Royally Ruined (Bad Boy Royals Book 2)

by Nora Flite

  But Darien didn’t want me.

  My father didn’t want me.

  Everyone wanted her.

  And I’d never let that happen.

  “Costello?” Scotch whispered, inching down the stairs. I was stretched out on the living room couch under a blanket I was positive Margie had crocheted. I sat up as Scotch approached; she had a long gray robe wrapped around herself. She’d have looked better—more comfortable—in rose pink.

  The room was illuminated by some plug-in night-lights near the stairs. I’d seen the sort before, but there were tons around this home. It was excessive. But it did let me see her clearly as she walked over the white rug toward me. “Hey,” I whispered.

  “Are you comfortable?”

  I half smiled. “It’s like you forgot I once slept on a motel floor.”

  Her eyes darted to the side, her hands deep in the robe pockets. “I didn’t want you to do that, you know.”

  “I know.”

  My blunt answer made her stare at me. I could see the shapes of her hands under the cloth—tight fists. “If you knew, then . . .” Shaking herself so that her blonde hair rolled over her forehead, she refocused on me. “I wanted to ask you something.”

  Adjusting on the couch, I reached for her. I didn’t give her a choice; my fingers were quick, muscles coiling to guide her onto the couch, onto me. Scotch’s spine nestled on my chest, her scalp under my chin. “Go on, ask.”

  “Like it’s that easy when you do things like this,” she mumbled.

  “Like what?” I teased.

  “Forget it.” Her body shifted, warm ass stroking me. Intentional or not, it had my lower belly tightening in pleasure. “I just wanted to know . . .” Her hesitation was tangible. I was inhaling her scent, dizzy with her heat. I might have answered anything she asked. “What did my uncle say to you?”

  My mood cooled. That was what she wanted to know? It didn’t feel like that was what had been on the tip of her tongue. But fine. This was what I was faced with. “He said a few things.”

  “Right, and those were?”

  I was glad she couldn’t see my face. “It’s best you didn’t know.”

  “Costello—”

  Catching her chin, I turned her my way, sliding my mouth on hers, trying to suffocate away all my dark thoughts. All my guilt. Scotch was even better than her namesake; she allowed me to quench myself, and she kept refilling herself so I had more to take. There’d be no hangover . . . but I was sure, by the end, there would be regret.

  I was already drowning in it.

  Her hands caught mine, both of us inhaling as we split apart. “What are you doing? What’s wrong?” she asked.

  Tensing, I moved to kiss her again; her muscles fought to insist I not. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Crinkling my nose, I looked away. “Can’t you let me? It would be so much easier for us both.”

  “That’s insane. Costello, you’ve told me so much, what could you possibly have to hide from me still?”

  “So much,” I laughed bitterly. “There’s not enough time to tell you everything.”

  “What?” The pain in her voice drew me back. Her eyes were half-shadowed by her heavy lashes, but that didn’t disguise her distress. “You make it sound like you’re going somewhere.”

  It took all I had not to flinch. “Do you know where I’m going?” I moved so that she slid under me, my weight pressing her into the couch. Reaching between us, I cupped the inside of her thigh, and she jerked with a gasp. “Here. I’m going right here. But first I’m going to kiss you. Can you stay quiet enough that your parents don’t hear us?”

  “Costello!”

  “Shh,” I murmured. “Your dad doesn’t like me. If he sees us like this, he’ll definitely kill me.”

  Sandwiched between our bodies, my phone buzzed. Then it buzzed again.

  “Who keeps calling you?” Scotch asked.

  I pulled my phone out, but I didn’t look at the screen. “Take a guess.”

  “Your dad.” Sitting up, she reached for it. I shouldn’t have let her have it, but I did. “The Valentines want to do a handoff,” she said, reading. Then she went stiff. “Is this real? Will your loved ones be in danger because of me?”

  The screen lighting up her face gave her a blue sheen. It made her look too much like a corpse. I quickly took my phone back, saying, “Because of Darien, not you.”

  She challenged me with a flat stare. Fuck, it broke my heart. “I’m going to fix this. I’ll make everything right.”

  The way she said that hit too close to home. I’m used to double-edged promises. Pulling her against me, I coiled the blanket around us both. “We’re doing this together.”

  “I know. I just need you to know that I never meant for any of this to go so far.”

  “It’s not your fault. None of this is.” Shaking my head, I made her look at me. “If you’re thinking the solution is you should have just died in that champagne room, you’re wrong. And if I get a hint that you’re thinking that again, I’ll . . .”

  “What?” she chuckled. “Kill me?”

  I pushed the back of my head into the couch cushions, my laugh hollow in my chest. “Something worse.”

  “What could be worse than death?”

  I had a hundred ideas. I said none of them. “The not knowing will keep you in line.”

  “Pff.” Her lips made a funny shape; I bent down to kiss it away. Her eyes remained shut for a heartbeat when I pulled away. She always looked so content like that. I wished I could keep her this way, never worrying—a perfect stasis of happiness.

  Snowy wind buffeted the living room window. Scotch’s eyes cracked open, seeing it, seeing me. “I have to go upstairs.”

  “Do you?”

  Grinning, she tossed the blanket over my head. When I pushed it away she was standing on the bottom step. “You’re the one who said it earlier: my dad will kill you if he catches us sleeping together.”

  Propping myself up on the couch arm, I slid the blanket down my bare chest. “Wouldn’t that be a way to go, though?” I was only half joking.

  Scotch was glowing in the night-lights. She didn’t move, and I wondered if she sensed I was serious. Her smile was coy; she gave me a light wave, whispering, “Good night, Costello. See you in the morning.”

  I wondered how many mornings we’d have together before this was over.

  - CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO -

  SCOTCH

  There was nothing more surreal than sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast with my family, while Costello Badd sat across from me. He was drinking coffee; he’d politely declined my mother’s offer of doughnuts. No matter what she suggested, he turned it down.

  Under the table, I sent him a quick text.

  Me: Eat a doughnut, dummy.

  He sat up, feeling the vibration. After glancing at the screen, Costello cast me a sly smile. Reaching over, he took a plain doughnut from the basket and gave it a nibble. Good. The guy needed fuel if he was going to put up with my uncle today.

  Gina pushed a third bear claw into her mouth. “You’re still an ace baker, Margie,” she said.

  My mother grabbed her big hips, laughing with pride. “Come by the bakery sometime, they’re even fresher! These are a day old, you know?”

  “They don’t taste stale,” Gina said. Stretching backward over the chair and cracking her back, she groaned in delight. “I’m so full. Mind if I hop in your shower, Margie?”

  “Not at all,” she answered.

  “Great. Where do you keep the clean towels again?”

  Rolling her eyes kindly, my mom waved for my friend to walk ahead of her. “You’d think by now you’d know this home as well as your own. Come on.”

  Gina flicked a bit of sugar at me as she walked by. I snapped my napkin at her, but she dodged, laughing all the way up the stairs. It made me nostalgic for when we were kids and she’d sleep over on the weekends.

  It was almost eas
y to forget why we were back home.

  Except that when I looked at Costello and my father and uncle all glowering silently around the table, it wasn’t easy at all. These men were filling the air with testosterone, with bad memories and old hang-ups.

  It had to end.

  “Okay,” I said, pounding the table with my fist and shaking the silverware. They all snapped their eyes to me. “Let’s get down to business.”

  Costello visibly relaxed as he watched me. I hoped he found me comforting; the thought thrilled me. “You’re right. There’s no time to wait.”

  “How much time is there?” my dad asked. He was wearing thick moss-green sweatpants that I knew were easy to get over his stiff joints. They matched the color of his eyes—a color I’d lamented not winning in the genetic lottery. “Your father and his lot, or the Valentines, they’re working together to find you both. What are the chances they’ll bang our door down?”

  “Slim, currently,” Costello said.

  “They can’t track Heather back here?” Uncle Jimmy asked.

  Shaking my head, I wore a tiny smile. “I’d never have come here if it put you guys in danger. No one knows who I am. When I waitressed—”

  “Okay,” my uncle grunted. He’d spoken up so suddenly it threw me off. “We get it. So there’s no pressure to fix this quick.”

  Across from me, Costello’s whole body crunched together. Either his poker face wasn’t as good as it used to be, or I’d gotten better at reading him. I had a feeling it was the latter. “There is pressure,” I said, chewing my lip. He shot me a wary look, but I went on. “The Valentines are threatening to hurt Costello’s family if he doesn’t hand me over to them.”

  Costello remained steady, looking at my uncle with mounting curiosity. He said, “You’re wondering if I’ll betray you.”

  “Being blunt doesn’t win you any points,” Dad grumbled.

  “Stop,” I said, leaning over the tabletop. “We’re not going to start accusing Costello of plotting against us. He’s saved me too many times to count.” But the mention of his family had my brain going haywire. I was terrified by that text Maverick had sent.

  His loved ones will get hurt if I don’t fix this.

  Tightening my teeth together, I spoke as firmly as I could. “We need a plan. Darien started all of this. He’s got everyone thinking I tried to murder him, and we all know it’s nuts. Honestly,” I laughed, “I don’t know why anyone is taking him at his word.”

  A chair squeaked, sliding an inch backward. My dad had linked his fingers over his mouth, but his voice came through clear. “There’s a reason, if you think about it.”

  All of us focused on him, silent in our anticipation; we didn’t dare slow his train of thought.

  Shutting his eyes under a furrowed brow, he said, “Jimmy, you remember the old guy who used to run that little grocery store with his brother?”

  My uncle cocked his head. “Stanford and Montana. We were always getting called down there for the pettiest crap, and when Montana took over . . .” All of a sudden his eyes stretched wide. “Shit. I get what you’re saying.”

  Dropping his hands to his lap, my father looked at Costello. “Montana wanted to run the shop, but his older brother had seniority. They fought about it for years, and the employees never knew which side to take. Until one day. I rolled up there, had a call about someone planning to burn the place down.”

  I’d listened to my father tell me so many stories about working on the street. I’d always listened with rapt attention, and now was no different.

  He said, “Montana was there, claiming Stanford had been attempting insurance fraud. Guess the plan was to burn the building, make it look like an accident, but Montana caught him in the act. Of course Stanford denied it, but most of the employees were siding with his brother. Even as they refused to look me in the eye, they claimed they’d seen Stanford pour gasoline in the store the night before, then stash the container in the dumpster. It was there when I looked. I had no choice but to arrest him.”

  “I don’t get how that’s the same as what happened to me,” I said reluctantly.

  Chuckling dryly, my uncle said, “Those employees knew Montana was lying. He lied just to gain control of the store, and they held the lie together. Montana rewarded them for their part in it—one of the cashiers was driving around in a Corvette she could not afford just a week later.”

  Costello’s fingers dug into the edge of the table. “Of course. Darien is lying to save face, but his family is taking the lie and using it. As long as there’s no way to deny his claim, they’ll back him up . . . and they’ll go to war . . . because they already wanted to. People will rally behind them. And why not? We put a hit out on their son.”

  Tiny Pop Rocks explosions worked through my bloodstream. This whole mess was bigger than me. Bigger than Costello. “This is insane. But it changes nothing.”

  “You’re right,” my uncle agreed. “This needs to be handled carefully. I can find a way to get you into witness protection, Heather. You and Gina.”

  “I’m not doing that! Uncle, I’m done hiding. And what would happen to Costello and the others?”

  With the utmost severity, my uncle said, “I don’t care if those two families destroy each other.”

  Costello’s lips made a sad smile. “I’d expect no less from a man with a badge.”

  My dad put up a hand. “Watch yourself, kid.”

  Fire danced through Costello’s vision; he was half standing. “Don’t call me kid. Ever.”

  “Guys,” I laughed nervously. “Take a breath. I have an idea, if you’ll listen.” They were all standing now, just glaring at one another. “If this comes down to Darien and his ego, maybe the solution is simple. Can’t I just reason with the man?”

  I wilted under their disbelieving stares. “Of course not!” Costello growled. “Scotch, you’re not going anywhere near him! He’s dangerous!”

  “Hear me out—” I began.

  “No more dangerous than you,” Uncle Jimmy muttered.

  Costello’s rage morphed into a poisonous grin. He was fighting his disgust for my uncle, for my father, and I knew that . . . but it made it no easier to witness. “You’re right. I am dangerous. It’s why Scotch is still alive. You could have never done as much as I have.”

  “Her name is Heather,” my father growled.

  Kicking his chair aside, my uncle walked two steps forward to square off with the other man. His hand was on his hip, where his gun was. Costello’s fingers were steady at his sides; I was sure he could grab his pistol faster than anyone in the room. “I don’t care about the past. I care about the future, and I’m going to make sure Heather has one. And as long as you’re here, you’re in the way of that.”

  Pain wrenched through Costello’s face.

  “Guys!” I shouted, moving to stand in between them. “Calm down! We can make this work!”

  Costello took a long, deep breath. He was on one side of me, and my dad and uncle were on the other. If you stepped back from the scene, it would have looked like he was preparing to fight all three of us . . . and he’d realized he couldn’t.

  “No,” Costello said, dodging around me. “Your uncle is right. I’m just in the way.” He snatched his jacket up and slid it on as he hurried down the skinny hallway.

  Next to me my father whispered, “Good riddance.”

  I ran to the open front door just in time to see Costello peel out of the driveway in the white Charger. Behind me my uncle grunted. “Let him go. We can make our plans without him.”

  Clutching the doorframe, I tensed up. “Why can’t you understand that he isn’t like the rest of his family?”

  “Heather—”

  “Scotch,” I growled. “I go by Scotch.”

  He was taken aback. “Listen. I’m only trying to keep you safe.”

  The snow was burning my nose as it drifted inside. “So was he.”

  Footsteps scuffled behind me, my uncle leaving the room. I was al
l alone, and I truly felt it. Any plan I wanted to make . . . It didn’t matter if these three people couldn’t work together. My fingers tightened on the wood. Why can’t they see how useful Costello is? How good and wonderful? All they see is who his family is.

  Thinking back to the night he’d cornered me in the Dirty Dolls’ dressing room, I half smiled. If that was the version of him my uncle and dad saw, then I could understand their hesitation. That night Costello had been wicked . . . he’d been frightening and exciting as he felt me up against the cold lockers.

  An idea crept through my head. It sent my blood into overdrive. The longer I stared out at where Costello’s car had been, the more I knew it was my only choice. I spun and headed into the kitchen.

  My father and Uncle Jimmy were gone. I pictured my uncle outside smoking, and Dad was probably pacing around upstairs; if I listened, I could hear the floorboards squeaking.

  My mother was the only one in the room; she looked up when she saw me, startled. “Sorry,” she said, like apologizing was an impulse. “I . . . overheard it all. Costello will be back, I’m sure of it.”

  It was a Wednesday, the one day my mother didn’t run the bakery. “I’m sure, too,” I said. And I was.

  She beamed, spinning around and putting the breakfast plates in the sink. My mother hummed to herself as she started washing the dishes. It sent me back to when I was a kid. I’d loved listening to her sing. That was when I’d learned I had no rhythm, but she never cared.

  My mother would dance with me even if I kept stepping on her toes.

  “Mom,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “I need something.”

  “Of course, honey bun. Just ask.”

  “I need to borrow your van.”

  During the holidays, my father would take me to see the mansions in Newport. Every season, people would decorate their massive homes and open the gates so we, the less fortunate, could marvel at their wealth.

  I’d loved it.

  It was amazing to see these huge buildings strung with lights. Sometimes the owners would hand out treats on their doorsteps. I always ate too much and regretted it later. It was the best.