said.
The boss smiled. “You’re familiar with the year.”
“It’s Macallan’s best.”
“So tell me. If it’s not to get back at your daddy, what is it? Why do you want to work for me?”
This is what King had prepared for.
“You’re right,” he said as he pulled in a breath. “It does have something to do with my father, but it’s not an act of revenge. I… I don’t want to be like him.”
The boss leaned back as caviar was brought to the table. “And why is that?”
“I have a brother,” he said, but stopped himself before saying Thorne’s name. Not that he needed to. The boss knew everything about him. “And, in our family, we’ve always been yin and yang.”
“The angel and the devil,” the boss said as he spooned a small dollop of caviar onto his fist. “How quaint. And let me guess who you are.”
King didn’t say anything. The boss didn’t offer him any caviar. Instead, King watched the boss enjoy an entire four-course dinner while being served nothing, not even a second glass of that forty-thousand dollar scotch.
When the boss was satisfied, he looked at King.
“You start tonight,” he said, standing up.
And thus it began, King thought. All the blackmail, bribery, extortion that you could ever dream about, just waiting for me to put on that suit.
He got out of the shower, turning off the water. Wrapping himself in a towel, he hustled back to the bedroom to get dressed.
Now, the bruises were no longer coupled by welts and open wounds. They’d entered the dull aching stage. It had taken the bosses’ fixers six months to collect from him.
The bruises suited him more than he liked to admit. At least this way, you could see the damage, instead of just imagining it.
Being the bad boy was all he’d ever known, and he’d played it his entire life.
Thorne was always the good one, the responsible one, the one who followed all the rules and fit so neatly into the family’s expectations.
King sighed. Thank God for melatonin, he thought.
It was the only thing that even gave him a shot of sleeping without being a zombie the next day. The whole getting up early in the morning schtick wasn’t for him.
He spent a few minutes tidying everything in the bedroom. It was one of the things King liked about himself. Fastidiousness.
In order, there was comfort. His mouth kicked up when he thought of how not everyone appreciated how much he loved things clean. That was something about him that Effie never understood.
It was one of those things that drove him crazy. How she’d dump her purse on the first available surface when she walked into a room, or how she’d kick off her shoes, not even bothering to pushing them neatly against a wall. Those romance novels she left dog-eared and scattered everywhere.
But, still. It was part of the balance, that yin and yang.
“Love is weakness. Weakness is for losers,” he reminded himself.
Now get dressed, for God’s sake.
King realized he wasn’t quite ready to put his clothes on, though. He needed the brand new stick of deodorant that he’d bought at a convenience store on his way here. It was still in a plastic bag, hanging by the front door.
He re-anchored the towel around his waist and started down the hallway. The scent of a wood fire flooded his nostrils.
“What the hell?” He could have sworn he’d put out the fire last night, but as he entered the living room it was roaring. “Shit!”
A head popped up from the other side of the couch. King’s heart almost stopped, sure that this was it.
That last beating was just a warm-up. This one wouldn’t just stop at bruises, he was certain of it.
And then he realized it was her.
“Effie?” he asked, uncertain. “What…”
She looked at him, her eyes wide.
“King?”
He felt so exposed for some reason, standing there in nothing but a towel.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he demanded.
It came off angrier than he intended.
“Sorry, I… I didn’t know you were here. Or anyone was here. There wasn’t a car—what happened to you? Are you okay?”
Her eyes were wide as she examined the bruises on his chest.
“What are you doing here?” he repeated.
