CHAPTER FIVE: Nick
The little car was sliding all over the road now. I had the wipers on high, but as fast as they cleared the snow from the windshield, it came right back.
I switched the headlights to low beam because the high beams were just reflecting off the blanket of snow that was falling. I leaned forward and clenched my fingers around the steering wheel. I was determined not to stop until I had to.
The headline “Kosnovian Prince Found Frozen to Death in Ford Focus” kept flashing through my mind.
Then I saw red and blue lights ahead. A police car, I thought. No, the lights are off the road and too high to be a car. I held my breath and struggled to keep the rear end of the car from fishtailing as I concentrated on reaching the lights and, hopefully, safety.
Finally, I could see the lights more clearly. It was a lighted sign of some kind, hanging from a pole, swaying in the wind. As I got closer I read the words: “Snowcap Bar & Grill.”
“Please, please, please,” I muttered, hoping my sense of relief would not be fleeting. “Let them be open. And let them have heat.”
* * *
The little car slid to a stop next to an ancient snow plow that was sitting in the lot. I pushed open the car door with my shoulder and pulled my coat up over my ears to protect them from the bitter cold.
I put my head down and stumbled into the tiny bar. For just a moment, I thought I had died and gone to heaven, because I was greeted at the door by an angel with flowing blond hair and eyes the color of emeralds.
She handed me a towel and I wiped the snow from my face. She gave me the most beautiful smile and invited me to sit at the bar while she got something hot for me to drink.
The only other person in the bar was an old man with a bushy white beard and a toothless smile. He gave me a moment to get situated on a wobbly stool and then picked up his drink and slid onto the barstool next to me.
“I’m Carl,” he said, holding out a gnarled hand.
“I’m Nick,” I said, giving his hand a quick shake.
“What the heck are you doing out in this weather, Nick?”
“I’m on my way to an economic summit at the Overlook Lodge,” I said. “Am I anywhere close?”
He shook his head. “You’d still be about an hour away if the storm hadn’t hit,” he said, clicking his tongue as he nodded toward the window. “They closed the road an hour ago, so I’m afraid you’re out of luck. This is the end of the line for you.”
“I was afraid of that,” I said. I tugged my iPhone from inside my suit jacket and slid open the screen. “I’ll have to make other arrangements.”
“You won’t get cell service up here,” he said, shaking his head. “Especially not in this storm.”
“Carl’s right,” the blond angel said as she set a mug of steaming hot coffee on the bar in front of me. I wrapped my fingers around the mug and let it thaw my frozen fingers. She nodded at the window, which was covered in frost and snow. “Cell reception up here is always spotty. You won’t get a call in or out tonight.”
“Is there another means of communication?” I asked. I picked up the mug and brought it to my lips. The steam rose from the cup and settled beneath my eyes.
“We have a phone in the back,” she said, “but the lines went down a couple of hours ago and probably won’t be back up till tomorrow or the next day. The best thing you can do is get back in your car and go back the way you came. The roads should still be passable in that direction for an hour or two.”
I took a careful sip of the coffee and pondered my plight. The coffee was thick as ink and tasted like it had been stewing in the pot all day, but it was hot and felt good sliding down my throat. I took a sip and gave her a sigh of approval.
She asked the old man if he needed anything. He said no, so she disappeared through a door behind the bar. There was a pass-through window in the wall between the bar and the kitchen. I could see her speaking to an old black man who was pulling on a parka and gloves. She said something to him, kissed him on the cheek, and then let him out the back door.
The old man next to me must have caught me watching her, because he bumped me with his boney elbow and gave me a grin. “She’s something else, ain’t she?”
I played dumb. “Is she?”
“She is,” he said, his head bobbing. “If I was sixty years younger…”
I smiled at him. “What would you do?”
His thin shoulders went up and down as he gave me a sad look. “I would do what young fellows your age do,” he said. “If I could remember what that was.” He let go a cackle and slapped a hand on the bar.
“What’s her name?” I asked. I watched as she pulled glasses out of a dishwasher and stacked them on the counter.
“That’s Becca Boo,” he said quietly.
I gave him an amused look. “Pardon me?”
He grinned, sticking the tip of his tongue through the gap in his front teeth. “That’s just my nickname for her. Her name is Rebecca Monroe. She owns the place.”
“Becca Boo,” I said with a grin. “Interesting. Why do you call her that?”
“I don’t rightly remember,” the old man said. His smile melted into a frown. “Don’t go getting any ideas, boy,” he said, growling at me. “She’s been hurt enough by the likes of you.”
I frowned back. “By the likes of me? Exactly what does that mean?” I wanted to ask if she’d had other Russian princes stumble in from the snow.
“By men,” he said, his bushy eyebrows hiding his eyes as he frowned.
I watched as she turned her back and stood on her tiptoes to stack the beer glasses on a high shelf. She was wearing a pair of tight jeans that fit her round ass like a glove. I heard the royal wolf in me growl. My father’s words echoed in my ears: Find the girl you want and take her. It is your right by birth.
I took a sip of the burnt coffee and glanced sideways at him. “I promise you, I have no intentions toward her. But I am curious. How has she been hurt by the likes of me?”
He leaned in and lowered his voice. “She took up with this fella a few years back, Charlie something or other. Snuck off in the middle of the night and left town with him. Few weeks later she comes home all beat up. That was probably four or five years ago. She hasn’t given any man the time of day since, and trust me, plenty of men around here try.”
“In my country, when a man wants a woman he simply takes her and makes her his own,” I said nonchalantly.
“He takes her? You mean like kidnapping?” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Where the hell are you from, son?”
“Little country called Kosnovia,” I said. “Near Russia.”
I noticed that he slid down the bar a bit at the word Russia. Ignorant old fool, still living the Cold War in his head.
The look in his eyes made me smile. I said, “I am the crown prince of Kosnovia, so it is my birthright to choose the woman I want and take her for my own, whether she comes willingly or not.”
He stared at me for a moment, as if he were trying to decide whether I was speaking the truth or just messing with him. I didn’t know why I was telling the old man this, unless it was to make myself realize how insane the notion was.
Still, the more I watched Rebecca Monroe’s ass in those jeans, the more I wished that the old ways were still acceptable. I could see myself taking her, dominating her, making her mine.
He closed one eye and wagged a crooked finger at me. “Well, son, this is America, and we call that kidnapping. As much fun as that sounds, it’s a federal offense. You’ll go upstate for twenty years if you kidnap a woman around here.”
I smiled at him. “I’m just having fun with you, Carl. Can I buy you another beer?”
He picked up the mug and drained it dry, then set it on the bar and shook his head. “Three’s my limit. I gotta get home and get some sleep. Big day tomorrow with the snow plow.”
He nodded toward the window. “You need a ride somewhere?”
“No. I’m going to head back in the direction from which I came,” I said with a serious face. I stuck out my hand. “Nice to have met you, Carl.”
“You, too, prince,” he said, shaking my hand with his tongue sticking between the gap in his teeth. He went to the door and pulled on a green parka and shoved his hands into a pair of thick mittens.
“Don’t hang around here too long, your highness,” he said as he tugged the parka hood over his head. “A man unfamiliar with these parts can find himself in a world of hurt if he ain’t careful.”
“Thanks for the advice,” I said. I silently added, “You old fuck.”
He gave me a nod and went out the door. After a moment, the lights of his truck illuminated the frosty window. A moment later, his red tail lights disappeared on the road.
I turned back to the bar and picked up my cup. I could see Rebecca drying her hands on a towel. She was wearing a red flannel shirt knotted at the waist and a white T-shirt underneath. Her breasts were big and round and pushed against the material. I imagined my cock sliding between her cleavage.
I licked my lips like a starving man about to devour a feast as my father’s words echoed in my head. He was right. I was a fucking prince, and if I wanted a woman—any woman, even an American—she should be honored to have me take her.
Then it dawned on me: the true reason I was here in a shitty little bar sitting on a wobbly barstool talking to a man with no front teeth.
It wasn’t a shitty agent in the travel office who had botched the flights and gotten me into New York six hours late. It wasn’t the woman with the sarcastic smile at Budget Rent-A-Car who said the Ford Focus was the best she could do. It wasn’t even the snow falling outside.
It was fate that brought me here.
Fate wanted the Rostov royal bloodline to continue.
History dictated it.
The future demanded it.
I would not disappoint my father. Nor would I be denied my birthright.
Before the night was through, Rebecca Monroe would be mine.