“You’re supposed to go home,” Henry says as we step out of Dave’s to a black Mercedes waiting at the curb. I flip off the driver Mary ordered to pick me up. If he were allowed, he’d probably shoot me a bird right back.

“I’m not going home.”

“Figured as much. I’d hate to be you. Told where to go and what to do. Surprised they don’t have someone falling you around and wiping your ass for you.”

I hold a finger in the air. “Now that I wouldn’t argue.”

Laughing, we stumble into Old Willy Winkle’s package store for a bottle of gin, then we head straight to the subway—a form of transportation us royals are advised to avoid. Henry and I ride the Piccadilly line back and forth until the gin is gone and my vision swims. Finally, we get off and trudge up the rank stairwell jam-packed with people, surfacing in the middle of Piccadilly Circus. I pull my sunglasses from my pocket and shove them over my face, despite the fact it’s ten at night. In a place like this, where a homeless man wanders around wearing swim goggles and flippers, no one pays attention to shades. And no one pays attention to me.

Yet…

We pass the hordes of souvenir carts selling cheap sweatshirts and keychains. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts out of Costa’s. Something about being in the city like this, unaccounted for and pissed, riles me like nothing else. 

Henry and I maneuver through the crowds toward the middle of the roundabout. The lights from the billboards cast an electronic haze over the center. We take seats on the edge of the fountain just as a light breeze kicks up, bringing a fine mist of water across my face. 

I take in all the people milling about, wondering what it’s like for them. I bet they don’t have a list of ridiculous expectations rammed down their throats. A ready-made schedule or a brand ambassador ready to clean up anything sordid they’ve done. 

That must be freeing.

“I bet you could’ve fucked that lawyer the other night,” Henry says, lighting a cigarette. The smoke swirls around his face before drifting off. 

“Probably, but I’d rather fuck with her for now.” 

A double decker bus sputters to a stop across from us and the driver climbs out, rounding the front of the monstrous vehicle.

I glance at Henry. “What do you say we go for a ride?”  

He takes a quick drag before tossing the cigarette to the ground and stubbing it with the heel of his boot. “What’ve you got up your sleeve this time?”

I don’t answer him, just jog across the pedestrian crossing and climb into the bus. We find our way to the open upper deck, then I settle into one of the seats with a wry grin.

“Just don’t get me arrested this time,” Henry says when he flops down beside me.

---

Thirty minutes later, the buzz from the gin just seems to be growing stronger and stronger. The bus creeps up on Parliament where the yellow face of Big Ben glows bright against the night sky. The crescent moon hides behind a wisp of clouds. It’s like a fucking scene out of Peter Pan. I’ll show them all Peter-fucking-Pan.

When I push to my feet, a jittery excitement shoots down my spine. This is going to ruin my image, and I couldn’t be more delighted. First, I pull off my shirt and toss it to the seat. The woman behind me whistles. Next, my buckle comes undone with a clink and I drop my pants and boxers to the floor of the bus, grab my flaccid cock, and tug.

“Fuck’s sake,” Henry moans.

“Stop being a pussy,” I say, still working myself over. "I’m not wanking one out. I just can’t have Roger not looking his best for the pictures.”

“Your dick’s name is Roger?”

“What else are you going to name your cock? Most certainly not Harry or Bob.”

Most of the people on the top deck of the bus are now jabbing each other’s sides, pointing and whispering. Henry clears his throat and motions like he’s taking off a pair of glasses.

“Oh. Right.” I snatch off my shades, and then come the gasps. The “Oh mys…” And of course, some smart-ass mumbles, “God Save The Queen.”

Now. Now it’s show time.

“Anyone want a picture? All of England’s finest in one snap.” I hold out my arms. “Parliament. Westminster. And my royal cock all in one frame-worthy photo.”

I can only imagine the horror on Lily’s face when she’s told about this.