Page 48 of Judging Duke

He could barely put one foot in front of the other as he made his way into the house.

What the fuck was I doing? I stood and followed, watching him struggle with his case and camera bag.

“Here, let me help you. You look dead on your feet.” I reached for his bag.

“I’m good, really. I can manage.”

“Simon, take the help when it’s offered, okay?”

With no further argument, he handed me his case and led the way upstairs.

“Which is your room?” I asked. Did he know where he was going?

“Barbara said I was in Byron. What did she mean?”

“Yeah, apparently the house belonged to a writer, and he named all the rooms. See? Keats, Austen, Dickens, Flaubert. Who the hell is Flaubert?”

“He wrote Madam Bovary.”

I looked at him, shocked. “Who now?”

“What? I can’t love literature? It’s a famous book.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Again with the insults to my intelligence.”

“Simon, that’s not…”

“I’m joking. Chill the fuck out. I’m too tired to argue tonight.”

“Here, you’re next to me. I’m in Tolstoy.”

“War and Peace. Seems apt for us, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think we’ve got to the peace bit yet.”

I opened the door and ushered him inside, where he promptly collapsed on the bed, face first.

Placing his bags by the wardrobe, I stood in the doorway. What did I do now? I felt bad for just leaving him.

“I’m going to go. I’ll be next door if you need me.” What the fuck was I saying? Why would he need me?

He said nothing as I backed out of the room and closed the door.

I let out a breath. That was weird as fuck.

Not wanting the night to be over yet, I made my way back to the terrace where a guitar had appeared, played by the Asian bartender.

I sat at the edge of the terrace overlooking the sea, the pale moon reflecting in the water. A cool breeze brought the temperature down a degree or two, but I didn’t mind. The soft sounds of the guitar suited the calmness of the ocean.

How had I got here? From the broken boy I’d been, to the prostitute, to the Duke of here and now. Sitting on the patio surrounded by people who probably made more in a week than I made in a year. I included Simon in that assumption. If what he said was true and he had funded Robbie’s treatment and bought the house, he wasn’t doing too badly.

In some instances, sex paid, but not for me. I’d have gladly traded those years on the street for a normal life. I couldn’t deny that it’d made me the person I was today. Guilt still ate at me for what happened to Robbie. Shame that I’d done nothing to bring my uncle the justice he deserved after abusing me. Regret I’d not returned home then, but how could I? My aunt hadn’t believed me. Why would anyone else?

“Are you okay?” Barbara sat down next to me, and the thought that I rarely got to speak to her with her clothes on brought a smile to my face.

“I’m good. Thank you for inviting me here. It really is beautiful.”

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