Dirty Halo

by Evie East

“That’s your best advice? Suck it up?”

  “Hmm…” She thinks about it for a moment. “Yep.”

  “Chloe, have you considered a career writing greeting cards? Since you’re such a fountain overflowing with heartwarming wisdom?”

  “You never know, it could be my true calling. Watch out, Hallmark, I’m coming for you!” Her head tilts. “And, as a side perk, can you imagine the look on Octavia’s face if I told her I was getting a job? An actual job?”

  I gasp. “Like a common peasant?”

  “A working schlub!” She throws a hand over her heart. “The outrage!”

  “The scandal!’

  “The horror of it all!”

  “Oh, the humanity!”

  We both dissolve into giggles.

  “Word of advice? When we’re in there, try not to let Octavia rattle you,” she says when we’ve caught our breath. “The more you let your anger show, the happier she’ll be. She’s like some mythological hell-beast that feeds on misery.”

  “It would be easier to ignore her if she wasn’t threatening people I care about.” The clock on the wall begins to chime. I glare at it, as if that might somehow stop time. “Guess that’s our cue.”

  “Don’t worry,” Chloe whispers conspiratorially, stepping up to my side. “I have something that’ll make this experience a lot more enjoyable.”

  “Cyanide?” I ask, only half-joking.

  “Better.” She pulls out a small plastic baggie, glances around for Simms or one of the ever-watchful housekeepers, and dumps its contents into her palm. “Take one. Thank me later.”

  I blink down at the two innocuous-looking gummy bears. “What are they?”

  “Just a little something to take the edge off. I call them Octavia-Tamers. Makes her at least somewhat bearable to be around — especially while doing something this odious.”

  “Will it really be that bad? Picking out a dress can’t possibly take that long, can it? I figured twenty minutes, as a generous estimate.”

  Chloe snorts. “Oh, you’re so new. It might be cute if it weren’t so tragic.”

  “Forty minutes?” I grimace when she shakes her head. “An hour?”

  “Try two hours of dress selection, followed by another two hours of custom tailoring. Which, if you aren’t familiar, generally involves standing in one spot in front of an unflattering mirror while a sadistic seamstress sticks needles into your bodice.” Her hand extends again, fingers waggling. “Trust me. You do not want to do this sober.”

  “I don’t know…”

  Rolling her eyes, she grabs my palm, presses one bear into it, then promptly tosses the other back into her mouth. “See you on the other side, comrade.”

  Before I can stop her, she strides for the parlor doors. Frozen with indecision, my eyes flicker back and forth between her hand reaching for the knob and my own, still holding the tiny gummy bear. His tiny face is set in a happy smile. The clock chimes its final toll.

  “Sorry, little guy,” I murmur. “It’s your life or mine.”

  Two seconds before the door opens, I pop him into my mouth.

  * * *

  I’m not generally what you’d call a druggie.

  The first time I ever got high, I was fifteen. Owen and I made a makeshift pipe out of an apple core, and we smoked a clump of stale weed he bought from an upperclassman while sitting in the childhood treehouse in his backyard. Probably not our best idea, seeing as I got so dizzy descending the ladder, I fell twelve feet, fractured my arm in two places, and spent the rest of that summer wearing a cast.

  Coincidentally, that was also the last time I ever got high.

  I don’t remember much about the experience — mostly just feeling itchy in my own skin, full of restless ideas but devoid of the energy required to put them into practice.

  Like I said: I’m not what you’d call a druggie.

  But whatever special ingredient Chloe’s bears contain is a whole different caliber. I don’t feel high at all. In fact, I feel so mellow, I could sink down into the floor and disappear.

  Calm. Unflappable. Chill.

  The four hours of dress selection and tailoring pass in a hazy blur of zippers and hats and hemlines and lace-covered buttons. Normally, I’d be self-conscious about standing nearly naked in front of a mirror while three strange women measure every square inch of my body… but with the help of Mr. Bear, I feel fully confident in my size six booty and plentiful C-cups — even standing next to Chloe, whose willowy stature could make a super-model insecure enough to skip lunch.

  As the afternoon wanes on, Octavia grows increasingly annoyed when her snide comments about my “full figure” fail to inspire a response. She switches tactics, harping on the “atrocious orchid color” of my hair in an attempt to provoke me. The expression on her face as I blithely agree to dye it a more discreet brown before the funeral is truly priceless.

  Mr. Bear, today you are my hero.

  Followed closely by Chloe.

  It’s nearly four by the time we’re finally released for the day. The effects of the CBD-infused cub are just starting to wear off. Chloe links her arm with mine as we race out of the parlor, a knowing grin splitting her face.

  “What’s the verdict?”

  “Oh captain, my captain! I’ll never doubt you again.”

  “You’re welcome.” She laughs. “Now, can we please go find something to eat? I’m starving.”

  “I think I have an idea…”

  Ten minutes later, we’re in the Lockwood home theater, lying on twin leather recliners, staring in awe at the fifteen-foot television. It’s set to galaxy mode; a sea of planets and constellations drifting across the screen in a slow parade of shape and color. With the lights dimmed, it’s almost like floating out in space amongst the stars.

  “Oh my god, these cookies are so good,” Chloe moans, biting into another. “Where did you say you got them?”

  “Patricia. Works in the kitchen. Knows her way around a stand mixer.”

  “How is it possible that you’ve been in this family, like, five minutes and the staff already like you more than me? Twenty years living as the Duke of Hightower’s stepdaughter, not once have I gotten homemade cookies hand-delivered to my suite.”

  “As if you eat cookies on a regular basis?” I snort at the thought.

  “Touché.”

  “Hey, can I ask you something sort of random?”

  “Random just so happens to be my favorite kind of question.”

  “Do you remember your life before Octavia married Linus?”

  “Not really. I was only, like, four.” She sighs, thinking back. “Carter remembers more than me — probably to his detriment. He was around eight when they got married.”

  “Why to his detriment?”

  “Let’s just say there’s a reason Carter doesn’t believe in marriage or long-term commitment. Growing up in a house with two parents who hate each other doesn’t exactly inspire faith in monogamy as a lifestyle choice.”

  “What was your dad like? Your biological dad.”

  “Honestly? From what I’ve pieced together, he was kind of a prick. Gambled away most of his trust fund, was stripped of his familial title, and eventually wrapped his car around a tree driving home drunk from the casino one night — leaving Octavia alone with two young kids to raise on her own and zero prospects to support herself.”

  “And yet, somehow, she landed a prince.”

  “I’ll say one thing for my mother: she doesn’t take no for an answer. Ever. Before she married into the Thorne family, she was nobody. The illegitimate daughter of a stripper who seduced a married lord, thinking she’d get her hands on his fortune. Instead, she got Octavia — who, let’s be honest, had to be more of a punishment than a blessing, even as a baby.”

  “Octavia was illegitimate? No fucking way.”

  “It’s true. Why do you think she loathes you so much?” Chloe’s brows lift. “In you, she sees herself.”

  “Um, ouch. Please don’t in
sult me like that.”

  “No, no, I’m not comparing your personalities. I just mean… you represent everything she’s aspired to leave behind. She looks at you and she sees a life she’d rather forget. All the struggle she went through, turning herself from a low-born bastard to a lord’s wife to a widow to a duchess… and now, to arguably the most powerful woman in the country.”

  “Wow.”

  My mind reels. It’s strange to think of Octavia and I having anything in common. Stranger still to think of her at my age — young, vulnerable, desperate. I’d always rather assumed she popped out of the womb wearing that cold, calculating smile of hers.

  “Was Linus a good stepfather?” I ask. I’m not even sure where the question comes from but suddenly… there it is, hanging in the air.

  Chloe’s voice grows thoughtful. “He was, actually — if a little absent. When we were little he traveled a lot, especially after his brother was crowned. King Leopold relied on him greatly as an advisor. I remember long stretches of time without him at Hightower. But when he came back, he’d always have gifts and stories from his trips abroad.” The wistful thread in her voice fades. “Of course, Carter and I spent most of our teenage years at different boarding schools in Switzerland, so we didn’t see much of Germania except at Christmas and for a few weeks every summer.”

  “That sounds…”

  “Glamorous?”

  “I was going to say lonely.”

  She dunks one end of her cookie into a glass of milk. “Welcome to life as a Lancaster. I think lonely is on the royal crest.”

  “Actually, I’m pretty sure it’s a double-headed lion…”

  “Shut up.”

  I grin into the dark. We’re quiet for a moment, just watching the stars spin by.

  “You know,” I murmur. “As crappy as this week has been… I’m happy one good thing came out of it.”

  “You’re talking about the giant-ass tiara they’re going to give you at your coronation, right? You could fund a third world country for an entire year, just using the bottom row of diamonds on that thing. Talk about bling, baby.”

  I shoot her a look. “Actually, I was talking about you. I’ve never really had many female friends. It’s a nice change of pace.”

  “Ew. Don’t get all clingy on me, E. I have commitment issues.”

  “Deal with it, C. And don’t for a minute think I missed that line about me being crowned.” My eyes roll. “You do realize there’s a ninety-nine percent chance I’m going to walk away from all this in a few weeks, right?”

  “No.” She slams her milk glass onto the table with a bang. “I refuse to accept that. You cannot abdicate. If you do… the throne will pass to some distant cousin no one even cares about from the far side of the family tree.”

  “How far?”

  “Far. As in…” She squints, mind churning. “Your grandfather’s younger brother’s daughter’s son.”

  “Hmm. And how exactly do you know this distant cousin wouldn’t make a better leader than me?”

  “I don’t.” She shrugs. “But I can say with at least some degree of confidence that you’re not a complete idiot. God only knows what kind of moron might come crawling out of the woodwork.”

  “How sweet.”

  Her laughter tinkles out in a melodic burst.

  A thought occurs to me. “Will the dreaded cousins be there on Sunday? If so, you’ll have an opportunity to decide — with some degree of confidence — who’d make less of a mess, sitting on the throne.”

  “Probably.” She groans at the prospect. “Everyone and their mother will be there to pay their respects in their finest funeral attire. Should be a positively ghastly affair.”

  “You make it sound like a bad cocktail party, not a memorial service.”

  “Funerals aren’t for the dead, they’re for the living. And, in the case of a royal death, it’s more about the spectacle than anything else. Days of pomp and circumstance, dignitaries flying in from all over the globe… it’s a media circus. Frankly, I’d rather remember my aunt and uncle privately, not on display for the sake of the whole world.”

  “I understand that. When my mom died… I didn’t want to share my grief with anyone else. I held it close to my chest for months. I’m not sure why I did it, except that… maybe I thought I’d be giving away a piece of her, somehow, if I talked about her with other people. Does that make any sense?”

  Chloe glances over at me. “Maybe it’s the gummy bear talking, but yes. It totally does.”

  I smile and begin to reply, but the sudden buzz of my cellphone on the table between us draws my focus. A quick glance at the screen has my mouth pressing into a flat line. I click the side button to send the call to voicemail.

  “Who was it?” Chloe asks, curious.

  I hesitate.

  “Spill, E.”

  “It was Owen.”

  “Ah.” She smirks. “And how is the leader of my personal fan club?”

  “I don’t know. We aren’t speaking, at the moment.”

  And, if your mother gets her way, we’ll never speak again.

  “Looks like he’s speaking to you,” she points out. “Why the deep freeze?”

  “You do remember him being a total boor the other day, correct?”

  “Vaguely.”

  I sigh. “Plus, there’s the small fact your mother came to my room last night and essentially threatened to have him arrested if I ever see him again.”

  “WHAT?”

  I briefly summarize Octavia’s visit to my chambers, leaving out the part about my wall-punch… and the conversation I had with Carter, afterward.

  “Jesus Christ,” Chloe mutters when I’m done. “She really has it out for you.”

  “Any advice?”

  “Honestly? Not really. I wish I could tell you this is an idle threat, but… much as it pains me to admit, it might be better for you — and for him — in the long run if you do what she wants. ”

  My expression falls. “You can’t honestly think I should cut him out of my life. He’s my oldest friend!”

  “I can’t tell you what to do. I can only tell you about my own experience, going up against Octavia.” She grimaces. “In middle school, I made a friend named Kacey. Scholarship kid. Super sweet, dirt poor. We were close… until Octavia decided Kacey’s family wasn’t a quality connection for the stepdaughter of a duke. She told me to end the friendship. I refused.” She pulls in a breath. “A week later, Kacey’s family abruptly moved away. The official story was that her father got an unexpected transfer at his job to a town six hours from Hightower. Unofficially? It was Octavia. ”

  “Let me get this straight. She uprooted an entire family across the country, just to prevent you from being friends with some random girl?”

  “The fact that she’d walked in on me and Kacey making out in my bed the previous week probably didn’t help my case.” Chloe winks at me. “Can you imagine? The perfect Lancaster image, tarnished by a lesbian!?”

  “I’m sorry, Chloe. That’s…” My head shakes. “That’s bullshit. You should be free to be with whoever the hell you want — free to be whoever the hell you want.”

  “Don’t you worry about me. Octavia may not be thrilled that I’m a solid 3 on the Kinsey Scale, but I got my revenge.” Her eyebrows waggle. “Swiss all-girls boarding school, remember?”

  I burst out laughing. After a second, she joins in with me.

  “You know, I should’ve said this earlier…” I clear my throat. “I’m really sorry about the other day. Owen usually isn’t so… combative.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t apologize for him.” She sighs. “And, much as I’d like to hold a grudge, in this case I won’t. Men are idiots when they’re in love.”

  I blink rapidly. “Excuse me?”

  “Oh come on.” She glances over at me. “You can’t pretend you didn’t know.”

  “You’re totally off base, here. There’s no way Owen is in love with me. He’s my—”


  “Best friend. Riiiiiight. Keep telling yourself that.”

  “He is!” I insist. “We’ve never so much as kissed.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “Huh. Well. That still doesn’t change my assessment,” Chloe says stubbornly. “It’s the only explanation for all his macho bullshit: he realized he was about to lose you and he flipped out.”

  “Yes — lose me as a friend.”

  “A friend he wants to bend over and fuck to kingdom come, perhaps.”

  “Chloe!”

  “What? Don’t be such a prude.”

  “I’m definitely not a prude. I just…” I flush. “I don’t like thinking about having sex with Owen. It’s weird.”

  “I’d have sex with him.” She whistles wolfishly. “The boy may be an asshole, but he is fine as hell. I would ride him like an escalator.”

  “Please, spare me the visuals.”

  “Suit yourself.” She chuckles. “So, if blond hotties don’t get your engines revving, who does? What’s your type? Clean-cut? Silver fox? Sporty? Rock god?”

  I mull over the question. The few guys I’ve ever had sex with were all casual college flings — dark, drunken hook-up sessions in narrow dormitory beds, typically over and done with in a few short minutes. I don’t have the nerve to admit to Chloe that I’ve never had an orgasm. Never even come close, actually. And I’m definitely not about to inform her that the only time I’ve ever felt even a hint of the passion I’ve read about in my favorite books was in the backseat of an SUV last Friday night, sitting on her brother’s lap, the rock hard length of his erection making itself unapologetically known against my ass.

  “Come on,” Chloe prompts. “Spill. Who was the last guy that inspired some hot sexual fantasies?”

  With considerable effort, I manage to push Carter’s face to the depths of my psyche.

  “No one. Honestly.”

  “You know, you’re a terrible liar.” Her eyes dance with humor. “Don’t worry. We’ll work on that before you become the crown princess. You’ll need to be able to bluff with the best of them, if you’re going to rule someday.”

  “Chloe! Give it up, already.”

  She just grins at me, totally unapologetic. After a beat, I can’t help grinning back.