ROYAL

by Renshaw, Winter

  The only other time I’d heard Mom utter those words was when Royal left.

  Dad reaches across the table, palming the top of her hand.

  “Your wedding,” Mom says, looking up at me.

  “I’m not worried about that,” I say. “What I am worried about is how I’m going to pay back the hundred and seventy grand he racked up in credit cards. In my name.”

  “What?” Dad’s expression tightens.

  “Going to need your help on that,” I say.

  “That makes no sense.” Derek adjusts the knot of his tie. The man can’t dress down to save his life, not since he finished law school. “Brooks has money. He manages money. He’s always been against credit cards. Buys everything in cash.”

  I blow a tuft of hair from my face. “Yeah. Well. Just another one of his mastermind manipulations.”

  “Where was all that money going?” Mom asks.

  My shoulders lift and fall. “They were all cash advances, all taken from various ATMs in the tri-county area. We’ll never know.”

  Dad’s breathing grows so loud that we all check to see if it’s our black lab, Louie, snoring in the corner. His knotty hands knead together as he concentrates on the floral centerpiece ahead of him.

  Delilah whispers in my ear, asking if I’m okay, and I nod. It’s not easy telling my parents what they don’t want to hear, but I’m feeling lighter now that it’s all out.

  “I wanted to wait,” I say. “I was going to wait until Brooks was better. Recovered. I wanted to do this gracefully because I know how people talk, and I know how this looks. Believe me. If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t believe the timing either.”

  Dad’s heavy gaze finds mine, and he exhales slowly.

  “But I couldn’t stand being next to him another minute. Not after everything he’d done.” I look to Derek, and his lips form a straight line. I’m starting to think his body language is more about his disappointment in Brooks than me. I square my shoulders with his. “I’m sorry, Derek.”

  “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about, kid,” he says.

  I wear a weary smile. He hasn’t called me kid since we were . . . kids. As he’s just a year older than me, he always had to remind me that he was the older one.

  “Brooks is a piece of shit, as far as I’m concerned,” Derek says. “And thank God you’ve got access to two of the fiercest prosecuting attorneys in the state of New York.”

  Mom nods, though she still looks like she’s in a daze.

  “How are you doing over there, Bliss?” Dad asks. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine, Robert. Just disappointed. It’s Royal all over again.” Mom’s words suck the oxygen from the room, and we all snap our gazes toward her.

  Royal’s name hasn’t been muttered in this house in seven painstakingly long years.

  “I never should’ve gotten attached,” she says. “I just can’t help it. I treat everyone like family. I love everyone like family. You just never expect them to let you down.”

  Her words dwindle to near inaudible levels, and then she stands, releases a sigh, and leaves the room.

  Dad and Derek exchange looks, and Delilah nudges me.

  “I saw Royal last week,” I blurt before I chicken out.

  Derek’s neck snaps back, his hands dragging down his face.

  “What did you say?” My father shifts his entire body toward me.

  “Actually,” I say, “I’ve been seeing a lot of him lately. He came by last week after he heard about Brooks. He’s actually been helping me—”

  Dad stands, his way of telling me the conversation is over.

  “Dad, hear her out,” Delilah says.

  He shakes his head, stomping toward the kitchen, where he yanks a bottle of wine from the wine fridge and proceeds to pour himself a generous glass.

  “Royal did something very bad, Demetria,” he says after taking a heavy sip. “He’s not the person you think he is.”

  I shake my head. “Then tell me. Tell me what he did. I’m twenty-five years old. I deserve to know. I can handle it.”

  His gray eyes are hooded, and he looks exhausted, though I suspect it’s more emotional than anything else.

  “I can’t, Demi. I’ve protected you this long,” he says. “You’re better off not knowing. Let’s put it that way. Remember the good things about him, because this is the kind of thing you can never un-learn. This will shadow all those good memories. All those happy times. I’ve never wanted to take those away from you.”

  “He’s innocent,” I say.

  Dad scoffs. “You don’t even know what he did; how can you say he’s innocent?”

  “I . . . I just know. It’s a gut feeling. He’s a good man. You need to meet him—the person he’s become. I want to bring him for Thanksgiving next week.” I release my hand from Delilah’s and go to my father. “Please. Give him a chance to redeem himself.”

  He takes a swig of wine and flashes a hopeless frown. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard criminals profess their innocence? People like that lie all the time, about everything. They make a joke out of God-fearing people like us.”

  “People like that?” I mimic his words. “Royal is one of us. He practically grew up under this roof. He played outside with us. He unwrapped Christmas presents under our tree. You were more of a father to him than all of his foster fathers combined. How can you just stand there and act like he’s trash?”

  “Demetria.” The low hum of his voice is a warning I refuse to heed.

  “You threw him away. He needed you, and you threw him away.” I shake my head, hands seconds from fishing my keys from my pockets. I have to leave. Now. “I thought you were better than that.”

  “He’s not the kind of man I want associating with my daughter.” He huffs, his shoulders puffing as he lifts his wine goblet to his lips. “Anyone who would do something so vile, so disgusting, doesn’t deserve a seat at my table. Royal’s not welcome here, and I made that very clear to him seven years ago.”

  The room spins around me, everything a blur.

  Next thing I know, I’m seated in the front seat of my car, pounding the steering wheel with my fist and biting my lip to keep from falling apart. My foot presses against the brake pedal until it hits the floor, and I slam the shifter into reverse.

  Salty tears fog my gaze, but I see the outline of a man approaching my car. I blink them away and see Derek.

  Rolling down my window, I snap at him. “What do you want?”

  He shoves his hands in the pockets of his navy slacks and bends at the waist.

  “Just checking on you,” he says. “I know it was intense in there, but you have to know that Dad just wants to protect you.”

  “From what?” I spit my words, slapping my visor up against the roof and sinking back into my seat.

  Derek licks his lips, lifts his brows, and stares through my car, out my passenger window.

  “You know,” I say. “You know what happened. Oh my God. Derek. Tell me.”

  His lips form a circle, and he releases a loaded breath. “I looked it up once in law school. We had access to closed case files—you know, the kind where the victims are young and their identities need to be protected.”

  My heart races faster than it’s ever raced before. A million times I’d tried some haphazard internet research, hoping for some kind of article or docket summary. I’d always come up empty-handed, and it makes sense now.

  “It’s bad, Demi.” His works sink me. “It’s so bad, I don’t even want to believe it’s true.”

  “Do you?” I ask. “Do you believe it’s true?”

  His sweatered shoulders lift to his ears. “There was evidence. And he pled guilty. So . . .”

  “He had to take a plea deal. He told me that.”

  “No one has to take a plea deal, Demi.”

  “I’m sure he was doing whatever his attorney told him to do, Derek. For Christ’s sake, he was nineteen and scared and alone.” My eyes burn, and the image of a youn
g Royal sitting in some jail cell with no one on the other side to help him makes me want to peel out of this driveway and go be with him. Hold him. Tell him I believe him, and that whatever it was—whatever happened—it’s in the past.

  “That’s what I want to believe,” he says. “But all I know is that there were two witnesses with air-tight, corroborating statements, as well as physical evidence.”

  “Physical evidence?”

  Derek lowers himself further, pressing his forehead against his arm as it rests against my open window.

  “I know you’re going to go to him.” His voice is muffled until he looks up at me. “I know nothing anyone says is going to change your mind. Just . . . be careful. He may not be who you think he is.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Royal

  She acts surprised to see me Monday night, her jaw hanging and her eyes round and wide.

  “Can I come in?” I hoist the empty cardboard boxes in my arms and nod toward her foyer.

  “Yeah, of course.” She steps away, almost studying me.

  “Thought you could use some help packing,” I say. “Or at least some boxes. I assume you’re moving out soon?”

  She carries a couple of boxes to her kitchen island. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Why are you acting so strange?” I laugh before cupping her waist and drawing her into me. “You’re being all formal. Did you forget about Saturday night?”

  “I went to your place yesterday,” she says. “You weren’t home. And you didn’t answer your phone.”

  Cupping her face, I kiss her forehead and move to her mouth. I’ve been craving those lips since Sunday morning.

  “Painted my car yesterday, was at the shop until midnight. Worked a twelve today. I’m sorry, Dem.” I kiss her again. “Believe me, I’d much rather have been with you.”

  “I couldn’t get my job back.” Her body is rigid, tense. There’s something colder about her today. There’s undeniable distance in her pale blue eyes. “Principal McClean refuses. I’m sure Brenda Abbott has everything to do with it too. She’s friends with her. She’s the one who got me placed on permanent leave in the first place.”

  “You’re a teacher. You can get a job anywhere.” I kiss the tip of her nose, moving to the sides of her mouth and trailing down her neck. I could eat her alive, she’s so fucking delicious.

  “Royal . . .”

  Sliding my hands down her thighs, I cup her ass and lift her on top of the counter. Our stares hold, and her eyes wince like she’s concentrating.

  “What are you thinking about?” I ask.

  “I told my parents about you.” Her words come in one long exhale.

  “Ah, shit.”

  “Or at least Dad and Derek.”

  “And?”

  “Dad freaked out. Said you did something disgusting.”

  “Of course he said that.” I smack my tongue, hooking my hands on my hips and staring off. Those were the words he used that night, too.

  “And Derek knows,” she says. I glance up at her, watching as she chews the inner corner of her pouty lip. “He’s known since law school. Guess he had access to some confidential files. But he wouldn’t say much. Legally . . . he can’t.” She inhales, her entire body shifting. “Did you hurt someone, Royal?”

  “No.” My hands find hers. “Demi, how much do you know?”

  “I don’t know anything.” Her hair drips down her shoulder when she tilts her face to her left side, her eyes never leaving mine. “But I want to know . . .”

  She lifts my hands and drops them in her lap, dragging her fingers between mine.

  “These hands . . .” she says, interlacing hers with mine. My hands have touched her lips, traced her body, knotted in her hair, and pleasured her from the inside out. “How bad can they be?”

  “I wouldn’t touch you—I wouldn’t come anywhere near you—if I was a bad person, Demi. I swear to you.”

  “Then why’d you stay away? Tell me the truth.”

  I clear my throat. “We’ve already had this conversation. Your dad warned me to stay away from you. And you seemed happy. Happy without me.”

  “Bullshit. I don’t buy that.” Demi releases my hands, folding them across her chest. “Those are weak reasons, Royal.”

  “It’s more complicated than that.” My body grows hot, then cold, then numb. And my stomach churns. The heaviness consuming my chest steals my breath.

  I have to tell her . . .

  . . . I have to tell her everything . . .

  . . . before I lose her forever.

  “Society has labeled me a monster,” I begin, bracing my stance.

  Three loud thumps on the door send my heart into my chest.

  Demi slides off the counter and tiptoes to the foyer. I stay back, out of sight, and watch the flash of red, white, and blue lights from the driveway shine in through the front windows.

  “What’s this about?” Demi asks.

  “Ma’am, this is your eviction notice,” a sheriff’s deputy says.

  “Seriously? Are the lights really necessary?” She yanks the paper from his hand and peers up and down the street. I’m sure her neighbors are all peeking out from behind their custom Roman shades. “A little overkill, don’t you think?”

  “You have twenty-four hours to vacate the premises.”

  Demi slams the door and shuffles back, her hands digging into her scalp and the eviction notice floating to the floor in a crumpled ball.

  “How can Brooks evict you?” I ask.

  “He owns this house, remember? When we moved in, he made me sign a lease. You know, to protect both of us. But I never paid rent. He never wanted me to me pay a single penny. This was just a formality.” She slumps over the island. “So yeah, legally, since I haven’t paid any rent to him—ever—he can serve me with an eviction notice.”

  “Fuck that asshole.”

  She turns to me, dark hair covering her face, and huffs. “Fuck him so hard. In the ass. God, I hope he goes to prison. Screw it. I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure he spends time behind bars, and it’s not going to be some white-collar minimum security retreat either.”

  “Demi.” I grab the flap of a cardboard box and drag it off the counter. “Let’s channel this energy on productive things. Like getting you all moved out before that asshat deputy comes back tomorrow with a padlock for the door and a pair of handcuffs for you. You’re too pretty for jail anyway. Those women would fucking feast on you . . .”

  I slip my hands behind her ass and cup her perfect cheeks, pressing her against me.

  “Stop.” She tries not to smile as she smacks my chest. “Fine. Let’s pack. And let’s make sure we accidentally pack some of his shit.”

  “Which will of course get lost in the move, because that’s just what happens sometimes . . .”

  “You’re bad.”

  Her smile fades for a second, and maybe she’s replaying our pre-eviction notice conversation in her head.

  I need to think fast. Distract her. Anything to keep from having to tell her yet. We’re on the right track. I think she could love me again. I just need a little more time with her, a little more time to remind her that I’m not what they say I am. I didn’t do anything wrong. And I love her just as much now as I ever did before.

  And maybe the truth is, I’m the one who’s not ready. Because if I tell Demi what happened, and she doesn’t believe me?

  I’ll lose her.

  All over again.

  Forever.

  And I can’t fucking live without this woman.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Demi

  His lips silence my thoughts, absorbing my curiosity, albeit temporarily. My hands hook his broad shoulders and my nails snake through his soft, thick hair, raking his scalp. I pull back for a moment because I want to look into his eyes, and when I do, I see a bad boy and a good man, and I’m not sure how that can be.

  His metallic scent fills my lungs, and the
thought of his dirty hands all over me makes my body hum with life. His fingers tug at the hem of my shirt before boldly slipping under and caressing my breasts.

  I draw in a slick breath and hold it as he massages the ache in my peaked buds. Lifting the shirt, he brings his mouth to one of my nipples, drawing it in with gentle, warm sucks and flicking it with his tongue.

  I can’t breathe, my head falling back.

  The window by the breakfast nook is uncovered, and I’m sure the Manchesters across the street are getting an eyeful, but I’m too preoccupied to care. I never did like them anyway.

  This street is pretentious as hell, and I never really belonged here anyway. This was all Brooks’s doing.

  Royal’s hands clutch my sides and he wraps my thighs against his side. He kisses my neck before cupping my ass and sliding me off the kitchen island. I hook my arms around his neck as he carries me toward the foyer.

  “Where are you taking me?” My words are a breathless whisper, and certainly not a protest.

  He doesn’t answer. He only carries me up the stairs, one by one, making me feel light and weightless in his hold. My stomach swarms with butterflies, and my heart pulses with each step.

  Turning the corner at the top, I slide off him, and his hands press into my hips, guiding me backward until we hit a wall. A framed portrait of Brooks and me falls, the glass popping out of the frame.

  When I glance down to look at it, Royal cups my chin and redirects my attention to him.

  “Fuck that guy,” he whispers before claiming my mouth again. His kiss is harder this time, more in control than ever before. But I have to admit, he was always in control.

  This man is my weakness.

  I’m addicted, and he’s my fix.

  Royal’s mouth drags from mine, his thumb pressing into my collarbone as he lowers his mouth to my belly. Pushing my shirt out of the way, he unbuttons my jeans and slides them down, along with my panties, and peels them off.

  Spreading my thighs, the next thing I feel is the warmth of his wet tongue invading my damp center. His finger slides between my seam, pressing inside me as he circles my clit.

  I have to brace myself against the wall when my thighs shake. The scruff of his five o’clock shadow brushes against my inner thighs, creating a sweet trifecta of sensations.