Prince With Benefits: A Billionaire Royal Romance

by Nicole Snow

  My guys rip the gas cans outta their bags and pop the caps. Half a minute later, the living room reeks like a fuel tanker, and they're spreading out across the condo, pouring gasoline on everything.

  The asshole in my hands completely flips his shit. He's shaking, biting, clawing at me like a rat in a trap. I just hold him down and make him watch. Tommy stops above what's probably his favorite chair and empties the rest of his canister on it.

  When all three boys are finally standing next to me again, I pull my hand off his mouth. “Have you lost your fucking mind!?”

  “You wanna find out?” I growl. “Everybody in here's gonna throw their fucking matches if you don't shut the fuck up. We'll pull the alarm in the hall as a courtesy to your neighbors, and let you roast. You'll have this building all to yourself while it goes up in flames.”

  Blood drains from his face. “Jesus. God. I'm sorry I lied. You were right. I'm sorry I sent those cameras, Sterner, I'm so goddamned sorry.”

  “Sorry? We're past apologies, fuckface. The only thing that's gonna save your ass from burning is making sure you never, ever do it again.”

  He starts shaking his head. “Oh, no. I promise I won't. I'll swear on anything you want, on my own fucking life!”

  Sighing, I grab him by the hair, lift his head up, and smash his forehead sharply on the floor. He sits up, dazed and confused, trembling as he takes the scene in. I'm not listening to anything 'til he gives me the look that says he knows we're mad dogs ready to bite.

  I count to ten. Finally, it's there, clear and tiny as the pinpricks in his eyes.

  “I'll level with you, Dan. I'm about to move a long ways away and I won't be here to fuck you up personally anymore.” Grabbing his head in both hands, I crane it 'til he's looking at my guys. “That's why I brought these boys along as a reminder. They're local. They'll be watching and waiting for you to fuck me, to fuck over Claire, and if you do...well, the matches come out next time. Maybe we turn your home to cinders, or just your old man's offices. Or maybe they just take you out to some pristine, isolated section of Cascades wilderness and blow your fucking brains out.”

  He's shaking bad. Good. I can't fuck up again, threatening this asshole. I need him to believe every last thing I'm saying, make him fear for his life. Scaring his sorry ass straight's the only way to keep my girl safe for good.

  And honestly, that's my only damned problem. Nothing else is. Not Bellingham, not my old man, not even Club Zing. Whatever happens to this stupid, sneaky little fuck isn't neither. I don't give a shit if he's traumatized and starts pissing his bed every night – that's for the shrinks to sort out.

  “You can't do this, Sterner...you can't kill me...”

  “I fucking can, asshole, and my boys will if you fuck up again. If you just simmer down and let go of my girl, live your life nice and quiet, I don't give a damn what you do. Bury my old man's company goddamned deep if he's really fucked up the environment like you claim he has. I don't care. This begins and ends with Claire. That's all this is about. And I hope for your sake you're smart enough to realize this is your last chance.”

  “Oh my God, I am, Sterner. Thank you for this chance. I won't disappoint you, I won't screw up again. I won't –“

  I knee him in the guts so he can't talk, then push him into a thick puddle of gas dripping off his soaked recliner. “Just shut the fuck up and get somebody in here to clean this shit up. Let's go, boys.”

  We're gone. If I were a betting man, I'd say he'll never so much as think the name Claire Frost or Ty Sterner without smelling petrol.

  The easy part's over. Now for the one that rips my fucking heart out.

  One Year Later

  Has it really been a whole goddamned year? Every last one of my boys had tears in their eyes when they dropped me at the harbor where the Alaska ferry docks. They hugged me like brothers, and I embraced them just the same, told them to take good care of my club, because it's theirs now.

  A little legal wrangling helps make sure my old man will never get the place back in his name, and he'll never siphon much money away from it either.

  Despite the warm sendoff by my crew, it's not them I'm thinking about when the ship pulls away from Washington's shores. It's not like it gets better when I land in Anchorage and start to settle in.

  Their faces don't haunt me at night when I'm tossing and turning, or come to me during the day when I'm in the choppy Pacific, screaming at my new guys to reel in a catch before the old fucking net snaps.

  I've tried to forget about Claire every way I know how. And it's all a miserable failure.

  Every. Fucking. Way.

  There are so many times when I just wanna pick up the phone and call her, assuming her old number still works. But fuck, she's gotta be heartbroken when she realizes I'm not locked up, and then shattered again when she finds out I'm gone. Weeks ago by without any contact, and soon that turns into months.

  I never reach out. I fucking can't. And it guts me.

  I can't be responsible for hurting her again. I'll kill myself before it happens.

  Some nights, when I'm watching the snow fall down for what seems like forever, I get down on my hands and knees, praying her ma will just shake some fucking sense into her, help her scrub every waking memory of me outta her brain.

  But I've read the headlines, and I've got a feeling the Congresswoman's got bigger worries, now that she'll have to work three times as hard to ever find a way into Washington again. Her politicking is just as fucked as Spree's profits.

  My first winter here's the worst. It blows in lightning fast, not long after I find a place in the city to hunker into while I plan the rest of my life. I'm cooped up in a little place in Anchorage, drinking myself half-blind every night, working up the energy to drive and hit the slopes when Jack Frost stops trying to turn everybody's digits black.

  Snowboarding helps me get used to the Alaska cold. Useful for handling the weather, yeah, but it doesn't do shit to help me forget.

  Neither does bar hopping. A few times, I try to approach some chicks, and God knows it wouldn't take much work to haul 'em into bed.

  I'm still Prince Charming. When you're built like I am and you know how to melt panties, you're set picking babes for life.

  Alaska has tough guys aplenty, but the women have never seen a specimen like me. I can practically hear their panties splashing into a puddle at their feet as soon as I say “hello.”

  It doesn't matter how drunk I am or how hot the girl seems. They all end up looking like ash by the time they're ready to pucker up and grab a ride to my place. I make up some bullshit about eating bad fish every fucking time, and I bail with my tail between my legs.

  Maybe it's partly true. My poor guts are twisted up so bad I think my stomach's trying to hang itself. I'm sick – completely fucking ill – suffering withdrawals from losing Claire way worse than any junkie misses smack.

  I can't get a handle on my guts 'til spring comes, and I'm able to get outside. There's work to throw myself into, and I work like a fucking dog with my first fishing crew, learning everything I can from the grizzled vets I've brought onto my ship.

  We're out there for weeks, making hay while the precious summer sun shines across the cold Pacific. I get hooks in my hands and swept overboard a couple times. I've finally found something that makes my muscles beg for rest, and it makes me fucking stronger

  Except it's not strong enough to burn away the memories of how we loved and fucked last summer.

  I fight not to drown in this crazy new business, pitting men against nature's worst. And I muster everything I've got not to fucking die in my own lonely anguish, killed by my own black heart curdling my blood on those long, dark nights when we're sailing through the rain, exiled from everything I ever cared about.

  I'm lost. Out there with backbreaking runs and constantly shifting waves, I start to question whether or not she was even real, or if it was some shit I just imagined so I wouldn't go insane leaving behind my billion dollar f
amily fortune.

  But there's no doubt about the last thing I've brought from my old life. The ring was in my pocket the morning we got our savage wake up call. It followed me to jail, and then to Alaska, haunting me like a goddamned vulture because it's everywhere except on my woman's hand where it belongs.

  Fuck. Fuck.

  Fishing season ends and we're about done counting our cash. It's no billion dollar empire income, but it might be seed money for a few new clubs in Anchorage, assuming I decide to go back to the night life and don't kill myself alone on those hellish waves.

  I'm sitting on the dock late evening, holding the little black box in one hand. My grip's so damned tight I think it's gonna snap, assuming I don't flip my shit and hurl it out to sea first.

  Not that it'll do me much good if I did. I know damned well I'll dive into the cool water and swim after it. I'll fucking suffocate beneath the Pacific before I surrender the last thing I've got that ties me to that woman, to the summer I'll never forget.

  I can't believe how much time's passed, and how much it doesn't matter. It's one whole year since I left the lower forty-eight forever, and it's still slitting me wide open. I've fought like hell to forget her, and I can't anymore.

  I do the only sane thing left.

  I walk home and hit the website of the fanciest Alaskan airline I can find. I place my order, print out a ticket for a one week trip in her name, and then I'm at the post office, scrawling a quick note before I stuff everything in a big flat envelope.

  My boys said she still lives with her ma near Tacoma, and I've got the address. Hoping their info's right is all I can do.

  So is hoping she doesn't just tear the envelope open, see what I've sent her, and throw it in the nearest trashcan. I sure as fuck would if a big, stupid man left me high and dry for a whole year, without even a note by pigeon.

  Actually, I know that's a load of bullshit. If she's been hurting a fraction as bad as I have, then I know she'll want to see me one more time, if only to slap me across my face.

  And I'll fucking let her too. Anything's better than suffering in silence, living this dead, dull mystery I try to call my life. I'll turn the Alaska shores red with my blood, my rage, my explosive need to have her under me again before I give up.

  I drop it in the mail and punch the old blue box once, telling myself it's only a fucking week. It might as well be another ten years.

  I've given her my hand, and I hope to fuck she takes it. But if she doesn't, you'd better believe I've got another ticket with my name on it, straight to Tacoma, or wherever the fuck else I need to be.

  I'll chase her to the ends of the earth, anything for closure, whether that means tasting her lips on mine again, or listening as they cut me to tatters.

  11

  Reset (Claire)

  One year.

  One complete course of the sun across the zodiac, burning me alive, leaving me in darkness. The Taser hurt me so bad I'll never forget it, but losing Ty numbs my body a thousand times worse, and it lasts far longer than the sting of lightning coursing through my skin.

  For an entire year, his loss, his silence, hurts. I can't let go until the next summer starts to fade, marking the onset of the chill that's bound to last a lifetime.

  I'm so ready to let go. I'm all set to slowly, painfully forget him after hundred hour conversations with Dana during our phone calls and weekend getaways to Portland. Mom's gotten her crap together too, and the stuff she learns at her long meditation seminars flows to me, encouraging me to hold onto my sanity through the heartbreak.

  She talks all about Zen this and Buddha that and yoga breathing exercises. It's refreshing not to hear a thing about politics, except when she apologizes and beats herself up over the stupid marriage to Gary, the one that was going to help send her all the way to the White House someday.

  Mom feels guilty. She does everything she can to help, and I can't say I turn it down. We're into the holidays before I finally come out of my coma long enough to take work seriously.

  I refuse to take another job with her connections. It blew up in my face last time with Cascades Now! and I don't need another disaster to make me think about Ty.

  Of course, I can't stop thinking about him.

  He reaches through my chest and tears my heart out every night. Every fucking day. I dream about the tropical warmth I found in his arms all winter, and sweat remembering our heart pounding sex when spring comes.

  I've picked up some consulting work, mostly line editing documents and things like that. It's not much money, but I get to work from home, and I'm doing it on my own.

  The clients like what I do, and I adore them because they keep my brain on channels that aren't set to constant heartbreak. I try to bury my nose in career books when I'm not proofing for cash. It usually keeps me going until dinner time, when I shut down to eat and cleanup for the day.

  Then the memories come back to torture me. That's when I miss him, and wonder what the hell happened to make him give up on me for good.

  Was it all just a lie? Did the charming, brash, stinking rich asshole I first met screw me over once again?

  I could accept that. It would hurt less to admit I misjudged him, made a terrible mistake, and had a fling with a remorseless bastard who at least gave me some spine tingling sex before casting me aside like another toy.

  It happens. Bad boys rule this world, and sometimes they're bad guys too.

  But the fact that I don't know is what haunts me. I don't understand why he's cut me out of his life. I wonder if he's hurting like I am.

  The memories are brutal. I remember how softly he'd growl in my ear after we made love, how good his lips felt against my skin, and how we went from being bitter step-siblings to best friends in a few tumultuous weeks. It's the miracle of a lifetime, and its loss is devastating.

  I keep working. I distract myself. I throw myself into whatever I can to take my mind off Ty, taking breaks with Mom over long cups of coffee, or driving down to Portland to see Dana. I feel bad about the trips, where I do nothing except rehash the disastrous silence with him. I'm sure one day she'll pull a muscle wearing that sympathetic grin while I'm dumping all over her.

  But they both help. Really. They put gauze on a gushing wound that needs a tourniquet, but it's better than nothing.

  Mom teaches me all about clearing my mind, banishing the nightmares in my life with a body work and breathing regimen for dulling the pain. Dana reminds me I'm never alone, shows me a good time, and constantly tries to get me to approach guys at the bars.

  All I do is smile and keep my distance. I'm not going down that road again, and it's not an option, even if I want to. There aren't any places in Portland quite like Club Zing. And among all the bars and lounges and restaurants we frequent, there's no man like Ty.

  There's arrogant playboys, desperate dude-bros, and divorced charmers with salt and pepper hair galore, looking for their newer, younger wives. They're all special in their own way, yeah, sometimes even a little hot. But not one man I see has that rare mix of fire and ice, money and heart, violence and tenderness.

  Everything I want begins and ends with Tyler Sterner, and nobody else offers it.

  Something different happens on the last trip to Portland. I don't know why it doesn't kick in at the bars, and sneaks up on me when I'm making my way home to Tacoma instead.

  I'm in the car humming along to a love song when I just break down. The lyrics fall to pieces in my throat, and my voice breaks. I cry so hard I'm close to pulling over before I continue my drive.

  It hurts like hell because Ty's love is missing from my life, but that's old news. What hurts even worse is that I want to find love, and I realize I'll have to do it without him if he's gone for good.

  And I know he is.

  For the first time, I feel it in my bones, and I don't wonder if it's some cruel physiological aftershock left by the Tasing a year ago. It's a year ago to the day, isn't it?

  The next two days, I barely think
about Ty at all, a sudden scary first.

  I'm taking a break from my editing to walk to the mailbox when it shows up. As soon as I feel the envelope in my hands, my heart plunges to my ankles. The handwriting makes my knees give out, and I barely catch myself against the door for support.

  God damn it.

  I want to scream and curse, fall to the ground, tearing at the last summer grass until I've dug a rabbit hole to Wonderland to leave this world forever. I can't believe I have to open this fucking thing.

  The package comes right when I was about to let go. I don't even have to see what's inside to know I never will. I'm mentally doing the math, trying to figure out how much it'll cost to get to Alaska before a freshly printed airfare voucher falls into my hand.

  One crazy call to Dana later, and I'm on my way. I don't tell Mom what's up, only that I need to go up there, but it's not hard to see that she knows.

  She doesn't curse me out or beg me to stay like I expect. Instead, she just wraps her arms around me, squeezes me tight, and tells me she loves me.

  “Do what you need to do, and come home happy,” she says. “That's all I ask, honey.”

  “Mom? Who the hell are you?” It's scaring me. The woman staring at me with her big, beautiful eyes is someone else.

  Okay, maybe there's more to this Zen-yoga-breathing stuff than a way to escape her guilt.

  “I'm family, Claire. It's taken me a long time to realize that I need to be putting my daughter first. I care about what's going to make you happy – even if it's a little crazy. Life's too short for nothing but climbing the ladder.”

  Her words echo in my head when I'm on the flight up. I'd just started to remember that there's a ladder to climb at all, and now I'm on the verge of throwing it all away again for this man who's burned into my heart.

  I can't pretend I'm not scared. I eat a simple snack and down some anti-nausea stuff on the plane. If everything in Ty's note holds true, he'll be waiting for me at the docks this afternoon, just a short taxi ride from the airport.