Two hot shirtless men with glistening chests and abs materialize, making their way through the space, each carrying trays with open bottles of champagne. Then they stand quietly beside us, not moving, on display with their champagne.
I raise my eyebrows and look at Charlotte. "These are your waiters?"
She shrugs. "It was my idea."
"You're a genius."
Charlotte leans toward me and whispers. "You know that your bodyguard keeps staring at you."
I don't look over at Max. "He's a bodyguard," I tell her curtly. "That's his job."
"He's so hot," Charlotte notes. "I bet he's huge, too."
Do not think about how well-endowed he is, I tell myself, pulling my phone out of my purse and pretending to be super busy. I take a duck-faced selfie, then post it on social media: #club opening, #hotmeneverywhere, #fuckyouMax.
I don't post the last hash tag.
I look up at her and wrinkle my nose. "He's most likely tiny and shriveled," I lie. "Steroids."
Charlotte laughs. "I don't believe you. You just don't want me to fuck your bodyguard."
"Why wouldn't I?" I ask, increasingly annoyed with this conversation. I pretend to be mega-interested in my phone.
"Because you want him all to yourself," she declares like she's a fucking scientist and this is her Eureka! moment.
I force a laugh. "Trust me, there is not a man on Earth I want all to myself," I tell her, waving my hand in his direction. "Please. Fuck away."
Charlotte laughs and stands. For a second my heart stops because I think she's actually headed in Max's direction, but she's not. Instead, she picks one of the champagne bottles up by the neck and walks the waiter with her toward the edge of the balcony. There, she looks down on all of the club-goers before running her palm seductively across his chest. Below, the crowd hoots and cheers.
I glance over at Max, standing near the entrance of the VIP area, and he gives me a cold glare. I silently curse the way heat rushes through my body when I meet his gaze, despite everything he said to me.
You didn't think this was going to be anything except screwing, did you? Did you think you were going to confess to Daddy that you were sleeping with me and that I would decide I wanted to be your boyfriend?
Screw him.
Charlotte dramatically pours champagne down the bare chest of the half-naked man beside her and the crowd goes wild as she licks the liquid off his abs. When the second shirtless guy reaches for my hand, I take it, letting him lead me over to the edge of the balcony beside Charlotte. Even without turning around, I can feel Max's eyes on me.
A pang of guilt rips through me at the fact that I'm even in this scenario right now, especially because I know that none of this is who I am anymore.
But fuck Max. And fuck my stupid heart.
And fuck the L word.
"Let's give the crowd what they came for, shall we?" I ask Charlotte, grabbing the bottle of champagne and gulping from it as she works them up into a frenzy. I point to the bottle and then to the man beside me, pantomiming that I'm about to pour hundreds of dollars' worth of champagne down his chest and lick it off of him.
I drizzle the champagne right over the top of his pecs, watching the liquid run down his abs as the crowd cheers for Princess Train Wreck, the royal who normally would get on her knees in her short skirt, flashing a myriad of reporters, and put her lips on the bare chest of a random man.
They're all waiting for me to lick champagne off of his abs so they can publish the photos. They're all waiting to write the article on what a total disaster I am.
Princess Alexandra Out of Control Again: Rehab On the Horizon?
Princess Alexandra: Sex Addict?
Princess Alexandra: Royal Hookup with Stripper!
Princess Pours Out Champagne While Countrymen Can't Find Jobs
I just stand there half-drunk for what seems like an eternity with all of this stuff running through my head. Across the room, Max stares at me.
He's livid.
He looks like he's about to murder Half-Naked Guy with his bare hands and probably throttle me, too.
That should make me happy. It should make me feel satisfied that Max is angry. I should want to hurt him just as much as he hurt me. I should want to stick in the knife and twist it.
Except I don't.
Everyone is cheering and chanting: "Lick it!" and Charlotte is asking me what's wrong, but it all fades away. It's just me standing here as all of the noise fades away.
I can't fucking do this.
Dazed by that realization, I shove the bottle at Charlotte and mumble an apology to the half-naked guy whose abs will just have to go un-licked. My eyes on the exit, I stumble toward it.
I don't look at Max. I just want to get the hell out of this place.
But when I reach the exit, Max puts his hand on my arm. "Where do you think you're going?"
I recoil like I've been burned, heat still lingering on my skin from his touch. I don't want to talk to him. I don't want him anywhere near me. "Back away," I threaten, "or I will take off my heel and stab you with it."
Another bodyguard is almost immediately at my side, his hand up to prevent Max from touching me, and I'm taking the stairs in my heels two at a time.
The crowd at the end of the stairs surges and I immediately take my chance, ducking away from my bodyguard in a wave of people. I dodge guys who leer at me and a couple of girls who try to get selfies as I pass, heading toward what looks like the back of the club. While I don't know the layout of this place, I've been in enough clubs that I can find the back exit without much effort, and I've had enough practice ditching my security that it's easy enough to lose the new guy.
I don't look behind me. If Max isn't there, it means Charlotte likely has her claws in him, which makes ditching my security and heading out the back of the club the best fucking idea in the world right now.
I let out an oomph as I run into a guy who's about as wide as a brick wall, dancing in the crowd. His eyes go big. "Princess!" he yells drunkenly.
"In the flesh," I slur. I gesture for him to lean in closer. "Can I ask a royal favor?"
I giggle at my own pun. Hilarious.
Yep, I'm totally wasted.
"Anything," he says.
"The guys in suits behind me," I tell him. "I need to lose them."
His brow furrows. "You got it," he replies. "Hey, can I get a selfie?"
"No time," I yell, slapping him on the arm before squeezing through the crowd.
All I want is some quiet. I want to get out of here, catch a cab back to the palace, and go to sleep. Alone.
I push through people until I see a hallway with a small neon sign lighting up the end. Bingo.
As soon as I turn into the hallway, a hand grips my arm and fingertips dig into my skin. In my champagne-induced haze, I think it's so strange because the hand is skeletal – long, thin fingers and wrinkled skin, which is totally wrong.
This doesn't make any sense at all, I think slowly.
Then my eyes go to his face, and for a second, I breathe a sigh of relief. It's just an old man, his face wrinkled and skeletal, like his hands, his cheeks hollow and his skin sallow.
He kind of looks like the Grim Reaper, Drunk Me notes. I think I'm stifling my giggle at the thought, but I hear myself laugh and realize I'm not at all. "Are you Death?" I ask.
Shit, I'm way too drunk. That was so rude.
I realize he's still holding tightly onto my forearm and I try to shake him off. Okay, weirdo, you can let go of me now.
He doesn't.
My brain starts screaming at me now: Weirdo alert! Weirdo alert!
The problem is that my brain is drunk and seems to be working in very slow motion.
He pulls me down the hall toward the door, surprisingly strong for an old man, and it's only then that I realize something's really wrong. His gait isn't right for an old man. It's too strong, too steady.
"You knew we were coming for you," he says. His voic
e is too young for an old man, and for a second, I stare at him, my brow furrowed as I try to process the disconnect between his voice and his face.
He's wearing stage makeup.
"Who?" I ask stupidly, my heart racing as I glance back toward the hall. Is it too late to regret ditching the bodyguards earlier?
"Death is coming for you," he hisses, his breath stale.
Okaaaaay, creeper.
"That's a little melodramatic, don't you think?" I ask, trying to plant my heels on the floor as he pulls at me, but the alcohol has made me unbalanced and these shoes are the worst kind of impractical. If I could just pull one off, it would make a great weapon.
"Whore," he breathes into my face. "Jezebel!"
45
Max
Spoiled brat.
Spoiled rotten brat.
Spoiled rotten, insanely hot, drives-me-fucking-crazy, thinks-she's-so-goddamnned smart-and-is-going-to-get-herself-killed brat.
I mutter the words over and over under my breath as I shove my way through the crowd just behind the other bodyguard who had pushed me aside at the exit from the VIP area. Alexandra thought she was being clever by getting the other guy Stone between us, putting me at just enough distance behind her on the way down the stairs to lose me when she darted into the crowd.
I tell myself that she's only a couple of yards ahead and that there's no evidence of that religious cult here tonight – and why would there be? It's not like they're going to patronize a sin-filled establishment like a nightclub.
Besides, Alexandra's itinerary was last-minute and impulsively decided, as usual. It's not as if she blasted her plans or location all over social media.
The risk of something happening is low, and besides, her behavior has always been a magnet for people who are unhinged – especially people who hate that she lives her life unapologetically – and she's gotten through life so far relatively unscathed.
Unscathed, except for when her bodyguard, the person who'd been the most intimate with her, called her the worst kinds of names and made her feel like nothing.
So, all in all, not exactly unscathed.
Of course, she didn't seem too fucking bothered by that tonight, drinking and pouring champagne all over some shirtless jackass. That made it pretty fucking clear that Albert was wrong and it didn't bother Alexandra a damned bit that things between us ended.
My heart beats faster as I head straight toward the back hallway while Stone heads toward the bathroom on the opposite side of the back wall. The further I get through the crowd, the more something in my gut twinges, a sudden certainty that something isn't right. I have no reason to believe anything is wrong except instinct.
My mind and body are on high alert, all of my senses suddenly acute as I burst through the opening of the hallway.
That's when I see her at the end of the hallway struggling against a man who's trying to drag her toward the exit of the club.
I break into a run at once, calling into my earpiece for backup and for the car.
"Secure the right rear exit," I bark into my earpiece.
Yanking the man away from her, I punch him hard in the face – once, and then again – and he stumbles to the ground.
My hands on Alexandra's arms, I speak quickly. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"
Her face is pale and she shakes her head, which I take to mean she isn't hurt. I don't wait for her to respond before I order her to stay close to me, throwing open the door to clear the immediate area before proceeding.
The only person outside in the alleyway behind the back of the nightclub is Finn Asher, leaning up against the side of the nightclub and smoking a cigarette without a single care in the world.
"Finn??" Alexandra shouts, confused.
Two security vehicles pull up to the area, and multiple royal bodyguards jump out of each one, two rushing for the princess and the remainder securing the perimeter outside. One of them makes a move to grab Finn, who's still standing there looking remarkably casual for someone watching this unfold in front of him. Immediately, I know there's something wrong with that.
Alexandra fusses when the bodyguard goes for Finn: "That's not him! The guy is inside! Relax!"
Finn exhales smoke rings into the air, one hand holding a cigarette and the other hand up in mock surrender. "You heard the girl," he says, his tone dark. "Relax."
"What the hell are you doing out here?" I growl.
But I don't get to hear his bullshit response because the nightclub door immediately opens and Stone emerges with Alexandra's assailant, his hands cuffed behind his back.
The deranged man looks at Finn. "You've done the Lord's work," he intones.
"Shut the fuck up, dipshit," Stone orders, jerking the cuffs on his hands and transferring him to one of the other bodyguards, who takes him away. Stone shakes his head. "Fucking whack jobs."
All I care about is whether Alexandra is okay. "Don't let go of the guy who's smoking," I toss over my shoulder at Stone before taking Alexandra toward the vehicle and out of the earshot of everyone. "Did he hurt you?" I ask. A million possibilities race through my head, each one worse than the one before.
She shakes her head. "He just… he was just weird, that's all."
"Did he give you anything? Inject you with anything? Touch you?"
"Grabbed me," she says, her voice halting. She's clearly shaken, and I've never seen Alexandra shaken. "Yelled at me. That's it."
"Come on. We need to get you out of here," I say, fighting every urge within me to scoop her up in my arms, put her in the vehicle, and ride away with her. It's something primal, this fierce urge to hold her and to protect her, the insane notion that the only way she's safe is if she's in my arms.
Just then she shoves me harder than I expect, her hands going right to my chest. "I said I'm fine," she insists. "Stop treating me like I'm fragile."
"Shit, Alexandra." I exhale a laugh, mostly relieved that she's acting like her normal self right now. "You could have been fucking killed."
Alexandra was out of my sight for a second and some crazy guy could have murdered her. The only thing I care about is the fact that I could have lost her – and that right now I want to kiss her more than anything.
"Still fucking the help, are we?" Finn yells. "That's trashy even for your low standards."
I spin around and head straight for him, even as Alexandra calls my name. "Get her in the car," I call over my shoulder at the bodyguards. She's going to hate that, but I don't care because I'm completely consumed by rage right now. This punk has pissed me off long enough, and if he had something to do with that deranged lunatic trying to hurt Alexandra, I swear I'll kill him.
Everything happens fast after that.
I grab Finn by the collar to slam him up against the wall. "What did you do?" I demand.
He knows exactly what I'm talking about. He spits in my face. "I was in the right place at the right time and I let him in the fucking door," he brags. "I mean, who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth? Once he dragged her ass out here and she saw me, Alex would have spread her legs the way she should have been doing for me all along. I'd have made sure of it."
I don't give a shit about anything else except what he's saying about Alexandra, and how he put her in danger, and what the fuck he intended to do with her after that nutjob had taken her out of the club.
The prick deserves to be beaten within an inch of his life.
So I hit him. And I hit him again.
I don't stop hitting him until the other bodyguards pull me away.
46
Max
Alexandra is in protective custody, having been whisked off by her security. Meanwhile, I'm standing here, my suit dotted with specs of Finn's blood and my knuckles still raw from hitting him.
It's three in the morning, and I'm in the sitting area in the king's royal residence watching while the king mixes himself a scotch from the bar. Suffice it to say that I never thought I'd be in this situation, waiting for the king
of a freaking country, clad in pajamas and a robe, to pour himself a scotch and then yell at me.
The king finally turns around. "That was a colossal disaster."
"Yes, Your Majesty, it was." As if I'm going to deny it.
"Increased security, yet all of you lost sight of her in that club!" he exclaims. "She could have been taken by that cult. Kidnapped, tortured, killed…!"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Your job – your only job – was to protect her!" he yells. "You were given more security guards, yet you couldn't secure a small nightclub! And Finn Asher … do you have any idea what you've done??"
"I took care of the guy who tried to use a crazy cult leader to drag your daughter out of a club so he could assault her in an alleyway," I burst out angrily. Then I add: "Sir."
The sir part doesn't make my outburst any less disrespectful when it comes to addressing a king. Especially when I broke so many fucking rules tonight.
Not just tonight. I've been breaking the rules since I got here.
I've broken every goddamnned rule when it comes to this woman.
The king's face reddens. "You assaulted the son of one of the most prominent families in Protrovia," he bellows, his voice booming. "One of the richest families in Europe."
"I'm not sorry for a second about that, Your Majesty." I clench my fists at my side. I'll apologize for a lot, but I'm not apologizing for that.
The king throws the crystal tumbler at the wall and it smashes into a hundred pieces. The bedroom door opens and Sofia comes out fully dressed. For a second, the completely ridiculous thought that she might actually sleep in a pantsuit goes through my head. It's almost hysterical enough to make me laugh, which definitely means I'm losing my mind. She's worried though, her face pale and her brow furrowed with a hand over her mouth as she watches us in shock.
"You're not sorry for a goddamned thing when it comes to my daughter!" King Leopold yells.
The door to the royal residence flings open and a security guard pokes his head inside, asking if everything is okay, but the king yells at him to leave.
Her Bodyguard (Raunchy Royals Book 2) Page 29