Dirty Princes: A Standalone MMF Romantic Comedy

by Jo Raven

He grimaces. “None of your fucking business.”

  And fuck, he isn’t denying it. “It is my fucking business. You took all my money, and what did you do with it?”

  A sneer. It looks so out of place on a face that all but mirrors my own. “All you care about is your money. Money, money, money, all the time.”

  “Are you shitting me?” I take a calming breath. “It pays the rent,” I say with as much patience as I can muster. “And for the bills, gasoline and food.”

  “Why should I give a damn? Who needs this shit?”

  What is he talking about? “It puts a roof over our heads, X. Puts food on the table. What do you want from me?”

  “What I want, motherfucker, is for you to leave me alone!” Suddenly he’s in my face, shoving me backward, and I hit the wall, my head thumping hard, making me see stars. “To let me live my own fucking life, and stop controlling me!”

  He steps back and I blink, dizzy. “What the hell, X. What life? Where do you go every time you leave here? What are you taking?”

  He says nothing, turns around to go.

  “Xavier!” I slam my fist into the counter. I’m shaking, from reaction, from anger and despair, from the fucking pain in my back that’s spreading like fire down my spine. “Goddammit.”

  He gives me the finger as he stomps out of the kitchen. A few seconds later, I hear the apartment door slam.

  I’m not handling this well.

  Jesus, that’s the understatement of the year. I fucked it up big time. But how am I supposed to handle it? What the hell am I supposed to do?

  I fumble in my pocket for my pack of smokes and crack the window open. My hands are trembling as I light up and draw bitter smoke into my lungs.

  I have a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. In my experience, when things start to go downhill, they usually crash and burn before they reach the bottom.

  ***

  By mid-afternoon, my back is killing me. Literally. I try to lift a crate that has to be filled with rocks or something, and let it drop back down with a very unmanly yelp.

  “What’s the matter?” my supervisor snaps, striding over to my side, a scowl on his face. “You need to be careful with this merchandise, Rid. Fragile. Says right there, on top.”

  “Fuck, sorry.” I straighten slowly, carefully.

  Ow. Hell.

  “Is everything okay? You hurt?”

  “I’m fine.” I’m getting paid by the hour. Can’t afford to lose any money right now. “I’m okay, boss.”

  He gives me a suspicious look, then nods and walks away.

  It’s nothing, I tell myself, popping more painkillers and gritting my teeth. Suck it up, Rid. I pulled something, that’s all. I’ll rest and get better by Monday.

  Yeah, screw you, Monday. Stop laughing at me. I’ll beat you yet.

  Besides, I’m so worried about Xavier I manage to push down the pain as I keep unloading the truck. If he’s not back by tonight, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  Go out look for him, I guess. What else is left?

  I should talk to Jet.

  If Xavier doesn’t come back. If I need to go out searching.

  By the time my shift ends, I’m popping painkillers like candy. The pain has spread down my right leg and the thought of driving back home, much less working any longer, is fucking crazy.

  I end up calling Fritters and telling my boss I can’t make it today. He’s not pleased, even after I explain why. Tells me in no uncertain terms that this can’t happen again.

  Reading you loud and clear, boss. Not that I expected anything else.

  Living on the poverty threshold means you have to be like Superman. Never sick. Never tired. Never in need of time off. Never late because you’re stuck in traffic or your brother is on the streets, shooting up or hustling for drugs.

  Fuck. FUCK. Maybe he isn’t.

  But I don’t hold out much hope.

  That would be stupid. Always expect the worse. You’ll most often than not get it.

  ***

  Xavier isn’t home.

  I knew it. What I don’t know is where to find him. How to convince him to return home. To tell me the truth.

  How do you handle a grown man, an adult who doesn’t want your help even though it’s obvious he needs it?

  Where do I start?

  I lean against the sofa and close my eyes. A headache is wrapped around my skull like a python, squeezing until I think my eyes will pop out—and my back is on fire.

  All in all, life sucks right now.

  Sighing, I make myself get up and head back out. It’s cold, too cold to risk Xavier spending the night outdoors, especially if he’s stoned, or hallucinating, or something equally bad.

  Wrapped up in my jacket and scarf, a weight on my chest, I make my way down the stairs. With my luck, I’ll be hit by a blizzard the moment I step outside the door.

  It doesn’t happen, although the air is sharp like glass and smells like snow. With winter closing in, Xavier’s forays out into the world with his so-called friends and whatever it is he’s using to shut out reality will turn more and more dangerous. So many homeless die from the cold.

  Bowing my head against the chilly breeze traveling up the street, I set out to look. There are a few places where I know he might be—a bar, a coffee shop, a park—but if he’s inside someone’s apartment…

  I check the coffee shop first, but no dice. Next is the bar, and there I pop some more painkillers. They aren’t doing much, but the idea they are killing my pain is attractive and a bit soothing.

  The small park is empty.

  Or so I think as I squint in the half-dark, between the pools of light cast by a few streetlamps. Wait, I see movement.

  Two seconds later I see the glint of blond hair, and for a moment my mind flashes to Ryan with his green eyes and crooked grin.

  But it’s not. It’s my brother, and my heart sinks before it lifts again. I’ve found him. He lied. He’s not shacked up with anyone. He’s in this deserted park in the heart of the city, in the dark on a winter night, in the company of…?

  I squint harder, which ratchets up the headache pounding against my skull, and make out a skinny guy in a ratty hoodie and jeans. He’s holding something.

  A small plastic bag.

  With a curse, I march toward them, cutting through a bunch of bushes, just as Xavier takes the bag and hands the guy some cash.

  “X! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  He flinches, eyes narrowing. He clutches the bag in his fist. “What the fuck?”

  “What’s that?” I make a grab for the bag, but he shoves me away. Xavier’s more slender than me, and his strength shocks me. “What’s in there, X?”

  “None of your goddamn business.” He’s backing away, and I make another grab for him.

  “You can’t stay out the night. It will snow. Come home.”

  He shakes his head, his shaggy blond hair falling in his eyes. “You go home, Rid. There’s nothing for me there.”

  He turns and starts to run, his unzipped jacket flapping. God, this kid will freeze. Does he even feel it?

  I start after him again, but my back screams at me, and my leg almost folds under me. The fuck. I stagger to a stop and clutch at my thigh.

  “There’s me at home,” I whisper. “There’s me, X.”

  But hey, looks like yet again I’m not enough.

  Story of my life.

  ***

  As it turns out, this week isn’t done with me yet. Oh no. Wouldn’t want me to get off too lightly, would we?

  I get a phone call during my break at work, as I massage at the pain shooting from my back down to my leg, from the hospital.

  “What happened?” I ask, my heart already on overdrive.

  “Mr. Connors? It’s your mother, Mrs. Julie Connors.” Again. The man on the line doesn’t say it. It’s far from the first time he’s called me about this.

  “Overdose?” I get up, take a few limping steps away from the be
nch where I just finished eating my sandwich.

  “Light one, from the looks of it. The doctors are keeping her in for a few hours for observation.”

  I don’t ask if my dad is there. “I’ll come. I’m off in two hours.”

  “Good. I’ll let her know.”

  I call Xavier. Nothing. I try again and again. He never picks up.

  Goddammit.

  I rub a hand over my face and force some deep, calming breaths into my lungs.

  It’s okay. I’ve got this. Like I said, it’s not the first time. It’s a familiar dance. A familiar fright gripping my chest.

  Limping over to my supervisor, I explain the situation and ask to leave early. These are hours I need to make the rent, but I also need to go make sure Mom is all right and makes it home.

  That’s how I find myself less than two hours later chucking off my heavy-duty gloves and leaving the warehouse. I drive back into town, massaging my sore leg. My back isn’t that happy, either.

  That makes two of us.

  I park and take a moment to gather my wits. You can do this, I remind myself.

  You have to.

  Popping some more over-the-counter painkillers, swallowing them dry, I drag my sorry ass out of the car and hobble inside the hospital.

  I give my mother’s name and wait to be taken to her, looking around the place. A girl pulling on her mother’s hand. An old man in a wheelchair, a stoic look on his face.

  Quiet. Calm.

  The reprieve doesn’t last long.

  “She’s back, huh?” The tall, thin nurse who called me on the phone earlier says sympathetically.

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s okay. Nothing too serious.”

  Not this time. My heart gives a hard thump. “I know.”

  “But she should go into rehab. You know we have doctors here who could help her.”

  “I know. But she’s an adult and has to agree first.”

  Unfortunately. She always refuses. I wish I could force her into therapy, get her well. Get her away from my dad and the eternal fighting that made her turn to drugs in the first place.

  The nurse passes me a candy as consolation and gives me the room number. I thank her and head off to find my mother, munching on the candy. I know the way.

  I find my mom asleep on a narrow bed, a sheet pulled up to her chest. She seems so small and fragile like this. I stand there, helpless, staring at her faded blond hair spilling on the pillow, her prematurely wrinkled hands relaxed against the white cotton.

  Christ, Mom…

  Turning around, I walk blindly out of there and head out to the parking lot. I need fresh air. Tapping a smoke out of the pack, I light up and stare out into the early evening.

  Jeez. I rub at my eyes.

  I’ll talk to Mom again about rehab.

  Like you talked to Xavier? Like he shoved you and ran away into the night, with a bag of whatever damn drug he had there?

  Fucking hell.

  I’m so lost inside my head, I don’t notice the glittery pink-and-white apparition until she’s standing right in front of me, head cocked to the side and hands on her hips.

  “Are you following me?” she asks.

  ***

  I choke on my smoke and bend over to hack—then groan when that pulls my back. Christ, gimme a break.

  “Brylee?” I rasp.

  “Don’t pretend not to know me.”

  The watery winter light glitters off her tiara. Her lips are ruby red, her neck encased in what looks like diamonds. Her dress, no, her gown flows to the ground. It also gives me a good view of the top of her tits.

  She’s dressed like… a princess. A Disney princess.

  “Didn’t I tell you I can’t go out with you?” she demands, ruby lips pursed. “Why are you here?”

  I struggle to get my breathing under control. “Are you serious right now?”

  “Why is everyone asking me this?”

  Gee, I don’t know…

  “In any case, I can’t,” she says resolutely.

  “Can’t what?” I throw my cigarette to the ground, step on it. She’s close enough that I can smell her light scent and see the darker flecks in her honey eyes.

  “Fall for you.”

  “That’s okay,” I tell her gently, because something in that statement touches all the sore spots of my heart. Who has ever fallen for me, anyway? “I can’t, either.”

  “Can’t let me fall for you?” She blinks.

  “That’s right.”

  What I meant is, I can’t let myself fall for her. Or anyone. Especially not now, when the ground is slipping from under my feet.

  But let her think what she will.

  Damn, she’s biting her lower lip in a very distracting way. She has faint freckles on her nose, and her mouth would feel so good under mine.

  She’d feel so good under me, that mouth around my cock. I’d count the freckles on her arms, on her body. I’d spread her legs and find out how she tastes. How she sounds as she comes apart.

  I turn around to leave, wincing at the shooting pain in my leg. “Take care, Brylee.”

  Limping back to the hospital, I think I hear steps following me, but it’s not until I reach the entrance that I realize she’s right on my heels.

  “What?” I say, more irritably than I intended, but hell, she’s driving me up the wall with her strange behavior and raw sexiness.

  “What yourself.” Her gaze is clear. She gathers her skirts as she climbs the few steps that I’m struggling with. “Did you think I parked outside the hospital by chance?”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “Why are you dressed like a princess?”

  “It’s Sleeping Beauty, you ignorant lout.” But she smiles prettily, and I lose my train of thought. She was pretty before, but man, that smile… “Why are you limping?”

  I pause right outside the automatic doors, mostly to catch my breath and get my face under control. “I pulled something in my back while at work.”

  “What work is that?”

  Heat spreads up my neck. Jesus. Why the hell shouldn’t I tell her?

  “I load and unload trucks. I’m a warehouse loader, okay? So you see, you’re right.” And it comes out kinda bitter.

  “About what?”

  “Not wanting to go out with me. Even though I never asked you out.” I give her a faint smile and reach out to touch her cheek. God, it’s soft like satin. “I’m no prince. Not fit for a princess.”

  Her face twists a little—as if behind a delicate mask.

  Or maybe it’s her makeup.

  “Why are you here, Riddick?”

  “Just Rid.” I turn to the doors and hobble through, hoping it’s clear that I’m not gonna answer that. Fuck, no. “Have a good day, Brylee.”

  “Call me Bry.”

  And she’s still beside me, in her pink gown. The nurse at the desk nods at her like they know each other.

  Huh.

  “Bry,” I say.

  Like Bright. It fits.

  She gives me a sweet smile, and I can’t help but smile back. What is it with this girl? She’s half-crazy, and still I can’t help being drawn to her. I find her craziness…cute.

  Clearly the painkillers are affecting my mind.

  That’s when the nurse decides to turn her attention to me.

  “Your mom is awake, hon,” she tells me. “Go reassure her everything’s okay. She might be a little disoriented.”

  “Thanks.”

  So much for keeping the reason I’m here to myself.

  Then the nurse turns to Brylee. “And they’re waiting for you.”

  “They?” I echo, nonplussed.

  The nurse winks at me and turns away to talk to another guy asking for directions.

  What’s going on here?

  Brylee offers no explanation. She waves at me and flounces away, leaving me to stare after her.

  Color me confused.

  But Mom is waiting, and I have enough problems of my own without adding
a cute Trouble with a capital T to the list—no matter how bright.

  Chapter Nine

  Angel Dongs

  Ryan

  I step out of the gym to flurries of snow. The ground is already covered, and despite the cars passing by, there’s that crisp quiet in the air I associate with snow.

  It’s like being inside a snow globe, and I grin as I tilt my face up to the light gray clouds, letting the flakes tickle my cheeks. I’ve always loved snow. Back when our family home wasn’t a museum but a real home, warm and bright, with flames leaping in the fireplace and flowers in the vase on the table…

  Yeah. Way to spoil the mood.

  With a sigh, I head toward my car, shouldering my duffel bag, my sneakers crunching lightly in the thin white cover of the sidewalk.

  That’s when I see him.

  Riddick.

  I’m pretty damn sure it’s him, although I’ve only seen him once, and what does that say about me?

  He’s taken cover in the entrance of a shop across the street, and he’s smoking, eyes closed, one arm braced on the wall.

  He looks unreal in the falling snow. With dark hair falling in his eyes, that strong body nonchalantly leaning to the side, his jacket open and his T-shirt stretched over his chest, he looks like a movie star, like… a rebel without a cause or something.

  Or maybe I’m still high on endorphins from my work-out and can’t think straight.

  And yet my feet refuse to move away. I study the breadth of his shoulders, his long legs, his strong jaw, the way even from a distance his mouth looks kissable. Fuckable.

  The hell’s wrong with me?

  With a grunt, I start to turn away, still staring at him, goddammit—when I see him step onto the sidewalk, and falter.

  What the—?

  I’m crossing the street before my brain has issued a conscious command, jogging between cars as he stumbles a little, the cigarette falling from his hand.

  “Riddick!” I yell his name, as if that will stop him from dropping like a stone before I reach him.

  Slipping in the thin layer of snow, I make a desperate grab for his arm as he starts going down.

  It’s like those slow-motion moments in films.

  I grab him.

  Bracing my feet against the slippery inch of snow, I haul him against me, gritting my teeth as he sags in my hold. The guy isn’t a lightweight. He’s slender but packed with hard muscle and weighs probably as much as I do.