Up in Smoke (King #8)

Before Duke’s car turns the corner, I’ve got the security camera app on my phone up, and I’m looking at the black and white video feed from the basement. I notice immediately that one of my computer monitors is on the floor, the screen smashed. My chair is tipped over.

I’m trying to figure out if I should grab the emergency bag I’ve buried in the lot across the street, or just leave it and take the next bus out of Banyan Cay, when I see Izzy on my screen. The fat cat is taking a leisurely stroll across my keyboard in all her black and white fluffy glory.

She must have gotten in through the basement window somehow. I remind myself to check the lock and the alarm wiring.

I bend at the waist and rest my hands on my knees feeling a few years closer to that heart attack than ever before.

My ass hits concrete. I rest my head on my knees.

How much longer can I live like this?

Probably not much longer.

Several minutes pass before I feel steady enough to try standing. I get to my feet, and suddenly, I feel the same hot awareness I felt earlier. I snap my head up, and this time, I do spot someone who looks out of place.

There’s a man across the street, partially concealed as he crouches on the other side of a big matte-black motorcycle. His sculpted and tattooed biceps flex as he works on something on the other side of the wide back tire.

As if he knows I’m looking at him, the man peers out from behind the tire. I’m caught. I don’t run, but I can’t look away either.

Everything about him is dark. From his shoulder length hair to his black clothes. His facial hair falls somewhere between scruff and beard, longer, shorter on the sides.

His eyebrows are knitted together in a sharp scowl. I realize it’s not me he’s looking at, it’s his bike.

He’s just a guy working on his bike. He’s not here for you. Sleep, Frankie. You need some fucking sleep.

The stranger tosses down a wrench, it bounces around on the concrete. I can hear his growl of frustration all the way across the street. He pushes off his knees and stands.

Whoa.

He’s large. Not just his body, but his presence. A soaring skyscraper casting an endless shadow. His stride is long and sure as he makes his way from his bike into the service station. Each step of his boots is a claim of ownership upon every crack in the asphalt. His tight black t-shirt hugs the rippling muscles of his chest and arms. His jeans hang low on his waist and show off the perfect high curve of his rounded ass. An unlit cigarette dangles carelessly from his lower lip.

I’ve never seen anyone like him before. Raw. Powerful. I can’t stop watching him. Maybe it’s because I’m still high, or maybe it’s because Duke and I were just making out and I’m still primed with lust. Or because I just freaked out for the third time today. But this man is a walking billboard for both terror and lust. A human thunderstorm.

He’s beautiful.

My father’s words from years before ring in my ear. Men are meant to hide from, Frankie. To fear. At best they are meant to manipulate. Be the manipulator, Frankie, not the manipulated. Run before you have to ask yourself if you should. Know what they want from the look in their eyes, not from the words coming out of their mouths.

The man comes back out of the service station. He lifts one long leg and straddles his bike with ease. It thunders to life. I’m all the way across the street, but the vibrations reach out under the asphalt and touch me. I feel the rumble in my chest. Dirt is suspended in the air a good inch above the pavement as the ground underneath shakes.

He rolls his bike out of the parking lot and then turns down the road in the opposite direction without so much as a glance my way.

I’m disappointed

What did I expect from this momentary one-sided infatuation?

I rub my eyes and decide I’m one sleepless night away from creating false relationships with celebrities in my head. I can hear the news anchor now.

A young woman was arrested today at the home of Sam Hunt for breaking and entering. The woman was delusional, insisting that she was Sam’s wife. She repeatedly shouted ‘what about the babies’ until police were finally able to apprehend the woman. Mr. Hunt, who has no children, confirmed for the record that he’d never met the woman, although he sincerely hopes she finds and receives the help she so obviously needs.

The roar of the motorcycle is an echo in the distance. I go back inside, engage all the locks, and now that I know it’s safe, I head to the kitchen first to scarf down a protein bar.

When I’m finally fed I head to the basement to assess the damage. Luckily the monitor that fell is banged up but still works. I clean up the rest of the mess then locate Izzy who I shoo back out the window. I attempt to lock it, but the latch won’t click shut. The glass above it is smashed.

But the alarm still didn’t go off?

I check the wiring around the window and see that it’s been chewed through. Damn cat. I splice the wire and twist the inner workings together. I nail a piece of wood over the window.

I light one of the joints Duke gave me and sit down at my computer. My fingers fly over the keyboard. I won’t be able to sleep for a while so I might as well get some more work done.

After a few hours, my phone vibrates on my lap. The alarm. I’m proud of myself this time for not leaping in response. I turn everything off and head back upstairs. It’s time to at least try and get some sleep. After all, I have school in the morning.

I sigh.

I might be a liar, but what I told Duke earlier is the truth. I don’t like high school all that much.

Not now, and not when I graduated the first time.

Four years ago.





Chapter Four





Every morning, or afternoon, or whenever I wake the fuck up, the first thing I think about is the night my life went from being all about my work to being all about revenge.

Ain’t no doubt in my mind that when my time comes and I’m delivered to Hell, the memory of finding Morgan dead in her house will be the one I’ll relive over and over again on a never-ending loop.

Then again, maybe I’m already in hell.

That night changed me. Made me harder. Crueler. More unfeeling than ever.

Except anger. That I feel just fucking fine.

The blast of a car horn brings me back from the past. I’m grateful for the distraction until I glance in my rearview mirror at the little shit throwing his hands in the air like I’m somehow blocking him when I’m parked next to the curb and there isn’t a single other car on the fucking road.

I hold my favorite finger out the window of the van. I ain’t going nowhere.

The little shit shakes his head and maneuvers his little Mazda, turning the wheel hand-over-hand like he’s driving a fucking big rig.

He pulls up beside me, blocking my view of the townhouse I’ve been watching for weeks, and rolls down his passenger window. He’s yelling, but I don’t hear his words ‘cause I’m not fucking listening.

The fucker’s gotta go.

I hold up my hand like I’m about to apologize but grab my gun from the console instead and prop it up against my open window.

I smirk.