Fallen Heir

by Erin Watt

  I sit there, slack-jawed, as she pulls out a book and proceeds to eat one-handed while she reads. She tunes me out. Completely.

  I’m fascinated with her. She’s attracted to me, but she’s not going to do anything about it?

  “I’m not dating anyone.”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “You got a man?”

  Silence.

  I tap my fingers against the table. Another guy is a complication, and ordinarily I don’t do complicated. But if she had a boyfriend, that’s something she would’ve brought up within the first five minutes of talking. At least, if she had a boyfriend she was serious about. And then the light bulb turns on.

  “Tough breakup, huh? Aw. Good thing I’ve a nice shoulder here for you to cry on.” I give said shoulder a pat.

  This earns me another long, heavy sigh. “I’m not suffering from any tough breakup. I don’t have a boyfriend, not that it’s any of your business, and I would still like for you to leave me alone.”

  This is all rattled off rapid fire. She doesn’t even bother to raise her gaze from her book. I don’t think she’s reading, though. Her eyes are fixed on one place.

  I decide to call her on her bullshit. “You’d be more believable if you were actually reading.”

  She flushes slightly and flips the page. The one she’d been reading for the last ten minutes. I finish the roll and grab a carrot stick from her plate. Her lips smush together, but she doesn’t say anything. I proceed to demolish the rest of her lunch. I mean, if she’s not gonna eat it, I don’t want it to go to waste.

  When there’s nothing left but her water, I consider leaving.

  “Why is everyone looking at us?”

  Hartley’s irritable remark stops me. I glance around the room. I hadn’t noticed we’d become the center of attention. The hyenas are salivating, smelling fresh meat. Felicity Worthington is at a table with a few other senior girls, their heads all bent together as they whisper about this latest development. Easton Royal sitting with a girl in the dining hall? Huge.

  Claire also watches us, and she isn’t pleased. She’s glaring daggers at Hartley, but her expression softens when it meets mine. She gets this wounded doe-eyed look that one of Reed’s obsessive exes used to give him after he dumped her. I really need to find a way to nix this Claire thing.

  Blanching, Hartley picks up her water bottle and takes a nervous sip. “Seriously, this is dumb. Why are they staring?”

  I shrug. “I’m a Royal.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Is that sarcasm I detect?”

  “Absolutely,” she says cheerfully.

  Rolling my eyes, I swipe her water from her hand and take a long swig. I hear an audible gasp from Claire’s direction. Okay, my ex needs to chill. Like really.

  “Sounds like you’re the one with the bad breakup,” Hartley murmurs, still pretending to read her book.

  “It wasn’t at the time. We both agreed we weren’t interested.”

  “So why is she offended you’re drinking out of my water bottle?”

  “I guess she forgot that she was tired of my shit?”

  This generates a choked laugh from Hartley. “What’d you do? Sleep around?”

  “Nah. I think I didn’t pay much attention to her. She mentioned something about me being a bad boyfriend.”

  “Nothing that comes out of your mouth convinces me you’d be a good one.”

  “Ouch.” I pass the bottle back to Hartley. “I probably just need more practice.”

  “Pass.”

  “You ever have a boyfriend?” I ask, genuinely curious. Hartley’s more tight-lipped about her past than a clam out of water.

  “Yes, I’ve had a boyfriend.” She lays her book down and takes a swig of water.

  “What happened? He dick you over? You got tired of him? Got too busy? What?”

  She leans forward, her eyes narrow. “What does it matter?”

  “I’m curious.”

  A voice clears behind me. I ignore it. “You’re interesting, and I’d like to know more about you.”

  The throat clearing gets louder. Hartley’s eyes widen, and the corner of her mouth tips up. “I think someone wants your attention.”

  “I’m having a conversation with you.”

  “Easton.” Footsteps close in on me, and then Claire’s fingers curve over my shoulder. “Didn’t you hear me?”

  I swallow a sigh. Manners, I remind myself. “Yeah, but I’m having a conversation—”

  “I’m done. You can have my seat.” Hartley stands up and waves at her chair.

  Claire beams. “Thank you.”

  “Wait a sec.” I grab for Hartley’s wrist, but she steps out of reach. Annoyed, I turn to Claire. “Hartley and I need a moment.”

  “We really don’t,” Hartley says. A second later, she skips away.

  “We aren’t done.” I hop up and hurry after Hartley.

  Behind me, Claire calls out my name again. I keep walking. I ignore the amused glances of Ella and the others. I’m focused solely on Hartley, who I manage to catch at the entrance to the dining hall.

  “It’s cruel of you to leave me alone with Claire,” I joke. “Don’t you have a heart?”

  Hartley rubs a finger along her forehead, and I notice a thin white line on her left wrist. It looks like a surgical scar. Must’ve been a real bad break if she needed surgery for it.

  “Here’s the deal, Easton. I don’t like being the center of attention and clearly you do.” She gestures toward the crowd of faces turned in our direction. “I’m trying to lay low this year. I don’t want—and can’t afford—to have all this attention pointed at me.”

  The cryptic statement summons a frown. “Why not?”

  “Because,” is all she says.

  But she doesn’t move away.

  I edge closer.

  Still, she doesn’t move. It’s as if her feet are stuck to the floor.

  I lower my head until my nose is inches from the top of her adorable ear.

  I’m so close that I can feel the heat of her skin right through the starchy material of her skirt. My fingers find her wrist. Her pulse is beating wildly. Or maybe it’s me.

  She smells fantastic, fruity and fresh. I want to shove my nose against her neck and breathe her in. And then maybe lick my way up her jaw until I reach her pouty lips. Then I’d lick those, too, before sliding my tongue in her mouth.

  And now I have a hard-on in the middle of the cafeteria.

  Hartley’s gaze lowers to where my hand is touching hers. “Royal,” she warns.

  “Mmm?” I’m too distracted by how dark her hair is, how it curls so neatly around her ear. The image of Hartley’s hair hanging like a curtain around my face flashes through my head, and I almost groan out loud.

  “There’s no way you don’t feel this,” I say, my voice sounding low and husky to my ears.

  Her eyes widen slightly. “Feel what?”

  The heat. The I-want-you-so-bad rush that’s jolting through me right now.

  “This,” I mutter, and before I can stop myself, I move even closer.

  My mouth zeroes in on hers.

  I hear several gasps this time. A flurry of whispers. I ignore them. I’m fixated on Hartley. Two more inches and our lips will touch. One more inch and my tongue will be in her mouth. Half an inch and—

  Something cold and wet soaks my face.

  I jerk back in surprise, one hand reaching up to touch my cheek. Water?

  For chrissake, she just dumped the entire contents of her water bottle over my head.

  “What the hell!” I say in outrage.

  Hartley looks as mad as I feel. “You’re such an asshole,” she hisses.

  My jaw falls open. “Me? You’re the one who threw water at me!”

  “I just told you I don’t want the attention and you tried to kiss me in front of the whole school! But you don’t care what anyone else wants, right, Easton? Only what you want matters, because you’re a Royal, rememb
er?”

  She slaps my hand away, and I watch in dismay as she storms off.

  “Easton?” a plaintive voice says.

  I drop my head against the doorframe. Fucking great. I can’t get rid of my ex, and I keep alienating the girl I want. My senior year isn’t going the way I thought it would.

  Not at all.

  Chapter 6

  “Do you think I’m an asshole?” I ask later that night. Glum, I poke one of the apples on the counter as I watch Ella slice one up for me.

  “What kind of question is that?” She drops the slices into a bowl and slides it down the counter.

  “So the answer is yes?”

  “Of course not.” She pushes on her tiptoes and pats me on the head, like I’m a little puppy. I don’t like that feeling—the one that makes me wonder if Ella thinks I’m five years old.

  “Why do you treat me like I’m a kid when I’m three months older than you?”

  “Because you act like one.”

  “I do not.”

  “Yes, you do. You totally act like a little kid.”

  I bristle. “Is that why you never saw me like you saw Reed? Because I’m a little kid?” I might’ve been Ella’s first Royal, but Reed has always been first in her heart. And that bugs me.

  Everyone’s always loved me best. Mom, girls at school. Hell, old ladies get stars in their eyes any time I come into their orbit. Reed’s face wears a perpetual scowl and Gideon never had the time of day for anyone but Savannah Montgomery. I’m the golden child, yet lately I keep losing.

  I catch a reflection of myself in the glass cupboard. I’m still as good-looking as ever. I’m charming and hilarious. My body could be on the cover of a magazine, partly thanks to good genes, but I work on it, too—lifting and football. Claire can’t stop chasing after me and it’s been ages since we went out.

  Nah, I haven’t lost it. Ella got hooked by Reed early on for some inexplicable reason, and Hartley Wright just has a rod up her ass. She’s antisocial.

  “I’m not a kid,” I mutter.

  Ella sighs. “Okay, what’s really going on here? Is everything all right?”

  I avoid her concerned gaze. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Are you sure? Because you’ve looked bummed ever since that girl dumped water on your head at lunch—what’s her name again?”

  I manage a half-hearted grin. “Hartley, and I’m not bummed about that. I’m Easton Royal and the world’s my oyster. Besides, she’ll come around eventually.” I pinch her cheek. “Gotta go, little sis. Don’t wait up for me tonight.”

  She stiffens. “No fighting.”

  “No fighting,” I echo with the roll of my eyes.

  “Easton…”

  “I’m serious.” I hold up my hands in an innocent gesture. “It’s Tuesday, anyway. No fights on Tuesdays.”

  Ella doesn’t look entirely convinced. “So then where are you going?”

  “Somewhere that good girls shouldn’t be seen.” I grab the rest of the apples and walk out.

  “Easton!” she yells after me.

  I give her a wave but don’t turn around. I don’t want Ella following me tonight. She’d be full of disapproval and that would take the shine off my glow.

  Upstairs, I throw on my favorite pair of jeans. The rips in the knees are getting larger and are starting to look less like a fashion statement and more like I stole them from a hobo, but I don’t like throwing shit out. Besides, where I’m going, it doesn’t pay to look like you have money. I find a hoodie on the floor and shrug that over my favorite black wifebeater tank.

  Palming my keys and a few hundred dollars, I take the back stairs to avoid Ella, Dad, and all the other prying eyes. In the garage, I pull the tarp off the splurge that I’m hoping Dad doesn’t notice I bought. The motorcycle is used, but I couldn’t swing a more expensive one without setting off warning bells in the accounting office. Any purchase over ten grand is flagged these days. I’m kinda glad of that anyway, because some of the places I’ve been going, something pricey would stand out and likely get boosted.

  I roll the black-and-silver Yamaha halfway down the drive before climbing on and gunning it the remainder of the way. It takes thirty minutes to reach my destination.

  Outside the rundown house, there are a half-dozen people smoking—cigarettes, of course, because weed’s not legal here and probably won’t be until the entire country okays it. Inside is a different story. Not only is there weed, but a whole drugstore of choices. I didn’t come for that, though. I’m trying to stay away from the drugs, although it hasn’t been easy.

  Just seeing a joint can make my mouth water and my tongue tingle. I force my eyes away from the group who are cutting white powder at the table and make myself tromp down the stairs. It’s hard, but I promised my brothers, and after seeing what it did to my mom, I’ve tried to eliminate that one addiction. I don’t have a death wish. I just want to have a good time. The pills helped settle me down, mellowed me out enough to enjoy life, but I know that too much of a good thing can lead to disaster.

  At the bottom of the stairs, a guy with a gut large enough to be seen from the Pacific greets me with a finger salute. “Royal.”

  Tony’s size is deceiving. He looks soft, but he’s the one guy down here you don’t want to piss off. One swipe from his paw and you’ll be out cold.

  I clasp the bouncer’s hand and go in for a manly side hug. He gives me a bone-rattling back slap before moving aside. In the dimly lit cement box, four tables are set up. No smoking is allowed down here due to the fact that it’s already a fire hazard. There’s only one exit and that’s up the stairs.

  There’s plenty of booze. Three of the tables are already filled, but the fourth has three empty chairs. Although the dealer is new to me, I throw my five spot into the middle regardless.

  “Long time, no see, Royal,” says the guy next to me.

  “Hey, Nate Dog.” We slap hands. His is coarse from working on the docks. I met him after a fight once and he invited me to one of these games. I think it’s because he knew I had money and wanted to relieve me of some of it. Whatever the motivation, this place is a good way to blow off steam. I don’t mind losing and, for the most part, I break even.

  Despite me having at least three inches on him, I still feel small around Nate D. It’s not just his age but the way he carries himself. He knows who he is. Gotta admire that.

  The third player lifts his chin in my direction, acting like a tough guy. He straightens his shoulders under the oversized hoodie designed, I guess, to give him more bulk than he really has.

  “You got a problem with me?” the kid asks, jutting his chin out.

  “No. Why?”

  “You were staring,” Nate D informs me.

  “Yeah, look at your own cards.” The kid is getting on my nerves.

  “You’re just so cute that I can’t help myself,” I say.

  Nate D covers his mouth with his arm to stifle a laugh, and even the stone-faced dealer cracks a smile.

  The kid doesn’t think I’m amusing. Too bad the punk has no sense of humor. Someone hands me a bottle of beer as the dealer whips out the first hand. I chug half the bottle before coming up for air.

  I might’ve given up one addiction, but I can’t shake all of them. I told Ella once that it’s part of my genetic makeup. I get obsessed with shit. That’s just how I’m built and I’m not going to be sorry for it. I don’t hurt anyone—or, at least, I try to avoid it.

  I pick up my cards and start playing. Not only does the punk have no sense of humor, but he’s bad at cards. He doesn’t pay attention to the ones that have been played and he makes reckless bets.

  After five quick hands, he’s lost all the money in front of him while my pile keeps growing.

  “You’re lucky tonight, son,” Nate D sighs, throwing his three sixes on the table in frustration.

  “That’s your second straight in five hands.” The kid scowls at me. “You’re cheating, aren’t you?”

 
I pause in the middle of raking in the kitty. “I don’t even know the dealer’s name, so how am I supposed to be cheating?”

  “I was winning until you got here. It’s real suspicious,” he says.

  I roll my eyes.

  “Play your cards,” Nate barks.

  The punk grits his teeth but backs down.

  I look down at my cards and pull out two. “Two, please,” I tell the dealer.

  “Please? Like we’re in some country club,” scoffs Tough Guy, who folds his cards together. “I pass. My hand’s a winner.”

  He ends up losing to Nate. We cycle through another deck with Tough Guy losing another two grand. I take his last hundred in a major bluff where I have jack shit. Nate folds and Tough Guy follows suit.

  “Let’s see your cards,” he growls.

  “No.” Maybe if it was with Nate and a few others, I wouldn’t mind, but this guy’s been an ass all night. I’m not in a friendly mood and haven’t been since lunch. Ella was right—getting reamed out by Hartley did upset me.

  “I want to see your cards!” He reaches across the table to grab them, but I flick them toward the dealer, who smoothly slides them into the discard pile.

  “Sit down,” I order.

  “This is bullshit!” Tough Guy slams his fist on the table. “Take off your clothes.” He lunges forward as if to snatch my hoodie off my back.

  I scramble out of the way while Nate arm-bars Tough Guy back into his chair. “Settle down,” Nate warns, flicking a finger in my direction.

  Sullenly, Tough Guy crosses his arm. “I’m not playing another dime until he takes off his hoodie. I’m not bad at cards.”

  I snort.

  “I’m not,” he insists.

  Nate tugs on the back of my sweatshirt. “Just do it so we can play.”

  In other words, shut up so we can take more of this easy mark’s money.

  I shrug out of the dockworker’s grip. “No. I’m not cheating and I’m not taking my clothes off because some dipshit who can’t bluff tells me to.”

  Nate gets to his feet. “His money’s green. Just take it off, Royal.”

  Talk about bullshit. Nate is so hungry for cash that he’s gonna throw me under the table? Forget that.