King’s (The King Trilogy #1)(19)
Author: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

“Miss Turner, what the f**k are you doing?”

I popped up on my elbows and found King’s large, imposing figure, dressed in that same black tee and jeans, hovering over me.

“How did you get in here?” I asked.

“I have a key,” he growled. “Didn’t I warn you about being late? You think this is some f**king joke?”

Late? I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 10:02? “I-I don’t know what—”

“Get your ass up, Miss Turner. Naptime is over.”

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and planted my feet on the floor. How in the world was it already ten at night? When I’d closed my eyes, it couldn’t have been any later than three.

I began massaging my temples to soothe the ache inside my skull.

“Now, Miss Turner,” King commanded in a low, restrained voice.

I held out my hand. “Stop. Okay? Just—”

Before I could say another word, King had me by the shoulders and plastered against the wall. “I’ll stop when I’m damned good and ready.”

“No.” I shook my head. “Whatever game you’re playing ends now. I’m done.”

“You think this is a game, Mia?”

Mia. Why did I feel like he always used my first name as a weapon? Another one of his bullshit, mind-game moves.

“Yeah,” I replied bitterly. “Justin is alive and well. There was no attack on his team.”

King’s brows furrowed. “Where did you go today?”

“Where did you go today?” I asked simply to piss him off.

Rage flickered in his striking silvery eyes, but I didn’t crumble.

“Justin is alive, and our deal is off.” I squirmed against him, but he was just too damned strong.

The hard, angry line of King’s lips suddenly twitched and then softened as if he were listening to a joke. A joke I wasn’t privy to. He placed the barrel of his fist over his mouth and smothered a snide chuckle.

“What’s so funny?”

He released me and backed away. “Once again, you. You, Miss Turner.”

He was insane. Insane and evil. So why did I care so much about what he thought?

“Your brother may be alive, but he is not well. And neither is his crew.”

“I just saw his roommate,” I argued. “I was at his apartment.”

King nodded. “I’m sure you were.”

“And?”

“And we’re leaving,” he said.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Then I will have Mack fly you back to San Francisco tonight. And when you get there, you will learn the truth.”

“Which is?” I asked.

“I am right. And by the time you realize what a jackass you’ve been, it will be too late for your brother.”

“Justin is here, safe and alive. I’m not leaving without seeing him.”

King grinned once again as if he knew something I didn’t and my behavior was the world’s most amusing joke. “Very well, Miss Turner. I had hoped to do things my way—the easier, less painful way. But I see you’ve made up your mind and any efforts to shield you will only further convince you that I am a,” his smile stretched wider, “demon from hell.” He moved toward the door. “Go see your brother. And once you’ve gotten your pissy little ego under control, we’ll resume.”

I growled at him as he shut the door. Resume? We weren’t resuming anything. As far as I was concerned, my deal with King was null and void. I found Justin, not King. And if King had bothered to lift a finger, he would have known Justin was never missing. That didn’t mean some other weird crap wasn’t going on, but it wasn’t King’s concern. And neither was I. Not anymore.

Less than thirty minutes later, I was back at my brother’s apartment. I knocked on the door, but again, there was no answer. I tried the handle. “Still unlocked?” These guys were begging to get robbed, but when I reached to flip on the lights, nothing happened. I stepped to the side and allowed the light from the outside stairwell to illuminate the entryway. Garbage and broken glass lay everywhere.

“What the hell?” I whispered.

“Señorita. Que hace aquí?”

I jumped and clutched the fabric over my chest. “Oh my God. You scared the crap out of me.”

The man, perhaps in his fifties, wearing dark running shorts and a Puma T-shirt, stared at me.

“Do you speak English?” I asked.

“No. No, English. Usted no debe de estar aquí.”

Crap. “Uhhh…” I pointed inside the apartment. “Mi hermano. Justin. Have you seen him?” I pointed to my eyes. “Ver. Mi hermano?” I knew my Spanish sucked, but it was the best I could do.

The man waved both hands in front of me. “No. No lo he visto por un chingo.”

“Chingo?” I didn’t understand. “Uhhh…cuanto?” I tapped my watch. “Cuanto time?”

He nodded. “Más que un mes.”

Un mes. I knew those words. They meant “one month.”

I blinked and felt my blood pressure dropping. This couldn’t be right. “Ummm. How long…cuanto?” I pointed inside. “Cuanto like this? Basura.” Basura meant garbage.

“Un mes, señorita.” He held out his index finger for emphasis.

That couldn’t be right.

“Yo vivo, arriba,” he said and then pointed to the apartment above. He lived upstairs?

Shit. No. “This is wrong. No correcto.”

He held up his finger once again, but to ask me to wait. He slipped his phone from his pocket, tapped away at the screen, and then held it up. “Ya vez. Aquí es el reporte que salió en el periódico.”

I glanced at the tiny screen. It was a photo of this apartment building on the website Noticias De Palenque. The header said Secuestrado, Cinco Arqueólogos Americanos, or Five Archaeologists Kidnapped. There was a tiny photo of each man, including my brother and…

“Fuck.” I nearly fainted. The other face I recognized was Brian’s.

I covered my mouth. What was happening? “Uhhh, gracias.” I stumbled down the steps to the street, and there, waiting, was a black SUV. The rear passenger-side window lowered, and I immediately recognized those thick black lashes and mesmerizing eyes punching through the darkness.

I tried to keep from throwing up.

“Now do you believe me, Miss Turner?”