Royally Endowed

  I try not to flinch. Because he doesn't see that he's a part of me, a part of us.

  "You said you were all right with it," I remind him.

  "I know what I said!"

  "You said you knew what you signed up for when you came to my room that night."

  I hate how my voice sounds--whiney and immature.

  "It's not just about that. It's also about you. The Queen was right, Ellie."

  "Right about what?"

  "About all you're giving up."

  "Giving up?"

  "Castles and carriages. The fairy tale your sister has. I'll never be able to give you that--you'll be settling for less. It's important that you understand that now, not five years down the road when you resent me for it."

  I stare at the wall, because if I look at his face, I'll cry. And I want to be strong. Angry. I've never been any good at angry, but I give it my best shot.

  "Fuck you, Logan. Is that who you think I am? Is that what you think is important to me?"

  "I'm just trying to look at it from all angles. Prepare. It's easier for you. Being related to the royal family is a good thing; no one looks down on you for it."

  "It could be a good thing for both of us."

  His face tightens, anger pierces the soulful eyes that I love so much.

  "I make my own way. I look out for myself and everyone around me; I always have. To think people will look at me like some pussy gold digger, like some fucking twat who's using you, makes me sick. Makes me want to kill someone--I can't stand it."

  The vehemence in his voice shocks me. Logan's only ever spoken to me carefully, kindly. To hear him talk with so much . . . disgust . . . well . . . it fucking hurts.

  "Were you even going to show up tonight? Or call? Or were you planning to leave me hanging without a word?"

  Unbearable silence follows my question. And answers it.

  "That's a dick move, Logan."

  He stares at the bottle on the table. "I'm sorry. I meant to go and then I was getting dressed and looked at myself in the mirror and just . . . couldn't." He exhales. "I need time to figure out what my life looks like now. Where I go from here."

  "We can figure it out together," I try.

  But he says nothing. And it feels like my chest is caving in.

  Because he needs "time." And we all know what that means.

  "Are you . . . are you breaking up with me?"

  There's the slightest pause--and in that half-a-second my sorrow is so immense I can't breathe. It like I'm drowning.

  Then Logan throws me a lifeline.

  "No, Ellie." He gets up from the chair, swaying a bit, and moves closer to me. "No, I'm not. I just--"

  I remember, from all those years with my dad, the stinging sensation of not being wanted. The echo of that rejection seeps into my bones and makes my insides curdle. I remember how it feels to love someone who wishes he didn't have to look at you, or talk to you.

  It feels just like this.

  "Okay, Batman--you brood it out on your own in the Bat Cave. I'm gonna go."

  "That's not--"

  But I'm already rushing for the door.

  When I pull it open, he's there behind me--his hand pushing it closed.

  "That's not what this is." I feel his other hand on my shoulder, his warm, hard chest against my back, his voice in my ear--scraping and sorry. "You are everything a man could want, Ellie--everything I want. This is on me. I just . . . I have to work it out in my head."

  I nod sharply. "Yeah, so you said. You let me know when you've done that."

  I pull on the door again, but it doesn't budge. Because he's so fucking strong and it pisses me off too.

  "Ellie, I'm--"

  "Let me out! I should be able to go if I want." My voice rises. "You don't get to keep me here just because you can!"

  When I try the door again, his hand is gone. It opens and I'm flying across the porch, down the steps.

  "Wait." Logan's hand grips my arm, not hard, but insistent.

  And then James's steely voice comes from where he's standing by the car.

  "Let her go."

  Logan's head snaps up, and his eyes ice over.

  "What'd you say?"

  James moves nearer to us. "I said, let her go, Logan. Now."

  Logan doesn't. And I suddenly feel like a gazelle wedged between two very pissed-off lions, just itching to rip each other's throats out.

  "Are you fucking serious, mate? You honestly think I'd hurt her?"

  James's tone is calm, but forceful--leaving no room for argument. "I think you've been hittin' the bottle and you're upset. And you're grabbing her arm. If you were anyone else you'd be on the ground right now with my foot on your throat. I know you, Lo, I know you'd never want to hurt her. But I'm tellin' you now, you need to back off, cool down and let her fucking go."

  Logan stares at his friend--his brother in arms--for a few long moments. Then he shakes his head and without another word or glance my way, he drops my arm, turns around and walks back into his house--slamming the door behind him.

  THERE'S A POUNDING, POUNDING, FUCKING pounding in my head. It knocks around, echoing inside my skull like a bullet. There's warm sunlight on my face, and when I finally creak my eyelids open, it feels like a laser beam shooting through my eyeballs, frying my brain.

  I'm on the floor. And the morning sunlight has found me from the window above the sink. I should've hung Ellie's bloody kitchen curtains.

  After she left last night I drank myself stupid . . . stupider . . . in the kitchen. Apparently, I slept here too. I rub my hand over my aching face, remembering my argument with Ellie, almost coming to blows with James, how she left because of what I did--didn't do.

  Christ, how'd I turn into such a cunt so quick? It's like magic.

  The pounding sound comes again . . . more of a knocking now . . . and I realize it's not coming from inside my head--it's coming from the front door.

  Who the fuck would come see me? Now, at--I check my phone--six in the morning? With my tongue feeling like sandpaper, I pull myself up and take the long, painful walk to the front door.

  Why'd I buy a house that's so bloody big? That's right--'cause I'm a dickhead. Definitely.

  I open the door and wonder if I'm dreaming. Or still drunk.

  Because there's a prince on my porch.

  "Morning, Logan," Nicholas says.

  I consider bowing like I know I should--but no, not happening. I'll fall the fuck over or puke on him.

  "Morning, Your Highness." I glance behind him and spot James standing beside the car. He waves jovially. I lift my chin in return, grateful that there are no hard feelings about my being an arse last night.

  "What are you doing here?" I ask.

  "I brought tea." He hands me one of the two lidded paper cups "James thought you could use a strong cup."

  James was right.

  "Thank you." I finger the edge of the lid. "If you've come to talk about Ellie--"

  "Actually, I didn't. But . . . I would avoid Olivia if I were you. She brought her bat from New York and the growing belly hasn't affected her swing."

  "Thanks for the warning."

  The Prince looks up at the porch roof, then glances around my shoulder into the house.

  "I wanted to see how the house was coming along."

  "The house?"

  He nods. "Yes. Ellie mentioned you're doing all the interior work yourself."

  "Yeah."

  "I thought I could come by and lend a hand."

  No--too early. My brain does not compute.

  "Lend a hand?"

  Nicholas seems insulted. "I've built homes before, Logan. On three continents. I'm not totally helpless."

  I shake my head. "No, I know . . . I just--"

  "And putting up walls is a two-man job. Unless one of the other boys is coming by . . ."

  "No." I shake my head, trying to clear the fog. "No . . . Tommy's mum still won't let him out of his room. Everyone else is working. So, I
'm doing it myself."

  Then Nicholas says, in that tone that doesn't leave any room for argument, "Not today, you're not."

  After I give the Prince a tour of the house, we get to work. Hanging sheetrock and spackling isn't exactly light exercise--and with it being an usually warm day, I'm drenched by noon, sweating out all the poison from last night. We order sandwiches from the market a few blocks over and after rehydrating and a hot shower, I feel less like a heap of trash somebody pissed on.

  There's a line from a movie--I forget which one--about how the perfect way to end a hard day's work is with a bottle of beer. Whoever wrote it knew his stuff. Because later, Nicholas and I sit in the back garden, each of us with a cold bottle of beer, watching the sun go down.

  It glows deep pink and bright orange--like God struck a match and lit the sky on fire. And I think of Ellie . . . of how I want her here watching the sunset, all wrapped up in my arms, on my lap, every single night.

  "I'm going to tell you something I haven't told anyone," Nicholas says, his eyes on the sky. "When I came home for the first time after abdicating, and attended my first event, it was . . . uncomfortable."

  He braces his elbows on his knees, looking down at the bottle, picking at the label. "The way they looked at me had changed. You could feel it in the air. I don't think I fully understood the respect I commanded previously, the power I'd had--until that moment. Until it was less than it had been. I felt . . . neutered."

  I nod, because that's it exactly--less than.

  Even with the family I come from, I've never felt looked down on, not since I was fifteen years old. I work hard, I'm the best at what I do, and that matters to me. The idea of people thinking I'm trying to weasel my way under a door, take something--someone--that I don't deserve is . . . unpleasant. It lays in my gut like a rotten food--needing to be purged.

  "Do you know how long it lasted?" Nicholas asks.

  "How long?"

  "About five minutes. That's how long it took for me to spot Olivia across the room. And then I thought--I get to have her. Keep her. Love her and be loved by her . . . forever. This astounding, brilliant woman. Then I asked myself: Why do I give a shit about the opinions of people I've never given a shit about and still don't?" He snaps his fingers. "And like that, the unpleasantness got knocked on its arse. And I felt like me again."

  I take a pull of my beer. "So it's just that easy, then?"

  Nicholas glances at me thoughtfully. "When you look at her, does the whole world just sort of . . . fade away? And she's the only thing you see? The only thing you ever want to see?"

  I smile stupidly. "Yeah . . . yeah, it's just like that."

  "Then yes, it's that easy."

  Nicholas drinks his beer. "Besides, when it's all said and done . . . I'm still a prince and you can still kill anyone in the room with your bare fucking hands. So . . ." He taps his bottle to mine, "cheers."

  AFTER LEAVING LOGAN'S HOUSE LAST night, I didn't go back to the party. I couldn't. Couldn't imagine having to slap on a smile and pretend that I was okay. That I didn't feel like my chest cavity was filled with concrete. But although I was sad, I didn't cry. Because it doesn't feel like Logan and I are done--like we're over--like I need to mourn. It's more like we're stuck, twisted up in vines that are holding us in place.

  Olivia came to my room. She left the party early, because she was tired and even with the flats, her feet and ankles were swollen. Her toes look like ten overstuffed sausages--the kind that Bosco once ate a whole package of. Our dad's coming to Wessco next week, so he'll be here when the babies are born and he's bringing Bosco with him--the little demon. It'll be good to see them, to talk to my dad, hug him. I've missed him. He's good at reminding me that even when life is difficult, we can figure it out, make it better.

  Liv and I talked about men. How stupid they can be, how stubborn. She said that change is hard for everyone--but for leaders like Logan and Nicholas, it's particularly difficult. Olivia made a lot of sense--she gave me sage, old-married-woman advice.

  Then she offered me her bat.

  I love her.

  And now I'm in my room, lying on the bed, staring up at the canopy, my phone playing music from random playlists. "Collide" by Howie Day comes on--I've always liked this song. It reminds me of me and Logan. How our lives have woven around each other's through the years. So many memories and moments. We'd circle each other, watch one another, veer away or try to fight it . . . but we were always pulled back together. Colliding. Connecting.

  There was never going to be anyone for me but Logan St. James.

  And despite how things went down last night, I believe he feels the same way. I remember the caress of his hand on my face, the way he looks as me like I'm the only thing he sees. I hear his whispers in my head, worshipful words, because he cherishes me. I know it; I feel the truth of it deep inside.

  The song lyrics make me think of what he must be feeling right now. He said he wanted to be a part of something, but now he's not a part of anything.

  Logan's lost his place. His footing.

  For someone like him, that must be awful. And because I love him, I should be patient and supportive. I was right to call him out for standing me up--that wasn't okay--but I should have listened more. I should help him find his new place.

  Considering I want to be a psychologist, my empathy could use a little work.

  I grab my phone and type a text to Logan:

  I love you

  But before I can hit send, someone knocks on my door. For a second I think it could be Olivia coming back to check on me. Then I start to smile as I imagine it might be Logan--coming to find me at the same time I'm reaching out to him. Wouldn't that be romantic?

  I climb off the bed and go to the door, excited.

  But when I open it, my excitement plummets, and so does my smile.

  Because it's not Logan.

  He tells me his name is Cain Gallagher. And it's clear he's an angry man.

  It's in the hiss of his words and tight clench of his hand around the gun he's pointing at me. He's somewhere in his late thirties, medium height, with a thin but strong build, and his eyes are small and sharp like two poisonous darts. He's controlled, focused and wrathful.

  He tells me his mother used to work in the palace, that he grew up here, was even an assistant gardener when he was younger. Then he moved away, got a job and got married, but his life never became what he wanted it to be.

  What he deserved it to be.

  His mother passed away a few years ago and he moved back to Wessco.

  And that's when things really went south. He lost his house and his career, his marriage fell apart--but it wasn't because of anything he did. It was done to him.

  And somehow, in his twisted rage . . . it became Nicholas Pembrook's fault.

  Because Nicholas had everything, and deserved nothing.

  So Cain Gallagher decided to fix things. To make it right, make it even.

  It was Cain who set The Horny Goat on fire. It was Cain who sent the letters and left that sick box for my sister. And it will be Cain who takes Nicholas's wife and children away from him. Today.

  I don't know why he tells me all of this, but I think he's going to kill me, so it won't matter anyway. He seems to want someone to know that it was him, that he bested them all.

  It would be too easy to say that Cain Gallagher is insane--I don't think he is. At least, not in the technical sense. He knows what he's doing. He knows that it's wrong. He just doesn't care.

  Because he's so, so angry.

  He shoves the gun closer and I can smell the metal, almost feel the cold press of steel. A scream is caught in my throat--because it's terrifying. I want to put my hands up and cower, I want to pull out of his grip and run, but I don't. Because I'm so afraid of the end of that gun. Petrified that if I struggle or move the wrong way it will go off. It will end me.

  So I don't scream or fight or thrash. When he tells me to sit in the chair I do, frozen and as still
as possible.

  I barely breathe.

  There's a knock on my bedroom door and the gun jostles in Cain's hand. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the blast. But it doesn't come.

  Instead, I hear Logan's beautiful voice.

  "Ellie. It's me--open up, we need to talk."

  Cain moves behind me and aims the gun at the door.

  Oh no. Oh no. No, no, no, no, no . . .

  "Go away, Logan."

  "Ellie, please. I was a twat, I know . . . I'm sorry. Let me in."

  And I want to shout to him that I understand. That I've already forgiven him, that I love him.

  But that will only get him killed.

  So I lie.

  "No, you were right. The princess's sister and the East Amboy bodyguard don't make sense--we'll never last."

  "Elle . . ."

  "I've changed my mind, Logan. I want the fairy tale. I want what Olivia has . . . castles and carriages . . . and like you said, you'll never be able to give me that. I would just be settling for you. You'll never be able to make me happy."

  And it's as if I can feel his shock. His pain. And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.

  The doorknob moves. "Ellie--"

  I panic, screaming at the top of my lungs.

  "Don't come in! I don't want to see you! Go away, Logan. We're done--just go!"

  Please go, I beg silently. Please go, my soul cries.

  Go and live an amazing life, Logan. Love deeply and truly. I wish that for him. I want that for him--a life of joy and beauty and laughter.

  I hear his footsteps retreating. Leaving me. And I'm glad. My shoulders sag and my lungs deflate with relief.

  Until Cain taps my temple with the gun. "Call your sister."

  And the terror pulls my muscles tight again. I start to answer him, and then the door booms open . . .

  ONE THOUGHT REPEATS IN MY head. One pledge, one promise: I'm going to kill this man.

  For touching her. For scaring her. For holding a weapon on her.

  He will never leave this fucking room alive.

  "Get that gun away from her," I growl, measuring the distance from me to him--calculating the seconds it'll take to reach him.

  Ellie's eyes are wide with terror, her face bleached white.

  "Whatever you're thinking," he hisses at me, "however fast you might be, I promise this bullet is faster. It'll tear a hole in her head before you lay a finger on me."

  He punctuates his words by moving the gun closer to Ellie's temple, pressing it against her skin. "Shut the door."