The Bad Royals Box Set: The Complete Royally Unexpected Series, page 3
I’d like to give her a powerful stroke.
I’m in a full-on sprint now, but I already know I’ve lost. The young woman doesn’t even look like she’s trying, and yet she glides ahead of me. Before my lungs explode in my chest and my muscles spasm uncontrollably, I slow down. I lift my hand to her in surrender, and I think I see her smile.
I finally stop running and try to catch my breath. Bending over, I rest my hands on my knees. The woman slides out of view and I gulp down another breath. My heart thumps harder than it has in weeks. I laugh to myself, alone in the woods, intertwining my fingers on top of my head and inhaling deeply.
That was fun. I want to do it again.
How sad is my life that I can buy anything I want, go anywhere I wish… but my biggest thrill is losing a footrace I never could have won in the first place?
3
ELLE
“What was that about? You were supposed to be cooling down,” Coach Bernard grumbles as I make it back to the pier.
I decide not to answer. I was racing some runner on the shore just doesn’t seem like something Coach would like to hear two months before the biggest regatta of the year.
It’s the first time I’ve qualified for the Spring Regatta. As a single sculler, my event is one of the most highly anticipated ones.
Farcliff is a Kingdom nestled between the United States and Canada, near the Great Lakes. We’re much smaller than either of our neighbors, with a population of under twenty million packed into a country the size of Vermont—but we’re fierce. The Spring Regatta brings in all the nearby colleges, including Princeton and McGill.
The entire royal family attends the Spring Regatta, and the winners get their medals presented by the King himself. American schools have won the singles event for the past six years, and Coach Bernard thinks I could be the one to bring the trophy back to Farcliff.
Winning that event would not only mean I get to keep my scholarship, but it also has a healthy prize purse attached to it as well. It’s basically the pinnacle of any Farcliff athlete’s rowing career in one event.
So, yeah—I probably shouldn’t be deviating from my training to race some runner when I’m supposed to be cooling down, but I have a competitive streak and sometimes I can’t help myself.
Coach Bernard is still staring at me with those assessing eyes of his, waiting for me to answer his question. Instead, I just haul myself out of the water. My coach gives me a few notes and then heads back to the athletic building. I’m almost finished getting my shell out of the water when I see movement on the shoreline.
I look up just in time to see Olivia dangling my running shoes from the tips of her fingers. A cruel grin spreads over her glossy lips.
“Oops,” she mouths as she tosses them in the water.
“Hey! What the hell!” My feet pound on the pier and I make a quick turn, splashing through the shallows to grab my now-soaked shoes. I turn just in time to see her sniggering as she walks away.
“Real mature, Olivia,” I call out after her. She flips me off without looking back.
Glancing at the gravel-filled pathway back up to the athletic building, I let out a sigh and swap my boat shoes for my sopping wet runners. I squelch my way up to put my scull away, and then squelch some more all the way back to the locker room.
I can hear the other girls in the locker room showers, so I just grab my stuff and leave. By the time I get to my house, hot tears are stinging my eyes.
I’m cold, wet, tired, and hungry—and perhaps most pathetically of all, my feelings are hurt. As soon as I got off the water, it only took Olivia half a second to remind me that I don’t belong here. That I’m an outsider. That I’ll never be one of the elite.
That I didn’t get invited to their stupid, archaic Prince’s Ball.
Not that I care, anyway. I wouldn’t have anything to wear, and Coach has us on a strict curfew until the regatta. Going to some party would be a distraction that I really don’t need right now.
It still hurts, though.
I cry in the shower, standing under the hot stream of water until I can get a hold of myself again. By the time I’ve toweled off, I have so much pent-up energy inside me and nowhere to unleash it. I take a deep breath. I know what I need to do.
I stomp from the bathroom to the hall closet and grab my toolbox. In four strides, I’m in front of Dahlia’s door, banging on it as hard as I can. The door shakes so hard it nearly comes off its hinges.
“Dahlia!”
“Come in,” her sleepy voice says.
I burst through the door like a woman possessed. “Up.” I order. “Out of bed.”
Dahlia frowns, rubbing her eyes with her fists. Her shoulder-length hair is dyed a multitude of pastel colors from pale pink to purple to blue, and it’s splayed out across her pillow like a unicorn-colored halo.
“How was practice?” She asks, rubbing her eyes.
“It was fine.” I say. “Get up.”
She yawns, and my frustration mounts. My roommate throws her blankets off and stands up, completely naked. I blush, averting my eyes, but Dahlia doesn’t seem to care. She glides over to the chair in the corner of the room and throws her sparkly purple housecoat over her shoulders.
“What are you doing?” She asks, cocking her head to the side.
“I’m fixing your stupid bed. Where’s your friend the moaner from last night?”
She waves a hand dismissively. “He had to leave.”
“You kicked him out?” I pull the bed away from the wall and glance at my roommate.
She grins. “I told him I had an early class.”
“I wish I had your nerve, Dahlia.” I open the toolbox and find a screwdriver. “I can’t do one-night stands.”
“It’s easy. You just find someone you think is attractive, have sex, and then you say: ‘I have an early class in the morning, so…’ and leave it hanging for them to fill in the blanks.” Dahlia sits down on the chair and leans her elbow on the armrest, her head propped on her palm. “They always understand.”
I snort. “I get the concept of a one-night stand, Dahl. What I’m saying is I don’t think I could do it. I need… I don’t know. More of a connection.”
“There are different kinds of connections. Sometimes, a connection lasts an instant, like a glance at a stranger on a subway. Sometimes it lasts a night. For some people—the lucky ones—they find someone to share a connection with for a lifetime.”
“You really think that’s true?” I tighten the screws on her headboard and then flip the heavy mattress off to check the frame underneath. “I think that only happens in fairytales.”
I don’t mean to sound as bitter as I do, I swear. But I never knew my parents, and I guess they must have had a connection for at least a night. Long enough to create me. I grew up in the system, ferried from foster home to foster home, enduring all types of horrors until I was fourteen. That’s when I found the Valencias, who introduced me to crew. Once I found the Valencias and rowing, everything got a little easier.
Not easy, per se—but definitely easier.
Before that? I don’t even want to think about it. My childhood is a blur that I’d rather not bring into focus.
“The only people I know who had a lifelong connection were the Valencias,” I say. “That’s two people out of, what? The thousands that I’ve met? Out of everyone, only two people have a real connection?”
Dahlia smiles that impish little smile of hers and shrugs. “Like I said, they’re the lucky ones.”
I tighten everything on Dahlia’s bed frame and grab a plank of wood from the closet, long enough to jam across her frame to stiffen it up a little more. It’s seriously Macgyvered, but at least it doesn’t squeak anymore when I test it.
“Help me with this,” I say. “We’re moving your bed to the other wall.”
“Don’t I get a say in this?” Dahlia asks with a grin, even as she’s getting up to help. “It’s my room.”
“As much as I love listening to a sex-fest every night, the Spring Regatta is coming up, and I need to sleep.” We drag her frame across the room, and I help her put the mattress back on and re-make the bed. I take care not to touch her sheets too much—who knows what kind of bodily fluids are on there?
When I grab her bedside table to carry it over, a silver envelope falls to the ground. My eyes widen as I pick it up.
“The Prince’s Ball?” I look up with wide eyes. How did she get an invitation?
Dahlia’s naked again, hands on her hips, staring into her closet. She glances over her shoulder at me and shrugs. “Yeah, what about it?”
“How did you get an invite?”
“In the mail,” she replies, pulling on a pair of teal jeans followed by a purple sweater. It matches her hair and it makes her look completely colorblind, but the outfit still kind of works.
I take a deep breath. I love this girl to death, but sometimes she is seriously off her rocker. “I know you got it in the mail, Dahl—but why did you get one? I thought it was only the upper echelons of Farcliff society that got one of these.”
I follow her to the kitchen as she waves a hand. “My parents know the royal family. It’s not a big deal.”
I frown. “Not a big deal? You told me you were putting yourself through college without their help. That’s why you work at the restaurant, remember? Where we met?”
“Coffee?” Dahlia asks, smiling.
I take a breath to calm myself as my friend does her best to ignore my questions.
“Who even are you, Dahlia?” I look down at the envelope in my hands and my eyes widen. “Dahlia Raventhal? You didn’t tell me you were a Raventhal. The same Raventhals that got kicked out of the Kingdom when the Queen died?”
My best friend hums to herself and rummages through our cupboards.
“Dahlia?” I say softly.
Finally, she leans her hands on the counter and takes a breath. “Yes, I’m a Raventhal.” Then, her face brightens and she turns toward me. She puts her hands out and jumps up and down in excitement.
“What?” I ask.
“This is perfect!”
“What’s perfect?”
“You! Elle! You’re perfect!”
“What are you talking about, Dahlia?”
“You can go to the Prince’s Ball instead of me. You can take my invitation and they’ll tick my name off the list. My family will think I went, and it’ll keep them happy. You’ll get a night off to enjoy yourself, which you desperately need. It’s the perfect plan!”
“Perfect is not the word I’d use to describe the nonsense that just came out of your mouth, Dahlia.”
Her smile doesn’t slip. She does a little dance and throws her arms around me. “Amazing! I can do your hair and makeup, and we’ll find something for you to wear.”
“No.”
“You’ll go, dance, feel pretty, and forget about whatever it is that makes you cry in the shower.” Her smile widens and she hugs me again.
I freeze. She heard that?
I disentangle myself from Dahlia’s arms and shake my head. “No, Dahl. Absolutely not. This is not happening. I’m not going to some stupid party by myself just because you want your name ticked off the list. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m almost six feet tall and you’re barely four foot nine. I weigh about sixty pounds more than you do. No one will ever, ever believe that I’m you.”
She waves a hand. “None of them know what I look like.”
“No.” I cross my arms over my chest.
Her smile drops, and her eyebrows draw together. A pain passes through my chest. Dahlia is the only constant source of positivity in my life, and I hate hurting her. She knows how hard it is to be a scholarship student, and how hard I work for my place on the rowing team.
She also knows how the other girls love to torture me. I bite my lip.
“Olivia and Marielle are going,” I say softly. “I can’t go. The last thing I want to do is run into them while I’m pretending to be someone I’m not.”
Dahlia makes a soft noise as she sighs. She crosses her arms and drums her fingers against her bicep. Finally, she shrugs. “They’ll be stuck to Prince Charlie like glue, if I know anything about them. All you have to do is avoid the Prince, and then you’ll be in the clear. There’ll be at least five hundred guests there. You can easily melt into the crowd.”
“Look at me,” I scoff, spreading my arms. “Melting into crowds isn’t exactly my forte. I’m not going, Dahlia.”
“I can drive you.”
“You want me to pull up to the biggest event in Farcliff in your bright, orange Jeep? Whatever happened to ‘melting into the crowd’? Everyone will be arriving in limousines! Listen to yourself, Dahlia—this is insane! I won’t go.”
“Uh-huh,” she says as her face brightens again. “Coffee?”
4
CHARLIE
My father may be the King, but he can’t stop me living my life—and that includes boxing. I run straight from the lake trail to the gym, arriving at the old warehouse-style boxing gym soaked with sweat and hyped-up on adrenaline.
I glance further down the street, where the houses get smaller and the lawns are overgrown. Grimdale. Behind me, manicured lawns get bigger and bigger, leading to the McMansions that line the streets all the way to the castle gates.
Farcliff Kingdom is severed almost perfectly in two between Grimdale and Farcliff. Grimdale is often seen as the lower-class end of town. The residents are lower-income, working-class people. My father often dismisses them, even though they’re just as much his subjects as the richer residents of Farcliff.
Money talks, though, right?
It talks to him, that’s for sure.
My mother wasn’t like that. She volunteered at many Grimdale organizations and was beloved by everyone. Sometimes I think my father was jealous of her—the people never cared for him like that. He doesn’t have the sparkle she had, or her ability to make everyone feel loved, important, and heard.
In a way, I’ve tried to follow in her footsteps. I’m not perfect—not by a long shot—but at least I still respect everyone in Farcliff Kingdom. That includes the people of Grimdale
The boxing gym sits almost exactly between the two districts, like an impartial observer to both sides of the tracks. I walk inside the old warehouse, ripping my tee-shirt off and pointing to the guy pounding the bags.
“Jimmy. You and me. We’re sparring. Now.”
He glances from my face to my tattooed chest, his eyes widening. Then, he glances over his shoulder and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, I can’t, I…”
“You what? You can. You’ve beat my ass a dozen times when I first started. Are you scared I’m going to beat you this time?” I flex my arms and he puts his hands up.
“No, I…”
“I am commanding you, as your Prince, to get in that fucking ring and spar with me.”
He turns mute.
“Charlie!”
I turn around to see old Bo ‘The Badger’ Smith walking out of the office. He’s old and hobbled now, but I’ve seen grainy videos of his fights. He went toe-to-toe with the best, before he started this boxing gym. Only Bo, my brothers, and a couple of other trusted people call me Charlie.
My mother used to call me Charlie, but she’s gone now.
To everybody else, I’m ‘Your Highness’. I’ve tried to get Neville to call me anything other than that, but he’s a stickler for etiquette.
Bo looks at me, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, son.” His eyes are soft and sympathetic.
“About what?” I pound a fist into the palm of my other hand. I need to get rid of some of this energy. I need to punch something.
Bo sighs, putting a gnarled hand to his forehead.
My heart starts to thump. “About what, Bo? What are you sorry about?”
“I’ve received a Royal Decree. If you train here, I’ll get shut down.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I tried to fight it.”
White-hot rage spikes my blood. “A Royal Decree,” I repeat, even though I heard him just fine the first time. This stinks of my father. I take a trembling breath. “I can’t even train here? What if I don’t fight? I’ll just train, nothing more. I won’t even spar.”
Bo reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. I take it, immediately recognizing the thick, watermarked and heavily scented paper stationary used for all royal correspondence. I wrinkle my nose as I read the decree, my heart sinking to my stomach.
If I’m caught here, Bo gets shut down.
I try to keep my face steady as I hand the paper back to Bo, but I can feel my eye twitching.
I need this gym. Ever since I was ten years old, I’ve been boxing. My mother brought me here when I started acting out. When the big scandal happened, back when I was fifteen—the one that damaged my relationship with my father beyond repair—boxing became my lifeline. I need the bags. I need the pain. I need Bo.
“I’m sorry, son,” Bo repeats over and over again, finally putting a hand on my arm. “You know how many kids stay out of trouble because they come here. If I get shut down…”
I shake my head. “You’re not getting shut down. I won’t let it happen.”
His eyebrows arch and I see the sorrow in his eyes. My heart squeezes in a way I’m not used to… so instead of anguish, I turn the feeling into anger. Bo has been there for me ever since I was ten years old, and now he’s being threatened because of it.
It’s not fucking right. I don’t give a shit about being ‘princely’. My father is a power-hungry, reputation-seeking, unscrupulous little man, and I will not fucking have it.
I don’t even say goodbye to Bo. There’s a ringing in my ears as I make my way back to the castle, my rage carrying me all the way up the wide steps to the front entrance and through the Great Hall to the King of Farcliff’s personal offices. I’m ten feet away from the door when I feel a hand on my arm.
