Royally Hung

by Anne Marsh

  “Brown eyes,” I say.

  “Prince Charming,” she says.

  I kiss her hard and then I walk away for good.

  * * *

  * * *

  Queenie’s waiting for me in the car, but he doesn’t say anything when I get in. Good. Because the last thing I fucking want right now are more words. I think I’ve used up my quota, don’t you?

  A police escort accompanies us to the private airstrip just outside of the main Las Vegas airport. We get the full royal treatment—sirens wailing, blue lights flashing, even a few cops on motorcycles. People turn to look at us as we pass, wondering who we are and what makes us so special. More than one whips out a phone, so we’ll be Instagram stars.

  Before I’m ready, I’m climbing the stairs and stepping into our private jet. In addition to two bedrooms, there is a central sitting area with leather seats and posh sofas. It’s an extremely expensive apartment with wings—and a butler.

  The head steward meets us at the door and asks if I would like a drink. With all the things on my wish list, booze doesn’t make the top three—but I’ll make do.

  I throw myself into the closest chair. “Bring me the bottle.”

  The steward nods and beats a hasty retreat. The palace gossip vine is going to love this—Queenie dragging me back, me sulking, and now the drunken hissy fit.

  Queenie settles inside beside me, still silent. The steward returns with the bottle—and two glasses. Fuck. I can’t even drink myself into a stupor because I have a country to learn how to run. I pour myself two fingers of whiskey and hand the bottle back.

  I know I’m the King of Dicks. I’m letting something—someone—go who could mean a whole lot to me. But marriage is about duty. About doing what’s right even when I’ve made a career out of doing what’s wrong. Suddenly I’m supposed to become the poster child for All’s Right in the World, and I . . . don’t know how to do that. Not that Nik’s not a wild one when he’s in private—because he is. He’s just much better than I am about giving a fuck and making sure Public Nik looks like Saint Nik. I’ll do what my king asks because people are right.

  God help me, I have no idea how to make this work. I look at Queenie over the rim of my glass. Queenie’s always been larger-than-life—and he’s still no delicate flower. Case in point? His broad shoulders stretch a dark gray cashmere sweater uncomfortably wide, plus he’s got the thighs of a linebacker beneath that Savile Row tailoring. He’s big, but he’s not invincible. He’s lost so many people—his wife, his brother, his sister-in-law. And those are just the ones I know about. He served in Vale’s army, and service comes with a price tag. Now we might lose Nik.

  I set my glass down. Whiskey isn’t what I need—or Queenie, either.

  “He’ll come back to us,” I say quietly. “Nik’s not a quitter.”

  “No, he’s not.” Queenie looks at me and I hear what he doesn’t say as clearly as what he does. Nik doesn’t quit—but I do. I ran halfway around the world to avoid having a tough conversation. I could have told Queenie to shove his marital plans up his ass—but I chose not to. There would have been consequences, and I didn’t want to choose those consequences. It’s an unpleasant revelation.

  Queenie leans back in his seat, getting comfortable. It’s a long flight. I have hours and hours to phrase my speech and practice it in my head if I want, but I’d rather just get started.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have stormed off.” I kind of want to squirm thinking about it now. “I’m sorry I left you alone to deal with this. I’m sorry I didn’t figure out a way to help.”

  Queenie reaches out and pours half my whiskey into his glass. “I’m sorry you felt the need to marry a complete stranger.”

  The jet engines whine as we race down the runway. Outside the window, the now familiar lights of Vegas blaze merrily.

  “I’m not.” I lean back in my seat and meet my uncle’s gaze. “She’s the best part of me.”

  Was. Was the best part of me.

  He nods, raising his glass in a silent toast. “I’m an asshole for dragging you back, but Vale needs you there. We need you there.”

  I polish off the rest of my drink. “And I’ll be there.”

  What they don’t tell you about the fairy tale is that Prince Charming still has a country to run and that doesn’t leave much time for love. Or dating. Fuck, I’ll bet the guy was practically a virgin. Because his mustachioed, choleric father is a heart attack waiting to happen and so Prince Charming has to step up and choose his bride after a single dance at a public ball. Because he’s got people depending on him, whether he likes it or not.

  Chapter Twenty

  Edee

  I chose not to think about endings when I hooked up with Dare and I knew better. I drag his stupid gray T-shirt—the one I shamelessly stole from the floor of his dressing room—over my head and run my hand down the soft cotton. He said this was his favorite shirt and it looked best on me. Or on the floor. He had other places, too, but all of them involved me getting wholeheartedly naked. Once, I swung the shirt over my head like the buckass naked cowgirl I was.

  Those were good times.

  Fun.

  I should burn this shirt, but instead, I pull the covers over my head. It’s dark and warm and I don’t have to face myself under here. I don’t have to admit I made a fool out of myself and fell for Prince Charming. He made me . . . happy. The way he touched my body, kissed me, showered me with orgasms—and the way I smiled around him. I don’t need a prince to feel complete, but he makes me feel different. More. More alive, more fun, more feeling. I like that me. His pretty, pretty promises echo in my head. You’re the best, Edee. You’re beautiful, sexy, hot, MINE. Promises are empty. Guys leave.

  I can’t do this again.

  Which explains why I’m still hiding under the covers when Rima throws my bedroom door open. I stick my head out from underneath the covers like a turtle emerging from its shell. Whatever shit she’s about to give me dies on her lips as she surveys the carnage in the bedroom. Shades down, empty pints of ice cream, Pinterest up on my laptop because I need a whole new dream life. So far I’ve pinned a beach cottage in Bali and a lavender farm.

  She grabs the laptop and storms over to the bed. “That bastard,” she says, getting in beside me. “I’m flying over there. He dies right now.”

  I guess she’s heard the news.

  I mean . . . it’s hard not to. In addition to two hundred Pinterest boards, my browser is working overtime to display tab after tab of photos of Dare leaving the country. Leaving me. I put my head on Rima’s shoulder and she wraps an arm around me. And it makes me feel a little less alone.

  A little.

  I guess this means we’re over. That I should find a lawyer and end our fake, not-fairy-tale marriage. Except I’m pretty sure our contract and his parting words said he would take care of it and so . . . I do nothing. For once in my life, I don’t even have to work because it turns out that Dare put our new house in my name.

  “He gave me the house,” I hiccup into her shoulder.

  She pats my back a little harder. “So he’s not a total asshole.”

  “And he paid the property tax and the utilities and everything.” I’m crying hard by now. I can’t hold the tears back. Rima whispers something into my hair. It could be pretty promises that everything will be fine, or it could be country music lyrics. I don’t know, don’t care. She tells me that I’ll get over Dare. That I’m strong and eventually I’ll be fine. She squeezes and pats my shoulder like it’s a loaf of bread she’s determined to fit into a pan.

  Thank God for friends.

  “I don’t want to live here without him,” I bawl.

  And it’s stupid to cry over a prince. I knew he was trouble, I knew I’d end up brokenhearted—or just broken. My eyes burn with the tears that won’t stop coming and my chest is so tight I�
��m certain I’m having a heart attack. My body misses its prince. It knows that he’s not coming back, that I’ll never get to hold him tight and that if only I’d held on tighter when I had my chance . . . maybe the magic would have worked. Maybe he would have stayed.

  Maybe.

  Maybe.

  Maybe.

  It’s stupid and pathetic and I promise myself that tomorrow I’ll get up and get on with my life. I’m stronger than this and not just because I have to be. The photographers camped outside the house dwindle slowly in number as the rest of the world accepts what I can’t. Dare’s moved on. He’s over me and I’m yesterday’s news. Eventually I get out of bed and get back to work, shooting weddings. This is just how fairy tales end in Vegas. The sun comes up, the lights dim, and then you see behind the magic of the night.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dare

  Hospitals are dismal. No one can possibly feel better surrounded by ugly linoleum and antiseptic stink. Or possibly I’m just jetlagged because I insist on heading straight to Nik’s sickbed when I land in Vale.

  Because Queenie’s still trying to keep Nik’s injury on the down low, Nik has been immured in a private wing as “Bob Smirnoff.” Apparently, that’s what the backpacker chick who rescued him dubbed him. She said she had to call him something and that they hadn’t achieved pet name status. So she looked in her backpack and christened him after the first thing she saw—although I have to wonder why she was toting a fifth of vodka around the mountains of Vale.

  The private wing is still a prison. Guards flank the door, and I’ll bet Queenie has more men watching covertly. I’m not sure if they’re there to keep Nik safe—or to keep him in. He wasn’t supposed to be in any danger. After our parents’ death, he promised me he’d always be careful. So how he came to fall into a mountain is something we’ll be having words about. Caring about him hurts and I hate it.

  I exchange a brief head tip with the guards and shove open the door. I sort of wish they’d challenge me because I’m spoiling for a fight. But because Queenie’s already spread the news of my promotion, they just nod me in. I’m the big cheese in training, and so I get what I want. Nik looks up as I saunter inside, but he doesn’t get up. I’m not sure what I expected, but it’s not this. Not Nik sprawled in a leather armchair by the window, looking no different.

  Okay. So the clothes aren’t in Nik’s usual style. He’s wearing a simple gray T-shirt, an ancient pair of Levis, and a flannel shirt. A flannel shirt. The backpacker chick has clearly exerted way too much influence on him. He looks slightly rumpled and somehow softer around the edges. I try and fail to remember a time when Nik wasn’t wearing something ironed. He’s always been a suit man, the well-starched dress shirt his uniform of choice. On casual Fridays, he skips the tie.

  The clothes might be different, but the expression on his face is the same. Nik always assesses the situation, sorts the facts out, and connects the dots. If he hadn’t been born to be a king, he’d have run a multibillion-dollar corporation or been a lawyer. At the very least, he would have made a kick-ass office manager. There’s nothing the man can’t organize.

  I smile at him.

  He doesn’t smile back.

  “Nik?” I shut the door behind me more forcefully than necessary. I hate missing him. Hate this feeling of having lost someone important.

  Nik’s familiar hazel eyes travel down my person and then back up again. “You must be Dare.”

  And . . . fate sucker punches me. Hard. Nik doesn’t know who I am. He really has forgotten everything.

  And part of me wants to punch him—hard—because I stupidly hoped that Queenie was wrong. Or that I’d get here and discover that Nik had made a miraculous recovery and I could forget about being king. Instead, nothing will ever be the same. It doesn’t matter that I liked my life or that I might have found the one person who makes me want to be a better me. That I might just have fallen in love with Edee—and then abandoned her like the prick I am because Vale needs me. I hate missing her, too. Hate that I crave her company, need her by my side, possibly the way my dad needed my mother, right up until the moment they crash-landed. It’s better to ignore all that and focus instead on not punching my older brother

  I flip him the bird because being the heir apparent hasn’t magically increased my vocabulary or my communication skills. “You don’t remember me.”

  “No.” Nik steeples his fingers. His knuckles are scabbed, as if he’s been in a fistfight. There also appears to be fresh ink on his forearm. Somehow, somewhere, my play-by-the-rules brother has gotten a tattoo.

  “In fact, you don’t remember any of this.” I sweep a hand around the room.

  “No.” The wanker doesn’t seem concerned, either, and that’s just great. He’s fallen off a mountain while I’ve been falling in love, and we’ve both ended up hurt. Abort.

  I drop into the guest chair. Since Nik’s clearly done playing by the rules, I’m sitting without an invitation. It occurs to me that technically I now outrank him—and he shouldn’t be sitting without my permission. Old Nik would find that hilarious. New Nik just waits politely for me to say something.

  “I’ve heard that sometimes a second blow to the head can fix a faulty memory,” I offer. If nothing else, that stupid finger-steepling thing has got to stop and punching would totally do the trick.

  The corner of Nik’s mouth quirks. “Have I forgotten that you’re a medical doctor?”

  “I’m happy to punch you in the head.” I wait a beat, and when Nik doesn’t take the bait, I move on. “What has Queenie told you?”

  Nik makes a face. “Quite a bit, actually. He can go on rather.”

  Nik goes on himself. He outlines the hours that Queenie has spent briefing him. As the minutes spin past, I learn that Nik has stacks of notes and labeled photos, all carefully chosen to jog his memory. He has excellent medical care and is expected to make a full recovery. Blah, blah, fucking blah.

  And while it would be nice to have my king-to-be back and all my problems solved, what I really want is my brother. As I sit and make small talk, it’s Edee’s face I think about. About what she’d say and do if it were her dad here and she had a chance to have him back. She’d give him shit and roast him for leaving her, but she’d also hang onto him. Edee’s fierce with those she loves.

  I need a do-over. A new plan. All I have to ask myself is what would Edee do. It takes me ten minutes of conversational boredom, but eventually I have a plan. And if nine of those ten minutes were me thinking Edee, that’s my dirty secret.

  I wink at Nik as I shovel the notes into the nearest bin. “There are some advantages to being the heir apparent.”

  “Oh?” So polite he is.

  “We can totally blow this joint.”

  And there it is—there’s Nik’s real smile. A wicked, teasing, know-it-all smirk. “Are you suggesting we break the rules, Your Highness?”

  I hold on my hand. “I promise to take the worst of care with you.”

  “Deal.” Nik’s palm slaps against mine and then presses there for a long moment. In our younger days, after watching too many movies, we decided we needed a secret handshake—and then discovered it’s hard to shake incognito when you’re eight, uncoordinated, and a prince. Ice cream shake, the deluxe version of patty cake, smacking fists while we jump around . . . not necessary. We just press and hold. It’s our secret not-secret shake—mine and Nik’s and Luca’s—and Nik hasn’t forgotten it.

  I lead the way out the door. I’d take Nik out the window in the spirit of having a real adventure, but we’re three stories up and nobody’s dying today. Not on my watch. The guards outside take a few minutes to disburse because they’re understandably reluctant to abandon their royal charge, but they come around. Okay. I point out that someday I’ll be their boss and having a friend in high places is career advantageous . . . and then they come around.

 
“Where to?” Nik thumbs on the pair of shades I hand him as we step outside the hospital, Mr. Left and Mr. Right falling in behind us.

  “Fortunately for you, I know all the best bars in Vale.”

  Not only can I name them, but I’ve test-driven them all personally. I pick a direction and Nik saunters alongside me. Mr. Left and Mr. Right bring up the rear like we’re a four-man parade. When we reach our destination, they peel off. I won’t see them, but they’ll be there. Protecting us.

  The Donkey’s Ass looks precisely like what you’d expect from a drinking establishment with that kind of redundancy in its name. It’s squashed between two larger and better manicured buildings, all peeling plaster and ancient woodwork. The second-floor balcony is in imminent danger of falling off and plunging into the street, and what was once a peacock blue paint is now the color of toilet bowl cleaner.

  It’s my favorite spot and I’m greeted with a chorus of hellos—that promptly fade as the bar’s patrons return to the important business of drinking, television-watching, and generally ignoring anything not happening within a two-foot radius. Nothing is more important than the next beer or shot here, and the only thing a man is judged for his inability to pay his tab.

  I’m not going to drink until I slide under the table and Mr. Left has to haul my ass home, but I am going to have a beer with my brother. And since I haven’t changed that much, I also buy two rounds for the house. Yes, that makes me a very popular prince. If—when—I end up becoming king, the first law I’ll propose will be Free Drink Friday. Not because I think drunkenness might forestall a revolution but because people relax with a drink in their hand—and they love free. Free coffee, free water, free beer.

  Nik, for example, is a little more willing to chat me up now that we’re facing each other over a beer rather than a hospital bed. It helps that I don’t think his memory loss is a terminal disease. He’ll either get over it or he won’t, but he’ll still be my brother.