Royally Hung

by Anne Marsh

  This one’s for you, Lot’s wife.

  I punch my right hand up into the air and I flip Dare the bird as I leave.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dare

  After I put the kibosh on Edee’s picture taking, I may have stormed out of the house and headed to the Strip. They have bars there, and I need a drink. I’d like to say I take on Sin City, the picture of princely elegance and restraint, but I gave up lying to myself for New Year’s. Fucking resolution’s a bitch to keep.

  So yes, I stomp, growl, and glower way too much as I stride into the first casino I see. Do I have a specific destination in mind? No, no, I do not. I just know that I need to put some space between me and our house.

  Our house.

  You hear it, too, right? The whole point of this marital exercise is to remain single. To avoid becoming part of a couple, a king-and-queen pair. Instead, I’m half of a we, and we just had our first fight. Edee signed an NDA. No commitment, no relationship, no pictures. We don’t even have a tacky wedding picture of the two of us with Elvis (which might be an oversight on my part—imagine Queenie’s reaction). Am I supposed to feel better that she claims the pictures are for her own personal use? That she would never, ever share them with the rest of the world?

  Not a bit.

  Because I’ve been down this path before. Today’s private pictures are tomorrow’s Internet sensation. The problem is that the farther I get from Edee, the more my righteous indignation fades and I feel like a four-year-old throwing a royal tantrum. Worse, Nik still hasn’t shown up and Queenie’s calls are now coming hourly.

  I need a drink.

  Fortunately, it’s Vegas. There are more bars than Starbucks. All I have to do is decide if I want to turn left or right. There’s some kind of faux English pub horribly named The Royal Arms—that will do. I go in and belly up to the bar. Mr. Left and Mr. Right take up their standard positions, one on one side and the other by the door. Christ. Even my mistakes can’t be private.

  I contemplate this while I order a drink. Whiskey on the rocks, for those of you keeping track at home. A nice, neat, drink—one that makes it easy to get drunk. Except that’s too efficient. I need one of those flamboyant drinks, the girly ones with umbrellas and Fourth of July sparklers and a dozen different sugary liquors. Because I deserve public humiliation for this one.

  It doesn’t take long for someone in the bar to recognize me and make a move. The woman in the sparkly blue cocktail dress who slides onto the barstool beside me is probably a perfectly nice person. I’m sure she has a kitten or a puppy or a pet guppy that adores her, and that she wears jeans and T-shirts like any normal person when she’s not hanging out at a Vegas bar.

  She’s fast and she’s slick. She’s got her ass planted on the barstool and her hand on my leg before Mr. Left can intervene. I decide to call her Butter. I wave off Mr. Left when he approaches double-time. Her dress is way too small to be concealing weapons.

  “What’s wrong, sugar?” She leans in as if we’re the best of friends.

  “I fucked up,” I confess.

  “I’m a good listener.”

  I’ll just bet she is, so I lean backward and gesture for the bartender to bring her a drink. And then what the fuck, right? This isn’t the confessional and nothing I say is confidential, but I tell her part of the truth anyhow.

  “I made my girl cry. I wasn’t nice.”

  “Honey,” she says, her voice whiskey-rough, “that comes with the territory. If you’ve got a penis, you’re bound to screw things up.”

  “I need to fix it.”

  “Buy out the store,” she teases. “Flowers. Diamonds. Show her what she’s missing.”

  And since I’m not screwing my way out of this one—and I can’t do any of the thousand and one dirty things on my Jones To Do List—I take Blue Dress’s advice. I’ll let my black AmEx do the talking for me, as it’s never let me down yet.

  * * *

  * * *

  Edee

  Have you ever picked the biggest, fanciest chocolate from the box and been disappointed when you bite into it because the cute little decorative curls and the rich eat-me scent turn out to be the best part and the insides don’t match up to the outsides? Hopes dashed, calories wasted? False advertising sucks, whether it’s in candy or men.

  I’m sitting on my bed at my place, staring at a veritable treasure trove.

  Clearly Dare’s sorry.

  On the outside at least.

  From the size of the fancy, gift-wrapped box a private messenger delivered to my stepmother’s front doorstep (and glee), he’s possibly as contrite as he’s capable of being—and like everything important in his life, it’s measured in inches. The twenty-four inches of Kate Spade spread out over my bed is certainly drool worthy and any other day I would have orgasmed over the leather camera bag with the trademark polka dots and bows and the state-of-the-art camera nestled inside it. The flamingo pink leather is truly gorgeous and no photographer could complain about the hardware—it’s the way the present makes me feel that isn’t so hot.

  I know he means well and that his I’m sorry comes with some very tangible benefits, but I don’t want handbags or thousand dollar lenses. And as much fun as it would be to stuff my closet with every Kate Spade product known to womankind, Kate can’t fix what went wrong. She’s not the one who caused the problem. Dare doesn’t trust me. And he can’t be bothered to say the words, not when he can just have something gift wrapped and couriered over.

  So . . . I can accept his gift and he’ll come back until he’s good and done with me. Or I suppose until I’m good and done with him because I’m a firm believer in equal opportunity dumping. But this gift isn’t really about us, about who we could be together as a couple. It’s about his past and what being a prince has taught him. That relationships crash and burn (sometimes literally), that everyone wants a piece of him, and that feelings come with price tags. Sure, I’m no relationship expert—but I’m the one holding the Kate Spade bag.

  Now that I think about it, he never asked me why I took his deal. Because he didn’t care. He had the cash and so I’m something he’s bought like a handbag, and if I turn out to be defective or damaged or just not what he wanted after all, he’ll return me as easily as this bag. Or he’ll buy another one and another one. And the funny thing is, that for a man who prides himself on never leaving a woman unsatisfied, he doesn’t realize he’s just chocolate—and not even the best kind. He’s sweet, pretty to look at, and then gone in a bite or two. He doesn’t stick around, he doesn’t fill up any of the empty places inside me because he’s just sugar. And while sugar has its place, a woman cannot live on sugar alone. Trust me. I’ve tried.

  So the question is, am I going to stick around and enjoy the sugar rush while it lasts? Pretend there won’t be—if I’m milking this analogy—a sugar crash? Nope. I’m moving on.

  Before my girl parts can take over the decision-making (we love sugar—we should eat our way through the entire box!), I grab the Kate Spade bag and march into the bathroom. I load it up with every gorgeous, fancy hotel toiletry that I stole from the Royal Palace Resort and Casino until the pretty pink sides are bulging. I don’t need any souvenirs, thank you very much.

  I’d like to say that I get in my car and drive randomly, but that wouldn’t be true. I drive straight to the Royal Palace Casino because I’m a sadist and I want to go back to where it all began. And somehow the Strip seems like exactly the right place to be right now. The casinos sell the fairy tale. One quarter, one dollar, one bet and you can win it all. You’ll be happy, rich, riding high. And for many of us, it’s a fun fantasy. We empty a few bucks into the machines; we have a drink or two. And then we go home, back to reality and our nine-to-fives. A little broker, a little richer—it’s all good.

  But if you look down at the sidewalk and away from the lights, you see some of the people who aren�
��t ever going home. Yes, some of them have made poor choices. Some of them are crazy. And some of them are probably there because life just decided to shit on them and their umbrella had gone AWOL and now here they are, broke, homeless, and sitting on a sidewalk.

  I think those people deserve chocolate, don’t you? Take the woman hunched up into a ball on the corner just down the street from the Royal Palace Resort and Casino. She might be thirty or she could be sixty—the streets of Vegas are not a spa and the four layers of Goodwill that she’s wearing despite the warmth of the night make it even harder to tell. She’s humming to herself and beaming at the passersby who mostly ignore her and the Styrofoam cup she shakes like a castanet.

  “The aliens like sushi,” she whispers when I stop in front of her.

  Awkward much?

  “Santa likes you,” I whisper right back. And then I hand her the pink bag. “Merry Christmas. Enjoy.”

  She’s the one who needs rescuing by Prince Charming—not me.

  * * *

  * * *

  Dare

  Edee’s still AWOL when I slink back into our house. Surely Mr. Left and Mr. Right know where she is. Not that she’s under surveillance or anything, but I need to know.

  Except they come up blank.

  Edee left and I hadn’t left orders to stop her.

  And never mind that it would have been illegal—we all know they’d do it. We’re discussing pulling surveillance tapes when my phone buzzes with an incoming text. I look because it could be Edee, a ransom demand, a dirty picture.

  Except it’s none of those.

  It’s a picture of a very grubby, worn out woman. She looks like her most recent shower occurred last year and she’s wearing the sort of ragged clothes that make Goodwill look like haute couture. She’s holding a coffee cup, a sign announcing that she’s down on her luck and just needs whatever you can spare—and a bright pink Kate Spade bag.

  Edee’s bag.

  Edee doesn’t come back tonight. She doesn’t come back the next day, either. But I can’t let her go as easily as she gave away the bag—and I know where her stepmother lives. I don’t need Mr. Left’s surveillance skills to figure out that that’s the most logical place for her to be.

  Edee lives in a cabana tucked behind her stepmother’s minimansion and a pool with some kind of fake tropical island in the middle. It looks like Krakatoa vomited up its leftovers, all taupe-colored faux rock and the odd palm tree. She also has shit security, which is less fun. I’m over the wall and in her yard in under five minutes. I make a note to get Mr. Left on that right away.

  At first, when I bang on her door, I think she’s not going to open up, but then she cracks the door and peers through the narrow space as if she doesn’t know me or trust me.

  “Let me in?”

  She actually hesitates. I’m bigger and more determined, although I’d rather have an invitation. So I pull out the big guns.

  “Please?”

  She sighs, but steps back. “There’s no point, Dare.”

  And . . . I’m in.

  I try not to act as if I’m taking inventory of her worldly goods, but her place is a studio that’s so small that it’s hard not to. My feet will be in the bathroom if I lie down on her futon. She’s painted the walls a shade of gray that’s probably supposed to be soothing but that reminds me of concrete. Seems like a lot of effort for what’s effectively a closet.

  A closet with a bed. In order to shut the door behind me, I practically have to stand on her bed. Fortunately, the decorations distract from the possibilities of Edee and a mattress. In addition to a thick, white duvet, she’s got about a dozen of those faux fur blankets piled up on top. And pillows. Lots and lots of furry pillows. An entire continent of faux animals has been sacrificed to decorate this space. Not only is it ridiculous, but it’s one hundred degrees outside. This is a Vegas pool house, not an igloo in Antarctica.

  Yes. I’m stalling.

  Edee watches me like she has no clue why I’m here, which doesn’t help. I don’t have any experience with groveling. In fact, I have zero experience—I’m a groveling virgin, but it’s time to pop that cherry.

  “I’m sorry.”

  No poems, no lies, no plans. Does she know how out of character this is for me? That I mean exactly what I say? Even if this is the briefest apology known to mankind?

  You need more words, you idiot.

  She shrugs. “Okay. Apology accepted, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

  She’s wearing a pair of black yoga pants and a fitted gray T-shirt. It might as well be full-body armor—or maybe that’s the chilly look on her face. She’s not smiling, not even a little. I know that life isn’t one big joke, that sometimes you cry and sometimes you mourn the shit that’s gone wrong. King Solomon, when he was an older, even wiser bastard, wrote something about that. He said that there was time for everything—crying, laughing, killing, healing. You keep some shit, but you throw some out. Sometimes you love—and sometimes you hate.

  Yes, I’m waiting for lightning to strike me down, too, but God must be on Edee’s side because the cabana roof isn’t rent asunder—and I can’t help hoping that this isn’t a hating time.

  “Can we talk?”

  Her eyes narrow. “Why would you want to?”

  Why would I want—

  My jaw drops. I must look like the jackass I am because I did not see that question coming.

  “Maybe I’m not done apologizing?”

  Another shrug. “Maybe.”

  “Or maybe it’s because I’m a jackass”—truer words—“and I made a mistake. I overreacted about that photo. I should have thought before I spoke.”

  “You should have trusted me,” she counters. “You should have used your words. Asked a few questions. Instead, you reacted.”

  And it goes without saying that I reacted badly.

  If I’d responded to her picture taking by licking her pussy until she came all over my face, we’d be having a totally different conversation right now. Or not talking at all. Future Me needs to remember this.

  “As soon I took it, I knew it was a mistake,” she continues. “But you didn’t have to act as if I’d committed a felony. Or worse.”

  “People sell pictures.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest. “Not me.”

  “I wanted you to want me for me.” Now it’s my turn to shrug. To pretend that I don’t care so much that I’m shaking with it. I can’t open up that far, be that vulnerable. “Not for who I am or what I can give you.”

  “You’re talking about things,” she says quietly. “I don’t need things from you.”

  “But do you need anything from me?” There has to be something that I can give her.

  “Yes.” She whispers the word.

  “It’s yours.”

  And she shakes her head. She doesn’t understand how this works. I’m like the Santa Claus of sex—she doesn’t even have to be a good girl. Bad absolutely works for me. She can make a list or whisper in my ear, but I need to know how to fix this.

  “It’s not something you can buy,” she says.

  It’s a well-known fact that money can buy pretty much everything. In fact, scratch the pretty much. But I’m not stupid enough to say this out loud. Instead, I take a step toward Edee. “Tell me what it is.”

  “I need you.” She frowns as if this is not good news at all.

  “You’ve got me.”

  I say the words with all sincerity.

  She snorts. Or sniffs. Fuck me, but I think she might be crying again. “Hardly.”

  That’s sound of the Good Ship Hope sinking and taking all aboard down with her. I go with Plan B. I double-time it around the bed and go for Edee. I’ll just hold her until she sees (or feels) things my way. It’s a great plan. Workable. Utterly persuasive.

&nb
sp; She retreats into the kitchenette. “Back off.”

  Did I mention I don’t take direction well? I keep right on coming. “I want to fix this.”

  Her eyes narrow suspiciously. Edee is not the trusting sort. “I’m not broken.”

  “Us,” I say hastily. “I want to fix us.”

  “So you think we’re broken?”

  “We’re not together. You’re here. Alone. Without me. You opened the door. Now you just have to let me in a little further.”

  Her gaze drifts northward. Over my shoulder and toward the omnipresent, furry bed. I sincerely hope she’s thinking what I’m thinking.

  I deliver my best line. “You want me here, brown eyes, so let me kiss everything better.”

  My dick’s on board with the kissing plan—he’s doing everything he can to jump out of my jeans and say hello. Hopeful, stubborn bastard. Given the way I’ve got her pressed up against her kitchen counter, she has to know it, too. There’s a lot of me—and not a whole lot of space.

  “Dare.” She packs so much into my name. Frustration, sadness, anger—and something else that sounds suspiciously like hurt. “Everything’s a game to you. A really fun, sexy, mind-blowing game.”

  “And that’s a problem?”

  I win the games I play. I’m the best when it comes to sex, a king among men. How is this a problem?

  Her gaze meets mine. “It’s not enough. In order for us to be together, I need to feel something more than—”

  Something more than sex.

  Than pleasure.

  Than me.

  And I get it. While she doesn’t want me to hurt her, she needs to know that the man in her life loves her, that he has feelings for her even when he’s not touching her, not kissing her, not balls-deep inside her. Sex isn’t enough for her.