by Ashley Hall
Bethy snorts. “I'll make fifty dollars this hour alone if you don't. That girl in the back has been eyeing the box for almost five minutes. I reckon she's got a playlist all made up.”
“Fifty dollars, then,” says Gabe.
“You give me fifty dollars, it's just going on your tab. Not going to make a dent in what you owe me, and it's not going to get you any closer to that plug.”
“Bethy,” whines Gabe. “You're killing me here! I'm not near drunk enough for this.”
“Then get another beer.”
“You cut me off ten minutes ago.”
“Come up with fifty dollars towards your tab,” says Bethy with a crooked smile. “And I'll put you back on tap for the night.”
“That's cruel,” grumbles Gabe, but he fishes out a folded-up fifty from his back pocket. “Here. Take it. I didn't need to eat this week, no worries.”
Bethy plucks it from his hand and tucks it into the front pocket of her apron. “That's good to hear. You could stand to lose a few pounds, anyway.”
“Cruel,” says Gabe, “just cruel.”
A sudden rush of static interrupts the jukebox song. Gabe's eyes flit towards the television. The twelve o'clock news is on. It's basically just a repeat of everything they talked about at six, which is good because Gabe wasn't around a television at six.
The reporter looks painfully chipper. “Alright,” she says. “Now, the big scoop of the evening. I'm sure by now, everyone's heard about the trip that the Royal Family of Davaria is making through the States.”
Bethy turns the volume up. “This is actually pretty neat. I had a cousin tell me all about it last night. Supposedly, they've got some big announcement planned. I'm betting you that they're trying to unload the daughter on someone.”
“Do people even do arranged marriages anymore?” Gabe wrinkles his nose at the thought. He's far from a romantic, but the thought of marrying someone for something outside of love still makes his skin crawl a bit.
“I guess they do,” says Bethy.
“We've all been wondering what the announcement would be. Well, the wait is over. Today, Queen Alexandra D'Alene has given away the big news,” says the reporter.
Her image fades away. It's replaced by the picture of a beautiful young woman with curling hair and ridiculously pale skin. There's a split second where Gabe doesn't recognize her, but then the name Isabella D'Alene flashes over the bottom of the screen.
“Mother-fucker,” gasps Gabe.
Bethy gapes at the screen. “That's the girl that came in here a while back! You went home with her, didn't you?”
Gabe nods. It's hard to hear the news over the radio. They've put the same song on again. It drowns out the news station for a few painfully long moments.
When it ends, Bethy turns the volume of the television up all the way. The teenager makes to start the song up again. Gabe shifts about on the stool to face the jukebox, pulling his buck knife out of its holster in one smooth motion. He points it at the teenager. “Turn that song on one more time and you're going to have a real nice story to brag about to your friends…once you're out of the hospital.”
The girl squeaks and scrambles back to her booth seat. Bethy snorts. “Wow. That was real mature of you.”
“Be quiet,” snaps Gabe. “I think I might have fucked a princess.”
“Wow. That's…I just don't even know what to say about that.”
“You don't need to say anything,” hisses Gabe. “Just shut up so I can listen to this.”
The image has already shifted, showing Isabella standing on a large podium. Her dark red velvet gown hangs low on her shoulders. The golden threads form loops around the swoop-neck collar; it's almost scandalously low, as if trying to make up for the fact that the sleeves almost come down to her knuckles and the hem comes down over the tops of her shoes.
Her eyes are downcast, face almost sullen. She looks sad. The thought is strange. What does a princess have to be sad about?
But then, Isabella had talked about always being under her mother's thumb, and she spoke, more than once, about wanting freedom.
The news reporter says, “Here she is, folks. This is the moment that everyone has been waiting for, when we finally learn the secret of Davaria's royal family.”
The image flicks on and starts moving. Isabella stays silent, but a slightly older woman, clad in an equally fancy gown, comes to stand beside her. The queen, Alexandra, according to the banner flickering underneath the video.
“It is my pleasure to announce that we have great news. My daughter, Isabella, will be joining the Duke of Cambridge in holy matrimony. They will be wed upon our return home,” says the queen in a booming sort of voice.
Gabe's stomach drops. It makes his ribs feel too tight. Wed? She's about to get married? That's…that's ridiculous! There had been no ring on her finger. Suddenly, it hits him that he's been played.
She must have taken off that ring and slipped it into her purse, leaving it in a drawer at home. She took off that ring. She lied, and she played him.
Gabe cracks open his beer and takes a too large swig. It burns the back of his throat. The camera zooms in, first on Isabella's face, then on Alexandra's.
The Queen says, “And as if this announcement isn't the coming of a joyous enough day, we also would love to share this: the Duke and Princess Isabella are with child. Soon, we will have a crown Prince or Princess of Davaria.”
Chapter Eleven
The Duke and Princess Isabella are with child.
The words dig into Gabe's mind like some sort of virus. It grabs at his ears and his brain and won't let go. They become an obsession of sorts because he cannot help but feel that it's a lie.
Isabella had never been with another man before Gabe. There was absolutely no doubt about that. It was the blood, the way she held herself, and it was probably the one truth that she told the entire time they were together.
And the Duke, he's halfway across the world, back in Davaria. He's across the ocean and far out of reach. There's no way that Isabella's carrying his child.
There's absolutely no way.
And those words, they stir up his mind like nothing else can. It's a haunting sort of thing, knowing that you're someone's father. The responsibility, even though it's currently non-existent, is haunting. It invades his mind, follows him even when he's dreaming.
The bar no longer serves as a safe haven. Bethy's gaze is firm and judging. The club is starting to get concerned.
“You're distracted,” says Opie. “And not in a good way, Gabe. You going to tell us what's going on?”
Gabe shrugs in answer and grunts out some half-hearted excuse that no one believes. He comes and goes from the bar as before, only this time he wilts a little beneath Bethy's eyes. The news always seems to be playing something about the royal family. Davaria isn't a big country, but everyone's thrilled to be reporting something aside from a mass shooting or a field of horses that's just been illegally euthanized.
Four days after the original announcement, Bethy corners Gabe in the men's bathroom of the bar. She folds her arms over her chest, narrows her eyes, and challenges, “Are you going to man up or what?”
“I don't know what you're talking about.” Gabe tucks himself back into his jeans. It's not the first time that the barkeep's been in here, trying to get an answer to some question she doesn't really need to get involved in.
“Yes, you do. Don't play games with me, Gabe. I know you. I know what that look meant.”
“What look?”
“The one on your face when you saw her up there, when you realized who she was. It's the same look you had on the day you came in and told me about Renee.”
“Bullshit.”
“I'm not lying,” insists Bethy. “You know that I'm not. So are you going to man up and talk to her or what?”
“Why the hell would I do that?” Gabe snorts and runs a hand through his eternally messy hair. “She's a fucking princess. There's no way she's going t
o want to see me knocking on her doors.”
“Since when did that stop you?”
“Bethy,” says Gabe. “I don't think you understand—”
“I do,” says Bethy. “And you do, too.”
# # #
On the other side of town, there's a beat-up garage. It's owned by Samuel Garrison, better known as Slade. The man has a reputation as being the best mechanic around, but he's also known for ridiculously high prices, a sour attitude, and not knowing when to keep his mouth shut.
And, in a much smaller circle, he's known for being the guy that swept Renee Eric off her feet. The two are set to be wed in three months. They've already picked out the venue, already tried on the gown and tuxedo. For the most part, things are set.
Tonight, Slade sends his co-workers home early. His fiancée is out with a group of friends, no doubt barhopping from one place to the next. Renee isn't the perfect image of a bride. She drinks too much and sleeps around every chance she gets, spreading her legs for any man that looks at her twice.
It had been painfully easy for Slade to sweep her up and away from Gabe. The woman was just itching for someone that would line her pockets a bit better, would treat her a little nicer in the sack. And Slade, he is all about treating his ladies nice, as long as he is getting something out of it in return.
And this? Oh, he's getting a lot out of this.
Unlike some of his other companions, Slade's never been much of a beer man. He prefers the harder stuff —dark, honey flavored whiskey. He uses an old mason jar in favor of a mug and fills it up almost full to the brim. The liquor is dark and burning.
He clicks on the television that hangs in the upper left corner of the garage. It's six o'clock. The news is on. It's another article on the royal family. They're four states up, at a party some senator is throwing.
It's a baby shower.
Isabella is standing next to the soon-to-be mother. Only one of them is smiling, and that's just absolutely perfect.
“Soon,” he says, even though there's no one around to hear it. “Soon, everything is going to play out just as it's supposed to.”
Chapter Twelve
It's raining. The water pelts down against Gabe's face, stinging the bits of revealed flesh. Even his leather jacket proves to offer little protection from the deluge. It's as though the entire world has turned gray, from the sky to the earth, this never-ending stretch of desolation.
No one else is out. His motorcycle roars down the small side road, catching and skidding in spots where the road dips down and the water rises up. He's going too fast to be safe but cannot bring himself to care. Anger, frustration, and confusion mingle in his chest, leaving him feeling like he's choking.
Days like this, riding is the only thing that keeps him breathing.
Days like this, he just wants the road to stretch out forever, to never have to stop moving.
Of course, the backwater road doesn't last forever. It's quick to turn into a highway. The lights are bright, even through the rain. Thunder makes the road shake, and the lightning is almost blinding.
Gabe loathes highways. They're too cluttered, too packed, and too overrun, just like the cities with their backwater alleys and crowded corner clubs. And, of course, highways always lead into cities. Cities stretch out, sprawling messes filled with cockroaches and insects; one or the other has two legs, and it's ridiculously hard to figure out which.
There's a party being held at the Ritz Hotel out on twenty-second street. As far as he can tell, the D'Alene family is staying at the same place. Well-paid sources reveal that they're in rooms twenty-eight and twenty-nine, up on the second floor.
Gabe tears into the parking lot. He wedges his back between two slicked up corvettes. Water drips off his hair and into his eyes, this flooding, wet sort of thing. His boots squeak and squelch when he storms towards the front lobby; a flash of a knife and three twenties gets him in the front door.
The air conditioner is turned on high. It makes the hair on the back of Gabe's neck stand on end. He's soaked straight to the bone, in a spine chilling sort of way. “Alright,” he mutters, slipping into the elevator. “Let's get this over with.”
He hits the button for the second floor. Soft, lilting piano music floods into the brightly lit elevator. It smells strongly of flowers and powder.
It takes hardly any time at all to get to the right room. The door is large and dark. Everything about this place looks rich. It's the sort of thing that Gabe's always hated because no one needs this much spritz; no one needs this much ritz.
Gabe slams his fist against the door. “Open up, Izzy. I know you're in there.”
Music clicks off inside. Soft footsteps flood the air. The door opens but just a bit. Wide, blue eyes stare out at him. “Gabe? What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you,” he says, pushing his way inside. The room is just as lavish as the rest of the hotel. Blue, lace curtains hang on either side of a wall-length window, and there are at least four doors on either side of the main sitting room. A full kitchen is pushed off to one side, but it clearly hasn't been used during the entire duration of her stay in North Carolina.
A lavish couch takes up the center of the main room. There's a flat screen television built into the wall across from it and a silver platter sitting on the coffee table. It's filled up with eggs benedict and toast and a separate tray of assorted meats. Isabella has set a bowl of mixed fruit off to the side. She's picked out all of the grapes and discarded them into the trashcan sitting next to the couch.
“Gabe,” gasps Isabella, scrambling away from the door. She's wearing a strappy silver nightgown. It hangs low on her chest. Pert nipples press against the satin like fabric. From the knee down, the skirt is nothing but sheer, see-through fabric.
Just the sight of those long, shapely legs makes Gabe's pants feel too tight.
“Izzy,” he says. “Or should I be calling you Isabella?”
She frowns. Her fingers clasp around one of her wrists, nervously rubbing at the smooth skin. It's so strange to see him here, sopping wet and dripping rainwater from hem of his leather jacket. The corner of his motorcycle club, Desperados, patch is starting to peel away.
“What are you doing here?” demands Isabella. “You cannot be here!”
“I am, so buck up and deal with it.”
“You cannot be here,” repeats Isabella, shaking her head. One hand threads through her soft, golden hair. The nails have been painted pale green, covered up in a coat of clear glitter. “Gabe, you cannot be here! Why are you here?”
“I'm here to talk to you,” snaps Gabe. “What do you think?”
“I think you shouldn't be here! If my mother finds out—”
“She'll what? Put you up with another man?”
Isabella's eyes narrow. “Are you jealous? It was one night! It was…a hook-up, that's what people call it, right? A hook-up?”
“It was a hook-up before I realized you were knocked up!”
Furious at the crass language and upset over the interruption of her one morning alone for the week, Isabella slaps him. The sound of skin on skin is almost deafening. It resonates through the otherwise quiet room until Isabella's heart seems to be pounding in time with the leftover sound.
“How dare you?” she hisses. “How dare you come here and say such things? You don't have any idea what's going on!”
Gabe's fingers press against his reddening cheek. His lips twist into a scowl. “Then tell me!”
“Go away,” says Isabella, voice raising just slightly. Her eyes dart towards the door, as if she's expecting someone to come barging in at any moment. “Go away, Gabe. I cannot do this. I cannot talk to you!”
“Why not?”
“I'm not allowed!” Isabella's eyes are starting to burn. This is bringing up too much at once. She's never had to do anything like this before, never had to confront her demons. When she makes mistakes, there's someone to help clean them up. When she finds herself lost and wandering, she
ends turning to her nanny or one of the others that linger in her castle, in her home. “My mother will kill me if word gets out! I'm a princess, Gabe! I cannot go around sleeping with strangers.”
“Is that why you're marrying this duke?” Gabe waves one hand like he might be able to gesture towards the Duke himself.
The thought is silly. A pointless laugh bubbles out of her throat. Isabella feels like she's about to cry; her eyes are itching, and her throat is burning. It's ridiculous and she cannot even pinpoint why. Her palms press against her eyes, like that might somehow hide the tears.