Dickhead.
As we weave out of the car park, Aiden threads his fingers through mine, and places our intertwined hands on his hard thigh.
My breathing cracks at the amount of tenderness in his touch. It’s almost… normal. His side profile oozes so much masculine beauty. Tingles start between my legs and the engine’s vibrations don’t help.
“Where are we going?” I ask to distract myself from ogling him.
“You’ll see.”
I narrow my eyes. “Where to, Aiden?”
“Not to a slaughterhouse. I won’t go all serial killer on you.”
I can’t help but laugh. He winks, squeezing my fingers in his.
“By the way,” He glances at me. “Why don’t you come to Elites’ games?”
“Eh… I don’t go to school games.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You only go to Premier League games, Miss Snob?”
“No. It’s…” I want to say I don’t like Elites, but that would be a lie. I hated them before, but now, I have no reason to.
“If you come to a game, I’ll take you somewhere special.”
“Where?”
“You’ll have to agree first.”
“Why do you even want me to come? Your Instagram stalkers aren’t enough?”
His grin widens. “If you know about them, then you must’ve been stalking me, too.”
My cheeks heat. “That’s not true.”
“Hmm. You’re one of those silent stalkers, aren’t you?” he continues in a contemplative tone. “You stalk all the time without liking or commenting as if you’re a ghost.”
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“Silent stalkers are the scariest.” He throws me an amusement gleam. “Do you fantasise about me, sweetheart?”
Yes. But screw him.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” I sulk.
“A place you’ll love.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Turns out the place I’ll love is Arsenal.
No shit. Freaking Arsenal.
And I’m not talking about watching practice like the rest of the fans. As soon as the players headed inside, Aiden guided me to the locker room. I stood there like a gaping idiot as I stared at my favourite players. Alexandre Lacazette. Maitland-Niles. Monreal. Levi King. Freaking Ozil.
Then I got out of my stupor and asked to take selfies with as many of them as possible — including Coach Emery.
I stare in a stupor at the picture while Aiden and I sit for an early dinner. We’re in the same coffee shop-restaurant as the other time. There’s some indistinct chatter coming from downstairs. It’s quiet at the top level. Only the older gentleman from the other time sits near the window, reading a book, and sipping from his coffee.
My fingers flick over my phone. I can’t believe I smiled like a normal human being and didn’t actually lick the guys. Ozil even had an arm over my shoulder.
“Uncle will be sooo jealous when I show him these.” I absentmindedly sip from my orange juice. “I’m so going to gloat about meeting my idols.”
“Are you done?” Aiden doesn’t sound amused. He’s been in a pissy mood since he practically dragged me out of the locker room.
I peel my gaze from the phone to him. He removed his RES jacket, remaining in the white T-shirt with his cuffs rolled to his elbows. The view of his strong forearms and the tattoos gets me every time. He’s stuffing French fries in his mouth and glaring at my phone.
He doesn’t seem impressed with my enthusiasm, but I smile at him anyway. Meeting Arsenal’s players is such a geeky moment in my life. I didn’t even think it was possible unless I hoard in front of the stadium for years and hope to catch a picture.
However, with the right connections and the King last name, anything can be possible. Aiden said Arsenal’s president is a family friend. Of course, he is. Otherwise, Aiden wouldn’t have been able to waltz me right into the team’s locker room.
“Thanks for taking me there,” I say. “It made my day. No, my year!”
He grunts in response and continues shoving French fries down his throat. “Stop staring at your phone and eat. You haven’t touched your food.”
“Oookay. You sound just like Aunt.” I place my phone on the table and dive into my salad. “What are you so upset about?”
“Are you acting like you don’t know?”
“Uh… not really? You seem to have your knickers in a twist since the locker room.”
“Don’t idolise other men in front of me. I don’t like it.”
A burst of laughter slips from my throat. “Are you jealous, mighty King?”
“Damn straight I’m jealous. I’m so possessive of you, it drives me fucking crazy.”
I bite back a grin and try to stuff it with a forkful of salad. Is it so wrong that I love driving him crazy? I’m getting high on this feeling and like any junkie, I want more.
“Is that why you punched Xander and threatened Cole?”
He pauses eating, eyes squinting the slightest bit before he flashes me the devil’s threatening smile. “Do you think it’s fun to antagonise me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Is that why you pulled that show with Nash earlier?”
“Cole and I were discussing philosophical theories.”
“Like?”
My head tilts. Cole said that Sartre’s book, Nausea, belongs to Aiden.
I still don’t think he’s the type who’d be interested in philosophy.
“Existentialism,” I say. “Ever heard of it?”
“Boring and illogical. Next?”
I play with my fork on the plate. If he thinks it’s boring and illogical, he wouldn’t have kept a copy of Nausea. I sure as hell returned mine to the library as soon as I was finished with it.
“Have you ever read any book by Jean-Paul Sartre?” I prompt.
“A few.” He’s quiet for a long time that I think he’s done talking. “My mother had a thing for French philosophers.”
What happened to her?
The question hovers at the tip of my tongue, but I doubt that he’ll answer it, and I don’t want to sound pushy, so I ask, “What else did she like?”
“Me.” He smiles, seeming lost in his own thoughts. “I think I’m the only person she liked.”
“How about your father?”
“Maybe at some point, but I never witnessed it. She dissociated from Jonathan as much as he dissociated from her. His work came first. His brother, Lev and I came second. She was always last.”
My heart aches at an image of a young Aiden and his mum being ignored by his father for work. But at that time, he at least had his mother. Maybe his transformation started after he lost her. Which means that I’m right to assume Alicia King’s death played a significant role in shaping his deviant personality.
“I understand what it means to have workaholic parents,” I say sympathetically.
“Your real parents were workaholics?”
“I don’t know.” A slash of pain grips me whenever they’re mentioned. Maybe this is also how Aiden feels when he talks about his mother.