by April Lust
Victoria vomits again. She didn't have anything to eat the night before, in an effort to curb this. It's the third time this week Gabriella's caught her throwing up.
And the Queen, while being older and a little self-involved, is still a mother. She stands there in the doorway of the bathroom and watches her daughter vomit, sweat making her nightgown cling to the small of her back and her hair lay flat and errant, and she knows.
“How could you?” breathes the Queen. “How could you?”
“It's not what you think,” tries Victoria when she's finally able to talk through the retching and gagging. Saliva clings to her lips. “Mother, it's not what you think.”
“You're pregnant.”
“You don't know that!”
“Victoria, I have been with child before. I know what I'm looking at. Stand up. Now.”
Victoria listens to her mother’s demands. Her legs are trembling. She still feels like she's going to start puking at any moment. “Mother, I know what you're going to say—”
“No,” says Gabriella softly, “you don't. And that's all right. You've never been a mother. You've never been a ruler. Perhaps, even, this is my own fault. I've spoiled you. I let you have whatever you wanted as a child. Now, look at you.”
“I'm fine, Mother. We're in a new century! Having a child out of wedlock—”
“Is not acceptable when you're royalty. No, we cannot let anyone know. Is that understood?”
“I haven't told anyone.”
“Is that understood?”
Victoria sighs. “Yes, Mother, that's understood. So... what now, then? Am I to give up the child?”
“No,” says Gabriella. “You are simply going to find a husband. We will announce it tomorrow, as soon as I speak with your father.”
Victoria takes step forward, too quickly. She nearly falls over. “No! I won't do it! I've already told you—”
“Perhaps you shouldn't have been so quick to spread your legs for any man,” says Gabriella bitterly. “Self-control would have kept you from this mess. No, I simply won't have a husband-less whore for a daughter.”
The words sting more than she could have imagined.
Chapter 10
He's at the bar again. It's turned into a regular hangout for Matt—a place to go when he needs to escape the world around him.
It's raining outside, the sound bouncing off the tin roof. It only adds to the music blaring out of the beat-up jukebox that sits in the corner of the room. Some drunk teenagers came in a few minutes ago and set it to blare out a bunch of old music.
One song in particular sets Matt’s nerves on edge. It's one of those songs that's meant to be laughed at, but it's also been played three times tonight. Matt waves Meg over again. “I'll give you twenty dollars, right here, right now, if you let me go unplug that.”
Meg snorts. “I'll make fifty dollars this hour alone if you don't. That girl in the back has been eyeing the box for almost five minutes. I reckon she's got a playlist all made up.”
“Fifty dollars, then,” says Matt.
“You give me fifty dollars, it's just going on your tab. Not going to make a dent in what you owe me, and it's not going to get you any closer to that plug.”
“Meg,” whines Matt. “You're killing me here! I'm not near drunk enough for this.”
“Then get another beer.”
“You cut me off ten minutes ago.”
“Come up with fifty dollars towards your tab,” says Meg with a crooked smile. “And I'll put you back on tap for the night.”
“That's cruel,” grumbles Matt, but he fishes out a folded-up fifty from his back pocket. “Here. Take it. I didn't need to eat this week, no worries.”
Meg plucks it from his hand and tucks it into the front pocket of her apron. “That's good to hear. You could stand to lose a few pounds, anyway.”
“Cruel,” says Matt, “just cruel.”
A sudden rush of static interrupts the jukebox song. Matt's eyes flit towards the television. The twelve o'clock news is on. It's basically just a repeat of everything they talked about at six, which is good because Matt wasn't around a television at six.
The reporter looks painfully chipper. “All right,” she says. “Now, the big scoop of the evening. I'm sure by now, everyone's heard about the trip that the Royal Family of Vertsea is making through the States.”
Meg turns the volume up. “This is actually pretty neat. I had a cousin tell me all about it last night. Supposedly, they've got some big announcement planned. I'm betting you they're trying to unload the daughter on someone.”
“Do people even do arranged marriages anymore?” Matt wrinkles his nose at the thought. He's far from a romantic, but the thought of marrying someone for something outside of love still makes his skin crawl a bit.
“I guess they do,” says Meg.
“We've all been wondering what the announcement would be. Well, the wait is over. Today, Queen Gabriella Moreau has given away the big news,” says the reporter.
Her image fades away. It's replaced by the picture of a beautiful young woman with curling hair and ridiculously pale skin. There's a split second where Matt doesn't recognize her, but then the name Victoria Moreau flashes over the bottom of the screen.
“Motherfucker,” gasps Matt.
Meg gapes at the screen. “That's the girl that came in here a while back! You went home with her, didn't you?”
Matt nods. It's hard to hear the news over the radio. They've put the same song on again. It drowns out the news station for a few painfully long moments.
When it ends, Meg turns the volume of the television up all the way. The teenager makes to start the song up again. Matt shifts about on the stool to face the jukebox, pulling his buck knife out of its holster in one smooth motion. He points it at the teenager. “Turn that song on one more time and you're going to have a real nice story to brag about to your friends…once you're out of the hospital.”
The girl squeaks and scrambles back to her booth seat. Meg snorts. “Wow. That was real mature of you.”
“Be quiet,” snaps Matt. “I think I might have fucked a princess.”
“Wow. That's…I just don't even know what to say about that.”
“You don't need to say anything,” hisses Matt. “Just shut up so I can listen to this.”
The image has already shifted, showing Victoria standing on a large podium. Her dark red velvet gown hangs low on her shoulders. The golden threads form loops around the swoop-neck collar; it's almost scandalously low, as if trying to make up for the fact that the sleeves almost come down to her knuckles and the hem comes down over the tops of her shoes.
Her eyes are downcast, face almost sullen. She looks sad. The thought is strange. What does a princess have to be sad about?
But then, Victoria had talked about always being under her mother's thumb and she spoke, more than once, about wanting freedom.
The news reporter says, “Here she is, folks. This is the moment everyone has been waiting for, when we finally learn the secret of Vertsea's royal family.”
The image flicks on and starts moving. Victoria stays silent, but a slightly older woman, clad in an equally fancy gown, comes to stand beside her. The queen, Gabriella, according to the banner flickering underneath the video.
“It is my pleasure to announce we have great news. My daughter, Victoria, will be joining the Duke of Cambridge in holy matrimony. They will be wed upon our return home,” says the queen in a booming sort of voice.
Matt's stomach drops. It makes his ribs feel too tight. Wed? She's about to get married? That's…that's ridiculous! There had been no ring on her finger. Suddenly, it hits him that he's been played.
She must have taken off that ring and slipped it into her purse, leaving it in a drawer at home. She took off that ring. She lied, and she played him.
Matt cracks open his beer and takes a too large swig. It burns the back of his throat. The camera zooms in, first on Victoria's face, then on Gabriella's.<
br />
The Queen says, “And as if this announcement isn't the coming of a joyous enough day, we also would love to share this: the Duke and Princess Victoria are with child. Soon, we will have a crown Prince or Princess of Vertsea.”
Chapter 11
The Duke and Princess Victoria are with child.
The words dig into Matt's mind like some sort of virus. It grabs at his ears and his brain and won't let go. They become an obsession of sorts because he cannot help but feel it's a lie.
Victoria had never been with another man before Matt. There was absolutely no doubt about that. It was the blood, the way she held herself, and it was probably the one truth she told the entire time they were together.
And the Duke, he's halfway across the world, back in Vertsea. He's across the ocean and far out of reach. There's no way Victoria's carrying his child.
There's absolutely no way.
And those words, they stir up his mind like nothing else can. It's a haunting sort of thing, knowing you're someone's father. The responsibility, even though it's currently non-existent, is haunting. It invades his mind, follows him even when he's dreaming.
The bar no longer serves as a safe haven. Meg's gaze is firm and judging. The club is starting to get concerned.
“You're distracted,” says Ozzy. “And not in a good way, Matt. You going to tell us what's going on?”
Matt shrugs in answer and grunts out some half-hearted excuse that no one believes. He comes and goes from the bar as before, only this time he wilts a little beneath Meg's eyes. The news always seems to be playing something about the royal family. Vertsea isn't a big country, but everyone's thrilled to be reporting something aside from a mass shooting or a field of horses that's just been illegally euthanized.
Four days after the original announcement, Meg corners Matt in the men's bathroom of the bar. She folds her arms over her chest, narrows her eyes, and challenges, “Are you going to man up or what?”
“I don't know what you're talking about.” Matt tucks himself back into his jeans. It's not the first time that the barkeep's been in here, trying to get an answer to some question she doesn't really need to get involved in.
“Yes, you do. Don't play games with me, Matt. I know you. I know what that look meant.”
“What look?”
“The one on your face when you saw her up there, when you realized who she was. It's the same look you had on the day you came in and told me about Emily.”
“Bullshit.”
“I'm not lying,” insists Meg. “You know I'm not. So are you going to man up and talk to her or what?”
“Why the hell would I do that?” Matt snorts and runs a hand through his eternally messy hair. “She's a fucking princess. There's no way she's going to want to see me knocking on her doors.”
“Since when did that stop you?”
“Meg,” says Matt. “I don't think you understand—”
“I do,” says Meg. “And you do, too.”
# # #
On the other side of town, there's a beat-up garage. It's owned by Killian Samuels. The man has a reputation as being the best mechanic around, but he's also known for ridiculously high prices, a sour attitude, and not knowing when to keep his mouth shut.
And, in a much smaller circle, he's known for being the guy that swept Emily Jacobs off her feet. The two are set to be wed in three months. They've already picked out the venue, already tried on the gown and tuxedo. For the most part, things are set.
Tonight, Killian sends his coworkers home early. His fiancée is out with a group of friends, no doubt barhopping from one place to the next. Emily isn't the perfect image of a bride. She drinks too much and sleeps around every chance she gets, spreading her legs for any man that looks at her twice.
It had been painfully easy for Killian to sweep her up and away from Matt. The woman was just itching for someone who would line her pockets a bit better, would treat her a little nicer in the sack. And Killian, he is all about treating his ladies nice, as long as he is getting something out of it in return.
And this? Oh, he's getting a lot out of this.
Unlike some of his other companions, Killian's never been much of a beer man. He prefers the harder stuff —dark, honey flavored whiskey. He uses an old mason jar in favor of a mug and fills it up almost full to the brim. The liquor is dark and burning.
He clicks on the television that hangs in the upper left corner of the garage. It's six o'clock. The news is on. It's another article on the royal family. They're four states up, at a party some senator is throwing.
It's a baby shower.
Victoria is standing next to the soon-to-be mother. Only one of them is smiling, and that's just absolutely perfect.
“Soon,” he says, even though there's no one around to hear it. “Soon, everything is going to play out just as it's supposed to.”
Chapter 12
It's raining. The water pelts down against Matt's face, stinging the bits of revealed flesh. Even his leather jacket proves to offer little protection from the deluge. It's as though the entire world has turned gray, from the sky to the earth, this never-ending stretch of desolation.
No one else is out. His motorcycle roars down the small side road, catching and skidding in spots where the road dips down and the water rises up. He's going too fast to be safe but cannot bring himself to care. Anger, frustration, and confusion mingle in his chest, leaving him feeling like he's choking.
Days like this, riding is the only thing that keeps him breathing.
Days like this, he just wants the road to stretch out forever, to never have to stop moving.
Of course, the backwater road doesn't last forever. It's quick to turn into a highway. The lights are bright, even through the rain. Thunder makes the road shake, and the lightning is almost blinding.
Matt loathes highways. They're too cluttered, too packed, and too overrun, just like the cities with their backwater alleys and crowded corner clubs. And, of course, highways always lead into cities. Cities stretch out, sprawling messes filled with cockroaches and insects; one or the other has two legs, and it's ridiculously hard to figure out which.
There's a party being held at the Ritz Hotel out on twenty-second street. As far as he can tell, the Moreau family is staying at the same place. Well-paid sources reveal they're in rooms twenty-eight and twenty-nine, up on the second floor.
Matt tears into the parking lot. He wedges his back between two slicked up corvettes. Water drips off his hair and into his eyes, this flooding, wet sort of thing. His boots squeak and squelch when he storms towards the front lobby; a flash of a knife and three twenties gets him in the front door.
The air conditioner is turned on high. It makes the hair on the back of Matt's neck stand on end. He's soaked straight to the bone, in a spine chilling sort of way. “All right,” he mutters, slipping into the elevator. “Let's get this over with.”
He hits the button for the second floor. Soft, lilting piano music floods into the brightly lit elevator. It smells strongly of flowers and powder.
It takes hardly any time at all to get to the right room. The door is large and dark. Everything about this place looks rich. It's the sort of thing he’s always hated because no one needs this much spritz; no one needs this much ritz.
Matt slams his fist against the door. “Open up, Tori. I know you're in there.”
Music clicks off inside. Soft footsteps flood the air. The door opens but just a bit. Wide, blue eyes stare out at him. “Matt? What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you,” he says, pushing his way inside. The room is just as lavish as the rest of the hotel. Blue, lace curtains hang on either side of a wall-length window, and there are at least four doors on either side of the main sitting room. A full kitchen is pushed off to one side, but it clearly hasn't been used during the entire duration of her stay in North Carrieina.
An extravagant couch takes up the center of the main room. There's a flat screen television built into
the wall across from it and a silver platter sitting on the coffee table. It's filled up with eggs benedict and toast and a separate tray of assorted meats. Victoria has set a bowl of mixed fruit off to the side. She's picked out all of the grapes and discarded them into the trashcan sitting next to the couch.
“Matt,” gasps Victoria, scrambling away from the door. She's wearing a strappy silver nightgown. It hangs low on her chest. Pert nipples press against the satin like fabric. From the knee down, the skirt is nothing but sheer, see-through fabric.
Just the sight of those long, shapely legs makes Matt's pants feel too tight.
