King of the Causeway: A King Series Novella (King #9.5)(8)

“Hack into every security camera from here to fucking Miami. Find out where that fucking truck went. Pike, call up every blood-sucking connection you have from street dealers to the cartel. Get me a fucking name. And when you get one.” I take a deep drag. And blow the smoke out slowly through my nostrils like the angry fucking dragon I feel like right now. “You call me first.”

“On it,” Nine replies with a curt nod.

I leave with rage coursing through my body. Every muscle strained and tense. Whoever is behind this will pay the old-fashioned way. The way I built my name and my business.

In fucking blood.



I head up to the part of the house that doesn’t consist solely of dead trees and not much else. I half-expect the kids to run out like they usually do when they hear me coming up the steps, but there’s no one greeting me today.

Inside, I find my living room full of sleeping kids, both mine and Preppy’s. The only exception being Preppy himself who is wide awake and intently watching whatever singing cartoon is currently holding his attention.

I open the fridge and grab two beers. Preppy hears me and looks up. He stands from the couch and jerks his chin toward the back door. I wait by the door and hand him a beer, following him back outside. I slowly shut the screen door so I don’t wake the kids but keep the interior door open in case one of them wakes up.

“Where’s my girl?” I ask, taking a swig of my beer.

When we reach the grass, Preppy lights two smokes, handing one to me. “I sent her to bed. Well, I sent her to bed after giving her a famous Preppy foot rub.”

Instinct has my knuckles turning white even though I know Preppy is no threat, but when it comes to my wife, I can’t help the rage I feel when it comes to another man touching her, no matter how innocently.

“You’re so cute when you’re all jelly,” Preppy comments, staring at my clenched fists.

I roll my eyes and ignore the instinct to beat the smirk off his face. The kid has been through enough in the last couple of years. He doesn’t need my baseless wrath. At least, not today. And he is my best friend, although my blood pressure currently thinks otherwise.

The sun’s last rays of the day beam through the mangroves, and I realize how early it is. “Wait, she’s in bed already?” I ask, concern crawling up my spine like a spider making its way back to its web. Even pregnant, Pup isn’t the sort who takes breaks, even when they’re much needed.

Preppy takes a deep drag and shrugs, the movement constricting a deep jagged scar on his neck. “She says she’s tired, but if you ask me, the kid don’t seem like her usual herself.”

I see my concern mirrored in his eyes and I sigh out of pure frustration. “Yeah, I know. Every time I ask her about it, she tells me she’s fine.”

“She’s stubborn as hell.” Preppy quirks an eyebrow at me. “Reminds me a lot of her husband.”

“Even so, it doesn't change the fact that I still don’t know what the hell’s bothering her, or better yet, why she feels like she’s got to lie to me about it.” I’ve been stabbed and shot, but my wife not feeling like she can be honest with me hurts a fuck of a lot more than a bullet piercing through skin and muscle or a jagged blade jutting against bone.

“Tell me this, Boss-man. Why does anyone in a relationship, one where they actually like the other person, lie to their partner?” he probes.

I’m too worried about Pup to try to answer a riddle right now. “Why?”

Preppy stubs out his smoke. “Ugh, you’re hopeless. She’s trying to protect you, you fucking caveman. Why else?”

“Protect me?” I scoff. “From what?”

He crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the banister of the stairs leading to the back door. “Let me put it this way. If she told you what’s really wrong, what’s the first thing you would do? Be honest.”

I shrug. “Easy, I’d fix it.”

He makes a finger gun and points it at my chest. “Bingo.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” I growl.

“It means that maybe what she’s going through can’t be fixed with a punch to someone’s jaw or a bullet to someone’s head.”

“If it could only be that easy,” I mutter. I look down to the belts I wear wrapped around my forearms.

Preppy laughs. “Okay, or a belt around the neck. Whatever your girl is dealing with, she obviously thinks she needs to go through it alone because she doesn’t want to bother you with it. Or anyone else for that matter.”

“So...” I pause waiting for Preppy to say something. He doesn’t. “So, what the fuck do I do?”

He shrugs and takes a drag of his smoke. “Not sure. Maybe, you make her realize she’s not alone. That you’re not going to just try and fix it, but understand whatever it is.”

Preppy’s right, and it grates on me like a rope chafing my skin. “When did you get to be so smart?”

He takes a dramatic bow. “Death has a way of giving someone new perspective on shit. Things I never thought I even had an opinion on before. Like, don’t get me started on Oprah’s book club choices. Mainstream bullshit sponsored by a failing pub—”

“Do me a favor, Prep?” I ask, stubbing out my own smoke.