Page 1 of The Cinderella Prince

CHAPTER 1

Hudson Burrow

Tristan

My best friend’snaked ass was low on the list of things I wanted to see before I had my coffee. “Dude,” I sighed, turning away from Roman, who was standing flamingo-style on one leg, the other lifted to pull the underwear over it. A wet towel was on the floor of the living room, and Rome’s clothes were scattered around.

“Don’t kill me,” Rome said, bouncing on one foot ridiculously to maintain his balance. I was only glad that he was facing away from me because I didn’t need the sight of things flapping up and down this early in the morning.

Rome’s foot thumped against the dark, chipped, laminated floor, and the shushing of fabric over legs made me look at him more freely than in short glances. He released the waistband of his dark blue boxer briefs, and they slapped his lower back just above the thick curve of his ass—again, not a thing I was interested in inspecting, butliving with four guys made mornings like this far more common than you’d think.

“Is it flooded again?” I asked. Rome could have dressed in the bathroom the five of us shared unless the drain got plugged and water covered the tiled floor.

My friend turned around, arms a little wide in exasperation. “Do you think moonshining you was on my bucket list?”

I exhaled a long breath of air. We couldn’t scrape by for a plumber, but YouTube was free. It was also why our plugged drain was a recurring problem. “I’ll take care of it.”

“You will?” Rome asked, eyebrows rising. “You are a saint, Tris.”

I rolled my eyes and shook my head, turning away from the tiny living room section of this one snug area of the apartment. Daylight poured in through the windows facing east, rays of sunshine slanting and filtering through cheap white curtains. The kitchen occupied a quarter of the common space, fully open to the round dining table with six chairs surrounding it. That thing alone took up more space than we could afford, but we had to eat somewhere. The only mark that separated the kitchen from the rest of the common room was a few square feet of tiles replacing the laminate.

“After I’ve had a lick of coffee,” I told Roman.

“Thanks,” my friend said, lifting two T-shirts to choose from. “What do you think?”

I inspected them both quickly. “What’s the occasion?”

“They’re trying to close the youth’s art center on Perry Street,” Rome said with an edge in his voice.

“The black one,” I replied, pointing to the T-shirt heheld in his right hand while using my other hand to search for a coffee filter in the cluttered cupboard. “There’s no need to look slutty, but it’ll still show off some muscles.”

“Yeah? Nobody’s gonna mess with me,” Rome said, picking the idea and running with it. He tossed the light cream T-shirt that normally revealed his lower abdomen. He pulled on the black T-shirt over his head. It was snug but not too tight. His physique was hard to miss, even when you didn’t want to check him out.

I replaced the coffee filter and counted the scoops while Roman finished dressing. Sporty white socks, intentionally torn jeans, and unintentionally torn sneakers. He strapped on a fanny pack that contained his ID, not enough cash to bail himself out, and pepper spray in case he attracted unwanted attention. I knew the contents of his fanny pack because I had forced him to carry these things since he insisted on carrying his head in the bag.

Coffee dripped into the pot, and I leaned back against the small kitchen counter, arms crossed on my bare chest, gaze scanning Roman. “You’re ready,” I decided.

“Hell yeah,” Rome said.

“Don’t get yourself killed,” I warned him. He still owed me this month’s rent. “And give ’em hell.”

Roman saluted me. “Sir, yes, sir.” With a twirl, he faced the door and marched away.

I washed the dishes from last night’s dinner while reminding myself that Roman was just being Roman and that nothing bad was going to happen to him. He’d gotten into scruffs with people countless times, but it had never stopped him from handcuffing himself to a door and refusing to move until someone met with the protestors.He’d returned home with a split lip or a bleeding nose more than once, brushing it off as the price of doing the right thing. I wondered how many right things he still had left in him. Would one of them cost him more than just a black eye?

The cramp in my stomach clearly came from my vivid imagination. He was old enough to take care of himself.He’s also dumb enough to lie in front of a bulldozer, I thought. Or brave enough, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

I wiped my hands on my pajama bottoms when the dishes were clear. After pouring myself a big mug of coffee, I grabbed the plunger from under the sink and headed for the bathroom. Rolling my pajamas up, I stepped into the puddle of water and began the grueling process of unplugging the shower drain. Our bathroom was as small as everything else in this place, but it was just enough for us. A toilet, a sink, a ceiling-tall cabinet with enough storage space for five guys, and a single piece of glass separating the shower. Luckily, the floor was at enough of an angle for water not to leak into the rest of the bathroom. Unluckily, the drain was a bitch.

By the time the tiny flood was resolved, I was in desperate need of showering, but my head throbbed with a hint of a headache. I washed my hands, dried my feet, and returned to the kitchen to enjoy my coffee in silence. The other guys were either out already or sleeping off a graveyard shift. My day was only just starting, and it had all the makings of a banger. Whatever troubles came along in the next twelve hours, I had at least a party at Neon Nights to look forward to.

Holding my mug, I walked to the kitchen window, pulled the curtain aside, and opened it to air the space out. Sitting on the windowsill, I looked at the street two stories below me. Framed by brownstone and redbrick buildings on either side, the narrow, one-way Washington Street met the narrower stone-paved Charles Lane at the corner just under my window. Warm air washed over me. People hurried up and down the street, some slipping in through the doors of Neon Nights across the street, which was a perfectly tame and friendly place during the day.

Once my mug was empty, I got ready for my morning run. It was an excellent way to save money on a gym membership, especially with the newly constructed outdoor exercise equipment on Pier 46 on the Hudson River. It was the shorter of the two piers claimed by the residents of Hudson Burrow, and a hard push from the locals got it converted into a place for exercise, leaving Pier 45 to function as a park for families enjoying sunny days on the river.

I was quiet as I got ready and left the apartment, comfortable sneakers on my feet and running clothes sticking to my body. As soon as I descended to the ground floor, ignoring the elevator that had gotten shut down way before my time, the scents of a new day in Hudson Burrow filled my lungs. Freshly baked bread and buns, sizzling hot dogs, roasting corn on a cob, coffee, donuts, the dust of dry streets, sweet summer sweat, cars, and a slightly fishy scent of the river nearby were only just the surface. Hudson Burrow was awake and brimming with people hurrying about their business. Deliveries arrived at cafes, bars, and restaurants, and people shouted, complained, andprotested. They laughed, whistled, sang, and greeted you when you walked by.

As I looked around, a figure emerged from Neon Nights. This was a person you’d be hard-pressed to miss in any crowd. Tall, broad, and glamorously curvy, Lady Vivien Woodcock was the stuff of legends in Hudson Burrow. Wearing her tall, purple wig and the finest dark crimson sequin dress at eight in the morning, Mama Viv struggled to hold the phone in her hand, the acrylic nails nearly as long as her fingers.

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