Suspended: A Bad Boy Rockstar Romance

by Zoey Oliver

“Wait.” Spencer holds out a hand. “There’s a better option. One that can fix this situation once and for all and ensure Finley pays for his crimes.”

  My mother reaches out a hand to me. Clasping her trembling fingers to mine, she looks at Spencer. “What is it?”

  Spencer taps at the manila envelope. “It’s all here. Like you said, enough to put him away for a lifetime. No parole. If the media got hold of this? They practically wouldn’t even need a trial.”

  “That’s exactly why it should be released to the press. Mr. Prescott would have no chance.”

  “And he knows it,” Spencer says. “Show him what we know. Threaten to expose all of this unless he nullifies that fucking agreement and returns all rightful ownership of the Beauregard Estate over to the Strathmore family — our titles, assets, investments, all of it. Tell him that he can buy our silence if he releases us from that contract.”

  Father surveys the scattered documents for a moment and nods. “That could work, yes.”

  I frown. “But we can’t let Finley get away with all this! Yes, he’ll probably nullify the Goutley agreement if we show him the evidence we have. But what about all these women?” I point at the pile of documents in front of me. “He should burn in hell for this. I won’t be the keeper of Finley’s secrets. No way,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Ah, but who said we’d actually keep the deal?” my brother replies. “As we speak, a special counselor is being assigned to an investigative ministry that was quietly assembled in the court, with the sole purpose of bringing these charges to bear. As soon as Finley voids the Goutley agreement, they’ll be ready to take him down.”

  I sit up straighter, a sprig of hope blooming. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, one hundred percent,” Spencer nods. He looks at me as he speaks. “A powerful friend has been gathering this evidence for a while, working to uncover all of Finley’s crimes so he can be brought to justice. I met with him yesterday. We stayed up all night going over these documents.”

  My heart skips a beat. Henry. He’s talking about Henry. For a moment, a fire alights inside me. I want to race to him and throw my arms around him, smothering him in grateful kisses. Then I remember the photographs in the folder and the flame inside my chest goes out and my heart grows heavy once again.

  “This plan will work. It’s solid,” Spencer says confidently, looking more alive than I’ve seen him in months. “Beauregard will be ours again and Finley will have no rights to anything in our family anymore — including Abi’s hand in marriage.”

  Chapter 22

  HENRY

  Hands shoved deep into my pockets, I watch with a mingling sorrow and relief as the big white tent on the East Lawn is disassembled. The closing ceremonies were held yesterday, and most of the guests have departed. The palace is slowly returning to the silent, empty retreat I need it to be. Winter has settled into the breeze floating across the gardens, and its harsh nip gives me a shiver.

  “Didn’t your mother ever tell you you’d catch a cold standing out here without a coat?” The familiar voice of my best friend helps to dispel my foul mood.

  I give Spencer a playful push as he draws up beside me. “The Crown Prince doesn’t get colds.”

  He laughs and shakes his head then grows quiet. We look out over the activity on the lawn, watching a dozen workers carefully take apart the outdoor bandstand and load chairs into a box truck destined for the storage buildings at the far edge of the estate.

  Spencer turns, giving me a long look. “You were right.”

  “The Crown Prince is always right,” I counter.

  This time, Spencer is the one giving me a spirited shove. “Soon to be crowned King, I hear.”

  “At the first of the year,” I say with a nod. “Almost thought it wouldn’t happen, between knocking Finley’s ass out cold and the uproar I created at the spa — after keeping my nose out of trouble so long, I nearly lost the throne due to that.”

  “We all do crazy things, sometimes. Especially over women. But Finley deserved every punch you landed, and then some. I’m sure the Royal Council understands that.”

  “They do, now that things have come to light.”

  My father has been awaiting this for a long while, ready to step down and enjoy his retirement, but he dared not until I’d proven my worth. With the documents I’ve provided to my father, the Royal Council, and the investigative ministry, I’ve been forgiven for my run-in with Finley and the scars his face will carry. The future of the crown has been sorted out and planning for the coronation ceremony is underway. All appears well on that front now. But it hasn’t brought me the sense of accomplishment I’d hoped.

  The future of the Strathmore family is still up in the air. I can only pray that I’ve done more help than harm. Even though I won’t be able to and that my plan will provide Abigail with a satisfying end to the hell she’s been in.

  “But seriously,” Spencer says, his tone solemn. “I wanted you to know you were right — from the very beginning. My little sister needed me, and I needed a gut check. I was too caught up in myself. I was being selfish, I see that now.”

  I shrug. “We’re all selfish, Spencer. Look at me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just kept chasing after her. I couldn’t let her go, even when I knew I should. I wanted her more than I’ve wanted anything — more than all the parties and all the women the world could offer. More than the Crown, even. I was selfish, and look at the hurt it caused.”

  “But a good thing came out of it, Henry. If you hadn’t been involved, we wouldn’t have those documents, and Finley would still have the upper hand, in total control of our family.”

  “Maybe,” I say, staring straight ahead.

  “It’s official, you know. Just came from signing the last of the documents. The Goutley contract is null and void. Abigail’s free of Finley and that abomination of an agreement.”

  Relief pours through my chest. “Oh, thank God!” That was the last piece to fall into place, the news I’ve been praying to hear for days. “Thank you, Spencer, thank you.” My voice cracks, and I lay a hand on his arm.

  “It was all you, Henry. Having Pierre gather those documents was damn smart. You saved her from that awful fate. Saved us all, really.”

  I take a deep breath, inhaling the crisp air. It feels good. I haven’t breathed this free in days. Not when I froze fucking Finley’s international assets with a few phone calls to other heads of state, or made sure all his drug connections knew he’s now a liability. Not when I assigned a tail-for-life on that son of a bitch to make sure he never touches another woman. Not when I banned him from the palace grounds or appointed a special counsel to ensure Finley’s bribes have no reach within the court. Now that I know Abi is free, they can proceed with bringing him up on charges. There’s no way he’s wiggling out of facing the consequences this time. If he’s lucky, he’ll spend the rest of his days destitute and alone, living in some God forsaken prison cell, far out of my sight. And that’s still far better than he deserves.

  Spencer and I stand in companionable silence, watching the uprights of the tent hit the ground.

  “You don’t have to stop chasing her, you know?”

  “No, Spencer.” I shake my head. “No, as you said, she’s finally free of this mess. Free of Finley, free of me.”

  “She’s getting on a plane today, leaving for Africa.”

  My shoulders sag. Is possible for news to simultaneously bring one immense joy and heartbreak at the same time? The sharp ache in my chest tells me it is. “That’s good,” I manage to croak out. “She’s wanted that.”

  “If you don’t go to her now, you’re going to lose the opportunity to tell her.”

  My throat tightens, and my eyes sting with the tears I refuse to let fall. I swallow hard, feeling the loss of her all over again. “She’s following her dreams — I’m not going to stop her. Besides, what am I supposed to tell her that I haven’t already?”

  “
That you love her.”

  My spine goes ramrod straight, and my gut turns. There’s a growing pain in my chest that’s not letting me breath. I set my jaw as I look out over the East Lawn, determined to keep it together.

  “You’re not invulnerable, Henry,” Spencer says, watching me.

  I shift my eyes, studying him to see if it’s a throw-away comment or something deeper. I’m not sure. I don’t recognize my best friend much these days. We have a lot of catching up to do, him and I, now that things are settled down. “Invulnerable to what?”

  “To this frost in the air, to the love of a good woman. To the messy, complicated existence of being human.”

  I purse my lips and nod with a sigh. “I know that. I didn’t always, but I do now.”

  “I know we’ve had our issues, Henry, but I know you. I’ve never seen you like this before over a woman, ever. Don’t you fucking tell me the Crown Prince doesn’t fall in love, because I see it all over your face,” he says, his words crackling with intensity.

  We stand side by side as only men can, watching the corners of the tent being folded in on one another, unspoken volumes passing between us. We don’t dare to look at one another, not with mist in our eyes.

  After a long while, Spencer takes a deep break and clears his throat. He smacks his head on the wrought-iron railing and turns to me with fervor in his voice. “Be selfish, damn it.”

  “She deserves better than me. You know that, Spencer.”

  “No,” he insists. “I don’t know that. You’re a good man, Henry. I didn’t listen when you told me Abi needed me. Don’t repeat my mistake. She needs you — I’ve seen it on her face, too. So just get the fuck out of here before I have to kick your ass.”

  I do the only thing I can. I give Spencer two hard slaps on the back of his shoulder and turn to go.

  Chapter 23

  ABIGAIL

  Today is the first day of the rest of my life. A fresh start, which I so desperately want. I need to get as far away from Ostwyn as possible — and to do it as soon as possible. Fortunately, I’m about to get my wish.

  As I walked through the airport terminal, there were scores of journalists and tabloid photographers angling for post-festival interviews and pictures of all the departing dignitaries and extended royal family. Only the royal press is allowed to enter the grounds of Pridemore Palace, so the regular media have had to gather here at the airport.

  Very few approached me. As the daughter of a Baron, my title only impresses those who were born without the constraints of nobility, or those, like Finley, who are desperate to add any officiality to their status that they can.

  So, the media mostly left me alone as I made my way through the airport, but when a couple small press outlets aimed their microphones and cameras at me, I smiled politely and rattled off a few lies about how delightful the festival was.

  I wasn’t about to let the press or anything else make me late for the beginning of the rest of my life. Africa is calling, dammit!

  So I kept moving, pushing through the crowd to the baggage check. My lone suitcase contains the barest of items — personal essentials, some jeans and shirts Emily lent to me, and a pair of boots I stopped along the way to purchase. I won’t need fancy ball gowns or high heels where I’m going, thank goodness.

  There’s only one flight leaving for a connection to Johannesburg, and it’s smaller than the rest, so I’m waiting out on the tarmac for my turn to board instead of inside the heated terminals. I shiver in the chilly air and bounce from foot to foot, both to warm myself and to dispel my nervous energy.

  Soon, I won’t be worrying about the coming snow, or attending royal festivals, or sleeping in big, empty beds that remind me how lonely I am without Henry.

  I’ll be sweating my ass off all day and will consider myself lucky if I’m able to reconnoiter a field cot at night. It’s what I’ve signed up for, though, and I’ll happily sleep on the ground if that’s what I need to do.

  Emily is staying behind for a few days to see to the transfer of our belongings from the palace back to my family’s estate. From there, she’ll work through the packing list. Most of my belongings will be kept at Beauregard, tucked away in storage indefinitely. God knows when I’ll ever want to return. The small remainder of items will accompany her to Africa when she comes to meet up with me, as soon as the non-profit decides which of the project locations they’re placing us at.

  I’m not expected at the headquarters for several days, but I have no desire to stay here a moment longer. As soon as Finley signed the paperwork to void the Goutley agreement, I booked the first flight out.

  Up ahead, a flight attendant is lowering the stairs to the small jet, and once they’re in place, she signals that boarding can begin.

  The first few people in line shuffle forward and start ascending the steps, but they’re chatting and laughing and taking pictures of each other posing on the stairs. They aren’t moving fast enough for me.

  Even light speed wouldn’t be fast enough for me right now. I’ve wanted to return to Africa ever since I left Uganda fourteen months ago, but even more urgently, I have to get out this country.

  Everything reminds me of Henry — from the currency bearing his family crest to the goddamn street signs in that brilliant, shimmering shade of blue, which I swear the transportation department matched to his eyes. I can’t take it another second of it.

  “Honey, are you sure you have our passports?” the woman in front of me asks a tall man beside her.

  “Yes, dear, I’ve got them right here,” he says, patting a pouch buckled to his waist.

  Walk faster, I urge them silently. Let’s go! My new life is waiting, people!

  I never expected my return to Africa to be so bittersweet. I can’t help but feel that my departure right now is more about running away from my life than it is about chasing after my dreams.

  But, whatever gets me out of Ostwyn. That’s my new mantra.

  I hope the sweat and dust and back-breaking hard work of digging new water wells in rural villages eventually numb my memories of Henry and this heartache that won’t stop. I need the sheer physical exertion and geographical distance to wear away at them until they’re dull and faded.

  “Holy shit, honey, look!”

  I glance up at the whispered profanity of the tall man in front of me. He’s turned around, staring past me to the nearest airport terminal, frantically nudging the woman beside him. I look over my shoulder, but several large men are clustered together behind me, deep in conversation, and I can’t see anything from my place in line.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  He shakes his head, eyes wide. “It must be a movie star or the King and Queen or something.”

  “What?” the question leaves my mouth in a daze. I strain on my tiptoes to see past the men, but they are a wall of thick necks and bulky jackets. I finally duck out of line for a peek.

  One glance and I know instantly it’s not the King or Queen, nor a celebrity.

  Pierre and half a dozen other imposing members of Henry’s security team, dressed in their trademark solid black suits, have emerged from the sliding glass doors of the airport’s east terminal and are walking across the tarmac, their eyes scanning the small crowd in line for the flight. A few reporters are trailing them at a distance, cameras at the ready, microphones in hand, watching excitedly.

  As I look, more paparazzi come running through the sliding doors of the airport. My eyes widen, and though I’ve been shivering from the cold, heat fills my cheeks. I step back in line, cowering behind the cluster of men who were blocking my view.

  If his security team is here, I know Henry is probably somewhere nearby. What the hell is going on?

  People around me stir excitedly, looking curiously at one another, craning their heads to see what the commotion’s about.

  The thought that something might be wrong with Spencer or my parents hits me like an iron plate to the chest. It doesn’t make sense that Henry’s here
unless there’s an emergency — he knows better than any that the airport would be crawling with press today.

  I pull out my phone and check for messages, but there’s nothing. I breathe a sigh of relief, but my reprieve is short lived when I look up from my phone to see Pierre beside me.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Strathmore,” he says quietly.

  “Hello, Pierre,” I manage. Everyone is staring at me now, and I know my face is bright red.

  “If you could accompany me inside, please.”

  I don’t budge an inch. “What for?”

  Pierre clears his throat and gives the tall man and his female companion a hard stare. They take a few steps back, but continue to gawk at us.

  “I’ll explain inside,” Pierre says and motions for me to step out of line.

  I resist for a long moment, my feet planted like anchors, but eventually acquiesce with a heavy sigh and join him. We walk across the tarmac toward the glass doors, the security team immediately falling in around us.

  The crowd is murmuring and pointing, and reporters are scrambling along beside our little convoy, some running ahead to position themselves near the doors. They don’t dare approach me with their microphones, not with the Royal Guard surrounding me, but damn if they aren’t snapping a million pictures.

  We step foot inside the east terminal, and Pierre makes a sharp right, guiding me down a small corridor. I glance over my shoulder to see the rest of the security team stop, turning and planting themselves firmly at the entrance to the corridor, blocking the reporters from following.

  “Okay, now are you going to tell me what this is about?” I ask Pierre as we continue to walk at a rapid clip.

  He gives me a kind look, perhaps the first time I’ve ever seen Pierre’s face soften. “I think you know, my Lady.”

  He stops abruptly at a non-descript door and raps the wood with his knuckles. He doesn’t go in, but just swings the door open into the room and gestures for me to enter.

  I realize my palms are sweaty and my hands are shaking. Taking a deep breath to steel myself, I walk through the doorway. Inside, there’s a scattering of sleek leather furniture, and a wet bar, with fine art prints hanging on the wall — a private lounge.