At First Sight: (inspired by Aladdin ) (A Modern Fairytale)

by Katy Regnery

  But now? Listening to the mesmerizing voice of this un-bloody-likely Mercutio, I don’t feel like a snob at all. I feel vulnerable. I feel…alive.

  Moreover, I know—by her long-suffering and annoyingly loud sighs—that my mother will fall asleep in the next ten to fifteen minutes…which means that I can spend the rest of the play blatantly ogling handsome, dangerous Mercutio to my heart’s bloody content.

  CHAPTER 2

  Valentina

  I was right, of course.

  My mother was asleep by scene six, which left me free to watch my Mercutio with unfettered abandon. And something inside of me—in addition to my abominable snobbery—died with him as he perished on stage. I’m fairly certain it was the last of my reservations:

  I must meet him.

  As the actors bow, I whisper to my brother.

  “Nico,” I say, tossing a quick glance at my mother, who is just starting to rouse herself from sleep amid thunderous applause. “I’m going out tonight.”

  “No, you’re not,” says my brother.

  “Yes. I am.”

  “Nope. Not allowed.”

  I roll my eyes at him. My twin, the rule follower.

  “I’m going out,” I repeat, “and you’re going to cover for me.”

  “Wrong again.”

  I ignore him, laying out the lie I want him to tell. “Tell them I was invited to a party by a—a school friend. Tell them I took Gaspare.”

  “Gaspare’s back at the hotel with the flu,” says Nico.

  He’s right. Unfortunately, my bodyguard’s been down for the count since we arrived in Ireland, leaving Nico’s bodyguard, Iago, to look after us both on his own.

  “You’ll say he had a miraculous recovery. Tell them he showed up in the back of the theater and agreed to take me to a party.”

  “When did you get invited to a party, Tina? You don’t know anyone in Ireland!”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I lean down and grab my purse. “Just cover for me.”

  “This town isn’t safe,” he whispers, darting a glance at my mother, who is rubbing her eyes and yawning. She’s going to stand up and join in the applause in a second, and once she’s awake, I’ll miss my window to escape. I need to get going. Now.

  “Don’t ruin this for me, Nic,” I snarl. “I’m going out with your help or not!”

  He stares at me, his eyes boring into mine, and for a second I think he’ll say no, but then he nods once, even though misgivings flood his narrowed eyes. “Fine. When will you be back?”

  “Later,” I whisper, stepping over him and sliding my way out of the row and up the aisle to a door marked exit in the back corner of the theater.

  I push it open and as it clicks shut behind me, I realize I’m not in front of the theater under a well-lit marquee, but in a dark, narrow alleyway adjacent to the theater building. For a second, I let my eyes adjust to the light from a cobwebbed bulb over my head, looking to my left and right to find myself utterly alone except for a yellow-eyed cat who eyes me from atop a pungent dumpster. The painted words “STAGE ENTRANCE” on a rusty door beside the dumpster, tells me exactly where I am.

  If I wait here, I think, my heart pounding with anticipation, he’ll come out of that door and I’ll get to meet him.

  My skin prickles and I release a shaky breath as I recall the intensity of his gaze from on-stage.

  It’s not that I’ve lived an entirely sheltered life where men are concerned. I’m fifteen, after all—I’ve had my share of stolen kisses and copped feels, especially at royal weddings when my mother is distracted by her friends and I can sneak into a dark garden with a handsome boy. That said, however—as is expected for one of my rank and status—my virginity is intact, and expected to remain so until I marry.

  At the end of the alleyway, I notice theatergoers pouring onto the sidewalk, and I move to the wall opposite the stage door, out of the light. I don’t lean against the filthy concrete wall behind me, but I do fold my arms under my breasts, which gives me a little extra cleavage in the V-neck of my white silk blouse. Super skinny midnight-blue jeans and open-toed, four-inch, fire-engine-red heels round out my ensemble. Casual for home. Not for Limerick. And not ideal for a cobblestoned alley.

  What if he has a girlfriend?

  The question slides through my head like a bad dream, and I pull the leather backpack off my back, rooting around for a cigarette.

  If he does, you’ll look like an idiot, standing here alone, waiting for him like a groupie.

  I light the tobacco and breathe deeply.

  Your parents are going to be furious. This is stupid. You should go.

  I exhale, watching the smoke curl up to the sky, feeling my misgivings grow with every passing second while I wait in limbo for Mercutio’s arrival.

  Forget this boy. Walk back to the Palace Hotel and slip into bed before they realize you’re gone.

  But just as I’m about to turn around, I hear voices from inside, approaching the stage door. Young men. Laughing and talking.

  He’s coming!

  I throw the cigarette on the ground and stamp it out with my toe just as the door opens and three young actors pour out into the narrow space. A quick scan confirms that none of them is my Mercutio.

  “Hey, now. What’s this?”

  A tall blonde boy, who played Tybalt in the play, looks me up and down, stepping closer. His friends stand behind him; out of deference to him or me?—I’m not sure.

  “Yer the princess,” he says, clamping his eyes on my chest before skimming them up slowly to check out my face.

  “Princess. Sí,” I say, uncrossing my arms and lifting my chin as I glance over his shoulder. The door doesn’t magically open to reveal Mercutio, however, so I meet the blonde boy’s eyes again. “Sono—I mean, I am Her Serene Highness Valentina Yasmina De’Medici.”

  “La-ti-da! Lads,” he says slowly, licking his lips, “we got us a real live princess here.”

  There’s such unmasked menace in his voice, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  Without actually meaning to, I take a step back, but there’s nowhere to go. The fine fabric of my white blouse presses against the dank, damp concrete behind me.

  He leans forward, placing his palms flat on the wall behind me so that I’m bracketed by his arms. “Why’re you here in an alley all by yer lonesome? What d’you want, Princess? Who’re you waitin’ for?”

  He wouldn’t actually do anything to me, would he? No. No! He knows who I am. He’s just trying to impress his friends.

  “I wait for…s-someone,” I say, my English abandoning me as my confidence wanes.

  “She waits for…someone.” He mimics my strong Italian accent, smirking over his shoulder at his “lads.”

  “I think,” he says, leaning forward to press his forehead to mine, “ye’re waitin’ for me.”

  “Non.” I struggle to escape under his arm, but he grabs my shoulders and shoves me back against the wall.

  “Yer not goin’ anywhere, Princess. Not until I taste some royal honey.”

  Panic.

  My heart rate soars, beating like a bass drum in my ears; so loud, I’m sure he can hear it.

  My eyes skitter to the mouth of the alley, where the crowd has thinned, but some audience members still linger. It’s got to be about fifteen meters away, though, and the distance, combined with street cacophony, means that no one would hear me if I screamed. Anyway, he could have his hand clamped over my mouth and my shirt torn open in the time it would take to fill my lungs with enough air.

  “Per favore. P-Please,” I say, my voice thin and frightened. “Please let me…ah, let me to go now.”

  “Go?” he asks, shaking his head slowly. “Nah. I don’t think so.”

  He leans closer and opens his mouth. I close my eyes and cringe as his tongue, wide and wet, lands on my jawbone and licks a leisurely path to my ear.

  “Feckin’ sweet,” he sighs.

  I’m so terrified of what’s coming next,
I feel lightheaded. I’ve got to do something. Bracing my palms flat on the wall behind me, I bring my knee up as fast and hard as possible. Because he’s still standing so close to me, it connects hard with his groin, and I feel his hands slip from my shoulders as he stumbles backward into his friends.

  “Fuck! Ya mangy feckin’ bitch!” he bellows, reaching for his balls as the stage door opens again.

  “What the fuck is this?”

  Still standing with my back against the wall, I raise my eyes to Mercutio’s, and above the bodies between us, our eyes lock just as they did inside the theater. And despite the blonde boy’s menacing words and how close I likely came to something infinitely uglier than being licked on the cheek, I feel myself relax. I can’t say why, but just seeing Mercutio so close to me makes me feel a relief so strong and so sure, I slump a little against the wall and my eyes fill with tears of relief.

  “Princess,” he says softly, stepping into the crowded alley with the actors who played Romeo and Benvolio. As the door clicks shut behind them, he darts a glance at the groaning blonde boy still cupping his groin, then at me, then back at the boy. His eyes narrow. “What happened here? What’d you do, Jack Murphy? What the fuck did you do to her? I’ll kill you if you hurt her!”

  “Fuck you,” he chokes out. “Fuck you and fuck yer dead Keegan crackhead mam.”

  Mercutio doesn’t react to this, but he turns to me, his eyes blazing and fierce. “He…touched you?”

  I gulp softly, blinking back the tears in my eyes as I cast my gaze down.

  “You bottom-feedin’ piece of shite.” He turns to his friends, cracking his knuckles as he barks out, “Get her outta here. I’ll find ya’s.”

  Romeo offers me his hand and I take it, letting him and Benvolio lead me quickly out of the alley. The sound of fighting—of skin landing violently against skin—echoes against the stone and concrete behind me.

  “You should…to help him!” I say, trying to look over my shoulder at the three-on-one fight commencing behind me.

  “Help him?” asks Romeo. He chuckles. “Nah. Jack’s nuts is now in his throat, thanks to you, and the other two is little. Ian’s gotcha.”

  “You are…Ian?” I ask.

  “Nah. Ian’s the one back there…fightin’ fer yer royal honor.”

  “Ian,” I say softly. Mercutio’s name is Ian.

  “Yeah. Ian. Ian Ladd is him. I’m Sean. Yer man on the other side is Luke. And yer…?”

  “Valentina,” I say. “T-Tina.”

  “Well, Tina, it’s good t’meecha. Jack Murphy’s a right bastard. It’s good we come along when we did.”

  “Sí,” I say, surprised to find I’m still holding hands with Sean as we turn right onto the sidewalk and stop in front of a coffee shop. I pull my hand away and clear my throat, looking through the large plate glass window into the warm café. I’m about to cry and I’d prefer not to have an audience. “I need, ah…the toilet.”

  “Yeah,” says Sean. “Sure. You go on in. We’ll be waitin’ here when you come out.”

  “Th-Thank you,” I manage to whisper, slipping into the shop just as my tears begin to fall.

  In the ladies’ room, I scrub that animal’s saliva off my face, splash my cheeks with water and fix my makeup as best I can. As soon as I thank Mercutio for his assistance, I’ll call the hotel and have them send a car to collect me. This has all been a massive mistake.

  There’s no sign of Sean or Luke as I make my way back through the bustling cafe, but Mercu—Ian is sitting at a two-chair table by the front window, a cup of tea in front of him and another at the vacant place across from him.

  For me? He looks up as I approach, his eyes widening, flicking to the cup and then back to my face. Yes, for you.

  “May I join you?” I ask, waiting for him to stand up and help me sit. The least I can do is thank him for his assistance before leaving.

  “Obviously,” he says, gesturing to the empty chair with an outstretched hand. His knuckles are cracked and bloody, and I cringe, sucking in a sharp breath. It’s my fault he was hurt. I never should have been in that alley alone. My parents are always reminding me of how reckless I am, but tonight I feel it. And I hate it that Ian has been hurt because of me.

  Pulling out my own chair, I try for a smile. “I’m sorry…for your hands.”

  He looks at my face, searching it like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. I reach out, gingerly touching the backs of his fingers. “You’re, um, bleeding.”

  As I touch him, I hear a hitch in his breathing. “It’s—it’s nothin’.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Ain’t yer fault,” he insists, sliding his hand away and holding it up to inspect the damage. After a moment, he shrugs, flattening the hand on the table again. “Besides…it was worth it.”

  I gulp. “I don’t know what would happen…if you didn’t come along.”

  “You got him pretty good, I guess,” Ian says, a glimmer of admiration in his eyes as he lifts his cup to blow on the steaming tea.

  As I watch his lips purse, I realize he hasn’t got a fresh scratch or bruise on his face. The three boys in the alley didn’t land one punch.

  “I think you got him better,” I say.

  “Then we’re a good team,” he tells me, his gaze soft and thoughtful as he scans my face.

  I hold out my hand. “I’m—”

  “Tina. I heard.”

  “Valentina, actually.”

  “Heard that too.”

  “I’m a—”

  “Princess.”

  “Yes.”

  “From Italy.”

  “Sí. I mean, yes. You know a lot about me.”

  “We heard you lot were comin’ to the show tonight.” He grins at me again and he’s so damn handsome, my heart flip flops. “What’d you think? Of the play?”

  “Better than I expected,” I answer honestly.

  “You expected shite?”

  He scoffs, running a hand through his thick, black hair. One lock won’t comply and falls back onto his forehead rebelliously. Oh, how I long to tame that unruly curl—to feel its softness between my fingers as I push it back into the fold.

  My eyes widen as I realize he’s frowning at me. “Sh-shite?”

  “Shit.”

  I sit up straighter, a little surprised he’d use such vulgar language with me.

  “Shit,” he repeats, a roguish grin teasing the edges of his mouth. “Caca. Crap. Poo—”

  “Yes, thank you, I know…shit.” I pick up my cup and take a sip of the strong, black, Irish tea. “Your show was not shit. It wasn’t that bad. You weren’t bad. You were quite good, in fact.”

  He leans his elbows on the table, his dark blue eyes capturing mine and his lips widening into a smile. “You think so?”

  I nod, utterly charmed by him, still in awe of the fact that he took on those three ruffians to save me. “I think so. Sí. Yes.”

  “Sí. Hmm.” He tilts his head to the side, holding my eyes as his narrow a touch. “What are you doin’ tonight, Valentina De’Medici?”

  Calling a car and going back to my hotel.

  That’s what I should say. What I end up saying, however, is…

  “Nothing, I think.” My eyes drop to my tea, thinking there will be absolute hell to pay when I return to my hotel later. “Sipping t-tea with you, for now.”

  “And after that?”

  A knock on the window makes us both look up. For the first time, I realize that Sean and Luke have been standing guard outside of the café while Ian and I have been sitting together inside. Sean hooks his thumb to the right and raises his eyebrows.

  Ian looks back at me. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back, yeah?”

  “Okay.”

  I watch him stand up, his body tall and muscular in jeans and a t-shirt. The door jingles cheerfully as he steps outside to speak with his friends. They huddle together in a small circle, their faces intense and unhappy as Luke and Sean take turns talking. Finally, I
an stands up straight and puts his hands on his hips, twisting his head just a touch to look at me before turning back to his friends. A few words are exchanged, and then Luke and Sean are off, walking quickly to the left, out of my line-of-sight.

  When Ian sits back down across from me, his eyes are heavy.

  “Is everything…okay?” I ask him.

  “Those Murphy bastards? What were botherin’ you? They’re gettin’ pissed down the street. Shootin’ their mouths off ‘bout what happened in the alley.”

  A tremor of fear runs through me, and I push away from the table, standing up. I have no interest in renewing my acquaintance with Jack Murphy. “I should go. G-Go back to my hotel.”

  Ian is up in a flash, standing across from me. “If you have to go, I’ll take you. No harm will come to you if you’re with me, I promise.”

  His eyes are stormy and hard, like he’s seen immeasurable sadness in his short life, but his eyelashes are jet black and insanely long. They soften his expression; soften the fury that simmers in his eyes.

  “I don’t want you to get hurt again,” I say. “Not for me.”

  “Princess,” he says, the “r” rolling softly on his Irish tongue, “I’d take fifty t’ousand beatin’s for a single evenin’ with you.”

  O cuore mio. How can I resist this boy?

  “Where can we go?” I ask him. “To escape these…Murphy bastards?”

  He laughs when I swear, then asks, “Do ya trust me, Tina?”

  Dio mio, I know I shouldn’t. There is no good reason for me to trust this Irish street boy, and every reason why I shouldn’t. He is poor and dirty. He fights with his hands like a brute and looks at me like I’m a snack.

  But would he save me from harm only to hurt me himself? Would he be my savior only to defile me later? No. He wouldn’t. Something inside of me knows he wouldn’t.

  “Sí,” I say. “I trust you, Ian.”

  He reaches for my hand, and I giggle as he pulls me out of the café.

  CHAPTER 3

  Valentina

  Hours later, as we approach the Limerick Palace Hotel hand in hand, I wonder at the whole new world I’ve discovered tonight by moonlight: parks and cathedrals, rivers and mountains, castles and gardens.