Dirty Princes: A Standalone MMF Romantic Comedy

by Jo Raven

  I process this. “So… what’s this for you? A challenge?” She turns away, but I catch a gleam in her eye that makes me snort in disbelief. “It is, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not a challenge. It’s a goal. I reach my goals. I follow my plans through.”

  “But you don’t like him.” Isn’t that fucking essential to a relationship?

  “He’s very handsome.”

  No argument there. “And that’s enough?”

  “The only way to be where you want to be in ten, twenty years, is to follow your goals.”

  “Not your dreams?”

  “Dreams. Pff.” She sits down across from me, in the seat Ryan vacated, and examines her nails. They’re painted a hot pink. “Dreams don’t pay off. Objectives do.”

  “Come on, Bry. You’re too young to be so cynical.”

  “Am I?”

  What’s going on here? I reach for her hand across the table, and she lets me take it. “Why are you so scared of the future?”

  Like me. Always running and never getting anywhere. Always getting distracted by hope and never seeing it come true. No wonder the future scares me.

  She studies our hands, folded together on the scratched table top. “I’m not afraid. It doesn’t feel like fear. It’s more like…a promise.”

  “A promise to who?”

  But she pulls her hand away. “I should get going, too.”

  “Yeah, Princess. Run away from the Big Bad Wolf.”

  She frowns at me. “You’re mixing up stories. I…”

  “Nah. You’re the one mixing up things, Princess.” I put my hand on her face, and her lips part on a sharp breath. “I wanna kiss you. I’ve wanted to since the first time I saw you. You’re so pretty. Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

  She swallows hard. “Rid…”

  “Tell me you don’t want me to kiss you. Say it.”

  “I can’t…”

  “I don’t care about that. Tell me what you want.”

  Her skin is hot under my palm, hot and soft like a butterfly wing. Her eyes are so big they look like moons. “You know what I want.”

  “You’re obsessed with a story. Life ain’t no Disney movie, sweetheart. And you don’t need a prince for a happy ending.”

  “What would you know about it?”

  Good point. Still… “Tell me you don’t want me. That you’re not wondering what it would feel like to get naked with me. To kiss, and to fuck. How it would feel if I touched you. If I went down on you. How good I could make it for you.”

  She stands up and steps back, away from me. Her breathing is uneven, her tits rising and falling as if she’s been running. “I’m not wondering.”

  “Keep telling yourself that,” I tell her, my voice going sharp. “Take care of yourself, Princess.”

  I’m tired.

  Tired of wanting things I can’t have. Simple things, like a functional family, like not fearing for the lives of my mom and brother, not having to kill myself working for the rent.

  Not coming home to an empty apartment. It’s damn lonely.

  It’s damn sad.

  At least she’s going after what she desires. Who am I to knock it? Ryan is handsome, he has money, and hey, he saved my ass from falling the other day. Maybe he’s nice, deep inside. Maybe he’ll change his mind and haul Brylee to Vegas for a weekend wedding.

  Maybe that’s what will make them both happy. Who am I to stand in the way, even if it all seems so fucking wrong?

  What the fuck do I know, right?

  Chapter Twelve

  Rock Hard Baba

  Ryan

  The long living room is chilly, the corner sconces barely shedding any light. Outside the bay windows, the day is gray, a light layer of snow on the ground giving the world a washed-out cast.

  “You’re not eating,” my father says.

  I squint at him. He’s a dim, dark figure at the other end of the goddamn miles-long dining table, his fork a tiny spark in the dark when he lifts it to his mouth.

  “I am eating.” I move the potatoes around in my plate. Spear one.

  Glance again at the window.

  “You should take care of your health.”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Are you?”

  Such a déjà vu scene.

  I lift the potato to my mouth, bite into it.

  “You’re very quiet lately,” my father says. “Something is on your mind.”

  “No, sir.”

  “It wasn’t a question.”

  Are those flurries of snow swirling outside the crystal glass?

  “Your doctor,” my father says, “has told me that you haven’t been in for a check-up in the past six months.”

  I tear my gaze from the falling snow, real or imaginary, to look at him. “You interrogated my doctor?”

  He huffs. Pats his mouth with a napkin. “Interrogated. I asked, that’s all. Just making sure you’re not neglecting yourself.”

  I take a calming breath. “I’m fine. No need for a check-up. I’m careful.”

  “Careful? You mean you’re not living.”

  What the hell?

  I swallow the angry words. “I live my life. You taught me to be careful.”

  “I may have done too good a job.”

  “What’s that even supposed to mean?” Distantly I hear my fork clatter on my plate.

  “Calm down, Ryan.”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down.” My linen napkin has fallen. I gather it up again, my hand shaking. “I’m calm.”

  He doesn’t comment on this blatant lie.

  Good.

  I try to return to my lunch, but it’s useless. Not only can’t I work up any appetite, controlling the urge to throw my fucking plate against the wall is taking up all my concentration.

  A fork clinking against a china plate. A tiny creak of a chair. A grandfather clock ticking away the minutes and the hours.

  The days.

  “Your mom,” my father says, “would have wanted you to have a full life.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s dead, so that’s all bullshit.”

  “Goddammit!” He slams his hand on the table. “Ryan Prince Dawson, that’s not the way to talk to your father.”

  I throw the napkin on my plate, on top of my mostly untouched food, my heart doing a funny triple beat that scares me. “You know what? I’m not hungry anymore. Have a good day.”

  “Don’t you just walk away like that.”

  The fuck I’m not. I’m out of here like a bat out of hell.

  ***

  Never argued with my father like that. The weight on my chest lingers the following days.

  If I’m completely honest with myself, it’s been there for a while now.

  Since I walked out of Riddick’s apartment and made my decision to stick to my rules for good. No thinking of him or Brylee. Not talking to them.

  No jerking off to them, either.

  No exceptions.

  It’s the only way.

  That’s what I repeat to myself over and over again as I work, as I go to the water cooler, as I enter the meeting room, my head full of numbers and client details.

  I’m doing what I have to do. Of all people, my father should understand. Like I said, he was the one who instilled the importance of keeping the schedule in me. The importance of following every rule and every precaution to the letter.

  Damn, his words burned. They burrowed deep, hitting home, hitting way too hard.

  I rub at my chest as I park outside the gym, and sit there, just breathing.

  Is it true? Would Mom disapprove of me? Am I turning into my father? Am I doing it all wrong?

  And Christ, why worry about it now? I’m a goddamn adult, no matter what my father seems to think.

  I still can’t believe he went and asked my doctor. What about doctor-patient confidentiality? What did he do, pull rank on her from their military days together?

  For chrissakes.

  Gathering my bag, I climb out of m
y car and march into the gym, glancing around. Still looking for two familiar faces, despite my resolution.

  Lame, Ryan.

  I haven’t seen Riddick since that evening in his apartment. He hasn’t been at the gym, or lounging around here.

  Not that I’ve been checking.

  Yeah, I’m a bad liar.

  And as for Brylee… I’ve seen her at the office. Hard to avoid each other when we have to attend meetings together sometimes, or just passing each other in the corridor.

  But she hasn’t come on to me again. Hasn’t accidentally crashed into me, or “ignored” me. Not once.

  Is she pissed at me for the way I left last time?

  And why do you care? Don’t tell me you miss her?

  Shut up, I tell the annoying little voice that has grown louder lately. You know nothing.

  Unbelievably, laughter echoes inside my head.

  Oh, fucking awesome.

  ***

  More days pass. I fight the snarky little voice, fight the madness. The need.

  I also ignore my father’s phone calls. I don’t need to hear again how I should visit the doctor, how I should be careful while leading a wild life, free of fear.

  He makes no sense. And I’m confused enough with myself without his input. I’m annoyed at myself. I thought I had more self-control. More discipline. What have I been doing all these years if I can’t let this go?

  Steeling myself, my resolve, I try to find the focus I had a few weeks ago. I read more about computer programming and dive back into War and Peace, a gift from my Uncle Gordon. He’s the brother of my mom, which is why I picked it up again.

  As if it will hold answers, or her voice.

  I have trouble getting into the story. Plus, the voice sounds nothing like her. She’d laugh at the seriousness of classic literature.

  I persevere, though, because it is a classic, and it beats the war biographies my father gives me every Christmas.

  The thought strikes me I could go out and buy books on my own. Decide on the spot what I want to read. Maybe a comedy. Or a thriller. Mom would have liked the spontaneity of that.

  Oh yeah, perfect. I’m trying to take my mind off Brylee and Riddick, off the possibility of meeting them by chance or seeking them out, and instead of thinking how to achieve that, I want to become more spontaneous?

  Son of a bitch.

  I should settle down. Rediscover my interest in boating and fishing. Take a weekend off, drive to the cabin at the lake, and relax.

  Yeah, that’s what I should do. And if for some strange reason the thought of staying at the cabin alone for two days has my heart tripping, that means nothing. As soon as I’m away from all this, from all the people, things will uncomplicate themselves.

  It will all be like before.

  It has to.

  ***

  The drive to Lake Geneva isn’t long. I make it in less than an hour, the road familiar although I haven’t been down here in years.

  The few times I came here with my father, after Mom passed away, it was kind of awkward, and then I’d come on my own.

  My father hasn’t come here since, as far as I know. He sure is a creature of habit.

  And I’m turning into him.

  Okay, enough. I’m here to relax, stop obsessing about things out of my control. It’s quiet, the rustle of foliage overhead soothing. I park outside the lake house and lug my bag and laptop to the porch, the soles of my shoes crunching on the frozen leaves as I climb up the steps.

  The key sticks a little in the lock, but then it clicks and the door opens. I step inside.

  Dust covers everything. There are white sheets spread over the furniture. Huge paintings hang on the walls. There’s a smell of pine wood and something chemical.

  It’s not a big house, compared to others down the lake shore. It has been in my father’s family for generations, altered by each passing owner, so that it’s a mish-mash of styles. Heavy furniture of shiny mahogany that I reveal by throwing off the covers—followed by a fit of sneezing at the clouds of dust—and thick, perhaps Persian carpets, combined with a rustic fireplace and sleek steel light fixtures on the ceiling.

  Huge windows open over the lake, and there’s a hot tub on the terrace below. I glance outside. The lake looks still. No boats. Heavy clouds are hanging overhead.

  I find some dry wood and start up a fire in the fireplace, to drive out the dank chill that seems to be seeping into my bones with every passing minute. Soon enough there are yellow flames jumping and I sit back on the rug, staring into them.

  More déjà vu: my mom sitting here with me, teasing me, ruffling my hair. She laughed so much. Teased me mercilessly at every opportunity—about my hairdo, about my interest in programming, about something I said—and it never bothered me. It was good-natured ribbing. Affectionate. She was so funny and full of life.

  Like Brylee.

  Fuck, don’t go there, not again.

  Groaning at myself, I get up and go check the bedrooms. Also dusty, and the sheets have strange stains I hope are mold and not the product of some very sick animals. I rip everything off and go in search of clean linen.

  I find some in the downstairs closet, and climb back up the stairs to change them.

  This used to be my room, way back when. It has a view to the lake and the dark, brooding trees. Sometimes I climbed out of the window and down the house. If Mom had known, she’d have had a heart attack.

  She had one later, anyway.

  And Jesus Christ, will my mind stop flashing to all the things I want to forget for just one fucking moment?

  I drop the sheets and walk out of the bedroom, slamming my fist into the wood-paneled wall as I go.

  With no one around to distract me from my thoughts—not that I ever needed it before—this weekend is promising to be one long motherfucker…

  ***

  Fishing in the early morning on the lake is like being inside a winter dream. White and blue and the shadow of the trees as I cast my line and look around. So quiet. Peaceful. A bird lets out a single trill, then falls silent.

  My father taught me how to bait and fish. Bass and trout and perch and walleye, we often brought something back. My father gutted and cleaned the fish, and then grilled it on the terrace, while my mom made one of her wonderful salads—colorful and—

  Stop. I splash into the water in my rubber boots, not caring that the cold is numbing my feet. I didn’t come here to escape my thoughts of Brylee and Riddick only to be tortured by memories of Mom.

  Anyway, this is where I learned to fish, and I don’t have to think much as I check my lines and watch the silvery surface of the water, letting the calm of the place enter me.

  Try to enter me. It sort of keeps glancing off the skin of my thoughts, like they’re encased in steel. As if my thoughts are blades and the calm is made of cotton clouds.

  Blades circling back to the city. Why didn’t Brylee come talk to me again? Has she given up on me? And is it any wonder with the way I’ve been pretending she doesn’t exist, with my curt replies to everything she says? It’s a miracle she’s held on for so long.

  And Riddick, did his brother stay home, safe from harm? Is his back okay? Who’s taking care of him?

  Focus on the lines, Ryan. See if the fish are biting.

  Maybe I should move up the shore, find a better spot. Rain is coming.

  I gather my things, reel in my lines, and set off along the sandy shore, toward the house of our closest neighbor, a huge mansion with a swimming pool and tennis court, outlined against the gray sky.

  Setting up everything again takes my mind off things for a while. I welcome the emptiness inside my head with relief. In the distance, a dog barks, answered by another. The wind blowing over the lake brings the scent of rain and cold.

  Wrapping myself better in my rain poncho, I fold my arms over my chest, letting my gaze skim over the lake like a flat stone. Houses loom across the water, enormous, rectangular shadows. A few boats sway on the
ripples, moored to small piers.

  This is what I need. This—

  “Boy!”

  The booming voice jerks me from my contemplation of the still water. I know that voice, it’s—

  “It’s me, Harold Douglas, your neighbor!”

  Yeah, I’d guessed as much. “Hey.”

  “You haven’t been up here in ages. Look at you, you’re all grown up from that scrawny little boy I used to know!”

  Whereas he hasn’t changed one bit. Tall and wide like a fridge, he claps my back, almost sending me into the water. His icy-blue eyes twinkle over his thick blond beard.

  “Caught anything yet? What bait are you using? Is your father with you?”

  “No, he’s—”

  “I bet he stayed in the city. The countryside is too untidy for him.” He laughs, a deep echoing sound.

  “I didn’t—”

  “Cheer up, boy! Why so blue? You look like you’re heading for prison, not fishing. You’re here to have fun, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah…”

  “God above, your mom would have scolded you. You look like someone kicked your puppy.”

  Heat is crawling up my neck. “I’m fine.”

  And it’s none of your damn business.

  “Your mother was a fine girl. Such a happy-go-lucky person. I never understood why she married your father, unless it was to cheer him up!”

  Now I’m getting annoyed. “I’m sure she saw something in him others couldn’t,” I snap and walk away, leaving my lines and baits lying there, too pissed off to care.

  My father is quiet and kind. He’s not very sociable, not very loud. He doesn’t laugh easily, doesn’t crack jokes.

  And I’m a lot more like him than I want to admit.

  If he deserved a chance to be happy…then so do I.

  Right?

  ***

  I pack my things and return to the city. Inner peace, whatever. Not a glimpse of it. I drive through snow falling, the wipers swishing, and somehow I feel calmer than I had at the lake house.

  Calmer and yet excited, and what the hell does this mean, huh? Excited about what? Going back to my empty, silent apartment? Watching my series and eating my healthy Lean Cuisine dinner?

  And that’s exactly what I do when I get home. The same routines. Pacing my apartment. Exercising with my light dumbbells. Watching TV. Looking out the window. Eating without appetite.