by Emma Chase
"What'll you have, Miss?" Macalister asks.
"Whatever Prince Henry is having," she replies with a smile, dropping enough bills on the bar to pay for both our drinks.
I like women. No, I love women. The way they move, how they think, the sound of their voices, the scent of their skin--their warmth and softness. But there's nothing soft about this woman. She's all angles--prominent cheekbones, taut limbs, a pointy chin and dark hair cut in a severe bob just below her ears. Not unattractive--but slim and sharp like an arrow. She sounds American and looks near my age, but there's an aggressive air about her that I've only encountered in middle-aged women. Cougars. I adore cougars--women who are experienced enough to know exactly what they want and confident enough to say it out loud.
I'm intrigued. And horny. I haven't had a good, thorough shag since . . . Nicholas's wedding. Christ--it's been months. No wonder I'm a basket case.
Macalister fills a mug with Guinness and sets a shot in front of her. Then he refills my shot glass and makes himself busy down at the other end of the bar.
I turn in my seat, lifting my glass. "Cheers."
Her eyes are ice blue. "Bottoms up."
I wink. "One of my favorite positions."
She gives a snort, then downs her shot like a pro. Licking her lips, she eyes my left forearm. "Nice tattoo."
It's two tattoos, actually. The Royal Coat of Arms begins below my wrist and under it, the military crest of Wessco. I had the first done when I was sixteen, when I slipped my security detail after curfew at boarding school and went into town with a few friends. I thought I could wear long sleeves and my grandmother would never know. That illusion lasted exactly one day--that's how long it took for photos of me at the tattoo parlor to be splashed across all the papers. I had the second added a few years ago--just after basic training--with the lads from my unit.
"Thanks."
She holds out her hand. "I'm Vanessa Steele."
Definitely American. If she were from Wessco, she would bow. I shake her hand; it's dry and smooth. "Henry. But you already know that."
"I do. You're a difficult man to get in touch with."
I sip my pint. "Then how about I finish my drink and you can touch me till your heart's content, love."
She laughs, eyes gleaming. "You're even better than I imagined." She taps a red fingernail on the wood bar. "I have a proposition for you."
"And I do so enjoy being propositioned. Your place or mine?" Then I snap my fingers, remembering. "We will have to stop by the Palace. There's an NDA you're supposed to sign--a technicality. Then we can get right to the good part."
Vanessa braces her elbow on the bar. "Not that kind of proposition. I don't want to sleep with you, Henry."
"Who said anything about sleeping? I'm talking about sex. Good sex. Lots of it."
That puts a flush on her pretty cheeks and she laughs. "I don't want to have sex with you."
I pat her hand. "Now you're just being silly. The cat-and-mouse game can be tantalizing, but it's not necessary." My voice drops to a whisper. "I'm a sure thing."
Her smile is sly and confident. "So I hear. But this is a business opportunity, and I never mix business with pleasure."
And as quick as that, my interest drops. These days, "business" is the most effective cold shower. "Pity."
"It doesn't have to be. I'm a television producer. Matched--have you heard of it?"
I squint, recalling. "One of those reality dating shows, isn't it? Survivor, but with cat fights and string bikinis?"
"That's right."
Out of the corner of my eye I notice Macalister motion to one of his bouncers--a strapping, thick-necked bloke. Vanessa must notice as well, because she speaks more quickly.
"I'm putting together a special edition--a royal edition--and I want you to be the star. We'll take care of everything, make all the arrangements--twenty beautiful blue bloods in one castle and all you have to do is let them fall all over themselves for you. It'll be a month-long, nonstop party. And in the end, you can check off your most important royal duty: choosing your queen."
As far as pitches go, hers isn't half bad. The slumbering, neglected part of me that remembers easy, simple, laid-back days stirs and stretches. It's that feeling you get in the coldest nights of winter--a yearning for sweet, summer sun.
The bouncer stands behind her. "Time to go, Miss."
Vanessa rises from her stool. "Think of me as the female Billy the Kid." She winks. "I'll make you famous."
"I'm already famous."
"But you're not enjoying it anymore, are you, Henry? I can do something for you that no one else can--I will make famous fun again." She slides her card across the bar. "Think about it, then call me."
I watch her back as she struts across the bar and out the door. And though I have no intention of taking her up on the interesting offer, I slip her card into my wallet. Just in case.
The eighties are a sorely underrated decade in terms of musical composition. They don't get nearly the respect they deserve. I try to use my platform in the world to bring attention to this travesty by singing eighties ballads whenever I get the chance. Like right now, as I sing "What About Me" by Moving Pictures on the karaoke stage. It was their one-hit wonder and a soul-stirring exercise in self-pity. My eyes are closed as I belt out the lyrics and sway behind he microphone.
Not in time to the music--I'm so pissed, I'm lucky to still be standing at all.
Usually I play the guitar too, but my fine-motor functions fell by the wayside hours ago. I'm a fantastic musician--not that anyone really notices. That talent gets lost in the shadow of the titles, the same way the talented offspring of two accomplished stars get discounted by the weight of their household name.
My mother gave me my love of music--she played several instruments. I had tutors, first for the piano, then the violin--but it was the guitar that really stuck with me. The karaoke stage at The Goat used to be my second home and in the last few hours, I've given serious consideration to moving in beneath it.
If Harry Potter was the Boy Under the Stairs, I could be the Prince Under the Stage. Why the fuck not?
As I delve into the chorus for the second time, voices whisper on the periphery of my consciousness. I hear them, but don't really listen.
"Christ, how long's he been like this?"
I like that voice. It's soothing. Deep and comforting. It reminds me of my brother's, but it's not him. Because Nicholas is in a land far, far away.
"He's had a rough go of it."
And that sounds like Simon--my brother's best mate. He checks up on me from time to time, because he's a good man.
"It's been particularly difficult the last few months," Simon says--not to be confused with the electronic game.
"Months?" the smooth voice chokes.
"We didn't want to concern you until there was something to be concerned about."
That voice is a beauty. It could almost pass for Simon's stunning and frighteningly direct wife, Franny. I wonder if Franny has a twin sister? I would so hit that, if she does.
"James contacted me when he refused to go home. In the last two days he's gone from bad to--"
"--rock bottom," Franny says, finishing Simon's sentence. They're cute like that.
Hashtag relationship goals.
"Wow. You royal guys don't do anything halfway, do you?" a pretty, distinctly American voice chimes in. "Even your mental breakdowns are historic."
The song ends and after a moment, I open my eyes.
One lone patron at a table in front claps, the ash from the cigarette between his fingers falling in slow motion to the floor.
And then I look up.
And my eyes absorb a glorious sight.
My big brother, Nicholas, standing tall and straight by the bar, his face etched with worry. It may just be a fantasy. A delusion. But I'll take what I can get.
I start to smile and move forward, but I forget about the stage--the fact that I'm standing on it. And that f
irst step is an absolute corker. Because a moment later, my whole world goes black.
The next time I open my eyes, I'm on the floor, on my back, staring at the water-stained ceiling of The Horny Goat. And . . . I think there's gum up there. What kind of demented bastard puts chewing gum on the ceiling? Has to be a health hazard.
My brother's face looms over me, blocking out everything else. And sweet, blessed relief surges in my chest. "Nicholas? You're really here?"
"Yes, Henry," he says gently. "I'm really here." His big hand rests on my head. "You took quite a fall--are you well?"
Well? I could fucking fly.
"I had the most ridiculous dream." I point at my brother. "You were there." I point at Simon beside him. "And you." Then Franny, all of them huddled on the floor around me. "And you too. You . . . abdicated the throne, Nicholas. And they all wanted to make me king." A maniacal laugh passes my lips . . . until I turn to the right and see dark blue eyes, sweet lips. and black, swirling hair.
Then I scream like a girl. "Ahhhh!"
It's Olivia. My brother's wife. His very American wife.
I turn back to Nicholas. "It wasn't a dream, was it?"
"No, Henry."
I lie back down on the floor. "Fuuuuuck."
Then I feel sort of bad.
"Sorry, Olive. You know I think you're top-notch."
She smiles kindly. "It's okay, Henry. I'm sorry you're having a hard time."
I scrub my hand over my face, trying to think clearly.
"It's all right. This is a better, new plan--I won't have to live under the stage now."
"You were going to live under the stage?" Nicholas asks.
I wave my hand. "Forget it. It was Potter's stupid idea. Boy Wonder Wizard, my arse."
And now my brother looks really worried.
I gesture to him. "But you're here now. You can take me with you back to the States."
"Henry . . ."
"Give me your tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to be free--that describes me perfectly! I'm a huddled mass, Nicholas!"
He squeezes my arms, shaking just a bit. "Henry. You can't move to America."
I grasp his shirt. And my voice morphs into an eight-year-old boy's, confessing he sees dead people. "But she's so mean, Nicholas. She's. So. Mean."
He taps my back. "I know."
Nicholas and Simon drag me up, holding on so that I stay on my feet. "But we'll figure it out," Nicholas says. "It's going to be all right."
I shake my head. "You keep saying that. I'm starting to think you don't know what the hell you're talking about."
AFTER THAT, things are fuzzy. Reality is reduced to snapshots. The car ride to the palace. Vomiting on the rose bushes that my great-great-great-aunt, Lady Adaline, commanded be planted outside the palace. Nicholas and Simon tucking me into bed as Olive comments on the papers taped to the walls--saying it reminds her of Russell Crowe's shed in A Beautiful Mind. Then . . . there's only the gentle abyss.
But the void doesn't last long. Because I'm an insomniac--the affliction of champions. It's been this way for as long as I can remember. I only ever sleep for a handful of hours, even on the nights when my blood is mostly alcohol. With the bedside clock reading one a.m., I drag myself on unsteady legs to the kitchen, using the wall for support. My stomach grumbles with the thought of Cook's biscuits.
I don't recall eating at The Goat--how long was I there? A day? Maybe two. I smell my armpit and flinch. Definitely two. Bloody hell.
After stuffing my face and taking a few treats for the road, I stumble along the palace hallways. It's what I do at night--it's given me a new appreciation for American mall-walkers. I can't stay in a room, any room, without the walls closing in. It feels good to move, even if I'm not going anywhere.
Eventually I wander over to the blue drawing room, near the Queen's private quarters. The door's slightly ajar--enough to see that the light is on, smell the firewood burning in the hearth, and hear the voices inside.
I lean my head against the door jamb and listen.
"You look well, my boy," Granny says. And there's a warm affection in her tone that I'm familiar with. Because it used to be reserved for me.
Jealous much? A little bit, yeah.
"Marriage agrees with you."
"Marriage to Olivia agrees with me," my brother returns.
"Touche."
I hear the clink of the crystal decanter and liquid being poured. My guess is sherry.
"Is Olivia sleeping?" the Queen asks.
"Yes. She nodded off hours ago. The jet lag hit her hard."
"I was hoping it was because she was pregnant."
My brother chuckle-chokes. "We've been married for three months."
"When I was married three months, I was two and a half months gone with your father. What are you waiting for?"
I can practically hear him shrug. "There's no rush. We're . . . enjoying each other. Taking our time."
"But you plan on having children?"
"Of course. One day."
There's the scrape of a chair on the wood floor and I imagine them sitting side by side, settling in for a fireside chat.
"So tell me, Nicholas, now that the dust has settled--do you have any regrets?"
His voice is soft but his tone is firm as iron.
"Not a one."
My grandmother hums, and I picture her sipping her nightcap in the elegant way she does everything.
"But I am curious," Nicholas says. "If it had been you--if you had had to choose between Grandfather and the throne, what would you have done?"
"I loved your grandfather deeply--I still do--you know that. But, if I had been forced to choose between the two, I would not have picked him. Besides my children, my sovereignty has always been the love of my life."
There's a heavy pause. Then Nicholas says quietly, "It was never that way for me. You understand that, don't you?"
"I see that now, yes."
"I always knew it was expected, and I was determined to do it well--but I never loved it. I never wanted it, not really."
"But you're content now, yes? With the restaurants, the charity you and Olivia and Mr. Hammond oversee?"
It takes a moment for him to answer and when he does, Nicholas's voice is wistful. "I'm not content--I'm happy. Ridiculously happy. More than I ever dreamed was possible. Every day."
"Good," my grandmother proclaims.
"But there is one thing," Nicholas says, "one chink in the rainbow." His words go soft and scratchy, like they've been waiting in his throat for a long time. "I know I disappointed you. It wasn't my intention, but it happened just the same. I didn't forewarn you or discuss it with you. I defied my queen, and you raised me to do better. And for that I am sorry. Truly."
There's a tap of crystal on wood--the Queen setting her glass down on the side table. "Listen to me very carefully, Nicholas, because I will only say this once. You have never disappointed me."
"But--"
"I raised you to be a leader. You assessed the situation, considered your options, and you made a choice. You didn't falter; you didn't wait for permission. You acted. That . . . is what leaders do."
There's a lightness in his response, a relief.
"All right."
There's another comfortable pause, and I imagine my brother taking a drink. Possibly draining the glass. Because then he says, "Speaking of raising leaders . . ."
"Yes," the Queen sighs. "We may as well address the drunken elephant in the room," she quips sharply. "He's . . . how do they say it in the States? A hot mess."
"He is that."
I turn, bracing my back against the wall and sliding down to sit on the floor. It's not that I'm unaccustomed to people talking about me--hell, my pros and cons are often discussed openly, even when I'm standing in the same room. But this . . . this is going to be different. Worse.
"Do you remember the holiday production Henry was in at school? It was the last Christmas with Mum and Dad--he had the starring role. Sc
rooge." Nicholas chuckles.
"Vaguely. I didn't attend the performance."
"No, neither did I. Dad spoke with me about it. They were concerned that if I went, the press and his teachers and classmates would be so busy fawning over me that Henry would be lost in the shuffle. And they were right." The chair creaks as my brother shifts. "He's spent his entire life in my shadow. And now he's front and center, in the hot glare of the spotlight. It's only natural he'll squint for a bit. You have to give him time to adjust."
"He doesn't have time."
"Plan on dying any day soon?" Nicholas teases.
"Of course not. But we both know the unexpected happens. He must be ready. You don't understand, Nicholas."
"I understand perfectly. I'm the only person in the world who does."
"No, you do not. Before you could walk, you were trained to take the throne. A thousand small things happened around you daily that you wouldn't have even perceived. It was in the way others spoke to you, the conversations you had, the topics you were taught, and the manner in which they were conveyed. Henry has a lifetime of catching up to do."
"Which he'll never be able to do if you break him," Nicholas says harshly. "If you convince him in a thousand small daily ways that he'll never be enough. That he'll never get it right."
Silence falls for several beats. Until my grandmother quietly asks, "Do you know the worst part about growing old?"
"Erectile dysfunction?" my brother replies dryly.
"Oh, you needn't worry about that," the Queen responds, her tone every bit as dry. "It's in the genes, and your grandfather was a stallion until the day he died."
I smother a grin. Because, like the Americans say, when you mess with the bull . . .
"Right." My brother quips. "No more sherry for you."
"The worst part about growing old," Granny continues, "is knowing that soon you will leave the ones you cherish most to carry on without you. And if they are unprepared . . . vulnerable . . . it is a terrifying prospect."
Only the crackle of the fire breaks the stillness.
Then the Queen declares unequivocally, "They will eat him alive. On his current course, Henry will fail spectacularly."
My chest constricts so tight it feels like my bones may crack.
Because she's right.
"He won't."
"You don't know that," she swipes back.
"I damn well do! I never would have abdicated otherwise."
"What?"
"Don't mistake me--I wouldn't have married anyone but Olivia, and I would've waited a lifetime if I had to, until the laws were changed. But I didn't because I knew in my heart and soul that Henry will not just be a good king, he will be better than I ever could've been."
