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.”
