Rogue Royalty

by Meghan March

  “I’ll call him right now.”

  Before she hangs up, I quickly add, “Can you ask him what happened to the Tahoe and my sculpture? I’d like that back. Actually, I need it delivered to Noble Art.”

  Is it a lot to ask my boss? Yes. Do I care? No.

  Do I have a death wish giving orders to Mount? Not exactly, but I also have nothing to lose. I won’t cower and be intimidated by him or anyone else, including whoever was following me. They can fuck off too. I refuse to live in fear.

  That’s when I make the decision—I’m done hiding from the world. I’m going to live and live fearlessly.

  “It’s good to have you back among the living, Temperance,” Keira says quietly before she hangs up.

  It doesn’t take long before I get a text.

  * * *

  Keira: The Tahoe is on its way to the distillery. V will come get you.

  Temperance: Thank you.

  Keira: Your answers will be there too.

  * * *

  Finally. Ask and you shall receive. Magic.

  With newfound determination, I prepare to get on with whatever comes next for me.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m in a parking lot I haven’t stood in for over a month, staring up at the building that no longer feels like my second home. Shockingly, it’s not a lackey standing beside the Tahoe with the keys. It’s Mount.

  He wastes no time getting to the point.

  “With Rafe gone, you’re no longer a target. No one should be following you, but just in case, I’ll have someone continue to keep tabs on you.”

  My gaze jerks to his in surprise. “Continue?”

  He nods but doesn’t explain why he’s still having someone watch me. Instead, he cuts to the only thing he clearly cares about. “Don’t bring Keira into this again. If you need something, you call me. My number is on the card in the glove compartment.”

  I give him a nod. “Okay.”

  “The keys to your warehouse are in there too.”

  “How did you know about the warehouse?” Shock permeates my tone.

  Mount doesn’t answer, just turns away as another black car pulls up.

  “Take care, Temperance.” He slips into the backseat and he’s gone.

  I watch the car drive out of the fenced parking lot and release a long breath. As much as I want to go inside and give Keira a hug and thank her, I won’t. Mount doesn’t want me near her, and I can respect that.

  Instead, I shoot her a quick text thanking her before checking the back of the Tahoe.

  When I see my sculpture inside, my lips stretch into a genuine smile.

  I have a long overdue delivery to make.

  Valentina’s eyes light up when she steps back from the piece and stares at it. “It’s incredible. Truly, Temperance. Incredible.”

  “I’m sorry I’m so late.”

  She gives me a small smile. “I understand completely. I wasn’t going to rush you. I know you’ve been dealing with . . . well, I wasn’t going to rush you.”

  The pity in her eyes unleashes a new wave of grief, but I keep my composure. Come hell or high water, I’m not going to cry for an hour.

  Be happy, I remind myself. Or at least pretend.

  Maybe if I pretend enough, I’ll finally get there. I’m not sure if happiness falls under the fake it till you make it category, but I’m going to try.

  I force the corners of my lips upward. “Do you think someone will buy it?”

  “Are you serious? I’ll have this sold before you drive away. People have been waiting. I shouldn’t tell you that, but it’s true. After sending a picture and dropping a few lines in the right places, I’ve been getting calls. I have at least five more buyers interested in large pieces—and they’re buyers who aren’t afraid to pay.”

  “How much do you think?” It feels crass to ask, but I need to know.

  She gives me a number that’s more than what I make at the distillery in several months.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. So, if you’re able to get back to work anytime soon . . .”

  “I am,” I assure her. “I need to. It’ll be good for me.”

  When I say the words, I realize just how true they are. Having tools in my hand and creating something would be the most therapeutic thing I could do right now. When I thought about burying myself in work before, I felt even more suffocated.

  Because I was thinking of the wrong work.

  Now that I’ve been forcibly served another reminder that life is short, there’s another item I need to think about adding to my list. And while it’s not as scary as the other one I refuse to put on paper, it’s still pretty terrifying.

  Quit my job.

  As much as it sears me with burning anger to admit it, Kane was right about one thing. Working at the distillery isn’t what I want to do with my life. It doesn’t fill me with joy.

  Life is too short to be unhappy, and that includes showing up for work doing something I don’t love when I have the opportunity to get paid for my passion.

  “Give me a list of everything you think your buyers would want, and I’ll get to work. I’ll deliver them as soon as they’re ready. No more screwing around and taking forever.”

  “Temperance . . .” Valentina’s voice is soft. “You only need to do what you can. Don’t run yourself ragged just yet.”

  Her eyes are kind and I know she’s genuinely concerned, but Mount’s speech kicked me in the ass. I’m done with self-pity. At least, I’m trying to be.

  “This is the best thing for me right now. Please, let me do it.”

  She studies me and finally nods. “Okay. I’ll put a list together and text it to you. Although . . .”

  “What?”

  Valentina stares at my skyline sculpture for a moment. “How would you feel about having a showing of your own? Not a massive one, but a dozen or so pieces. It’s the best way to launch you as an artist in the community, but I know that’s a lot to ask. It’s not like you can just magic these up.”

  Her suggestion rocks me, but even in my shock, my first thought isn’t no. It’s how fast can I make twelve sculptures?

  “Really? You’d do that?”

  “Of course. It’s not purely altruistic, you realize. I’m making money on these too.”

  “I know. You should be. I don’t know anyone who would buy these. And certainly not for more than I could make in a few months at my day job.”

  Valentina shoots me another smile, and this one is devoid of any pity. “We got this, girl. You get to work, and I’ll start planning as soon as you can give me a ballpark date when you could be ready.”

  For the first time in over a month, a different emotion bubbles up inside me.

  Hope.

  6

  Temperance

  That new feeling of hope lasts for all of three minutes after I leave. Just long enough for me to hear the thwump-thwump-thwump of a tire on the Tahoe going flat as I coast toward the side of the road and an empty parking spot.

  I stare up at the tan headliner and send a seeking glance skyward.

  This is not a sign. This is not a sign. I repeat it to myself over and over until I start to believe it.

  I’m a capable woman. I’ve got this.

  After I park the Tahoe, I hop out and circle the SUV to see the damage. Rear tire, passenger side.

  Not a big deal. I can change a tire.

  I crouch down to check the rubber treads for whatever caused the flat, and freeze when I see a half-dozen nails in a grouping no bigger than my fist.

  What the hell?

  This isn’t some random flat tire. This was vandalism.

  In broad daylight.

  A creeping sensation, like the one I’ve felt for the last day, sends a shiver of concern down my spine, but I beat it back. I’m not going to live in fear.

  Regardless, there’s no arguing that someone did this on purpose. Someone wanted me to get a flat tire. I rise to my feet and turn, scanning the street for anyone who may
be watching me.

  No one stands out.

  Not the woman carrying several bags from a shop up the street. Not the man walking his Pomeranian. Not the two kids texting and not watching where they walk.

  Finally, my gaze lands on a dark SUV idling in a parking spot at the end of the street I just turned off.

  Mount’s guy keeping tabs on me?

  I stare harder at the blacked-out windshield like I’m suddenly going to be able to see through the limo tint, but it doesn’t help.

  Either way, I’m done here. I open the passenger door of the Tahoe, yank the keys out of the ignition, grab my purse, and wrap a hand around the edge of the door to slam it closed.

  Remembering what Mount said about the keys to the warehouse, I pause.

  Do I want them? Do I want anything from him? From either of them?

  Screw it.

  I open the glove compartment and a card falls onto the floorboard. Mount’s card.

  I only pocket it because I don’t want to drag Keira into my life if things goes sideways. And besides . . . you never know when you might need to call the devil.

  My gaze lands on the set of keys on a leather fob.

  Make a decision, Temperance.

  I debate leaving them, but if I take them, it still doesn’t mean anything. I don’t have to go there. I grab the keys and shove them in my purse before locking the Tahoe and striding home with all my senses on high alert.

  When I walk into the courtyard, Harriet has white sheets spread out on the grass.

  What in the world could she possibly be doing next?

  She walks out of her house wearing a black silk caftan that billows behind her, a tray in her hand and a smile on her face.

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  Her head snaps up like I’ve disturbed her meditative state, which, knowing Harriet, I might have.

  “You’re back sooner than I expected. How did it go?”

  I glance at the tray in her hand. “Is that paint?”

  “Body paint.”

  She says it like the statement requires no explanation.

  “For . . .”

  “Immortalizing myself in rainbow color. At least,” she glances over her shoulder, “I will be if my gentleman friend arrives to paint me.”

  “Oh . . . okay. So, this is a good time for me to find somewhere else to go.”

  Harriet tilts her head to the side. “Only if you have an issue with nudity. My tits may not be as perky as yours, but they’re younger than you. My plastic surgeon was a genius in the mid-nineties.”

  As always, Harriet manages to wrangle a laugh from me.

  “How did the gallery go?” she asks.

  I tell her about the showing Valentina wants to do.

  “That’s phenomenal. You’re incredibly lucky to have the opportunity. Don’t fuck it up.”

  Her no-nonsense wisdom is always appreciated, as is yet another reminder from her that I could be doing so much more right now than going upstairs and holing up in my apartment.

  “I won’t.”

  “Good.” She gives me a pointed look. “I’m sure you have better things to do right now than watch two paint-covered septuagenarians fornicate outdoors—like make some art.” She glances at her watch. “Actually, you should plan to be gone until at least nine. Maybe ten. I’m feeling frisky tonight, and he’s got the little blue pills.”

  I glance down at my purse, which holds the keys to the warehouse. The warehouse that holds all the scrap metal Kane had delivered for me.

  Can I really face it?

  Yes. Yes, I can.

  Because I have a list to work on, and not just the one Valentina is going to send me. The list that Harriet forced me to start.

  A list Kane would have approved of me making.

  Another gut-wrenching slash of pain stabs into me, and I breathe through it.

  “I’m not going to ask if you’re okay, Temperance,” Harriet says to me. “But you will be. You’re stronger than you know.”

  With a decisive nod, I take another deep breath. I’m stronger than this.

  I look up and meet her concerned gaze. “You’re right. I’m not okay, but I will be.”

  “Good girl.”

  “I’ll just go change and get out of your way.”

  I climb the stairs, and with each tread, I forge my resolve. I will be okay.

  As soon as I walk into my apartment, my gaze locks on the crumpled ball of paper I kicked into the fireplace with every intention of burning it, but I haven’t yet. The crumpled ball of paper that snapped me out of my haze. The one that wouldn’t let me keep pretending I was dreaming this nightmare.

  I hate you, Kane. I fucking hate you.

  And yet I drop to my hands and knees, reaching into the ashes to retrieve it.

  The words blur as I spread it out on the floor, tearing it in several places as I rock back and forth, attempting to fend off the tears that prick at my eyes.

  I will not cry for you again. I’m done.

  I grit my teeth and focus on the address, memorizing it before pushing off the floor to stand tall with steel in my spine and my chin held high.

  I will be okay. Fake it until you make it.

  With a deep breath, I head into my room and change my clothes. I’m going to turn trash into dollar bills and buy myself a new life that is so full of everything, I won’t have time to think about the hit man who betrayed me and then broke me.

  7

  Temperance

  I’m not quite as strong as I hoped. Instead of going to the warehouse with all my newfound strength and emotional armor, I end up on a park bench in front of Saint Louis Cathedral. Not here to pray, but to watch other people live.

  Tourists stand slack-jawed as a small group of musicians wow them with jazz. A pickpocket sees me watching him and decides to leave a woman’s purse untouched. Rare. A woman sits at her card table, a burgundy-and-gold cloth spread across it as she waits for the next tourist to sit for a tarot reading.

  “You. Come.”

  I shake my head. “No, thank you.”

  “I’ll read for free.”

  “Nothing’s free in this town,” I reply.

  “For you. Only now. Your sadness is driving away my customers.”

  Well, damn. And here I thought I was doing a good job of pretending I was a normal person taking in the atmosphere.

  She waves me over again, and it’s clear she won’t leave me alone.

  “Fine.” I rise from the bench and eyeball the kid who looks like he’d love to snatch my purse. “Not today, boy.”

  He glares at me before he disappears.

  I sit in the folding chair and stare at the woman. Her skin is dark and smooth. Her hair, graying at the temples, is mostly hidden by a beautiful head wrap.

  “I’ll read for free, and then you’ll be less sad and I’ll have paying customers again.”

  “You badgered me into it. Let’s do this.”

  I clutch my purse on my lap as she has me knock the deck and then shuffle it. We split and restack it, and she finally lays out the first card.

  Death.

  How. Freaking. Appropriate.

  I bring my hand to my forehead, but she wags her finger over the table.

  “No. This is good.”

  “Really? Death is a good card?”

  “It’s change. Transformation. Endings. Beginnings. You need to put the past behind you if you want to embrace your future and the opportunities awaiting you. This is your time. Your time to start anew and leave what was once behind you in favor of what can be.”

  I gulp down the lump in my throat as she talks about sudden and unexpected change. Being caught in a tidal wave I feel like I can’t escape. The need to leave emotional baggage behind.

  When she finally stops, she waits in silence for me to meet her gaze. “You can go now.”

  “Wait. What? That’s it?” I jerk my chin down to look at the card again before glancing back up at her.

 
; “You only needed one card. You already know what you have to do. You’re not a stupid girl. You have plenty of life left to live. Go do it.”

  I stumble out of the chair and rise.

  “You didn’t believe. Now you do. My job here is done. Feel free to tip for my services.”

  This woman . . . I don’t even know what to say to her. She saw right through me to the heart of things. I could say she just read my body language while I was on the bench, but she didn’t stack that deck.

  I fish a twenty from my purse and lay it on the table. “Thank you.”

  She inclines her head regally, and I walk away from the table shell-shocked.

  As if I needed another sign.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll go to the warehouse and start getting on with my life.

  8

  Temperance

  The next morning, I leave my apartment and smile when I see the body-painted sheets flapping in the breeze. Thankfully, I stayed away long enough for Harriet to finish, and avoided seeing her and her gentleman friend.

  My resolve almost falters when I make it to the road and wave down a cab, but I remind myself I have more than one pressing reason to go to the warehouse—my Bronco is locked inside, the Tahoe is at a tire shop because apparently all of them needed replacing, and I’m sick of not having a vehicle.

  I’m not touching any of the other cars or SUVs, though, I promise myself as the cab driver brings us closer and closer to the dot on the map on my phone.

  When we reach the nearest cross street, I knock on the divider.

  “Let me out here.”

  He brakes to a stop, then looks back at me and the largely unoccupied buildings around us. “You sure? This don’t look safe, lady.”

  He’s probably right, but something feels wrong about having him drop me off directly in front of it.

  I don’t know why I care about keeping the location a secret from some random cab driver, but I do. Maybe because it was kept a secret from me for so long.