In A Faraway Land (Runaway Princess: Flicka, Book 3)

by Blair Babylon

  Brandy Alexander for the pretentious college kid? No problem. Flicka poured cognac, crème de cacao, and cream into the proper glass.

  A svelte lady was saying that she was worried about carb grams but liked her margaritas a little too much? Flicka had just the answer. She blended tequila, lime juice, water, agave syrup, and avocado to make the woman a Copa Verde.

  When a guy was getting tired of his Dark and Stormies but still sort of liked them, Flicka gave him a Bermuda Black, which was rum, ginger juice, lime juice, and stout. The ginger juice gave it more heat, and the guy was thrilled.

  When people gravitated toward the bar, they left the poker tables, so spots opened up. Poker wait times decreased.

  Prissy was very happy.

  Bastien found a stool at the end of the bar and kept Flicka company while he bet on the sports. Flicka turned a television to the soccer channel just for him, which tickled him no end. He bet heavily on it and played some video poker games, too. He told Flicka, “You’re bad for my balance sheet.”

  She grinned at him and poured him a Vancouver, a variation on a martini composed of gin, sweet vermouth, Benedictine, and orange bitters. “Casinos are bad for everyone’s balance sheet.”

  Bastien loved the Vancouver and tossed another chip in her tip jar that sat on the end of the bar. “So where did you learn all these fascinating drinks?”

  “I used to hang out with a rough crowd.” It wasn’t a lie.

  “Was this in Europe? In Germany?”

  “Some of it.”

  “Which one?”

  “Oh, different parts of Europe. Do I really have a Swiss accent?” The boarding school that she had used to attend, Le Rosey, prided itself on its curriculum for a life of international jet-setting. One of the major points on its sell sheet was that students emerged with native accents for each of the several languages that they would be fluent in.

  Bastien demurred, “Surely, only I can hear it because I’m from Geneva. Most people probably can’t.”

  Flicka was aghast that even he could hear it. “I don’t speak like a villain from a World War Two movie, do I?”

  “Certainly not. Most people probably wouldn’t notice it at all. You probably sound to them like an upper-class, London Brit. Perhaps you’re more comfortable with me because I’m a fellow Helvetian.”

  “But I’m not Swiss,” she reminded him, careful about her pronunciation.

  Bastien looked confused. “Oh, my mistake. Wishful thinking, perhaps.”

  Flicka mollified herself with the fact that most of the casino guests asked if she was from England, so there was that.

  “But you’ve lived in the States for a short time, surely,” Bastien said. “Your accent is so very British, not Southwestern.”

  “There’s that, at least,” she said.

  “But you can’t have lived in Nevada long, either.”

  “Not too long.” She mixed a Humble Pie out of vodka, Aperol, lemon juice, and club soda, kind of a boozy Italian soda.

  “I’ve heard that the suburbs of Nevada are more affordable, especially if one is living with someone.”

  “I haven’t been around long enough to know.” Flicka never mentioned her personal life. No one at work knew about Dieter or Alina.

  “And I’ve heard that living expenses here are reasonable, compared to Europe, especially if one lives on the outskirts of town. Where did you say you are renting?”

  “Oops, Scotta needs five beers. I’ll talk to you later.”

  At least she sounded more Swiss than German, at least to Bastien.

  But she was more careful about her accent, after that conversation. German princesses were rare, so if someone were looking for her, asking about a tall blonde with a German accent would be an excellent way to hone in on her.

  She’d never thought of her accent as Schwiizertüütsch, even though she’d lived in Switzerland for longer than she’d lived in Germany.

  Dark, round, brown vowels, she reminded herself, drawing each word out like an actor from the Royal Shakespeare Company, making her accent seem more upper-class British. Whether she sounded more German or Swiss German, Master Hamilton would have failed her if she had spoken with such an “abominable native accent” in her English classes at Le Rosey.

  From her position behind the bar, Flicka could see Dieter sitting in the middle of the casino, and he could keep an eye on her and her surroundings every minute. If she stayed in one place instead of sprinting all over the casino, it could make his job easier, too.

  At the end of the day, Prissy told Flicka that the bar was hers for the coveted afternoon to midnight shift.

  The waitstaff shared their tips with her because she was the bartender, as always, but everyone’s tips were so much better that everyone went home up for the night.

  Including Flicka.

  Who was now rather popular with the other waitresses.

  She hadn’t been ostracized at the Silver Horseshoe, but making other people’s jobs easier and simultaneously increasing their take-home pay seemed to make her quite the girl of the day.

  Dieter went home up for the night, too, so the two of them planned to go out to supper to celebrate.

  That didn’t go nearly so well.

  Again

  Flicka von Hannover

  It happened again.

  After work, Flicka was walking along the sidewalk on the Strip with Dieter to the nearest corner to catch a ride and pick up Alina from their neighbor Tinashe’s illegal daycare center, and they were laughing with each other because they believed they were safe in the crowd.

  The night air shimmered with desert warmth. The first week of October hadn’t cooled down the summer heat at all, but Las Vegas did cool down at night somewhat. Near midnight, the sultry air curled around Flicka’s bare legs, but noon felt like the sun and sidewalk were broiling her skin.

  They walked along the crowded sidewalks every night because the ride-share drivers didn’t like coming onto the Strip. It was faster to walk to the corner and jump into a car stopped on a cross-street, than to wait for a car to navigate the gridlock of the casino-crammed street.

  Flicka’s phone shone brightly in the dark, as it was almost midnight. Prissy had switched their shifts a few minutes early, which had been fine with all the waitstaff involved. The crowds weren’t quite as thick as they were earlier in the evening, but Dieter and Flicka had to turn their shoulders as they edged through the crowd that had gathered to watch the Bellagio’s dancing fountains show. The swarm of humanity packed close together all the way to the street where cars limped by.

  Pop music blared from speakers set around the water show, bopping music bordering bouncing fountains.

  Beyond the traffic crawling through the intersection, the fake Eiffel Tower loomed over a wonderland of lights.

  Her feet were sore as they walked, but at least she had changed into sneakers for the quick stroll to the corner.

  In front of her, Dieter broke through the crowd for her as he surveyed the area. He was so tall that, for the most part, his head and shoulders stuck out the top of the flowing sea of humanity. Cigarette smoke and beer fumes wafted from the mob.

  Flicka was careful to watch for red, glowing cigarette tips while she held onto Dieter’s belt loop. One of his arms hovered beside her as he reached back to shield her as best he could.

  They’d developed this procedure for handling crowds years ago. When she had been a princess, velvet ropes held back the crowds, but occasionally they had found themselves in the middle of a scrum.

  A tiny woman who only came up to Flicka’s sternum dodged sideways and rammed her shoulder into Flicka’s stomach. Her frantic apologies were swallowed up by the crowd.

  “You okay?” Dieter asked, still scanning.

  “A pixie assaulted me,” Flicka said, rubbing her stomach. “I think my liver is bruised.”

  The fountains whooshed as they shot water into the air. Violins wailed, and the music crescendoed.

  A hand
grabbed Flicka’s arm and yanked.

  Her finger slipped off of Dieter’s belt loop.

  “Dieter!”

  Someone shoved Dieter, a running tackle out of the crowd, plowing him sideways.

  Flicka grabbed her arm that a man held in his big, meaty hands, planted her feet, and used the strength of her whole body to wrench her upper arm out of the man’s grip. His fingernails scratched her cotton shirt.

  She ran toward Dieter, who had rolled in the crowd and sprung to his feet.

  The mob pulled back from the fight like the tide going out.

  Panic surged through Flicka, heating her skin and needling cold sweat out of her pores.

  Another guy came at Dieter, swinging his fist, but Dieter blocked him with a forearm and punched. The guy dropped.

  Flicka crashed against Dieter’s side.

  His arm wrapped around her.

  They dodged into the crowd, running.

  Flicka ran hard to keep up with Dieter as they got to the corner. The crossing light was red, and cars streamed through the intersection. They turned away, running up the driveway toward the Tuscan opulence of the Bellagio itself.

  Flicka chanced a quick look back. Behind them, the crowd roiled like people were pushing through and chasing them.

  She pushed her legs to run harder. Dieter had an arm out and bulldozed through the crowd.

  Dieter guided her away from the hotel entrance and toward a parking structure. The door to the corner stairwell stuck when he grabbed it, but he leaned and yanked, holding Flicka back until it opened.

  Flicka sprinted ahead of him, taking the stairs two at a time and as fast as she could. Her thighs burned, and her skirt chafed her skin.

  On the third floor, Dieter tugged her hand and shoved open a door.

  It slammed behind them. Flicka winced at the noise, sure that the pursuers would hear it and find them. They ran through the rows of cars, some filthy from the desert dust and some gleaming new, dodging between them to run diagonally through the parking structure.

  At the opposite corner, Dieter flung open the door and paused—the silent stairwell sounded empty to Flicka—then started running down the stairs.

  Flicka gripped the handrail and double-timed down the stairs behind Dieter. “But what if they—”

  “Then we’re screwed,” Dieter said, “but they were chasing us up the other stairwell, and there were only four of them.”

  “Four? Only one guy grabbed me.”

  “There were three on me. Evidently, they thought I was the greater threat. Not too bright of them.”

  “I’ll say.”

  At the bottom of the stairwell, they ran into the brightly lit night, heading for the shadows at the back of the Bellagio’s loading docks.

  Her heart hammered in her chest from running and from fear. They’d had her. The guy had been holding her arm. Two more steps, and they would have been at the street, where a van had doubtlessly been waiting. She would have been gone.

  Flicka looked back as she ran, holding Dieter’s hand. Artificial glare and black shadows filled the spaces between the parking structure and the skyscraper walls of the Bellagio, but no one ran toward them. Her skirt rode up her thighs from stretching her legs as she ran.

  Their footfalls echoed off the cement canyon rising around them, but the roar and stomping feet of the crowd half a block away overwhelmed even their noise.

  They reached the shadow of the wall, and Dieter pulled her around a corner.

  Ahead of them, towering walls bounded the long loading dock area filled with empty truck trailers, but the zone was silent and still. No one was working after midnight. All the trucks were empty, and only a few emergency lights shone on the trailers. Black shadows spilled along the walls and sides.

  “Come on. Nearly there,” Dieter said, still running.

  Flicka turned on one last burst of speed though her legs ached and a cramp knifed her ribs.

  He led her behind one of the semi-truck trailers and into a dark corner up against the wall.

  Flicka grabbed her side, trying to press the cramp out of her ribs, and sucked wind.

  Back in the dark concrete alcove, the clamor of the Strip was almost gone, just a murmur if she listened carefully. The air conditioners on top of the Bellagio’s roof whirred.

  Dieter was facing out, his back toward her, his arms stretched back to shield her. His fighting stance made his back and shoulders look wider.

  Warmth rolled off his body from running, carrying the cinnamon and fresh herbs of his cologne and the faint masculine musk of his skin.

  Flicka slipped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek to his shirt, exhausted from sprinting.

  One of Dieter’s arms curled around her back, holding her. He whispered, “I think we lost them.”

  She nodded, and her face rubbed against the crisp cotton.

  “I don’t hear anything. Do you?”

  “No,” she said.

  “We’ll stay a few more minutes, then we’ll go.”

  Muscles in his hard back flexed under Flicka’s temple as he turned his head, watching.

  Her hands were pressed to his stomach, where the stacked cobblestones of his abdominal muscles moved under her palms as he breathed. His breath was still rapid, his lungs expanding and clenching under the heavy muscles of his chest.

  Flicka’s blood rushed through her veins, and her heartbeat pulsed in her ears.

  She turned her head, pressing her lips to where his spine lay under his shirt.

  He glanced back at her. “Flicka?”

  She grabbed his face, pulling him down to her to kiss him. His mouth was malty from the beer he had been drinking but sweet.

  The way his body stiffened almost felt like he was going to pull away from her, but his arms clamped around her and he drove her back against the wall in the pitch-black shadow of the semi-trailer.

  He broke off the kiss and ran one hand up her bare thigh to her hip, shoving aside her skirt and raising her thigh around his waist. “Be quiet.”

  Flicka nodded, biting her lip as his fingers slipped inside her panties and stroked her.

  He grabbed her boob with his other hand, pulling her shirt out of the way and ducking his head to lick and suck her.

  She threw her head back, cracking the crown of it on the brick wall, and didn’t even feel it.

  He growled near her ear, so quietly that she could barely hear him, “God, you’re wet.”

  She nodded, craning her neck to kiss his throat.

  “I don’t have a condom this time, either.”

  “I don’t care. I need you.”

  His breathing hitched, and he pulled his hips back to unbuckle his belt and open his pants. “I’ve got to start carrying one in my wallet.”

  “Don’t,” she said. “I like the feel of your skin.”

  He groaned softly. “You’re going to kill me.”

  She unhooked her leg from his waist and spun in his grip to face the wall. “Like this.”

  “Now I know you’re trying to kill me.” He bit her shoulder, kicked her feet apart, and drove himself into her.

  Flicka gasped and arched backward at his thrust.

  He grabbed her hips for a moment, stroking slow and hard inside her. Flicka spread her fingers wide on the dark wall, feeling the rough bricks and bracing herself.

  Dieter leaned back.

  She stole a glance over her shoulder. Dieter was looking down at her ass in the dim light, watching himself entering her core and pulling back. When he looked up, the faint light reflected in his gray eyes, making them almost silvery, and the intense look on his face looked feral or angry.

  He rammed his hips against her ass and crashed into her, wrapping one arm around her waist and slipping the other down to her clit, sliding his fingers on her wet skin as he grunted in her ear. He pressed her between his hard, strong body and the wall, grinding into her and grappling as she writhed, trying to feel more of him.

  In seconds, his finge
rs rubbed her to a tight peak, and she caught a cry just before it left her throat. Tension spiraled up her body, a frantic energy that made her grind her clit against his hand, and she blasted apart in a slow explosion that whited out her vision and made her head float in the silence.

  Through it all, Dieter was murmuring in her ear, “Durchlauchtig, Durchlauchtig,” and his strong arms pressed her against his broad chest. One of his hands was splayed on her face, holding her cheek against his shoulder. His hard abs twitched behind her, the end of his climax.

  Flicka sagged, exhausted and sated, and he held her up.

  He whispered, his voice ragged, “We have to go.”

  “Okay.” Her voice was just as wrecked.

  He pulled out of her, leaving her empty and sore.

  She turned in his arms, wanting to be cradled, but he pushed her against the wall and kissed her, stroking his hands over her hair and curves. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers. In the moonlight and spillover twinkle from the strip, she could see that his eyes were closed.

  “This quirk of yours might get us killed, or at least me,” he whispered, “but I can’t resist you. Everything about you drives me crazy. Every moment I see you, I want to make love to you. Every time you walk away from me in the casino, I want to call you back, to touch you, to make sure you’re all right. You’ve always been my Durchlauchtig, and I’ve never been able to resist you.”

  She nodded, his words echoing in her stunned head. “Lieblingwächter, I’m lost without you. I’m always scared. The only place I feel safe is in your arms.”

  He stroked her cheeks and kissed her, saying, “We have to go,” between kisses, and he finally dropped his hands away and led her through the dark and to a far corner, where they hailed a car from an app on their phones.

  He locked her inside their townhouse while he retrieved the sleeping Alina, and then held her as much as she could handle as they slept.

  Back-Up Numbers