Cruel Infatuation: A Dark Romance (Underground Kings Book 3) Page 2

  I always get Lighthouse Grill. It’s my addiction. They have my credit card on file there, since I order once a day, and Postmates delivers. My mouth waters when I think about their BBQ. I’ll have to order it in a bit since I’m suddenly hungry.

  Scrolling through the searches, I skip all the typical ones. I’m not looking for love. Maybe I need more like a pen-pal or something instead of a dating site.

  Dating websites.

  Pen pal websites.

  I sound so fucking lame doing this. Maybe a dating website is better because it isn’t so stupid. I can be honest and upfront in my profile and say I’m looking to make new friends and I’m not capable of love or whatever.

  “One step at a time, Grayson. One fucking step. Just click on one.”

  I click the back button, and the dating sites fill the screen again. I shut my eyes and scroll, then double-click.

  Snapping my eyes open, I curse when I see I landed on a pornography site somehow. There are two pink outlines of naked women on the upper left and right corners of a webpage. “Live Cams available.”

  Not even tempted.

  I exit out by clicking the back button, and this time I learn my lesson and keep my eyes open to decide on a site. I click on one, and it takes me to the main page of LoveFocus.com. As I read the ‘about us’, I learn their site offers more than romance, but the chance to build friendships too. I move to the section to fill out my profile and click on the options that interest me and what I’m looking for in a partner or friend.

  “Jesus, Grayson. Stop being a bitch. Just fill it out. Who cares if you end up dating someone?” Just the thought has my stomach turning. “If you don’t like dating or the idea of it, why are you doing this? You can meet a friend at a bar. You obviously want more.” I bang my head against the desk, frustrated with how annoyingly indecisive I am.

  Deep down, I do want love. Right now, I’m not ready for it. Love is too big and requires too fucking much of me.

  Maybe if it’s the right person…

  “Do you hear yourself?” I mumble to myself as I click on the link that takes me to my profile page.

  There are the basic demographics. Name (not giving my real one). Age. Likes. Dislikes. Blah, blah, blah.

  “My name is Isaac Gray,” I speak out loud as I type. It isn’t a lie. Isaac is my middle name and Gray is part of my first name. “I am thirty-two.” I wince, maybe I should lie about that. “No, no lies.” I take a deep breath and click the arrow at the bottom of the page. It takes me to the next series of questions. “A hundred questions? What the hell do you people want from me?” I rub my eyes and decide the hell with it. I’m not doing this. It’s fucking pointless. Who will want to get to know an ex-con, committed for rape—wrongfully—and lives in a commune?

  It’s not a regular life.

  I stare at the screen again, the questions laughing at me. “Pick up your damn balls and fucking fill it out. There won’t be any hits on your profile anyway.” For some odd reason, that only has my confidence dwindling. I’m a basket case. I don’t know what I want. I want love, but I don’t want it.

  I want kids, but I don’t.

  I want to try to move on from this loneliness, but in order to do that, I have to learn to trust again. I don’t know how.

  I want someone, but I don’t want anyone.

  How can I feel all of this at the same time? I’m a contradiction. I want more than being infatuated with the idea of having somebody. Isn’t there a difference? Truly wanting love versus having it and realizing the idea is so much better than the reality?

  By my experience, reality loves to fuck you over.

  With a quick tap of my fingers against my thigh, I roll over to the computer desk again and pick up my phone. I place an order for delivery for Lighthouse Grill and lick my lips at the thought of sinking my teeth into a BBQ pork sandwich.

  If food gets me more excited than this dating profile, what the hell am I doing?

  “You’re being a bitch. That’s what you’re doing,” I judge myself and lace my fingers behind my head and read the first question out loud. “What is your most bizarre talent of quirk?” I haven’t thought about talent since elementary school, when I auditioned for the talent show, which I did not win. Apparently, doing magic tricks at eight and failing at them isn’t as special as a baton twirler.

  Is it wrong to still hold a sliver of bitterness against Amy Wilson? She dropped that damn baton a hundred times. The only reason why she won was because she wore a tutu and looked cute. I bet if I wore a tutu, I would have gotten strange looks.

  Imagining that god awful image, I shake my head and get to the task at hand.

  I honestly have no idea what a talent of mine is. A quirk? I don’t know. Am I really that boring? Wanting answers for my first question, I head to the door and open it to see if anyone is coming down the hall. I grin when I see Jaxon.

  “Jaxon!” I call to his retreating form, and he turns his head over his shoulder when he hears my voice.

  “What’s up, Gray?” he asks, walking backward to meet me at my bedroom door.

  I lift my arms above my head and grab onto the door frame. How honest do I want to be with him? I don’t want the guys to give me shit. If Heaven ever finds out about my dating profile, I’ll never hear the end of it. It’s best if I keep this to myself.

  “Well? I have a very pregnant wife needing this chocolate bar, and if I do not give it to her, I’ll sleep on the couch for the remainder of her pregnancy. I’m lucky I got back in the bedroom at all after the last time I upset her.”

  “To be fair, saying her stomach looks so much bigger than it did the other day wasn’t a good choice of words to say to a pregnant woman carrying twins,” I point out.

  “I didn’t mean for it to sound like I called her fat. I didn’t. I just meant that I could see the babies filling her out. I love it.”

  “She’s hormonal, Jaxon. Her body is changing. She’s sensitive. You can’t go around saying things like that. You have to choose your words carefully.” Quinn has double the hormones pumping through her system since she’s carrying twins. Jaxon will learn, and if I know Quinn, she’ll never put the love of her life on the couch.

  Not permanently anyway.

  “I’ll have to keep that in mind more often. I know you didn’t call me over here to talk about my shortcomings; what’s going on, Gray?”

  “Right…” My tone is a bit beleaguered. “I was wondering if you think I have any talents or quirks? Just curious.”

  He lifts a black brow at me, and a few forced wrinkles appear on his forehead. I swallow hard and grip the trim of the doorway. “Interesting question for someone who is just curious,” he says. “Well, you’re a huge asset to the team. I’ve never seen someone so large but stealthy at the same time. You’re a great friend too. You get distracted sometimes, and you like to go behind others to ‘redo’ whatever they just did.”

  “I do not do that,” I scoff, thinking about a time when I ever questioned someone’s ability to do something right the first time.

  “After Owen loaded the dishwasher, you rearranged it because there is a ‘certain’ way it has to be loaded in order for the dishes to be clean.”

  I shuffle my feet and glance toward the floor. “You can’t say I’m not right. The dishes are cleaner when I rearrange it.”

  “And when Julia dusts, you are right behind her with Windex and a fresh rag.”

  “The woman is better at cooking than she is at cleaning, okay?” My face heats with embarrassment. This isn’t a positive quality. I can’t put this on my dating profile. No one will talk to me.

  He must see that I’m not exactly taking the news as well as he hoped. He slaps his hand on my shoulder and brings me out of my trance. His eyes catch mine, and he leans forward. “You’re a good listener. I know out of all the guys here, I can come to you for solid advice, and you’ll listen because you actually care, Grayson. It might not seem like a big deal to you, but it is for us. If yo
u notice, the person we go to the most when we need to talk is you. You might not say much about yourself, but no matter how hard you try not to care about people, you do.”

  “I care about my people,” I correct him.

  “No, Gray. No matter how hard you try, you care about all people.” He cocks his head and lifts his hand from shoulder, shoving it in his pocket. “And it’s something you really hate about yourself, something I’ll never understand.”

  “Not all people deserve kindness and empathy.” I bite out each word slowly. He’s wrong. I don’t care about people; just the people who matter, like Quinn and Jaxon, Owen, even if he is an ass, and Heaven, Sebastian too. Those are the people I care about. Everyone else can cease to exist for all I care.

  “They don’t, but you unknowingly give it to them anyway. It’s a quality that’s hard to find in a world that’s so dark, Gray. And what we do, it can get really fucked up.” Jaxon gives me another clap on the arm and starts to walk away, waving the chocolate bar in the air. “I need to go before my lovely wife eats me instead.”

  “Like you’d mind,” I shout after him.

  “Oh, you just gave me an idea, Gray!” Jaxon’s mad chuckle echoes through the hall, and my phone buzzes to tell me my delivery is here.

  I push myself off the door frame and hurry toward the garage, passing an empty living and kitchen. I click the screen to the right of the only door in and out of the Cliff House and see a delivery man holding a plastic bag full of three orders of the same thing. I press the green intercom button and speak. “You can leave it there. Thanks,” I say and take my finger off the switch so the driver can’t answer back.

  Pleasantries are a time killer.

  The driver looks around and sees the camera in the corner, salutes, and places the bag on the ground before getting into his car and driving away. When he’s gone, I enter the abyss of the garage and press the garage door opener. The metal is smooth as it lifts and barely makes a noise. I see the white plastic bag and hit the button again, and the door stops mid-lift. I run, snag the bag, and hurry inside.

  Punching a few keys on the screen, the garage door shuts, and I make my way to my bedroom where the questionnaire awaits me.

  The succulent scent of BBQ pork with tangy sauce has a wave of saliva flowing across my tongue. I’m barely in my room before I’m opening the first box and kicking the door shut with my foot, then locking the knob.

  Just in case someone wants to come in.

  I plop in the chair and decide once again to be honest.

  Talent: I’m a good listener if that counts. Quirk: I only trust my way for something to be done right.

  Next questions.

  What is your typical Saturday night?

  I can’t say cleaning guns and planning our next heist, can I? That will send all eligible prospects running. I like to walk the beach at night. Does that count?

  Fuck me, what am I doing?

  If I’m bad at this, I’m going to be bad at the real thing.

  Chapter Two

  FINLEY

  I do not need to be doing this. It’s wrong, but I need an escape. Anywhere is better than here. Even if it means staying locked in my room, away from my stepdad, away from my mom, just … away.

  Life wasn’t always like this. There was a time when I didn’t need to protect myself. My dad was alive then, and my mom was a happy bank teller. We were the typical family, the billboard of what a family should be like. A dog, white picket fence, kisses on the cheek every morning as we walked out the door as they left for work and I left for school.

  Laughter and smiles never last. Happiness fades.

  Especially when someone dies.

  My dad died in a random robbery one night on his way home from work. He stopped at the gas station down the road, nothing new. It was the one he always went to because he thought the cashier was nice, and he believed talking to someone who was kind at the end of a long day was a great way to have a better night.

  He walked into the gas station and never came out. Two masked men had followed him, locked the doors, and shot everyone without hesitation, including the cashier. They stole all the scratch-off lottery tickets and cash in the register before fleeing.

  My dad died alone, near the damn candy aisle, drowning in his own blood.

  Life hasn’t been the same since. It’s been three years, and with each year that goes by, nothing changes. Time hasn’t made anything better. Life has gotten worse, especially with Trevor being here.

  My new stepdad.

  My mom lost her job has a bank teller and now works the streets with Trevor. He is her pimp. Yep, my mom is a whore. She doesn’t seem to care, though. She stopped caring about everything when Dad died, including me.

  She doesn’t believe me when I tell her Trevor is a creep and likes to come into my room at night and watch me sleep. I feel his fingers against me, running down my arm or caressing my face. I’ll pretend to be asleep as the bed dips and his fingers brush through my hair. He becomes more daring every night.

  Trevor scares the living hell out of me.

  It’s why I need more than what life has given me so far. I need an outlet.

  “Finley! Get your ass out here. It’s time for school. If you miss the bus, I’m not fucking taking you again. You hear me?” my mom yells from the living room. I’ll bet anything she’s smoking a cigarette, sitting there in her underwear with a fan blowing on her. We don’t have air conditioning since Trevor or my mother won’t get it fixed.

  Who would have thought having a/c in the middle of summer was such an inconvenience?

  I download the app on my phone and stuff it into my pocket. I swing my dark auburn hair over my shoulder as I lace my arm through the backpack strap.

  “Now, Finley!”

  I roll my eyes at my mom’s despair. If she would stop doing the drugs Trevor gives her for one damn minute, she’d remember my schedule.

  I’m a senior in the last semester of school. I don’t have a first block class anymore. I have a ten o’clock math class and that’s it. Getting out of this house at seven-thirty is fine by me. The less time I have to spend here, the better.

  I open my bedroom door and smack into Trevor’s chest. He’s shirtless, sweaty, and smelling of booze and cigarette smoke.

  “Well, well, well, look at you, Finley,” Trevor mumbles around the cigarette he has in his mouth, and the ashes flicking off the burning ember float toward the ground. He takes a step forward, his chest almost touching mine. His dirty fingers run through my clean, freshly washed hair, and he hums. “So damn pretty. Looking at you, it’s hard to believe you’re only seventeen. With a body like that and the face of a model, you look like you’re twenty-five.”

  I slap his hand away. “Looks can be deceiving then. I am only seventeen. Those are facts. You should remember that.” Sidestepping him, Trevor blocks me and raises his arm to lean against the doorway. I try to move to the other side, to break free, but he blocks me there too. I sigh with impatience. I hate dancing, especially with him.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t look so pretty then. Isn’t it what you want? Attention? You’re wearing those skin-tight jeans and low-cut shirt to show your small tits. If you don’t want attention, maybe cover up.” His hand slides around my backside and squeezes. Tears brim my eyes when he jerks me flush against his body. “Wouldn’t want anything bad to happen, would we?” he taunts.

  I shove at his chest and run down the hallway, away from his wandering hands. I don’t say goodbye to my mom. I open and slam the door behind me and run through the woods like I typically do so Trevor can’t watch me through the window.

  Once I feel like I’m a good distance away, I sag against the tree and glance toward the sky. “It’s all okay. You’re going to be okay.” I hate crying. It shows how weak I am when it comes to protecting myself. I don’t know where else to go. Trevor is a creep, but until I turn eighteen, it’s the only place I can sleep and eat.

  Until I’m an adult, what are my
other choices?

  I brush the tears away and reach for my phone in the back pocket of my jeans. Out of habit, I glance around to make sure no one is around me when I click on the dating app. I’m too young to use it, but people lie all the time on these things, right?

  My feet settle into the pine needles on the ground, cracking and crunching under my black Converse. The bark of the tree snags my hair, and I wince as a strand is plucked from my scalp. I rub the spot and scowl.

  Still, the woods are my favorite place to be. It’s quiet, peaceful, and no one can touch me here. I miss my dad. I miss what my life used to be. I hate always having to be on guard. I don’t mind being alone if I can learn how to adapt to being lonely.

  With another wipe of my cheek, I open the app and sign into the account I created last night. The site says I’m twenty-six, a redhead with green eyes, and looking to meet new people. My age is the only thing that’s a lie on my profile. It’s wrong, I know that, but I need an escape. Nothing is ever going to come of this, so what’s the big deal?

  It isn’t like I can say I’m eighteen because I’m not for another two weeks, and no one on this site is going to talk to an eighteen-year-old. The only thing I don’t have on there yet is a profile picture, so I lift the camera and take a quick snap of the tree tops and peak of the blue morning sky.

  “There,” I say, happy to see that my profile is now complete. “Oh.” I click the edit button on the ‘about me’ page and add that I love hiking and being in the woods. It’s true. It’s like a second home to me, the only place I feel safe.

  I set my phone down and lean my head against the tree, imagining a place where I’m safe, loved, and protected. Even if it’s just a friend, someone I can be myself around and my guard isn’t up, I’ll be happy.

  I’m not looking for forever. I’m looking for sanctuary. A place to call home.

  I’m almost asleep when the sound of my phone dinging pulls me out of my slumber. The sun is shining between the tree branches, and my cheeks are warm from the early morning heat. I blink away the drowsiness and rub my eyes, staring at a notification from LoveFocus.