by Emma Chase
Because Henry has shown me how to fly.
Eventually, I stretch my arms above my head--making my poor, overtaxed muscles groan. The soft, tender place between my legs throbs in a delicious, well-used sort of way. I go to take a long, hot shower. As I drag the soapy cloth over my breasts and up my thighs, it's Henry's hands and mouth that I see. That I feel. And I smile when I discover tiny bruises and bite marks on my skin. Proof that it wasn't just a dream. Wasn't a fantasy inspired by reading someone else's imaginings in a book.
This is my story.
Penny is waiting for me on the sofa when I step out of the bathroom. She's a bit pale from the food poisoning, and gray rings shadow beneath her eyes.
"How are you feeling, Pen? Better?"
She takes one look at my face, and says, "I'm going to cut his cock off!"
I guess she's feeling better.
Then she doubles over onto the couch, groaning dramatically. "Tell me you did not let Henry Pembrook pop your cherry. Say it isn't so!"
"Well . . ." I start. But that's all she lets me get out.
"Bloody hell!" After a few more moans and groans, she sits up and takes my hand gently. "I'm sure, as far as first times go, Henry made it good. But he's not for you, Sarah. He's not the sticking kind. I mean, look at where we are--this show. He's been flitting from one girl to the next. What do you think he's been doing on all his 'dates' with the other girls? You actually believe he didn't get his freak on in the sodding hot springs? With Cordelia?"
"He didn't. We talked about it."
She throws her hands up. "Oh, well you talked about it--that settles that, then. Because Lord knows, boys never lie. Especially rich, spoiled, entitled, royal boys. They're the most truthful of all."
I smile and shake my head at her. Because she doesn't understand.
"He loves me, Penny."
She scoffs. "Of course he does. Did he tell you that when he was balls deep or right after he came?"
I shake my head again. "No, it was before, but--"
"Before? Do you know how many men have told me they loved me before--just to have a chance to stick it to me?" She ticks off her fingers as she lists the names. "Let's see, there was Barry Windstormer, Alfred Sullivan, Timothy Englewood--though he was hung like a bull, so totally worth it--Ryan Fitz--"
"It's different with Henry and me." I squeeze her hand. "He loves me. I know him, Penny, in a way no one else does. What we have is new . . . but it's deep and real. I'm sure of it."
My sister closes her mouth, but still looks unconvinced.
"Once upon a time, Mother was sure too."
I flinch.
"We're all sure, Sarah, until the bastards prove us wrong." She runs her hand up my arm. "I just don't want to see you get hurt. I don't want you to be another notch on the crown--and I don't want to see you become fodder for the tabloid rags; we both know that would be especially awful for you. And when the show airs, the publicity--"
"Henry's quitting the show. It's not going to air because he's not going to finish it. He's speaking to the producer right now."
Penny's eyes widen. "He told you that?"
"Yes. See--they're not all bastards, and actions mean more than words."
The rumble of cars floats in from outside, from the driveway leading up to the castle. I spot the familiar string of SUVs.
"He's back."
I throw on a black sweater and slacks, and pin my hair up into a damp bun. Then I rush downstairs to show Penny how wrong she is.
Down in the foyer, Vanessa Steele flips through a stack of papers, giving directions about lighting and setup to the crew scurrying around. I look behind her toward the door, but Henry doesn't walk through it. And I don't see him anywhere.
"Where's Henry?" I ask.
She spares me a quick glance. "He's on his date with Laura."
I've never been punched in the stomach, but the words make me want to fold over like I have been. I feel Penelope standing behind me listening, her emotions building like a volcano ready to erupt.
"Did he speak with you?" I ask Vanessa.
"Briefly, yes, before he went out on the boat."
I feel my face starting to flame, but I try to be strong. "Did he say anything to you about me? About the show?"
She flicks her wrist, checking her diamond watch. "I don't have time to chat, Miss Titebottum--I have a show to plan." She glances over my shoulder. "Make sure you're dressed and ready for tonight's shoot, Penelope. And you should wear that dark blue dress--it's a good color for you."
Vanessa moves to step past me, but my hand lashes out, grabbing her arm.
Because I will not be dismissed.
And then I look at her face, searching her eyes.
"You're lying."
She gazes back at me for a few seconds and then she sighs. "I got the vibe from Henry that he felt things would be easier this way, for everyone involved. He said he would speak to you when he gets back later. And that's the truth."
She pulls out of my grasp and walks away.
Back in my room, Penelope vibrates beside me, like a small blond tornado that wants to obliterate everything in its path. "Fuck. Him. He doesn't deserve you. I could literally kill him for this."
I try Henry's mobile again, but the call goes straight to voicemail.
"It must be some kind of misunderstanding. I'm not going to panic, Penny."
"How could it be a misunderstanding? He said he was going to quit and he obviously didn't. Don't be simple, Sarah. He spent the weekend screwing you into a trance and now he's where? With Laura Benningson. On a boat. Probably telling her the same things he's told you. The poor, misunderstood Prince. He knows women, Sarah. He knows it's the broken ones we try hardest to fix."
I feel sick. My stomach twists and drops. And for the very first time, I feel . . . used.
Penelope looks around the room, her face tight and sharp, the wheels spinning furiously in her mind. "We should just go. Pack up our things and leave. Right now."
My voice is hollow, like an echo of myself.
"You signed a contract, Penelope."
"Fuck the contract; I don't need them. Jerry the cameraman has a brother-in-law who's an agent in LA. He sent him my head shots and video and he wants to fly me out there next month." She grips my hand. "And even if he didn't, you're more important to me than this."
My back stiffens. "I'm not going to run away. If Henry's feelings have changed, he can have the decency to tell me to my face."
"There's nothing decent about him! And it's not running away; it's telling him to piss the hell off! That he can't mess with you, like you're some lovesick fool. He may have taken your cherry, but who cares--at least you'll have your pride. Come on, Sarah. Be strong."
Is that what being strong means? I don't think so. To me it means having faith in Henry, until he gives me a real reason not to. I'm not ready to give up on him yet and I tell my sister as much.
Penny sighs, her shoulders falling, reining in her inner drama queen. "You came here because of me--all of this is because of me. And if you end up hurt because of it, I'll never forgive myself."
I hug her.
"There would be nothing to forgive. I'm a big girl, Penny. I'm responsible for my own choices. No one else."
And so is Henry.
I put "Hallelujah" by John Cale on repeat on my mobile and I sit in the nook, not reading, but gazing out the window. Waiting. A storm's come in, the rain and wind pelting the castle and the ocean waves roaring against the rocks. Penny eventually falls asleep on the sofa. They canceled the evening filming. A crew member told my sister that they decided to take the boat farther off-shore, to wait out the storm instead of trying to make a run for the shore. Worry stabs at me as I watch the waves crashing, violent and angry. I hope he's okay . . . please God, let them be all right.
And then I realize that I've prayed for "them" and suddenly a whole different kind of worry pierces me. Because Henry's not on that boat alone. He's with Laura--gorgeous a
nd fun and truly a nice person, Laura. Despite what I've said to Penny, I'm not a fool.
He wasn't supposed to be on that boat. He promised me. Why did he go?
As the lovely song repeats, I think about all the things that have happened the last few days. So many changes.
And I feel like I'm falling after all--like my wings have been clipped.
I'm afraid and unsure about everything. It's not just about Henry. I miss my flat. I miss the library and the simple joy of my books. I miss the consistency and assurance of knowing how each day will begin and end. I crave it, deep inside, the way a tiny turtle craves the warm protection of its shell.
The night passes faster than I imagined. And when the sun has risen full above the horizon, and John Cale's voice goes quiet, I wipe my tears and wash my face.
Big-girl knickers time.
WHAT A FUCKING NIGHT! An awful disaster of a night. On a boat. In a storm. With a food-poisoned, seasick puking woman, begging me to hold her hair and make it stop the whole damn time.
Move over, Stephen King--I'm the master of horror now.
As we drive up through the gate, all I can think about is a hot shower and that bloody perfect big bed, with Sarah, warm and naked, tucked up tight against me.
I help Laura from the car and into the castle; she's weak-kneed and weary. But inside the castle door, it's chaos. Crew members bustling and shouting, and . . . Willard.
Why in the hell is Willard here?
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Vanessa Steele, motioning to a cameraman to pick up start filming. Before I can say a word, little Penelope Von Titebottum advances, and then she takes a damn swing at me.
"Arsehole!"
I step back out of reach, but just barely.
Sarah comes down the stairs then, looking small and frail. And across her shoulder is her old satchel . . . filled with her books.
"Sarah . . . what's happening?"
Her skin is so pale, her eyes huge and dark as she looks me up and down. "You're back. Are you all right? Was anyone hurt? I was worried about the storm."
"No, we're fine. We're all fine."
Something shifts in her features then. "You said you weren't going to go. You said you would quit, Henry. And instead, you were gone all night--I think I deserve an explanation."
I rub my forehead. "I was going to quit, but . . . this way is easier. It's only a few more days, Sarah. It's better this way--trust me."
"Better for whom, Henry?" Tears well in her eyes and I want to die. And her tone drips with betrayal. "I waited for you. I believed you, like a fool. And you were off with Laura all night, doing--"
"Doing nothing!" I shout, because--fuck me. "Nothing happened between me and Laura."
Of course, there's a lull in the ruckus, just enough for Laura's voice to carry as she tells Cordelia, "Henry was wonderful. He held me all night."
Sarah blanches, then accusation resumes its place in her expression.
"While she vomited her intestines up!" I yell. "All over me! Here--smell me--I reek of puke, not pussy."
There's a loud gasp and a squeak, and both Sarah and I turn in time to see Laura's head loll, her eyes close, and her knees give out as she faints dead away. Luckily, it's Willard to the rescue--he moves quickly and catches her before she hits the ground. Slowly, he lowers down to his knees and after a moment, Laura opens her eyes, blinking up at him.
"You caught me."
"I did," Willard replies gently.
"I'm Laura."
"I'm Willard. Feel free to fall into my arms anytime."
Laure covers her mouth with her hand. "I smell terribly."
He gazes down at her--already totally enamored.
"I don't mind."
Penelope breaks the tender scene when she comes up beside Sarah, hands on her hips. "Well? Did he quit?"
Sarah's voice has the ring of a death knell. "No."
Sparks practically shoot out of Penny's eyes--right at my fucking forehead.
"And he's not going to? He's going to continue to take up with the other girls?"
"I'm not fucking taking up with them," I object. "It's not like that."
Only Sarah seems to think it is. "Yes."
"I knew it." Penny shakes her head. "I'm glad I called Willard beforehand. We'll send the staff for our things. Let's go, Sarah."
I grab Sarah's arm. "It's not like it sounds, I swear. I can explain."
She makes a visible effort to control her breathing. "No, I think . . . I think Penny's right. Some perspective will be good for me. It's all so much at once. I won't stay here if you're going to . . ." She looks away, choking on the words. "I need some space away from all this."
She means space away from me. And space is just another word for banishment.
And for a moment I lose my mind.
"Fucking hell!" I kick the table at the bottom of the staircase--sending a crystal vase tumbling over and crashing to the floor, emitting the sound of a gun blast as it shatters into a thousand pieces.
And Sarah's lovely face pales to stark white. Her eyes glaze over and her body goes still as death.
And it feels like my ribs crumble into dust.
Because she's gone, lost in a hell of her father's making . . .
And I'm the one who sent her there.
Anguished words are torn from my lungs. "Sarah . . . no . . ."
Before I can pull her into my arms, Penny's there, wrenching her away and screaming.
"Get away from her! You stay away!"
Penelope's eyes are wild, and her mouth is drawn back in a feral snarl, ready to tear to pieces anyone who gets near the sister she loves so much.
We're frozen in our places for only a few moments, but it feels much longer. And then that horrific rasping sound comes from Sarah's throat as she comes to, gasping and panicked, grasping at Penny. Then she lifts her head and looks at me.
I move forward again, but Sarah falls back, away, dragging Penelope with her. She holds up her hand to me. "Stop."
And it's all so fucking awful. How is it possible for things to go from perfect--the most perfect moments of my life--to ruins?
I keep my voice calm and steady. "Sarah, please, just . . . please."
I'm not even sure what I'm begging for.
"Stay . . . stay away from me."
And with one last agonized look, she turns around and, with Penny, walks out the door.
I move forward, but my steps turn to stumbles, and before I know it I'm on my knees. Maybe it's the exhaustion or maybe it's the knowledge that the one relationship in my life that I thought I'd finally gotten right, the only woman I've ever loved, who I would cut my fucking heart out for . . . doesn't want to be anywhere near me.
Laura's on her feet now, standing off to the side, and I watch as Willard turns to follow Sarah out the door.
"Willard!" I call. "Wait."
Soft brown eyes swimming with pity look down on me. "I'm sorry, mate. She's my best friend. Maybe . . . just let her catch her breath, you know?"
And then he leaves too.
I don't know how long I stay there on my knees, with my head in my hands. I feel people moving around, hear their whispers, but then there's a rush of cold air from the door, and one clear, furious voice that I know all too well slices through my haze.
"What in the name of all that is holy is going on here?"
Granny's home.
Fuck.
I lift my head and watch her walk toward me, like a god of thunder and lightning and destruction. Halfway across the foyer, Vanessa Steele intercepts her.
"Queen Lenora, I was hoping we would cross paths. It's an honor to meet you."
And she holds out her hand.
Big, big, big mistake.
The Queen lifts her chin and looks down at Vanessa's outstretched hand with eyes so sharp it's a wonder it's not sliced clean off her arm.
"Do you know who I am, girl?"
"Ah . . . yes . . . you're the Queen of Wessco."
; Her words are crisply enunciated and dripping with venom.
"You do not offer us your hand. You bow."
And like many a stronger person before her, the producer buckles . . . and bows. My grandmother steps passed her dismissively. Coming straight for me.
But the strange thing is . . . I don't feel any guilt or shame or intimidation. It's like there's a small pellet of steel in my stomach, snowballing and spinning, growing thicker and larger. And even though I've screwed up massively, I have no compulsion to explain myself--not now. Not even to the Queen.
All I feel is the resolve to go somewhere alone and figure out how to fix this mess.
And that means Granny's just going to have to wait.
"Henry, what in the--"
I get to my feet and lift my hand.
"I'll speak with you shortly, Your Majesty."
Her eyes widen and her chest puffs up as she inhales, like a dragon about to breathe fire.
"Shortly?! You will explain--"
I look into her eyes and say in a tone that brooks no argument--one that I've never used with her in my life, "Not. Now."
It's possible I've stunned her into muteness, or caused a stroke. Either way her mouth snaps shut. And I turn on my heel, walk to the library, and close the door behind me.
For the next hour, maybe two, I sit in the chair facing the fireplace, watching the flames dance and lick at the stone that holds it.
And I contemplate. Consider. For the first time in my life.
It's helpful.
I see it all so clearly, like reading a map--every mistake and wrong turn. But I don't get bogged down by the errors. I refuse to sink into self-pity and loathing, doubt and regret. Not this time--not ever again.
That was the old Henry. And I'm really not him anymore.
Rock bottom changes you. Glimpsing heaven changes you more.
I've touched perfection, I've felt its arms around me and though she's slipped away, she's out there, just beyond my reach. Waiting for me to get off my arse and get my shit together. To prove myself. To become the man . . . and the king . . . she deserves.
And staring at that fire, I swear to myself and my parents, to God and--fuck it--the devil too, that I will not let her down.