Plaything at the Royal Wedding: An MFMM Royal Romance

by Lana Hartley

  Sometimes I can’t get her out of my fucking head.

  I think back to all the fights I had where before I went out there, I said a prayer to her. Hoped she was watching me. Looking down at me from Heaven.

  “Hunter?” Natalie asks, laying a light kiss on my bicep and curling herself into me. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m just thinking, babe,” I say out loud, my voice slightly gruff. “Just thinking about shit.”

  “What kind of shit?” Natalie asks and I can almost hear the fucking smile on her face. “Penny for your thoughts?”

  I sigh. She doesn’t say anything and I know that she’s a grown ass woman. If I told her shit was private she’d leave it as is and not fucking bother me.

  But I don’t want that.

  I want to tell someone. I want to let someone in to my life. I don’t want to just fuck this woman and then go on my merry fucking way. I like this broad.

  But how do you let someone in on your life when your life is so fucked? How the fuck do you show them how bad of a mess you are?

  “You can tell me anything,” Natalie whispers, and I feel her body meld into mine.

  “Just thinking about the time I’ve spent in this gym,” I say at first and Natalie is silent. “All the fights I had.”

  She’s still silent. “And all the fights I’ve never had.”

  Natalie is silent for a moment longer.

  “Logan?” she asks.

  I don’t say anything. I don’t fucking need to.

  “We knew each other back in the day,” I say to her, staring up at the ceiling and I can feel her hands wrapping tighter around me.

  “Back then, back in college, Logan was big man on fucking campus. Came from a family with a lot of money. Was president of his fraternity. Was on the college boxing team. I was just a freshman and he was a sophomore and already half the fucking campus looked up to him. And when I pledged his fraternity – this poor kid with nothing but dreams of being a boxer – he went out of his way to talk to me. We fucking bonded in like a minute and before you knew it, we were like brothers.”

  I hear Natalie take a sharp breath.

  “We fucking did everything together. We trained together. Studied together. Had the same friends. Hell, we got drunk and fucked the same bitches sometimes. Passed her around,” I continue.

  I know what you’re thinking. You just fucked this gorgeous ass girl and you’re talking about fucking other girls.

  But something has happened. I can’t explain it.

  I'm no longer in control of my fucking words.

  “What happened?” Natalie asks. She’s not hung up about the girls in my past at all. God this woman is amazing.

  “Passing around sluts sort of stopped when I fell in love with a girl I met at our fraternity party. Her name was Sarah. We fucked for hours. I fell in love. But so did Logan,” I say.

  “And she didn’t want to choose?” Natalie asks.

  I shake my head.

  “It’s not that she didn’t want to choose,” I say. “It’s that she didn’t get a chance to.”

  Natalie is quiet and I continue.

  “It was her birthday and I was going over to celebrate at her sorority. I had a present for her. I even remember what I bought. A matching set of black lace La Perla. I had saved for two months to afford that shit,” I say. I can feel Natalie nestle her head against me.

  “But Logan was there too. I dunno, I think we both just lost it, seeing each other there after the same girl that we wanted to go for. We started arguing. Starting shouting. That’s when Sarah walked in. But we we already crossed the Rubicon. Don’t know who threw the first punch. But before we knew it, we were going at it guns blazing. She got upset. See, I think she loved us both. But she ran out, trying to get away from it all, and didn’t ever see the car coming down the street as it hit her,” I recite, bringing up long suppressed memories.

  “Oh my God,” Natalie gasps softly.

  I shake my head.

  “Died right then and there. No suffering, so I guess there’s that,” I whisper. Fuck, my heart is starting to fucking clench.

  “I’m so sorry,” Natalie breathes.

  I pause before I continue.

  “See, she never wanted us to fight. She never wanted us to lock horns. At the funeral, one of the last times I spoke to Logan, we decided we would never fight again. We could hate each other’s fucking guts, but out of respect, we would never fight and defile her memory. In life. And in the ring,” I confide.

  Natalie is silent.

  “That’s why we do different weight classes. That’s why we fucking ignore each other. Because we’re both holding on to the memory of Sarah. It’s the only thing we have,” I finish.

  I’ve said too much. I wouldn’t be fucking surprised if Natalie just up and left me at this point.

  But she doesn’t.

  She holds me tighter.

  And we lay there, for a long, long time.

  Natalie

  “That's really old school,” Michelle comments, looking at me as I place my tape recorder on my desk.

  “It was my father's,” I tell her, looking at the old recorder with a knot in my throat. Inside it, there's a tape, and inside that tape there's a recording… One that I made secretly.

  If you thought I was acting like a true Machiavellian when I told Hunter I wanted to meet at Asakura’s, you don't know the half of it. You see, I had the tape recorder going all throughout the night I spent with Hunter; and, despite the fact that this recorder is almost a relic, it still picks up everything and that quite easily, which means that this tape contains every single word Hunter told me. Yes, even his confession about his past with Logan.

  “Is that your interview with Mr. Handsome?”

  “Yes…” I whisper, not taking my eyes off the recorder. I know that with what I have in there that I can make a killing… Just imagine the amount of newspapers the Gazette would move if we published this? I mean, an exclusive story like this—it’d go around the world like a storm!

  “Let me hear it,” Michelle says suddenly, getting up from her seat and walking around her desk. She reaches for the recorder and I just act out of instinct; I grab it and press it against my chest, looking at her apprehensively. “Wow, girl, calm down. What's in there?”

  “There's, uhm, private stuff in here too…” I mumble meekly, warm blood rushing to my cheeks and coloring them in a violent red.

  “OH MY GOD! You're such a slut, Natalie!” She laughs, placing one hand on my shoulder and squeezing. Once more she tries to reach for the recorder, and I clutch it to my chest even more tightly.

  “It's nothing like that,” I say, even though my private workout in Hunter's gym is on the tape as well. I listened to it last night, and let me tell you… We put on quite a show. We were so loud that I bet anyone walking past the gym heard my moans and screams of pleasure. Oh, well.

  “Yeah, right.” She rolls her eyes at me, an amused smile on her lips, but she walks back to her desk and sits down. Propping her feet up on the desk, she laces her fingers behind her head and leans back against the seat. “Was it interesting? The interview, I mean.”

  “Yeah, it was… perhaps too interesting,” I reply, sighing heavily and running one hand through my hair. I have no idea about what I should do. Can I really write about what Hunter told me? He didn't confess about his past because I was interviewing him, after all, he did it because… well, because he trusted me. I don't know if I have the guts to break that trust just because I want to further my career. I'm not that machiavellian.

  “What are you two yapping about?” Fat Ed asks us, stepping through the doorway to our office. His shirt seems tighter than usual, his paunch stretching the fabric thin, and I realize that he’s been growing even fatter these past months. Now that he’s close to retiring, I guess that he has already started to let go. Not a good strategy, in my opinion; he’s already fat, and with all the amount of smoking he does… That’s just a disaster waiti
ng to happen.

  “Nothing,” I tell him quickly, putting on a fake smile as I try and cover my tape recorder with a copy of today’s newspaper. He glances in that direction as I do it, and I can’t be entirely sure if he didn’t notice that I was trying to hide something. “We were just discussing the profile I have to write on Hunter.”

  “I see,” he whispers, looking from me to Michelle, the way he’s narrowing his eyes letting me know that he’s trying to peer into our very souls. “Did you find anything interesting?” He continues, once again turning his gaze toward me.

  “Uhm, well,” I start, my heart suddenly jumping into a trot, “not really. I mean, I have some interesting material to work with, but nothing earth-shattering. He’s just another boring boxer, but I guess I can write a quality article out of the things he told me.”

  “I see,” he growls, his eyes on mine for what seems like an eternity. Then, without saying a word more, he simply turns around and leaves, only leaving behind the stale smell of his cigarette smoke.

  “Now that was some high-quality bullshitting,” Michelle whistles, glancing at me sideways. “What’s inside that tape, Natalie?”

  “Something the world doesn’t need to know,” I say softly, looking up at her and smiling. She looks back at me for a few seconds, and then just nods.

  “Do what ya gotta do, girl.”

  “Yeah,” I whisper, opening the recorder and pulling out the tape. I stare at it and then, grabbing it tightly, I lean back against my seat and raise my arms up, almost as if I were preparing to make a free throw. Flicking my wrist fast, I let go of the tension in my fingers and the tape flies away in an arch, landing straight inside the trash basket in the corner of the office.

  “Three points,” Michelle says, clapping her hands together. “You should’ve been a basketball player.”

  “Thanks,” I whisper, even though I’m really not in the mood for jokes. I just threw into the trash the opportunity of a lifetime, so yeah, excuse me if I’m not in the best of moods right now.

  “Hey,” she calls me softly, “it’s alright, Natalie. Not every story has to be a story.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Some things are better kept in the shadows… We’re journalists, I know that. But we also have what I like to call common sense. Never put your job in front of your common sense. Or integrity, for that matter.”

  Who’d have thought that Michelle, the laziest journalist in the whole Gazette, a cynical hard-drinker, would be the one imparting me with her wisdom?

  “Thank you,” I merely say, smiling.

  God bless her; I’d go crazy without Michelle.

  Logan

  The rope slices the air.

  Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

  I continue jumping at a steady rhythm, swinging the rope over my head, one second after the next.

  The scene from the sushi restaurant keeps replaying in my mind.

  Hunter. Natalie. The two of them leaving together.

  Thwack. Fuck Hunter. Thwack.

  Sweat trickles down my biceps.

  I've never been so angry in my entire life. And this isn't like me. Not normally. But I can't help it. The one man who has been my rival for over a decade—Hunter—has bested me. And that isn't all. He's taken off with the one woman I'm interested in.

  Natalie. Na-ta-lie … three syllables that have come to symbolize a drop-dead sexy, funny, and whip smart woman.

  True, she unexpectedly appeared in my life, but I'm glad she did, and there's no way I'm letting her slip out of it now, just to be taken away by Hunter.

  Again.

  This isn't the first woman Hunter has taken from me.

  I let go of the jump rope and drop to the ground, pumping my arms and performing quick pushups. Maybe that will clear my mind.

  One. Two. Three. Inhale. Exhale.

  I need to stay focused. There's a Japanese proverb that says, "After victory, tighten your helmet chord." That's exactly what I plan to do.

  Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine.

  Sweat's now dripping into my eyes. I'm trying to stay focused on my training, but no matter what I do, I can't stop thinking about Natalie.

  I slide my hands into a pair of boxing gloves and hit a weighted bag.

  Bwap! Bwap! Bwap!

  I bounce on the balls of my feet. I jab, hook, and cross until my muscles burn, completely spent, and my breathing is ragged.

  I can't ignore this. I can't get Natalie out of my mind.

  There's only one solution. I need to see her.

  I need to see Natalie now, at her office.

  I grab a hand towel and drag it across my forehead, wiping the sweat from my face.

  "Finished already, boss?" a voice says.

  I turn around and see one of my sparring partners gearing up for the ring, securing padding across his abdomen.

  "Something came up. Another time?" I'm so distracted that I forgot about our sparring session.

  "Sure thing boss," he nods.

  I can't tell if that's disappointment on his face, or relief, but I don't have time to wonder. I grab my car keys and leave the gym.

  The second I step out of the gym's glass doors, the noonday sun is blinding. I blink back the brightness, and before I can even see where I'm heading, I walk straight into a man in a tailored suit and thick, horn-rimmed glasses.

  "Excuse me," I say, stepping out of his way.

  "Logan?"

  I look up at the man and holding a hand cupped over my brow to shield my eyes from the harsh sun.

  "Can I help you?"

  "Your profile article in the Gazette is creating some buzz," he says. "Is it true about Hunter?"

  As soon as he says this, I notice he's holding a pen and small pad of paper in his hands. He must be a fucking journalist.

  "Sorry, I don't talk to journalists," I say.

  "You talked to Natalie. I only want a moment of your time," he says.

  I keep walking, ignoring him. I'm almost to my car when another reporter approaches me. She's a thin, frantic woman who seems to speak with her hands, gesticulating wildly.

  "You and Hunter are the two best fighters the sport has seen in the last decade. Seeing both of you profiled at the same time is causing people to talk," she says, holding a voice recorder in my face.

  "I don't have time for this."

  "People aren't just talking," she continues. "Your article has created a media frenzy. Everyone is asking why the two of you have never fought each other?"

  "We'll never fight each other," I say.

  "Why not?"

  "It's personal."

  "But you two are the best in your divisions. People are saying the matchup would be the fight of the century," she says.

  Finally, I place the key in my car door, open it, and slide inside. But before I can shut the door behind me, the woman continues, "There can only be one champion. What are you afraid of?"

  "Afraid?"

  I don't know why, but her accusation brings back the images of Hunter and Natalie together in my mind again. I'm willing myself to stay calm.

  She shrugs. "Do you think he'd win and get the best of you? Is that it? Are you afraid to see what the outcome of that match would be?"

  "If it's one thing I'm sure of, it's this: Hunter wouldn't stand a chance against me in a fight," I say. So much for staying calm. I can feel a rage building up behind my temples and my pulse is kicking into high gear.

  "So why not fight? Why not show the world who's the best fighter?"

  I think about the way Natalie and Hunter exited the sushi restaurant, hand in hand.

  Enough is enough.

  Hunter isn't going to dictate what or how I live my life. He doesn't get to step into my life and wreak havoc, or take women from me.

  Fuck it. I'm tired of being cautious. Always playing by a safe set of rules.

  I look up at the journalist. "If Hunter wants to fight me, I'm more than happy to oblige."

  Maybe it's time
for us to go into the ring.

  Natalie

  No wonder everybody hates Fat Ed.

  It's already 10pm, and I'm still stuck at the office. I was about to head home, trailing after Michelle as she dragged her feet down the hallway, when Ed ambled out of his office, a burning cigarette perched on the corner of his mouth.

  “I need you to do this. Tonight,” he grumbled, pushing a stack of documents into my hands. “ I need it uploaded then,” he told me, turning on his heels and marching down the hallway. “Have a good night!” he laughed as he left, leaving me completely stunned.

  And now here I am, sitting behind a pile of documents as I turn them into tweets, Facebook posts, and what have you. Thankfully, Michelle’s here with me. The moment she saw what Ed did, she turned around and decided to stay behind to help me.

  “What did you do to piss him off?” Michelle asks me, never looking up as she drums her fingers against her keyboard, furiously tapping at the keys. “Gah, this is fucking bullshit! He has you updating the information on the website about the local teams. The local teams! What did you do to piss him off?” she repeats. Jumping up from her seat and placing her hands on her hips, she taps one foot against the floor as she waits for my reply, and I feel like a schoolgirl telling her parents the reason she brought home a note from school.

  “Nothing!” I sigh, gritting my teeth as I feel anger taking over me. Why today, of all days? I can't work overtime today!

  “Well, he looked pissed off. But then again, he always looks as if he's pissed off about something,” she admits, sitting back on her chair and exhaling sharply, her frustration showing on the wrinkles on her forehead.

  “Do you think he realized I was keeping something from him?” I ask her, my eyes darting to the trash basket in the corner. It’s already empty though; it’s so late that the cleaners have already come to empty it.

  “Maybe? I don’t know… Who the hell knows what’s going through his head?” Focusing on her screen again, she goes back to typing so fast that I’d almost say it’s humanly impossible. That’s Michelle—Goddess of Procrastination by day, the Vigilante of Productivity by night.

  “Oh, well,” she continues, “it’s not like I have anything better to do. I was hoping to doze off while watching Netflix, but oh well.”