by Kim Karr
“No, you didn’t.” I keep it at that.
“Yes, he was on sabbatical but decided a trip to the States was in order. We met for lunch last week, and he’s taking me out to dinner tonight. I hope you don’t mind?”
“Not at all.”
“Good. Because we’re just friends.”
Like I asked or care.
“Anyway, he told me he heard King Rutherford of Eastwood is still campaigning to legalize gambling throughout the Vespa Isles. Can you imagine if that happens? We won’t have to travel to Eastwood to have fun.”
“No, I can’t imagine it. It will be a nightmare. Everything will change. The crime rate will increase, drugs will hit the streets, larceny and theft will be a huge issue.”
“Rubbish, Max. Rainer says our economies will soar.”
“Well, he would know,” I offer sarcastically. I mean the man lives in his own world. “I heard he’s looking to marry,” I toss out there, in case she is unaware, which I am sure she is not.
“If that’s a hint, I’m not ready to give up on you,” she says stiffly. “It would be less than honorable for me to publicly disrespect your father’s wishes, and besides, I like it here. Your place—”
Honor.
Seriously, does she want to go there?
“Look. I have to go,” I tell her, not even sure what she’s going to tell me now—how amazing the view of the Hudson is from my place, how amazing the shopping is in the city, the fantastic sights—who the fuck knows.
Oscar wades through the street chaos as if hitching a ride on the motorcyclist and I have to grin. At least the new staff I hired gets me.
“Sir?” he asks.
I cover the phone. “Yes.”
“There’s a motorcyclist behind us that seems to be very close.”
“Maybe he’s going where we are,” I shrug, unfazed.
That voice on the phone hasn’t stopped. “…and why haven’t I seen you around the penthouse?”
She knows why.
After the tabloids reported my bad boy behavior and that kiss with Gigi at Coney Island, she went bat-shit crazy. Accusing me of cheating. Obviously, she’s warped. It isn’t cheating when I’m not involved with her (Beatrice that is). When I’ve made it clear that I want nothing to do with her (Beatrice that is) over and over. By far the thing that set me over the edge with her though, my last straw, was the tiny hint she tossed out about possibly, accidently, exposing my family’s situation if I didn’t stop seeing Gigi.
Blackmail is beneath her, or I thought it was.
First, there’s the fact that she’s royalty, and there’s the fact that the King would exile her from Casanovia if she did. It would be a stupid move on her part to say anything, but just to be certain, I’m biding my time. Staying at Hunter’s and away from her. Hoping she gets bored or something better will come along that grabs her attention in the meantime.
Fuck my life.
“Goodbye, Beatrice.” Ending the call without all the pomp and circumstance, I stare at the screensaver. It’s a selfie of Gigi and I on the Ferris Wheel that she took and sent to me while eating her hot dog.
I’ve never felt more real or alive than when I’m with her, but in order to keep her out of the limelight, I’ve done my best to do as I promised—maintain my distance. To occupy my time, I’ve drowned myself in work—but it’s fucking killing me.
With or without Gigi in my life, Beatrice has become more than just a nuisance. I need to go back to Casanovia and tell my father I positively am not allowing him to pick another bride for me, and that he needs to rescind his resolution that the two of us marry.
Tori was one thing. She and I were promised to each other at birth and growing up we’d become best friends. We were each other’s firsts, and we both tried our best to make things work. Staying together was something we both understood to be our duty. The day she broke up with me, though, it was like I could breathe for the first time in my life.
I can’t go back to the way things were.
I won’t.
Not even for the monarchy.
Telling my father this though isn’t as easy as a simple phone call. And there’s also my stepmother to deal with. Queen Genevieve and I never have seen eye to eye, and she’s rallying for Beatrice.
My plan is after Fashion Week in Paris to head to Casanovia before returning to the States to talk with him about this. Two weeks. I can manage Beatrice for two weeks, especially now that Hunter is back. She seems to be smitten by him and willing to go anywhere with him. He hates it, but he does it for me because he knows I’m in a shitty situation.
Yeah, I owe him.
The driver comes to a stop. Out the window I spot a woman in a gold dress. A back that dips low accentuating a slender waist. The killer figure walks toward the entrance and turns sideways.
Holy shit!
That’s when I see huge, round shades covering at least half of her small, beautiful face and I’d know it anywhere.
It’s my girl—Gigi.
Doing this alone like she wanted.
Finding her professional freedom.
A warrior, not a limmer.
Long waves with streaks of honey fall around her shoulders. Although short in height, she appears to tower over everyone in her heels.
I watch her pause to take in the building and feel a prickle of excitement that she’s doing this.
The press leaves her alone except for one weasel of a douche who leans way over the ropes to ask her something.
After a quick response, she turns toward the windows and gives the display mannequins a look up and down as she stays on course to the door.
Curling my fingers around the cool metal door handle, I want to jerk it open. Run after her. Walk her in. Shield her from the hawks that want to devour everything they can. But then the car jerks forward to get in line, and I’m stuck where I am.
The entrance to the Museum at the Fashion Institute of Technology is kitted out like the fucking Oscars. A red carpet leads a short, clear path to the modern glass doors, which I’m thankful for because that means less press time.
The area surrounding the roped-off section is lined with fashion students and fans hoping to get a glimpse of their favorite designers attending the party, and of course, me, or more specifically who’s on my arm. Looks like they’ll be disappointed tonight since I’m attending the launch of Bombshell solo.
Security men with headsets and walkie-talkies circle the vehicle. I haven’t enlisted the aid of bodyguards in over a month. Not since I fired Gabriel the day I met Gigi to be exact. The reason I was in that cab to begin with was because his incompetence had left me standing on the street corner with no ride.
Guess I owe the asshole.
When it comes to public events, though, I don’t have much of a choice about bodyguards. Having security is mandatory.
The SUV door opens and a cacophony of noise surrounds me. Shouts. Screams. Catcalls. Pushing my sunglasses up my nose, I step out of the Escalade. Glancing around at the throng of paparazzi, who are suddenly everywhere, I groan to myself. Should have known the hounds would be waiting.
No matter how many times I’ve been in situations like this, it never ceases to amaze me just how fucking much the press cares about my life.
And it’s only going to get worse. When news breaks about my brother, I’ll be bombarded by them.
Fuck my life.
Staying away from Gigi really is what’s best for her. You see I have a secret that I can’t share with her. Not with anyone, actually. This has been mandated by my father, the King, which is fine, because I can live in denial much better that way.
The secret is too awful to think of as reality, and since it’s not my reality just yet, I’m refusing to face it.
Not very grown up, I know, but fuck it, sometimes being grown up just sucks balls.
Too bad I’m a selfish prick, and I’m probably not going to be able to stay away from her, even though I promised to give her time to find
her professional freedom.
Like I said—I’m a selfish prick.
A public relations girl dressed in all black has a concerned expression on her face as she approaches me. She’s holding her standard-issue clipboard in her hand, and after looking down, glances up. “Are you ready, Prince Maximus?”
With all the charm I keep in my breast pocket, I lean forward and whisper, “You’re in contempt of your N.D.A. In case you’ve forgotten, you are never to refer to me with my royal title in public. Therefore, you’re fired effective immediately.”
“I’m sorry—” She stutters to find the right words as I walk away from her and toward the steps.
Rules are fucking rules for a reason. I can’t make my business successful if people think this is a hobby of mine. In order to be taken seriously, I prefer not to flaunt my moniker.
Those who know—fine.
Those that don’t—all the better.
Someone shouting my name has me glancing back. The curb is lined with black vehicles. In the one directly behind mine are Hunter and Ava.
“Prince Maximus,” a young woman calls rather assertively. The fucked-up British accent she’s pretending to have tells me the girl has no clue what part of the world I’m from. “You’re twenty-six years old…”
Cutting her off with, “I’m twenty-seven,” I attempt to correct the inaccuracy. “Title or not, I’m forced to have birthdays.”
Having opened the hostility door, I try to breeze past her. I know better than to let them taunt me. Or you’d think I do. “You’re not married yet,” she continues.
“No. Is that a question?” I laugh. Why is it that no matter what I do, it always comes back to marriage? A wife. A royal woman by my side. A Princess to my Prince title.
“Well, yes. When do you think you will marry?”
“Whenever the fuck I feel ready.”
Out of nowhere, another PR girl is at my elbow. This one older. Smarter, because she says, “Mr. Montgomery, you’re wanted inside for interviews.”
Yeah, the paparazzi has really set me off lately. I know better than to be lured into their web, and yet, it keeps happening.
I really need to work on that before it gets me in more trouble than it already has.
Turning back, I spot Gigi through the window. Watching Gigi’s nicely shaped derriere, I get lost in the curves of her body, the way she moves, the easy laughter she gives so freely.
With my eyes focused on the glass, I don’t see the black motorcycle until it’s too late.
It comes zooming my way and one of the security guards tackles me, taking me to the ground to clear me out of the way.
Waiting only mere seconds, I jump to my feet. Wiping my hands and knees, I glare at the security guard. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Sir, that person was a threat to your safety.”
“No, that person was a New Yorker in a fucking hurry.”
The security guard is patting me down, checking for injuries like he’s an EMT. “Should I call an ambulance?”
“No, I’m all right,” I say, extracting myself out of his hold. I’d fire him except then I might compromise my ability to attend the function. Royal protocol.
The guy stays on me, way too close. “Yes, sir, I’m sure you are, but we’d really like to get you inside.”
Pulling out my phone, I send a text to Gabriel, the bodyguard I fired weeks ago that I’ll take over this douche any day. I tell him I need him to come back to work straight away and to plan to take a trip to France with me.
“Sir, are you ready?” the PR girl asks.
Yeah, I’m ready.
More than ready.
BLAME IT ON THE DRESS
The museum is featuring a display of the best designer clothing from the eighties. After spending some time taking the outfits in, I find myself folding my arms over my chest to try to warm myself. FIT’s huge space is kept at a super cool temperature, and with the cold weather, I feel like I need a sweater.
Major faux pas, though, at an event like that.
Turns out being cold is something I will have to learn to live with the entire winter and spring. Naked legs and open-toed stilettos are apparently requirements of the unwritten dress code when it comes to fashion parties.
It’s not like I don’t already know the rules but experiencing them first-hand makes everything real.
Deciding to take a timeout after hours of networking, I set out to find Ava. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her, and I have exciting news.
Smiling at people and nodding, I pass through the fashion exhibits and into the lounge area.
Spotting her in that red sequin dress, I head toward the ultra-cool, make-shift glass bar. It’s actually a bunch of old display cases. Inside are vintage pieces of jewelry like Dior earrings and YSL bracelets. I sidle up beside her. “There you are.”
“Hey, yes, here I am.” She looks flushed. How can she be hot in here? It has to be sixty degrees.
Whatever.
Too excited to wait another second, I blurt out, “I met Molly and Drake Adams. They are such a cool couple, and they offered the magazine a sneak peek of their new athletic line for millennials.”
“Oh, my God, that would be fantastic. Their pieces are all the rage right now.”
“I know. Right. What about you? What have you been doing? Have you met anyone cool?”
When she diverts her eyes, I know immediately her rosy cheeks and aversion to my question aren’t from the low temperature setting in the museum.
“Is that stubble burn on your face?” I ask.
Shoving her Cosmopolitan at me and saying, “Another please,” to the bartender, she smiles wide. “He’s seriously the best kisser.”
Sipping my drink, I look her up and down. “Hunter. You made out with Hunter Tigress? Here?”
Her fingers pinch together. “Maybe a little.”
I make a little wiggling gesture with my fingertips. “O-o-oh, wow, where?”
“In the coat closet.”
“You’re so bad.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “We didn’t go all the way or anything like that.”
My eyes pop since that wasn’t what I was thinking anyways. “Well, I’m glad to hear that.”
The bartender sets another Cosmo on the bar, and after taking it with one hand, she runs the other down her body. “This dress is way too tight for much more.”
Laughing, I nearly spit out my drink. “That’s why you only made out with him in a public place?”
She shrugs, so graceful-like I have to force myself to remember we’re talking sex in a public place. “That’s not the only reason. I know as soon as we do it, he’ll move on to the next girl.”
“So you like him?” I ask.
She nods her head and licks her mouth. Ava is a stunning woman. She looks like a young Angelina Jolie. Hair, body, and mouth. Especially her mouth. Full, pillow-like lips with a smile full of white teeth, the kind of smile you can’t help but smile back at. Every man is attracted to her, but her track record for picking the wrong guy is notorious. As notorious as Hunter is for being a womanizer.
“Let’s just say there’s something about him that intrigues me.”
Now I have to roll my eyes. “There’s something that intrigues you about everyone you fall for, isn’t there?”
Whereas I’m the romantic. Dreaming of my white-knight in shining armor and having cautiously kissed frog after frog, Ava is the one who has found her Mr. Right—over and over.
I give her credit.
She falls fast.
Loves hard.
And then moves on.
So taking things slow is definitely a change in direction for her.
She laughs, low and throaty. “He’s different.”
“Famous last words.”
“I know, but he is. Besides, he has such a dirty mouth, and I find it irresistible.”
After taking another sip of my fruity concoction, I lean closer. “Just be carefu
l. You know his reputation for being a notorious womanizer was earned.”
She shakes her head. Playful. Charming. “Yes, I’ve read all the tweets just like you. And hey, if he wants to offer to whisk me off to his family’s private island off the coast of Italy for the weekend, who am I to turn down a kiss?”
“Shut up. Did he ask you to go there? I heard it’s right next to George Clooney’s estate.”
Turning around to rest her rear on the bar, she twirls her drink. “He did, but I said no.”
Joining her, I face the room alongside her. “Why? Why on earth would you say no?”
Her shoulders slump. “Because I don’t want my heart broken, again. Clearly, he’s a playboy, and as soon as he has his fill of me, he’ll move on. Going on a trip like that where we’re alone in a romantic place will only make me want him more, and as soon as I have sex with him—it will be over. I just know it. I might as well have fun and enjoy him for as long as I can since in the end, he’ll never really be mine.”
Sighing, I gulp the rest of my drink. She’s probably right. When I lower the glass, my gaze lands on Max.
Tall, dark, handsome charming, and a real prince.
Prince Max.
“I know the feeling,” I mutter and set my glass down. “I have to get back to work. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” I say with a wink.
“Oh, I won’t.”
And no, she won’t. She has a plan. Keep him at a distance. It sounds like a good one to me.
Getting back to work, I find myself talking with so many designers, I don’t even know who some of them are.
Business cards.
Promises for calls.
Arrangements for samples.
Work. Work. Work.
Wandering toward the front of the room, I stop at the coat closet and laugh. It’s right up front.
Are you kidding me?
Ava. Ava. Ava.
Leaning against the wall near it, I glance out to the atrium and marvel at how tall and open it is. With plenty of glass sculptures in the form of bodies designed to inspire creativity, the space appears to welcome anyone who dares enter the world of fashion.
Pressing my face to the glass, I stare at the six escalators crisscrossing each other and try to imagine the number of students they move during the day.