King Size: A Royal Bad Boy Romance

by Lexi Whitlow

  “Beverly’s parents are here,” he says, his voice a monotone, his eyes cast off beyond me. “Some judge granted them a pre-hearing visit. They’re waiting for Emma.”

  His eyes drop to mine. “My Mom is on her way, but until she gets here, you’re the supervision. You and a rep from Child Protective Services. They have two hours.”

  “Who’s here, Daddy?” Emma asks, looking up at Cam with big eyes. She sees he’s upset. Camden steps off the porch. He approaches Emma slowly, and when he gets close he drops to his knees in the grass in front of her. The expression marring his face is misery unchecked. It’s a combination of grief, anger, and dread.

  “You know how we sometimes talk about how your mom passed away?” he asks Emma, taking her small hands in his.

  Her soft little brow furrows. She nods.

  “Well, your mom had a mom and dad too, like I have my mom; your Grams.”

  She stares into his eyes intently, unblinking.

  “They’re your grandparents. They’ve come to see you, baby girl.” He smiles at Emma. “They want to see how smart and beautiful you are. They want to make sure I love you as much as I should.”

  “You love me bigtime, Daddy,” Emma says, but her brow is still furrowed.

  “I sure do,” he says.

  He hauls in a lungful of air, then slowly lets it out.

  “I can’t be with you while you visit with them, but Grams is coming, and Grace will be with you the whole time. Okay?”

  Emma shakes her head. “I don’t know them.”

  “No, baby. You don’t remember them. But they remember you.”

  “It’ll be okay,” I assure Emma. “You’ll be brave, and I’ll be brave for you. And it’s not for long. It’s just a little while.” I hold out my hand for hers. “Let’s go see who these new people are. If they have funny noses or big heads, we’ll laugh at them.”

  Once inside the house, I’m surprised to find Tyler sitting in the living room in awkward silence, with our guests. Maybe Camden was afraid they’d try to steal the silverware.

  Tyler appears relieved to see us. He checks his watch, then addresses his companions.

  “It’s four-ten. Two hours.” He stands, and when he walks past me, he lowers his voice. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

  The woman sitting to the right of the hearth is perhaps forty-five or fifty years-old, with over-worked, shoulder-length, bleached blond hair. She’s dressed out of a big-box store sales circular, right down to the cheap plastic shoes. More than any of that though, is the expression on her face. Her skin is puckered, beginning at the narrow slit of her mouth, radiating out. She’s spent a lifetime pursing her lips, and now the expression has permanently set in skin. Her eyes are small and too far apart, giving her a vaguely stupid, harsh appearance. None of this is improved on by the fact that she’s wearing bright red lipstick and violet eye shadow, with way too much foundation and powder.

  “Emily, come over here and meet your Granna Dee,” the woman says, her voice as ragged as her wrinkled skin. She’s got the timbre of a life-long cigarette smoker. Her vocal chords scarred and damaged, rendering her tenor lower and rougher than it ought to be for someone of her gender and size.

  No one ever calls Emma ‘Emily’ except when she’s done something very bad.

  “It’s okay, Emma,” I say, gently squeezing her hand, walking us deeper into the room.

  The man seated to the left of the hearth is about the same age as his wife, but a mountain in stature. Seated, I estimate him to be at least six and a half feet tall, but he may be even taller. He carries the bulk of his build in his belly, which laps over his belt, dipping between his widely spread legs. He too, has the fashion sense of a man unconcerned with appearance. His short sleeve t-shirt is a size too small, riding up in the back where he bends in the chair, exposing pale, hairy flesh, without concern for who sees it or their impression at having done so.

  This man’s eyes wander to me. His gaze, lurid and cold, makes my flesh crawl.

  I don’t know these people, but on first impression I am inclined to agree with Cam—they may very well be awful.

  “You must be Grace, Emma’s nanny?”

  I turn toward this unexpected voice coming up behind me from my left.

  A neatly dressed young woman, probably only a few years older than me, approaches from the far corner where she’s obviously been lurking during the tense stand-off between this couple and Tyler.

  “I’m Meredith Barbour, with Misssoula County Child Protective services.” She holds out her hand for me to shake it. She’s got a confident, but not overly-aggressive grip. “I’ve been appointed by the court as Emma’s guardian ad litem for the custody hearings. I thought it would be good to be here today, to start to get an understanding of the situation, and meet everyone involved. My job is to look out for Emma’s best interests, regardless of any other issues that come up on either side.”

  I nod, giving her a small, awkward smile. “I’m Grace Bradley. Yes, I’m Em’s nanny.” I want to tell her that I, too, have Emma’s best interests at heart, regardless… I don’t say this because I know better. This woman’s job is to figure out everyone’s strategy, and honestly, I don’t want to look like I even have one.

  I look down at Emma, who’s gripping my hand like she’s about to fall into some black abyss. I smile at her. “Emma, this is Meredith. She’s gonna hang out with us while we visit your Granna and Grandpa Beaufort.”

  “I want her to call me Big Papa,” the man by the hearth says, his voice booming, jarring both Emma and me. “Emmie, come over here and kiss your Big Papa. I want to give you a great big hug.”

  Yeah. No.

  I force a smile, then lift Emma up into my arms, hugging her tight, shifting her weight onto my hip. This is something I almost never do, but Emma clings to me, wrapping her small legs around my waist.

  “It’s really nice to meet you both,” I say, walking with Emma toward the couch, facing them. I settle down with Emma on my lap, still wrapped around me like a frightened chimp. I can feel her tiny heart racing in her chest, her repaired and patched aorta straining hard against this unanticipated fright. Her fingers grip my arms.

  “Emma’s a little bit shy,” I say. She’s not. “She has to warm up to you before she even shakes hands. Hugs and kisses might take a while.”

  Like years, if I was a gambling type of person.

  “Emily, look at me,” the woman instructs, sharply. “Your father hasn’t taught you much manners.”

  Again, I force a smile. “Why don’t we ease into this,” I say. “How about you start with introducing yourself, tell Emma where you live. A little bit about yourself.”

  The man sits forward in his chair, glaring at me. “The reason she don’t know already is because her high-and-mighty big ranchman of a daddy made sure we never had nothing to do with her. He used his money to make sure we couldn’t be there for her. But we got money now too. Things are gonna change. And she ain’t gonna need no nanny from back east. She’s gonna have family seeing after her. Not some stranger like you.”

  Ordinarily I’d bristle under this kind of unprovoked assault, but this old fart actually entertains me. That, and I’m buoyed by the fact that he’s performing for the court whether he knows it or not. Ms. Barbour has to be watching and taking notes.

  “Be that as it may, right now, we have just a couple hours for you to make the best impression you can on your granddaughter.” I smile again, taking the very high ground. “Emma’s favorite subjects are horses and reading. She knows all her ABC’s already, and can already read all the Level 1 readers by herself.”

  I pull back from Emma a little so I can see her. “Emma, why don’t you tell your grandparents about Stoney. I know they’d want to hear about him.”

  This line opens Emma up a little. In a small voice she relates to these strange, abrupt people, all the wonders of her horse, beginning nervously.

  “…he’s nice,” she starts, going on a
little more. “…he’s a blue roan with a star on his nose, and he likes to nip my hair when I’m brushing him down. He’s got hind quarters like a jack rabbit, and can jump a fence higher than any of our fifteen-hand stallions. Daddy say’s it’s because he’s so small and light, he can fly like a bird in the air.”

  They tell Emma about their house in Phoenix, sitting at the head of a cul-de-sac, surrounded by other houses with kids her age. They have a swimming pool with a diving board, and their community has a playground with monkey bars and a tennis court.

  “You ever go swimming in a swimming pool?” Delores Beaufort asks her granddaughter. “One with blue water and floats?”

  Emma shakes her head. “We go to the lake,” she says. “It’s fun. Jacob and I swim down to the bottom where the rocks are and see who can pull one up to the top.”

  Delores and her husband stiffen, glancing at one another with shared outrage. Then they look at me.

  “He lets her swim in the lake?” she asks me, her eyes narrow with disdain.

  I’ve only been here since November, so I’ve never seen Emma swim anywhere. In that moment, I can’t see the harm in it and I wonder why they react so negatively. Then it occurs to me, Emma’s mother—their daughter—died in the lake. She drowned, trapped in a car in just a few feet of water

  “He’s probably got a million-dollar policy on little Emily too,” Craig Beaufort growls. “Probably wants to see her drown like her momma.”

  What the fuck did he just say? No fucking way.

  I shoot a look at Ms. Meredith Barbour. “That is inappropriate,” I spit. “And Emma doesn’t need to hear that kind of vile accusation from you—or anyone.”

  “Mr. Beaufort, can you please keep it civil,” Ms. Barbour requests, stepping forward into our circle. “Emma is, without question, a well-cared for little girl. Your insinuations are not appropriate.”

  He sits back in his chair—Camden’s chair—then he slaps his hand down hard on the arm. He shoots me a look that says he wants to take my head off. He opens his snaggle-toothed maw and starts speaking. Fast.

  “That little city-bird right there ain’t no one to me nor to my grand-baby. She don’t tell me how to talk or what to say. She’s just the same as every other one of the women Camden Davis has turned in and out of here since our Bev caught him with the first babysitter—”

  “Mr. Beaufort, if you don’t stop this—” Barbour interrupts, but she’s no match for this big rough man and his desire to be heard.

  “Shut up while I’m talking. You ain’t nobody to me either. You’re just a court scribe, taking notes. You can take this note; Camden Davis murdered Emma’s momma just as sure as if he put his hands around her neck and held her under the water himself. He’s a—”

  I don’t wait. I scoop Emma up in my arms and start talking to her, so she can’t hear that awful old man’s accusations. I bolt with her, rushing her up the stairs while she tunes up and begins crying on my shoulder.

  “I love you baby,” I croon into her ear, over and over again. “And your dad loves you. And Grams, and Jacob, and Stoney, and Amanda, and Tyler. Manuel loves you because you’re so sweet with him and his horses. And I love you so very much my sweet, baby girl.”

  When I have her upstairs, safe in her room, I rock her in my arms until she stops crying.

  When she’s finally calm, she rubs her eyes and she looks up into mine. Her face is red. Her eyes are swollen. She looks pained beyond anything I have ever seen in her before.

  “That man said Daddy did bad things to—.”

  “It’s not true,” I say, cutting her short. “Those people lost their daughter. They’re angry. But what they said isn’t true. Your daddy loves you. He loves you more than anything in the whole big world.”

  A moment later we both hear a commotion downstairs; people speaking in loud, angry voices. This old house has the acoustics of a cathedral. Every sound is amplified, carried up and out.

  There’s a quick knock on the bedroom door. I look up in time to see Beck, Cam’s mom peeking in.

  “Gramma!” Emma calls, holding her arms out.

  Beck comes in, closing the door behind her, then moving to take Emma into her arms, giving me a look that communicates her wary apprehension of all that has transpired so far.

  She smooths Emma’s hair cuddling her. “It’s okay Em, Gram’s here,” she sooths softly. “I love you, baby girl. Everything’s okay.”

  Downstairs the ruckus gets louder.

  I hear Cam’s voice, tight and enraged.

  “Get the fuck out of my house!” he shouts.

  A cacophony of loud replies, all garbled together, follow.

  “Go talk him down,” Beck urges me, worried eyes imploring. “I’ve got Emma. Just go keep him from doing or saying anything that’ll make this worse.”

  Downstairs I find Tyler and Cam on one side, the Beaufort’s on the other, with Ms. Meredith Barbour in between, trying to keep them from making physical contact. Cam is bowed up bigger than a pissed-off bull in a matador’s ring, telling them they have no right.

  I walk right into the middle of the fray, hands up, using all my might, pressing them to Cam’s chest, pushing him back toward the kitchen, away from these awful people.

  His eyes are wild, liquid with rage and with tears.

  “Shut up, Cam,” I order him, shoving him back on his feet, hard.

  He backs up, looking at me with a confused expression; like some animal that has been spun on its heels and hasn’t quite got its bearings.

  “Lookit that!” the old man calls out. “The babysitter leading him around by his dick. See who’s calling things here. Just like before. Just like when he sent Beverly over that bridge. She killed herself because—”

  “This isn’t about them,” I state firmly in a low voice to Cam. “This isn’t about you. This isn’t even about Beverly. This is about Emma and right now she’s upstairs scared, listening to all this. So, you need to be the bigger man and shut the fuck up—for her sake.”

  Cam’s wild eyes fix on mine. His mouth, ready to shout another obscenity, closes. He backs up, his hands finding a grip on the ledge of the kitchen counter.

  Tyler is in the foyer with Ms. Barbour, moving the Beaufort’s out toward the door.

  “We didn’t get our two hours!” Delores Beaufort calls out loudly. “The judge is going to hear about this. You’re in violation, right out of the get-go. And we’ve got good lawyers now. You’ll see—!”

  A moment later, as they’re shown out to their car, the house falls quiet again.

  Cam’s fists grip the edge of the counter like he’s hanging on for dear life. He’s pale. Immobile.

  “Breathe,” I say. “Deep breaths. Count to ten. Exhale.”

  He does it. Then he does it again. In a few moments he’s easier, the tension slipping from his frame.

  Before I even know what’s happened, Cam has me in a tight bear-hug embrace. He’s shuddering against me, holding me. “They want to take her,” he cries into my neck. “They want to take my baby. They can’t… I won’t let them… Please don’t let them.”

  I slip my arms around his broad back. Usually Camden seems so powerful, so in charge, but now he’s vulnerable—frightened. He leans on me for support and comfort, his tears falling onto my shoulder.

  “They won’t take her away from you,” I whisper. “She’s all yours. She’s okay. She needs you.”

  I soothe him like I soothed his daughter moments before.

  “It’ll be okay. I promise.”

  I hug him, easing his tears, trying to still his angst.

  I know full well that my reassurances are promises I cannot fulfil. None of this is up to me. I’m as powerless in this drama playing out as a bird in a hurricane. All I can do is be there, witnessing the event, trying to make it through the eye of the storm.

  Later, when Emma is asleep, Beck has gone home, the dinner dishes are washed and put away, and Camden and I are upstairs in his room, he finally gives
vent to all his angst.

  “If you hadn’t been there, I would have taken Craig Beaufort’s head off,” he says. “And that would have just made everything worse. You calmed me down. And you took care of Emma when they were saying things… I don’t know what we would do without you.”

  Yeah. When things get real I do tend to keep a cool head. That comes from being the only sane person in my family when my baby brother was dying, and my parents were falling apart, blaming each other. They couldn’t stop ripping one another’s hearts out, while Jon withered to nothing in his hospital bed, his damaged, diseased heart, failing him. Their hearts broke, but his heart failed completely.

  All I could do then was calm him, be the quiet, safe harbor in the storm. Our parents blew apart, and the shrapnel spread far and wide, but I wrapped myself around Jon, letting him slip away, unharmed by their self-indulgent drama.

  He was nine. I was thirteen. I remember thinking even then, that the roles had reversed and the children were better at dealing with harsh reality than the parents.

  Emma’s upstairs now, sleeping like a baby. She knows her daddy is upset. She knows that there’s drama unfolding. What she doesn’t know yet is how the empowered adults in her life are going to deal with it. She’s not consciously aware of it, but in her dreams, she’s hoping that they don’t act like children.

  “You need to get a check on your emotions,” I say. “Those people only want to trigger you—set you off. If you let them, you’re playing right into their game. You need to rise above all that and let the world, and them, see that they can’t rattle you. If you’re really thinking, you’re also looking for every reason why they’re not good for Emma.”

  “They’re not good for Emma,” Cam says. “Just like they were shitty parents to Bev and her sister.”

  “So, prove it,” I say. “Show the world. Otherwise you’re just the flip side of a coin. You need to show the world who they are. And you need to be far better by comparison.”

  I say all this while I’m still processing what I heard in the living room earlier.