Dad: Call them when you get a chance. Those two bone heads have been ducking the security detail already.
Me: On it.
I’m trying to stroke and relieve my morning wood when Gigi interrupts by entering the living room in a white nightshirt that hits her mid-thigh and holding some sort of drink in her hand.
She takes a sip of the fizzy looking tea with a label that reads Kombucha and I’m amused as her nose twitches from the bubbles. For a moment, she looks like the Gigi I knew from my youth. A vivacious girl who loved pretty things, make-believe games, Uno cards, and who wanted to desperately have an ordinary life like all the other kids.
“What are you looking at?” she asks defensively.
For a moment, I feel a twinge of guilt because of what I revealed to her yesterday. I’m sure she believed those girls in elementary school picked her for their teams because they genuinely liked her, but the reality was kids were afraid of us because of stories they heard about our fathers, not to mention that Gigi couldn’t play softball for shit. She would have been selected last every single time if I hadn’t strongly urged those girls to pick her.
Then she would have cried.
And then I would have gotten angry.
Because I don’t like it when Gigi cries.
I’ve been her protector ever since I can remember and while there was a long stretch of time that I may have resented that fact, ironically, it’s become a strong part of my identity.
I am Knox Masterson.
Roman and Elizabeth’s son.
Heir apparent.
Pussy enthusiast.
And Gigi King’s protector.
That’s who I am and probably who I always will be.
“We need to talk about where I’m sleeping tonight.”
I crack the side of my neck. It’s killing me.
“Same place you did last night.”
“I can’t sleep on that thing again. I’m too tall for it.”
“You won’t be here that long. Make the best of it.”
“Gigi, I’m not sleeping on that sofa again.”
“You’re lucky that you’re even inside this apartment.”
Gigi throws her hands on her hips and inadvertently hikes up her nightshirt. All I see are thighs. Curvy, creamy thighs.
“And now you’re trying to tell me where you’re going to sleep? If you think I’m giving up my bed, you must be doing drugs.”
I chuckle to myself. Gigi’s gotten a lot more entertaining over the years, or maybe it’s just that her quippy comebacks don’t annoy me as much as they used to. Now, I just find them engaging and so does my dick.
Down, boy. That pussy is dangerous.
I decide the only way to focus my attention elsewhere is to drop to the floor and do a quick routine of fifty one-arm push-ups on each side. Exercise is one tool I now use to help with self-regulation of my cravings, whether they’re violent or carnal.
“When did you become an exercise fanatic?” she guffaws.
“I’m not a fanatic and I’ve been exercising for years.” I count out another three push-ups– thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four. “I don’t know why you’re so surprised. I was always riding my bike when I lived here.”
Gigi purposely steps over me to walk toward to the kitchen and fuck me. I can smell her heady scent from the floor.
Now I’m fixated on the possibility that Matt has been in between those legs.
Shit, this isn’t good.
I decide to do twenty more pushups for good measure.
“You must really enjoy working out,” Gigi mocks.
“These arms of mine might have to knock somebody out,” I say through angry exertion. “Remember, this isn’t a slumber party. I’m here to protect you.”
After I’ve broken a sweat, I head to the refrigerator for something cool to drink since I know she will not offer me anything. She's a horrible hostess.
“What do you have to drink in here?”
“Nothing you’d like.”
It doesn’t escape my notice how Gigi always takes a few steps back the moment that I’m anywhere near her. What’s her deal? She doesn’t seem like she’s intimidated by me when she opens her mouth to say some sort of wisecrack but her body language says something different. Have we been out of touch with each other so long that she’s actually afraid of me?
“There’s nothing in your fridge but bottled water, sparkling water and that stuff you’re drinking,” I say with my back turned to her. "What the hell can I have to drink?"
“Help yourself to a bottle of nice, cool water. I won’t even charge you.”
“I don’t want water. I need something flavored and I’m not drinking rum this early in the morning.” I pick up one of the glass bottles. “Can I have some of this Kombucha stuff?”
“No, it’s expensive.”
Ignoring her refusal, I twist open the bottle and am surprised by the taste. After I’ve swallowed about a fourth of the bland bubbly tea, I place it down on the counter and step closer to her.
“Thanks, that hit the spot.”
She not-so-discreetly clenches her fist.
“I can’t do this, Knox.”
“I don’t think that either of us has a choice. This was a parental assignment. I tried to get out of it but it was either this or you move home.”
“Move home?”
“Your mom wants you back home.”
“Home? That's not where I was raised. That's their new home, and there’s nothing up there but trees, mini mansions, and shopping malls. I’d die up there.”
“I know, Queenie; that’s why I’m here, saving your pitiful little life.”
“Is this supposed threat against the family really that serious?”
“It could be.”
“In the muggle world, all our parents do is own a few businesses. Why is this even a thing?”
Gigi and I have always known our families and our world were unique, and we also learned pretty early that most people wouldn’t understand it or them. We call those people muggles, just like the witches and wizards do in the Harry Potter books. It’s a world I’ve come to respect, but a world that Gigi shuns. I thought she would have grown out of it by now, but I see that it’s only gotten worse.
“You know that it’s more complicated than that,” I tell her.
“I didn’t ask to be a part of this dysfunctional, dangerous life. All I want is a normal one. What are you even protecting me from? A shooting? A rape? What will these people do if they find me? This is not normal, Knox. None of this is normal.”
“We’re perfectly normal.”
“Our parents set up and blackmail people for money.”
“Gigi–“
“Seriously, I mean, who does that? They’ve probably made enough money for a lifetime, so why are they still doing this kind of thing?”
There are so many reasons I think to myself. Because they’re bored. Because they’re good at it.
“It’s not my place to ask why our parents make their money the way they do.”
“Really, because they’re criminals and I think they may have even hurt people, Knox.” Her voice drops lower, as if she’s telling me a secret. A secret that seems to be eating her up inside. “Like permanently hurt them.”