ROYAL

by Renshaw, Winter

  Chapter Twelve

  Royal

  “Demi, say something.”

  Everything about her is frozen solid. Her stance. Her expression. Her stare.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She snaps out of it without warning, her glistening eyes blinking like someone flipped a switch. Stomping down the hall, she yanks open a closet door and rifles through it.

  “What are you doing?” I call out.

  Demi won’t answer. Thirty seconds pass, and she comes back with a shiny nine iron gripped in her fist.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” My hands protest, and I back up against the door.

  “This isn’t for you.” She marches past me, rips the door open, and flies outside in nothing more than jeans and a sweater. Her bare feet leave footprints in the light layer of snow that’s begun to fall in the last half hour.

  I step into my boots and run after her. By the time I find her, she’s punching in the code to their three-car garage. An empty stall where his Mercedes once sat holds the spot between a gorgeous, vintage Porsche 911 painted in a glossy shade of Bahia Red and a black on black Range Rover with twenty-inch rims and custom tints.

  “Demi.” I move toward her and quickly veer out of the way when I watch her lift the golf club above her head.

  Whack.

  One swing, and there’s a sizeable dent in the whale tail of the Porsche.

  “Hey, hey . . .” I reach for her arm, but she pulls the club away, taking another swing. And another. And another. “Demi, okay. Enough.”

  In no way am I about to defend Brooks Abbott’s behavior, but I kind of feel bad for that pretty little Porsche taking the brunt. She was innocent in all of this.

  Demi drags the flat, steel club head along the driver door, leaving a deep scratch. I can’t help but mentally calculate the number of man-hours it would take to buff and repaint that kind of damage.

  “Satisfied?” I smirk when she’s all finished.

  Her shoulders rise and fall as she catches her breath.

  “Let’s get you inside, Shoeless Joe Jackson.” I wrap my arm around her shivering shoulders. I’m sure her feet are ice blocks now, but I doubt she feels a damn thing.

  Demi stops and looks down, dropping the golf club. And then she buries her face in her hands.

  “What am I doing?”

  “Come on, don’t worry about it. It’s over. Let’s go in.” My palm rubs circles into her tense shoulder. “I’d have done the same thing.”

  I’m lying. I’d never take shit out on a pretty little car like that, but I’m not about to make Demi feel worse.

  Once inside, I escort her to a sofa next to a fireplace and get the flames going. I wrap her in a blanket the color of clouds and the texture of cashmere, and her shivering begins to subside.

  “You had the right to know,” I say. “You’re by that asshole’s side every day, hoping and praying for a miracle, and . . .”

  “I know.” She pulls the blanket closer to her face, staring ahead at a photo of the two of them on a side table. They’re smiling, her hand on his chest and her engagement ring glinting in the sun.

  “You doing okay?”

  Her eyes move slowly to mine, then back to the engagement photo. She leans forward, slams it face down, then sits back in her seat.

  “I never suspected it. Not once.” She clears her throat, jaw tensed. “That’s what gets me. I’m sitting here, blaming myself for his leaving, thinking if I would’ve fought harder, maybe he wouldn’t be fighting for his life. And that asshole . . . that asshole was screwing someone else all this time? How did I not know?”

  “He clearly didn’t want you to find out.”

  “How’d you find out?” She looks my way, brows furrowed.

  “I live in Glidden,” I say. “Saw him running around with a girl who was definitely not you.”

  I won’t go into specifics with her.

  “Wait. You live in Glidden?” Her eyes narrow.

  I nod.

  “For how long?”

  I push a breath through whistling lips. “Shit. I don’t know. A few years?”

  “So all this time, you’ve been living fifteen minutes away from me?”

  My palm rubs my thigh. “Not the entire time, but yeah.”

  Demi leans against the arm of the couch, her hand wrapped around her forehead. “I’m sorry. This is just a lot to process. Feels like an alternate universe or something.”

  I know exactly how it feels to be coasting along and lose your footing the moment the rug is swept out.

  The gas fireplace flickers against a fake wooden log, casting warm shades of amber and gold around us, and we sit in silence.

  For a tiny sliver of a moment, I’m flooded with warmth, and it’s not from the fire. My chest fills, expanding, and the sensation runs through me, reaching my fingers and toes.

  It’s a feeling I’ve only known in a lifetime that doesn’t exist anymore.

  Home.

  Being with Demi feels like home.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Royal

  I wake with a stiff neck, the hint of a sunrise peeking through the picture window across the room. Demi’s fire’s still going strong and she’s out cold, her head on my shoulder.

  Carefully maneuvering myself up, I prop her against some throw pillows and cover her feet with the rest of the blanket.

  Half an hour later, I’m finished shoveling her driveway when she walks out to the front porch in a robe and slippers, a white mug of coffee in her hands.

  “Thought you could use this.” She brings it to me and then re-wraps her robe and ties it tight.

  I take a sip of the best damn coffee I’ve ever had as we stand and lock gazes.

  “Sorry about last night. For freaking out.” Demi tucks her shivering fingers under her arms as the wind blows her robe open. “You must think I’m mental.”

  My lips purse. “Nah. I don’t think that about you.”

  “Either way, I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  She’s such a fucking Rosewood. Always apologizing, even when not necessary. Always letting her manners get the best of her.

  “Don’t apologize to me,” I say. “Apologize to that pretty little Porsche who got the shit beat out of her last night.”

  Demi rolls her eyes.

  “How messed up am I, that I beat up the car of a dying man?” she asks.

  “Dying’s a strong word. We don’t know that he’s dying,” I say. “And look, I can fix it for you. For free. In my spare time. By the time the douchebag wakes up, he won’t have a clue. It’ll be our little secret.”

  She laughs. It’s good to see her smile.

  I finish the coffee and hand her the mug. “Gotta go home and get ready for work.”

  Demi palms the coffee cup and nods. For the first time in days, she looks at me like she might not actually hate me. Her posture is more relaxed, and her gaze is more tender.

  “I’m bringing you dinner tonight.” I fish my keys from my pocket.

  She rolls her eyes.

  “Taking that as a yes . . .”

  I wait for her to go inside before driving away. I’ll be back tonight, and tomorrow night, and the next night.

  I’ll be by her side every damn day for the rest of her life, making everything up to her. Being the man she deserves—the one who’ll never leave.

  This time.

  This time I’m here to stay.

  Unless she wants me to leave.

  And that could very well happen.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Demi

  The machine breathes for him.

  And all I can think about is that damn ice cream cake.

  And all those other times he showed up with a little trinket just because. A locket here. A rented chick flick there. Surprise date night. A bottle of my favorite wine. A box of chocolates—sugar-free, of course, since we had to stay in shape for the wedding.

  Were those guilt gifts? Things he bought to make himself
feel better about his dirty little secret?

  The machine is loud. Constant. Steady.

  Like my thoughts.

  The swelling around Brooks’s eyes has started to go down. His purple bruises are fading to putrid shades of green and yellow. He’s almost recognizable now. He doesn’t look as though he’s fading away anymore.

  Brooks’s hands rest at his sides, perfectly placed into position by some nurse, I’m sure. The thought of holding them again makes my stomach twist. Those hands—the ones I’ve loved and cherished and kissed and forgiven more times than I probably should have—have been all over someone else. I imagine them knotted, twisted in the hair of some cherry-lipped girl with legs for days and a penchant for kinky sex.

  I never did let him stick it in my ass, despite his many attempts.

  My stare rests on the pink scar on his left hand. It’s an old one that’s been there since our senior year at Hargrove. Brooks took me on a scavenger hunt for my twenty-first birthday, and one of the envelopes was tucked deep into a thicket of bushes. I couldn’t find it, so he stuck his arm in there only to find himself bitten by a sharp-toothed rodent. It was dark, and the thing scurried away before we got a good look at it.

  I’ve kissed that scar a hundred times. I’ve kissed his lips thousands. Each time was for naught.

  He’s nothing but a con artist.

  A self-centered, egotistical asshole.

  “Demi.” I recognize my mother’s voice from the doorway of Brooks’s room.

  “Hey, Mom.” I’m grateful for an excuse to leave his side. “Dad.”

  Dad stands behind Mom, removing his fedora and draping his khaki trench coat over one arm.

  “We were here last night. Guess we missed you,” Dad says.

  Mom runs her hand along my cheek, cupping my face and giving me those sad, sympathetic ‘Mom eyes’ before pulling me in tight. I inhale the scent of my childhood home. Cinnamon, sugar cookies, Tide, lemon Pledge, and warmth. Pure nostalgia, with a side of comfort.

  “How’re you hanging in there, Demetria?” Dad asks. He only calls me by my given name in grave situations, as if “Demi” is too informal.

  “One day at a time.” That seems to be my standard response these days.

  Mom releases me and glances over my shoulder toward Brooks.

  “I just can’t believe it.” She sighs. “Our sweet Brooks. He’s always the life of the party. So lively and energetic. To see him like this . . . it’s . . . it’s just wrong.”

  She takes his side, slipping her hand into his and tracing her thumb along his old scar.

  “Never should’ve happened,” she says. “He didn’t deserve it.”

  My parents haven’t asked where he was going or why he was on the highway at nine o’clock on a Tuesday night. Alone. Not even my father, a prominent prosecutor with an obsession with detail and facts.

  I think they’re afraid to make a wrong move around me, as if all it would take is one question to send me over the edge again.

  If only they knew.

  “Derek’s on his way,” Dad says. “He was finishing up at the office and then swinging over to grab Haven. It’s his weekend.”

  My heart swells at the thought of seeing my three-year-old niece. I want to sweep her up in my arms and bury my face in her silky blonde hair. Nothing’s better in this world than looking into the eyes of that little angel and feeling the tight squeeze of her arms around my neck.

  God, I love kids.

  I miss my kindergarteners too. All twenty-eight of them. I’ve got such a great class this year, and half of them were assigned to me at their parents’ request. Supposedly, I have a great reputation in the school district, and it’s only my third year in.

  Dad stands at the foot of Brooks’s bed, his jaw set and his eyes focused, as if he’s silently willing him to wake.

  “Where’s Brenda?” he asks.

  I shrug. “She comes and goes.”

  Mom laughs, halfway rolling her eyes. “That woman can’t sit still for two seconds. God love her.”

  “How’s she taking everything?” Dad pushes the sleeves of his navy sweater up to his elbows before folding his arms.

  “She’s Brenda. She’s handling it in her own special way.” I leave out the Pinterest board.

  “I saw something online about a fundraiser she’s organizing?” Mom turns to me, her brows furrowed. “How she has time to organize one is beyond me, and the whole town knows they don’t need the money.”

  Her voice is barely audible.

  “Bliss,” Dad says.

  “It’s her sister,” I say. “Her sister is organizing it.”

  “Either way, it’s at the First Methodist Church next weekend,” she says. “They’re having a charity auction and something like two thousand people have already RSVP’d. The whole community’s rooting for Brooks to pull through.”

  Maybe because half the retirement accounts in this town were built up by his father and grandfather over the last hundred years. Abbott Investments has made blue collar factory workers into bona fide millionaires. They’re loaded. Jack Abbott is known for his generosity. Rumor has it that his ninety-year-old, homebound father has a will a mile long, and everyone’s hopeful for a piece of the pie when he eventually passes.

  It’s looking like that’ll be soon.

  Or maybe they do actually care about the Abbotts. It’s hard to tell. People are so fucking fake these days.

  And full of secrets.

  And lies.

  Saying one thing, doing another.

  “I’m here, I’m here.” Delilah bursts into the room, a Styrofoam coffee cup in hand. “Sorry. Had to email my professor my paper, and the Wi-Fi wasn’t working at home. Did you guys change the password? Had to stop at a coffee shop and steal theirs.”

  My sister pulls up a seat next to my mother, placing her hand on the edge of his bed.

  “I hate seeing him like this,” she says to Mom. “So weak. And fragile.”

  “And quiet,” Mom says with a laugh.

  “He’s going to wake up, I just know it.” Delilah nibbles on a thumbnail.

  “How’s old Jack Abbott taking this?” Dad clears his throat, turning toward me.

  “I don’t think he knows what’s going on half the time,” I say. “I’m sure Brenda’s told him, but he’s usually pretty out of it.”

  Last time I was over, Jack seemed coherent enough to join us for dinner. Ten minutes into our catered, coq au vin feast, he grabbed my ass, called me Bren-Bren, and asked me when I got the new jugs. Brenda turned a deep shade of red and called his nurse to come get him.

  That was months ago, and I haven’t seen Brooks’s father since.

  A quick knock on the door, followed by my niece yelling, “Nana! Papa!” steals all of our attention from Brooks.

  “Hey, Monkey.” Dad scoops Haven into his arms. “How’s my favorite troublemaker?”

  Haven’s white-blonde hair falls in her face, but it doesn’t hide her ear-to-ear grin. She lunges for my mom next, nearly falling out of my dad’s arms. Mom catches her and gives her a squeeze. We all miss her since The Bitch won primary custody last year. It was a bullshit move, and between my dad and Derek, it never should’ve happened, but the judge assigned to their case was notorious for siding with mothers.

  “I’m so sorry.” A sweet nurse in pink scrubs walks in, hands clasped in a prayer position. “We typically don’t allow small children on this floor, and there’s a limit of three guests at a time in these rooms.”

  “Of course,” Dad says.

  “I’ll take her,” I offer before anyone else. I’d rather spend a little time with Haven than sit around Brooks’s room pretending to be devastated while simultaneously resenting him.

  I scoop her out of Mom’s lap, and she wraps her legs around my hip. She smells like Play-Doh and strawberry shampoo.

  “I’ll come.” Delilah follows.

  We leave Brooks’s floor and head out to an empty lobby where a TV plays The Price Is
Right on mute with the closed caption running. An assortment of Highlights magazines are splayed neatly on a nearby table, and a corner houses a child-sized table and chair set and a shelf of half-broken, well-loved toys.

  It doesn’t take but two seconds for Haven to spot the kiddie corner. She shimmies down my leg and makes a mad dash.

  “Apparently, toys are way more fun than the two coolest aunts in the world.” Delilah smirks.

  “Someday, she’ll get her priorities straight.”

  We take a seat next to Haven. I’m sure we look ridiculous sitting in these tiny chairs, but no one’s around to see it, so it doesn’t matter. A tin can full of broken crayons and a small stack of coloring books call to us.

  “You wanna?” Delilah points.

  I nod. “Duh.”

  Haven plays with two naked Barbies and a handful of matchbox cars, and we color.

  “I know you’re probably getting sick of people asking, but—”

  My hand flies up. “I’m fine, Delilah. I’ll let you know if I need anything. Can we talk about something other than Brooks right now? ‘Cause if there’s anything I need, it’s a break from talking about Brooks.”

  “Fine.” She grabs a nubby yellow Crayola and shades the tail of a triceratops.

  “Dinosaurs aren’t yellow.” Haven sticks a chubby hand on her hip and furrows her brow.

  “What color do you want me to use?” My sister plunks the crayon back in the tin.

  “Blue,” Haven says. “Like your eyes.”

  “Your eyes too,” I say.

  “You too, Aunt Demi.” Haven grins. “We all have the same eyes.”

  “We do,” I say.

  Delilah fishes around for a usable crayon in the most appropriate shade of pale blue and pulls out periwinkle instead.

  “Close enough.” She scribbles.

  “How’s school going?”

  “Talk about annoying questions.” She laughs. “People act like if you’re in school, that it’s the only thing going on in your life.”