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For a man who loved to have a tight grip on control, there was something quite funny about watching this young girl take the reins. At first the desire to fight back ownership of himself had rocked through his stagnant fingers as Liv fumbled her way before his grunts and made a fool of them both. But with each move, she had moved from invasive and annoying to begrudgingly amusing to him.
Maybe it was the way she shied from bloodshed, or the polite turn of voice that now exited his own mouth. No, Kingskin decided that this ride was at least somewhat fun to be on.
Still some things were frustrating.
Like the way the palm of his hand prickled as Liv so casually made contact with his grunts. The way he watched the bloodthirsty submission in his most trusted grunts be replaced by Doug Meat’s open admiration as the guy spoke his mind and was ready to throw his life behind Kingskin. Doug had always been a loyal member of the gang, but he had never been so forward. A lost puppy at his heels.
Then he had the unenviable situation of watching Liv with her open fondness and honest kindness speak to his past flings.
He had to watch Liv meet Simon.
*
As everything in Kingskin’s life, it began in his club. Surrounded by the thud of the bass, everything was three shades away from him. His grunts moved around him, even in this busy club, no one even casually brushed Kingskin. The crowd parted as he walked through. A bottle of bourbon found his hand without a word, his bartender never glanced to meet his eye. As it should be.
A nearby crowing laugh caught his eye, several racers shoved one another. The high of a race clung to their smiles. Kingskin glanced over the group casually as he tilted his bottle out. A hand darted in to open to bottle for him. He tilted to face the group.
(Handsome, cocky in the tilt of his smile, flushed under the excitement of the race.)
A pair of eyes met his for the first time tonight. The man was all 5 o’clock shadow, gritty in a way that called to street racers. A large arm hooked around the man’s neck, forcing their connected eyes to break away from one another.
Kingskin briefly lavished in the spark of warning on this man’s friend’s face. He imagined the rapid explanation of just who Kingskin was. That his attention was a creation of heaven and hell. This club was his domain and all within it were under his thumb. Still the man’s eyes flicked up, locking right back onto his own.
Bravery was a must for his interest.
Oh, how much fun it was to remind such a bold man what it meant to listen to those warnings.
It was easy to raise the bottle that settled so easily in his wide palm to the man, to allow his lips to twist into the barest hint of a smirk.
It was beautiful to watch this man tug out from under his friend’s arm only to push into the crowd to head for him.
*
His name was Simon. His accent was equal parts charming and grating, just as his attitude was. That night, his lips tasted of peppermint gum and later the bourbon that he had sipped from the bottle in Kingskin’s hand.
Kingskin hadn’t imagined this outcome; however, Simon would become his most frequent fling.
Until Simon had pushed.
Until the Empressario had brought up Simon’s name, his car, and the next race he had so excitedly talked about the last time they found themselves in bed.
It was easy to forget him. To let go of the amusement that often filtered through him.
To pretend that he didn’t know how that voice wrapped around my King, breathless and bright.
It was for the best, distractions were better off without foolish things like feelings. Simon had agreed to that so long ago, but the idiot Icarus had finally found the sun.
No longer allowed in at the door of his club, Kingskin hadn’t seen Simon in ages.
Until Liv walked up to him without hesitation.
*
As soon as they planned to go to the Long Island 5000, Kingskin had a terrible feeling. That headache only built as Liv scanned the area and narrowed in on him.
(Briefly he considered that Liv was reading his own connection to the world. Whether she was reaching out to people that she recognized in some way.)
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Kingskin. Never thought I’d see you again.” His voice was smooth over the cliché, head tilted away from them. He remembered when those eyes never strayed from his, now like everyone else he kept his eyes just below his.
He found himself lost in the way that Simon’s hand flexed on the window his car, the same fluttering tight and loose that he always did when he was frustrated.
“It’s over between us.” His grating accent stung, a flair of emotion burned in Kingskin’s chest. How dare he say that. How dare he act like he decided when things were done.
(How odd it hadn’t felt quite like this when Liana had said the exact same thing.)
“I’m sorry, whatever I did to you, if I didn’t call you back. Is that what happened?” Liv’s lighter tone hit Kingskin in the chest. Why would she say that? The rush of anger pushed from him. She basically laid them at his feet in supplication. As if Simon would buy such a dumb move.
(Fear scratched just beneath the anger, wounds opened to the moon, the sun of the night. Simon now held the knife, aimed for his chest.)
His head was still tilted, eyes still far from his own.
Kingskin felt painfully present as Liv raised their hand and rested it on Simon’s shoulder. It was far from the first time she used this move, but the prickling on his palm ran up to his own shoulder. Goose bumps.
“I really valued our time together.” Her voice had never sounded more like his own, an echo of a whisper. The confidence in her voice above his shaken tone in his own. The knife now raised to plunge into his heart, Simon held all the power. For a moment, Kingskin knew fear.
Then those eyes moved, and locked right on his own.
Warm, brown eyes.
(“I bet you don’t even remember my eye color.” Simon had once pushed, laughing in his face.
“You have brown eyes.” Kingskin had responded, easily. The silence stretched and once he looked up from the ledger he had been handling, he saw open shock on Simon’s face.
Something soft laid within those eyes.
A spike of something stabbed behind Kingskin’s ribs.
He smirked and pushed.
“You’re full of shit, so you have to have brown eyes.” Simon’s laughter was harsh and forced, but the moment slipped by.)
He turned his head and lips surrounded by stubble rubbed against his hand. Kingskin hadn’t felt Simon’s lips since their last night in the club.
Liv moved easily even as Kingskin felt frozen.
His hand was brought back up to his own mouth, his lips to the ghost left by Simon’s.
He wondered how those lips would feel after so much time.
Simon should hate him, and yet, one push and he had opened so easily. Liv’s back and forth became static in his ears as he focused on the way Simon’s mouth was quirked into a smile. Not his cocky one of victory, but the soft one, one where he was surprised by Kingskin in some way. He wanted control again. For the first time in ages, he wanted to shove Liv out of his way and reach for Simon directly. But Simon stepped out of his car, and the mission was at hand.
The smiles on Simon’s friends were another shock.
Maybe Liv had a point.
Flies with honey, he supposed.
But now it was time for something he was good for. Handling those goddamn choppers.
He would have to remember Simon asked.
After he fucking killed the Empressario for even thinking about threatening him.
(Why he hadn’t considered it before, well he would blame Simon for making him soft. But now, he would remind everyone all about who was The King of Los Angeles.)