Apex Predator (The Game Series Book 11), page 14
“You haven’t even seen it. It’s beautiful. The bed is insanely comfortable too.”
He smiled, but something was missing in his eyes. For a brief second, I was overwhelmed by sadness; it gripped me so forcefully that I lost my words and felt the need to hug Macklin, to protect him from everything that hurt him.
“This is about Walker somehow, isn’t it?” I asked quietly.
He exhaled a laugh and got teary-eyed, which he tried to hide. “It always fucking is.” He sobered and nodded once. “I’m gonna be a mess this week, Lane. Reese and Lucas have offered to keep an eye on me, and I’m gonna accept their offer.” He put his hand on my arm and kissed it. “This is not me shutting you out. It’s me closing myself in. I have to prepare myself for him returning to DC, and I won’t drag you down with me. I hope that makes sense.”
It did, but that didn’t mean I was a fan. “Do you expect me to go out and have fun this week while my boyfriend is in pain? I don’t work that way, Mack. Regardless of our dynamic.”
He averted his gaze, and I wasn’t having it. Not for this. I cupped the back of his head and leaned down more, creating at least a semblance of privacy. The others were busy talking reptiles, and for once, I wasn’t interested one bit.
“Hey. I can keep my distance a little if that’s what you want,” I murmured. “But I will check in on you. I will drag you out and make you come with us when I’ve determined you’ve suffered in silence enough. I may not know Walker like Reese and Lucas do, but I’d like to think I know you quite well. And darkness is not your friend, sweetheart.”
He finally glanced up at me, and I hoped he could tell I wasn’t backing down.
He wasn’t gonna go through this alone, end of fucking story.
PART 2
PROLOGUE
Walker McKenna
“Hi.”
Not again. Not another brainless child who was here on Daddy’s dime.
I lifted my gaze from my phone, the one thing that was supposed to prevent others from approaching, and laid my eyes on… Okay, so he would be an incredibly beautiful brainless young adult, then. Who may or may not be here on Daddy’s dime.
“Hello.” I could be polite, contrary to what my older brother believed.
In my defense, the students who had come up to talk to us thus far had made me want to kill myself, with their bad sense of humor and ass-kissing. They were barking up the wrong tree, regardless; Dean was here as a friend and colleague of the host. I was here because I could write off the evening as quality time with my brother.
The young man cleared his throat. “Since you obviously don’t appreciate crappy jokes from Georgetown students, can I interest you in judging the fuck out of people as we just stand here and get hammered on bad wine together?”
That came as a breath of fresh air, and I stifled a chuckle. I was entirely too old for him, but I could happily pocket my phone and use him as a distraction for the remainder of the afternoon instead. A little bit of eye candy was never bad for my diet.
“I’m Macklin.” He stuck out a hand, offering a cute grin. “Not a student here.”
Even better. “Walker.” I shook his hand firmly. “Not a student here either.”
Amusement lit up his warm brown eyes, and I almost stepped closer to count the little honeyed flecks at the center. Gorgeous, gorgeous boy. His eyes matched the color of his hair.
“How do you end up at a Georgetown wine mixer at a professor’s house if you’re not a student?” I asked.
He snagged two glasses of wine from a passing caterer—or poor TA. You never knew with prestigious schools. Dean had come home with countless stories of arrogant professors who used students as their personal assistants.
“I came with a friend,” Macklin replied. “He was nervous about discussing a grant proposal with his professor, so he asked me to tag along.”
Ah. Yes, I’d seen plenty of nervous students today. Everyone wanted to be seen and heard by the right professor.
“Wine?” He held up a glass for me.
I smiled. “You’re treating me to bad wine?”
“Yeah, but it’s free.”
I couldn’t help it; I laughed and accepted the glass. “Fair enough.” I remembered my student days all too well. I’d lived on my mama’s care packages and ramen. And sometimes Dean had stopped by my dorm with money for pizza. “I take it you’re a student at another university?”
Macklin hesitated with his response. “Sort of? I’m taking a couple classes at GW, but mostly because I got wait-listed at a culinary institute I want to go to. Otherwise, I’m just bartending and waiting tables.”
“That’s good work.” I nodded. “I survived one week working in a restaurant when I was your age, and then I settled for graveyard shifts as campus security.”
He smirked a little. “You definitely have the body for security.”
Cute. And a little too appealing, but there would be no flirting between us. He couldn’t be much older than eighteen, making me nearly twice his age.
Besides, I’d never set foot inside a gym, so he was clearly full of it. I ran, swam, climbed, hiked, and occasionally trained in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. Activities that kept me trim but certainly not bulky.
“Anyone has the body for escorting young drunks back to their dorm,” I answered, still highly entertained. “Tell me more about this culinary institute. Do you want to become a chef?”
“I am a chef,” he corrected. “But the world doesn’t believe you without a diploma.”
He was confident. I liked that.
“In ten years, I’m gonna have three restaurants in DC,” he claimed.
Perhaps a little too confident.
“Why three?” I wondered.
He cocked his head, looking like he’d never gotten that question before. “It feels like a good number. A good goal.”
He was fucking adorable. Dean used to point out that I didn’t know what the hell I was doing back in the day. My dream career had been summed up by “I’m gonna be filthy rich.” The hows and whens were just details.
“So, what do you do?” Macklin asked me. “Are you a professor?”
“No, I only came here with one.” I smiled. I could see Dean in the corner of my eye, talking to colleagues. “My big brother is the professor in the family. I’m a business consultant.”
He let out a whistle, seemingly impressed. “In what field?”
“Management and public relations,” I replied. “In short, companies contract me when their ship is sinking, and I make it float again.”
The boy grinned. “That’s hot.”
I shook my head in amusement. “Don’t flirt with me. I’m way too old for you.”
“But that’s the draw,” he laughed. With a pinch of frustration in his expression. It quickly turned into remorse. “I’m sorry—I’ll be a good boy. I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable.”
Fuck.
Those were the magic words, weren’t they?
I’ll be a good boy.
I was sort of uncomfortable now.
And he was into older men?
Double fuck.
I took a big swallow of the wine, and I agreed. It was horrible. Too sweet, too fruity.
“I’m perfectly comfortable,” I lied. “And flattered.” That part wasn’t a lie. “I’m also in desperate need of a palate cleanser because this shit is foul.”
His cute grin was back. “There’s a tapas place not five minutes away from here. No agenda—” He showed his palms, and his face revealed what I felt was sincerity. “Just…in case you wanna get out of here and talk more.”
Oh, so tempting. I knew the tapas place he referred to. It was close to where Dean and I lived, only in the other direction.
“Let’s escape.” I nodded. I’d done my part; I’d made it clear we wouldn’t be taking this very far, but I did want to get to know him a bit better. He intrigued me, for being such a young man.
No more than ten minutes later, we were seated in a corner of a typical date restaurant with dimmed lighting, a semblance of privacy, small tables, and dessert options meant to be shared.
I chose to believe Macklin about not having an agenda. He didn’t seem like a sneak in that way, and he was much too animated and genuine to bother with composure or making sure the first impression was perfect. Something I’d always disliked with dating.
I’d rather make a new friend who spoke with passion about…monarchy.
I could only shake my head and chuckle at the revelation of Macklin’s love for European royalty. He seemed to know them all—and their history. The Queen of England was a favorite, as were Princess Anne, Prince Carl Philip of Sweden—because he was apparently “drop-dead gorgeous”—the Queen of Denmark, and…then I lost count of the names.
“…and I swear, the day I open my own restaurant, I’ll have a tribute to royalty,” he went on. “Like a whole wall of portraits or something. Maybe menu items too.”
I was still too amused. I nodded in thanks as our drinks arrived, and we were told our food would be here momentarily. It was the earliest dinner I’d had in years, so I doubted the kitchen was busy. The tables around us certainly weren’t.
“What is the draw of monarchy for you?” I had to ask.
He didn’t miss a beat. “The living legacy. They are historical figures guarding so much culture and history. The good and the bad. They change over time, but not as quickly as the rest of us. So it kind of makes them a constant. Something solid to look at and almost lean against. Don’t get me wrong—I’d never describe myself as particularly conservative, but I like structure and order.”
I liked his answer. It was more well-thought-out than “I love the bling” or something equivalent.
“And I think many times we’re drawn to what we miss in ourselves,” he continued thoughtfully. “Like, my background is pretty chaotic, and I’m flexible and spontaneous, so it makes me want the opposite to balance it all out. Does that make sense?”
“Of course.” It couldn’t make more sense. “Personally, I prefer our republic to something so arbitrary as monarchy, but—” I grinned as he sucked his teeth and shot me a playful scowl. “I do understand the need for a solid rock to help weather the storms of natural change in society. I just believe that can be achieved without crowns and castles.”
He smiled and shrugged. “I guess that’s where my kink comes in.”
Oh, hell no.
Kink?
“Pardon?” I raised my brows.
Surely, he meant that as a preference. Kids used that word all the time now. Right? If they liked something, it was a kink.
“Yeah, like, worshipping your own personal king,” he said casually. Then he took a sip of his soda—because he’s not old enough to order alcohol at a restaurant. “Or feeling like a prince. There’s a fairy-tale appeal to it all—and I know it’s not accurately portrayed to the reality, but… Anyway.”
Worshipping your own personal king.
This kept getting worse and worse for me.
I drank from my wine, a much better one than whatever we’d been served at the mixer, and I counted back. How long had it been since I’d broken up with my last sub? Seven, eight months now? I clearly needed to find a new community and get back on the horse. My previous kink community was a no-go. If you cheated on me, I didn’t need you or your friends looking wherever I went. It’d taken weeks before they’d stopped trying to contact me through social media with lies and accusations.
“Are you okay, Walker?”
Fuck. I’d zoned out. I cleared my throat and put a smile on my face. “Very. I was just thinking I’m glad you came up to me today. I’m enjoying myself.”
He smiled back. “Good. Me too. It sure as fuck beats that wine mixer.”
I laughed under my breath. “Definitely. I won’t be accompanying my brother to another one for a long time, that’s for certain. Next time our mother reminds us to spend quality time together, there are bars.”
Macklin planted his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. “So your mom’s fussing, huh?”
“Always.” I could only smile as her expressions of motherly worry appeared in my mind. “Mind you, Dean and I are neighbors. We see each other almost every day, but we both work so much that it’s mostly in passing. So she will call us every week to remind us to slow down and spend time together.”
“That’s sweet. Do you have more siblings?”
I inclined my head. “My mother’s an old social worker with a big bleeding heart, so the house was always full growing up. She adopted Dean years before I was born. Then me and my two biological brothers followed, then four more from foster care. All boys. She would’ve adopted every kid in Knoxville if she could’ve.”
I loved them all, but Trent, Brad, Devon, and Jacob were significantly younger, with the latter two still in high school. We didn’t have a whole lot in common. Although, I was probably closer to Devon than my biological brothers. At least I shared my interests of woodworking and leathercraft with Devon. Whenever he came out to visit, we’d spend most of the time in my studio in Alexandria.
I didn’t know why, but I ended up telling Macklin about all my brothers. About the rough backgrounds my mother had brought them out of. How they were thriving and figuring out what they wanted to do with their lives. Rowan and Hayden, my biological brothers, lived on the West Coast and worked in entertainment. Hayden as a photographer and Rowan as an actor.
“Or, trying to be an actor,” I corrected with a smirk. “He just landed his first commercial, so fingers crossed that’ll take off.”
Macklin smiled and was about to respond, but the server arrived with our food.
The table quickly filled up with the smaller dishes he’d asked to be in charge of ordering, introducing me to yet another passionate side of Macklin. He’d fired off a series of rapid questions to understand my food preferences, the flavors I liked, what kind of food cultures I was into, and then put together little morsels for me to try based on my responses.
“Spicy, you said,” he replied with a nod. “Try this, please. It’s a super-spicy chorizo with a bit of smooth sweet-corn purée, garlic, parmesan, and a nutty, mild Nocellara olive from Sicily.”
He’d plucked all the bits from various dishes, and he extended a fork to me.
How was he only eighteen years old? Or almost nineteen as he’d reminded me twice already.
“Chew slowly,” he cautioned. “You want all the flavors to mix.”
Hrmmh. Bossy little boy. He just got cuter every minute too. I did as told and let the flavors blend in my mouth, and fuck me if he wasn’t onto something here. Macklin knew food. At such a young age, he knew what combinations went perfect together.
Christ, that was good.
“I’ll tone down the control freak and let you eat on your own very soon,” he informed me. Then he continued with the next morsel, filling a fork with flame-grilled lamb kabobs, a piece of roasted potato that had some spicy rub on it, and doused it all in a light dip consisting of Greek yogurt, lemon zest, garlic, and herbs.
I could quite happily let him feed me all night, but this second taste made me realize how fucking hungry I was, and patience wasn’t my strongest suit. Not once I understood I wanted something.
Or someone.
Hell.
“Maybe diplomas at fancy culinary institutes aren’t always necessary,” I admitted. “This is amazin’.”
He beamed. “It’s even better when I do the actual cooking. Believe me.”
I cursed internally and followed his lead; I ate what he ate and mirrored his combinations. All while I fought a losing battle within me. He was something else, this guy. I’d thought it before, and I thought it now. A breath of fresh air.
I wasn’t only hungry for the food.
“You mentioned a chaotic background,” I said in between bites.
He nodded with a dip of his chin, and his carefree mood was suddenly a tad forced. “Let’s just say I wish someone like your mom had been around when I was growing up.”
Let’s say more.
“Broken home?” I guessed.
He shrugged and dragged a piece of bread through the bowl with olive oil. “Both parents are drunks. No siblings. But I’m really close with my grandpa on Mom’s side. He’s supported me a lot. Mom’s sister has been there too. I have a nephew—I mean, sort of. He’s my cousin’s kid. He’s a hoot. For a five-year-old.”
I smiled. I got the impression that Macklin always tried to see the silver lining.
I couldn’t help but feel for him, though. Nobody could be strong and positive all the time.
“I’m glad you have them,” I answered. “Are they close by? You sound like a DC local.”
“How do we sound?” His grin appeared genuine again. “But yeah. Born and raised. Went to school across the river. And thankfully, I only have good people left in town. My parents moved to New Jersey a couple years ago to try their casino luck. I don’t think it’s going very well.”
I snorted quietly. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything nice to say about parents who aren’t there for their children. I grew up seeing too much of that.”
“Luckily for us, we don’t have to waste a single second on those people. Here, try this. It’s the chili-marinated shrimp with lemon aioli.”
Message received, loud and clear. No more talking about his parents.
Something switched off inside me, possibly my resolve, and it was all his fault. How he sat there with a hesitant smile and an extended fork, his silent request to move on to a safer topic, and the look in his eyes revealing a hint of vulnerability. His parents had hurt him, and it was nothing he wanted to bring up.
Unfortunately for him, that made me want to know everything. Who’d caused him pain, what made him tick, where he got his strength…how he liked to get fucked.
If he would submit.
Rather than accepting the fork from him, I leaned forward and closed my mouth around it. It was the quickest of exchanges, but he caught on and widened his eyes a fraction.
