One Night

by Marsha Qualey

  If I were any closer, I bet I could watch those eyes do their color switch. If I were any closer, I could breathe in that lovely scent. I could maybe even—

  Whoa, Kelly Ray. Remember who you are and what he is.

  You’re a delivery girl. He’s the package.

  *

  Prince Tom’s hand touched my shoulder. Caressing, then slipping down and cupping my—

  “Wake up, Kelly. Time to go.” He shook my shoulder, the hand gripping unromantically hard. I came to from a deep sleep, wiping the drool off my chin before I raised my head. I sat up and looked around, remembering.

  “You crashed hard.”

  How true, Your Highness. “Where’s the professor?”

  “Putting things away and calling his wife. He’s invited us home for supper.”

  Oh, man. No way. Risking a run-in with the thugs waiting for me at Kit’s would be better.

  “I’d like to,” Tom said. “He’s so excited about it. He says he can’t wait to introduce his wife to one of Bully’s boys. He’s been so kind, Kelly.”

  “Sounds great,” I lied.

  He looked puzzled. “You can’t mean that. You don’t have to come along, you know. I’ll go back to the hotel after I’ve done this. I’ll face the music and take the blame. I’ll make sure it’s all squared with your agency. You should go home; you’re tired.”

  Fat chance, Buckhorn. Lose you now? Time for some truth. Half truth and full guilt. “Prince Tom, by now your people know who I am and they know where I live. I bet they’re waiting there now. I can’t go home until I know that you’ve showed up at the hotel and explained everything. You saw how they worked me over. Do you think I want to go home and face that?”

  He paled.

  Slow down, Kelly. Play it straight, but don’t get him scared. “Besides, Tom, do you think I’d miss my one chance to have dinner with royalty?”

  That earned a half smile. “Okay, then, we’ll have dinner together. But tell me: What happened to Prince Tom?”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, it’s better. Just Tom, that’s good.” His eyebrows arched. “I saw you laughing when I told him my name.”

  “Buckhorn? You have to admit that you came up with a good one.”

  “It’s for real. Well, used to be real.”

  How had I missed that in the research? He kept on smiling, waiting.

  Light dawned. “The Texas stepfather?”

  He nodded. “I’m not so sure that he didn’t make it up, though; his background was a bit sketchy. But I was happy to use it, at least as long as I lived in Fort Worth. I don’t think Teronovich would have gone over very well with the good ol’ boys at Sam Houston Military.”

  Sam Houston Military—more background I’d missed. Everything before Oxford was a blank, really. There was probably plenty of material I should get out of him before Kit took over. Questions formed in my mind, but before I could start asking, Dr. Larson returned, looking unhappy. “I’ve done it again,”’ he said.

  Tom and I exchanged worried glances.

  “I called my wife to warn her I was bringing guests. She wasn’t there. Then I checked my voice mail. Apparently I’ve forgotten another dinner party, this time for my granddaughter’s fifteenth birthday. I’d bring you two along, but Cassie wouldn’t appreciate Grandpa’s friends. Not at her age.”

  I gave Cassie a rousing, silent cheer.

  “Could I drop you someplace?”

  Before Tom could say “Poppy Hotel,” I blurted, “Where do you live? What’s on the way?”

  “I’m headed over to my son’s house near Lake Ethyl.”

  “Could you drop us in Midtown? We’ll grab dinner there.”

  It pleased the man to do the favor. He hummed tunelessly as he closed up the study room and led us out. As he fumbled with the lock—trying again and again to get it set—Tom pulled me aside. “I think I should go back to the hotel, Kelly. If he drops me off first, then you can go home and know that when you get there, it will be all clear. I assure you: You will not be bothered.”

  He was not getting away. “But what about dinner? I’m starved. You must be, too. I know some great restaurants.”

  His head dipped, he sighed, his eyes wouldn’t meet mine.

  “Tom?”

  He steeled himself with a deep breath, let it out with a slight whistle, then said, “I can’t buy you dinner. I don’t have any cash or plastic or anything with me. Hell, I hardly ever carry a wallet anymore.”

  There was something kind of sweet about his discomfort. “Doesn’t matter, Tom. My treat. You’re the guest in town and I get to play hostess.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not just the money, Kelly. The afternoon was wonderful, but I should return to the hotel. It’s time.”

  “Time for what?” Dr. Larson said as he joined us.

  Time for dinner,” I said to him. I turned back to His Royal Highness. “You promised, Buckhorn.”

  *

  Dr. Larson dropped us off in the middle of Midtown, right in the heart of all the clubs, stores, and theaters.

  Traffic stalled, horns blew, people screamed as his dented Toyota crept along Atwood Avenue, stopping unpredictably and often as he mentally measured then rejected possible pull-over spots. The good-hearted man was oblivious to the havoc he created. We finally convinced him to let us hop out at a red light. We hustled out, gained the safety of the sidewalk, and turned to wave good-bye. He leaned on his horn in response, then sped away, tires squealing.

  Tom stared after him in wonder. “When I am the king,” he said finally, “senior citizens will be respected, cared for, and each one will have a personal driver. When I am the king—”

  I didn’t hear what came next because my attention was diverted when a police cruiser passed. Slowly. The cop inside took a long, hard look at the two of us yakking it up on the corner of Atwood and Bovey. And why not? We’d just emerged from a car that had created the biggest neighborhood disturbance since the window-smashing and trash-bin emptying that occurred last August after the police closed the after-hours nude beach on Lake Carney. So, yes, that might have been the reason he was staring. On the other hand, he may have been alerted to watch for a spike-haired girl in a red dress and a tall prince in a dark suit.

  The policeman was still looking. Once upon a time, cop stares scared me for a different reason. I was clean now, but I was keeping company with a fugitive prince. Time to get invisible.

  I took Tom by the elbow and moved us along in the opposite direction of the cruiser.

  “Where are we going?” he asked. “I’m starving.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. The cruiser was out of sight. “I think we’ve been spotted. I think the police are looking for you.”

  “I doubt it. The media would pick up on that. Don’t they listen in to police radios? There’s no way my uncle would risk that sort of publicity. His security people might be out looking, but not your police.”

  “Don’t be silly, how could your watchdogs handle that sort of search? They’re big and they’re ugly, but they don’t know their way around. They have to use the locals, Tom, and I’m sure that cop was looking at us for a reason. He’s probably circling the block now, maybe calling us in. How badly do you want to have dinner before you’re picked up and returned to the hotel for a royal spanking?”

  He checked his watch. “Seven already? And what I face when I get back is worse than a spanking: There’s the dinner at eight and then an evening of speeches. I want to eat, Kelly. I’m hungry. You hauled me here and now I want to eat. So what are you getting at?”

  “Look at all the people, then look at yourself.”

  He obeyed, then shrugged. “I still don’t see.”

  “Prince Tom, it’s time to lose the suit. And it’s way past time to get rid of the tie.”

  *

  Midtown is the only neighborhood in Dakota City with any life. Everything mixes up here: The street kids call it home, artists and writers lounge in the coffee sho
ps, cultures spill from the restaurants and blend on the sidewalks, musicians jam in parks and on street corners. Even the suburban mamas love it, coming in during daylight to patronize the urban hair salons. And in a hundred different places—corners and back rooms, alleys and apartments—dealers deal, users cop, addicts crash.

  I don’t spend as much time in Midtown as I used to.

  The Midtown People’s Center was on a side street at the edge of the neighborhood. Thanks to my previous life, I knew which alleys were too narrow for cars and which stores had back doors. I got us to the center without being spotted.

  The food bank and clothing exchange were both doing brisk business. It was near the end of the month, which meant empty cupboards, and these first really hot days of summer meant even street people were shedding winter clothes.

  “Is this stuff clean?” Tom asked as he poked through the hangers and piles of folded shirts.

  “Perfectly clean. Just used.”

  He found some jeans, a T-shirt, and sandals, and went to a dressing room to change. While he was changing, I found some shorts and a shirt I’d probably have to possess even if I wasn’t trying to evade the police: a powder blue T-shirt emblazoned with a portrait of Elvis.

  When we met outside the changing stalls, I gasped, then laughed.

  “What’s funny?” he said, clearly not amused.

  What could I say? Without the suit, he looked so young. The boy who would be king. “You look great,” I said. The truest words I’d spoken all day.

  He was pleased. He held up his clothes and the glossy shoes. “What about this stuff? Can we get a bag?”

  “Leave it all, especially the suit. They’ll clean it up and someone else can use it. Someone who needs it”

  “It’s custom-made.”

  “Then some laid-off, dead-broke dad will look terrific and feel confident when he puts it on for a job interview.”

  We dropped our discards in the donation bin and I deposited some cash in the Pay What You Can box at the front counter. The clerk looked up from folding shirts and nodded thanks.

  There was a crowd outside the building. A sign advertised a free concert and people were gathering. In our discount duds, we blended in.

  “What else goes on here?” Tom asked.

  “Soup kitchen, literacy classes, twelve-step meetings, job training, you name it.”

  “Dakota City looks like such a healthy, wealthy place. All this is needed?”

  We dodged a bus as we crossed the street, then stood still a moment to let a pack of skateboarders dodge us. “It’s all needed very much,” I said. “No city’s ever that healthy. Do you have anything like it in Lakveria?”

  “Refugee camps is what we have. There’s a war going on, remember? The Red Cross runs them.”

  “Well then, Prince Tom, when there is peace and when you are the king, you know what you can do to help.”

  He paused and looked back at the crowd outside the center. His eyes blinked as he studied it all. You could almost see the gears shifting, see the lights going on.

  “They feed people here?” he asked.

  “That’s what the soup kitchen does.”

  “Health care?”

  “A free clinic, open seven days a week. Whatever it is, if someone needs help, this is the place.”

  Tom nodded. “When I am the king.”

  *

  We headed back to the heart of Midtown. I supposed it would have been smarter to go to some other neighborhood, but this was the only one with decent restaurants, and right now food was what mattered most. Tom wanted to eat Korean, I felt like Indian, we agreed on Thai. It was a good decision.

  Tom pushed back from the table. “That was excellent.”

  “I ate like a pig,” I said, then signaled the server. I wanted dessert.

  We’d been given a window table and I was sitting with my back to it. Maybe this wasn’t the best way to hide, but with our change of clothing we blended in. Besides, the parked cars and sidewalk traffic blocked us from cruising patrol cars. Still, I’d noticed how all through the meal Tom’s eyes drifted to the outside. Either telling him about the cop had made him nervous or he was bored with me. Fifty-fifty, I figured.

  We ordered some Thai cakes and tea. His eyes settled on me. “This is maybe an embarrassing thing to admit,” he said, “but it’s been one of the best days I’ve ever had. Simone Sanchez. The library. Evading your police and missing my boring dinner. This incredible meal.”

  “Life’s not too exciting, then?”

  “And being with you. That’s been very nice.”

  “Definitely not exciting.”

  He smiled. “What’s the best day you’ve ever had, Kelly?”

  This I didn’t want: questions. Always good with evasion, I said, “Hard to answer that one.”

  His eyes held mine. “Easier to list the bad ones?”

  How true. I nodded.

  “Me too.” He looked up and smiled at the server who’d just arrived with the cakes and tea. As soon as she left, he leaned forward. I poured tea for us both. “The worst day of my life was the day I arrived at the hospital and saw Natalia after her attack. Until then I’d been able to hope that she wasn’t as badly injured as they’d told me.”

  “Not when your parents died? I would’ve thought that would rate.”

  He gave a sharp laugh. “Not nearly. They were both so lost to me by then. By the time they were dead, I’d built my own life, one totally separate from theirs.”

  I closed my eyes, focused, and pulled up what I knew—what the whole world knew—about his mother and father: dissolute, pampered, royal jet-setters. Long divorced, each with a string of succeeding spouses. But they must have stayed friendly, because they died together, two drunks in a car crash.

  I opened my eyes to see that he had a wry half-smile on his face. “What?” I said.

  “You were just filing something away, right?”

  Close enough. “I guess. Sometimes I’m not really aware I’m doing it.”

  He tapped his index finger noiselessly on the edge of the table. “If word got out about this…recess I’m taking and the things I’ve been saying—I mean, if it got out the wrong way, a lot of people would use that publicity as a reason to stop the peace negotiations.”

  “You’re worried I’ll open the file”—I tapped my head—“and sell the story of my night with a prince to some tabloid.”

  “Yes.”

  I leaned forward. “I would never do that, Tom. Not for a million dollars, not in a million years.”

  “I don’t know why, but I believe you. Trust you.” His smile broadened. “It should be a two-way thing, shouldn’t it? So why not trust me and tell me about the worst day of your life. Or the best.”

  I picked up my fork and stabbed it into the cake. The food had been delicious, but suddenly everything seemed sour, probably because the guilt was roiling with all the talk about trust.

  “Kelly?” he prompted softly.

  I nodded. “The best day? This one might make the list. The worst?” I set down the fork. “As for the worst, well, let’s just say, Tom, that my worst day was self-inflicted. And I’d like you to let me keep it buried in the past.”

  He looked like I’d jabbed the fork into him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was rude of me. Pushy.”

  Pushy? I laughed, thinking of Kit. This guy didn’t know pushy. “Tom Tomas Buckhorn Teronovich, you are the least pushy person I’ve ever met.” I picked up my teacup and cradled it.

  “It’s just that we’ve spent the day together and I don’t know who you are. Who are you, Delivery Girl?”

  I’m a liar and a tease and an ex-junkie gofer who is trying her hardest to lead you into a trap, I thought. I haven’t allowed myself to want something for a long time, and now it is my heart’s desire to lead you into that trap.

  He said, “Please?”

  I have so little strength sometimes, so little defense against so many things. Guilt, for example, almost alway
s wins. Over the last few hours I’d deceived him, hijacked him, laughed at him, forced him to give up an expensive suit. Maybe I owed him a crumb of truth. So I counted to three and I said, “I’m a recovering heroin addict, Tom. Nineteen years old and I’ve been clean going on two years. Obviously, I started young. I grew up in Dakota City and have never lived anywhere else. Grew up and messed up right here.”

  He searched carefully for the next thing to say, then hit wrong. “Your family—”

  “No parents. I live with my aunt.” Too close—I’d brought it too close to what I needed to hide from him. “We’re a bit alike that way, aren’t we, Prince Tom?”

  He nodded. “Did you quit playing violin because of the drugs?”

  “Yes.”

  He reached out and took my hand. Held and looked at my fingers. It was a chaste, curious move. His thumb stroked mine. Okay, maybe it wasn’t so chaste. “You told me earlier that you were very good. ‘Once upon a time,’ you said.”

  I pulled back. “I was very good. I started when I was three and by the time I was four, it was clear I was special, a prodigy.”

  “That’s fun to picture. What sort of music does a four-year-old play?”

  “Entry-level classical. But tougher stuff very soon.”

  “So you started using and had to give it up.”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “You said—”

  “I said I quit playing because of the dope. I quit playing classical for other reasons. I quit all that before I was using. It was a decision to quit. My decision.”

  “And why did you make that decision?”

  I laid a hand over my teacup, letting the moist warmth push against my palm. There were a hundred and one answers, of course, and I’d heard them all in countless chem-dep counseling sessions. It was exhaustion. Fear of failing. Fear of success. Giving in to the desire to take charge of my life after years of never once being in charge.

  “Kelly?” he prompted, his voice soft as fleece.

  I met his gaze. “I fell in love with different music.”

  “What sort of different music?”

  “We didn’t know, that’s just it; we felt like we were making it up. Jazz was a big part of it, and rock, certainly. Like I said, it felt like we were making it up. I didn’t know what it was, the music I was discovering, but it was wonderful, and enticing enough to make me walk away from all the contests and competitions and the guest spots with orchestras.” I saw his eyes dart away, and I reached for my water. “This is way more than you meant to hear. I’m sorry to go on so.”