Innocent Princess (Modern Princess Collection Book 2)

by Lauren Helms

  He'd take one look at me and my computer in a dark classroom and know exactly what I'm up to.

  I slowly and quietly push my laptop into my bag as Wells continues the conversation.

  "Forget the classroom. There's a nice little study room down on the second floor. Let’s head down there; at least we’ll be comfortable in hiding." They all laugh, and the door closes.

  That was a close fucking call. I sigh with relief but decide its best if I get out of here. I lift my bag up and over my head, so it hangs across my body, and walk to the door and listen for movement.

  Silence.

  I open the door and poke my head out. The coast is clear.

  Slipping out of the room, I head for the exit right down the hall. Pushing out into the steamy August day, I yank out my phone.

  Damn it. The image is blurry. I can only make out about six of the numbers, but the letters are lost to me. Is that an ‘o’ or a ‘d’?

  I stop and look up at The Castle across the courtyard.

  Think, think.

  Ah! That tower. It's angled out from the building enough. I would be able to get a better view of Cannon's office. The tower wasn't utilized anymore, at least that’s Wells told me freshman year. How the hell he knew that I have no flipping clue.

  The tower it is then.

  I've got about thirty minutes before I risk Cannon returning from his meeting early. He normally closes the blinds in his office around four, so I need to hurry.

  It doesn't take me more than a few minutes to cut across the green, lush grass of the courtyard. Everything about this campus is royal. It costs an arm and a leg to attend CamU, but I'm confident that they spend half a million a year to keep the grounds in tip-top shape.

  Then again, that's private universities for you.

  Walking in the side doors into the Castle, I take a moment to orient myself with the space. There are no classrooms or study rooms here, so after two years on campus, I've only been in here a small amount of time. Turning to the right, I head down the hall. Minutes later, I come to a stairwell in about the same vicinity of the tower.

  Here's hoping this takes me to where I need to go.

  Three flights later and slightly out of breath, I reach the top. There's a single, giant wooden door at the top of the stairs.

  Yahtzee!

  I push open the door and slide into the room. There are several windows, and the center is empty except for a single table. The window to the right of the door has a perfect view of Cannon's window.

  Reaching into the bag at my side, my fingers brush the smooth plastic finish of my monocular. With it in my grasps, I lower my bag onto the floor. It takes only a second to zoom in on the sticky note, and I read the password out loud to myself.

  Attempting another photo, I make sure the code is crisp and easy to read.

  "And that's how it's done, baby," I mutter and shove my phone back into my pocket.

  "Do you talk to yourself often?" I hear a light, singsong voice.

  Was I followed? My head snaps up, and I glance at the door.

  No, the door is shut. My gaze travels around the room, coming to a stop when it lands on... hair.

  A ton of fucking hair.

  It's a soft blonde color, which is normally my preference, but what I can't seem to wrap my head around is why there's so much of it. I pull my eyes away from the mass of hair and realize it's surprisingly attached to a single body. A petite girl sits in the window, her back against the wall, her legs stretched out on the sill and crossed at the ankles. She's tiny enough to fit comfortably in the window.

  The hair distracts me, and I realize that while it's braided, it's thick and wild within its bind. It hangs halfway to the floor. I wonder if the tips of her hair hit the floor when she unleashes it.

  "Ahem." She clears her throat.

  I'm staring. Making eye contact, I'm greeted with questioning eyes and a small smile.

  "So, he talks to himself and has never seen hair before." The pixie woman tucks a wayward hair behind her ear.

  I clear my own throat this time. Where are my manners? I'd say my mother would be appalled, but I don't have one. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize I wasn't alone."

  "You didn't hear the music?" She tips her head toward a laptop on a single square table in the middle of the room. Low music pours through its speakers, some boy band pop song. I'm surprised I didn't hear it until now.

  I tug at my favorite blue T-shirt, slightly embarrassed. I'm normally on my A-game when it comes to women, and this one seems to be besting me. "One track mind it seems," I mutter.

  "So it seems. By the looks of it, you were doing something you probably shouldn't be doing." She looks almost too innocent to trust, so I can't help flipping the switch on my other skill. A slow grin, one I've been told countless times is sexy as sin, slides across my face. Cocking my head slightly, I wink at her. Lowering my voice, just slightly, I say, "How's your day going?"

  She stares. Her eyebrows pinch together, and she cocks her head slightly. "Did you just smolder?"

  My face falls, and I feel ... out of place. Am I in an alternate universe? Since when did my smolder not work on the opposite sex? Not only did it not affect the pixie, but she also called me out on it. Is my smolder broken?

  My thoughts are interrupted by an amused giggle. "Let me guess, that usually works on the ladies?"

  "Yeah, I think I might be broken." I can't keep the pout out of my tone.

  More giggles from Blondie.

  "How about you try introducing yourself? Maybe I have to get to know you before the smolder is effective on me."

  Uh, maybe she's right. I'm going to have to work my magic later on some random chick to ensure I haven't lost my smolder mojo.

  Shaking off the confusion, I get my head back into the game. "Hi, I'm Ryker Stone."

  3

  Zella

  "Well, it's nice to meet you, Ryker Stone. I'm Zella Raps." I should probably leave my perch on the window, but nothing about this greeting is formal.

  "Are you new here?" He eyes me like he's trying to figure me out.

  "I am... a transfer student. Third-year," I say, knowing it would be his next question.

  "Really? Third-year too. Why haven’t we run into each other before?" He crosses his arms but still remains casual. The tension in his shoulders constricts, and his back straightens, like a thick board down his spine. He was trying to distract me, keep my mind off the fact that I caught him doing something inappropriate.

  "You mean, how have you not laid eyes on the girl with the hair for days?" Smiling softly, I pull my knees to my chest. My hair has never not been a topic of gossip.

  Ryker chuckles around a "yeah" and the sound does something to me.

  Small, tiny tingles work their way up my feet to my legs, all the way to my hips and into my belly. Little sparkles of something I've never felt before break the surface, causing my heart to race. Well, at least he's honest.

  I shrug a hint of disappointment off, wishing one day I'd meet someone who didn't notice the hair. "So, it's not my stunning looks and chipper personality?"

  "Actually, it's all of those things. The hair drew me in. The looks made me pause, and the personality, well, it's the cherry on top." He ends his sugary-sweet compliment with the smoldering look he attempted earlier.

  This time, it does affect me. I don't want him to realize it, but the knowing smirk on his face has me fighting to reach up and cover my heated cheeks.

  Traitorous cheeks.

  Gathering my wits with the help of a good-natured eye roll, I bring the subject back on him. "So, are you a Peeping Tom or something?"

  He lets out a snort. "Uh, more like ‘or something’."

  "Hmm. So, what exactly were you doing then?"

  He studies me for a moment, contemplating the truth. His pupils dilate just before he lies. "Meh." He casually lifts a shoulder. "I was stealing a password from a Post-It note."

  What? I glance to the window he stood at and d
rag my eyes back to him. There's no way; clearly, he's pulling my leg here. He doesn't know me, why would he trust me with the truth?

  "Ha-ha. Right. Well, you don't need to worry about me. I never saw you. You were never here." I wiggle back into my original position in the window and wink.

  He stares at me in wonder for a beat then clears his throat. "Well, I gotta run. It was nice meeting ya, Blondie. Maybe I'll see ya around."

  Heat floods my cheeks at the nickname. "Just look for the hair," I add as he salutes me and then slips back out the door as quietly as he came.

  My eyes blur as I stare at the door for several minutes.

  What the hell just happened?

  The next day, I still can't seem to shake that oddly entertaining meeting with Ryker. I really want to know what he was doing. Whatever it was, he probably doesn't want people to know about it. Maybe he would get in a lot of trouble if he were to get caught.

  That thought has led me down the path of wondering what he does in his spare time. Does he do unsavory things a lot? Or was yesterday, whatever he was peeking in on, a one-off?

  No, something tells me he's probably sneaking around doing things he probably shouldn't more often than not. Consider my interest piqued. I've never meant someone "bad" before.

  Not that Ryker Stone is bad per se, but hanging around Ryker might lead to an adventure. Oh, how badly I'd love an adventure right now.

  Sigh.

  My feet shuffle against the concrete as I wait in line at Jumping Joes, the on-campus coffeehouse, waiting to place my order. Cameron is meeting me, but he must be running late.

  Cameron 's been at Camelot University since freshman year, so maybe he knows who Ryker is. The student body isn't massive; there are only about three thousand students. There's a chance, since they are both in their third year, that they've crossed paths.

  I'm the next person in line when someone next to me brushes my arm. Turning, I can't hide the smile I get when I see my oldest friend.

  "Cam, there you are. For a second, I thought you might have forgotten our standing coffee date."

  "Coffee-s’moffee. You don't even drink coffee, Zella."

  I shrug; he has a point.

  "Do you want me to order for you?" I ask. "You go grab us a seat. It's really busy in here today." I ask and scan the open floor. With less single, small tables, the shop is full of long wooden tables, both short and high top. The only tables for two are up against the walls in a booth slash table set up.

  "Sure. Get me that new Enchanting Frappé everyone's drinking," he says.

  I confirm I heard him with a nod as I step up to the counter to order, he disappears behind me to find us a place to sit.

  "I'll take a large white peppermint hot chocolate and a large Enchanting Frappé, please."

  The barista runs my student ID card, and I move to the pick-up line to wait for our drinks. A few minutes later, with a hot and cold drink in hand, I find Cameron, who's managed to get an end seat at one of the long tables. With all my hair, sometimes I feel like I take up too much room when I have to squeeze in between people already camped out in their seats.

  I hand the frappé over to Cameron, and he takes a sip.

  "How is it? It sure is fun looking." I nod at the cup, it's all pink, purples, and is that... glitter?

  "It's dreamlike, actually." He sucks down more. "Want to try it?"

  "No, thank you. One taste may put me into a sugar comma." I take a sip of my own drink. The WPHC is my go-to drink, even when it's hot out. My mother never let me get café drinks growing up, but she did buy me those little hot chocolate packets, which I still love.

  "Maybe, but this drink is worth it. I feel like it has magical powers. Maybe I'll turn into some mythical creature. It's official. This is my favorite drink." By the looks of it, I might have to agree because it's almost gone.

  "You're always changing your favorite drink. It never lasts more than a month. You're like a chameleon, always changing your tastes based on what's popular."

  He thinks about my statement, puckers his lips, then nods. "True story."

  We chat briefly about our day and our shared class tonight. Cameron has been my best friend for years, ever since he moved in next door to me when we were seven. Before I transferred to CamU, we talked via email and text nearly every day. Now that we are on the same campus, we get to see each other all the time. Somehow, I’m lucky enough to end up sharing a class with him: Western Culture and Humanities.

  It's a core class, one of those classes all graduates are required to take. The class is normally full of sophomore and juniors, but if I'd been here before my third year, I would have taken it as soon as I could. I love the study of human culture, and since I'm majoring in art, learning about culture and art in history is my jam. While this humanities class isn't hard, it's a lot of work since it's a one day a week, ninety-minute night class.

  "I've heard that Professor Evans hands out pretty thorough study guides for tests though, so that's good. I think we need to focus more during our study sessions with Wells." Cameron slurps up the last reaming drops of the enchantment spell in a cup then pushes it away.

  "For sure, we need to stop shooting the breeze. Or maybe we all just need to hang out more so we don't get side-tracked," I offer. When Wells is around, he's always filling our ears with the gossip around campus. I don't know hardly anyone yet, but Cameron and Wells are entertaining in their stories.

  Cameron leans his chin on his fist and smiles at me.

  "What?" I tuck a hair behind my ear.

  "You said, 'shooting the breeze'."

  "Yeah... so?" I'm confused.

  "Shit. You ‘shoot the shit’, Raps. You know, it's okay to swear, right? It's completely acceptable to cuss. You're a college student; your mom isn't going to pop up out of nowhere and scold you for saying a bad word."

  I blush. He's right, but old habits die hard. "Swearing doesn't feel right."

  "Come on, try it. Say ‘shit’. Let's start small."

  I shake my head defiantly. "Cameron, don't make me say that."

  "Do it. I bet you'll like it." He's always pushed me out of my comfort zone. Most of the time, I've liked it, but it still takes some mental preparation.

  "Shit. That's all you gotta say, Raps."

  "You're a bad influence," I hiss at him and then glance around the room.

  "Say it..." He's leaning in toward me, like he knows I'm about to say it.

  "Shit," I finally say in a hushed whisper.

  "Yeah, baby. How'd that feel?" He's laughing now, and I can't stop from joining in.

  "It felt ... strangely liberating," I admit.

  "Watch out, CamU! Zella Raps is about to shit all over this place."

  "Oh, my gosh Cameron Pascal, that was disgusting." But we are both laughing, and that's the normal with Cameron. I can't believe I went two full years without him in my life every day.

  When he went off to college and I stayed behind to commute Solitude Community College, it was one of the saddest days in my life. Mother didn't want me leaving the nest yet. Cameron begged me for months our senior year to apply to Camelot University, but I didn't because I didn't want to face the backlash of being accepted and my mother finding out.

  Two years later, the backlash was the least of my worries.

  No, finding my birth certificate and noticing it was dated several months after I was born is a huge worry. At first, I didn't think much of it. The longer I thought about it, the more I realized it didn't seem right. I did some research and found it’s normal for a birth certificate to be dated only a week or two after the baby is born. I couldn't stop researching. I kept typing every question that came into my head:

  When do you file for a birth certificate?

  How long does it take to file a birth certificate?

  What does an official birth certificate look like?

  Can you change an official birth certificate?

  Turns out, when a baby or child is adopted, a birth cer
tificate is amended, and the biological parents are removed and replaced with their adoptive parents. Then the certificate is dated the same day it's filed with the government.

  How do I know if I was adopted?

  I remember like it was yesterday, starring at the screen, tears filling my eyes. Was I adopted? Mother had never told me as much. I grew up hearing baby stories about myself. She had so many stories.

  My father died when I was still in diapers, so I didn't remember him. It had always been Mother and me.

  Suddenly, it didn't feel right. Something deep in my bones was telling me there was a missing puzzle piece. Maybe my desire to have adventures had nothing to do with my mother's strict rules, but with a part of me that I had no idea existed. The longing to be free was because I didn't know my true history.

  So, I confronted my mother. She tried to play it off by telling me she lost the original and had to file for a new one. But after my research on the topic, I knew it was a lie. My mother had always pushed me academically. Why she assumed I was arrogant on the matter was beyond me.

  Finally, she gave in, admitting she and my father adopted me when I was nine months old. The foster family had supplied her with baby photos and stories. She made up the rest.

  To bring everything full circle, it was Cameron who suggested I transfer to CamU, and put some much-needed distance between Mother and me. So that's what I did.

  It's been a dream for me, yet a nightmare for Mother.

  An alarm on my phone dings, telling me it's time to head to my next class. Cameron and I both push out of our seats and drop our empty drink cups into the trash near the door. As we step out into the hot sunny day, a girl shoves a paper in my empty hands.

  "The Glass Ball is coming up! It's time to buy your tickets!" She repeats over and over as she shoves fliers into more empty hands and disappears into Jumping Joes.

  "What's this?" I ask Cameron as I scan the flimsy, brightly colored pink paper.

  "Oh, that. It's a yearly fundraiser the University puts on. It's basically a glorified prom."

  I suck in a breath. "I never went to prom." My heart pounds with excitement. I dreamed about going to prom. Cameron asked me both years he went, but Mother always said no.