The Fearless King (The Kings #2)(3)
Even splitting the family down the middle thirty years ago hadn’t been enough to lessen that influence.
He expected Journey to take up residence on her favorite spot—the oversized throne that could have easily fit five people—but she strode to the small bar available only to the VIPs. She held up two fingers, and the bartender obediently lined up two shot glasses and filled them to the brim with top-shelf whiskey.
What the fuck?
Journey drank—all the Kings seemed to—but in the time he’d been watching her, moving just out of her sphere, Frank had never seen her drink destructively. She was now.
He should just leave her to it.
It wasn’t his business.
He had a small empire to run and bigger fish to fry than Journey King. If she was in the middle of some kind of crisis, it sure as fuck wasn’t Frank’s problem.
Except…
He watched her down both shots in quick succession and hold up her fingers for two more. She’s running from something. Why she’d chosen to run to his club and make it his business was beyond him, but he couldn’t sit there and allow it to happen. Not on his watch. Three guys had moved to the bar just down from Journey’s stool, and he didn’t like the way they eyed her. Predators scenting weakness. “Goddamn it.” It wasn’t his business. He had people depending on him that actually needed and wanted his help. Journey King could take care of herself.
The trio of men had shifted closer, two on the left side of Journey and one on the right. She made all appearances of continuing to ignore them, but the tense line of her shoulders and the way she kept her gaze pinned on the bartender spoke volumes. He watched a few seconds more, gripping his pen tightly as the nearest man leaned over and spoke directly into her ear. Here’s where you tell him to fuck off.
But she didn’t.
Her shoulders bunched and she shifted slightly away from him—which put her up against the other two. Instead of coming back swinging like he’d seen in the past when someone stepped out of line, she shrank in on herself.
Something’s seriously wrong.
Frank picked up his phone. “Dylan, I need you to send someone to collect Journey King and bring her to my office. Be subtle if you can, but get her the fuck out of there now.” He hung up without waiting for a response. Dylan had been with his company, Evans, Inc, for years, and right now he served as the manager for Cocoa’s while they cemented the changeover. He was a jack-of-all-trades, but over the last month, he’d done an excellent job of managing the club, so Frank intended to keep him in that position for the time being.
On the screen, a woman approached Journey, inserting herself between her and the pair of men at her elbow. Smart of Dylan to send her instead of a man.
Journey shifted and seemed to shrug off her fear for a few seconds. She pinned the camera with a smirk, a single eyebrow lifted, every line of her body conveying belligerence instead of the fear of expecting to be kicked at any moment. She flipped the camera the finger but didn’t make a scene otherwise as she followed the woman out of the VIP section and toward the stairs that would lead up to his office.
To him.
Frank turned to face the door and braced himself. The few seconds of preparation didn’t make a damn bit of difference when Journey marched in like she owned the place and flung herself into the chair across from his desk. The security cameras hadn’t done her justice. They never did. Her little sister was the model, but Journey had the cutting kind of beauty that would have made a killing on the runway. Her long blond hair, big hazel eyes, and strong brows drew him in despite himself. After half a dozen business meetings, he should have been immune to her beauty. It was only a gift of genetics, after all.
“You summoned me?” She arched one dark eyebrow, though the earlier flash of attitude didn’t quite hold. Something lurked in her eyes, in the tense way she held herself as if prepared to flee at a harsh word. Once again, he couldn’t shake the feeling she was running from something.
But what?
Frank propped his elbows on his desk and studied her. She’d always been lean, but she’d lost weight in the months since he saw her last, and dark smudges beneath her eyes hinted at sleepless nights or stress—probably both. This will require careful handling. “I’m calling a cab and sending your ass home before you embarrass yourself and your family.” He gave his voice a bit of a lash, needing her to fight back, to regain her equilibrium. To get back to being the woman he’d come to expect.
Journey’s mouth dropped open, which only prompted him to notice she’d painted her lips a bright pink. Yeah, ’cause I definitely didn’t notice before now. She shoved her hair back. “You’re out of your damn mind. You don’t give a fuck about my family. Why should my embarrassing myself and them matter?”
“Because my best friend is your cousin and, like it or not, what you do reflects back on him.” It wasn’t, strictly speaking, the truth, but Frank wasn’t all that interested in the truth. He was interested in getting Journey King the fuck out of his club before he did something unforgivable like involve himself in her problems. He knew better. Picking up strays might be a weakness he had, but he’d turned it into a strength and built an empire as a result.
Journey wasn’t a stray. She was a fucking King.
She sat back, putting herself on display whether she meant to or not. Her dress was perfectly professional—hitting a reasonable two inches above her knees and with just enough give to the fit that it showed off her body without being actively provocative—but that didn’t stop his gaze from catching on the slope of her small breasts, the curve of her waist, the long lines of her bare legs.