Royally Screwed
Page 64
And I know without a shred of doubt that we are going to be very, very late for Henry’s party.
By the time we actually leave the palace, it’s so late that Nicholas has Bridget call ahead to tell them to hold the gangplank for us. He says we’ll just be cruising around the bay, but I hope Henry isn’t pissed at us for delaying his party.
I shouldn’t have worried. After we board, it’s immediately apparent Henry is too drunk to notice—or care.
He hugs us both sloppily, like he hasn’t seen us in weeks.
“So damn happy you made it!” he howls, throwing his arms out wide. “I love this fucking boat!”
Nicholas’s eyes crinkle with concern. “It’s actually a ship, little brother.”
Henry rolls his eyes and almost falls over.
“Don’t you ever get tired of correcting people? Have a fucking drink.”
We do just that.
I tried to imagine what a royal yacht would look like, but just like practically every other experience on this wild trip, my imagination falls sadly short.
The “ship” has every luxury imaginable. It’s a floating palace—and almost as large. Strings of lights dot the sky above the deck, and some of the guests—also drunk but not quite as bad as Henry—turn it into a makeshift dance floor. They grind and twist to the beat of the music coming from the DJ’s speakers at the helm. Kanye West is playing—and I laugh to myself, remembering my and Nicholas’s first date.
It seems so long ago. So much has happened.
So much has…changed.
With our drinks in hand, Nicholas and I mingle. He introduces me to aristocrat after aristocrat—dukes and barons and ladies and one marchioness, whatever the hell that is. We find Franny and Simon and stick pretty close to them.
About an hour later, we stand against the railing, a slight breeze blowing my hair but not enough to do any damage, while Simon starts to talk about his plans for expanding Barrister’s. How he wants to branch out into other products.
I look over at Nicholas and my heart skips. Because he isn’t listening to Simon—his focus is across the deck, at the opposite railing. I’ve never seen Nicholas look terrified before.
But that’s exactly the emotion that’s frozen on his face.
“Henry,” he whispers, but only to himself.
And then he shouts it. “Henry!”
He rushes forward, running across the deck, and I turn just in time to see what’s scared him to death. Henry’s laughing, leaning too much on the railing at his side.
And then…silently…he goes over it.
Someone screams. Nicholas yells his brother’s name again. A guard makes the mistake of trying to stop him—and he gets an elbow to the nose for his trouble.
When Nicholas reaches the spot where his brother just stood, he doesn’t pause for a second, but grabs the railing of the ship and hops over, feet first.
And both of Wessco’s princes have gone overboard.
Security men in black suits wait outside the door of the private hospital room. Someone brought Nicholas a dry change of clothes—jeans and a simple black T-shirt.
He changed after the head doctors gave him and the Queen’s advisor an update on Henry. They believe he hit his head on the way down. A mild concussion, with all signs pointing toward no lasting damage.
But that doesn’t make Nicholas feel any better.
He sits in the chair at the foot of the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, strung tight and tense, jaw clenched. His eyes never leaving his unconscious brother, as if he can wake him up with the intensity of his stare. The room is deathly quiet, except for the sounds of Henry’s deep, even breaths and the blip of the heart monitor.
It’s just the two of us, but I don’t feel awkward or out of place. There’s no desire to offer to get him something to eat or a cup of coffee. Because I know Nicholas only wants me, needs me, right here. So there’s no place on Earth I’d rather be.
I put my hand on his shoulder, kneading the rock-hard tendon. He turns his head, and his eyes meet mine—and God, they’re simmering. Awash with sadness and guilt and anger—like he can’t decide if he wants to cry or beat the crap out of his brother.
I’d feel the same way if it were Ellie. I’d want to shake her and hug her and strangle her, all at the same time. So I give him a small smile and a nod.
And as if he can sense Nicholas’s attention isn’t solely on him, Henry stirs. His thick blond brows draw together and he moans, then slowly his eyes—so similar to the beautiful gray-green of his brother’s—creak open. They’re unfocused, slowly scanning the room before coming to rest on Nicholas, growing more alert with every second.
In a dry, cracked voice, he mutters, “Stupid fucking boat.”
After a moment, Nicholas shakes his head, pinning his brother to the bed with his gaze, his words quiet and ragged.
“No more, Henry. We’re all that’s left of them, you and I. And you can’t…No more.”
Pain creases Henry’s face, chasing away the cheery mask he always has glued there.
“What happened?” Nicholas asks. “I know something happened. It’s eating away at you, bit by bit, and you’re going to tell me what it is. Now.”
Henry nods, licks his lips, and asks for a glass of water. I pour him a cup from the plastic pitcher on the side table. After a few long drags on the straw, he sets it aside and rubs his eyes. When he speaks, he looks away from his brother, down toward the far corner of the room, almost as if he’s seeing the words play out in front of him.
By the time we actually leave the palace, it’s so late that Nicholas has Bridget call ahead to tell them to hold the gangplank for us. He says we’ll just be cruising around the bay, but I hope Henry isn’t pissed at us for delaying his party.
I shouldn’t have worried. After we board, it’s immediately apparent Henry is too drunk to notice—or care.
He hugs us both sloppily, like he hasn’t seen us in weeks.
“So damn happy you made it!” he howls, throwing his arms out wide. “I love this fucking boat!”
Nicholas’s eyes crinkle with concern. “It’s actually a ship, little brother.”
Henry rolls his eyes and almost falls over.
“Don’t you ever get tired of correcting people? Have a fucking drink.”
We do just that.
I tried to imagine what a royal yacht would look like, but just like practically every other experience on this wild trip, my imagination falls sadly short.
The “ship” has every luxury imaginable. It’s a floating palace—and almost as large. Strings of lights dot the sky above the deck, and some of the guests—also drunk but not quite as bad as Henry—turn it into a makeshift dance floor. They grind and twist to the beat of the music coming from the DJ’s speakers at the helm. Kanye West is playing—and I laugh to myself, remembering my and Nicholas’s first date.
It seems so long ago. So much has happened.
So much has…changed.
With our drinks in hand, Nicholas and I mingle. He introduces me to aristocrat after aristocrat—dukes and barons and ladies and one marchioness, whatever the hell that is. We find Franny and Simon and stick pretty close to them.
About an hour later, we stand against the railing, a slight breeze blowing my hair but not enough to do any damage, while Simon starts to talk about his plans for expanding Barrister’s. How he wants to branch out into other products.
I look over at Nicholas and my heart skips. Because he isn’t listening to Simon—his focus is across the deck, at the opposite railing. I’ve never seen Nicholas look terrified before.
But that’s exactly the emotion that’s frozen on his face.
“Henry,” he whispers, but only to himself.
And then he shouts it. “Henry!”
He rushes forward, running across the deck, and I turn just in time to see what’s scared him to death. Henry’s laughing, leaning too much on the railing at his side.
And then…silently…he goes over it.
Someone screams. Nicholas yells his brother’s name again. A guard makes the mistake of trying to stop him—and he gets an elbow to the nose for his trouble.
When Nicholas reaches the spot where his brother just stood, he doesn’t pause for a second, but grabs the railing of the ship and hops over, feet first.
And both of Wessco’s princes have gone overboard.
Security men in black suits wait outside the door of the private hospital room. Someone brought Nicholas a dry change of clothes—jeans and a simple black T-shirt.
He changed after the head doctors gave him and the Queen’s advisor an update on Henry. They believe he hit his head on the way down. A mild concussion, with all signs pointing toward no lasting damage.
But that doesn’t make Nicholas feel any better.
He sits in the chair at the foot of the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, strung tight and tense, jaw clenched. His eyes never leaving his unconscious brother, as if he can wake him up with the intensity of his stare. The room is deathly quiet, except for the sounds of Henry’s deep, even breaths and the blip of the heart monitor.
It’s just the two of us, but I don’t feel awkward or out of place. There’s no desire to offer to get him something to eat or a cup of coffee. Because I know Nicholas only wants me, needs me, right here. So there’s no place on Earth I’d rather be.
I put my hand on his shoulder, kneading the rock-hard tendon. He turns his head, and his eyes meet mine—and God, they’re simmering. Awash with sadness and guilt and anger—like he can’t decide if he wants to cry or beat the crap out of his brother.
I’d feel the same way if it were Ellie. I’d want to shake her and hug her and strangle her, all at the same time. So I give him a small smile and a nod.
And as if he can sense Nicholas’s attention isn’t solely on him, Henry stirs. His thick blond brows draw together and he moans, then slowly his eyes—so similar to the beautiful gray-green of his brother’s—creak open. They’re unfocused, slowly scanning the room before coming to rest on Nicholas, growing more alert with every second.
In a dry, cracked voice, he mutters, “Stupid fucking boat.”
After a moment, Nicholas shakes his head, pinning his brother to the bed with his gaze, his words quiet and ragged.
“No more, Henry. We’re all that’s left of them, you and I. And you can’t…No more.”
Pain creases Henry’s face, chasing away the cheery mask he always has glued there.
“What happened?” Nicholas asks. “I know something happened. It’s eating away at you, bit by bit, and you’re going to tell me what it is. Now.”
Henry nods, licks his lips, and asks for a glass of water. I pour him a cup from the plastic pitcher on the side table. After a few long drags on the straw, he sets it aside and rubs his eyes. When he speaks, he looks away from his brother, down toward the far corner of the room, almost as if he’s seeing the words play out in front of him.
