I’m about to tell him about my long drive, but remember I’m not supposed to have a vehicle. Oops.
“I needed a change of scenery and somehow ended up here,” I say vaguely and then sip my drink.
Kingsley’s gaze lingers for a beat, then he sinks back into the chair with a sigh. He finishes his drink, lets out a quiet burp, and places the glass on the table. “How many drinks do you think they’ll let me have before they cut me off?”
I smirk. “Kingsley Beaumont, are you trying to get drunk?”
His eyes have a tipsy tingle to them. “No, but it’s been a hell of a long time since I have.”
“You’re King Beaumont. I don’t think they’re going to risk the wrath of your family if they turn you down,” I joke, even though I’m dead serious. Kingsley could drink their entire liquor supply and face no consequences.
The Beaumonts and their friends have a hold on every industry around here, according to what Jordan gathered. Kingsley could shut this place down with just a look, even from way out here. It’s exactly like the hold Uncle George has overManchester. I remember him making a fuss and closing the library over his daughter not being able to get more books when she still had some checked out. It was pretty fun to witness.
“I come here because they don’t know who I am,” he says. “It’s a hole in the wall, so I rarely run into people who know my name. And if they do, they don’t make a big thing out of it.”
“Is that why you come here? So you can just be you?”
Kingsley shrugs loosely. “It’s cool not having a camera on me or people asking nosy questions all the time.”
Things like that make me glad to be such an unknown entity in the Requiem. Everyone in Manchester knows the Redgraves in the same way everyone in Louisiana knows the Beaumonts. But since I’m not Rip Redgrave, son of Emma Redgrave, to the public, I’ve never dealt with the stressors of being a feared person’s kid.
It used to mess with my head. I used to want everyone to know who my parents were, but the fear of other crime organizations’ reactions to a lesbian leader overrode that longing.
Whatever. Being popular seems exhausting.
As the singer switches, the place goes from a country feel to a more city-like, cool atmosphere. In baggy jeans and a fitted shirt, this next girl picked a rap song for her performance. Her strong, in-your-face singing—sorry,shouting—is a lot, but it’s clear she has the song down pat. It is a lot less painful to listen to than the last person.
I nudge his shoulder. “Do you ever get up there and sing?”
Kinglsey scoffs as if I’ve said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “Why would I sing?”
“I guess that would ruin your whole silent vibe, huh?”
King flips me off with a condescending smile. “I like watching other people embarrass themselves. I’ll fuck around, and the video of me singing will be all over the internet.”
I eat a cheesy chip, and even though the molten cheese burns my mouth, I keep a straight face. I like the feeling. “So? To hell with what the internet thinks about you.”
He rubs the back of his neck, oddly flustered. “You don’t get it.”
“I guarantee I understand more about you than you think, Kingsley.”
Jesus, saying shit like that, I might as well give it away that I’m not who I say I am.
I chew on another chip, noticing Kingsley’s eyes can’t pick between me and the food. Munching, I ask, “Are you hungry?”
King’s eyes meet mine, a flicker of uncertainty in them before he offers a hesitant shrug. That tells me all I need to know.
Whenever I think about his complicated relationship with food, my stomach twists. I don’t understand it, and I know asking him won’t give me all the answers. What I do know is that, for whatever reason, with me, he doesn’t pick at his meals. With me, I know he’s eating.
I take another chip, get some cheese on it, and hold my hand below to catch any spills. I bring it to his mouth, and he recoils as if he’s never tasted nachos in his life. But I stay put and hold it out, waiting for him to decide the cheesy chip isn’t the enemy.
It’s like something turns in his brain, and then he’s eating it right from my hand. It’s sweet, honestly. Intimate, even. And in a way, it’s good for both of us.
I can’t suggest therapy. He might not admit it to me, but being born who he is means therapy is rarely on the table. According to Ryland, he’s trying to prove himself, and everyone knowing he’s telling a random person his issues to help him feel better won’t look good.
So, for now, this works. I’ll eat with him every day if it means he’s alright. Anything to keep him safe.
King is the first one to break the silence. “I don’t know what we’re doing.”
