Chapter Twenty-One
Dare
Hospitals are dismal. No one can possibly feel better surrounded by ugly linoleum and antiseptic stink. Or possibly I’m just jetlagged because I insist on heading straight to Nik’s sickbed when I land in Vale.
Because Queenie’s still trying to keep Nik’s injury on the down low, Nik has been immured in a private wing as “Bob Smirnoff.” Apparently, that’s what the backpacker chick who rescued him dubbed him. She said she had to call him something and that they hadn’t achieved pet name status. So she looked in her backpack and christened him after the first thing she saw—although I have to wonder why she was toting a fifth of vodka around the mountains of Vale.
The private wing is still a prison. Guards flank the door, and I’ll bet Queenie has more men watching covertly. I’m not sure if they’re there to keep Nik safe—or to keep him in. He wasn’t supposed to be in any danger. After our parents’ death, he promised me he’d always be careful. So how he came to fall into a mountain is something we’ll be having words about. Caring about him hurts and I hate it.
I exchange a brief head tip with the guards and shove open the door. I sort of wish they’d challenge me because I’m spoiling for a fight. But because Queenie’s already spread the news of my promotion, they just nod me in. I’m the big cheese in training, and so I get what I want. Nik looks up as I saunter inside, but he doesn’t get up. I’m not sure what I expected, but it’s not this. Not Nik sprawled in a leather armchair by the window, looking no different.
Okay. So the clothes aren’t in Nik’s usual style. He’s wearing a simple gray T-shirt, an ancient pair of Levis, and a flannel shirt. A flannel shirt. The backpacker chick has clearly exerted way too much influence on him. He looks slightly rumpled and somehow softer around the edges. I try and fail to remember a time when Nik wasn’t wearing something ironed. He’s always been a suit man, the well-starched dress shirt his uniform of choice. On casual Fridays, he skips the tie.
The clothes might be different, but the expression on his face is the same. Nik always assesses the situation, sorts the facts out, and connects the dots. If he hadn’t been born to be a king, he’d have run a multibillion-dollar corporation or been a lawyer. At the very least, he would have made a kick-ass office manager. There’s nothing the man can’t organize.
I smile at him.
He doesn’t smile back.
“Nik?” I shut the door behind me more forcefully than necessary. I hate missing him. Hate this feeling of having lost someone important.
Nik’s familiar hazel eyes travel down my person and then back up again. “You must be Dare.”
And . . . fate sucker punches me. Hard. Nik doesn’t know who I am. He really has forgotten everything.
And part of me wants to punch him—hard—because I stupidly hoped that Queenie was wrong. Or that I’d get here and discover that Nik had made a miraculous recovery and I could forget about being king. Instead, nothing will ever be the same. It doesn’t matter that I liked my life or that I might have found the one person who makes me want to be a better me. That I might just have fallen in love with Edee—and then abandoned her like the prick I am because Vale needs me. I hate missing her, too. Hate that I crave her company, need her by my side, possibly the way my dad needed my mother, right up until the moment they crash-landed. It’s better to ignore all that and focus instead on not punching my older brother
I flip him the bird because being the heir apparent hasn’t magically increased my vocabulary or my communication skills. “You don’t remember me.”
“No.” Nik steeples his fingers. His knuckles are scabbed, as if he’s been in a fistfight. There also appears to be fresh ink on his forearm. Somehow, somewhere, my play-by-the-rules brother has gotten a tattoo.
“In fact, you don’t remember any of this.” I sweep a hand around the room.
“No.” The wanker doesn’t seem concerned, either, and that’s just great. He’s fallen off a mountain while I’ve been falling in love, and we’ve both ended up hurt. Abort.
I drop into the guest chair. Since Nik’s clearly done playing by the rules, I’m sitting without an invitation. It occurs to me that technically I now outrank him—and he shouldn’t be sitting without my permission. Old Nik would find that hilarious. New Nik just waits politely for me to say something.
“I’ve heard that sometimes a second blow to the head can fix a faulty memory,” I offer. If nothing else, that stupid finger-steepling thing has got to stop and punching would totally do the trick.
The corner of Nik’s mouth quirks. “Have I forgotten that you’re a medical doctor?”
“I’m happy to punch you in the head.” I wait a beat, and when Nik doesn’t take the bait, I move on. “What has Queenie told you?”
Nik makes a face. “Quite a bit, actually. He can go on rather.”
Nik goes on himself. He outlines the hours that Queenie has spent briefing him. As the minutes spin past, I learn that Nik has stacks of notes and labeled photos, all carefully chosen to jog his memory. He has excellent medical care and is expected to make a full recovery. Blah, blah, fucking blah.
And while it would be nice to have my king-to-be back and all my problems solved, what I really want is my brother. As I sit and make small talk, it’s Edee’s face I think about. About what she’d say and do if it were her dad here and she had a chance to have him back. She’d give him shit and roast him for leaving her, but she’d also hang onto him. Edee’s fierce with those she loves.
I need a do-over. A new plan. All I have to ask myself is what would Edee do. It takes me ten minutes of conversational boredom, but eventually I have a plan. And if nine of those ten minutes were me thinking Edee, that’s my dirty secret.
I wink at Nik as I shovel the notes into the nearest bin. “There are some advantages to being the heir apparent.”
“Oh?” So polite he is.
“We can totally blow this joint.”
And there it is—there’s Nik’s real smile. A wicked, teasing, know-it-all smirk. “Are you suggesting we break the rules, Your Highness?”
I hold on my hand. “I promise to take the worst of care with you.”
“Deal.” Nik’s palm slaps against mine and then presses there for a long moment. In our younger days, after watching too many movies, we decided we needed a secret handshake—and then discovered it’s hard to shake incognito when you’re eight, uncoordinated, and a prince. Ice cream shake, the deluxe version of patty cake, smacking fists while we jump around . . . not necessary. We just press and hold. It’s our secret not-secret shake—mine and Nik’s and Luca’s—and Nik hasn’t forgotten it.
I lead the way out the door. I’d take Nik out the window in the spirit of having a real adventure, but we’re three stories up and nobody’s dying today. Not on my watch. The guards outside take a few minutes to disburse because they’re understandably reluctant to abandon their royal charge, but they come around. Okay. I point out that someday I’ll be their boss and having a friend in high places is career advantageous . . . and then they come around.
“Where to?” Nik thumbs on the pair of shades I hand him as we step outside the hospital, Mr. Left and Mr. Right falling in behind us.
“Fortunately for you, I know all the best bars in Vale.”
Not only can I name them, but I’ve test-driven them all personally. I pick a direction and Nik saunters alongside me. Mr. Left and Mr. Right bring up the rear like we’re a four-man parade. When we reach our destination, they peel off. I won’t see them, but they’ll be there. Protecting us.
The Donkey’s Ass looks precisely like what you’d expect from a drinking establishment with that kind of redundancy in its name. It’s squashed between two larger and better manicured buildings, all peeling plaster and ancient woodwork. The second-floor balcony is in imminent danger of falling off and plunging into the street, and what was once a peacock blue paint is now the color of toilet bowl cleaner.
It’s my favorite spot and I’m greeted with a chorus of hellos—that promptly fade as the bar’s patrons return to the important business of drinking, television-watching, and generally ignoring anything not happening within a two-foot radius. Nothing is more important than the next beer or shot here, and the only thing a man is judged for his inability to pay his tab.
I’m not going to drink until I slide under the table and Mr. Left has to haul my ass home, but I am going to have a beer with my brother. And since I haven’t changed that much, I also buy two rounds for the house. Yes, that makes me a very popular prince. If—when—I end up becoming king, the first law I’ll propose will be Free Drink Friday. Not because I think drunkenness might forestall a revolution but because people relax with a drink in their hand—and they love free. Free coffee, free water, free beer.
Nik, for example, is a little more willing to chat me up now that we’re facing each other over a beer rather than a hospital bed. It helps that I don’t think his memory loss is a terminal disease. He’ll either get over it or he won’t, but he’ll still be my brother.
And yes, I’m hoping he’ll be my king.
“Come here often?” That’s the brother asking, not the ruler, a small smile playing around his mouth.
I slap my new bar friend on the back, congratulate him on his fine choice in whiskey, and send him on his way. “I’m mingling with my people.”
Nik surveys the growing crowd inside the bar. New patrons are proliferating like pop-ups on a bad website—word must have gotten out that I’m buying. FYI? I totally intend to charge this to Queenie’s black AmEx. “This is your charity of choice?”
“This is fun,” I counter. “Think of it as investing in local small businesses.”
Nik takes a cautious sip of his beer. “Thoughtful of you.”
Not really. I don’t do thoughtful any more than I do feelings or relationships. Or I haven’t.
Talking about me is not part of my nefarious plans, however. What I need is to snap Nik back to a sense of himself and his responsibilities. Or at the very least, I can indulge my curiosity and get to re-know my brother.
So I take a stab. “Tell me about the girl.”
Do you see the color creeping across Nik’s cheeks? The bright, hot red? If this were a game of Battleship, I’d have just sunk his battleship and his destroyer with one-well aimed guess.
Or stumbled across a clear case of guilt.
And since I have the advantage, I go for gold. “When she found you playing Sleeping Beauty at the foot of the mountain, did she kiss you?”
“I could say I don’t remember.” He raises the bottle to his mouth.
“But would you?”
Nik sets the bottle down. “Dee Becks is pretty unforgettable.”
So that’s a no. Queenie might just stroke out when he learns about this. I can’t and won’t pretend that nothing’s changed, but I don’t feel as if I’ve lost Nik anymore. It’s more like parts of him have been misplaced. Hopefully, he finds his missing memories, but even if he doesn’t, I think we’ll be friends and brothers again. It’s just going to take time.
I meet his eyes. “About Dee—”
“No,” he says firmly.
I want to point out that he certainly sounds like a king. Authoritative, certain, determined. Pick an adjective, but Nik hasn’t forgotten how to lead. I open my mouth, but the bartender picks that moment to turn the volume up on the television above the bar.
At first I think it’s a happy coincidence. Bars have TVs and people like to watch them. The place is cheerfully noisy and we’ll all have lung cancer in another year or two from the smoke, but it’s comfortable. One of those gossipy, fun entertainment shows is on.
I love shows, although they’re best enjoyed drunk and with friends. The hosts love to report on models, starlets, and anyone remotely attractive, so it’s the princely version of a seed catalog or furniture porn. You look, you mentally redo the front garden or the living room, and then you go right back to enjoying whatever—or whoever—you’re with.
The male host opens in smooth, velvety fuck-me-now tones as my picture flashes across the screen. “He’s known as the black prince of Vale, a billionaire playboy who has dated some of the world’s most beautiful supermodels . . . ”
Nik nudges me. “You didn’t tell me you were a TV star.”
The female host giggles and promptly picks up the ball. “And he’s earned every inch of his impressive reputation.”
Somebody in the bar catcalls something flattering about the size of my dick. It’s nice to be appreciated and I’ve always been popular here.
The male host stares at the camera with the sort of lugubrious look usually reserved for abandoned puppies or major natural disasters. “But this prince met and married an American woman in a secret wedding ceremony.”
The camera cuts away from Ken Doll and Barbie and pictures flood the screen. These aren’t the usual rehash of my recent peccadillos, either. These are from my time in Vegas with Edee. While picture after picture of our private time together entertains the world, the hosts interview our Elvis, who clearly either doesn’t care that he signed an NDA or figures he can relocate somewhere tropical with his windfall.
Elvis declares that Edee and I make the sweetest couple—and then the bastard mentions that Edee took off just as soon as he’d declared us man and wife. He describes exactly how I ran after her.
Shit.
Nik chuckles and stretches his legs out in front of him. “I wish I remembered her.”
“You haven’t met her.”
Nik raises the bottle to me. “Here’s to the ladies—the ones who pick us up and the ones who knock us off the goddamned mountains in the first place.”
I can drink to that. The news program runs through Edee’s life story and they make her sound awful. According to them, she’s an American gold digger and the eldest daughter of Satan. Okay. So I made that last one up, but they’ve got nothing nice to say about her. They’ve acquired high school pictures of her and an endearingly awkward picture of Edee in a bikini at a Vegas foam party. She’s just standing there, foam dripping off her tits and swirled on top of her head like she’s some kind of fancy ice-cream cone.
Welcome to my world, where nothing is private.
And it just gets worse. Not only did Elvis apparently snap a picture of my royal ass chasing Edee, someone has pictures of us in the pool at the house. Yes, we’re naked and we’re getting it on. There are a couple of cheers from some of my fellow drinkers before their wiser companions slap them on the back of the head. The network’s slapped black bars over the parts they can’t actually broadcast, but it’s clear we’re getting it on in the water.
How did they get those?
Could Edee have—
No.
Trust is a funny thing. It’s an all or nothing proposition, right? You do—or you don’t. Kind of like platform diving, HALO jumping, luge. It’s a high-impact gamble that you’ve mastered the technique and your equipment won’t fail you—because once you’re out the gate, you’re all in. There’s no going back, no magic rewind button. You succeed or you crash and burn. It’s a thrill, it’s nauseating . . . it’s what I have to do.
I have to trust that Edee didn’t betray me.
And I really hate trusting.
Nik takes one look at my face and hands me the rest of his beer. “Not remembering can be a blessing.”