King Me Read online

  Table of Contents

  Praise for novels by Season Vining

  Also by Season Vining

  King Me

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Praise for novels by Season Vining

  “Unique, gritty, and heartbreaking… you will not be disappointed. It was a fabulous read that kept me on the edge of my seat, and left me in tears.”

  —Alison J’s Book Blog, Beautiful Addictions

  “Dark, twisted, and full of surprises. It’s completely engrossing.”

  —Sinfully Sexy Book Reviews, Beautiful Addictions

  “Ms. Vining was able to showcase two flawed characters who brought out a raw, emotional and touching story line that will grip and stay with you. I highly recommend this book.”

  —Goodreads reviewer, Held Against You

  “Things heat up between the two with each turn of the page, and the undeniable attraction will make you beg for more.”

  —RT Book Reviews, Held Against You

  “Season makes these worlds collide like a circus master. Once they do there’s no putting down this book.”

  —Kathryn Bankston Smith, Perfect Betrayal

  “I love Season Vining’s writing, and if you haven’t indulged in it yet, this book is a perfect start. Levi and Taylor are stinking hot together and I love the twisting plot..”

  —Debra Anastasia, Perfect Betrayal

  “Wonderful storytelling that romantics will feel deep in their souls!”

  —Tome Tender Book Blog, Chaos and Control

  “When I first heard the inspiration behind this story, I knew I HAD to read it. The first chapter sealed the deal. All the feels. All the beautiful words. Everything about it is stunning.”

  —Goodreads reviewer, Chaos and Control

  Also by Season Vining

  Held Against You

  Perfect Betrayal

  Chaos and Control

  Beautiful Addictions

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  KING ME. Copyright © 2019 by Season Vining. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the publisher at [email protected].

  Visit our website at www.seasonvining.com

  Cover design by Season Vining

  ISBN: 9781792116674 (paperback)

  ASIN: B07L8GR4WM (ebook)

  Dedication

  For Becca, who saw this story idea come to life exactly 10 years ago,

  and patiently waited for it to be written.

  And for the beautiful, resilient city of New Orleans.

  Acknowledgments

  The list of people to thank for this story is long. I rely on my tribe to listen to my rants, give me a voice when I can’t find mine, push me to keep going, judge cover designs, ask the hard questions, and sometimes find the answers.

  Thank you to the city of New Orleans for inspiration and research, and mostly, welcoming my curiosity and never-ending questions.

  Thanks to Lindsey Duga, who always squeezes me into her schedule even though she’s a big, fancy published author now with infinity projects of her own. You should read her stuff. It’s really amazing.

  With this being my first self-published novel, it has been a crazy journey of learning a million things in a very short period of time. Thanks to Helena Hunting, who talked me into doing it and then talked me through it. Thanks to Shannon Lumetta who answered all my ridiculous text message questions at all hours of the day and night.

  Huge shout out to Christina and Sarah who saw me struggling and offered their help. Much love to the readers on my Advance Team and Street Team who were kind enough to read this mess and help me make it better.

  And lastly, thank you to my friends and family, who put up with all the hours I put into this book. Sorry about what I said when I was on deadline. I love you all.

  1

  I’M NOT GOING TO die on this street corner. Not today. It’s broad daylight for God’s sake.

  “I said, give me your bag.”

  Sour, liquor-coated breath fans across my face as he holds a blade against my neck. Eyes too wide for his face, stare unblinking. A white scar cuts one of his eyebrows in half. Along his hairline, beads of sweat gather until one breaks free and trails down his temple. I glance down the dark and narrow alley for help, but there is nothing, no one. The worn brick scratches against my back, but I press myself into it to avoid him.

  My hands press the messenger bag against my body and I shake my head. “No way.”

  “Come on,” he says. His dirty fingers curl around my shoulder, pinning me to the wall. “You willing to die for whatever’s in there?”

  The cool blade presses against my throat. It’s an almost welcome feeling against my overheated skin. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the sounds of the city around us. I tense every muscle, suppressing the adrenaline that rattles my insides. Just six feet away, cars drive past and life goes on, no one bothering to glance our way.

  “I don’t have any money,” I try to reason. Fear tickles my insides and all I can think about is every time fight or flight was discussed in my classes. There’s the thing you say you’ll do, and then there’s what you actually do. I’m finding myself far from all that talk. At this point, it’s just about survival.

  “And I don’t give a damn. Give me the bag.”

  Voices approach the alley. I hold my breath and turn to watch a group of men walk by. My attacker presses his dirty hand over my lips to keep me quiet. It doesn’t matter because they don’t notice us here in this standoff. My shoulders sag in disappointment. So many times I wished to be invisible. This is not one of them.

  “No rescue today,” he spits, dropping his hand.

  Exhaling the last bit of hope, I give in. “Fine. It’s yours.”

  “Good idea, sweetheart. I’d hate to get my knife dirty.”

  A sinister and satisfied grin replaces his scowl as he takes a step back. The extra foot of space is all I need.

  I swing my arm hard against his, pushing the blade away and sending it clattering to the ground. A deep crease appears between the man’s brows, displaying more shock than anger. Unarmed, he abandons his threats and focuses on my bag. His thick hands wrap around the strap and yanks, pulling me forward. I use the momentum to lift my elbow and slam it right into his nose. The crunching sound of bone and a river of blood are my reward.

  His blood spatters my chest as he yells. “You crazy bitch!” The man releases me and cups his injured face.

  I take off toward the street, clutching my bag to my side and shout over my shoulder.

  “Who needs a rescue now, asshole?”

  When I turn the corner, there is no one in sight. So, I run another block until I find a large group of tourists strolling the sidewalk. There, I lean against a streetlamp, my hand pressed to my pounding heart, and try to catch my breath. No one gives me a second glance.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I gasp. “I was just almost killed. No biggie.” People pass by, too emerged in the
ir own conversations to notice. “I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

  When my pulse is back to normal, I stand tall, dust off my bag, and let out a long breath. Out of nowhere a bubbling laugh escapes my lips. It’s a delirious kind of chuckle filled with relief and awe that I survived my first day in New Orleans.

  _______________

  When I arrive at Bon Amis bookstore, I throw myself inside and lean against the counter. It’s not a big, roomy space. Nearly every wall is lined with books, and shelves create tight rows throughout the room. It smells kind of old and musty, but still appealing. Tilting my head back, I relish the feel of the cold air blowing from the vent above. I’d been a little over zealous, telling the cab driver to drop me off on Canal Street. I thought a nice walk to my new place would be a great way to see the Quarter. A near-death experience and failing deodorant proved me wrong.

  “Can I help you find something?”

  I turn to find a gray-haired woman peering at me over bifocals. There are two pencils stuck in her bun and a second pair of glasses on top of her head. She rocks back and forth on a metal stool behind the register.

  “I’m Delaney Mills, looking for Mrs. Duvernay.”

  “Miss Mills, so nice to meet you!” she says, coming around the counter and pulling me into an awkward hug with my arms trapped at my sides. She’s so short that her face is practically pressed into my boobs. I can actually feel her hot breath skate down my cleavage. After ten-seconds too long to be comfortable, she pushes back and releases me. “I’m Cassandra Duvernay, resident book store owner, landlord, and crazy cat lady. You can call me Cas. Everybody does. Except my momma. She never liked nicknames. Don’t matter much since she died twelve years ago.” She takes a deep breath and waves a hand in the air between us. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like that girl in that Christmas movie?”

  I stare at her blankly and shake my head. “I’m sorry. What movie?”

  Cas crosses her arms, one finger tapping her chin as she thinks. Her dark brown eyes appraise me and it feels a bit awkward in the silence. “You know,” she says. “The one with that grown man elf lookin’ for his daddy.”

  My brain works to piece together her scattered references. I assume the Christmas movie is Elf, and the girl in that movie is Zooey Deschanel. I smile and sweep my bangs to the side.

  “Oh, yes ma’am. I have been told that. I think it’s the fair skin, dark hair, and blue eyes.”

  “Do you sing like her too? That girl has a set of pipes, huh? Oh, listen to me, going on about nothin’. Welcome to Nawlins, hon.” Her eyes snap to the red speckled pattern on my shirt and back to my face. “Is that blood?” She swipes her finger across my chest.

  “Don’t worry,” I answer. “It’s not mine. Been here less than two hours and already have a story to tell.”

  “Hell. A story told is a story survived. That’s what I always say. I imagine whoever did that deserves what they got?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Some guy dragged me into an alley and tried to steal my bag,” I say, smoothing my hand over the front of it. “I’m pretty sure I broke his nose.”

  Cas’s eyes go wide and she lets out a light, musical laugh that seems to match her personality, but is completely inappropriate for the situation. “Guess you’re tougher than you look, huh? Serves that dickhead right. Don’t know why people got to be tryin’ to take things that ain’t theirs. Lemme show you to your place.”

  I follow Cas outside and up the steps as she hobbles her way to my apartment. Her gauzy dress seems to float up the stairs as I follow behind. She pulls a set of keys from her skirt pocket and unlocks the door at the end of a short hall.

  “Don’t let Nawlins get you down.” She huffs and speaks between labored breaths. “The good outweighs the bad. You’ll see.”

  “I’m okay. Nothing I can’t handle.”

  We step into the small space and Cas hands over the key. She shows me the tiny kitchen and even smaller bathroom with an apologetic expression.

  “It ain’t much.”

  “It’ll do,” I answer, giving her a reassuring smile. And I mean that. The thought of having a space all my own, not tainted by memories and things from my past means the world to me. This tiny apartment may just be extra space to her, but to me, it is a sanctuary.

  “Your things were delivered yesterday,” she says, gesturing to a stack of boxes near the door. “You’ll certainly have your privacy; the only other room up here is used for storage. I don’t get around that well no more, so I had a dumbwaiter installed a few years back. No sense in this old lady having to carry boxes up and down those stairs,” she rambles as she moves through the room opening windows. “Shouldn’t take long to air out. Been empty for a while. I live downstairs, behind the store.”

  “Thanks, Cas. You won’t hear a peep out of me.”

  “Rent is due on the first, but since you prepaid for three months, I guess that don’t apply. It’s furnished,” she says with a wave of both hands. “Nothin’ fancy, just the basics.” I notice most of the time Cas is talking, it’s more to herself than to me, always trailing off as if she thinks her listener has lost interest. “Well, I’ve gotta get back to the shop. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Hey, Cas? Any non-touristy, low-key bars around here?” I ask.

  She looks at the ceiling, thinking. “I imagine there are tourists just about everywhere in the Quarter. And it’s been many moons since I’ve hit the bars, but I know some locals who hang at Bandits on Toulouse.”

  She leaves me standing in my new apartment surrounded by nothing but boxes and stale air. I unpack my clothes and books, not bringing any other personal things with me. It would have been a useless escape if I’d carried along pieces from home. I run my fingers along the spines of my books, now filling the only shelf in the studio apartment. Most of them are non-fiction works about Voodoo, a few on the history of New Orleans, and one or two classics thrown in for good measure. They’re for when I get too deep into my research and need a break.

  Coming to New Orleans to research Voodoo for my dissertation seemed like a great idea when my friend Miranda suggested it. I mean, there is no better way to learn about something than to immerse yourself in it. I’m not sure how welcoming the Voodoo community will be to a white girl from Chicago, but I can be pretty persuasive when needed. Also, in a few days I will meet up with my connection here, a guy connected to Voodoo who has promised to help however he can.

  That night—not deterred by the incident earlier that day—I decide to throw myself right into the heart of the beast. This time, I keep to well-lit streets and crowded places. I try to ignore the fear that pulls my glance down every dark alleyway and focus on the sidewalk in front of me. My vision is flooded by neon signs and animated people. Each doorway frames half-naked girls inviting me in for drinks, their taunting lips and hips synchronized to the hard bass beats of music inside. The smells are spice and grease, garbage, sweet liquor, mildew and tobacco—not in that order and sometimes all at once. I embrace the nighttime heat and humidity, loving the contradiction to the chilled nights I grew up with.

  I find the bar Cas mentioned called Bandits. It looks small and more quiet than every other place I’ve passed. The entrance is just a narrow doorway beside a smoke shop. After passing through a long hall, the space opens up into a bar and a small dance floor. There are vintage black and white photos hung on every wall. Most of them show old wooden ships and people who look like pirates. Behind the bar, there’s a large chest with gold coins spilling out. The Bandits logo is cleverly branded on the wood planks that make up the bar top. It even smells a bit like salt water, just enough to make me think I’m imagining it.

  I park myself on a stool in the corner and order my drink. For hours I sit and drink and people watch. College guys, drunk, fight each other over nothing. Soccer moms flash their tits as they clamber for plastic beads and feelings of desirability. Teenagers wander the streets in search of some fool to buy them alcohol. And I let the rum wash
away all thoughts and feelings, living in the numbness it provides.

  “Need another drink, Yankee?” the bartender asks.

  “Yankee?” I look him over, wondering how he can tell. He’s really good-looking and I instantly blush at the way he’s eyeing me. He’s got a clean-shaven head and bulging biceps, deep brown eyes sweep down to my left hand. Is he looking for a ring? Ha. That’s long gone.

  “Yeah, it ain’t no secret. But that’s okay, we take Yankee money, too.” He gives me a wink. His flirting stirs something in me, something I haven’t felt for a long time.

  “Good to know.”

  I drain my glass and slide it toward him, nodding. “I’m Delaney. What gave me away?”

  He sets the new drink in front of me and rests his hands on the bar. “I’m Gable. First, you sat way down here at the end of the bar, away from everyone else. Y’all sure do like your personal space.”

  I swallow, sucking a piece of ice between my lips and rolling it around my mouth. “Maybe that’s just me.”

  “Yeah, maybe so. But then you started dabbin’ at your forehead with that napkin and wavin’ it in front of your face. Like that’s going to do any good. It’s hot as hell.”

  “Ha. I’ve been to hell. This is nothing.”

  With that, he slings his towel over his shoulder and slides down the bar to serve someone else.

  The next day, I sleep in and keep to the confines of my apartment, even avoiding the light slivers from the windows cast across my floor. I wait for dark to come before I sneak into the Quarter, searching out more ways to feel my pulse race. I settle into the rituals of this nightlife, burning my thoughts away with large amounts of spiced rum, but never conversation. I enjoy the anonymity of being in a new place too much. It’s like a drug that I crave. Here, there are no pitying looks to dodge or secrets to hide. Here I am just another woman drinking alone. While that may seem sad to some, it’s not nearly as sad as what I left behind.