Paper Princess: A Novel (The Royals Book 1)

  Don’t let her get to me? The woman just dropped enough bombshells and made enough insinuations to make my head spin.

  I can’t deal with this right now. Any of it. I just…

  “I’m ready to go,” I say numbly.

  In the car, I can’t bring myself to meet Callum’s concerned eyes. Dinah’s words play themselves over and over in my mind.

  “Ella, when I lost my wife I went through a dark time.” It’s a bare acknowledgment of what he thinks Dinah told me.

  I answer without looking at him. “That dark time? I think you’re still there.”

  He pours himself another glass. “Maybe I am.”

  The rest of the ride is full of silence.

  15

  My meeting with Dinah stays with me for three days, running through my mind like it’s on some sick loop. Lucy probably thinks she hired a robot for all the emotion that I display. I’m afraid if I move my face, though, I’ll start crying. But she keeps me on because I show up every morning and the assigned evenings on time and work without complaint.

  It’s a relief to work. When it’s busy, I manage to forget how screwed up my life has become. And that’s saying something, considering I fled Seattle to avoid Social Services trying to push me into foster care and then spent a week on the road before settling in Kirkwood. I thought forging my dead mother’s signature on school forms was nuts, but that was nothing compared to the Royals and their entourages.

  It’s harder to avoid the topic at school because Val keeps asking me what’s wrong. As much as I adore Val, I don’t think she’s ready to hear all this crap, and even if she is…I’m not ready to share it.

  It doesn’t matter that Callum showed me the DNA results when we got home that night—the doubt kept eating at me for three whole days, until this morning, when I dragged myself out of bed after another sleepless night, and forced myself to remember one undeniable fact: My mother was not a liar.

  I can count everything Mom told me about my father on one hand. His name was Steve. He was blond. He was a sailor. He gave her his watch.

  All of that lines up with everything Callum told me, and when you add in the very obvious resemblance I have to the man in the picture in the library, I have to believe that Dinah O’Halloran, simply put, is full of shit.

  “You banging someone?”

  Reed’s gruff demand jolts me from my thoughts. I’m in the passenger seat of his Range Rover, trying to stop yawning. “What? Why would you ask me that?”

  “You’ve got dark circles under your eyes. You’ve been walking around the house like a zombie since Tuesday, and it looks like you haven’t slept in days. So. Are you banging someone? Sneaking out to see him?” His jaw is tight.

  “No.”

  “No,” he echoes.

  “Yes, Reed. No. I’m not dating anyone, okay? And even if I was, it’s none of your business.”

  “Everything you do is my business. Every move you make affects me and my family.”

  “Wow. It must be nice to live in a world where everything revolves around you.”

  “What’s going on with you then?” he demands. “You haven’t been yourself.”

  “I haven’t been myself? Like you know me well enough to make that kind of statement.” I scowl at him. “Tell you what, I’ll fill you in on all my secrets—after you tell me where you sneak off to every night and why you come home with cuts and bruises.”

  His eyes flash.

  “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” I cross my arms and try not to yawn again.

  Reed fixes his irritated gaze on the windshield, his big hands gripping the wheel tight. He’s been driving me to work every morning at five-thirty, then continuing on to school for his six a.m. football practice. Easton is on the team, too, but he drives to practice on his own. I think it’s because Reed wants alone time with me. So he can cross-examine me, the way he’s done every morning since this annoying carpool began.

  “You’re not going away, are you?” There’s a note of defeat in his voice, along with the usual dose of anger.

  “Nope. I’m not going away.”

  He stops in front of the bakery and shoves the gearshift to park.

  “What?” I mutter when those piercing blue eyes turn to me.

  His lips tighten for a moment. “The game tonight.”

  “What about it?” The clock on the dash says it’s five twenty-eight. The sun isn’t even up yet, but the French Twist’s front window is lit up. Lucy’s already inside, waiting for me.

  “My dad wants you to go.”

  The Royal Pain forms between my shoulder blades. “Goodie for him.”

  Reed looks like he’s trying not to strangle me. “You’re coming to the game.”

  “Pass. I don’t like football. Besides, I have to work.”

  I reach for the door handle, but he leans over the seat and grabs my arm. A rush of heat travels from his fingers, down my arm, and settles between my legs. I order my traitorous body to stand down, and try not to breathe in the spicy, masculine scent that reaches my nostrils. Why does he have to smell so good?

  “I don’t care what you like or don’t like. I know you get off at seven. Kick off is at seven thirty. You’re coming.” His voice is low, rippling with…it’s not anger anymore, but thick with…I don’t know with what. All I know is that he’s too close for comfort, and my heart is beating dangerously fast.

  “I’m not going to some stupid high school football game to cheer for you and your meathead friends,” I snap, shrugging his hand off my arm. The loss of his warmth sends an instant shiver through me. “Callum will just have to deal.”

  I slide out of the SUV and slam the door, then hurry down the dark sidewalk toward the bakery.

  * * *

  I barely make it to school before the first bell. I only have time for a quick stop in the bathroom to change into my Astor Park uniform, and then I sit through my morning classes and fight to stay awake. At lunch, I chug so much coffee that Val finally has to cut me off, but at least I feel alert now.

  I take my seat next to Easton’s in chem class and greet him with a reluctant hello.

  “You were snoring in English class this morning,” he says with a grin.

  “I was not. I was wide awake the whole time.” Was I, though? Now I’m not so sure.

  Easton rolls his eyes. “Aw, sis. You work too hard. I’m worried about you.”

  I roll my eyes back. I know the Royal brothers aren’t happy about my job. Neither is Callum, who wouldn’t quit frowning when I told him about it. He insisted that I should be concentrating on my studies and not splitting my focus between school and work, but I hadn’t budged. After I told him working was important to me and that I needed more than school to occupy my time, he’d backed off.

  Or so I’d thought. It isn’t until the bell rings for my last class of the day that I realize Callum has made another power play behind my back.

  A tall, lithe woman comes up to me as I’m leaving my math class. She moves with the grace of a ballerina, so when she introduces herself as the coach of the dance team, I’m not surprised.

  “Ella,” Ms. Kelley says, her sharp eyes studying me. “Your guardian tells me you’ve been dancing since you were a child. What kind of training have you had?”

  I shift in discomfort. “Not much training at all,” I lie. “I’m not sure why Mr. Royal told you otherwise.”

  I think she sees right through me, because she arches a brow. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that? You’re trying out for the team after school today.”

  Alarm bells ring in my head. What? No way. I don’t want to join the dance team. Dancing is just a silly hobby. And…oh crap, didn’t Savannah mention that Jordan is the captain of the team? Now I really don’t want to try out.

  “I work after school,” I say curtly.

  Ms. Kelley blinks. “Work?” She says the word as if it’s a foreign concept to her. But I guess when it comes to having a part-time job, I’m in the minority here
at Astor Park. “What time is that?”

  “Three-thirty.”

  She frowns. “All right. Well, my session doesn’t let out until four. Hmmm.” She thinks it over. “You know what, my captain will handle it—Carrington knows what we’re looking for. You can try out for her at three, and that leaves you plenty of time to get to your job.”

  My panic triples. I’m going to be trying out for Jordan? Hell to the no.

  Ms. Kelley notices my expression and frowns again. “Mr. Royal and I expect you to be there, Ella. Every student at Astor Park Prep Academy is encouraged to contribute something to this school. Extra-curriculars are a healthy and productive way to occupy your time.”

  Damn Callum. The fact that she used the same phrase I gave him—occupy my time—tells me that he’s definitely behind this.

  “Come to the practice gym after your last class. You can wear your PE uniform.” She pats me on the arm, then walks off before I can protest.

  A groan rises in my throat, but I choke it down. Is there anything the Royals aren’t capable of doing? I’m not interested in joining the dance team, but I know that if I don’t show up to the tryout, Ms. Kelley will report back to Callum, and if he’s pissed enough, he might actually force me to quit my job. Or worse, the school might decide I have nothing “special” to offer, and Beringer will kick me out, which Callum definitely won’t like.

  Truthfully, I wouldn’t like it either. This school is light-years ahead academically from the public schools I attended in the past.

  I can’t concentrate at all during my last class. I’m filled with dread about the tryout, and when I make my way to the south lawn after the bell rings, I feel like an inmate walking the green mile. I should have asked Val how she got out of this sort of thing, because she can dance and I don’t see anyone forcing her to a tryout.

  The girls’ locker room is empty when I walk in, but there’s a rectangular box sitting on the long gleaming bench between the rows of lockers.

  ELLA is scrawled on the top, and there’s a folded piece of paper taped next to my name.

  My stomach churns. With shaky hands, I snatch the note and unfold it.

  Sorry, sweetie, we don’t allow dirty strippers on the team. But I’m sure The XCalibur Club in town would LOVE to let you try out. In fact, I have so much faith in you that I even bought you an audition outfit. The club’s located at the corner of Trash St. and Gutter Ave. Break a leg!

  —Jordan

  Her name is signed in a feminine scrawl, and the glee behind each letter is unmistakable.

  My hands tremble even harder as I open the box and shove the tissue paper aside. When I see what’s inside, embarrassment floods my stomach.

  The box contains a teeny pair of red panties, five-inch spiked stilettos, and a lacy red bra with black tassels. The lingerie is ugly and trashy and not unlike what I wore at Miss Candy’s back in Kirkwood.

  I wonder which Royal told them about my stripping. Callum must have confided in his sons, so who talked? Reed? Easton? I’m betting on Reed.

  Another emotion eclipses my embarrassment—rage. White-hot rage that surges through my blood and makes the tips of my fingers tingle. I’m sick of this. I’m sick of the judgment and the insults and the sneers. I’m sick of it all.

  I crumple Jordan’s note in my fist and whip it across the room. Then I spin on my heel and march toward the exit.

  Halfway to the door, I halt. My gaze travels back to the skanky underwear on the bench.

  You know that?

  They think I’m trash? I’ll show them trash.

  Maybe it’s the anger, or the frustration, or the lump of sheer helplessness lodged in my throat, but I don’t feel in control of my own body. My hands rip at my clothes as if on autopilot, and I’m so mad I can taste the fury. My mouth is even watering. God, I’m foaming at the mouth.

  I yank the scrap of lace up my hips, snap the bra into place, and march toward the door. Not the door that leads outside, but the one that will take me to the gym.

  I leave the stilettos on the bench. I’m going to need my balance.

  My bare feet slap the floor, each step I take fueled by anger and a sense of injustice. These people don’t know me. They have no right to judge me. I throw open the door and enter the gym. Head high, hands at my sides.

  Someone notices me and gasps.

  “Holy fuck.” A male voice echoes from the other end of the gym, where the partition separating the weights and exercise equipment from the court is pushed open.

  A clanging sound echoes through the gym, as if someone dropped a barbell.

  My step stutters. The entire football team is over there lifting weights and working out. I sneak the briefest peek in their direction and feel my cheeks heat up. Every pair of male eyes is glazed over. Every jaw is unhinged. Except one. One jaw stays locked tight, as Reed’s blue eyes blaze at me.

  I tear my gaze off him and continue toward the group of girls who are stretching on a pile of blue mats. I add a little sway to my hips, and they all stop mid-stretch, wide-eyed.

  Jordan’s shock only registers for a moment. Then it fades to wariness. When she sees the look on my face, I swear she trembles. A second later, she hops to her feet and crosses her arms over her chest.

  She’s wearing bootie shorts and a tight tank top, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her body is long and toned. Strong. But so is mine.

  “You really have no dignity, do you?” She smirks at my getup.

  I stop in front of her. I don’t say a word. Every single person in the gym is looking at us. No, they’re looking at me. I’m half-naked, and I know I look good even in this sleazy outfit. I might not have billionaire parents like these kids do, but I inherited my mother’s looks.

  These girls know it, too. A few envious glances flit my way before they’re shielded with scowls.

  “What do you want?” Jordan demands when I still don’t utter a word. “I don’t care what Coach Kelley says. You’re not trying out.”

  “No?” I feign an innocent look. “But I was so looking forward to it.”

  “Well, it’s not happening.”

  I smile at her. “That’s too bad. I was dying to show you how we do it in the gutter. But I guess I still can.”

  Before she can respond, I wind my arm back and send my fist crashing into her face.

  Instant pandemonium breaks out. Jordan’s head jerks back from the blow, and her shriek of outrage gets lost in the sea of male hoots all around us. One of the guys shouts, “Catfight!” but I don’t have time to see who it is, because Jordan launches herself at me.

  The bitch is strong. We crash to the mats and suddenly she’s on top of me, her fists coming at me. I deflect and roll us, elbowing her in the stomach before yanking on her ponytail and pulling hard. My vision is an angry blur. I land another blow to her cheek, and she retaliates by raking her nails down my left arm.

  “Get off me, you stupid bitch!” she screams.

  I ignore the pain shooting up my arm and raise my other fist. “Make me.”

  I let the fist fly, but before it can connect with her smug face, I’m sailing backward through the air. Muscular arms lock around my chest and yank me away from Jordan.

  I pound at my captor’s forearms. “Let me go!”

  He growls in my ear. I don’t need to turn around to know it’s Reed. “Calm the fuck down,” he spits out.

  Three feet away, Jordan’s friends are helping her to her feet. She touches her red cheek and glares at me. She looks ready to lunge again, but Shea and Rachel hold her back.

  The adrenaline sizzling through my veins is making me jumpy. But I know I’m about to crash hard. I’m already starting to feel weak and loopy, my upper body trembling against Reed’s strong chest.

  “Let me at her, Reed,” Jordan bursts out. Her hair has come loose from her ponytail and falls into her enraged eyes, and a bruise is already forming on one high cheekbone. “This bitch deserves a—”

  “Enough.” His sharp
voice cuts her off.

  Her menacing expression wavers when Reed releases me. He rips his sweaty T-shirt off, and now half the girls are ogling his ripped abs while the other half continue to stare at me in contempt.

  Reed shoves the shirt at me. “Put this on.”

  I don’t think twice. I yank the shirt over my head. When my head pops out of the neckhole, I see Jordan glaring bloody murder at me.

  “Now get the hell out of here,” Reed snaps at me. “Get dressed and go home.”

  A thirty-something man with balding hair marches forward. He’s wearing a coach’s uniform and a whistle around his neck, but I know he’s not the head coach, because I saw Easton in the hall once talking to Coach Lewis. This one must be the team trainer or something, and he looks livid.

  “These girls aren’t going anywhere but the headmaster’s office,” he announces.

  With a bored look, Reed turns to the man. “No, my sister is going home. Jordan can go wherever you tell her.”

  “Reed,” the man warns. “You’re not in charge here.”

  Reed sounds impatient. “It’s done. Over. They’re calm now.” He shoots us a pointed look. “Right?”

  I nod curtly.

  So does Jordan.

  “So let’s not waste Beringer’s time.” Reed’s voice is commanding and forceful with a hint of amusement, as if he’s getting off on telling this older man what to do. “Because we both know he won’t take any action. My father will pay him off and Ella will get nothing but a slap on the wrist. Jordan’s father will do the same.”

  The trainer’s jaw tightens, but he knows Reed is right, because he doesn’t argue. After a long beat, he spins around and blows his whistle, the piercing sound making all of us jump.

  “I don’t see any lifting, ladies!” he booms.

  The players who were egging on our catfight hurry back to their exercise stations like their asses are on fire.