Page 32 of Prince Charmless
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All royals are insufferable. We’re by no means an exception, but if there was a competition of insufferableness, the British monarchy would win in a landslide. Talking with them feels like talking to aliens from another planet. They act like they’re the first family to ever have drama or a dead mom, infecting everybody else’s press with their issues. They need to grow a pair and realize to the rest of the world, they just look like a bunch of rich kids whining about champagne problems. Maybe they would have less turmoil if they stopped living their lives like a period piece. Thankfully, they see us as small fish, so wedon’t get the privilege of visiting that often. The Duke of Wales came to St. Claire once, and people lined the fucking streets for him. It’s not like I’m jealous, but if you’re going to care about an unelected figurehead, at least care about the ones from ourowngoddamn country.
We go every couple of years to sustain the cordial relationship between our nations, but being myself, I can’t help but make our exchanges slightly passive-aggressive. It would be an insult to my personal character if they actually wanted to be friends with us. Also, the whole Commonwealth thing is weird. Desperately clinging to formerly colonized countries and touring them like they’re their little pets is something that, for lack of better words, doesn’t sit right with me.
Anyway.
I find the perfect time to get work done is when I’m stuck in a private jet. They’re terrible for the environment, but they sure are convenient. It’s impossible for anyone to come in and bother me. The only other people here are our staff and security. And my father, of course, but he fell asleep as soon as we took off.
Alex makes an odd face at his laptop. “Your brother’s made an interesting choice for his small business.”
That’s not entirely surprising. My brother makes lots of interesting choices. A particular viral video comes to mind of someone showing him how to drink a beer ‘the American way’ at an award show after-party in Los Angeles. I guess Americans drink their beer by poking a hole in the can and chugging it all in one go. Cleaning up Tom’s messes is a skill Alex has had to carefully hone. Sometimes, I wonder if he bribes journalists to hold off on stories for a couple of hours until we can prepare a statement. I don’t care, as long as he isn’t caught.
“What, is it some mom-and-pop sex shop?” I ask.
I am ninety-nine percent sure he wouldn’t do that, but there’s a concerning one percent of me that thinks he would.
He shakes his head. “It’s a nail salon. It actually might be good for press. It’s owned by a woman and has been in the city for over a decade.”
A nail salon? Thatisan interesting choice. I reach my arm out, and Alex hands me his laptop with the website pulled up. The first sentence under the ‘about us’ section readsI named the MelMat Nail Bar after my two children, Melina and Mateo.
Of fucking course.
I give Tom the most simple task, and he still finds a way to annoy me. There’s no doubt he googled Melina’s name and found this.
“Something wrong?”
Alex must’ve noticed my grip on his laptop growing tighter. I ignore him and immediately call Tom.
He answers within seconds. “Sweet brother of mine. To what do I owe the ples—”
“Why are you going to a nail salon?”
I hear him excuse himself from a group of people and go somewhere quieter. “I thought I’d do something unexpected, you know? Keep people on their freshly manicured toes.”
I can always tell when he’s lying. I don’t understand how he’s this glorious poker player.
“Oh, I think you’ve already proven you’re able to do the unexpected.”
“I’m serious,” he says through a laugh. “I need my cuticles...painted or fixed or trimmed or whatever people do with their cuticles.”
I stare hopelessly out the window of the emergency exit. “If you have to be deranged, could you do it in a way that doesn’t involve me?”
“I’m just curious, okay? You danced with this girl. That’s like third base for you.”
You know I’ve had sex beforeis what I would say if Alex wasn’t staring me down. Tom should use his perceptiveness for something more productive than this. I guess that’s what the poker’s for.
“I already told the owner I’m coming,” Tom says. “I’m not going to be rude and back out now. It’s Small Business Day Eve.”
“Thomas, listen to me,” I sneer. “There is nothing there. I promise. Why do you care so much?”
“Because you haven’t shown interest in someone since your last relationship, and that was years ago.”
I glance over to my father to make sure he’s still asleep. “That wasn’t a relationship,” I mutter.
I don’t think I’ve ever had one of those, at least a serious one. The thought of going public with someone makes my stomach churn. I’d probably call what we had a stint or a situation. Maybe there was the occasional dinner, but I can count on my fingers the times we slept together. I might have to use two hands, but it was definitely less than ten. Last I heard, Jamie has a husband, and I’m pretty sure has moved back to England. Good riddance.
It’s not like I’ve been completely celibate since then. One-night stands are just complicated when you’re me. Sometimes, it’s easier not to have them. It’s never ‘just sex’, it’s always ‘sex and then praying to God Almighty for the next week I won’t hear about it in a tabloid’. But unlike Tom, I’m pretty good at determining if a person is the type to kiss and tell.
