by Amy Brent
“Check this out,” Liza said, gesturing me over to a small room set into the hallway I hadn’t noticed. “There’s a little DJ cubby. When I got here early, the DJ, Arturo, showed me and said we could hang out here.”
One wall was entirely crammed with what looked to be professional DJ music equipment and stereo speakers. In the corner, there were two fluffy seats, so I settled down on one’s white fur. Liza sat down beside me, and we waited.
I wasn’t really sure what we were waiting for, except that she looked to be as slightly frazzled as I was. Not from the stupid shoot, though. She’d come in looking that way.
“I think Henry’s tired of me.”
Her admission filled the small room.
“I think Charles is tired of me too,” I confessed.
After all, what other conclusion was I supposed to draw by the awkward way he’d disengaged himself last night? Maybe he just hadn’t been feeling it with me and had jumped at the first excuse he’d had.
“What makes you say that, though?” I asked her, eager to fixate on something other than my own seemingly all-encompassing issue.
“I saw him every night after Friday except for last night,” she said, nibbling on her thumbnail. “And he hasn’t called since.”
I batted her thumb away, and she withdrew it, glaring but saying nothing. She knew an unexpectedly nibbled-down nail was sometimes enough to set off an already on-edge photographer, despite the fact that it could be easily photoshopped away these days.
“Could Henry have just been busy with royal duties?” I attempted.
She snorted.
“Come on,” she said. “We both know his reputation and how much stock he puts in royal duties.”
I nodded, taking her now restless hand and squeezing it.
“Whatever happens, you know I’m here for you.”
“Thanks, girl,” she said, resting her head on my shoulder.
My gaze went around the darkened, equipment-filled room dully. It seemed there were cords everywhere. Cords to and from other places, cords doubling back on themselves, cords all knotted up and tangled with other cords. Wasn’t that what the truth was for my Charles situation? Was it not some knotted truths that were all tangled up with other truths, none of which I really liked? Or was it just simple and straightforward? Had I guessed it already—that he was just plain bored of me—but was denying it to myself?
“What will you and Charles do?” Liza asked in a more hopeful tone of voice.
I shook my head.
“He just left last night during dinner without even telling me why. He got this call and then he apologized and left. Maybe that’s it for us.”
What followed was a span of silence during which everything was still. It was dark in this room, and in our exhaustion and despondency, we hadn’t even bothered to turn the light on. In the darkness was calm. My attention focused on the little blinking red light on some receiver or whatever it was that was ahead of us. It was nice, focusing on that instead. I kept my gaze trained in its pointless position so I wouldn’t have to think about the Charles situation.
But then Liza said, “Maybe that’s it,” and that finished things.
Chapter 13
Charles
“This is the last straw!” Mother bawled, heaving half a piece of peanut butter toast at Henry.
This was the scene I’d walked into in the parlor.
And to think I had thought I’d figured out my family drama on Monday after the tabloid story first broke. I’d come home to a scene boiling on mutiny, Mother and Henry positioned by the front door, narrowed eyes glaring at each other hatefully. Mother was insisting Henry leave the house immediately, while Henry insisted he wasn’t going anywhere.
Turned out that the redhead model Henry had crowed about had also cost him our family’s peace of mind. Some wily photographer had managed to sneak a picture of them in Harrods even though Henry had donned ridiculously oversized, opaque-black sunglasses that enveloped a good two-thirds of his face.
The online tabloid article had been a sight to see. “Prince with today’s love interest: a model beauty,” the title read. The article went on to describe how their romp around Harrods was as quick as it was inappropriate. It punctuated sentences bordering on absolute lies, each with choice pictures. One was of Henry’s palm connecting with the redhead’s ample breast. Another was of his lips on her neck.
Mother was just about to call in the royal guard when I stepped in.
“One more chance,” I counseled her. “One warning and one more chance.”
She railed a good fifteen minutes, listing off all the chances she’d already given him. And she was right. Henry’s list of infractions against the family name was long and winding, enough to make War and Peace look like a brief bedtime story.
He had dressed up as a Queen’s Guard and impersonated one for five whole days before he was discovered. He had stolen a horse from somewhere and ridden it all over London, allowing girls he found particularly good-looking to climb up on its back and take a little ride with him.
He had worn a wig reminiscent of my mother’s curls and gone around doing her stiff-handed wave while onlookers cheered and guffawed. He had participated in a pie-eating contest and won. He’d shaved his head and only left fuzz of hair in the shape of an infinity symbol. He had gone to a music festival and been so drunkenly rowdy that he’d almost caused a riot and then been summarily kicked out. The tabloids hailed him as the second coming of Christ for giving them so many good stories.
And then there were the girls. This was the fourth story so far in the past year. One had featured him with two girls at a time, another piggybacking a woman who already had a husband. That had been the most recent last straw, but I’d talked Mother down from it. Never before, however, had she actually threatened to shun him for good.
To be fair, it had been a steady buildup over the years, so now I could hardly blame her. Still, I had thought I had settled things by making Henry promise to change his ways and agree that was the last. I had thought.
And yet now, two days later, Mother looked like an alligator ready to close her enormous, livid jaws on my brother’s still sheepishly grinning form.
“What’s going on?” my father asked, striding in. He rubbed at his blue eyes sleepily, as if in a secret hope this was some nightmare he just had to wake up from.
“Your son,” she said, pointing her finger at Henry like a gun, “left peanut butter toast on the throne chair!”
“I’m sorry,” Henry said, sounding annoyed, as if he were the one whose throne had had toast left on it, “but it was for a good reason. I was Snapchatting.”
“Snapchatting,” my mother said slowly, over-enunciating each syllable, as if it were nuclear warfare that would end Britain.
Henry sighed, getting out his phone. We all crowded around to look at it. The picture was admittedly funny. It showcased Henry lounging on the throne, the aforementioned peanut butter toast in hand. He had it raised to his smiling mouth with a caption that read: Just another day in the life.
Unfortunately, seeing the picture only enraged my mother more.
“I forgot it there. My bad, okay?” Henry added, returning his attention to his phone.
She actually stomped her foot, sending all our antique furniture into a perilous tremble.
“That is not okay! Not. Okay. We have an image to uphold. We are the royal family, not a bunch of joking ruffians gallivanting about doing this, that, and whatever. And you knew that we were due for a press conference this afternoon and you carelessly left it out in plain sight anyway.”
The ensuing silence was like the countdown before a bomb.
Throwing myself beside Henry, I shoved my arm under his.
“Hey, I have an idea.”
Mother’s and Father’s heads swiveled to me, not impressed. One of her favorite things to complain about was that I took Henry’s side way more often than I should.
“Why don’t Henry and I visit
our cousins? Abigail and Dale.”
Henry scowled darkly while my mother’s expression mollified slightly. Abigail and Dale were as harmless and sweet as their names suggested. Since their mother was a regular old obsessive compulsive, her allowances for letting them out of the palace were limited to Christmas and public functions. As a result, they were about as sheltered as you could get in 2018. They even dressed like they were still in the 1970s. The only thing Henry liked about spending time with them was mocking them when they weren’t around.
“That sounds like a lovely idea,” Father said tentatively.
Mother’s approval was evident in what she didn’t do: that is, yell her head off some more. Instead, crossing her arms, she tilted her chin upright and glided out of the room. A royal pardon if ever there was one.
I prodded Henry with my pointer finger.
“You know what this means.”
“Nope,” he said, not ungluing his eyes from his phone.
“This means you won’t be in the palace with Mom and you’ll still have your freedom.”
His head jerked up, a smile forming.
“Hey,” he said. “You’re right.”
--
A few minutes later, in our car to Marbellow Palace, I tried talking some sense into him.
“Just because we’re going to be at our cousins’ place doesn’t mean you can run amok like a crazy squirrel with rabies.”
He sniffed. “I will not dignify that with a response.”
“Last time, you convinced Abigail and Dale to microwave their stuffed rabbit until it burst into flames,” I reminded him.
“That was when I was fourteen,” he protested.
“Which is why we haven’t been invited back ever since.”
He smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, right. My bad.”
“I mean it, Henry. Mom almost shunned you. You’re taking things too far. You need to slow down, cool off, at least for a few months.”
“Speak for yourself,” he shot back, his face contorted with irritation. “You’re gallivanting about with a model yourself. So I’m supposed to cut out having fun when our future king and monarch is off having his?”
“You know that’s not what I’m asking you,” I snapped. “I’m merely requesting that you tone it down, be more responsible. At least attempt to be more discreet.”
“And I’m merely requesting that you sod off and mind your own bloody business.”
For the rest of the car ride, we didn’t speak.
--
It took a good few hours for Henry to get settled in and Abigail and Dale, as well as their mother, Eleanor, to be convinced of what a jolly good idea this was. Then, after giving some vague excuse about some vague function, I was out of there.
As soon as I was at my favorite café in town with mint tea to calm myself, I was reminded of the whole reason I’d come here. Getting out my phone, I called her.
“Charles?” she asked, clearly surprised.
“I’m so sorry I haven’t gotten back to you,” I said quickly, “and that I didn’t tell you the reason I left. I’ll explain in person, but when exactly can I see you? Oh yes, and how are you?”
“Slow down,” Heidi said warmly. “I’m just glad to hear from you.”
“And I’m just glad to talk to you,” I said, realizing the truth of it.
My phone beeped with Mother’s latest message: “Board meeting for your animal charity in two hours. I expect you to be there.”
I groaned.
“What is it?” Heidi asked.
“I just found out I have more royal duties when all I really want is to see the girl I like tonight.”
“Have you asked the girl you like if she’s free any other nights?” she retorted in a voice that belonged to lips that were most certainly smiling.
Now I was smiling so big, I could have eaten the phone.
“As a matter of fact, I have not. Would you be free tomorrow night?”
“Depends who’s asking,” she said in a sultry purr.
“Oh, just Prince Charles. You know, that guy.”
Her hesitation threw my dick into a raging erection.
“You know, Charles, who screwed your brains out over the weekend and is going to do it again?”
“Oh, him,” she said, her voice falling. “For him, I’m definitely free.”
Chapter 14
Heidi
“Wow,” I said.
Did I mention that when I was alone, that had become something of a recurring phrase with me? Wow, whenever I remembered. Wow, I was dating a prince. Well, I’d slept with him. Wow, Prince Charles was calling me again.
The sight before me had inspired the current wow. We were on the back balcony of Charles’s hidden house—the balcony I hadn’t even noticed was there. It was stone floored, cast-iron fenced, and completely and utterly perfect. Candles lit the black cast-iron table. We shared the feast before us over a flickering glow. It was composed of one whole succulent chicken ringed with browned carrots, parsnips, and potatoes, and a knife to cut it of course.
As Charles portioned out our meals, I asked what was really on my mind.
“Where did you hide the chef who made this?”
He wiggled his brows, then jerked his head behind him.
“I have a little hole in the kitchen he crawls out of when I need him to make me something.” Laughing, he followed it up with, “Seriously, I cook myself. I like it actually.”
“You’re kidding me,” I said, taking a bite of the chicken, which was even more delectable than it looked.
As he took a bite himself, he surveyed me with a wry smile.
“You really want me to be kidding you, huh?”
I shrugged.
“Although you aren’t the first to be surprised by that,” he admitted. “Since I am royalty and have basically as many riches as I could want, the inference is why would I ever cook for myself? But I love it. It’s one of the things I do whenever I get a day or two to spare, just make dish after dish after dish from the family’s secret recipes or even just the Food Channel. I didn’t show you, but this house is just about bursting at the seams with expensive cooking tools. There’s a sous vide cooker, a smoker, even a sealer so I can keep spices fresh for as long as I need.”
“Guess I’m finding out a lot of surprising things about you,” I said.
Under the table, his leg entwined around mine, sending pulses of want all the way up to my thigh. Was he plagued by the same thought I was: when it would happen? The absolute ravishing of each other we had done the last few times?
“Funny,” I managed to say. “I’ve never been big into cooking. I practically died the first time I had to learn how to make mac and cheese in college. My roommate at the time, a girl named Fiona, actually moved out of the house after I almost burned it down during the attempt.”
Charles paused mid-bite to regard me with an incredulous look.
“You cannot be telling the truth,” he declared, the corners of his lips rising irresistibly with every passing second.
I shook my head emphatically.
“I wish. Although I’m sure my crazy college stories are nothing compared to yours.”
Another smile pricked his lips. His hand went to his chin to give it a thoughtful stroke.
“Now that you mention it…” he said, a devilish look playing in his eyes. “How bad would it have been if I were responsible for arranging our last day of school paper fight?”
My eyebrow lifted slightly. “Oh yes? Do tell.”
His grin broadened as his head angled to the sky, remembering it all.
“It was glorious. Thousands of us just lobbing all this balled-up paper at one another, dodging and ducking and flinging, rolling on the ground in the thousands of sheets like they were big fat leaves. It was damn well near the best experience of my life.” He laughed. “Luckily, management never found out I was the one who had spearheaded the whole thing, sending around the anonymous note urging everyone to participate.
If my involvement had been discovered, Mother would’ve had my head.”
“It’s funny,” I said, scanning the hollows of his face thoughtfully. “I mean, in the press you’re always portrayed as—”
“The responsible brother, I know,” he said, heaving a sigh. “It’s a reputation that puts a lot of weight on my shoulders, but it’s a good thing. Our future monarch can’t afford to have a bad reputation, as Mother takes great pains to remind me at every possible moment. Although, that big paper fight wasn’t the only naughty act I did in university. I had my fair share of them. My friends and I sneaked onto the Oxford’s main dome roof too. And yet, as bad as I was, Henry always seemed to outdo me, thankfully. And he always got caught, maybe because he could afford to be. Who knows?”
“What kind of stuff did he do?” I asked.
Suddenly, his expression wasn’t so wistful anymore.
“He organized drunk bowling on the Oxford green in the middle of the night, where they used two beer bottles as pins and shoes as bowling balls. The game went on for several hours before they were caught and stopped, and he was suspended. Then there was the whole naked exam run affair.”
“‘Naked exam run affair,’” I repeated slowly, unsure I’d heard it right.
Charles only nodded. His eyes looked like they couldn’t decide whether to laugh or rage.
“Inside the biggest hall filled with students completing their exams, he and some friends ran up and down the aisles completely naked. Apparently, there were chased by several of the staff before they were finally apprehended. Luckily, it was his last year and he’d finished all his courses anyway; otherwise, he would’ve been expelled.” He let out a little sigh. “But that was Henry for you, always dancing with danger. It took the spotlight off me, luckily. I can say that much at least. Although lately, it’s gotten to be too much.”
I reached for his hand and squeezed it gently.
“I’m sorry.”
He seized my other hand.
“You don’t have to apologize for anything. This is my family’s affair. Mother was about ready to actually shun him, but luckily, I talked her off that edge. Now Henry and I are staying at our cousins’ for the time being until things blow over.”
