ROYAL (7 page)

“I care about him,” I say to my sister, though it feels like
a reminder to myself.

Her face wrinkles. “Where’d that come from? No one said you
didn’t.”

“You said I’m acting too calm, and that implies that I don’t
care. I’m telling you I care.”

She grabs a nearby magazine and flips to the middle. From
here, I can tell it’s interior design related, and I’m sure Brenda left it the
other day. They’ve been redecorating their Montauk estate, and Brenda treats it
like a full-time job.

“I don’t know, Dem. I guess I just remember how you freaked
out when Royal left years ago.” She turns a page, eyes scanning an ad for
rustic furniture. “I mean, you love Brooks enough to spend the rest of your
life with him, and you’re just taking it all in stride. Just expected you to be
falling apart a little more than you are, that’s all.”

“Freaking out isn’t going to make him wake up. Nothing’s
wrong with trying to stay strong, is there?”

Delilah crosses her legs, shuts the magazine, and tosses it
aside.

“I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t come here to
critique the way you’re acting. I’m sorry.” She places her hand on her heart.
“I’m here for you. And Brooks. And I’ll be here when he wakes up, and I’ll be
here when he walks you down the aisle.”

“Thanks.” I take the seat by Brooks and slip my hand into
his to see if I feel anything. His palm is warm.

That’s all I feel.

Warmth.

And nothing.

“Sometimes, I think Brooks was the universe’s answer to the
whole Royal thing,” Delilah muses from the corner. She chews the inside of her
lip and leans forward on her knees.

“What are you talking about?”

“We never knew why Royal left. But maybe it doesn’t matter.
Maybe you were always supposed to end up with Brooks, and had Royal stuck
around, that never would’ve happened.”

“I don’t think that way.”

“I do.” She sits up. “Everything happens for a reason. Life
is one giant row of dominoes.”

Her analogy doesn’t satiate me. I need to know what
happened. I refuse to settle for some bullshit cliché.

“Anyway, I don’t think the powers that be would take Royal
away and give you Brooks if you weren’t meant to spend the rest of your life
with Brooks.”

A bouquet of bright pink daisies rests by Brooks’s window.
Not sure how I didn’t notice them before, and I’m not sure where they came from
since they don’t allow flowers in the ICU rooms. I bet Brenda snuck them in.
Flowers are her weakness. She loves them all. She doesn’t discriminate.

Unlike Brooks.

The daisies remind me of the fight we had months ago while
picking wedding flowers. I wanted daisies in bright shades of oranges and
yellows and pinks. Brooks said they were too basic. And cheap. He insisted on
peonies, which I reminded him were out of season in February. He insisted on
having some flown in from Israel to the tune of tens of thousands of dollars.

We fought the rest of the day over the flowers.

And the flower fight led to a fight over our wedding cake
the following day. He wanted a classic white with raspberry filling, claiming
it was Abbott tradition. I wanted German chocolate with coconut filling. Something
offbeat and unexpected. My proposal to go every-other-tier went unaccepted.

Looking back, that was always the way Brooks operated. He
was incapable of meeting in the middle. The man wanted what he wanted, and he
always seemed to get it, one way or another.

The night of the cake fight, he apologized for being a “groomzilla”
and insisted it was only because he cared and wanted our day to be perfect. His
mother had already invited some five hundred guests, and that didn’t account
for the Rosewood side. Brooks kissed the tops of my hands that night,
apologized again, pulled me into his embrace, and described the most beautiful
winter wedding I’d ever imagined.

And I forgave him for being an ass.

For the hundredth time.

Like a fool.

Demi

“Thanks for coming with me today.” I unbuckle my seatbelt
and grab the passenger door handle of Delilah’s car before she’s shifted into
park. She leaves the car idling in my driveway and turns my way.

“Want me to go with you tomorrow?”

“You don’t have to do that. I can get myself there. You’re
welcome to stop in and see him anytime you want though.”

Delilah puts her hand on mine. “We’re all worried about you.
Mom and Dad. Everyone.”

I’m sure.

I put them all through quite a scare after Royal left.

Don’t have to be in the same room as them to feel them
watching, waiting for me to crumble apart again.

“Are you eating?” she asks.

“Of course.”

“Why’d you throw up last night? You’re not pregnant, are
you?”

“God, no.”
Thank God.
“Probably stress.”

“Mom and Dad are coming by tomorrow, I think. Derek’s coming
too. He’s bringing Haven. He’s got her for the weekend.”

There’s a glimmer of something to look forward to in all of this,
and her name is Haven. My niece is my world, and I rarely get to see her ever
since Derek split from his ex.

“I don’t think they allow kids under twelve into the ICU,” I
say.

“Between all of us, we can work something out. Derek really
wants to see Brooks though. I think he’s taking it harder than we realize, and
that’s why he hasn’t come to visit yet.”

An unlikely friendship spawned between Derek and Brooks the
last couple of years. I blame it on a fateful golf game three Memorial Day
weekends ago. They’ve been tight ever since.

“Daphne texted me earlier,” Delilah says.

“Yeah. Me too.”

“She feels awful for not being able to come right away.”

“She’ll be back at Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah, but if anything happens to Brooks, she’ll never get
to say . . .” Delilah blinks and turns away. “I don’t even want to finish that
thought.”

My head pounds, and I eye my front door. As soon as I’m
behind it, I can shut out the rest of the world for a few hours. Make the day
fade away with a hot bath and an Ambien. Tomorrow, I get to do it all over
again. Put on my brave face. Pretend I’ve got it all figured out. Allow
everyone to think I’m stronger than I’ve ever been. Ignore the flood of guilt
coursing my veins every time I look at Brooks and feel resentment. And in the
back of my mind, wonder when Royal’s going to show up at my door again.

Because no matter what, that undercurrent remains.

Royal

As soon as I get home, I toss Brooks’s pajamas into the
garbage, where they belong. It killed me, fucking
killed
me, to wear those pants.

The scent of clean laundry fills my tiny studio above a
noisy laundromat. It’s the only good thing about living in this dump. It’s like
I live in the inside of a dryer. The place is perpetually warm, which works out
nice in the winter, and the place always smells good, even when the floors need
cleaning and the bedding’s due for a wash.

Whipping the fridge door open, I grab a carton of milk and
chug it straight from the container before putting it back. I can taste the
fact that the sell-by date was yesterday.

I grab a shower, scrubbing the scent of Demi’s white-washed house
off my skin but refusing to release the image of her from my mind. Watching her
from afar has never been a substitution for the real thing, but it was the only
option I had. And as painful as it was to stand there and let her shoot daggers
my way this morning, I hope someday she’ll understand.

And forgive me.

***

“Morning, Royal.” Pandora swipes a credit card and hands a
set of Corvette keys to a middle-aged man trying desperately to pull off a
cracked-leather bomber jacket. “Twenty minutes early today. What’s gotten into
you? Couldn’t wait to see me?”

“You know it.” I don’t look at her, my words dry and flat.

I grab my work shirt from a hook behind the reception desk
at Patterson Auto Body. My name is stitched across the breast in royal blue
cursive thread. The very same color I’ll be painting my Challenger as soon as I
get the funds saved.

The bells on the door jingle when the customer leaves, and
our parking lot sits empty.

“We’re getting an Escalade in about an hour.” Pandora smacks
a piece of neon pink bubble gum. Probably watermelon. Her tongue always tastes
like watermelon. “Real bad shape. Front and back. Thing’s totaled, but the
owners want to fix it anyway. Bet it’s got a
huge
backseat.”

She winks.

I punch in and glance toward the back office, where
Pandora’s father sits at a computer, his classic rock turned way too loud. The
man’s covered in tattoos, he served two tours of duty, and he has a smile
filled with gold from one too many bar fights. That old son of a bitch is tough
as nails and rough around the edges, but he gave me a job when no one else
would.

“Where were you last night?” Pandora hunches over the
counter, wiggling her ass and grinning. “Tried texting you. Not like you to
pass up a chance with the boss’s daughter.”

My gaze snaps toward Rod in his office, who’s completely
oblivious. Fucking the boss’s daughter isn’t my proudest accomplishment, but damn
if she doesn’t remind me of a white trash version of my only weakness.

Sometimes, in his most desperate hours, a man has to settle.

“Come on,” she says. “I know it turns you on just as much as
it turns me on.”

Pandora Patterson is Demi Rosewood’s cheap alter-ego. Raven
hair. Full lips. Big tits. Curves for days. Round, blue eyes. Pandora’s just a
little edgier. Less refined. Sleeves of tats. Garish red lips. A throaty laugh.
A perpetual perfume of stale cigarettes and spilled drinks. She’s sure as fuck
no substitute for the real thing, but I’m a man with limited options, and
Pandora never once judged my situation.

“Told you,” I say. “We can’t do that anymore.”

She pouts and drags a pointed fingernail down her cheek like
she’s crying. Slinking over to me, she slips her arm around my shoulders.

“God, Royal, you’re such a fucking tease.” Pandora rubs her
breasts against my chest and leans into my ear. “I thought about you last
night. Nothing else makes me cum harder than when I think about all those
naughty things you do to me in the back of the shop after Daddy leaves . . .”

Pandora’s a kinky little slut. She gets off on the thrill of
almost
getting caught, and she loves
fucking the kind of men her daddy would chase with a shotgun. Even grizzly Rod
Patterson has standards for his wayward daughter.

She runs her fingers through my hair, helping herself to a
handful and jerking my mouth toward hers. Her cigarette breath fills my lungs
when she laughs through her nose.

“You’re so tortured,” she says. “You know that? I think
that’s why I can’t get you out of my head. I just want to fix you.”

“Don’t need fixing.”

“Everyone needs fixing.”

“Doesn’t mean they want to be.”

“Ugh. You’re so stubborn.” She smacks my chest. “And damaged
and guarded.”

Her palm then slides to the front of my pants before she
cups my junk. I suppose this would be considered sexual harassment, but it
doesn’t bother me. I’ve been through worse shit than a big-titted sex-addict
feeling on me. Pandora gives my cock a gentle squeeze and stares into my eyes.
The sound of her dad tapping his booted foot along to CCR’s
Fortunate Son
in his office just fifteen
feet away sends a quick sweat down my back.

I can’t afford to lose this job.

“And I fucking
love
it.” She releases me from her clutches and returns to the reception desk to
answer a ringing phone. “Patterson Auto Body.”

Pandora slips a nail between her lips and winks my way.

“Didn’t want to talk to you either.” She slams the phone
down, shrugging. When her shoulders move inward, her cleavage spills out of her
top. It’s intentional, no question. “No one there.”

A rusting, bumper-less Lincoln pulls up outside. Guessing
they need an estimate. I head to the desk to grab a pen and clipboard. Pandora
wears a mischievous grin when I stride her way.

“No,” I say.

“What, are you a homo now?” She says it loud enough that her
dad could hear if his wasn’t so busy humming along to
Sweet Home Alabama
. Her hand hooks the curve above her left hip. “Stop
pretending you don’t want this anymore.”

We had this talk weeks ago. Why she’s all over me now is
beyond me.

“You trying to get me in trouble?” My tone is low yet sharp.
I shake my head. Don’t have time for this shit. “Don’t, Pandora.”

I really need a new fucking job.