A Secret for a Secret (All In #3)(61)

Kingston reaches around Sissy for me and brushes her shoulder in the process.

Sissy smacks his arm and whirls around, shoving her finger in his face. “Do not manhandle me! I’m pregnant!” As if we couldn’t tell with the disco ball–style sequined dress she’s wearing. Which is totally not reasonable for a hockey game, or even a New Year’s party in Vegas.

She looks over her shoulder at Corey, who seems like he’d rather be anywhere but here. “Are you going to let him put his hands on me like that?”

All hell breaks loose—not that it wasn’t loose already, but it’s suddenly that much worse when Corey tries to come at Kingston. Bishop gets in the way, and Sissy starts slapping him. It gives Kingston the opening he needs to pull me out of there.

“Just go.” Bishop tips his chin up. He’s holding Corey at arm’s length while Sissy continues to swat at him.

She suddenly stops and grabs her belly. “Oh! Something’s happening in there! If I go into labor early I’m suing you!” she screams at me.

Kingston wraps his arm around my waist and lifts me up so my feet aren’t touching the ground anymore and carries me out of the bar.

“You can put me down now,” I say when we’re halfway down the street, heading in the direction of the arena.

He doesn’t respond, just continues to carry me like a child, across the street and to the private lot where the players park. Even when we reach his car, he doesn’t put me down. Or speak. Which is starting to worry me. As is the way his jaw keeps ticcing. He unlocks the car, opens the door, and deposits me in the passenger seat. I jump when he closes it rather firmly. He stalks around the front of the car and gets in the driver’s side.

But once he’s in the car, he doesn’t make a move to buckle up, or check all the mirrors, or turn the engine over. He’s breathing heavily, and he grips the steering wheel, knuckles almost white.

“Kingston?”

“Is it true?” His voice is thick.

“Yes. But it’s not what you think.”

He closes his eyes, and his hands flex on the wheel. Prying one free, he rubs his chin, and when he turns his gaze on me, I feel like I’m looking at a stranger. “You’re married. I’ve committed adultery with you. Repeatedly.” It makes sense that this is where his mind has gone. Kingston is unfailingly loyal. He’s also very much about following rules, doing the right thing, and being a good person.

“I shouldn’t be. I’m not supposed to be. Married to Corey. I’m not supposed to be married to him.” I take a deep breath, trying to manage my anxiety and my mortification over the fact that I’ve been painted as a home-wrecker on some horrible third-rate tabloid show. “It’ll make more sense when you hear the whole story.”

“Can you explain then, please?” he says, his voice shaking.

“We met in my first semester of college. He pursued me, invited me out with him and his friends all the time. He played hockey, and I knew a lot about it. I was eighteen. I had decided I wanted to wait to have sex. I mean, I don’t think I necessarily planned to wait until I was married; I just . . . my dad and I talked about the importance of making sure I was ready for the consequences and the responsibility, and for him, that had been me.” There’s more to it than that, obviously. So much more, but I figure I’ll give King the abridged version before he cracks all his teeth from grinding them together.

“Anyway. I’m impulsive and Corey isn’t super smart. I was even more impulsive then than I am now, which I know might be hard to believe.” I laugh nervously, but when Kingston doesn’t join in, I clear my throat and barrel on. “We’d only been dating for a month when he proposed.” With a twist tie.

“And I stupidly said yes. We went to a justice of the peace, got married in secret, and figured we’d wait until the holidays before we told anyone.” That was Corey’s idea. “I moved in with him, except he lived in one of the off-campus frat houses. It was a constant, unending party. And disgusting, because college boys don’t clean anything, especially not bathrooms.”

I wring my hands, remembering how awful it had been. “I’d realized pretty much right away that it was a mistake. He’d proposed on a Friday night, and he’d been doing keg stands.” I’m pretty sure we were both either still half-drunk or at least very hungover the next morning when we took the trip to the justice of the peace. “None of my friends were there. He asked two guys on the street to be our witnesses for fifty bucks.”

“Jesus, Queenie. What were you thinking?”

That if I was married, then my dad would stop worrying about me. That he’d start living his own life. That I would have my own person. And I was hungover, so that didn’t help. “I don’t think I was” is my stellar reply.

He scoffs and shakes his head.

I don’t tell him the worst part. That we stopped at a drive-through burger joint on the way back to the frat house after it was done. And then he took me up to his room and “made love to me.” His breath tasted like onions and beef, which he panted all over me between sloppy kisses. It lasted three minutes. At least it wasn’t painful, because of his pencil penis.

“Two weeks after we tied the knot, I came home from the library, because studying in a frat house is impossible, and found him screwing one of the bunnies who was always hanging around.” She was pretty much their communal fuck toy. Which was horrible, but then, they were not a nice group of guys.