by Susan Stoker
Bad Boys & Bourbon by Alta Hensley
Chapter One
Cheri
The sunlight of a new day has a way of changing how you once viewed something the night before in the darkness. This could be a good thing when you fall asleep feeling as if the whole world is crumbling down upon you, but then the morning brings new hope and a fresh perspective. Or this could be a bad thing when you meet a man in a bar, think he is the sexiest thing you ever laid eyes on, bring him home for a night of incredible but casual sex, and then look over and realize that the sunlight is not your, or his, friend.
Shit. When would I learn that two margaritas, followed by too many tequila shots, would make any man hot in a small Costa Rican dive bar? Sure, he was a tan, lean surfer, still sandy and damp from the salty water of the sea. Sure, he wore a man bun, which for the life of me I could never figure out why I found that attractive, but I did. Sure, he seemed to have the free spirit gypsy soul I found so enticing in a person. The type of man who traveled from one adventure spot to the next, never taking root in any one town for long. And yes, I melted into a pool of goo when he said my name with that thick accent that I simply called ‘European,’ because I never could figure out which country these surfer boys came from. Yes, my panties dropped for men like that.
Vagabonds. I liked to fuck vagabonds.
Was my situation helped by the fact that, in my alcohol-induced haze, I’d told the man I wanted to lick his nipple?
Well I did.
I own it.
Should I have tried to examine his appearance closer, past the shadows of the local hangout, and through the blurry booze goggles? Glancing over my shoulder at the man snoring lightly in my bed, I knew the answer was a big hell yes.
What had I been thinking? Where was his sexy man bun now? All I saw in the light of day was greasy, unwashed hair. Where was his muscled chest that I’d so desperately wanted to bathe with my tongue the night before? The man in my bed now looked thin, borderline emaciated, and in need of a meal that wasn’t vegan and organic.
The poor guy needed a damn cheeseburger.
But vagabonds who wore man buns and surfed in Costa Rica didn’t eat burgers. It was some unspoken rule—the vagabond rule.
I looked at that pec I’d so hungered for the night before and cringed when I saw the ingrown hair bumps circling his nipple. Really? Really! My tongue caressed that plucked-feather flesh last night?
Reaching down for my crumpled panties on the tiled floor, I shook my head in disgust. The purple lace of my underwear contrasting with the decorative Spanish clay tiles reminded me that I was in a foreign exotic location, yet making the same foolish mistakes of my past. I should have known better when he’d compared my hair to the golden rays of the sun, and my eyes to the blue of the sky. He’d actually said the thick curls in my long hair reminded him of the ribbons on a holiday present. The man had no game. But I’d stupidly wanted to lick his damn nipple and had been willing to overlook the fact that he seemed in awe of my every move—the creeper, stalker type of awe that should have sent any sane girl running.
But sane girls don’t do tequila shots with strangers in random bars in Costa Rica all alone. No, I was far from a sane girl.
So, now the time had come when I had to decide if I was going to be a bitch and simply kick him out, which is what I really wanted to do. Or if I would just give him some bullshit answer that would spare his feelings. I knew all I had to do was give him some line about needing to go write poetry under a palm tree while eating mangos or something bohemian in nature. Then he would feel like he was aiding my artistic soul and gladly go on his way, assured he was part of my enlightenment. Total bullshit, but I knew it would work.
Glancing at the man in my bed, I wondered why I was so disgusted. He hadn’t even opened his mouth yet, and I was already condemning him as a shallow-minded hipster. Poor guy. But the fact remained that I still wanted him out of my small bungalow, and I wanted it to happen now.
Pulling a simple black tank top over my head, and then yanking up a pair of loose-fitting denim shorts, I leaned down and shook his arm. “Hey.” I shook him again with more force when he didn’t even budge in the slightest. “Hey, it’s time to wake up.”
Rolling over to his side, he reached for my hand. “Why the hurry?” he mumbled, not really opening his eyes as he tried to pull me into bed with him.
“I need to go.” Here came the bullshit. “The waves are great this morning, and I really want to wake up with the ocean.”
He stretched his arms above his head and yawned so big I could see that each one of his molars had a silver cap on them. His tongue was white. The man needed to brush his teeth in the worst way. “Okay, give me a second, and I’ll go with you. I’m always up for a good surf.”
I walked over to a small wicker desk in the corner of the room, pulled a notebook and pen off of it and placed them near my brown leather bag that rested on a chair by the door for effect. “Oh, I don’t want to surf. I need to work on my writing.”
The last part really wasn’t a lie. I hadn’t turned out a short story, an article, a poem or anything since arriving in Costa Rica. Being a freelance writer sure did have its perks when it came to freedom and flexibility, but it required a lot of discipline to be able to actually feed yourself. Discipline was not something I had, although fortunately for me, I had somehow won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry earlier in the year, and the $15,000 award helped float my dry spell.
“You write?” he asked, still not getting out of the bed. “That’s cool.”
I nodded. “Yeah, sometimes.” I walked to the small bathroom and attempted to tame my curly locks by pulling them into a sloppy bun. “But I really need to get going.” I peered out of the corner of my eye as I applied deodorant and then reached for my toothbrush. “I don’t mean to rush you or anything, but you know how it is. When inspiration calls…”
Continuing on with my morning hygiene duties and brushing my teeth, I sighed with relief when he finally flung his legs over the bed and rubbed his face. He was taking his sweet ass time, but at least he was moving.
“Yeah, I get it. I write songs.”
I simply raised my eyebrows in feigned fascination and nodded like we had some deep connection. Satisfied, however, that he was at least moving to put on his pants, I just brushed away to allow the sudsy toothpaste dripping from my mouth to be my excuse for not asking about his song writing. I couldn’t care less, which was awful. But I really didn’t give a damn whether he wrote, or sang, or painted, or spoke philosophy, or considered himself a gourmet chef all because he could cook paella. I was so over that type of man… well, at least in the sunlight and when sober. Mr. Tequila unfortunately changed everything.
Reaching for his shirt, he said, “Well, I had a really great time with you last night, Cherry.”
“Cheri.”
“What?”
“My name is Cheri—the ‘sh’ at the beginning. Not Cherry.” Not that I cared that he didn’t know my name. I had no idea what his name was nor did I bother to ask.
“Oh, sorry. I thought you said your name was Cherry like the fruit. So, like the drink Sherry. Got it. My grandmother loved drinking that shit.”
Lovely. Like I gave a fuck about his family.
I sighed. “So I really need to get going. Maybe I’ll catch—”
There was a knock on the door, breaking my annoyance. Having no clue who could even be at my door, I walked slowly across the room and opened it cautiously without bothering to ask who it was. If this was a robbery, my hipster fuck buddy wasn’t going to be much help in protecting my ass, so my safety was all on me.
Peeking around the wood, with my heart beating due to my overactive imagination, I saw the man who should have made me slam the door in his face right then and there. But I didn’t. My fucking past was paying me a visit. A robbery would have been better. Fuck me. A hipster, a hangover, and The Past knocking on my door. Could my morning get any shittier?
“S
ilas Roope,” I began as I opened the door so I could see the man I hadn’t laid eyes on in at least five or six years. I curtseyed. “Why am I so fortunate to have the gracious Mr. Roope flying across the world to see me? I trust your travels were not arduous.”
If he picked up on my sarcasm, he ignored it. Silas simply walked past me and into the room with a level of sophistication and arrogance that only he could pull off. He still wore the gray three-pieced suit I always remembered him wearing. It always matched his gray hair, though, after all these years, he did have less of it—the hair I mean. His black shoes were polished to perfection, and his slacks were pressed impeccably. Not that I expected anything less from the trusted advisor of King Paul IV and his royal sons.
Silas studied my vagabond man as the poor fella quickly got his stuff together so he could leave the aristocratic energy. Not that I blamed him one bit. I wanted to flee myself.
“I see you have company, Cherise,” Silas said with his nose pointed upwards as if there were a pungent odor in the room.
“Cheri, Silas. You know I go by Cheri,” I corrected, irritated that the man still insisted on calling me by that god awful name my mother thought had sounded regal. “And why are you here?”
“My apologies. I had hoped that you had outgrown that childish nickname. I see that you may have not outgrown many things.” He clasped his hands in front of him as he scowled at my guest. “Prince Roman has sent for you. I am here to bring you to him.”
Prince Roman… shit.
The man from last night stared at me in disbelief. “Are you a princess or something?”
I rolled my eyes as Silas said, “Hardly.”
“No, I’m not. But I do need to be alone with my unexpected visitor if you don’t mind.”
“Yeah, sure. No problem,” the man said as Silas turned and examined Mr. Tequila Man as he rushed out of my bungalow without saying another word or even acknowledging the fact that we had just fucked last night. Not that I minded that I had finally gotten rid of vagabond man.
“Interesting company you surround yourself with,” Silas said in that judgmental tone that made me want to rip his eyebrow hairs out one by one. “I see some things haven’t changed. You really are above all this nonsense, Cherise.”
I smirked and crossed my arms. “I see some things haven’t changed for you either. You’re still the same pompous ass you always were.”
Silas’s jaw locked. “Say what you will, Cherise, but we have very little time to chit chat. I have the pilot waiting for us to depart immediately. Prince Roman is in Monaco right now, and I hope to deliver you soon and not keep him waiting long.”
I laughed. “Dementia must have taken hold in your old age, sir. I’m not going anywhere with you, and I don’t give a fuck about where Roman is.”
Monaco. He was back in Monaco…
“I figured you wouldn’t. So much so, that I took necessary steps to assure that you would indeed be traveling with me today.”
I sighed, growing more annoyed by the minute. “Fine, I’ll bite. What steps have you made that I’d be so willing to just hop on a plane and fly across the world with you on a moment’s notice?”
“Ah, Cherise, where are your manners? Your mother would be appalled to find out that all those years of etiquette classes have gone to waste.”
“Save it, Silas. Are you going to stop fucking around and tell me what’s going on? Or should we just say our farewells and call it?”
“Very well,” he said with a large exhale. “Let’s continue discussing your mother, shall we? As you know, she loves living the life of the countess, though the count has been dead since you were a baby. The life of a countess is not cheap. In fact, it is quite expensive. With all the dinners, the galas, the shopping sprees, the yachts, the holidays in Bali, and simply the wardrobe alone.”
My jaw clenched, and my stomach rumbled as Silas reminded me of everything I left behind—or more like ran away and escaped from. That world was everything I hated and wanted no part of. But my mother was different. She loved it. That rich and famous lifestyle was what she lived for. It defined who she was. It was all she really had after my father died. One could say she had me, but she wasn’t really mother material. She wasn’t an awful mother, and I loved her, but she saw me more as a friend rather than someone to parent and offer guidance to. Maybe that was one of the reasons I liked to fuck vagabonds. I never had someone in my life telling me that it was a very bad idea. I never got the vagabond warning.
“Why are we discussing my mother?”
“Well, I’m not certain if you are aware of the countess’s financial holdings or not. It was several years ago that Prince Roman felt the need to step in and stop your mother’s estate from going into foreclosure. He bought the house and even threw in a monthly stipend to assist in her lavish lifestyle.”
“What are you talking about? Why would Roman buy her house? And how do I not know about this?” Confusion and anger were combining inside of me, forming a cocktail that felt like bile.
Silas shrugged. “How you and your mother communicate is none of my concern. Maybe if you weren’t gallivanting around in third world countries, you would have realized that your mother has overspent and most certainly overindulged.”
I had no idea. No idea at all.
“Are you saying that my mother is completely broke?”
“Yes, completely. She has been for many years.”
“So, Roman stepped in and saved the house?” It didn’t seem like something Roman would do. Prince Roman cared about one person and one person only. Himself.
Silas shrugged again and then straightened his tie. “You say saved, I say purchased. His reasons are unknown. But regardless, he owns the estate, and has been giving her an extravagant allowance for years now.”
“Why?”
“Does it really matter why?” Silas paused as if I were going to answer him. “What does matter is that I manage the finances of some of the royal family, including Prince Roman’s. And if you were not to accompany me to Monaco, I may have to deem the expenses incurred by the countess as frivolous and fiscally irresponsible. I may also have to be forced to find tenants for the estate who are able to pay rent rather than slumming such as your mother is now.”
“Unless I go to Monaco with you? That’s all you want?” I asked, confused as to what the real reason was for Silas’s visit. “Why were you sent to bring me to Roman?”
“Cherise, come now. Don’t act as if you don’t know.”
I felt sick to my stomach, and it wasn’t the hangover. “No, no, no, no!” I said as I took a few steps away from Silas shaking my head. “Absolutely not. No.”
“Cherise, you knew this day would someday come.”
I shook my head as if I could shake away the words Silas was saying. “First off, I never agreed to it. I was a child and you fucked up royals live by an ancient rule. You better not, even for a second, be here to bring me back to Roman to… you better fucking not be!”
“No need for such vulgar language,” Silas chastised. “Your hand was promised to Prince Roman. You know this. You have always known this. And the time has come. He has reached the age of thirty, and we can no longer have him not married.”
I shook my head even harder than before. “Absolutely not. I’ll have no part in this. I left that all behind me. This is fucked up, and I want no part of it.”
“You can’t simply move to another country—no matter how far away it is—and expect to erase your past and your duties. You were groomed for this day.” Silas scanned his eyes from my head to my toes and then into my eyes with disgust. “Though I see no signs of that grooming now.”
“So you’re here to bring me to Monaco to marry Roman. Is that what you’re really saying?” I knew this arranged marriage had happened between our families when Roman and I were children, but it had been years since then. My life in the royal circuit was over. Over.
“Well, not right away. We have an image to uphold, of course. We
will have to announce an engagement and proceed from there. It will take some time. But yes, I am here to bring you to Roman so we can begin the proper illusion.”
His words sunk in and were like a punch to the gut. “You’ll kick my mother out on the street if I don’t play along with your sick game. Is that what you are also saying?” I put my hands on my hips and hunched over to gather the breath that felt as if it had been knocked out of me every single time I looked at Silas’s pompous face. “If I don’t marry Roman, my mother loses her estate. Right?”
“It would be a shame to take such ugly, yet necessary, measures. But correct. If you play nice, I play nice.”
“Does Roman know you are doing this?”
“Roman is aware of his royal duty. He is of royal lineage, and he understands what that means.”
“He doesn’t own me.”
“But he owns your mother,” Silas quickly countered.
“You’re all assholes,” I said quietly, but knew I had no choice.
This fucking duty of mine was a reality I couldn’t escape, and Silas was right when he said there was no running from it. Even if I didn’t care about my mother and her well-being—which I did—I would still have been trapped in this destiny. They would find a way. The royals always got what they wanted. Royals were the rulers of the fucking world. They ruled everything and everyone.
“Call me what you will. I have a job to do just as you do.” He glanced around. “It doesn’t look like there is much worth packing, if anything, but if you find it necessary to do so, make quick time. We have a plane to catch.”
“Fucking asshole,” I murmured under my breath as I too looked around the rented room. Silas was right. There wasn’t anything worth packing. Not for the world I was about to return to. Nothing in my Costa Rican vagabond bungalow would be fitting for my royal homecoming.
Chapter Two
Roman
I never got to see her pussy. A mistake I damn well planned on rectifying. I never got to lick it, taste it, and savor the essence that was my sweet Cheri. Or what had been my Cheri. But she had finally returned.