Royally Screwed

  Oh, and look at that--I've got my own personal hashtag. #oliviasucks.

  Great.

  I slam the laptop closed and back away like it's a spider. Then I dive for my phone on the bed and text Nicholas.

  Me: Have you seen Twitter?

  I'm being Photoshopped in effigy.

  He takes only a few seconds to respond.

  Nicholas: Stay far away from Twitter.

  It's a cesspool.

  Me: So you have seen it?

  Nicholas: Shield your eyes. They're jealous.

  As they should be.

  Me: There you go being modest again.

  Nicholas: Modesty is for the weak and dishonest.

  And just like that, my unease about the nasty comments starts to fade away, brushed from my mind like a hand through smoke.

  This--this summer affair with Nicholas--is real and solid and here right in front of me. And with its expiration date looming, I'm not going to waste time, not a second of it, worrying about meaningless words from faceless ghosts that I can't change, and in the end, don't matter anyway.

  Nicholas: Just avoid the Internet altogether. Television too. Go outside (bring security).

  It's a beautiful day.

  If I had a nickel for every time my mother said those same words, minus the "security" part, I'd be as rich as...well...Nicholas.

  Me: Okay, Mom.

  Nicholas: Not working for me. But if you want to call me Daddy, I might be able to get into that.

  Me: Ewwww.

  Nicholas: Have to go in a minute, love.

  Meeting about to start.

  I'll tell Barack you said hello.

  Me: SERIOUSLY???

  Nicholas: No.

  I shake my head.

  Me: You're a royal ass, you know that?

  Nicholas: Course I do. The Archbishop

  of Dingleberry certified it the day I was born.

  Me: Dingleberry??? You're messing with me.

  Nicholas: Afraid not.

  My ancestors were a sick, twisted bunch.

  Me: Lmao!

  Nicholas: Speaking of asses, I'm imagining mine pumping between your spread legs right now.

  Can't stop picturing it.

  What do you think about that?

  As soon as I read the words, I'm picturing it too. And God...heat coils low in my belly, unfurling and expanding until my thighs tingle deliciously. My hands tremble a little as I type back.

  Me: I think...we should stop thinking

  and start doing.

  Nicholas: Brilliant. Go to the hotel,

  the front desk will let you up.

  Be in my bed when I get back in two hours.

  Excitement bubbles through me like freshly poured Champagne.

  Me: Yes, My Lord.

  Nicholas: If your goal was to have me

  meet the Sisters of Mercy sporting a stiffy

  --mission accomplished.

  I hop off my bed, heading for the bathroom to freshen up and change. On the way, I type the only reply I can manage.

  Me: Awkward. Xo

  Days pass, and what was once jolting and new becomes...routine. A regular day. It's amazing how quickly that happens, how quickly we adapt.

  I have a boyfriend--at least for the summer. A sexy, gorgeous, fun boyfriend, who also happens to be a royal. That complicates things, but what would probably be most surprising to the Twitterverse and Facebook commentators and reporters is how...normal...it all feels.

  We go to lunch--surrounded by security, but it's still just lunch. We visit a children's ward in a hospital. The kids ask him about his crown and his throne, and I get a round of applause when I juggle for them--something my dad taught me in Amelia's kitchen years ago. I let Nicholas buy me clothes--casual but expensive clothes--because I don't want to embarrass him by looking shabby when we're photographed together. I wear my sunglasses whenever I'm outside and I barely hear the questions that get shouted by reporters anymore.

  This is my normal now.

  But just when I thought we'd fallen into a comfortable routine--everything changed with just one question: "Feel like going to a party?"

  Lightning flashes in the sky and warm rain pours down around us as James holds the umbrella over our heads when Nicholas and I step out of the car. The club is sleek, all polished onyx lacquer and stainless steel, windowless, with soundproof walls so as not to ruffle the feathers of the more conservative and ultra-wealthy neighbors. There's a velvet rope outside the door, and a mammoth bouncer in a dark suit and sunglasses waits with his own umbrella. But there's no line to get in--and it's not because of the weather.

  It's because this club is invite only. Every night.

  Inside, "My House" by Flo Rida blares and it looks like it's a costume party--an eighties costume party. I see a Madonna, two Princes--the Purple Rain kind, not the Nicholas kind--and a bunch of Cabbage Patch dolls that are a whole lot sexier than any of the pictures I've ever seen. The main room isn't huge--a few velvet couches and a mirrored bar along one wall. And there's a stage, with colored overhead lights that flash in time to the music.

  Ellie would say, it's Lit.

  On the stage is Tom Cruise from Risky Business--a guy wearing sunglasses and a pink button-down and, yep, tighty-whities. He dances and waves his arms, getting the packed dance floor even more riled up.

  "Do you see that guy?" I yell above the music, pointing toward the stage.

  Nicholas's handsome face is tight. "Oh, I see him all right."

  I take a second look. And then I choke.

  "That's your brother?!"

  The call Nicholas took in the suite library was from one of the Dark Suits in Wessco--letting him know his brother had arrived in Manhattan.

  "That's him," Nicholas practically growls.

  "Wow."

  "He's a brat," Nicholas explains, shaking his head. "He's always been a brat."

  "Okay, in the problematic younger sibling department, you win."

  Nicholas speaks to a security guy--one of the new ones, whose name I don't know yet. The guy nods and rushes off, and Nicholas grasps my hand. "Come on."

  We make our way around the dance floor, through the tight crowd of bodies. We pass a Debbie Gibson and a Molly Ringwald from Pretty in Pink, then stop on the side of the stage. When the song ends and a techno mix of Fetty Wap takes its place, the security guard talks to Tom Cruise...uh...Henry on the stage.

  His head snaps up--staring at Nicholas.

  And then, slowly, like he doesn't quite believe what he's seeing, he smiles.

  It's a sweet little-brother smile that tugs at my heart.

  He practically runs to us, jumping off the stage with feline dexterity and landing on both feet just a few yards away. His lips move--I can't hear him, but I can read what he says.

  "Nicholas."

  Then he's here. I step back so I don't get trampled, as Henry tackles his brother in a bear hug, lifting him off his feet. They hug for a few moments, smacking backs, then Nicholas pulls away--slipping the sunglasses off his younger brother, searching his face and reading his eyes.

  And a concern shadows Nicholas's features at what he finds.

  But he smacks his brother's cheek affectionately and says, "It's good to see you, Henry."

  Henry's the same size as his brother, with the same broad shoulders and long legs. I see the resemblance in the cheekbones, but their coloring is different. Henry's hair is blond, shaggy-long and curling, and his eyes are a brighter shade than Nicholas's.

  Like wild grass after a rainstorm.

  But they have the same bearing--both stand tall and straight, with an air of authority around them like a halo. Or a crown.

  "Did you forget to put on trousers?" Nicholas asks.

  Henry laughs and flashes--with a big, all-encompassing smile that makes me want to smile too.

  "It's a costume party." He steps back, framing Nicholas's suit-clad form with his fingers, like a cameraman on a movie set. "Let me guess...you are Charlie
Sheen from Wall Street?"

  And then, Prince Henry's attention turns to me. His interest turns to me.

  "And who might you be?"

  I quickly review my 1980s movie mental database and pull the hair tie from my bun, shaking out the curls. "I could be...Andie MacDowell from St. Elmo's Fire."

  He brings my hand to his lips, kissing the back. "Quick on your feet--I like that. How are you on your knees, love?"

  Oh yeah--he's definitely Nicholas's brother.

  Nicholas shoves him, kind of playfully--kind of not. "This is Olivia."

  "Is she my welcome-home present?"

  "No." Nicholas scowls. "She's...with me."

  Henry nods, and rakes his eyes over me, head to toe. "I'll trade you."

  "Trade me?"

  He points at me, then spins his finger around the room. "Her...for any girl here."

  Nicholas shakes his head. "I haven't seen you in a long while--don't make me smack you right away. Behave yourself."

  I step closer. "He's teasing, Nicholas." Then I take pity on the younger brother--and throw him a bone. "And you're not one to talk about behaving...considering the first night we met you offered me money for sex."

  Nicholas flinches.

  And Henry's jaw drops. "No! My brother did that? Mr. Prim and Proper in Public--I don't believe it." He nudges me with an elbow. "How much did he offer you?"

  I grin evilly at Nicholas and he looks like he wants to strangle me just a little bit.

  "Ten thousand dollars."

  "You cheap bastard!"

  "I was pissed!" Nicholas defends himself. "If I'd been sober, the starting bid would've been much higher."

  And we all laugh.

  Nicholas puts his hand on his brother's shoulder. "I'm in the penthouse at the Plaza...let's get out of here. Come back with us."

  Henry's demeanor changes then. Like the thought of being in a quiet place for too long panics him...but he's trying to hide it with a forced smile. It's only then that I notice the gauntness of his cheeks and the dark circles below his eyes.

  "I can't. I just got in--lots of people to see, shots to drink, lasses who'll be so disappointed if I leave without fucking them. You know how it is."

  Nicholas's eyes narrow. "When can I see you, then? There's much to talk about, Henry. How about breakfast, tomorrow?"

  Henry shakes his head. "I don't eat breakfast. Since I was discharged, I make it a point not to rise before noon."

  Nicholas rolls his eyes. "Lunch, then?"

  Henry pauses, then nods. "All right, Nicky. Lunch it is." He turns his head, looking into the crowd. "I have to go--there's a gorgeous little piece I promised to trade costumes with."

  And he points to a redhead in a Little Mermaid getup.

  Nicholas grasps his brother's shoulder, like he doesn't want to let go.

  "Until tomorrow."

  Henry pats his brother's back and nods to me, then disappears into the crowd.

  In the limo, on the way back to the hotel, Nicholas is quiet, the sound of the pelting rain and occasional thunder filling the silence.

  "Are you okay?" I ask.

  He rubs his lower lip with his finger, thinking. "He looks awful. Like he's haunted...being hunted...hiding from something."

  I don't want to tell him it will be all right; that's too flippant, too easy. So I give him the only thing I think will help--a hug.

  While the rain smacks against the windowpane outside, Nicholas thrusts into me from behind, long and slow. His thighs are spread, bracketing my closed ones; I feel them tighten each time he pushes forward, pressing his chest against my back, his pelvis against my backside, like he can't stroke deep enough. But then, suddenly, he pulls out of me and the bed jostles as he straightens, rising up on his knees behind me.

  He taps my back with his wet cock. "Roll over, love."

  My languid limbs do his bidding without question and I watch as Nicholas strokes his fist up his thick hardness--taking the condom off and tossing it over the edge of the bed to the floor. He's very careful about the condoms. I started birth control a few weeks ago, and even though it's definitely effective now, he still uses them every time.

  Nicholas taps against me with his erection--this time my stomach--then he shifts up my torso, keeping most of his weight on his knees.

  And his eyes--God--his eyes smolder with lust, burn bright even in the dim light of the room, gazing down at me, planning his next move. I don't have to wonder long what that move will be.

  Nicholas cups my breasts in each large hand, and a bolt of tingling sensation streaks a path to my pelvis. He pinches my nipples and I moan loudly, arching my back for more. I feel him shift above me, then his cock slides against my sternum. Oh God, I've never done this before.

  But I want it--with him. I want to watch his hips piston, feel the thick heat of his come on my chest, hear his groans of pleasure.

  And a moment later, Nicholas gives me everything I want.

  He presses my breasts around his cock, gentle at first, then tighter, harder, like he's barely holding onto his control. I open my eyes because I have to see--I need to keep this picture in my mind forever. It's the hottest, most erotic image. His chiseled body moves faster, glistening with a fine sheen. His fingers dig into my flesh and little growls escape from deep within his throat. His eyes are the deepest green, hooded by those long, pitch-black lashes. They flare wide when my hands cover his, taking over for him. I don't want him to hold back. I want him to move, to grind on me. Take me. Take everything.

  My hands push my breasts closer, tighter around the slick cock slipping between them. He grips the headboard and it shakes when he uses it for leverage as he fucks my chest. His jaw is clenched and his brow is soaked with sweat--little drops fall on my collarbone, surprisingly cold compared to the slide of his heated skin.

  A burst of air puffs from his perfect lips. Air and the sound of my name. Falling, begging, demanding. "Olivia, fuuuuck--Olivia."

  I've never seen anything more amazing--more intense--than this man moving above me. Making love to me in this dirty, thrilling way--giving us both more pleasure than I've ever known. The headboard beats against the wall once, twice, then Nicholas's back arches and his head tilts back and he roars. His come, warm and thick, splashes across my chest, trickling down my neck, mixing with my own perspiration.

  The moment his beautiful dick stops pulsing, Nicholas stretches out on top of me, covering my body with his, pressing us together, taking my face in his hands and kissing me wildly. It's sticky and messy and perfect.

  Later that night, there's a knock at the door, waking us both from a sound sleep. I don't know what time it is, but it's still dark outside and the rain has stopped. Nicholas slips into his robe and opens the door.

  Logan stands on the other side, his face is lined with worry. "Sorry to disturb you, Your Grace--but you're gonna want to see this."

  He picks up the television remote from the nightstand and turns on the news. I squint against the blaring light and it takes me a few seconds to focus, but when I do--holy shit!

  "Son of a bitch," Nicholas curses, because he sees it too.

  His brother, Henry, is being led into the police station in handcuffs, and the banner at the bottom of the screen reads:

  PRINCE HENRY & ENTOURAGE ARRESTED

  COUSIN MARCUS IS AN IMBECILE...Cousin Marcus is an imbecile...

  I force the thought to repeat in my head. As a reminder that I can't kill my brother when I see him. Wessco needs a backup plan and regardless of his most recent antics, Henry's still our best option.

  What a fucking cock-up.

  It's almost three in the morning when we reach the police station. Olivia yawns next to me, her hair wild, looking beautifully, wearily rumpled in a sweatshirt and denim shorts. Thankfully, there's a back entrance to the station, because the front is already mobbed. The arrest of a royal is big news--particularly in America, where the only thing they like more than building their celebrities up is tearing them down
.

  I shake hands with a burly, gray-haired officer who regards me with coarse sympathy. "Follow me."

  He leads us down a corridor, through two barred gates that open with a buzz, then into a cubicle area with a desk and a younger-looking officer stationed there. Down the hall are bar-lined doors on the left and the right--holding cells.

  I hear the distinct sound of my brother's voice. He's singing.

  "Nooobody knows the trouble I'm in......Nooobody knows till tomorrow."

  Cousin Marcus is an imbecile...imbecile...imbecile...imbecile. And Louis Armstrong is rolling in his grave.

  The younger officer gives me some forms to sign. "The rest of the paperwork will be sent to the embassy," he says.

  "Thank you," I tell them tightly.

  And then Henry is brought in--he's drunk, unsteady on his feet, his hair in need of a cut and a comb--and I war between concern and condemnation. What the fuck is wrong with him?

  He zeroes in on Olivia with a stupid smile.

  "Olive. You're still here--I'm so glad. You can help me walk--I'm having a bit of trouble managing at the moment." Then he flings his arms around her, almost making her knees buckle.

  I yank him away from her and toss him to Logan. "Help him walk."

  Then I warn, "Behave yourself or you'll be wheeled out on a stretcher when I'm done with you."

  He makes a face, mimicking my words like an eight-year-old, and my hand literally twitches to smack him. But I don't. Because we're in public--and while he has zero respect for his position in the world, I do.

  Princes get the piss beaten out of them in private.

  But I can't stop myself from hissing. "Cocaine, Henry? Is that why you're such a disaster, that what you're into these days?"

  It was found in the car he was traveling in--without security--with several "friends," when they were pulled over for driving erratically.

  He stands with Logan's assistance and his bleary eyes rise to mine. "No," he scoffs. "I wouldn't touch the stuff--I'm high on life." He rubs his forehead. "It was Damian Clutterbuck's. I met up with him while he was on holiday in Vegas and he came to New York with me. I didn't know he had it on him. He's a..." His brow crinkles as he looks to Olivia. "What's the word again? Pitz...patz?"