Damaged Royals

by Hazel Parker

  And now maybe that curiosity was gone.

  Just as her thoughts were starting to wander again, fingers settled on her chin, lifting her face so she could look at him again. She was always blasted with…something whenever she looked at him—whenever she looked at that thick black hair and those intense gray eyes that looked like storm clouds. Then there was that somewhat rakish grin, which he often used to tease her and make her laugh.

  He wasn’t grinning now. Instead, the look he was giving her had her toes tingling.

  “You’re a very special woman, and I want to take it slow,” he said, his voice low and doing things to her insides. A thumb lightly raked her cheek, and her breath sharpened.

  “No hints, please. I can’t take hints,” she blurted out.

  His mouth quirked. “I like you a lot.”

  Jillian’s cheeks burned, delight seeping in her at the truth she heard in his admission. She’d always been the type to shy away from anything that involved men and their come-ons, however slim the chances were. But this time, she found herself taking a step forward and kissing his cheek—a light graze that had his jaw clenching and delighted her further.

  “Did you want to come to my apartment for coffee?”

  It was bold. It was lightly suggestive but not so much, and she was pretty proud of herself.

  “I…It’s rather late. And I think we should both get some rest.”

  The answer, especially with how much progress they had with the conversation, had her blinking. The disappointment was stark, but Jillian tried to swallow it back and gave him a smile.

  “Maybe next time?” she asked and almost cringed at how lame it sounded.

  Something sad flashed in Jack’s eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it came. He squeezed her hand before continuing walking her to a taxi, where she brooded the whole way home.

  So much for progress.

  * * *

  The next few days passed in a blur, with no contact from Jack, and Jillian threw herself into her work until she was exhasuted. She crashed into bed right after, which was a good thing, because it made her forget about all the things that particular man had made her feel. She didn’t want to analyze what happened anymore, because analyzing only brought more questions than answers, and it would just continue driving her crazy.

  Work was a blessing, really, and so was Paula. The only downside regarding Paula was how she kept badgering Jillian about the painting, even after two weeks. Jillian had already decided she didn’t want to sell the painting, and she kept it somewhere safe.

  She got home that night quite late, after getting dinner by herself and a few glasses of wine. The first thing she looked at when she got in was the painting, proudly displayed on the wall in her living room facing the couch.

  Well, a replica of it. But no one needed to know that. She had replicas everywhere, mostly because she wanted to see if she could recreate old stuff.

  Jillian didn’t have a television, so the painting in front of the couch was a good alternative—mostly so she could criticize it over and over and get ideas for improvement. She really couldn’t figure out the interest, but she was ready to make all the necessary excuses.

  The thought of getting another glass of wine came to mind, along with maybe a slice of chocolate cake. But said thought halted as someone knocked, and she strode in that direction instead and opened the door.

  “Hey.”

  Jillian blinked, torn between too many emotions. “How did you find…?”

  His cheeks reddened a bit, and Jack cleared his throat. He looked so good in his dark jeans and white shirt that she ached looking at him. He was tall, dark and handsome—the perfect stranger who swept her off her feet. “Your address was in the security file.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “So you snooped as opposed to calling me?”

  “I didn’t think you would answer.”

  She had a feeling he was right, but she lifted her chin, anyway. “And did you think I would like this?”

  Something sad crossed his expression, similar to the one he’d given last week before he took her to the taxi. Something softened inside her in response. He hadn’t hurt her physically, and there was no need to be scared of him.

  “I’m sorry, Jillian.”

  There was no point in holding a grudge, either.

  She sighed. Then she opened the door wider, ushering him in. “Did something happen? I just want to know.”

  Jack nodded. “Yeah. Something at work came up. I can’t…”

  “Yes, I know you can’t tell me,” she said before he could finish. Jillian smiled. “Don’t even worry about it. Have you had your dinner?”

  Jack looked at her quite oddly, and she almost took a step back at the intensity of his gaze.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You’re too kind to me.”

  Jillian shrugged. “I always am. I mean, you’re not a serial killer, are you? That’s the only time I’m not kind.”

  It was meant to be a joke, but he just kept looking at her with that dark gaze that spoke of a certain longing. It made her insides tighten, and the joke was lost as he didn’t respond at all. She supposed she should get him that dinner—maybe put something in the microwave or stir-fry some vegetables. They could even share that slice of chocolate cake.

  But for the life of her, her feet were frozen in place.

  “No, I’m not a serial killer,” he said. Again, she heard the ring of truth and the huskiness in his voice.

  Those gray eyes lowered, looking down at her feet, which were bare. They tingled, of course, and she tried to ease her nerves by clearing her throat.

  “So, um. Now that it’s established you’re not a serial killer, I have some steak in the fridge. Or maybe you want dessert first? I know you like steak, though…and…”

  “Are you drunk?”

  She blinked. “A little bit.”

  “You had a date?”

  Something in his tone went hard, and she shook her head. “No. I drank alone. Celebration.”

  “For what?”

  “Nothing. Just wanted to celebrate the end of the week. So…steak?”

  His eyes flared. He took a step forward, and she expected a nod. Instead, he reached out a hand and wrapped it around her neck, pulling her forward and covering her mouth with a hard, searing kiss.

  Her breath caught in her throat, and her mind and body warred with indignation and a certain kind of lust that exploded in her belly. The lust won out and had her opening her mouth willingly for him, letting herself feel those lips of his move and nip at hers. She kissed him back, clumsily at first before she managed to get a grip and show him just how willing she was—and the delight was stark when she heard him suck in a breath, when she felt something hard pulsing at her stomach area.

  Jack yanked her closer, and she gasped. Then she clung on to him, letting herself feel—letting herself experience this glorious moment that never happened to her before. Her tongue slid inside his mouth, a curious experiment. A rumbling groan came from his throat, shooting straight down her core.

  Oh, God. This had to be heaven.

  Jack's mouth slid down her throat, and sounds of pleasure came out of her mouth.

  He was still essentially a stranger, and he was kissing her like he was thirsty. And she didn't care.

  She wanted more.

  “I'm sorry.”

  The words were so at odds with how good he was making her feel, and she couldn't figure out why he would say it. She opened her mouth, about to tell him to just keep kissing her. The words died when his tongue licked her collarbone.

  Then something hard hit her head—something painful, and it radiated all over her body and had her stilling.

  Then darkness was taking over.

  * * *

  When Jillian woke up in the morning, she was on the living room couch and still wearing her work clothes, but with a blanket over her. It took her about five minutes to remember what happened that night.

 
; It took her another five to realize something else.

  The painting on her living room wall was gone.

  Your copy is waiting here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07C7PY5FT

  Sneak Peak of Hazel Parker’s Mini Series

  Baby showers and weddings: Audrey Smith hates both. At least when she lived in China, she could RSVP with regrets and send a cashmere baby blanket or a champagne gift basket. Now that she’s back in the States—well, not the mainland, but the island of Maui—she can no longer run from her friends’ celebrations.

  Having been ghosted by yet another guy, the last thing that Audrey wants to do is celebrate a successful couple’s marriage. Even if it’s Whitney, her college friend who flew to Shanghai to ring in the new year with her and other expats while drinking Brooklyn beer underneath firecrackers reflected in the Huangpu River that runs past her house on the Bund. Well, her family’s house.

  The last thing Audrey wants to think about is Shanghai or her house or her last disastrous date.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” a deep voice that sounds familiar asks her on her right.

  She looks up from the empty cognac glass that she’s been turning by the stem at the bar. The majority of the wedding guests are working up a sweat on the dance floor underneath the bright lights reflected in the spinning mirror ball. Audrey and the guy, who looks like a young actor who could play a doctor on a cable drama, are the only two at the bar. Judging from his close proximity and unwavering brown eyes gazing into hers, she has the feeling that they’ve met before.

  “It’s an open bar, Bogart.” She glances over his black bow tie and tuxedo.

  “If I’m Humphrey Bogart, does that make you my Ingrid Bergman?”

  The word my caresses her skin. Goosebumps run up her arms. She hopes he doesn’t notice.

  She hears the playful tone coming from his mouth. She wants him to both stay and walk away. She wants to flirt with him. But, she doesn’t want to chat to yet another cute Mr. Wrong. Seeing the black ink of a cursive tattoo on the side of his neck disappearing around his collar, she stares a little too long to decipher it. She loves a man with tattoos. Especially when they’re meaningful quotes. She reads the first few words: “So we beat on...” She remembers the quote from college. But she can’t remember what book it’s from.

  “Maybe.” She looks into his dark brown eyes and wonders where she’s seen that mischievous look before. While she’s curious about his tattoo, she wants to be left alone to wallow in her pity party. The act of going over her past relationships and sipping a sweet cognac to warm her sorrows is a comfortable tradition. One that she prefers to do alone. She likes to wallow in the sadness of what-could’ve-been and the-one-that-got-away. She likes to imagine what she could’ve said to make it work or what the guy could’ve said to keep her from walking away. She thinks of what she can say to get rid of the guy without sounding totally rude. “Except that Bogart and Bergman dated previously in Paris. And you and I are strangers.”

  “Are we?” He leans his shoulder towards hers and gently nudges her elbow with his. “Winter ball. Blue dress. Beer bottle. Sound familiar?” He nods at her empty glass and asks, “What’re you drinking?”

  She glances up to the right. Thinking. Recalling the winter ball. She wore a white silk dress, and she drank sweet champagne. She remembers the bubbles tickling her throat as the champagne warmed her on the way down. She remembers the floor length satin dress getting caught in a door and ripping at the bottom. She doesn’t remember a tan guy with dark brown hair and darker brown eyes.

  “Grand Mariner. And I wore a white dress to winter ball. And I drank champagne.”

  “One Grand Marnier. One Jack on the rocks.” He signals to the bartender who pours their drinks. He drops a crisp one-hundred dollar bill into the tip jar.

  She raises her eyebrows at the large tip. Just then the Electric Slide song comes on and wedding guests from young to old cheer. They form lines and begin to move and dip in unison. Invisible smoke machines emit clouds of white smoke, covering the hardwood floor and their feet. The song fades into Michael Jackson’s Thriller, and the crowd erupts in whoops.

  “Feel like dancing?” Those brown eyes crinkle at the edges as his lips smile. The drinks appear. He lifts his glass. She raises hers. They clink drinks. “A toast.”

  “To what?” She knows she should toast the bride and groom, but all she can think about is the fact that she’s talking to a cute guy with tattoos who’s probably looking to hook up after the wedding—or even during the reception in his hotel room nearby—and forget her name and lose her number, assuming that he’ll even ask for it. From the way his shoulder and arm rest comfortably beside hers, she’s pretty sure that he’ll ask for her number. She’s more surprised that she hasn’t moved away. Why hasn’t she? Why hasn’t she told him to go away? Because he’s cute? Because his deep voice makes her want to tilt her head towards his and ask him to keep talking?

  “To the bride and groom, of course.” He throws back his chilled drink in one long gulp. She sips her warm liquor. “Sadness doesn’t suit you, Audrey.”

  She likes hearing him say her name. She sips the sweet cognac. Then she puts her glass down, and it clinks on the glass bar. She searches his eyes through the haze of her third—or is it her fourth?—drink. Did they meet at a party in Shanghai? Did they have an awkward date in downtown Atlanta? Did they dance the merengue in a club in the Dominican Republic? She’s lived in so many places in the past four years since college and had so many first dates that it’s possible that they went on a date and she doesn’t remember.

  She feels anxious. Her palms begin to sweat. She swallows and tries to remember his voice, his face, his touch.

  Did they date? Did he try to hook up with her on the first date and she said no and then he, invariably, never called her again? Did they have a great first date and then he ghosted her for inexplicable reasons? When she tells guys that she’s a virgin, she gets various reactions from her dates. One guy, who was a vice president at an investment bank, asked her if she was Mormon. She was not. Another guy, who was the heir to a baby food company, asked her if she was waiting for marriage. She was not. Then he asked her if they could have sex like at boarding school—anally. She said no.

  Then there we the one-and-done dates who told her that she was “too nice.”

  What does that mean? Is she too nice because she doesn’t swear? A habit she developed from teaching kindergarteners for her college degree in education. Is she too nice because she doesn’t get mad when her dates are late? What exactly is too nice?

  Audrey glances over to the far side of his neck to his tattoo, and she sees a few more words as he turns his head to look her straight in the eyes. Silently she reads: “So we beat on, boats against…” She knows that she read this before, but she can’t remember where.

  “How do you know my name?” She asks after he gives no indication of introducing himself. Also, because she’s been staring at his tattoo and he sees her reading it, but he’s not telling her what the rest of it says. Maybe he wants her to ask. She doesn’t want to seem like she’s interested in him. Even though, she would be, if she hadn’t recently decided to take a break from dating. And sworn off cute guys with literary tattoos. Her weakness.

  “You don’t remember me?” He pretends to look offended. Then signals to the bartender for another Jack on the rocks. He looks back at her without blinking. The unwavering eye contact sends electricity shooting through her body. She loses her breath. Picks up her glass. Sips to have something to do that doesn’t involve staring into this stranger’s eyes.

  Just then the MC announces that it’s time for the groom to remove his bride’s garter belt with his teeth. Audrey groans in anticipation. She hates this part of the reception, only because she knows that after the garter belt removal comes the tossing of the bouquet, then the tossing of the garter belt, and then the inevitable awkward part where a perfectly strange man puts the garter belt on a perfectly strange woman.
What’s the point of this tradition? Are the two supposed to get married and live happily ever after? Or are they supposed to hook up and then defy the odds and get married after a one-night stand?

  “No. I can’t place your face. Where did we meet?”

  “University.” He turns back to fully look at her as he loosens his tie. Beneath his chin-length dark brown hair tucked behind his ears, she can make out more words from his tattoo: “...boats against the current…”

  “Which university?” She meets his gaze. His eyes are amused. Honest eyes?

  “The one in New Haven.” He gulps down the rest of his drink and thumps his glass down on the bar.

  “When?” Behind them the crowd cheers. Her five-year reunion is coming up. She hasn’t been back since graduation.

  “Will all the single ladies report to the dance floor!” the MC commands from the stage across the vast dance floor. Women cheer. Chairs scrape across the floor. Men laugh and place bets on who will catch the bouquet.

  “Audrey!” the bride calls to her from across the dance floor.

  She sighs. The last thing she wants to do is stand in a group of drunk and overly eager girls pushing each other out of the way to catch a bouquet. Who invented this tradition? Who made up this fiction that if you catch the bouquet, then you’re next to get married? Some anxious mother wanting grandchildren? Some anxious father wanting to merge his family’s fortune with another family’s? Or some anxious single woman wanting to join her friends in marriage-land where everyone brunches in twos, lunches in twos, and vacations in twos.

  “A single lady who doesn’t want to catch the bouquet?” He winks at her. That gesture brings back a memory, a moment in college when she was drunk for the first time on screwdrivers. She remembers running her hands through his shoulder length wavy brown hair. She remembers kissing his soft lips. He tasted like beer. He smelled like sweat and kegs and cologne. She inhales sharply. He grins mischievously at her. She doesn’t remember his name. She feels embarrassed. She blushes. They kissed. Suddenly she remembers his name.