He's at the bar again. It's turned into a regular hangout for Matt—a place to go when he needs to escape the world around him.
It's raining outside, the sound bouncing off the tin roof. It only adds to the music blaring out of the beat-up jukebox that sits in the corner of the room. Some drunk teenagers came in a few minutes ago and set it to blare out a bunch of old music.
One song in particular sets Matt’s nerves on edge. It's one of those songs that's meant to be laughed at, but it's also been played three times tonight. Matt waves Meg over again. “I'll give you twenty dollars, right here, right now, if you let me go unplug that.”
Meg snorts. “I'll make fifty dollars this hour alone if you don't. That girl in the back has been eyeing the box for almost five minutes. I reckon she's got a playlist all made up.”
“Fifty dollars, then,” says Matt.
“You give me fifty dollars, it's just going on your tab. Not going to make a dent in what you owe me, and it's not going to get you any closer to that plug.”
“Meg,” whines Matt. “You're killing me here! I'm not near drunk enough for this.”
“Then get another beer.”
“You cut me off ten minutes ago.”
“Come up with fifty dollars towards your tab,” says Meg with a crooked smile. “And I'll put you back on tap for the night.”
“That's cruel,” grumbles Matt, but he fishes out a folded-up fifty from his back pocket. “Here. Take it. I didn't need to eat this week, no worries.”
Meg plucks it from his hand and tucks it into the front pocket of her apron. “That's good to hear. You could stand to lose a few pounds, anyway.”
“Cruel,” says Matt, “just cruel.”
A sudden rush of static interrupts the jukebox song. Matt's eyes flit towards the television. The twelve o'clock news is on. It's basically just a repeat of everything they talked about at six, which is good because Matt wasn't around a television at six.
The reporter looks painfully chipper. “All right,” she says. “Now, the big scoop of the evening. I'm sure by now, everyone's heard about the trip that the Royal Family of Vertsea is making through the States.”
Meg turns the volume up. “This is actually pretty neat. I had a cousin tell me all about it last night. Supposedly, they've got some big announcement planned. I'm betting you they're trying to unload the daughter on someone.”
“Do people even do arranged marriages anymore?” Matt wrinkles his nose at the thought. He's far from a romantic, but the thought of marrying someone for something outside of love still makes his skin crawl a bit.
“I guess they do,” says Meg.
“We've all been wondering what the announcement would be. Well, the wait is over. Today, Queen Gabriella Moreau has given away the big news,” says the reporter.
Her image fades away. It's replaced by the picture of a beautiful young woman with curling hair and ridiculously pale skin. There's a split second where Matt doesn't recognize her, but then the name Victoria Moreau flashes over the bottom of the screen.
“Motherfucker,” gasps Matt.
Meg gapes at the screen. “That's the girl that came in here a while back! You went home with her, didn't you?”
Matt nods. It's hard to hear the news over the radio. They've put the same song on again. It drowns out the news station for a few painfully long moments.
When it ends, Meg turns the volume of the television up all the way. The teenager makes to start the song up again. Matt shifts about on the stool to face the jukebox, pulling his buck knife out of its holster in one smooth motion. He points it at the teenager. “Turn that song on one more time and you're going to have a real nice story to brag about to your friends…once you're out of the hospital.”
The girl squeaks and scrambles back to her booth seat. Meg snorts. “Wow. That was real mature of you.”
“Be quiet,” snaps Matt. “I think I might have fucked a princess.”
“Wow. That's…I just don't even know what to say about that.”
“You don't need to say anything,” hisses Matt. “Just shut up so I can listen to this.”
The image has already shifted, showing Victoria standing on a large podium. Her dark red velvet gown hangs low on her shoulders. The golden threads form loops around the swoop-neck collar; it's almost scandalously low, as if trying to make up for the fact that the sleeves almost come down to her knuckles and the hem comes down over the tops of her shoes.
Her eyes are downcast, face almost sullen. She looks sad. The thought is strange. What does a princess have to be sad about?
But then, Victoria had talked about always being under her mother's thumb and she spoke, more than once, about wanting freedom.
The news reporter says, “Here she is, folks. This is the moment everyone has been waiting for, when we finally learn the secret of Vertsea's royal family.”
The image flicks on and starts moving. Victoria stays silent, but a slightly older woman, clad in an equally fancy gown, comes to stand beside her. The queen, Gabriella, according to the banner flickering underneath the video.
“It is my pleasure to announce we have great news. My daughter, Victoria, will be joining the Duke of Cambridge in holy matrimony. They will be wed upon our return home,” says the queen in a booming sort of voice.
Matt's stomach drops. It makes his ribs feel too tight. Wed? She's about to get married? That's…that's ridiculous! There had been no ring on her finger. Suddenly, it hits him that he's been played.
She must have taken off that ring and slipped it into her purse, leaving it in a drawer at home. She took off that ring. She lied, and she played him.
Matt cracks open his beer and takes a too large swig. It burns the back of his throat. The camera zooms in, first on Victoria's face, then on Gabriella's.
The Queen says, “And as if this announcement isn't the coming of a joyous enough day, we also would love to share this: the Duke and Princess Victoria are with child. Soon, we will have a crown Prince or Princess of Vertsea.”