Page 102 of The Black Table
My name, not Pretty Boy or some other demeaning nickname. I don’t know what to say because I don’t know that he’s wrong.
“Don’t tell Kingston,” I say quickly. Begging. A pathetic 10-year-old caught up past his bedtime. “Please, I just…”
Kai puts up a hand to silence me.
“I won’t,” he says. His eyes dart up to the stained glass. “Stays between you and God. And”—he glares at Callahan—“big guy here, I guess.” He swivels back to me. “But you know why I won’t tell?” He advances, jabs a finger barely an inch from my eyes. “Because you can’t keep a secret for shit. And I have a feeling it’s just a matter of time before you slip up again and fuck all of us over.”
With that, he spins on his heel and leaves.
TWENTY-SEVEN
KAI
I can’t believe it.I can’t fucking believe it.
I slam the door to Camlann wide open, after stalking up the steps. Indignation, fury, coursing through every fiber of my being.
That little shit, that little baby-faced, blue-eyed twerp of an alternate, steps in for one fucking match and thinks he’s the Wilt Chamberlain of fencing?
Fuck. That.
The door gently taps itself shut behind me, and even the small, inoffensive sound pisses me off so much that I turn and crane-kick it right in the crossbar.
“Fuck him,” I say out loud.
I scrub my face with my hands. I didn’t sleep last night, couldn’t sleep last night, thinking about her here, and then realizing she wasn’t here, and waiting for her to get back from the library. And for what? So that I could keep Lanz’s pretty little side piece all perfect and unharmed for him. Fucking Christ.
I need a gallon of coffee, a lava hot shower, and the world’s sloppiest blowjob.
Guess I’ll have to settle for two out of three,like I always do.
I storm to the kitchen and slap together the coffee maker,jabbing the on button on my way to the stairs. I pause at my bedroom to peel out of my jacket and chuck it at my bed. Spin around and bang the door to the bathroom shut too.
I strip off my jeans and T-shirt, barely even glancing at myself in the mirror. I don’t hate the way I look. Hell, I’ve basically been customizing my appearance ever since I had a good enough fake ID to get me my first tattoo.
But right now, seeing myself is a reminder of everything I’m not.
The shower in the house is a lot more spacious and accommodating than the one down in the locker room by the salle, with deep terracotta tiles, two shower heads, and a low bench that I can’t see any discernible purpose for beyond…something sex-related. Nevertheless, there it is.
I step into the water and hiss as the scalding stream hits my sore muscles. I rub at my neck, traps, as much of my lats as I can reach, roll the muscles out. I’ll recover. Didn’t push myself too far, no injuries or anything, but for now it’s gonna hurt.
Sainte-Odile bastard’s gotta feel even worse, though. And that’s what counts.
With the kinks gotten out, I stand there a second, waiting for the water to burn all the pissed-off out of me.
It doesn’t.
I close my eyes, scrub at the sockets.
He kissed her. Of course he did. Weak little moony-eyed shit. Bet she liked it, too. Girls always go for that puppy-dog thing. Swooning for him, sighing, licking those pretty little pink lips of hers…
…and now I’m hard.
Goddammit.
It’s unfair. Unfair that that soft little fuckboy got to kiss her and unfair that now that’s all I can think about. My imagination’s overclocked on a good day, and I have too much information tofeed it—too many visuals seared in my memory from the other night, when I had to get her out of that ridiculous dress.
My dick twitches as the water pounds down around me. As if to saynot going anywhere. Better deal with this.
