Page 19 of Kings Have No Mercy
I pull out the sofa bed with aboingfrom the springs in the mattress and set up my suitcase in the far corner. I’m still not sure if this stay is just a night, or if I’ll be here a while. I was hoping for solitude in my off time; if I’m under the roof of the Kings at all times, I’ll have no breathing room.
No privacy and time to recoup.
But that could also afford me an unvarnished view of the inner workings of the club.
To avenge Pop. I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.
After spreading open my suitcase and selecting my pajamas and grabbing my toiletry bag, I venture outside the den.
The hall is only dimly lit by a light on in the living room. I follow it, wishing I’d asked Velma where the bathroom was. I wander out into the open space of the living room only to discover I’m not alone—the ground floor layout flows into the kitchen, affording me a front row view of Mason Cutler as he stands under the fluorescent lighting in his leather vest and tattoos.
He notices me immediately.
His gaze flicks to me. His face hardens… every feature takes on an ironclad quality as even the muscle in his jaw becomes distinct and prominent.
He hates me.
I first felt it in his stare when he entered the bar. A raw, crude vibration of hate that buzzed from every fiber of his being—he couldn’t stand me and wanted me gone.
Out of his space.
At any cost necessary.
I almost let it affect me as I wander into the open space. Then I remember to mask, putting up the same front I had when he’d taken to circling me like a vulture.
My head held high, I strut across the open space, clutching my things. I’m hoping he’ll decide to let our unspoken beef go this one time. It’s late, and after a long day, I want nothing more than a hot shower and a few hours of sleep.
But that’s asking for too much.
As I step toward the guest bathroom, he cuts me off. It happens in a quick, fluid movement. He goes from standing in the kitchen, lit up by the bright fluorescent bulbs overhead, to sidestepping into my path.
I stumble back half a step.
He’s a glorious sight even now—his muscles bulge out from the short sleeves of his white t-shirt, inked in designs I know nothing about, and his tall form towers over me even at my height of five-seven. He surveys me under hard, dark green eyes that are as unnerving and unsettling as they are smoldering and entrancing.
I find myself unable to look away.
It’s some kind of invisible draw. Some kind ofsorcery.
He holds me captive. His gaze and his presence and his muscled body standing in my way.
I react by glaring at him, silently demanding he move the fuck out of my path and let me pass.
The moment stretches on. A pulse of unresolved tension deepens with the seconds that go by. I expect the worst and hope for it too—Mason Cutler might think he rules over everyone, but I’m not everyone. I’m Sydney Singer, and I don’t follow the rules.
I’ve got no problem showing him just how little of a fuck I give.
“You’re in my way,” I say.
“You’re in my house,” he answers.
“At the invitation of Velma.”
“What Velma says doesn’t mean shit. She’s not prez. I am. And I don’t want you here.”
My stomach flutters, but I only stand up straighter. “Too late,” I reply. “I already am here. It seems like you’ll have to put up with me.”
“What the fuck do you want? What’s your deal?”