Page 67 of Prince Charmless
There are lots of caveats to being royal. You can probably find them listed in a tabloid article titledTOP TEN STRICT RULES THE ROYAL FAMILY MUST FOLLOW.We can’t yawn or walk in front of family members who outrank us in the line of succession. Obviously, I’ve done both of those things, not in the public eye. I’m very tired and my grandmother is very slow. And despite the copious amounts of tax I pay (seriously, there shouldn’t be a singular pothole in this country), I’m not allowed to vote. For good historical reasons, most countries want their unelected officials as far away from democracy as possible. The most famous of our rules involves PDA with people you’re not engaged with. Strictly forbidden. As the armchair royalists onTwitter suggested, it’s a slippery slope from dancing together to unwed coitus. Catholics beware. My brother, who has been seen with countless women (i.e. a tennis player, a Victoria’s Secret model, and a retired K-pop idol), has never kissed any of his companions on camera. The press loves a royal faux pas, and I’m usually not the one to commit them. They’re probably having a field day.
I let out a groan thunderous enough to scare Tom away. When I open my eyes, he’s vanished from my bedroom. I grab my glasses and phone from the nightstand. About twenty people have sent me messages, nineteen of which I don’t care about and one of which I do.
Melina:everyone in my life is texting me and also everyone not in my life
Melina:I need to get a new business email
Melina:I’m sorry for leaving last night, can we talk?
Why is she apologizing? I should be the one apologizing.
My phone buzzes in a jingle.Alex Lam,is the name that appears on my screen in big white letters. I bare my teeth before pressing the green button.
“You called the paparazzi perverts?!”
I pull it away from my ear. “Good morning, Alex. How are you doing on this fine—” I look out the window. “Rainy morning.” I don’t know why I bothered. It’s always raining on this bloody island.
A headache starts to form as a consequence of my eyes being open for more than five seconds. “Ugh, why didn’t you cut me off last night?”
“I tried, but then you saidje suis le prince de Sainte-Claire et tu n’es pas ma mère.”
I hum. “My apolog—”
“Then you called me Shmalex and told me to stop being such a Debbie-Downer.”
“That’s, uh, inexcusable.”
“Everyone is asking for a statement. Why didn’t you say anything to me so I could get on top of this? I found out about the photo because my mom sent it in the family group chat.”
Though we usually skip the hellos and the titles and the bowing with each other, I don’t appreciate the attitude right now.
“Did you want me to run up all giddy afterward and share with you the details?”
To be honest, I don’t remember that much after Melina left. I remember picking my jacket off the ground, Dad saying, ‘Where’s your girl? I wanted to finish our conversation’, and a waiter asking if I wanted more to drink. Judging by how I feel right now, I’m pretty sure I answered the affirmative. I can’t believe I got drunk. I never get drunk at public events. The champagne is only there for decoration, just something for people to hold and sip. You’re not supposed to slam it down like at a frat party.
“I thought the plan was to give the tabloids enough for harmless speculation, not a full-on fairytale moment. I mean, look at this picture! This is the most straight-out-of-a-Disney-film thing I’ve ever seen. It looks like we staged it.”
“I haven’t seen it yet, one sec.” I put him on speaker and at random pick an app that connects to the internet.
Alex is right. Thisdoeslook staged, like a prom picture or the final shot of a Hallmark movie. Melina’s wearing red which stands out nicely amongst the greenery. Our embrace is surrounded by the creeping vines in the background and lit by the string lights wrapped around the railing. We look like Christmas. Of course, my manhandling of Melina is the focal point of the shot. The details of last night are a little fuzzy,but I remember every second of when my lips were on hers. She was warm and pliant and fit perfectly in my arms. I don’t know how I haven’t kissed her sooner. Lately, I’ve been catching myself fantasizing about us, unspeakable teenager fantasies that are sick and twisted. Things about her only wearing the clothes I buy. Things about her stripping them off when I snap my fingers. Things about me stripping mine off when she snaps hers. I think about being her reward. I think about being her punishment. Sometimes I want to lock her in my bedroom, other times I want to take her to Paris. But mostly, I just want to keep feeding her out of the palm of my hand.
My God. I sound like a sexually frustrated poet.
‘Is Melina Ramirez just a friend???’ reads the caption of the Twitter post.
“Did you find it?” Alex asks. “All that’s missing is the firewor—”
“You can save the lecture, Lam. I was drunk. What’s done is done.”
Yeah. I was drunk. That’ll be my excuse. He doesn’t have to know I was sober enough to have known better.
“I no-commented the press,” he says. “Is there anything else you want me to say?”
“No. How did Jamie weasel his way into my party, by the way? Do we not check who people bring as their plus-ones?”
“Sorry, Jamie was there? LiketheJamie?”
He must have been avoiding Alex. I don’t know what he did to fix my little blackmail problem, but whatever it was, it had Jamie running back to England, where up until now I had hoped he was living in a ditch or acting in commercials for dog food. Alex might’ve threatened some things he had no business threatening, and Jamie’s not that smart of a person to call anyone on their bluff. I’ve never asked because I’d have to fire him if I knew.
