by Lexi Whitlow
They barely acknowledge me, they’re so focused on their game.
“C’mon, my queen,” I say, pulling Norah along toward our apartments. “Let’s go see to the national treasure.”
It’s good being king. I set my own hours. I work from home. My wife is also my business partner. Sometimes, we even work in bed.
Who needs a last name when I have all this?
Deleted Scene
Owen
Is this where we’re going, sir?” Duncan asks, glaring across the narrow, West Bank, Paris street like he’s staring down the barrel of a loaded weapon.
Across the way, the art gallery is brightly lit, windows glowing warm against the rain-slicked cobblestones beyond the front door. Giant, monochrome photographs hang on the white walls of the open gallery space. The interior is crowded with nicely dressed people who laugh and talk easily. Strangers shake hands, heads bobbing with smiles and curious, sincere expressions.
“Sir?” Duncan asks again.
I’m thinking. Duncan can wait.
We’re parked at the curb, tucked inside the car while I consider the question. I want to go in. I want to stroll up to that big glass and steel door, pull it wide like I own the place, and take on the crowded room without hesitation. I want to melt into the rabble, take all the time I want to study the photographs (if they’re any good), or—more likely—roll my eyes at the pretense. I want to rub elbows with strangers and drink cheap champagne served in small plastic glasses. Isn’t that what people do at public art gallery openings?
From my concealed position behind dark tinted glass, I see a hundred ordinary faces behind those windows. I also spy a few extraordinary creatures. This is what I came for, isn’t it?
Several of the women in that room are cock-teasingly hot. Twenty are among the most famous faces—and bodies—in fashion. All of them have gathered in one room, on one night, to celebrate the work of Stephen Aubauchan, the photographer who took them from “pretty girls” into the stratosphere of celebrity fashion.
I collect pretty girls. Tonight, I’d like to up my game. That brightly lit room across the street offers me the best opportunity I’ll get to take this little hobby of mine to the next level.
“Yeah,” I reply to Duncan, “that’s where we’re going.”
His jaw tightens. He huffs at me. “You realize there’s no way I can approve this.” But resignation bleeds into his tone, dampening it.
I grin at him. “Whatever. If I get mobbed and torn to pieces, tell Mother it was for a good cause.”
Duncan rolls his eyes, shaking his head with disdain. “If that happens, your mother will have my head mounted on a pike at the gates.”
He’s not even exaggerating.
“Give me the key,” I demand.
He places the ignition key into my open palm. He’s an old hand at this game.
Duncan goes in ahead of me, casing the place for paparazzi. A few minutes later, he reappears on the sidewalk, lighting a cigarette as a signal that the coast is clear. That’s my cue to make my way in, join the crowd on my personal quest to identify and seduce the most beautiful woman in the room, get her to take me home with her, and convince her to sleep with me—all without revealing who I am.
Duncan plays along because he knows otherwise: I’ll ditch him altogether.
The gallery is crowded, hot, and loud. The high ceilings and stone floors amplify the noise of two hundred voices like the vaults of a cathedral. It’s an assault on my ears, which are accustomed to quiet; I don’t get to spend much time among the masses.
It’s only a matter of time until someone recognizes me. For this game, I’ve got to work fast: I need to get in, find my next conquest, and get out with her on my arm before someone outs me. If that happens, its game over. And it’s what happens more often than not. The odds are always stacked against me, especially in a room filled with people who adore celebrities, buy magazines, and read the gossip rags. They know my face—they just don’t expect to see it here.
I have a few tricks I use to stay incognito while I stalk the room, searching among the “beautiful people” for the one who’s going to take me home. For starters, I peer at the floor—a lot. I’ve been trained since birth to sit up straight, square my shoulders, never slouch, keep my head high, and always maintain eye contact. Doing the opposite of those things dramatically alters my appearance. Also, for this game I always dress down in muddy boots and torn jeans. No one glances twice at a guy wearing worn-out work clothes.
When I identify my object and make contact, that’s when I’ll turn on my princely charms. My manners shine through the disguise of grubby old clothes. Women are less interested in the outward trappings of beauty than men are. Us, we like the layers, particularly taking our time peeling off the layers. Women are into what’s beneath the wrapping. Women are curious creatures.
I’m thinking I may have overdone it a bit with the threadbare Levi’s when I hear a voice behind me. “Good God, do they let anyone in off the street? I thought this was a private affair.”
I glance back, noting her haughty, solidly upper-class, East Bank accent. A century ago, her ancestors would have disowned her for slumming on this side of the Seine. My critic is an over-made diva beyond her expiration date. Her cheeks glow pink with drink, but the glow doesn’t conceal the hard lines etched into her forehead, clawing the corners of her eyes, stamping a cold smile onto thin, pale lips.
I wink at her, smiling boyishly, and move on.
In the corner I spot three towering goddesses, each stunning in her own way. The tallest has long, inky black hair shimmering with rainbow streaks. Her full lips are painted ruby red, her high cheekbones dusted with powder. She’s something to look at, and I’d fuck her in a heartbeat, but she’s not the most beautiful woman here.
Beside her stands a creature built for the Paris runway. She’s a doll, literally: her figure has been starved for the benefit of male designers and photographers who prefer the look of young boys to grown women. She’s been enhanced with enough plastic to render her almost alien in appearance. And while she’s certainly interesting to stare at, she’s not the woman I’ve come for.
The woman I want isn’t a painted fake, posing for the flashbulbs. She’s not worried about impressing a soul in this room. I don’t know who she is, but I’ll know her when I see her, and when I see her, it’s game on.
I survey every face and figure inside this room, studying the beautiful ones, finding their better attributes, counting their flaws. I’m just about to move in on a gorgeous specimen of Polynesian glamour when my ear catches a sound that turns my head.
Her laughter rings in the air like the high notes of a harpsichord. Her laugh spreads out above the throng of people, settling like raindrops on a tin roof. Whatever made her laugh still tickles her. She smiles unselfconsciously, laughter pulling a dimple on her right check, creasing the corners of her flashing, sapphire blue eyes.
There’s nothing painted or artificial about her—her beauty is genuine. She doesn’t need powder, product, or plastic. Her sandy blond locks, wild with curls, are gathered at her back and tied off with a simple blue ribbon between her shoulders. She’s dressed in clingy black leggings, a fitted undershirt, and a wispy-thin overshirt concealing just enough curve and silken skin to render her fascinating, and—at least to my mind—the most beautiful woman in this room.
Game on.
She’s not alone. One of her companions is a spaced-out looking model in runway chic, her bare feet painted with glitter. The other is a well-dressed guy about my own age with dark eyes, an expensive haircut, salon-polished skin, and a suit custom cut to his tall, skinny frame. He made Beauty laugh, and for that I’m grateful—and also jealous. He holds a glass of brown booze in his right hand, his left making vivid gestures as he speaks. He’s got both women hanging on every word.
The clock is ticking. I need to break his spell and cast one of my own. I need her to see me, and then see into me.
The threeso
me has clustered near a wall-sized print of a woman’s ample tit rendered in shades of black and gray. It’s framed and hung behind glass for the show, a small placard mounted right to indicate the piece’s title and the gallery’s asking price.
I move behind Mr. Dashing to get a good look at the placard. Mr. Dashing, unaware that I’m only inches away, waves his hand in another wild gesture that ends with him elbowing me in the back.
I fly around. He flies around. Our eyes meet. He’s shocked, about to apologize, when his eyes take me in: my untucked shirt, torn jeans, muddy boots, and two-day-old scruff of beard. His jaw sets. His eyes narrow.
“Excuse me,” I say, smiling coolly. “Just trying to get a look at the price of this one.”
Mr. Dashing smirks, drawing his arms in. “I doubt it’s in your price range, friend. Perhaps you’re in the wrong place.”
“Eric, don’t be so rude!” Beauty protests. Her tone, like her laughter, lilts. She’s American.
“He bumped into me,” Eric snorts.
I do my best to feign hurt feelings. I check out his suit, then glance down at my own grubby attire. I look to the girls. First to the barefoot model, who holds my eyes with an expression of sympathetic curiosity.
I let my gaze fall to Beauty, biting my lip self-consciously. “So… so sorry,” I mumble, dropping my eyes in mock deference, taking a step back.
He played right into my plan.
Beauty frowns at Eric. “You’re an ass sometimes.” She steps forward, past him and toward me until I’m standing face-to-face with this stunning creature who regards me with genuine sympathy.
She offers her hand. “I’m Norah,” she says, her tone softening on approach.
I take her hand in mine, shaking politely. “Collin,” I reply, using my second name. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to interrupt you and your friends.”
My accent attracts her first. Her eyes brighten, the corners lifting with barely concealed inquiry. “You didn’t interrupt anything.” She glances back at her companions. “I’ve already heard all of Eric’s stories. I came to Paris for new stories.”
She’s got an air about her, an easy confidence seeping between layers of closely held secrets. She peers into my eyes as though she’s trying to discern mine.
“Have you found any?” I ask her.
Norah smiles—barely. “Not really,” she admits. “Not yet, anyway.”
One Hour Later
Cheap, art gallery champagne leaves a fruity, slightly spicy aftertaste. I discover this on the shadowy landing between the flights of stairs leading up to her flat. Citrus and cherries and a hint of red pepper prick my tongue as I press it past hers, opening her to me, breathing her taste in.
I back her against the wall, lifting her arms above her head. I hold her wrists tight while pressing my weight against her, slanting my mouth over hers, marking her long, pale neck with my teeth and lips. Her breasts, warm and round, flatten against my chest. Her hips rock forward to meet mine.
We don’t pause for a tour of her living arrangements. Inside the apartment, she barely manages to turn a lamp on before I shove her onto the bed, rolling those tight leggings over her hips and down her thighs like peeling the skin off a hunted animal. Beneath, I’m thrilled to find milky white thighs willingly spread wide for me. Her heat rises into my nostrils, tweaking my brain, hardening my cock hard behind the zipper of my threadbare jeans.
Her body is perfection, her silky skin pliant and soft, reactive to my attentions. I torture her with my mouth, teasing goosebumps onto her flesh, hardening her nipples with my tongue and teeth. I suckle worshipfully, drawing moans and whimpers from her in even turns, building her up, getting her ready for me.
My fingers descend, slipping between the thin seam of lips protecting her most precious place. She’s wet, dripping, her clit hard and ready for attention. That’s all well and good, but this game isn’t about her—it’s about me. I doubt I’ll ever get a chance to come back for seconds, so there’s not much point in drawing things out. I came here to fuck a beautiful woman, not to rock her world.
Norah is as curious and impatient as I am. Her left palm cups the solid bulge between my legs, her right tugging at my button and zipper.
“You want that?” I growl, nuzzling her ear, pressing my cock into her hand. “You want that inside you?”
“I really do.” She releases the button, slipping my zipper down to slide her hand beneath my briefs. Her fingers are soft and warm, circling my length with a mixture of gentle and firm strokes.
I shove my jeans and shorts down my legs and kick them off, letting her work her magic on my ready cock.
She’s not the least bit timid. She keeps her eyes on mine, pressing her fingers and stroking her thumbs across my length, tracing the ridges and contours with careful attention. “Lay down.” She lifts a hand to my chest and presses me backwards.
I’m astonished. She wants to go down on me? Really? That never happens during this game. Blowjobs only happen when they know who I am and they’re trying to get into my head. It never works; I know the routine. But this is different—she’s not aspiring to anything. She’s just having fun.
“Lay down,” she insists, laughing at me. “And don’t look so stunned. You can return the favor before we’re done.”
I do as I’m told, and in a moment, I realize I’ve completely lost the upper hand in this game. She takes my cock into her mouth, wrapping her lips around me, her tongue finding nerve endings I never knew existed. My mind goes numb, slipping into the bliss of singularly-focused pleasure. My cock becomes the center of the universe for a few brief moments before I lose all control, stifling groans, gripping Norah’s soft hair inside closed fists, trying not to choke her while my pumping orgasm explodes down her throat.
Hours later—before we collapse together in exhaustion, before my eyes close on the world—I think to myself: we’ve done things I’ve only fantasized about. Norah is ambitious in bed, demanding, fucking incredible in every sense of the word. She’s beautiful too, and fearless—a combination I’ve never come across.
I fall asleep draped in her arms and legs, tangled in her body heat, my skin slick and perfumed with her scent.
I came here to fuck a beautiful woman. Instead, she rocked my world.
My phone is ringing. I hear it from a long way off, the tones familiar, melodic. “Purple Rain.” A song from another time, another prince.
“Jesus, what the hell is that?”
It’s Norah’s voice that wakes me, not the sound of my phone. I sit up, confused and blinking back sleep. The room is bright with sunshine and barely furnished, scattered with dirty clothes and books.
My phone keeps ringing; it’s the ringtone I’ve set for palace security. It’s the only tone I know I can’t let go to voicemail. They don’t call without a good reason.
I scramble in the back pocket of the jeans I dropped in a rumpled heap last night. I swipe to answer, hoping I’ve caught the call before it disconnects. If that happens, a whole different set of events get put into motion, none of them good, especially considering I’m naked and in a strange girl’s bed. I don’t need a mass of armed men bursting in under the assumption I’ve been kidnapped, ready to shoot first and ask questions later.
“Yes?!” I say, relieved to hear live air on the other end of the connection.
“Your Highness, this is Rowling. I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but we have a situation developing at the palace. Your mother has requested your immediate return.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Is she alright? Is she ill?”
“No, sir. Her Royal Majesty is in fine health. I’m sorry sir—I can’t discuss this on an insecure line. When you get to the plane, we’ll have a secure connection and I’ll brief you. The jet is standing by at the airport. Is Duncan with you now?”
I struggle out of bed and to the window, peering down at the street where I parked last night. Duncan leans on the closed driver’s side door, looking up at me from behind
mirrored aviator sunglasses.
“Yeah, he’s here,” I say. “Not in the room, but here.”
“He has instructions to take you directly to the airport. There’s no time to be lost.”
“Very well.” I end the call, then look at the phone in my hand. The last time I got a call like that was when my father died six months ago. That ringtone makes my guts clench and my heart race. I don’t ever want to get a call like that again—it means everything is falling apart.
Something big is going down at home. Something—I know—to do with my brother and his bizarre behavior. That’s the only reason they’d call me. He’s the heir. I’m the spare. They’re never supposed to need me, and I’d like to keep it that way.
“Everything okay?”
I turn. Norah is sitting up, her knees pulled to her chest and the sheets drawn tight, covering her from shoulder to toes. Last night she was wide open, shameless. Now, in the mid-morning light, she’s the picture of demure—if slightly rumpled—reserve.
She’s still the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Game over.
“I’ve gotta go,” I say, reaching for my jeans and pulling them on, then searching for my shirt.
“Why?” she asks, confused. “I thought we’d…”
But I cut her off. “I just do.”
What I want is what she wants: I want to stay, let her feed me breakfast, hang out with her, get to know her. That’s never going to happen—it can’t. It’s better to nip any expectations she might have in the bud.
Forty seconds later, I’m on the stairs headed down to the street and back into the over-bearing care of my patient, ever-loyal bodyguard, Duncan.
Rancher’s Second Chance
Axel - University of Oklahoma 2007