Twisted Palace (18 page)

My lungs stop working as Reed crawls up beside me. He brings his mouth to mine, kissing me softly at first, then with more urgency as I part my lips for him.

The hard length of him presses against my thigh, and the drumbeat of desire that played in the background all week as I thought about this night thuds loudly in my head. His tongue traces my lips, his mouth whispers a path across my cheek. His hands roam my body, mapping the valleys and the rises with equal interest.

A thumb across my nipple sends shudders from the tip to my core. A kiss behind my ear makes my whole body quiver in delight.

We make out for what seems like hours, until we’re both breathless and painfully turned on.

Reed’s lips release mine abruptly. “I love you,” he mumbles.

“I love you, too.” I press my mouth to his again and we stop talking. My heart is pounding. So is his. And his hands tremble as they begin a slow descent.

To my frustration, he won’t let me touch him. Every time I reach for him, he swats my hands away. “It’s all about you,” he whispers after my third grabbing attempt. “Close your eyes and enjoy it, dammit.”

And gosh, I do. I enjoy every torturous second of it. It’s not long before my brand-new underwear is cast aside. I can’t focus on anything but the incredible sensations he’s eliciting. He’s touched me before here, in the same intimate ways, but it’s different tonight. It’s the start of something, rather than the end. Every caress of his hand, every press of his lips against my skin, is a promise of more to come. And I can’t wait.

Two calloused fingers slide down my stomach until he’s there, inside me, and I moan as the pleasure explodes in a blinding rush. The sensations shake me from the inside out. His mouth meets mine, swallowing my whimpers, stroking me to completion. My hips arch to meet his fingers, and he rides the wave with me as I shudder against the mattress.

He doesn’t even give me time to recover. I’m still shaking wildly when he starts all over again, this time sliding between my legs and using his mouth to send me soaring. He licks and kisses and teases until I can’t take it. It’s too much, too good. But not enough.

A frustrated groan flies out. “
Reed
,” I beg, clutching his broad shoulders to yank him up.

The heavy weight of his body presses me to the bed. “You ready?” he rasps. “Really ready?”

I nod wordlessly.

He leaves me, just for a moment, so he can dig around in his jeans pocket. He comes back with a condom.

My heart stops.

“You okay?”

His deep voice is like a warm blanket of reassurance. “I’m good.” I reach for him again. “I love you.”

He whispers, “Love you, too,” and then kisses me at the same time he enters me.

We both make a strangled noise, because it feels impossibly tight. The pressure triggers an achy feeling, a strange sensation of emptiness.

“Ella,” he breathes as if he’s the one in pain.

When he hesitates, I dig my nails into his shoulders and urge him on. “I’m okay. Everything’s good.”

“Might hurt for a second.”

He drives his hips forward.

The pain startles me even though I expected it. Reed stops abruptly, his eyes inspecting me carefully. Sweat beads on his forehead, and his arms shake as he holds himself still until my body accepts his sweet invasion.

We wait until the pain has abated, the empty feeling is gone, and all that’s left is a feeling of wondrous fullness. I lift my hips experimentally, and he groans.

“Feels so good,” he chokes out.

It does. It really does. Then he starts to move and it only gets better. There’s only slight pain when he withdraws, and I instinctively wrap my legs around him. We moan in unison. He moves even faster. The muscles of his back flex under my grip as he pushes into me, over and over again.

Reed whispers how much he loves me. I clutch him tight with both hands and gasp at each thrust and retreat.

He knows exactly what I need. Easing off me slightly, he brings his hand between my legs and presses down on the spot that aches for him. The second he does, I go up in flames.

Everything ceases to exist. Everything but Reed and the way he’s making me feel.

“God, Ella.” His rough voice barely penetrates the blissful glow that surrounds me.

One last thrust and he’s trembling on top of me, his lips pressed to mine, our bodies glued together.

It takes forever for my heart to beat at a regular pace again. By then, Reed has withdrawn and taken care of the condom, only to return and drag me against his chest. He’s breathing just as hard. When my limbs are finally strong enough to support my weight, I rise up on one elbow and smile at the look of utter satisfaction on his face.

“Was it okay?” I tease.

He snorts. “You need to erase the word
okay
from your vocab, baby. That was…”

“Perfect,” I fill in, my voice a happy whisper.

He holds me even tighter. “Perfect,” he agrees.

“Can we do it again?” I ask hopefully.

His laughter tickles my face. “Did I just create a monster?”

“I think so?”

We’re both laughing as he rolls over to kiss me again, but we don’t start anything, at least not yet. We just kiss for a bit and then snuggle together, while he plays with my hair and I stroke his chest.

“You were incredible,” he tells me.

“For a virgin, you mean?”

Reed snorts. “No.
This
was beyond incredible. I was talking about the routine. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

“It was fun,” I confess. “More fun than I thought it would be.”

“Do you think you’ll stay on the team? I mean, if you can stomach being around Jordan, then maybe you should. You looked so happy when you were out there.”

“I
was
happy.” I chew on my bottom lip. “Dancing is…it’s a thrill. It’s my favorite thing in the whole world. I always—” I stop, a bit embarrassed to reveal my silly hopes.

“You always what?” he pushes.

A breath slides out. “I always dreamed that maybe one day I could take actual classes. Get some real training.”

“There are arts colleges. You should apply,” Reed says immediately.

I rise up on an elbow again. “You really think so?”

“Hell yeah. You’re so freaking talented, Ella. You have a gift, and it would be a waste of that gift not to do anything with it.”

Warmth unfurls like ribbons in my chest. Other than my mom, nobody has ever told me I was talented.

“Maybe I will,” I say through the lump of emotion in my throat. Then I kiss him and ask, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What’s your dream?”

His features crease unhappily. “Right now? My dream is not going to jail.”

Just like that, the relaxed mood in the hotel room dissolves into tension. Crap. I shouldn’t have said anything. For this one perfect moment, though, I completely forgot about Brooke’s death and the police investigation and that Reed’s entire future is nothing but uncertain right now.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “I forgot about all that.”

“Yeah, me too.” He runs his big hand over my bare hip. “I guess…if I didn’t have these charges hanging over my head…I’d want to work for Atlantic Aviation.”

My jaw drops. “Seriously?”

A sheepish gleam fills in his eyes. “Don’t you dare tell my father,” he orders. “He’d probably throw a parade.”

I giggle. “It’s okay to please Callum, you know. As long as you’re pleasing yourself, too, then who cares?” I study his face. “You would really want to be involved in the family business, though?”

Reed nods. “I think it’s kind of fascinating. I wouldn’t want to design anything, but the business side of it would be pretty cool to get involved in. I’d probably get a business degree in college.” His features become pained again. “But none of that is even an option. Not if…”

Not if he’s found guilty of killing Brooke.

Not if he goes to jail.

I force myself to banish those thoughts. I want to focus on good things right now. Like how happy I am to be lying here with Reed and how amazing it felt when he was inside me. So I climb on top of him and end the conversation by planting my lips on his.

“Round two?” he teases against my mouth.

“Round two,” I confirm.

And off we go.

“
Y
ou look
like you’re in a good mood,” Easton notes on Sunday morning.

I join him out on the terrace. “Smoothie?” I ask, tipping the extra bottle in his direction. At his nod, I toss it to him. “Can’t complain.”

I try but fail to keep from smiling, and the way my brother’s eyes roll to the back of his head tells me he can read the satisfaction all over my face. But I don’t give a rat’s ass, because between the murder charge and Steve’s striving for a Father of the Year award, things have been tense between Ella and me. After this weekend, we’re back on track. Nothing’s going to ruin my good mood today.

If Steve asks, I respected the hell out of his daughter. Three times.

“Nice sweatshirt, though,” I tell East. “What trash bin did you fish that out of?”

He pulls the ratty thing away from his chest. “I wore this crabbing three summers ago.”

“Is that the trip where Gideon got his balls bitten?” The summer before Mom died, we went to the Outer Banks as a family and fished for crabs.

Easton lets out a roar of laughter. “Oh shit, I forgot that happened. He walked around with a hand in front of his crotch for a month.”

“How’d that happen anyway?” I still can’t figure out how the crab jumped from the bucket to land in Gid’s lap, but his scream of pain made every seagull within a hundred yards fly off in terror.

“Dunno. Maybe Sav knows some magic voodoo and stuck him.” East holds his stomach with one hand and wipes tears away from his face with the other.

“They were just starting to go out then.”

“He was always an ass to her.”

“True.” Gid and Sav never made much sense, and it flamed out in a spectacular way. Can’t blame the girl for being bitchy toward us.

“So Wade and Val getting it on again?” East asks curiously.

“Well, you ended up having to get your own room on Friday night, so you tell me.”

“I think they are.”

“Why do you care? Did you want a shot at her?”

He shakes his head. “Naah. I got my eye on some other chick.”

“Yeah?” This surprises me, since Easton’s never settled down. He seems like he wants to tap every ass in Astor. “Who is it?”

He shrugs, pretending to be absorbed with his smoothie.

“Not even gonna give me a clue?”

“I’m still debating what my options are.”

His uncharacteristic reserve piques my interest. “You’re Easton Royal. You have all the options.”

“Shockingly enough, there are some people who don’t subscribe to that theory. They’re wrong, of course, but what can you do?” He grins and then chugs the rest of his drink.

“I’ll sic Ella on you. You can’t hold out against her.”

He snorts. “Neither can you.”

“Who’d want to?”

Whatever comeback he was going to make is halted by Dad’s appearance at the door.

“Hey, Dad.” I raise my drink. “We’re having breakfast…” My happy greeting trails off as I take in his somber expression. “What’s up?”

“Halston is here and he needs to see you. Now.”

Shit. On Sunday morning?

I don’t spare a look at East, who’s likely frowning. I slide my stone face into place and walk through the space my dad makes for me.

“What’s this is all about?”

I’d rather know what I’m going to be confronting, but Dad just shakes his head. “I don’t know. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”

Meaning Grier wouldn’t tell him. Awesome.

Inside the study, Grier’s already seated on the couch. A stack of papers about two inches high sits in front of him.

“Hello, son,” he says.

It’s Sunday and he’s not at church. That’s my first warning. Everyone but the worst kind of people go to church down here. When Mom was alive, we went like clockwork. After we buried her, Dad never made us go again. What was the point? God hadn’t saved the only worthy Royal, so there wasn’t much hope the rest of us were getting past the pearly gates.

“Good morning, sir. I didn’t realize lawyers work on Sunday.”

“I went into the office last night to catch up on some things and there was mail from the prosecutor’s office. I spent all night reading it and decided I should come here this morning. You’d better have a seat.”

He gives me a thin smile and waves to a wing chair opposite him. I notice that he’s not even wearing a suit, but khakis and a button-down shirt. That’s my second warning. Shit’s going to go down.

Stiffly, I sit down. “I’m guessing I’m not going to like what you have to say.”

“No, I don’t think you will, but you’re going to listen to every word.” He points to the stack of paper. “For the past couple of weeks, the prosecutor’s office and the Bayview police have taken statements from your classmates, friends, acquaintances, and enemies.”

My fingers itch to grab the papers and toss them all in the fireplace. “You have a copy of those? That’s normal?” I reach for the pile, but he shakes his head until I settle back in my chair.

“Yes, as part of your constitutional rights, you get access to all the information they acquire, except for some documents the courts deem attorney work product. Witness statements are produced so that we can prepare a defense. The last thing the prosecution wants is for us to get a conviction overturned because they didn’t give us the appropriate evidence prior to trial.”

Over the pounding of my heart, I say, “That’s good, right?”

As if I hadn’t spoken, Grier continues. “It’s also a way for them to show us if they have a strong case or a weak case.”

My fingers curl over my knees. “And by the look on your face, I guess the case against me is strong?”

“Why don’t I read you the statements and then you can make your own judgment? This one is from Rodney Harland the Third.”

“I have no idea who that is.” Feeling faintly better, I rub my palms against my sweatpants.

“Nickname Harvey.”

“Still doesn’t ring a bell. Maybe they’re interviewing people that don’t even know me.” It sounds ridiculous as I say it out loud.

Grier doesn’t even look up from the page. “Harvey the Third is five-eleven but likes to brag that he’s six-two. He’s wider than he is tall, but because of his massive size, no one disputes his obviously false claim. His nose is broken and he has a tendency to lisp.”

“Wait, does he have curly brown hair?” I remember a guy like that at the dock fights. He doesn’t get in the ring much, because despite his size he hates taking hits. He ducks and runs away.

Grier looks up from the sheet of paper. “You do know him then.”

I nod. “Harvey and I fought a couple times a while back.”

What could Harvey say? He was involved in this up to his tiny ears.

“Harvey says that you fight on a fairly regular basis down in the warehouse district, usually between Docks Eight and Nine. That’s your preferred space because one of the fighters’ fathers is the dock manager.”

“Will Kendall’s dad is the dock foreman,” I confirm, feeling a bit more confident. Every guy down there is fighting because he wants to. Mutually agreed upon beatings are not illegal. “He doesn’t care that we use it.”

Grier plucks his shiny pen off the table. “When did you start fighting?”

“Two years ago.” Before my mom died, when her depression was spiraling out of control and I needed an outlet that didn’t include being pissed off at her.

He jots something down. “How did you hear about it?”

“I don’t know. In the locker room?”

“And how often do you go there now?”

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I thought we went over this before.” The fight thing came up the first time Grier and I met over this murder mess—the one I’d wrongly thought would go away because I didn’t do it.

“Then you won’t mind going over it again,” Grier says implacably. His pen is poised, waiting for me.

Dully, I recite the answers. “We usually go after football games. We fight and then go to a party.”

“Harvey says you were one of the more regular participants. You would fight two or three males a night. These fights never lasted more than approximately ten minutes each. Usually you came with your brother Easton. ‘Easton is a real dick,’ according to Harvey. And you are ‘a smug asshole.’” Grier pulls down his eyeglasses and peers over the top of the lenses. “His words, not mine.”

“Harvey’s a narc, and he cries if you so much as glare in his general direction,” I say tersely.

Grier arches his eyebrows for a second and then resettles his glasses. “Question: ‘How did Mr. Royal appear during fights?’ Answer: ‘Usually he pretended to be calm.’”

“Pretended? I
was
calm. It was a dock fight. Nothing was on the line. There wasn’t anything to be excited about.”

Grier keeps reading. “‘Usually he pretended to be calm, but if you said anything bad about his mom, he’d go ballistic. About a year ago, some guy called his mom a whore. He beat that kid so hard the poor shit had to go to the hospital. Royal was banned after that. He broke this kid’s jaw and his eye socket.’ Question: ‘So he never fought again?’ Answer. ‘No. He came back about six weeks later. Will Kendall controlled dock access and said Royal could come back. The rest of us went along with it. I think he paid Kendall off.’”

I stare at my feet so Greer doesn’t see the guilt in my eyes. I did pay off Kendall. The kid wanted a new engine for his GTO, which would’ve set him back two grand. I gave him the money, and I was back in the fights.

“Nothing to say?” Grier prompts.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I try to shrug carelessly. “Yeah, that’s all true.”

Grier makes another note. “Speaking of fights over your mother…” He pauses and picks up another stapled document. “Jaw breaking appears to be a particularly favorite pastime of yours.”

I clench my own jaw and stare stonily back at the lawyer. I know what’s coming next.

“Austin McCord, age nineteen, still reports problems with his jaw. He was forced to eat soft foods for six months while his jaw was wired shut. He required two teeth implants and to this day has difficulty eating solid foods. When asked about the cause of his injury, Mr. McCord was”—Grier shakes the document a little—“pardon the pun, closemouthed, but at least one friend of McCord’s explained that McCord had been in an altercation with Reed Royal, which resulted in serious injuries to his face.”

“Why are you reading that? You made that deal with the McCords and you said it was confidential.” As per the deal, Dad set up a trust to fund McCord’s four-year tuition costs at Duke. A gaze in my father’s direction reveals his own distress. His mouth is a thin line and his eyes are red-rimmed, as if he hasn’t slept for days.

“Confidentiality of those deals are meaningless in a criminal case. Eventually McCord’s testimony can be subpoenaed and used against you.”

Grier’s words pull my attention back to him. “He had it coming.”

“Again, because he called your mother a bad name.”

This is bullshit. As if Grier would ever stand for his momma being badmouthed.

“You’re telling me that a man isn’t going to stand up for the women of his household? Every juror would excuse that.” No southern male would ever allow that kind of insult to pass unchecked.

It’s one reason the McCords took the deal. They knew prosecuting that kind of case would go nowhere, especially against my family. You can’t call someone’s mother a drug-addled slut and get away with it.

Grier’s face tightens. “If I had known that you were engaged in disreputable activity to this extent, I wouldn’t have suggested to your father that we settle this matter in a monetary fashion. I would’ve suggested military school.”

“Oh, was that your idea? Because Dad always throws that threat around whenever he doesn’t like what we’re doing. I guess I can thank you for that,” I say sarcastically.

“Reed,” my father chides from his place near the bookshelves. It’s the first thing he’s said since we walked in here, but I’ve been watching his expression and it just keeps getting bleaker.

Grier glares at me. “We’re on the same team here. Don’t fight me, boy.”

“Don’t call me
boy
.” I glare back, dropping my arms to my knees.

“Why? Are you going to break my jaw, too?”

His eyes fall to the hands I’ve got curled into fists in my lap.

“What’s your point here?” I mutter.

“My point is—”

A soft ringing cuts him off.

“Hold that thought.” Grier reaches for the sleek cell phone on the desk and checks the screen. Then he frowns. “I need to take this. Excuse me.”

Dad and I exchange a wary look as the lawyer steps out into the hall. Since he closes the door behind him, neither of us is able to hear what he’s saying.

“These statements are bad,” I say flatly.

Dad gives a bleak nod. “Yes. They are.”

“They make me look like a psycho.” A powerless sensation squeezes my throat. “This is freaking bullshit. So what if I like to fight? There’re guys out there who fight for a living. Boxing, MMA, wrestling—you don’t see anybody accusing
them
of being bloodthirsty maniacs.”

“I know.” Dad’s voice is oddly gentle. “But it’s not just the fighting, Reed. You’ve got a temper. You—” He stops when the door swings open and Grier appears.

“I just got off the phone with the ADA,” Grier says in a tone I can’t decipher. Confused, maybe? “The lab results from Brooke’s autopsy came back this morning.”

Dad and I both straighten our shoulders. “The DNA test on the baby?” I ask slowly.

Grier nods.

I take a breath. “Who’s the father?”

And suddenly I’m…afraid. I know there’s zero chance of me being that kid’s father, but what if some corrupt lab tech rigged the results? What if Grier opens his mouth and announces—

“You are.”

It takes me a second to realize he’s not talking to me.

He’s talking to my dad.