by Tracy Wolff
She melts against me with a sigh, her lush ass arching against my suddenly hard cock. And though there’s a part of me that wants nothing more than to take her right now, to thrust myself inside of her and fuck her until we’re both exhausted, I won’t do it.
Not now, when the memories are riding me hard. Not now, when my control is shaky and I swear the scent of my own blood hangs in the air.
Instead, I close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing the way nine months of therapy have taught me. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Iiiiiiiiin through the nose, hold, ooooooooout through the mouth.
It’s not working this morning. How can it when the dream is so fresh that the sweat hasn’t even dried on my body?
I pull Lola closer, hold her tighter, searching for I don’t know what in the feel of her body against mine. Peace, maybe? Sanctuary? Acceptance? Tonight they all seem so far away.
My arm tightens around her waist of its own volition and even though she’s still asleep, she mumbles a protest, tries to push me off. It’s only then, when I have to force myself to loosen my grip, that I realize what I’m doing. How I’m using Lola to try to drown out the nightmares I’ve spent nine long months trying to face.
She mutters another protest, low and sweet, and I realize that I’m still holding her. Still squeezing her until she’s uncomfortable. Still dirtying her up with my memories, with the detritus of my past.
It’s that thought more than any other that has me grabbing my phone and rolling out of bed. The last thing I want is for the ugliness of my abduction to ever touch her.
After pulling on a pair of boxers, I pad bare-chested into the living room. The early-morning sun is brighter in here, and I blink against it as I try to get my bearings. It’s harder than it should be, and I can’t figure out why I suddenly feel so lost when I know exactly where I am and who I’m with.
I cross to the bar and grab a bottle of water, then pull my anxiety meds from my briefcase and swallow one down. Goddammit. I’m so sick of these pills, so sick of these nightmares. So sick of being this broken shell of a man who can’t even sleep through the night without freaking out.
I think back to what Michael said the last time I saw him. About how I’ve got to let some of this shit out, let some of it go, or I’m going to explode. But how do I do that? How the fuck do I do that?
I’d love to let it go. I’ve spent the last nine months trying really fucking hard to let it go. But every time I think I’m making progress, every time I think I’m finally doing okay, those fucking nightmares come back and kick me in the ass.
And it’s not like I can talk to just anyone about this. I’m a fucking prince, for God’s sake. Can’t have the guy who’s first/second in line for the throne whining about his PTSD to whoever will listen. It just isn’t done, no matter what Michael seems to think.
My hands are shaking as I recap the medicine bottle and for a second I think about taking a tranquilizer, just to chill the fuck out. But I’ve got shit to do today and the last thing I want is to be fuzzy or out of it. Lola deserves better than that.
I think about going in the hot tub to relax, think about reading a book. But in the end I just drag on a pair of jeans and stand at the balcony, staring down at Paris as it slowly wakes up.
I’m not sure how long I stand there. Long enough for the café down the street to open its door. Long enough for a light rain to start falling on the streets. More than long enough for the anxiety meds to take effect and my hands to finally, finally, stop shaking.
I think about going back to bed, but I’m not sleepy even if I am exhausted. I settle for ordering coffee and pastries from room service, figuring they’ll keep until Lola wakes up. Then I hunker down with my laptop to try to get some work done. Kian’s got a major summit on climate change coming up in a couple of weeks and there are a number of research papers I want to get through before then. If Wildemar is going to push for stronger climate initiatives, I want to make sure we have the hows and whys all worked out.
I’m halfway through the second paper—and a second pot of coffee—when my phone rings. At first I ignore it, not interested in talking to anyone. But a glance at the screen shows that it’s the King calling, and it’s not like I can ignore that. After all, the man only calls to berate me or when he wants something. Either way, it’s better to get it over with now, before Lola wakes up.
I swipe Accept, and he starts talking before I even say hello.
“Garrett, really. I know what you’re doing with this girl and it’s not going to work. The people may love her, but she’s not queen material. For God’s sake, she looks like a streetwalker in that maroon dress.”
I think about hanging up on him without saying a word, but that’s just one more way for me to prove him right. “Good morning to you, too, Dad. How are you today?”
“Frustrated, which I’m sure is exactly what you’re aiming for. Your brother keeps sending me polling data on you and this American who likes to break into our national parks. I’m not sure what the people see in her, to be honest. Attitude and looks get you only so far in this world, and I’m pretty sure she’s already scaled the outer limits of what she’s capable of with her little resale business.”
He says “resale business” in the same tone he reserves for drug dealers and prostitution rings. It gets my back up, has me saying, “You don’t even know her,” before I can think better of it. The second the words leave my mouth, I wish I could call them back. Giving him a response only validates him, only eggs him on. If I’ve learned nothing else in my thirty years of life, I’ve learned that.
Still, since I’ve already done the damage, I might as well follow it up with the truth. “And it was a local park, not a national one.”
Several seconds of silence follow. And then, “That’s your defense? It was a local park?”
“I don’t want to do this with you right now,” I tell him, determined to stop this before it goes any farther. I loved the time I spent with Lola that night, loved how she pushed and prodded me out of my comfort zone and into hers. Listening to him talk about it with such disgust is ruining it, tainting it with all my fucked-up feelings about him.
“I’m sure you don’t. But what you want isn’t an issue right now, Garrett. Wildemar is. Or have you forgotten your position?”
It’s the same refrain I’ve heard over and over again in my life. The you’re not important, only the country is speech that first showed up when I was four or five. I’ve bought into that my whole life, have never questioned it. Hell, I believe it still. But hearing him say it after the way he’s spent the last nine months jerking me around? It feels fake and flat and infuriating. So, so infuriating. “Yeah, well, future leader isn’t exactly my position anymore, so I figure I don’t have to follow the same playbook these days.”
Another prolonged silence. “Do I need to remind you that you are still a prince of Wildemar? As such, there are certain expectations of you—”
“Really?” I choke on a laugh. “Because I remember whole years when Kian’s only obligations were getting drunk and screwing as many women as he could.”
“What’s happened to you?” It’s not a question so much as a complaint. “Did that kidnapping really change you this much? Did it really make you this bitter?”
“Shocking, I know, Dad, that three months of torture could change a person.”
“If you’re going to be sarcastic, I will hang up.”
Like that’s a threat? I couldn’t get that lucky. “It’s not the torture that made me bitter. It’s what I came home to.”
He sighs. “Are we back to this again?”
“I’m not really sure how we could avoid it, since you’ve stripped me of the title I’ve held since birth.”
“It is within my powers as King to do so. I have a duty to Wildemar—”
“What about me?”
Once again, the words slip out unbidden. “Don’t you have a duty to me, too? I’m your son.”
For long seconds, his breathing is the only sound in the room. Finally, just when I’m convinced he’s going to hang up, he says, “I don’t know what’s happened to you, Garrett, but whatever it is, it needs to stop now.”
“You don’t know what’s happened to me? Really?”
“For God’s sake, you can only play the abduction card so long before it gets old.”
This time I’m the silent one as shock holds me immobile for longer than I care to admit. “I have never played the abduction card.” My voice is all but shaking with the rage I’ve tamped down for weeks. Months. “I’ve never asked you for anything except a chance to serve my country in the role that has always been mine. You’re the one hung up on the abduction. You’re the one that doesn’t want damaged goods anywhere near your precious throne.”
“You’ve figured that out and yet you go off and find this Lola woman, who is pretty much the definition of damaged goods. The illegitimate daughter of a Las Vegas showgirl? Seriously? Were there no local whores available?”
“Don’t ever talk about her like that again.” The words crackle with a rage I don’t even try to tamp down. “Going after me is one thing, but declaring open season on Lola? I won’t tolerate that. Not from you, not from anyone.”
“You can’t actually be serious about this woman.”
“How I feel about her is nobody’s business but mine.”
“It’s everybody’s business! When are you going to get that through your head? Have you seen the papers? The whole world is talking about your new romance with this—”
“Be very careful what word you use next,” I warn him.
“With this woman,” he says, after a moment. “Is that really how you want to be known? As the poor, lost little prince who fell for the first gold digger who came along?”
“You know nothing about Lola’s and my relationship, and I’m not going to stand here and listen to you pretend that you do.”
“I’m sure you think she’s all that you deserve after what happened, but I’ve already spoken to Felicity and her parents. She says she’ll take you back—”
“Take me back? Are you even listening to yourself? I’m not going back to Felicity and I’m not walking away from Lola just because you want me to.”
“I’m trying to look out for you.”
“You don’t give a shit about me. You never have.” My stomach is churning now, anger taking a razor blade to my hard-earned calm. There aren’t enough anxiety meds in the world to keep me chill in the face of this bullshit, no matter what Michael says. “All you care about is Wildemar and your legacy.”
“That used to be all you cared about, too.”
“You’re right. It was. And I was wrong. I hurt people because I was so blinded by what I thought of as my duty to the country that I couldn’t see the human consequences of my decisions. The country is important—no one’s saying it isn’t. But you can’t treat people like they’re interchangeable. Or worse, like they’re dispensable. That’s not what it means to be a leader.”
“Who are you to tell me how a leader should act? I know my job. I’ve been King of Wildemar for nearly thirty years.”
“You’ve been King so long you forget what it is to be human.”
“All you do anymore is whine and you wonder why I don’t want you to be King.”
“I don’t even know how to answer that. So, I think I’m going to hang up now. Before I say something I’ll regret.”
“We haven’t even talked about why I called.”
“Looks like it’s going to have to wait, then. Goodbye, Dad.”
“Wait!” He rushes to get it out before I hang up. “If you stop seeing this Lola woman, I’ll give you back the throne.”
My stomach drops to my knees and the whole world seems to stop. Just stop. “Repeat that, please?”
“I said,” he continues in a slower, more regal tone, “that if you show sound judgment and ditch this gold digger from Las Vegas, I will consider it a sign of your increased mental health. And since that’s always been my number-one priority…”
“You’ll give me back the throne.” My voice is totally disbelieving, but can you blame me? He’s been jerking me around about this for months, and now he thinks he’s going to use it as a bargaining chip in my relationship with Lola?
“I will, absolutely.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He pauses, like he’s not expecting that. But he recovers fast, and says, “You should, because I’m telling you the truth, son. Everyone knows you’re better suited for the position of king than Kian.”
“Then why the hell are we even having this debate?” I demand. “Why the hell have you been jerking me around for the last nine months? Nothing’s changed in that time, so why the sudden change of heart? And why should I trust it—or you?”
“You’re on medication now—”
“I’ve been on medication.”
“You seem more in control—”
“I’ve been in control.”
“You—”
“Cut the bullshit, will you. You’re pissed because you’re not in control anymore. Of me, of my relationship with Lola, of the attitudes of our people. This is your way of trying to get that control back. But it’s not going to happen. Not today; not ever again. I’m done being a puppet dancing to your string. Take the crown and shove it up your ass.”
His silence is deafening. My stomach is churning, my head throbbing at the finality of what I’ve just said. What I’ve just done. Two weeks ago it would be incomprehensible to me, but two weeks ago I didn’t have Lola.
There’s a small part of me that’s freaking out over what I just said, but I don’t try to walk it back. I’m sick to death of trying to convince this man that I’m good enough. I’m not going to do it anymore and I’m sure as hell not going to sacrifice the most real, most honest relationship I’ve ever had for a title that will never be mine.
When my father finally speaks, his voice is more frozen and rigid than I’ve ever heard it. “So that’s it? Some girl you’ve known for two weeks is suddenly more important than the position you’ve worked your whole life for? I’d thought I trained you better than that.”
“You did train me better than that. You trained me to be the best king I could possibly be. But that’s not good enough for you and I’m too tired to fight you anymore. And that’s on you, not on me. I’m not the one who chose to walk away from the throne. You’re the one who is shoving me out.”
“If you’re so weak you won’t even fight for what you want, then you don’t deserve it.”
“I have fought for what I want. I’ve been fighting for it my entire life, and I sure as shit have been fighting for it since I got out of that hellhole. But you don’t get to bring Lola into it. You don’t get to use the woman I love against me. That’s where I draw the line. That’s where I walk away. So go screw your—”
“Garrett!”
I freeze at the sound of Lola’s voice behind me. Fuck. How much did she hear? Please, God, not my father referring to her as a prostitute or a gold digger. No woman needs to hear that.
“I have to go, Dad.” I bark the words into the phone as I turn toward a pale and stricken-looking Lola.
“Don’t you dare hang up on me. We’re not done here—”
“We are, absolutely, done here.” I swipe my phone off, then toss it on the nearest couch as I head toward the only woman I’ve ever loved.
“What did you just do?” she demands, wild-eyed. “Call him back. Tell him you didn’t mean it. Tell him—”
“What? That I don’t love you? That it’s okay for him to try to force me to break up with you?”
“Yes!” she says, her voice strangled. “Yes! Do
that!”
“I can’t.” I’m right in front of her now and I reach for her, determined to pull her into my arms so I can be holding her, touching her, as we hash this out. But the moment my hands touch her shoulders, she pushes me away.
“You have to! Garrett, he’s just offered you everything you want—”
“No, he didn’t. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I love you and I want to be with you. To hell with my father and his bullshit machinations.”
“No! Don’t say that. You want the throne. You’ve always wanted the throne. That’s what this whole thing has been about—”
“That’s how this whole thing started,” I correct her. “It’s not what it’s been about. Not for a while now, and I think you know that.”
She’s shaking her head wildly, backing away with a hand held out in front of her. “Stop saying that!”
“Why? It’s the truth.”
“It’s not. It can’t be. Garrett…”
I reach for her again and this time she doesn’t fight me. Instead, she lets me pull her into my arms, against my body. “What, Lola?” I whisper as I press kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her lips.
“This is wrong.”
“No,” I whisper against her skin. “It’s not. It’s exactly how it should be.”
“The throne.”
“Fuck the throne,” I tell her, and though there’s a pang deep inside me at the knowledge that I will never be king, it’s followed by the knowledge that I don’t want it. Not if I have to grovel at my father’s feet every ten seconds and live with his threats to pull the rug out from under me whenever I do something he doesn’t like. And not if it means having to give up Lola.
I’ve spent my whole life searching for someone who sees me, wants me, and not just the future King of Wildemar. Now that I’ve finally found her, all wrapped up in this brash, beautiful, exciting package, I’d be a fool to ever let her go.
