Royally Hung

by Marsh, Anne

  Where Lilah is soft, Rima is hard. She’s a dentist who was married to an attorney for twelve extremely unhappy months. It took five years after they split for their divorce to finalize, a breakup that cost more than some nations’ GDP. Her black hair is slicked back into a ruthless if elegant figure eight and her makeup is perfect. She claims a good mascara is better than armor any day.

  Lilah holds up a bag of In-N-Out. “We come in peace.”

  “Gimme.” I reach for the bag. There’s no better hangover cure on the face of the planet. If only there was a cure for princes. I dive into the bag and grab a burger. Mmmmmm. Grilled onions, cheese, and more sodium than a salt lick for deer.

  Rima adjusts the sunhat protecting her from skin cancer or errant pigeons, and nudges me with her hip. “Scoot.”

  The lounger where I’m currently parked is one of those big, round circle numbers—there’s room for a half dozen more guests. It’s very popular when my stepmother hosts her monthly pool party.

  “Spill.” Lilah waves a fry in my direction. “Did you finally get really and truly laid?”

  I shove a fry in my mouth and chew furiously. Good manners are important. I can’t be expected to talk with my mouth full.

  “You did.” She claps her hands. “We need details.”

  Rima snatches my phone out of my hand. “What are we watching? Ooooh. Hot Prince. Good call.”

  Lilah practically vibrates in place. “Was last night’s guy as cute? Did he sweep you off your feet?”

  “Actually, yes. And yes.”

  I have a distinct memory of Dare carrying me places so that definitely counts as sweeping, right?

  Rima angles my phone for a better view of Dare. Even on my phone’s minuscule real estate, he’s hard to ignore. “This hot? Impossible.”

  “Actually—” I clear my throat. “Yes. Exactly that hot.”

  Rima leans forward like a pointer scenting prey. “The gossip sites are claiming Prince Dare got married last night. Are you saying he cheated on his new bride with you?”

  “I said I slept with him, not that I had sex with him.” Yes, I’m splitting hairs. Sue me. “And I may possibly have gotten married last night. To Dare.”

  I silently hold up my left hand. The one I’ve been hiding, first underneath a towel and then behind my burger. The one wearing a crap ton of priceless diamonds because I forgot they were there when I ninja’d out of Dare’s hotel room this morning. I’m expecting either the National Guard or a SWAT team to come busting in here at any moment and repossess them.

  Not so surprisingly, the rings Dare picked out for me are stunning—in the way the Vegas lights are positively stunning when viewed from outer space. You have to ask yourself how it’s possible for anything to shine that much or that far.

  Lilah squees, but Rima is more skeptical. “Are they real?”

  “Tiffany’s,” I say dryly. “They opened the place up for him at two a.m. I don’t think they sell paste.”

  “Of course not,” she says at the same moment Lilah asks, “Can I try them on? Because I bet they’re worth a hundred thousand dollars and I’ll never have another chance to wear a small fortune.”

  “Be my guest.” I tug on the rings.

  They don’t budge.

  That’s a problem.

  I turn to Lilah. “I have to give these back.”

  “He’s a bit of a player, isn’t he?” Rima ignores my jewelry dilemma in favor of glaring at her phone. She’s still getting over that bad divorce, so anyone with a penis is high on her doubt-and-give-shit-to list. Still, I look over her shoulder and my stupid, stupid heart sinks.

  Huh.

  I don’t think he intended to pose for this particular shot. He’s sprawled on a bed that could be in Vegas or any high-end resort. The lighting’s poor, making me suspect someone grabbed a cell phone quickie, but the composition . . . Wow. Dare’s naked except for a pair of dress socks. He should look ridiculous, but he doesn’t. He looks luscious. Entirely edible. Lickable. In fact, he’s got one of the best and biggest packages I’ve ever seen. And yes, I’m staring, wondering why the heck I didn’t insist on a wedding night.

  I mean, it’s not as if he’d have noticed one more girl. The man has given more rides than a used bike at Goodwill. He must have about a million miles—or pussies—on him.

  Oops.

  Did I say that out loud?

  Apparently I did because Rima nudges me with her shoulder. “That means he knows what to do with his dick.”

  I take a second look at the picture.

  Yes, yes, he does.

  His body is like a walking billboard for sex. He radiates confidence and my erogenous zones perk right up. If there weren’t witnesses to my shame, I’d save this picture to my phone and make it tonight’s spank bank material. Mentally, I try to memorize the URL or at least remember my search string.

  The all-knowing Internet is happy to share the nuts and bolts of his pedigree with me as well the size and dimensions of his royal penis. He comes from a long line of princes who seem to split their time between holing up in some very gorgeous but rather hostile mountains and raiding neighboring countries. His uncle currently holds the throne, but has produced no heirs. That means that the title will descend to Dare’s side of the family. Which consists of Dare’s older brother, Prince Nikoloz, and a younger brother, Luca, who seems to be somewhat of a mystery man as far as the press is concerned. Apparently, Luca sightings make the Yeti and Big Foot seem like domestic cat sightings.

  Oh. And the whole family has more money than God. Not only has Vale been singularly blessed in the natural resources department (Lilah sighs audibly when we get to the pictures of some particularly spectacular diamonds from their mines), but they’re all geniuses in the financial investing world. Hotels, businesses, racehorses, swanky real estate deals . . . these princes have it going on. Even Dare, Mr. Playboy Prince, has earned pots and pots of cash by backing select startups.

  His latest deal to IPO successfully is a dating app where you score a date based on whether or not you have the same choices in entrees, dinner drinks, music, sex positions, and lingerie. Your answers are fed through some top-secret algorithm and then you get a name and a phone number of your perfect screw.

  Yes. Take a moment to think about that.

  Dare’s not interested in backing happily-ever-after or any kind of relationship that lasts longer than a dinner date and a quick bang. And so many other guys agree with him that he’s earned a fortune for it. This guy is so far out of my league that it’s not funny.

  Feeling wistful is stupid. Perhaps I’ve just a bad case of buyer’s remorse? I mean, let’s review. One, I knew he was a prince. Two, I knew he had the means to rent out the penthouse at the Royal Palace Resort and Casino. Three, he took me on a Pretty Woman shopping spree and I’m pretty sure the rings on my hand are the real deal. Since, you know, Tiffany’s doesn’t do fakes.

  “Are you sure things are over?”

  Lilah looks at me hopefully. She’s always been an optimist—and she always dresses up as a Disney princess for Halloween. Fairy-tale happy endings are her catnip.

  “Do I look like princess material to you? Yes, we’re over.”

  “Did he say why he really married you?” Rima doesn’t believe in happily-ever-after. It took so long to finalize her divorce because, in her words, she made the mistake of marrying an attorney. So she isn’t in such a rush to see me made into a permanent Mrs.

  “I haven’t a clue.” Although I suspect I’m the punch line to a private joke.

  Lilah shakes her head. “I’m sure he had Reasons.”

  Do you hear the capital R, too? Lilah likes to believe the best about everybody. I’m not as cynical as Rima, but I’m pretty sure marrying me wasn’t the magic key to world peace.

  Rima stabs a finger in Lilah’s direction. “Name one.” />
  “Maybe he needed a secret baby?” Lilah sounds a little tentative as she suggests that one.

  I one-up her in the spirit of solidarity. “A marriage clause in his parents’ will that will force him to forsake his fortune if he doesn’t marry by his next birthday . . . a birthday that’s tomorrow.”

  “Good one.” Rima nods approvingly. Since her divorce cleaned out her checking account, she’s a big fan of the financial side hustle.

  We take turns naming increasingly unlikely reasons for Dare to have put a ring on it with me. Somewhere around the suggestion that my magic vagina will cure an unnamed ill with his royal willy, we lose it and burst into laughter. God, it feels good to laugh.

  And then it’s just logical to look online and see which of our guesses might be closest to the truth. Or maybe we’re just nosy. His nosy soon-to-be-ex-wife of convenience. Great.

  Somehow, I’m not surprised when we find the articles about his parents. I’m not sure how we overlooked them because the news—and the pictures—is everywhere. His parents were flying to some big charity shindig when their helicopter crashed into a mountain, killing everyone aboard. There are pictures of the smoking wreckage and even more pictures of somber-faced Valeians carrying away multiple body bags. There’s no way Dare hasn’t seen these, and I can’t imagine how he felt. Not only knowing that the unthinkable had happened and he’d lost most of his family, but seeing the photographic evidence of it.

  No wonder he hates photographers so much.

  Chapter Ten

  Dare

  Queenie must have me on speed dial. He fires off a text approximately every ten minutes—and follows each scathing indictment of my intelligence up with another phone call.

  Fuck it.

  I ignore him

  This isn’t my wisest move, as he’s not above pulling the royal card and sending the army after me next. What he hasn’t considered is my past. I served three years in Vale’s army, and I’ve drunk the better half of Vale’s soldiers under the table. Better yet, I’ve had their backs. I’ve pulled the trigger, covered their asses, and they like me. They’ll cut me some slack.

  So instead of behaving myself like a good little prince, I go after Edee. One advantage of being a prince is that I have a shit ton of money at my disposal. My bodyguards also have various talents in the field of espionage, so it doesn’t take too long to track her down. Before she’s been gone more than a handful of hours, I’m in full possession of her employment history, her credit history, and her driver’s license. I’ve also got a handful of clippings about her father’s unexpected death; these are all accompanied by pictures of a stunningly beautiful, icy-cold woman who is labeled the grieving widow.

  According to my intel, Edee’s just stepped into an inexpensive Mexican restaurant with two girlfriends. I hightail it over there. I am both shocked and impressed at the speed with which Mr. Right finesses us a helicopter. You think I’d avoid helicopters at all costs after what happened to my parents? Think again. I learned to fly those birds better and faster than anyone in Vale. I still argue with Mr. Right for a few minutes over who’s going to fly us, but I give in when he points out that I don’t have a valid pilot’s license in the States and getting my ass deservedly arrested will considerably slow down my reunion plans.

  So I shut up, grab the headset the licensed pilot offers, and swing into the shotgun seat. Mr. Right can suck it up and ride in the back. We achieve liftoff mere minutes later, Vegas falling away beneath us. The summer sun won’t set for hours yet, but already the Strip is a cheerful blaze of lights and neon. Mr. Right’s briefed the pilot, so I don’t have to make small talk or even explain where we’re going. My reflection in the chopper door is looking a little rough; stubble darkens my jaw and my face is tight. Probably should have dressed up, too, but I save the suits for state occasions.

  Edee turns out to live in one of the many bedroom communities sprawled outside of Vegas. Her neighborhood is dotted with minimansions, tiny castle wannabes. Of course it is. They’re the home owner equivalent of dick envy. Me? My castle is huge, a point I fully intend to make to Edee.

  Mr. Right finally breaks his disapproving silence, speaking into the headset to inform me that we’re about to fly over Edee’s house. Or rather, what was her house. According to the crap ton of county filings that someone’s gone through on my behalf, when her father died intestate, the house passed to her stepmother. Edee now lives in the pool house, a tiny, well-landscaped speck behind the faux lagoon that occupies most of the yard. I can offer her so much more.

  I signal for the pilot to make one more pass, and give serious consideration to mooning Edee’s stepmother. I’m pretty sure Edee doesn’t like her, so I’d be doing my wife a favor. On the other hand, why treat her to the sight of my spectacular ass? Or my spectacular ass accidentally falling out of the chopper to land on her artificially green grass? I’ve gotten drunk and cross-dressed, licked a few friends publicly, and hit more than one paparazzi. Do I really need to add another ridiculous stunt to my oh-so-public repertoire?

  No. No, I do not. This new, mature me knows it’s time to move.

  The Mexican restaurant is a nice-looking cantina about three miles away. Too far to drunk-stumble home, but I’m certain Edee has a plan for that eventuality. In fact, the one thing I’m betting she hasn’t planned for is me crashing her party. I improvise while the pilot sets us down in a vacant lot. Honestly, not much is required from me. A car service is waiting for us because Mr. Right is also a smooth planner. That, or he doesn’t want to have to explain losing or killing me to my uncle.

  Two minutes later we’re pulling up in front of La Salsa. It’s the kind of place I’d have picked—nothing pretentious, just what looks like good, alcoholic fun. In addition to the pink bougainvillea crawling up the stucco front, there’s a faux cactus, and a whole lot of red, green, and yellow. It’s like a box of primary colors vomited all over the place. I’ll bet the tacos are served in a plastic basket and the waiters keep the killer margaritas coming. It’s perfect Friday night fodder.

  The hostess intercepts me at the door with a flirtatious smile. Please. Don’t tell me I shouldn’t notice. She lights up like the Eiffel Tower at midnight—so there’s no missing her interest. Just in case I’m blind, however, she rubs her tits on my arm before I can sidestep. Edee may have kicked me to the curb, but I’m taken. I give her the royal stare and look over her head for my Edee.

  It’s not hard to find her. She’s not even trying to hide—she’s parked at a highly visible corner table. Did I think she’d drown her sorrows alone? Not Edee. Introverted and peace-loving she may be, but she’s got two wingwomen with her—a blonde beauty waving a tortilla chip to emphasize some point she’s making and another woman with dark hair who belly laughs and knocks back a good inch of neon pink margarita.

  I saunter across the slightly sticky floor to join them, ignoring the curious looks the restaurant’s other patrons shoot my way. Let them look. I’ve never minded an audience.

  Edee has her back to me, which gives me an advantage. Her friends’ faces are a giveaway, but fortunately Edee’s so involved in her story—which she punctuates with frequent waves of her hand and finger stabbing—that she fails to notice their shock and awe. I’m a handsome bastard, and they’re suitably impressed. You think I’m cocky? What I am is a prince, good-looking, and in possession of a real fucking huge fortune. Everything else is just a bonus.

  “Ladies.” I curl my hand around Edee’s neck and go for the kill shot. I pet her skin. Nothing obscene, nothing the paparazzi will roast me for, but I need to touch her.

  I should have waited until she wasn’t holding the pitcher because Edee jumps. Margarita sprays everywhere and it’s fucking icy where it hits on my crotch. Edee’s friends stare at the big, pink inkblot painted across my dick like a sexed-up version of that Rorschach test.

  “Crap.” Edee squeezes her eyes shut tigh
t as if she can somehow ignore or rewind time if she tries hard enough. I’ve lived through enough moments—painful and embarrassing—that I know it doesn’t work. We’ve already established that I’m a bit of a wild child. I’ve hung with rappers, dated a porn star, and been photographed starkers (not with the porn star).

  “If you want to lick me, all you have to do is ask, Edee.”

  Her eyes fly open and she stares at me. “God.”

  “Only in some countries.” I wink at her and consider my seating options. They’re limited. The banquette’s not big, and any real estate not occupied by Edee and her ladies is filled with purses. Pretty sure they’re toting two apiece and all of them are carry-on size.

  “Sorry about—” She turns the cutest shade of pink and waggles a finger up and down my front. It’s like catnip for my dick and my mouth.

  “You don’t want me naked?” Edee’s friends are glued to our exchange, like we’re playing sexy naked tennis at Wimbledon. Which I’d totally be up for. If I ever become king of Vale, my first royal act will be to install a tennis court on the royal palace’s front lawn. Everyone will be invited to play.

  “No.”

  She couldn’t wait to answer, could she? I smell a distraction.

  “Liar.” I shrug off my jacket. Fortunately, the margarita bomb missed the leather. The T-shirt underneath is a different story. I haul it over my head and drop it on the floor. I give Edee a moment to appreciate my naked glory.

  “Cover up.” She flaps her hands in my direction, but I can’t help but notice she’s staring. She totally likes what I’ve got for her.