Just My Luck (The Kings)

When the front-entrance door to the brewery had swung open, my jaw nearly fell to the floor. You’d think there was a wind machine and background vocals given the way Sloane flounced through the doorway. Her wavy brown hair was done up in hot-pink curlers, and instead of casual work attire, she was still in a bathrobe and fuzzy white slippers.

What in the actual fuck?

Without a second glance, she floated past me, her scent of baked goods and something sweet hanging in the air.

“Morning, boss!” Humor and happiness laced through her feminine greeting. She refused to call me anything but boss no matter how many times I’d told her to call me Abel.

My gaze snagged on the round fullness of her ass as she made her way behind the bar for a glass of water. She swallowed the drink with a flourish before putting the glass in the sink.

“Sloane,” I ground out.

The harsh tone of my voice made her jump and she hurried to leave. And then it happened—a single snag on a rough corner of the bar and her robe fell open.

My blood hummed. Sloane had always been dangerous curves and flirty banter. She was sunshine and laughter. Not even my own frosty exterior seemed to cool her warmth. I had no right, but too often I caught myself leaning into her presence like a flower getting its first taste of morning sunlight.

And now she was exposed, right in front of me.

I was her boss, and instead of looking away, I stared at her tits and followed the smooth line of her stomach to the swatch of fabric covering her pussy.

I felt sick.

And really fucking turned on.

Disgusted at myself, I slapped the rag onto the bar and stomped down the hallway after her. I stopped at the bathroom door, listening to her quiet movements through the wall.

I raised my fist and let it fall heavy on the wooden door. “Sloane. We need to talk.”

After a moment it cracked open. One green and gold hazel eye looked up at me as Sloane peeked out of the slit in the door.

“Did you need something?” Her voice was feathery and light.

I bit back a groan. “Sloane, I . . .” How the hell do I navigate this?Original from NôvelDrama.Org.

I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry if I—” Fuck.

I tried a stern approach. “Casual Friday is—” The words escaped me.

Honestly, I didn’t give a fuck what she wore to work, but there’d be no way in hell I could concentrate without thinking about the nothingness underneath that bathrobe. “Damn it.”

Her eyes widened and she blinked, a small smile spread across her red lips. Clearly she was enjoying my internal meltdown.

I racked my brain for a single logical thought before giving up altogether. “I’ll be in the front if you need me.”

I turned and walked away, shaking my head and all thoughts of Sloane’s naked body from my mind. Trouble was, Sloane Robinson was a walking, talking pain in my ass. From day one I’d regretted hiring her as a favor to my sister Sylvie. But what choice did I have? I’d never been able to say no to Sylvie. When she looked at me, it was like she saw a better man standing in my shoes. My sister was quiet and often faded into the background of this town despite being one of the most tenderhearted people I knew. After everything that had happened, she was the first person to tell me things would be okay.

I didn’t believe her, but the thought was nice.

Now, with Sloane working for me and showing up to confirm my suspicions that she was as gorgeous naked as she was clothed, I had managed to exchange one prison for another.

Once back in the safety of the taproom, I grabbed the rag and continued polishing the wood bar. The white furry belt of Sloane’s robe was crumpled in a pile at the corner of the bar. I reached down and ran it through my fingers. A soft, silent laugh pushed out of my nose as I felt a tug at the corner of my mouth.

Sloane had a way of poking at me that was equal parts irritating and endearing—almost like she’d lent me some of her lightness for even the briefest of moments. It was a kindness I rarely received, even in my own hometown.

Outtatowner, Michigan, had been a dream location to grow up. Nestled in the beachy coastline of Western Michigan, we had it all—good fishing, sandy beaches, and enough family money to not take life too seriously. Tourists floated in and out of our town throughout the year, which meant there were always new girls to meet and friends to make.

For most kids, it was a dream come true. But most kids didn’t have Russell King as their father. My siblings and I grew up with our dad being detached and absent. His harsh words were swift and cutting, but we’d adored our mother and lamented the days when business would bring Dad back home. That is, until one morning I woke up and my mother was gone.

She left you and she isn’t coming back. Maybe if you’d been the man of the house in my absence, she would have stayed.

Four days before my twelfth birthday, my mother vanished, and nothing was ever the same. My father’s words sliced through me as I floated through middle school without direction. I was hurt, angry. I found solace in solitude and work. Then one night, years later, my life fractured again.

Driven by anger, stubbornness, and poor decisions, my actions turned my world upside down and took a life.

I scrubbed at the bar top, certain my incessant circles would wear a hole in the wood eventually. My jaw ached from gritting my teeth.

I worked twice as hard to stomp out any ridiculous thoughts of Sloane. She was my employee and my little sister’s best friend. She was a mother and had been hit with hard times this year. Her working at my brewery was a favor and nothing more.

Still, for the rest of the day, the memory of her red-lipped smile and bare skin flashed into my head and settled into my gut.

When most people walk down Main Street in Outtatowner, they’re greeted with friendly smiles and waves. Not me. Not the man branded a criminal and a murderer.

They wouldn’t be wrong either.

It was solely because of the grace of my father and his savvy business sense that I even had a job after prison, let alone a thriving brewery.

I learned early on that Russell demanded results above all else, so I busted my ass to turn a fledgling brewery into a premier taproom and craft kitchen that tourists and townies alike could enjoy. They didn’t need to like me in order to appreciate the time and care I put into brewing each flavor profile.

Only after I had proved myself did he offer even a modicum of approval. Irritation rolled through me. At least in state prison I had to worry about only myself. Here I had the weight of the King name pressing down on my shoulders.

The brewery might be named Abel’s Brewery, but it would always be his.

The thought grated on me. My dad controlled everything and everyone. It had only been in the last year, when my sister Sylvie had defied him in every way, that the threads of our family had started to unravel.

My sister had the audacity to befriend and have a baby with a son of the Kings’ most hated rivals—the Sullivans. Generations of pranks and general chaos between the families defined our town, but Sylvie and Duke’s relationship had slowly begun to dismantle it all.

My father was no longer talking with our sister, but the rest of us had banded around her. Only then had we fully begun to see the cracks in Russell King’s armor. They were minuscule, but they were there.

My long legs carried me through the midday sunshine, and my steps pounded up the sidewalk. Two women walked ahead of me in the opposite direction. When we caught eyes, I offered a flat-lipped smile and nod. You’d have thought I flashed a gun or bared my teeth at the way the women glued to each other and hurried past me while sneaking wary glances in my direction.

Everyone knew I had done time, but few knew the details. Had they known, I wouldn’t just be an outcast; I’d be a pariah. After prison, my consequence was being shunned by my own hometown.

But I deserved it.

“Abe!” My name caught my attention, and my head swiveled around to see my younger brother Royal exiting his tattoo parlor. Younger than me by two years, Royal was tall and built, like all King men. Tattoos peeked out from under his short sleeves and ran down past his wrists and over his hands. Ink even bled out above his collar. Had he not run a lucrative tattoo shop, I’m sure our father would have plenty to say about his appearance.

Royal’s sharp features carried a dangerous edge to him that could cut a man down with a single look. That is, until he opened his mouth.

“Out of the cave scaring tourists already?” His shit-eating grin spread wide as he leaned against the brick wall to his shop.

A silent stare was my only response.

Royal laughed, unfazed by my brooding. “Figured. Where are you headed?”

My jaw ticced. My plan was still in its infancy, and I wasn’t ready to share it with anyone, since it likely wouldn’t go anywhere. “Out.”

“Whatever.” Royal rolled his eyes. “Syl texted about a dinner on the farm tonight. MJ is off work, so she’ll be there too. You in?”

A dinner at my sister’s house meant playing nice with her husband, Duke Sullivan. He probably wouldn’t be too happy if he knew I’d helped source the glitter that was stuffed into the air vents of his truck. While Sylvie made us all promise we’d get along for her and little Gus, it didn’t mean we couldn’t have a little fun fucking with them.

Still, seeing my little sister as a mom did something to my chest. August was adorable, even if he was half-Sullivan.

“Yeah, I’m in,” I said.

Royal grinned. “Good. And text her back. She worries about you.”

Shoulders slumped, I nodded and headed in the direction of the bank.

The Outtatowner bank was on the far east end of town and a long fucking walk. Sure, I could have driven, but getting behind the wheel was still a challenge, even after all this time. Instead, I took the mild weather as an opportunity for a long walk to think.

The lobby of the bank was drab and soulless. The familiar scent of coffee clung to the air, and the hushed shuffle of paperwork greeted me, creating an odd mix of anticipation. It was a risk even going to the bank for fear someone would casually bring up my presence to my father.

Still, something needed to change.

“Mr. King?” a polite receptionist called into the tiny waiting area.

I unfolded myself from the too-small wooden chair and watched as her eyes went wide and she craned her neck to meet my stare.

“Um,” she stammered. “Right this way.”

Like a dog with his head hung low, I followed her to the glass wall of offices in the back corner of the bank. The receptionist opened the door and gestured inside. “Mr. Lowell, your two thirty is here.”

The office was filled with heavy oak furniture and framed diplomas. Stephen Lowell stood from behind his desk and extended his hand. “Mr. King.”

I gripped his hand and shook. “Abel, please.”

With a nod, Mr. Lowell sat behind his desk and eased back in his chair. “What can I do for you, Abel?”

As I settled into the chair, my hands involuntarily tightened on the armrests. “I’m seeking a business loan.” The truth tightened in my throat, but I forced the words. “I am looking to buy out my father’s share in the brewery.”

Mr. Lowell’s eyebrows raised slightly. He nodded, tapping his fingers on the desk as his lips pursed. “Buying out a business is a significant endeavor.”

I nodded, well aware after hours and hours of time spent researching.

Mr. Lowell cleared his throat and tapped a few keys on his keyboard. “Let’s go over some details.”

Hope swirled within me as the conversation progressed. He asked some general questions and then shifted to information regarding the business. When he requested profit and loss statements, I produced a slim folder with information I had been prepared to present. The possibility of realizing my dream felt tangible, and my mind wandered to the future.

“So, Mr. King—Abel,” he corrected. “I’ve gone through the financial history of the brewery, and everything seems in order. In fact, it’s quite impressive what you’ve done in its infancy.”

I nodded, his veiled compliment making my shirt feel too small.

“However”—Mr. Lowell pulled his glasses from his nose and folded his hands over his desk—“we do have to consider other factors.”

I leaned forward, eager for the final confirmation as doubt and fear swirled in my brain. “What factors?”

You know damn well what factors.

Mr. Lowell hesitated, and an icy chill ran down my spine. “Your criminal record, Mr. King.”

The words hit hard, a gut punch I half expected but prayed wouldn’t come. My gaze dropped to the floor briefly before meeting Mr. Lowell’s eyes again. “I served my time. Paid my dues,” I muttered, the bitterness of my past choices lingering on my tongue.

Mr. Lowell sighed, his expression sympathetic but stern. “I understand, Mr. King, but as a result, you do have a disrupted credit history due to your period of incarceration. Additionally, there’s the issue of collateral. A lack of substantial assets is a barrier for approval.”

My throat went tight, my back rigid. I knew this would be the outcome, but having it spelled out in plain terms was a tough blow.

Mr. Lowell sighed. “It’s a risk the bank is not willing to take at this time. You see, we have to consider our investors, our reputation. Approving a loan for someone with a criminal history such as yours, well, it’s not seen favorably.”

I clenched my fists, fighting the surge of frustration. The burden of my past weighed heavily, not only on my conscience but on my aspirations. “I’ve changed,” I argued, desperation creeping into my voice.

His expression softened as he nodded, acknowledging my plea. “I don’t doubt that, Abel, but it’s a complicated situation. And, if I may be frank, there’s another factor at play here.”

I frowned, my brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

Mr. Lowell hesitated again, choosing his words carefully. “Your father is a significant figure in this town. His influence extends beyond the brewery. Going against his wishes, especially in a matter like this, could have real consequences.”

A bitter taste filled my mouth. I’d hoped to distance myself from my father’s shadow, carve out my own path. Yet there I was, faced with the harsh reality that his name carried more weight than my aspirations. The denial of the loan wasn’t just about my criminal record—it was about a power play in a town where my father’s influence was a force to be reckoned with.

Dejected, I shook Mr. Lowell’s hand and excused myself, tail tucked between my legs. On the long walk back, I didn’t bother looking up and acknowledging any of the tourists or townies I passed on my walk back to the brewery.

I had known better than to chase dreams I didn’t have any right to hold.