Page 101 of Prince Charmless
I lean her up against me, so she keeps in a straight line. “I do.”
I don’t want her drunk and alone in the back of some stranger’s car. And I don’t want her falling up those dark, rickety steps to her apartment.
“Do you have a coat or any worldly possessions you took with you on your journey?”
She waves a lazy index finger toward the living room. “Bag. Couch,” she yawns.
Soon, I collect her by the door and herd her into the backseat of the car. After asking my driver how his day is going, Melina slumps against my shoulder.
“Can I tell you something?”
I look at the top of her head. “Okay, but just remember you’re plastered, so don’t say anything stupid.”
“You wanted to know my biggest fear, right?”
“No, don’t tell me that. If you didn’t want to say it sober, you probably don’t want to say it now.” Although I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t curious.
“Horses,” she whispers.
I nudge her off me. “Huh?”
“It’s fucking horses, okay? I hate how big they are and the horse noises they make.” She leans back on the headrest. “The neighing or whatever.”
“I remember you saying I’d use this information to torture you. How would that be possible? Horse torture? Is that a thing? Do I put a dead one in your bed à laThe Godfather?”
“I saw a picture of you next to one in your photo album.”When did she get her hands on a photo album?“And riding horses, isn’t that like...prince shit?” She plays with the window button, lowering the glass up and down.
“Like a Disney movie?” I ask slowly.
The Mouse has been creating false stereotypes for us princes for decades. The fact that I’ve tried to save a distressed damsel is purely coincidental. As it turned out, she wasn’t even in real distress. Moreover, I haven’t ridden a horse since I was a child. Tom, on the other hand, is a lifelong horse girl, but he likes betting more than riding anyway.
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“’Cus, it doesn’t matter anymore. You don’t want to look at me or torture me or want anything to do with me.”
I lean my head against the cool window. Actually, I want everything to do with Melina. Therein lies the problem.
The sounds of the Halloween rowdiness get louder as we turn onto her street. The trick-or-treaters have all gone and been replaced by straggling adults dressed in ridiculous costumes. I spot a banana, sexy Willy Wonka, my grandmother (thankfully unsexy). When we pull up to her apartment, Melina tries to exit, but I grab her wrist before she can pull the handle.
“Wait a sec, there’s a lot of people outside.” People who have phones and phones that have cameras.
Melina looks down at the wig in her hand, is struck by a moment of drunk clarity, then holds it up to me. I’m only slightly sure I know what she’s insinuating.
“No.”
“I know how to solve problems, Taylor. Woman in STEM, right here.” She points two thumbs at herself.
“Yes, you’re very smart. Let’s just wait for the Scooby-Doo gang to pass. Then we’ll get out.”
Melina shrugs. “Worked for me.”
I hate that she has to think about being recognized. “Have you been getting bothered this week?”
“Don’t worry about me, Taylor,” she dismisses.
I don’t think I can.
Once the coast is clear, I help her out of the car and very carefully bring her up the steps to the unit. With her arm slung around my shoulder, Melina fishes the keys out of her bag. I take them and open the door for her. After toeing off her heels and deserting them in the middle of the living room, she stumbles towards her bedroom. I hear her flop onto the mattress when I enter the kitchen.
