Against Fate: A Prince Castle Novel

by Damian Bloom

  I need to thank Peter for the new shelves, sort through my recent reads and decide which of them will earn a special place up there. But not tonight. Tonight is for sleeping.

  A not so long time ago, as a little boy who loved fairy tales, I would often lie awake in bed, thinking of the Prince Charming who would come to find me when I grew up. Over the years, my image of him has changed considerably. When I was ten, he looked like a typical Disney prince, wore a cool cape, and rode a trusty stallion. In my teenage years, he was simply Taylor Lautner. Nowadays, he’s rather fluid, more of an idea than a person. But when he comes around, I’ll know how to recognize him. I’m waiting for the butterflies, the thumping heartbeat, the sweaty palms. All my favorite books have agreed on this point—you’ll know when you’ve met your true love. You can’t miss it.

  Tonight, on my twenty-third birthday, I visualize the archetypal prince again, cape and all. But he’s far away, kept at bay by a vicious dragon that’s bent on ruining what could have been a perfect love story.

  I rarely pray—usually only when I’ve lost all hope—but tonight, half-asleep, I pray for help. Please. Just a pinch of magic.

  4

  Adam

  A dull pain pinches the center of my lower back. It only worsens when I stretch and attempt to relax against the backrest. On the screen, the little vertical dash blinks, waiting for my next word.

  Something’s missing.

  I tap a finger to my forehead, waiting for an idea to strike.

  Foreshadowing. That’s what this scene needs. And darkness. More darkness. Something gory, maybe.

  Rapping my knuckles on the mahogany desk, I scroll through the YouTube search results for another writing playlist.

  Outside, a crunchy leaf scurries over the patio. Every time I look away, the early evening turns darker, as if the day is trying to sneak by undetected.

  What about bugs? Roaches could crawl out of the desk when she pulls it open—dozens of them, fat and black, half the size of my fist.

  A laid-back meow draws my attention back to the terrace door, where a large tuxedo cat blinks at me, a bored look on his face.

  “Please come in, Your Highness,” I say as I slide the door open.

  After sauntering into the room, his little nose pointed toward the ceiling with feline pride, Hector meows a thank you.

  His fur is changing, growing fuller and fluffier. When I crouch down to his level, my back throbs with pain again. How long have I been sitting in that chair? Have I taken any breaks since the morning? Almost everything I can remember about today is work-related, which is a sign I overworked myself again. At least I went to the gym in the morning.

  Hector purrs like a tractor when I scratch his chin. Under his nose, two round specks of white fur on an otherwise black face make up a funny echo of a human mustache. Under my touch, his face stretches into something very similar to a pleased grin. Do cats smile?

  “You hungry, boss?”

  He produces a louder meow, which I take as confirmation, but then pouts at the dry food I refill his bowl with. “Don’t give me that attitude. The vet said no more human left-overs. This food was made especially for cats like you.”

  Meow.

  “We’re listening to the doctor. He said you’re overweight, anyway, so I should have probably only given you half of that. If I were you, I’d shut up and chew.”

  Somewhat reluctantly, the cat meows again but soon gives up the fight and buries his face in the bowl.

  It’s crazy to think it’s been only two months since Hector found me. I was going over the last revisions for Deadly Steps to the sound of the thundering storm raging outside. Hector was a lot less chubby and a lot sadder-looking when he meowed my way for the first time. It was dark—so dark that I didn’t see him until he slipped into the house.

  I let him spend the night inside and fed him some of my dinner left-overs. After sleeping on the living room couch, he meowed for me to let him out the next day. But not before he enjoyed some breakfast. He was wary of strangers, poorly fed, and didn’t seem to belong to anyone. At first, I posted a picture of him on Facebook and asked my hundreds of friends to share it in the hope we might find his owners, but no one messaged me about him.

  I don’t know that I would say I’m Hector’s owner. We’re more like roommates. We share the same house—sometimes the same bed—and I’m in charge of food and cuddles. But he’s always free to roam around, which is why, very often, he’s gone for a couple of days at a time. I wonder if I’m the only house he squats in.

  Honestly, I’m happy with our arrangement. I’ve had dogs growing up, but never cats, and there’s so much that I don’t know. I’m learning a lot through Google and the vet I’ve been taking Hector to for his vaccines and regular check-ups, but I still wouldn’t consider myself a competent potential cat-owner. Besides, I’m not big on commitments either.

  No, Hector isn’t my cat, but he’s a cat I like a lot.

  He’s also not what I’d consider an indoor cat. He loves his freedom too much. I suppose that’s something we have in common.

  I let Hector enjoy his dinner, which he wolfs down despite his initial complaints, and I return to my computer.

  Hands folded behind my head, I lean back in my chair. From the speakers, a slowed-down, alternative song I haven’t heard before drones out: I feel at home when I’m around you. Where was I? Right, the scene needs an added dose of creepiness.

  I swirl around in my chair and wait for a good idea to strike the way one might wait for a shooting star. And I believe it’s almost within reach when my phone rings.

  Please, not now. I know I’ve almost got it.

  Leaning over my desk, I plant my fingers into my forehead and struggle not to lose my train of thought. Creaking floorboards overhead?

  The phone goes on ringing, vibrating on the coffee table, several steps away from where I’m sitting, struggling not to break my concentration. Hector scolds me for the noise with a displeased meow, strolling into the room.

  Bloody handprints all over a wall?

  The ringtone grows louder, and the table rattles under the phone’s buzzing.

  Damn it. “Fine!” I push myself away from the desk and stomp across the room. I’m surprised by the name I read on the screen, but my mood drastically improves. Before I pick up, I take in a couple of breaths and let go of the rest of my irritation. “Hey, dude. What’s up?”

  “Adam, hey,” Peter says. I recognize the characteristic fry of his voice. “How’ve you been? Everything going well with the writing?”

  Peter is a very atypical IT guy. Tall, broad-shouldered, and decently muscular, he doesn’t fit the braces-wearing computer nerd stereotype. But then again, I suppose I know a thing or two about dismantling stereotypes myself, as a six-foot-three muscle-decked novelist. He’s a cool, laid-back guy whose presence I enjoy, and, incidentally, the man I owe my career to.

  I met Peter in an emergency, right after I’d finished the first draft of what would go on to be my debut novel. Still painfully green, I wasn’t smart or experienced enough to pay much attention to backing up my work—I did it sporadically, if at all. And then, in a sick twist of fate that would teach me a precious lesson, my computer crashed out of the blue, refusing to turn on for days. It was a full rebirth when it finally came back to life—no trace of any of my files, including the damn manuscript.

  I was crushed, convinced the book I’d wasted months on was now a bitter memory. However, grasping at any semblance of hope, I started looking for computer experts around the city, determined to chase any positive review on the internet. After three or four technicians who tried hard to convince me my work was forever lost, I stumbled over the computer whisperer himself, Peter. He waved his magic wand and did the impossible—recovered my files.

  “You saved my life,” I told him, not knowing yet what a success the novel would be and just how true my statement was. The file he recovered was the draft that later got me an agent and a book deal, whi
ch led to publishing an instant bestseller.

  Had I lost the manuscript then, the disappointment would have been too hard to cope with, and I’m almost certain I would have given up on my ambitions of becoming a writer.

  That’s why, to this day, I can’t look back on my success without thinking of this guy.

  A few months after the incident, I looked for him at the repair service. I couldn’t wait to inform him of the impact he’d had on my life.

  “Please let me repay you,” I begged, but Peter wouldn’t hear of it.

  He didn’t want extra money, and he didn’t want any favors. “I only did my job,” he’d say, shrugging and eyeballing me with reservation.

  Then, after a few more occurrences of my nagging, visibly exasperated, he snapped: “You want to make it up to me? Back up your work next time.”

  I promised I would, and I’ve stuck to that promise. Still, this unpaid debt toward Peter has been bothering me for years, like a pebble stuck in my shoe.

  Since then, I’ve seen Peter several other times. I like to think there’s some sort of friendship between us now, although we’re not all that close. The correct term would be buddies, I suppose. Maybe once every few months, we go out for a drink that I always insist on paying for.

  Roaming around the house, I tell him all about my upcoming release and how excited I am to finally wrap up the series. Stopping before one ceiling-to-floor window overlooking the back yard, I try to peer into the night, but my dimly-lit reflection blocks my view. There’s exhaustion in my eyes, but not much else.

  “Sounds like your life is pretty exciting,” Peter says.

  It’s odd to hear someone say that as I stare into my inexpressive face. My life’s fulfilling, at least career-wise, but I don’t know if I would call it exciting. “Eh, enough about me,” I say. “How have you been?”

  “I’ve been good, too. You know, busy with work and family.” He pauses for a second while he chews on something, then says: “It was my little brother’s birthday yesterday.”

  That’s a random piece of information to volunteer, I think. He’s never mentioned his brother before. Or maybe I just don’t remember, but I didn’t even know he had a brother.

  As he tells me of the fun he and his friends had last night, I realize the whole call is somewhat strange, just coming out of nowhere like that. Neither of us is a big caller. Our conversations usually happen through text, and then it’s mostly something short like “beers this Friday?”.

  “That sounds like a lot more fun than I’m having,” I say. “Happy birthday to your brother.”

  “Thanks, thanks…” He pauses again, but this time I recognize the hesitation in his silence. “Actually,” he says, and I immediately think, There we go. The reason for the call. “Speaking of him, there’s a small thing I was wondering if you could help me out with.”

  I jump at the thought that the moment has finally come for me to repay Peter. “Of course, totally, I’ll do it,” I say, rushing through the words.

  “But I haven’t even told you what it is.”

  “Like I told you, whenever you need my help, you got it. I’ll do it, whatever it is.”

  I make out a muffled breath of relief before he says: “Oh, okay. That’s really nice of you, man. I appreciate it.” Feeling reassured, Peter doesn’t beat around the bush any longer. “Well, here’s the thing…Luis’s always dreamed of being a writer.”

  “Is Luis your brother?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  “He’s finally ready to try it out. You know, take some action. Write a book.”

  “That’s great,” I say. I’m a little confused. I kind of expected Peter to ask for financial help. One look at the New York Times Bestseller list is enough to figure out I’ve got plenty of money now.

  “I was thinking that some guidance…from an expert…could go a long way for someone who’s just starting out.”

  I believe I’m starting to understand what he’s getting at. “Oh, you want me to…tutor your brother?”

  “Yes, in a way. Teach him the ropes, you know. Let him watch you as you work. Stuff like that, I guess. I’m sure you know best what you could help him with.” The confusion in Peter’s voice lets me know he hasn’t thought this request all the way through. “I’m asking a lot of you, I know, so feel free to say no. No hard feelings, I promise.”

  “No, I’ll do it.” Even if it is a rather vague task.

  “For real?” His voice is bright with genuine surprise.

  “Of course. I’d love to help your brother out.” I put on a smile and make sure it comes across in my voice. “Think of it as a birthday gift. Besides, it’s the least I can do for you.”

  “Thank you, man. You’re the best.”

  “Sure. Just let me know when he’d like to begin. I can start as soon as next week.”

  “I’ll give him your phone number and let you guys settle it directly.” His breath stutters with joyful pride. “Luis is going to be so happy.”

  After thanking me a few more times, we hang up, promising to meet up soon. I pull out a plastic container from the fridge, and as I stab a fork into a piece of baked potato, I burst out laughing. This has to be the last thing I wanted—a mentee. I know nothing about his brother other than that he’s an aspiring writer and he’s younger than Peter. And I know Peter is younger than me, but I can’t remember his exact age.

  Oh boy, I hope I didn’t sign up to be any kid’s nanny.

  Even antisocial workaholics have their limits, I suppose. That’s why, on Friday night, I agree to have dinner with Tim—my agent and, by virtue of having no competition, my best friend. He’s been pestering me for weeks about how it’s time to take a break from my self-imposed exile and socialize again before I lose all ability to speak to people.

  One beer in, tucked away in a comfy restaurant booth, I realize I’m happy to sit in front of another person instead of a screen for a change.

  A young man in his early twenties takes our order. His hair is curly and short, a scrunch of brown-colored rolls coiled up on his head. Slender and twinkish, his body tempts and teases with graceful movements. It’s been a while. I can’t help noticing these things.

  When he brings us our drinks, my eyes linger on him a little too long, and Tim catches on. “How’s your boy-toy?” he asks.

  His question earns him a disgruntled look from me. “I told you not to call him that.” I press the back of my hand to my mouth and consider what I want to share on the topic. “I haven’t spoken to him in months.”

  Clasping his hands, Tim leans forward with curiosity. “Why not?”

  “It got…complicated.”

  I curl and relax my fingers a few times. It feels strange not to have a keyboard nearby. I’m like an addict, I think, uneasy in the absence of his drug. Or a sailor readjusting to steady ground after months at sea.

  A light hangs over our table, making Tim’s skin look yellow. “Complicated how? You got him pregnant?”

  “No, asshole.” I roll my eyes. “He was starting to catch feelings. I had to put an end to it.”

  Tim’s face contorts in mock horror. “Oh no, not feelings. I also hate it when women like me for more than just my dick.” Still in the mood to tease, he shakes his head mournfully. “Some people are just monsters…”

  “You know I don’t do feelings.” My lips curl as I spit out the last word.

  “I know you never try to.”

  The back of my neck warms up.

  At the neighboring booth, our waiter smiles and giggles and bats his eyelashes at a customer. The other man grins as he continues firing jokes, the dripping lust in his eyes a perfect reflection of my own.

  I peel my gaze away from them and come back to the tug in my chest. It’s been two months since I broke it off with Ollie. The guilt should have eased up by now.

  Instantly, Ollie’s clear-blue eyes materialize in front of me. At first, they crinkle with the sweet smile that reeled me in,
then fill up with the tears he shed the last time I saw him.

  When I told him it would be best to stop talking, I didn’t expect him to cry. I didn’t think our casual meet-ups had come to mean so much to him.

  Breaking it off was something I needed to do for myself as much as I needed to do it for him. I’m not a monster; I don’t want to break anyone’s heart. And I can’t lead someone on when I know they expect something of me that I would never be able to provide.

  Tim’s very much aware of my emotional unavailability and often teases me about it, even if he doesn’t entirely understand it. Perhaps he would if I ever opened up to him about my past, but those are bitter memories, and they only grow harder to stomach with time.

  Behind me, people are raising their voices. When I sneak a look over my shoulder, I see a woman rushing through her words, whisper-yelling at the man sitting across from her. Framed by straight, shiny strands of black hair, her face is red and scrunched up with fury, and she sounds close to tears.

  “Can you just drop it?” I tell Tim. “I don’t tell you what to do with your personal life.”

  A smirk shows up in the corner of Tim’s mouth. “But you could. Because at least I have one.”

  The beer is slowly warming up. After gulping the rest of it down, I signal to the eye-candy—another one.

  With a frown, I redirect my attention to my agent. “You’re being an asshole.”

  “I’m being a tough friend. And I’m worried about you.” His phone lights up with a text, but he flips it over and casts it aside. “I haven’t seen you in months. What do you do all day other than write?”

  “Are you complaining that I’m making us too much money?”

  “I’m worried about your well-being. You’re spending too much time alone.” Tim slaps his thigh in frustration. “You’re thirty-three, man. You’re so young, and you’re writing your life away. You’ll look back one day and regret it.”