“Your HIGHNESS,” Jeffrey hissed again. “It’s been taken—”
“How much does a new bike cost, Mr. Walder?” She clicked her pen and opened her checkbook.
The courier’s mouth fell open. Clearly he wasn’t expecting this. He closed his mouth and pressed his lips together, looking down at the pavement. “It’s just a bike, Highness. Seventy notes should cover the cost of it.”
“Oh,” she said on an exhale, feeling the heat rising in her cheeks. Embarrassed, she looked down. “I suppose you’ll have some left over then.”
“I’m giving it to a shelter. The one on Blaine Street,” he mumbled defensively, glaring in Jeffrey’s direction.
“A homeless shelter? That sounds like a worthwhile donation.” She smiled. In an entirely too wide fashion. She blamed it on her nerves. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll double the amount you were going to donate. In your name and you keep the rest of the ten thousand notes, okay?” She began scribbling out a check for twenty thousand notes when the flash of camera bulbs distracted her. She finished writing out the check and handed it to Dylan hurriedly.
He chuckled, his tone dark and humorless. “Is that what this was? A photo op? My mistake for actually thinking one of the royals could be a decent human being…” he spoke the words like a child expelling bad-tasting medicine. Like he’d been holding them in his mouth and he couldn’t wait for an opportunity to get rid of them.
“I guess I’m just a fluff piece, huh?” he continued to her mortification. “Picture of you on the front page being nice to a lowly subject so that no one sees the latest bullshit your idiot father is forcing on us? Because fuck that, Your ‘Highness’.”
He tore up the check into tiny pink pieces, throwing them up in the air. The pieces fluttered down to the sidewalk like snow. Lucy followed their descent with her eyes, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall.
Jess’ hand was on her shoulder, tugging her back into the limo as Jeffrey chastised Mr. Walder, who looked angry enough to spontaneously combust.
She allowed her bodyguard to tuck her back into the plush limo seat. She turned her head to look out the opposite window, her cheeks still burning with the humiliation that came with being dressed down in public by someone who basically hit the nail on the head, thought she’d been just as surprised by the cameras as the courier had been.
What was she thinking? She hadn’t gone out to apologize for the good of the courier. She’d gone out to ease her own conscience. And now look what had happened: she felt even worse.
“Jess?”
“Hmm?”
“Find out the name of the shelter on Blaine Street. I want to make sure they get that money. Send it anonymously.”
Jessica was silent for a moment, but she finally nodded in reluctant agreement. “Luce…you can’t let him get to you. There are so many people who are angry right now.”
“He was right, though. He was just a fluff piece. I’m just a fluff piece.”
Jess’ hand appeared on hers, squeezing gently before Jeffrey reentered the limo. He sat down without a word, buckling his seat belt over his waist and pinching the bridge of his nose for a few seconds as the driver pulled away from the curb. “Sit up straight, Princess.”
Lucy snapped to attention, immediately straightening her back and pressing her knees together. Her mind still back on the curb with the angry courier, growing further and further away.
“That’s Etrian silk…that dress.”
CHAPTER TWO
Dylan swore again loudly as the black limo zoomed off. The group of photographers and reporters had started to disperse as soon as it became clear he wasn’t going to talk to them.
He fought back the urge to hold up his middle finger at those who had assembled on the sidewalk around the scene of the accident.
He hoisted his battered bike up over his shoulder; he still had a delivery to make. To some law offices downtown. Luckily, the package was just a certified letter and nothing breakable, or he’d be doubly screwed.
He darted through the crowds as best as he could with a crumpled ball of metal and bike tires on his shoulder. He nearly tripped over at least three people sitting on the walkways. It seemed the beggars were out en masse today. Beggars and protesters, the latter of which he hadn’t seen this far from the docks before. It was a mess downtown, and it all had to do with that damn luxury liner. The Sofia’s dedication was today. How could he forget when it was splashed across the front page of every paper in the country? As if Justana had no other newsworthy events to report on other than that expensive piece of garbage in the harbor.
Just thinking about the stupid eyesore was enough to get his blood boiling again. Anew. Afresh. Two years of hard labor had gone into building that monstrosity, a gift to the Etrian King. To thank him for his pseudo-involvement in a war that Justana shouldn’t have started, a war that had nearly crippled their country. A war that they were just now recovering from, if what the bulk of the population—those not born to undeserved privilege—was doing could be called that.
Dylan would have been right there with the protesters if his job wasn’t on the line. His boss wasn’t a fan of peaceful protests if it interfered with packages being delivered.
Just thinking about the tax dollars wasted… He took a deep breath to calm down, trying to clear his mind of all the idiocy he’d witnessed. Of course, once he’d done that, the only thing he could think about was her.
The fucking nerve she had. Princess Lucille. Trying to smooth things over, fluff up her Daddy’s reputation by donating money to one shelter. One shelter out of dozens in this city alone. Did she think that a smile, a royal hand-shake, and a check were going to make up for how many people had been forced out of their homes?
No matter how sweet her smile or how soft her skin was, she was still a member of the privileged class.
Dylan bit his lip and forced the image of the princess out of his mind. He wasn’t thinking straight. Clearly, he was more shook up than he’d previously thought.
He arrived at the law offices, opting to leave his mangled bike on the sidewalk outside. He sighed audibly when it wouldn’t fit in the bike rack and decided not to use the lock. If someone thought they could salvage it and decided to steal it, all the more power to them.
Dylan leapt up the stairs two at a time, not calm enough to sit in an elevator. His knee stung, but it took his mind off the pesky memory of the princess’ soft hand encased in his. It had been so small, so delicate looking, yet she had a firm grip.
A firm grip and at the risk of sounding like a weak-willed sycophant…she did have a nice smile. A really nice smile. He’d been taken aback by how attractive she’d been up close.
Not that she wasn’t attractive from afar. In fact, he couldn’t even count the number of times he’d heard the equivalent of locker room talk surrounding Princess Lucille, especially in the repair garage at work.
There was something classic about her look. The full lips, the wavy brown hair, the piercing green eyes. Her narrow waist and hourglass figure, which made for a nice silhouette.
She had extremely good fashion sense. Probably. According to all the magazines, anyway. It wasn’t really his wheelhouse. He wasn’t sure how much of it was sense and how much it was the media falling all over itself because she was royalty. He couldn’t really find anything to complain about in regards to her attire today, however. A pale green silky dress that hugged her waist and dipped down a tasteful amount in the front.
Not that he’d been looking. And if he had been? Well. He’d just been hit by a car. He wasn’t thinking straight.
Still wasn’t, if his current train of thought was any indication. He shouldn’t be thinking about how alluring she looked in that dress. He should be thinking about how absolutely clueless she was as to the plight of the working class in Justana. She was the heir to the throne,after all. Who cared about the heir dressing well when the country was going down the drain with all the grace of an angry cat in a toilet bo
wl?
Dylan had collected himself somewhat by the time he reached the fourth floor landing. He was composed, if a little sweaty and scuffed up.
It wouldn’t be a big deal, though. He’d gotten here with minutes to spare, upheld the mission statement of his employer, JDS. At least Justana Delivery Service’s reputation wouldn’t be tarnished by a stupid accident.
He dropped off the paperwork and accepted a tip from Karen, the receptionist. She usually giggled and blushed whenever he talked to her, but his ruffled state must have been more apparent than he had expected. She smiled nervously, pressing a larger than normal amount into his hand before he turned to leave.
He stuck it deep in his pocket, along with the stack of cash he’d received from the princess’ advisor. He elected to use the elevator on his way out; his knee was really smarting now. He burst out of the air conditioned lobby and into the heat, scowling at his bike, which was still sitting there. A sad heap of twisted metal on the sidewalk.
He made his way back to the main branch of JDS with the mess hoisted over his back, intending to drop the bike off in the garage. He’d ask one of the mechanics if it was salvageable. True, he had a stack of notes in his pocket that would more than cover it, but it had been a nice bike. He wasn’t sure if he could find another he liked as much. Dylan Walder was a creature of habit, if he was anything. And it was his, earned of his own hand and valued as such.
He was ready to leave it in a corner somewhere when he spotted Kerry Martin wiping down his hands on a rag. The mechanic’s station was empty, an opening if there ever was one.
Most of the mechanics didn’t like working on bikes. They were only paid for the repairs they made to the electric scooters and delivery vans, so they usually put the bike couriers off until they ended up fixing their bikes on their own.
Kerry, on the other hand, was a friend of Dylan’s. He didn’t mind taking a look at his bike when it wasn’t busy in the garage.
Dylan plopped the bike-turned-pretzel on the ground, holding it upright with one hand. “Can I borrow you for a minute?”
Kerry turned, his eyes widening. “Whoa. What the hell happened?”
Dylan shrugged. “Fell off a curb.”
He and Kerry had been best friends for years. Since middle school. Kerry had been present for the lowest points of Dylan’s life: when his parents had died and when he’d gotten kicked out of multiple foster homes in the years following. Kerry had been the one who convinced him to move into his family’s spare room when he turned eighteen, six months before they’d graduated high school and Dylan was emancipated from yet another crappy foster home situation with no money, no job, and no place to go. Kerry even was the one who helped Dylan get this job.
That, in and of itself, was reason enough to call Kerry his best friend. Jobs were few and far between in Tinerly. They were even more sparse in the outlying regions of Justana. Kerry had vouched for him, called in every favor he could think of, and had practically signed on to be his keeper to get him this job.
So, suffice it to say, he was capable of an accurate assessment of Dylan’s mood when the time called for it.
“I’m gonna repeat myself, Dude. What the hell happened?” He wasn’t looking at the bike, he was looking at Dylan. “You look like you got hit by a car or something.”
“A limo, but that’s beside the point. Can you look at my bike?”
Kerry blinked, running a greasy hand through his short, spiky blond hair. “Okay…Are you alright, though? Do I need to take you to the hospital or something?”
Dylan shook his head. “I’m fine. I jumped out of the way. The bike did not.”
“Is your leg bleeding?”
He looked down at the one he’d skinned. It was indeed, bleeding. Dripping down as far as his sock cuff.
“It’s just a scratch, man. Can you help me fix this?” He gestured to the bike.
Kerry scoffed. “Fix what? It’s a ball of metal…”
“I mean, I understand that I might have to replace some parts. Just tell me what I need to do.”
The mechanic shook his head in disbelief. He walked around the bike, flicking the rear reflector and sending a spray of orange plastic shards everywhere. He bent slightly to remove the seat post, handing it to Dylan.
“There. Replace the rest. Did you at least get their license plate number? You could at least get a couple of x-rays and a new bike out of it. And a few days off work might do you some good. Do you own a neck brace? You should probably start wearing one. You know. Until you get your settlement.”
Dylan rolled his eyes. “I don’t sue rich people for money I don’t need. Besides. They already paid me a ‘settlement’.” He tugged the stack of cash out of his pocket. Not all the way out, but enough for Kerry to see.
“Holy SHIT! Who ran you over?”
“I didn’t get run over.”
“Details,” Kerry scoffed. “Fine. Who hit you with their mother-fucking limousine?” Dylan tried to shush him. “I mean…that is some GREEN, man.”
“Ten thousand notes, I know.”
Kerry opened his mouth and shut it a few times before speaking. “Ten. Thousand. Notes,” he whispered in disbelief. “What are you going to do with it?”
Dylan shrugged. “Replace my bike and give the rest to the shelter, probably.”
“Oh, c’mon, Dylan. Live a little.”
“I don’t want their blood money,” he said, taking offense to the implication. “They only paid me to keep me quiet.” He smirked slightly. “And I don’t need anything except a new bike, since you refuse to fix mine.”
“Dude, let it go; the bike’s unfixable. And it’s not blood money. It’s a fucking bribe. You deserve to enjoy yourself. Go on vacation. Go lay on a beach and get laid in your hotel room. Or, you know, get laid on the beach and lay in your hotel room. I’m not judging.”
Dylan shook his head. “I don’t want it. I’m donating it to people who need it. It will do the most good there. It fucking slays me that these…”
He had to stop before he gave away that it was the Princess who had been behind the accident. It wasn’t that he wanted to honor the unspoken agreement between himself and her advisor as he stuffed the ten thousand notes into Dylan’s hand. He really just wanted to forget the whole thing. Once the money was gone—and whatever photos the press had gotten were dropped for other news— he could just move on with his life. He could forget he’d ever met the Princess of Justana. Forget how bright green her eyes were up close. Forget how the silk of her dress accentuated her curves. The feel of her hand in his. The slightly sweet, floral scent that wafted off her whenever she moved.
You ripped up a check for twenty thousand notes and threw it in her face because she’s a heartless aristocrat.
“These PEOPLE who have money to throw around as bribes while there are still homeless and hungry masses lining the streets.”
Kerry sighed, likely knowing there was no arguing with Dylan on the subject.
“Don’t you sigh at me like that. I’m not going on a tirade.”
“That’s right!” Kerry snapped his fingers. “Because remember my only rule for hanging out in here?”
“No political tirades in the garage. Yes. I know. I remember.”
“Walder!” The shout echoed off the wall of the garage, making everyone else go quiet. They both looked up towards the door at the other end of the large room. Their boss, Mr. Everton, stood at the other end.
“Sounds like it’s for you, dude.”
Dylan exhaled noisily and jogged off in the direction of the door, still holding his bike seat in hand.
He wasn’t sure what to expect when he approached his boss. A smile was definitely not on the list of possibilities. It was downright eerie.
“You have…some visitors.”
Dylan frowned. “Who?”
“A reporter and a photographer from the Daily Justanian.”
He snorted. “No really. Who?”
Everton pushed him through
the door, all the way past the main lobby and back to his office, taking the bike seat from Dylan’s hand in the process. Couriers only went to Everton’s office if they were about to get promoted or fired.
Or, apparently, if they were going to be interviewed for the paper.
He had no doubt in his mind about the nature of the interview. Not that he knew what to say about any of it.
He skidded to a halt. “I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t? Go in there and make us look good.”
Dylan shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t.” He emphasized the word, raising his eyebrows and hoping his boss would understand.
They didn’t have the best relationship, but Mr. Everton had never complained about Dylan’s work. He had never made a late delivery and he worked well with others. No grievances from clients. Dylan hoped that would buy him a little leeway.
Mr. Everton sighed. “I’ll get rid of them. I’ll tell them you’re out for a delivery or something. Just…go hide behind the front desk.”
Ten awkward minutes under the receptionist’s desk later, he was sitting in Everton’s office, stealing a handful of lemon drops from the candy bowl on his desk and spilling every single detail of his horrible afternoon. He ended up getting a week off with pay, which wasn’t exactly what he’d been expecting, but it was nice. Especially since he wouldn’t be using the notes he’d received from the princess for himself.
“Do me a favor, Walder?” his boss called after him as he was walking out the door.
“Sir?”
“Go have fun somewhere. Don’t spend your entire vacation volunteering again.”
Dylan chuckled as he left the office. Apparently, he had a reputation. It could be worse.
CHAPTER THREE
Dylan arrived at the soup kitchen a few minutes late, which meant he was going to get stuck doing prep work. Not exactly his favorite thing. The group that ran this soup kitchen ran it like a restaurant, even though they didn’t serve for profit and gave the food to the homeless. They didn’t just serve soup, but cooked a range of dishes with the ingredients their donations could afford. There was even a daily menu. There were servers. Greeters. The guy who volunteered on Mondays was an actual, honest-to-god chef. They made homeless people feel like regular people. Dignified people. And that was important.
Unavoidable (Royal Affair #1) Page 2