Up in Smoke (King #8)

It’s late when Smoke climbs into bed. I smell the whiskey surrounding him along with cigar smoke. I pretend to be asleep while he takes off his clothes and gets into bed. He wraps his big arms around me as he usually does and pulls me against his hard chest.

I hate that I find myself relaxing into him instead of fighting him. I hate that I want his touch instead of being repulsed by it.

I hate that, despite everything, I don’t hate him.

“I promise I’ll try and find another way,” Smoke whispers. I turn around to ask him what he meant by that, but he’s already fast asleep.

His eyelashes are long and dark on his cheeks. His full lips are slightly parted. I don’t know what comes over me, but I can’t help myself. I crane my neck and lightly press my lips to his. I pull away only to find his eyes are now open, and he’s looking at me with a mix of confusion and lust.

“I’m…I just…” I begin, but I don’t get to finish because I’m rolled over on my back with Smoke on top of me and his lips on mine.

He rolls his hips against me, his long, hard erection pressing up against my sensitive nub igniting a carnal lust inside me like a flint to fire. His lips are against my neck, and I’m arching into him. His lips part and his tongue connects with my skin. I break out into delicious gooseflesh.

Then, he’s gone.

The bathroom door slams, and the sound of water hitting the porcelain can be heard under the door as the shower turns on.

I creep out of the bed and watch him through a crack in the door. He’s naked, leaning against his forearms on the wall of the shower. Water drips down his sculpted body as he lets his forehead rest on his arm. His other hand snakes down his chiseled abs where he grabs hold of his massive erection and begins to stroke himself.

I should look away. I should look anywhere but at him, but I can’t help myself. I want to hate him for bringing that girl here. I want to not feel this pain and fear and anxiety every time I look at him. I want this desire for him to disappear as quickly as it came, but none of that happens. I can only stare at Smoke with wonderment and awe and fucking slicing pain.

I’m silently sobbing as his pace quickens, his breaths short. He shuts his eyes tightly. He’s rough and almost violent with himself. His eyes open and find mine through the crack.

I stay still. Frozen in place. A tear rolls down my cheek.

He keeps his gaze fixed on mine as he strokes himself once more, coming with a deep groan on his lips; long streams of white coat the tile and his fist.

I’m panting along with him except now my sobs aren’t so silent.





Chapter Thirty-Two





In search of my sneakers, I move Smoke’s cut off one of the chairs hoping to find them underneath. Nope. Not there. I place his cut back where I found it when something falls to the floor. I think it’s a picture until I realize it’s an ultrasound. Morgan Faith Clark is the name on the top left corner. The date is from last year.

“What the hell is this?” I ask myself out loud. And why does Smoke have it?

When I hear Smoke’s heavy stomp, I tuck the photo back into his cut just as he opens the front door.

“Come out here,” he says.

“I can’t find my sneakers.”

“You don’t need them,” he assures me.

The last thing I’m expecting is to be led out to the porch and presented with a large standing easel. But that’s what’s waiting for me on the far-left side. It has paint from past creations splattered on it all around the legs. It’s secondhand, which to me, makes it even better, having already lived another life.

“What’s that for?” I finally ask.

“It’s for painting,” Smoke says sarcastically, leaning against the door. “Thought you’d know that.”

“I got that much, but why is it here?” My feet don’t wait for his response. In fact, I’m already across the deck inspecting the materials by the time the question leaves my mouth.

Stretched canvas. Several bottles of Acrylic paint. Primary colors only with a larger bottle of white paint and wooden palate for mixing colors. There’s also a water dish already filled to the top on the side table and several rags in the holder connecting the two front legs. A dozen or so paint brushes of various sizes sit in a cylinder attached to the side of the easel.

“Do you paint?” I ask because even after our conversation, I can’t possibly believe this is all here for me.

“No,” Smoke answers with a small laugh. “But, you’re about as good at being bored as I am. Zelda told me you mentioned you’ve wanted to paint. Thought you might like to try.”

I don’t know what his endgame is here. All I know is that I want to be mad. I want to rage on him and tell him that trying to occupy my time until my death isn’t going to work. I want to tell him to shove this entire easel up his murdering ass, but another part of me is itching to give it a shot. Tears prick at my eyes, but I keep my back to Smoke. I won’t give him my fear, and I sure as hell won’t give him my joy.

I wonder if Dr. Ida ever wanted to both thank someone and stab them at the same time. “So, this is a bribe, so I’ll be less difficult? Because I don’t know if a few paints are going to do the trick.” When I’m sure the threat of tears is gone, I turn around and stop just in time to see the screen door flap shut.

Smoke’s the one gone now.

I turn back to the easel and run my hand over the blank canvas. I look out over the porch and close my eyes. I breathe in the fresh air. I observe the way the sunlight feels on my face. I open them again and I’m already popping the tops off the paints and mixing the colors until I get the results I want. I choose a brush, dip it in the water, and shake off the excess.

Then, I’m gone. I’m in another world. One without fear. Or ankle bombs. Or fathers who abandon their children, or men who’d rather take lives than save them. In this world, only I and the canvas exist.

For a very short time, I am free.



Smoke

I’ve been trying to get a hold of Griff with no fucking luck. I know he said he’d reach out to me but I need to know how much closer his people are to finding Frank. I close the phone and sigh.

I need to know how much time is left.

I go outside for a smoke. Frankie’s still at the easel, where she’s been for the last several hours. Her foot’s tapping to the beat of the song on the radio, and she’s singing along. Her voice isn’t that of an angel. It’s pretty fucking horrific, actually, but I find myself watching her anyway as she sways from side to side while painting away.

I don’t know what I expected her to paint or why. I didn’t give it all that much thought when I bought the damn thing from the art store in town. I just wanted to keep her occupied so she’d stop asking questions, stop wanting to tell me stories. Stop making me like her. Want her.

The problem is that she’s stopped making the effort, but I still find myself liking her.

Wanting her.