Sleeping With My Boss

by Wood, Vivian

  “God yes.” I follow her to stand behind some other girls who are decked out in shiny silver lycra. My eyes wander across the stage and to the audience. I recognize some faces at the back; people that I know from Red-Green Party meetings, a socially liberal and anti-monarchal political movement.

  The Red-Green party started in Copenhagen but it has since blossomed into a genuine political movement, almost anarchist at its core. The same people that used to show up at the Occupy Wall Street and Dakota Access Pipeline meetings often show up in support of the Red-Green party protests.

  There is an energy to it, a grassroots anger about the clenched fist of capitalism that seems to drive the whole scene. I respect and admire any kind of rebellion against the system, so… I’m here for it, basically.

  Pippa gets us each a beer and a shot of whiskey, as is the usual. We established this pattern in college of taking turns buying rounds for each other. I take the shot, wincing at the burn, and move out of the line.

  I glance at Pippa, seeing her brighten. “Hey, I see some people I know. Come on, let’s say hi.”

  She pulls me by the hand toward the opposite wall. There are three extraordinarily tall guys that are propped up against the wall, their heads turned toward the stage. They are probably in their mid twenties, just a few years older than my own twenty three. One of them turns and glances at me briefly. Our gazes snag and hold.

  My breath leaves my lungs in a little whoosh. I don’t say that lightly, but…

  He is beautiful. Extremely tall, handsome, dark haired, with cheekbones that look like they could cut steel. Wearing a dark t-shirt, low-slung jeans, and dark shoes, he looks like he should be on a fashion runway, not in this grimy pop up club.

  His eyes are an intense light blue. They skate over me and toward Pippa, but then come back to me. He frowns just a little, like there is something that he should know but can’t quite figure out.

  I step on a beer can and stumble, breaking my gaze away. When I look up again, I realize that the other guys he’s with are equally handsome, one looking so similar to him that I almost can’t tell them apart. The third guy has lighter hair and dark brown eyes. Upon looking closely, he’s just slightly taller than his two friends.

  It’s this third guy that catches Pippa’s gaze and stands up straighter. He says something to the other two, who nod. Then he pushes himself off the wall and steps out to greet Pippa.

  “Pippa, hey,” he yells. His accent is strange, Norwegian or Swedish or something. “What are you doing here?”

  The band onstage stops playing abruptly and the crowd cheers. Pippa clears her throat, pulling me forward. “Hey. I’m just in town for the weekend. This is my friend, Margot. Margot, this is my friend Erik…”

  The lighter haired guy nods at me, taking a second to take me in. “Hey. This is Lars,” he points to one brother. “And this is Stellan.”

  He points to the other, the one I noticed first. The tall one, with the eyes that could melt steel. I blush under their collective inspection, tossing my hair back.

  “Hi. I’m Margot.” That’s all I give them. Luckily Pippa is so extroverted that she just naturally fills in the gaps, making my aloofness seem okay.

  God, I’ve missed her so much since she moved.

  “Margot, these guys are from Copenhagen,” she says. “They… umm…”

  She seems at a loss for how to describe them.

  Lars jumps in. “We’re Danish. We are enjoying your city, seeing the sights.”

  Ah. I was close when I guessed at their accents, but not quite there. I sip my beer and keep watching all three of the men.

  Stellan is silent and still, but I can tell from his keen gaze that he’s drawing all kinds of conclusions. I just don’t know what they might be…

  Loud pre-recorded music comes over the speakers. Pippa looks around. “We should go dance!”

  She heads off without so much as a glance back, just expecting that we will all follow her. Or maybe it’s not that, maybe it’s just that she knows she will find someone to dance with in the crush of the crowd.

  Knowing Pippa, she is probably correct in that assumption.

  “Are you staying here?” Erik asks Stellan.

  “Ja.” Stellan nods. Erik glances at the dance floor. He clearly wants to go out there. Stellan jerks his head toward where Pippa went. “Go dance.”

  “Jeg er lige i nærheden,” Erik says quickly. He looks at me briefly, his gaze narrowing for a second. But then he heads out into the throng, bobbing his head to the music.

  I sidle up to the wall beside Stellan, sliding him a gaze as I lean against it. He looks at me too, then shakes his head and looks away.

  “What?” I ask. I take a sip of beer.

  He shrugs. “I have to go to the bar.” He pauses. “Do you like aquavit?”

  I wrinkle my nose. “I have no idea what that is.”

  The corners of his lips lift ever so slightly. “It’s like gin, a little.”

  His accent makes the way he pronounces the word gin a little funny.

  I smirk. “Then I guess so.”

  Stellan pushes off the wall and heads toward the momentarily empty bar. “Come on. You’ll like it, I think.”

  What makes him think that I, a person that he doesn’t know from Adam, will like it… I do not know. But I follow him, my wariness of him easing for some reason.

  It turns out, I don’t hate aquavit. In fact, I kind of like it.

  For the next hour we mostly drink and talk a little. We dance at one point. We flirt shamelessly. We dance some more, moving closer and closer together on the dance floor.

  “You like this music?” he asks, getting closer to be heard over the music. I inhale his scent; most of the guys I encounter don’t smell incredible like he does. Fresh bread and clean soap mixed with a certain maleness. It’s kind of addictive. It’s also unfair, when you add it to his height, his broad shoulders, his intense blue gaze, and his cheekbones.

  I grin up at him, well aware that he’s almost a foot and a half taller than I am. Leaning in so my lips brush his ear, I whisper. “Yes.”

  “It sounds like noise,” he says. “There is a melody that is there, but it is under all these… other sounds. Does that make sense?”

  My eyes twinkle. “Yes.”

  He chuckles. “I’m having a good time.”

  “Me too.”

  I realize that I’m working up the courage to ask him to come home with me. I have a little sixth floor walkup not far from here. I am drunk and having a good time. And I want to know what his body looks like without those clothes that cling to his muscular frame.

  All night the pressure has been building inside me.

  Just ask.

  He can only say no.

  The way he’s looking at me, he won’t say no.

  I’m almost drunk enough to loosen my tongue. Is that a good thing? I wonder.

  But suddenly Erik appears, whispering intently in Stellan’s ear. Stellan frowns and whispers something back. Then he pulls a pen from the pocket of his jeans.

  He grabs my arm, the first time we actually touch. It’s erotic; for a second, I am aware only of the feeling of the current passing between us, of the goosebumps the electricity leaves in its wake.

  He scribbles something on my arm, then points to it. “That is my number this weekend. Call us if you get up to anything fun before Sunday, ja?”

  Looking up at him with wide eyes, I nod. He releases my arm and turns, following Erik as he heads to the door.

  Pippa comes up behind me, a tiny wrinkle of worry set in her brow. “Where are they going?”

  Shaking my head, I raise my arm. “I don’t know. But I did get Stellan’s phone number.”

  Pippa’s brows jump up almost comically. “Really?”

  I nod. “Yeah. He said to let him know what we get up to tomorrow night.”

  Her lips twitch. “Well, well. I guess we are going out tomorrow then, huh?”

  I roll my eyes. “We
’ll see.”

  “Come on, let’s get one more drink before we call it a night.” She grabs my arm and steers me away from the door, changing the subject.

  My arm still tingles faintly where Stellan touched it.

  All right, I can admit it… I’m excited about possibly seeing him tomorrow. And curious about where he went tonight…

  Sighing, I stand in line and listen to Pippa talk, only partially paying attention.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Stellan

  “So, Stellan… what is it like to be the future king of Denmark?” the reporter asks, holding his pen at the ready. His American accent is bland and unremarkable.

  I shift in my seat, glancing off the balcony of the Four Seasons. The skyline from the vantage point is absolutely stunning… but the afternoon heat is starting to get to me.

  That and the fact that being interviewed by a nosy reporter is the very last thing I want to be doing right now. the reporter from the New York Times is named Mark; he and I have been working together for several hours today and yet we’re still stiff and disjointed whenever we speak.

  My head aches dully from too much partying last night. I take a sip of the coffee laid out on the low table that separates us, a silent sigh on my lips. “It’s the only life I have ever known. I couldn’t begin to guess at what it is like to live any other way.” I crook a brow. “Please tell me that you intend to ask me something better than that?”

  He looks up from his pad of paper, pushing his glasses up his nose. His cheeks stain just a bit with embarrassment. “Of course. I have a whole list of more in depth questions.”

  I study him. He’s perhaps fifteen years older than my twenty six years, his gray hairs just beginning to overtake his blond ones. He’s a little scruffy and dressed moderately hip in a dark gray button up and black jeans.

  It’s not that I’m usually a jerk to reporters. I don’t mean to put this man on his back foot, although that’s not out of the ordinary for a first meeting between me and a commoner.

  Rather, it is more that I have my guard up as high as possible with anybody that is outside the royal family. Not just now, but always. And especially with the press.

  My existence — how I live my life — is a source of curiosity for the rest of the world.

  “The reason I agreed to this interview with the New York Times is simple. I am growing into my majority; that is to say, I am ready to take the crown in a few years. It will benefit Denmark to have a ruler that is well known to the American people, as my father King Göran has proven.”

  It’s one of the answers that was provided to me in a nice packet of papers that was left on the royal family’s private plane. Just one glance at the words, typed on royal stationery, gives off a whiff of my grandmother, the Queen Mother.

  It was her idea to set this all up in the first place.

  He nods. “Ja, King Göran and Queen Thora’s love story is quite well known here. They still seem to be very much in love every time they come visit.”

  A corner of my mouth tips up. “They are quite the pair.”

  Mark takes a moment to consider his next question. “Your life is one of opulence and luxury. The finest schools, flashy cars, so many castles owned by your family to even name.”

  I bob my head, sipping my coffee. He licks his lips and continues.

  “I think what people would like to know is how growing up in the spotlight with so much wealth and notoriety influenced you. How does it feel to have your life already laid out for you? Does it feel… mmm… restrictive?”

  I want to roll my eyes at the question. It seems obvious that being the Royal Prince of Denmark is, in fact, beyond stifling. This golden mantle is heavy and it only grows more weighted the older I get. But I’ve been trained since birth to repress and hide my emotions.

  So I just blink a few times. “It can be. But I choose to look beyond my duties and responsibilities and see it instead as an honor and a privilege.”

  Another quote that sounds false, mainly because I’m being puppeted by the Queen Mother. Mark narrows his eyes on my face, but I just stare back at him. I am not easy to embarrass and I’ve spent years learning how to control that response.

  My phone vibrates on the table. I sit up, glancing at Mark as I reach forward. “This could be important.”

  No, it couldn’t. Anything that’s important passes through my best friend Erik, who is hovering just out of my eye line inside the glass doors that lead into our suite. There is a hierarchy of what information I need to receive.

  Judging by the fact that his enormous shoulder isn’t busting the door down, I don’t think an affair of state is in question. Flipping over my phone, I see a text from an unknown number.

  Tonight. After 9. 5930 Palmetto St. See you there?

  It’s unsigned, but I have no doubt that it’s from her.

  Margot.

  Pink hair, a leather jacket, and Converse. So fucking sexy, so vibrant, so exactly the type of girl my grandmother would hate.

  I almost took her home with me for the night, but Erik came and forced me to come back to the hotel. He’s a bastard, but he was right.

  I bite my lip and turn my phone over. I can’t text her back right away, because then she will know that I’ve been waiting to hear from her.

  I raise my eyes to the reporter once more. “Can we do the rest of this over email? I have a pressing engagement.”

  He pauses like I’m actually asking him whether or not it’s possible. “I have a few questions that are more delicate in nature— “

  I rise from my seat while he fumbles for an answer. The words we’re done here might not have passed my lips, but I smile and act as though they did.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you.” Plastering a vague smile on my face, I hold out a hand for him to shake. Mark’s brow pulls down but he shakes my hand.

  At the same time, Erik steps onto the balcony. “Mark? I’ll show you out…”

  I keep that same expression until Mark hurries off, then collapse with a groan of aggravation. Throwing my arm over my eyes, I lay on the outdoor sofa until Erik returns from seeing the reporter to the front door.

  “Don’t be such a baby,” Erik says, taking Mark’s seat. His voice is low-pitched, almost a rumble. “I told you not to drink too much last night, did I not?”

  I glance at him. He’s a distant cousin of mine and you can tell by the way we are similarly built broad, tall, hair cropped close to our scalps. You could easily imagine Erik as a Viking warrior; he even has the light hair to pull it off.

  “Aren’t you supposed to make me more comfortable?” I grouse.

  He rolls his eyes and sits back, kicking up his big booted feet. “Rend mig i røven.”

  My lips curl upward. “Telling your crown prince to go fuck himself is not very nice, Erik.”

  He looks at me blankly. I think I’m pretty hardened and hard to read, but I’ve got nothing on Erik.

  “We should have left that club earlier.” His eyes narrow on my face. “But you wouldn’t leave Pippa’s friend…”

  I grin at him. It’s nice to be able to actually express myself, even if it’s just between us two. “Her name was Margot. And you’ll never guess where they’ve invited us to go tonight…”

  The way his face tightens would be imperceptible to most people. But Erik and I have been friends since birth. I know that he is displeased… I just don’t care.

  After all, he’s my keeper, not the other way around.

  “Hey, you agreed to this,” I say with a grin. “I said I didn’t want to come to New York. You were the one who wanted me to comply with my grandmother’s insane demand to come here and do a little positive publicity.”

  “The Queen Mother was not wrong.”

  I sit up and lean over the table, pouring myself a glass of sparkling water. “She thinks she can run everything for everyone infinitely. I can’t wait until I’m not under her thumb anymore.”

  Erik pours himself a glas
s of water too, sipping it. “Be glad for these last years of freedom, Stel.”

  I snort. “Ja. I feel super free. Especially since the Queen Mother celebrated my birthday by giving me a list of the girls she considers marriageable.” I pull a face. “Like I need to review. The same girls have been paraded in front of me for my whole entire life.”

  He lifts his shoulders. “You’ve dated about two thirds of them, too. You already know what they’ll be like. If I were you— “

  “Which you’re not.”

  He gives me a look. “I would just pick a girl and settle down.”

  “Ah. If you were in my place, my grandmother would adore that. She’d get the rule follower that she always wanted. And I would be free of the royal curse.”

  Erik steeples his fingers. “Don’t call it that.”

  “What should I call it, then?” I rise, heading to the balcony’s edge. Far below, a small crowd of protestors are gathered. “The Red-Green Party people have followed me here again. Look.”

  He doesn’t move. “I’ve seen them.”

  I turn, dangling my glass between two fingers. “They say that I am representative of the old world order and the patriarchy. Do you know that? If I were only allowed to express my true feelings once in a while…”

  His expression smooths out and he looks off at the horizon. “You are ready for the crown. I get that. But you haven’t done any of the steps that a prince traditionally does to show he’s ready…”

  “Like marry a good girl and produce a few heirs,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “Ja, I know.”

  For just a second, an angry expression crosses his face. “Don’t be in such a hurry for something to happen to your father.”

  For a second, his rebuke actually takes me aback. Erik usually doesn’t like to talk about his father’s death. My brows rise in surprise. “I’m sorry, Erik. I didn’t mean that. My father doesn’t actually have to die for me to ascend to the throne. He just has to relinquish the crown. You know that.”

  Erik shrugs, apparently no longer interested in the topic. He is usually moody, but this is something else altogether. I drain the rest of my water, my mind wandering back to my phone.