The Prince's Slave

by P. J. Fox

  But then, for some reason, her father had decided that they should go fishing. So he loaded her into the truck, the same beaten-down wreck he was driving a year later, and taken her to the worm woman’s hut. Except the worm woman wasn’t there.

  Careful investigation—which involved a stopover at the VFW for a beer or two—indicated that she’d moved. To a different shack, this one in the foothills. So they’d gotten back in the truck, this time with her father none too steady on his pins, and driven to the new address. Where they had, in fact, discovered the worm woman. What her real name was, Belle never knew. Belle also remembered her as being a hundred, which meant that she was probably only about forty. Maybe even younger.

  Once inside the shack, her father looked around. The view from what passed as a living room—the shack only had two rooms—was breathtaking, a slowly spreading panorama of the foothills, glittering blue, the water beyond. He grunted something to this effect.

  “Gets five channels.”

  “Huh?”

  The worm woman gestured to the room’s sole decoration, not counting the animal skulls: a freestanding television that looked like it had last been fully functional in Eisenhower’s time.

  Belle didn’t remember if they actually bought any worms or, if they did, what had happened to them. Her father, angry about the whole experience, had driven them home and then retreated into his garage. They still had a garage, then. He’d spent the rest of the afternoon drinking and grumbling about things Belle didn’t understand.

  Years later, she decided that the outing where they’d seen Mrs. Rogers was the last outing they’d had together as father and daughter. The last of their abortive trips through the middle of nowhere, to do nothing. Belle would come to recall these fishing trips that never happened, and other non-excellent adventures as being some of the happiest times she spent with her father. The only time she’d really felt like he was her father.

  Owen Wainwright had a problem.

  Actually, that was, to use Ash’s phrase, something of an understatement. Owen had a lot of problems and there was an argument to be made that his drinking was only the symptom of all of them; that at some point his problems had combined into a perfect storm of terror that had pulled him apart from the inside out. Belle didn’t know all the details but she did know that there had been something badly wrong with her grandparents and that her father had had a brother who’d died under mysterious circumstances. That he was also self-medicating for an undiagnosed mental disorder was almost also certainly true. Like Belle, he was anxious. And, like Belle, he’d found himself on a life course that wasn’t destined to fulfill him.

  Only, unlike Belle, he’d never even attempted to escape.

  But whatever the cause of his drinking, his drinking was the proximate cause of his other problems: his failed marriage, his slowly worsening liver disease. His weight gain. His inability to hold down a job.

  Belle hadn’t had her license for very long when she started getting calls about her father. Her parents were divorced by then and her mother was working double shifts at the Waffle House. She didn’t have time for Owen and neither did anyone else.

  Belle didn’t resent her mother for divorcing her father; her only wish had been that it had happened sooner. But she did resent her mother, and all the other adults in her life, for leaving her to shoulder the burden of coping with Owen. The man she’d long since ceased to call Dad. Because Owen’s condition was too upsetting for his ex-wife and too bothersome for his ex-friends, it fell to Belle to be the adult.

  No one asked her if she might rather not clean up after her wreck of a father; it was presumed that, surely, his own child couldn’t possibly be as affected by this as the man who’d had to fire him after he got caught stealing lobster pots for the third time. And Belle was quiet, and that didn’t help.

  Her father drank in the kind of places that normal people drove by but didn’t go into. That looked closed, even when they weren’t. That didn’t bother with decorations or, often, even windows. That stank of stale tobacco and even staler piss, and that left her wanting desperately to take a shower. No amount of shampoo seemed to wash the smell out of her hair, and the bottoms of her shoes were always sticky.

  In one bar, the owner had a pet duck. The duck, named Mabel, liked to hang around in the dirt swath that passed for a parking lot. Belle gave Mabel a piece of bread once and Mabel bit her.

  She’d almost run over Mabel the first time she went to pick up her father. Maybe that was why Mabel didn’t like her. If ducks remembered that sort of thing. But she hadn’t had her license very long—if she remembered correctly, a little more than a week—and her mother’s old Taurus was unfamiliar. She’d learned to drive in one of her friends’ cars.

  Owen was inside, slumped over the peeling Formica counter of the bar and weeping about something. Belle didn’t understand. Neither did anyone else. She gritted her teeth and set her shoulders, telling herself that she could do this. She tried to ignore the rising heat of humiliation under her skin. The knowledge that her cheeks were, by now, glowing cherry red. None of the other patrons cared, she told herself. Over and over again. None of them were judging her.

  Her only goal was to get him out of the bar, and into her mother’s car, before he became belligerent. He was much taller, and certainly much fatter than she was and she knew she couldn’t force him to do anything he didn’t want to. He should want to go home. A sensible person would want to go home. But he might be upset about leaving his truck. And, in truth, Belle didn’t know what they were going to do about that.

  Get it later, she supposed.

  Somehow.

  Sometimes he yelled. Later, when she’d come to pick him up for the last time, before she left for college, he’d thrown things. But this time, praise God, he came quietly. She touched his shoulder and he turned, regarding her through bleary and bloodshot eyes that seemed to both see too much and not see anything at all. And then he’d tossed back the last of his beer and stood up. Belle took his elbow to steady him and he let her.

  The bartender had asked when he was getting paid.

  EIGHTY-SEVEN

  She lay face down on the desk, inhaling the expensive-rich scent of the leather blotter under her cheek, as Ash pummeled her from behind.

  She’d come into his office to ask him about something, she’d forgotten what now, and wound up kissing him. Her mouth on his, her arms around his neck, she’d giggled as he pushed up her skirt and felt her up against the wall. Pulled her panties up, splitting apart her nether lips and driving her wild, the back and forth friction of the lace almost enough to send her soaring over the edge right there. She’d giggled again, and he’d smiled, which from another man was the equivalent of laughing out loud.

  And then somehow she’d ended up on his desk, still kissing him, and then he’d ripped her panties off and continued to tease her with his fingers as he’d freed himself from his own clothes and taken her from behind.

  She thrust her hips back against him, on the knife edge of agony from how deeply he was impaling her, but unable to stop herself. She wanted him inside her like this, filling her. Hurting her. His free hand slid up along her back and then around, and under her shirt and bra. He pinched her nipple, and she gasped. Legs spread, impaled on his cock, she felt like a goddess. Like the most desirable woman in the world.

  She bit back a scream as the pleasure flooded through her, leaving her limp and wrung out. Like a dish towel. She didn’t move as Ash finished, and withdrew to the bathroom to clean himself up. She could only hope that no one else popped into his office with a quick question in the next ten minutes. The thought brought a smile.

  Eventually, Ash returned and helped her to her feet. She was still a little unsteady, and knew that she’d be sore later. As excited as she’d been, she’d also been unprepared for his assault.

  She tottered off to the bathroom.

  Piers had, indeed, been called back to work before the weekend was over. He’d left l
ittle more than an hour after his grand tour, after someone in London rang to tell him he was needed immediately. He’d left as he’d come, cheerfully. And, this time, with the promise to return. Belle had been pleased to see him arrive and pleased to have him there and more than a little sorry to see him go. She’d forgotten how nice it was to spend time with friends.

  Oh, Luna was a friend but she wasn’t the same. She’d grown into something more like family, the little sister Belle had always wanted but never gotten. Whereas Piers reminded her, in some strange fashion, of the friends she’d left behind in Cambridge. In Dresden, too, for that matter. People to chat with. To have a beer with. Who understood her life and whose lives she could understand.

  That had been the previous afternoon.

  She and Ash had had dinner by themselves, a quiet affair full of deep conversation. She’d thought about bringing up the issue of friends, but ultimately decided not to. It wasn’t as though they even had much opportunity, here in the mountains: to make friends or to see them. What were they going to do, fly someone in from London every time they wanted to have a drink?

  Belle knew Ash had a place in London and thought she’d like to visit it, to spend a week or two, or more, in that city. She hadn’t yet experienced much of London but she liked what she had experienced; and she’d really like to meet Grace, Piers’ wife. To tour museums. Attend symposia. Meet other artists, and hear about their work. To do something.

  Just—getting a cup of coffee in a café seemed magical, sometimes. The idea of it. Breathing in the sights and sounds of an outdoor world other than that contained in her own backyard.

  But what would Ash think?

  That she wanted to leave. That she didn’t want him. That she felt trapped, here, in this place. She didn’t, but the truth was that…she was going a little stir-crazy. All winter she’d been fine. Hibernating, in a sense, just like the animals. But now that spring was coming, slowly but inexorably, she felt like a flower unfurling its petals. Yearning to stretch. To grow—up and out and everywhere.

  Instead she’d eaten her aspic and offered her opinion on the unrest in the Congo.

  Another place she’d never go.

  She left the bathroom after splashing some water on her face and putting her hair up in a slightly less untidy bun.

  Ash was sprawled on the couch that dominated the wall opposite his desk. She walked over and he pulled her down next to him. He put his arm around her, and she drew her feet up. The couch, like the blotter, was leather. Ash loved leather. She thought, idly, about the fact that this leather, too, smelled expensive. That leather was such an oddly masculine-seeming scent and why should that be? Women liked it, too.

  “We have to work on your control,” he said.

  “Maybe you should be less exciting.”

  “Yes. I’ll gain twenty pounds and give myself a scar.”

  “I’d still find you exciting. No matter what you looked like.”

  She glanced up, and saw him looking at her. Studying her, really. “Do you mean that?”

  “Of course. I always mean what I say.” Her tone was prim. “Except when I’m really angry. Then I don’t mean it—at least, not always.”

  They were skirting around an issue that had come up before. An issue that, at some point, would have to be addressed. But one that Belle, at least, was afraid to address; she was afraid of what would happen. She didn’t want to burst this bubble—if bubble it was. She didn’t…there were too many things she didn’t want to face.

  “Your art,” he said, accepting the change of subject, “is coming along remarkably. And you have quite a few pieces now.” He paused. “You should have a show.”

  “A show?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, a rush of chagrin that she regretted almost instantaneously. “Where? And for whom? The sheep?”

  “I meant,” Ash said stiffly, “somewhere else. Perhaps London.”

  “Oh.” And then, still unable to help herself, “but I don’t know anyone in London.”

  “This is true.” Silence descended. “But that could be remedied.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re upset.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. You are.”

  “No I’m not! I’m just—”

  “Just what?”

  “Trapped!”

  “With me.” His tone was flat.

  “I mean, we never go anywhere! And it’s not as though I want to go to so many places, either. But I’d like to get out. At least once in awhile.” She shook her head. His shoulder had become tense. She sat back, putting some distance between them. “That’s all.”

  “I see.”

  “You’re the one who’s upset.”

  “You’re telling me that you’re not happy here. In my home. With me.”

  “No! Just that I want to—”

  “Leave.”

  “Not forever!”

  “Go, then.”

  “What?”

  He stood. “If you want to go, then go.” His gaze had grown decidedly cold and his tone more so. “I have work to do.”

  God, he was being a child. “Fine, then.”

  She stood up and, without another word, stalked out. Let him stew in his own juices, the ass. Not fifteen minutes before they’d been having a wonderful time and now he had to go and ruin things by losing his mind because she’d suggested going out. Well what was she supposed to do? Stay here forever? What if, God forbid, she wanted to go shopping? Get a cup of coffee, and from someone other than Luna?

  Was she just—what? Supposed to keep getting her panties mail order forever?

  Ash got to go places and do things. Belle wasn’t some harem girl from a time before telephones, to be pampered and cosseted and locked in a closet while her master roamed about the countryside. She didn’t ask for much, but even what little she did ask for was apparently too much. The ass!

  Grabbing her coat, she headed outside. She’d go for a walk, clear her head, and then figure out what to do. They couldn’t stay mad at each other forever, and she knew that, but right now conversation simply wouldn’t be productive. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she was still thinking about what he’d suggested. About having a show. In the part of her mind that was still capable of rational thought. Which right now was in the back. As far back as it could go. She didn’t want to be rational. She wanted to be angry.

  She stalked down the path, toward the drive. She had no particular destination in mind, and nor was she consciously choosing which way to go. It was more an issue of, that direction seems as good as any other. And besides, she wasn’t wearing the most sensible shoes. She didn’t want to hare off into the woods and break her ankle.

  Sometimes, stalking off to prove a point was inconvenient.

  Which realization made her even angrier.

  God damn that ignorant fool!

  Who—what—did he think she was?

  And what was she supposed to do, never ask to so much as go into town to pick up a sandwich so his ego wouldn’t be bruised? Or was that what he wanted: a woman who genuinely did not want to go anywhere or do anything. She found the though disturbing. Moreover, if that was how he felt…why had he brought up the idea of a show? To test her? Why bring up the idea of her leaving, of her actually getting to do something in the first time in what seemed like forever, and then get mad at her when she wanted to discuss it?

  She shook her head, as if to shake free the unwanted thoughts.

  And that was when she ran into Charlotte.

  EIGHTY-EIGHT

  Belle’s hands were thrust deep into her coat pockets, her head down as she concentrated on the gravel in front of her. She didn’t look up, or to either side. The sounds of birdsong didn’t reach her ears. She was too consumed with her own thoughts.

  She yelped in surprise as she ran into something, springing back and throwing up her hands. Some confused part of her thought, a tree! Except there were no trees in the middle of the drive?

/>   She blinked, struggling to take in the vision in front of her.

  “I didn’t have your number.” Charlotte sounded sheepish.

  She looked normal, though. Or at least more like herself. She’d traded her power suit for jeans and a houndstooth wool coat in soft shades of camel and charcoal. Beneath the notched collar, a flash of claret-colored sweater showed.

  “Oh.”

  The response made Belle feel like an absolute idiot, but there was nothing else she could think of to say. Here, standing before her, was the absolute last person she’d expected to see. Godzilla could have strode through the trees, roaring and shaking the earth, and it would have surprised her less.

  And then, “did you bring the cavalry?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “About that. I, ah…I wanted to apologize. I shouldn’t have said…what I said. I was wrong.”

  “Alright. But you didn’t come back here just to apologize.”

  “Actually, I did. I mean, that and….”

  There was always an and. With Charlotte there was always an and.

  “To ask you questions. The questions I should have asked before.”

  Belle was still suspicious. She couldn’t help but wonder if her former friend wasn’t merely trying another tack. And she was a former friend, wasn’t she? Charlotte’s only interest in Belle so far appeared to have been to change her: first to change her into a cosmopolitan woman of the world and then to change her back again.

  But Charlotte was here, and Belle had to admit that she could use some company. Even Charlotte’s. She gestured down the drive, the way Charlotte had come. “I’m going for a walk. You might as well walk with me.”

  “At least then I’ll be near the entrance if you decide to kick me out again.”

  Belle shot her a look.

  “I’m joking!”

  Belle said nothing. She wondered where Charlotte had parked her car. She might walk Charlotte to the gate house that guarded the front entrance, but she wouldn’t take a step beyond. She didn’t think Charlotte had gotten any noble notions about reverse-kidnapping her but one could never be too careful. And Charlotte had seen a lot of Liam Neeson movies.