A Royal Indiscretion, chapter five (Patreon)

Yves ran for the door they’d come out of, but it was locked. If anyone found him out here with a stranger—an American footballer—in the last place where Rudy had been seen, everyone would jump to exactly the wrong conclusions. Even if Yves passed a drug test, his father would cut off the funding that kept Nick’s place running. To hell with Nick not being able to feed Yves—he wouldn’t be able to feed the dogs.

When the door didn’t open, Yves rested his forehead against the cool wood and had a fair-to-middling panic attack. He didn’t have time to race around the corner of the castle to escape, and if he got caught crawling between the cars, that would look even worse.

He couldn’t come up with a solution. 

“Hey, this way.”

Yves spun around, and the American had the door to the key room open. “How…?”

“Just duck in.” The guy made a circling gesture to hurry Yves along.

Throwing caution to the wind, Yves decided to throw his lot in with an American. One who had clearly picked or forced the lock to the key room where the valets stored keys for all the cars parked at the castle.  With the voices coming closer, Yves darted toward the heavy door and its iron hardware. He had no more than crossed the threshold when Doug slammed the door shut, leaving Yves in the darkness. A few dim rays of light crept in through cracks around the door and the shuttered window, but still, Yves felt like a corpse buried in a tomb.

He needed Nick. He needed to talk to someone who understood why Yves would surrender a random limb for one hit of some really good drugs. Luckily there was a lack of narcotics available in the key hold. All Yves had was a low stool and hooks with dozens of car keys. 

“Hey, how ya doing?” Doug asked in an accent even thicker than his normal American drawl. Yves pressed himself against the heavy wooden door as his heart pounded at his ribs.

A cultured voice answered. “Good afternoon. What are you doing out here?”

Yves started to sweat. If security found him in here, Yves had no idea what he would say to his father. He started practicing excuses. None of them would explain why Yves was in the key hold, and he began to regret following Doug’s direction.

“What’s it to you?”

“Are you that American football player?” A second man asked that. So at least two of them were out there with Doug. A bead of sweat slid down Yves’s spine.

“Yep. I’m the sixth ranked quarterback in the NFL.” Doug sounded like a father bragging about a favorite child. That tone was twice as obnoxious when a man bragged about himself. “That’s a big deal,” he said. “So, what? Are you guys reporters? Fans? I can sign something for you.”

“No thanks,” the other person said quickly. “We were told that a member of the royal family was out here.”

“You mean like the bride’s taking a runner?”

“What?” The second voice sounded confused, but then Doug’s accent meant Yves was having trouble understanding all the words and he definitely was not following the American idioms. Doug was laying the accent on so thick that Yves was embarrassed for him. He sounded like a comical stereotype of a stupid American. If Yves had tried making a joke in that voice, his father definitely would have given him the lecture about respecting other cultures. And implied in that speech would have been Duke Gerard’s soft contempt suggesting that you showed respect even when you thought others inferior.

“A runner,” Doug repeated. “You know, like when the bride decides the whole wedding is a horrible mistake and takes off. She runs. A runner.”

“I don’t believe the Lady Mary would do that, especially not when she had to overcome so many obstacles to marry a commoner.”

“Do you have something against commoners?” Even without being able to see Doug, Yves could hear the aggression. Given that Doug was a formidable man—a well-muscled and broad-shouldered one—the idea of him getting angry was terrifying. Yves disliked the quiet and deadly form of anger his father used, and Duke Gerard was a slender man. Yves couldn’t imagine being the target of Doug’s ire.

“No. Of course not. We’re all commoners here.” Guy number one was tripping over himself to avoid insulting Doug. No doubt there was some irony there considering that they were most likely reporters who were paid to insult anyone with social status. If they were security, they would have already asked Doug to leave the area.

“Exactly, only I’m not that common. In America, I’m a bit of a celebrity.” Again, Doug had a grandiose tone.

For a time, no one spoke, and Yves inched his way toward the spear of light that came in between the door and the jamb. He could only see a narrow strip outside, but one of the strangers was half turned toward the door. He looked familiar, and the camera hanging off his shoulder was a sure sign of a reporter. Normal people used their phones.

“So, have you seen either Lady Anne or Lord Yves?” he asked.

Doug sounded utterly clueless. “Who?”

The reporter looked over to the side where his partner must have been standing. “Lady Anne. Dark hair. Blue eyes. She’s the king’s half-sister through the queen mother.”

“I talked to a dark haired woman inside. She was a real beauty.” Doug added a whistle. “But she left me with a plate of fancy hors d'oeuvres and vanished. She’s the king’s sister, huh? That’s pretty special.” Doug’s drawl was almost comical at this point, and Yves kept expecting one of the reporters to challenge Doug or accuse him of overacting. 

“Not that special,” the man Yves couldn’t see said. Yves tensed as the man’s very tone showed his disrespect toward Yves’s aunt.

“Meaning?” Doug asked.

The reporter took a step closer to the door, so Yves assumed Doug was standing near it or leaning back against it. “Lady Anne isn’t exactly from a royal lineage,” he said.

Yves wanted to defend his aunt’s honor, but that was hard to do while hiding in an oversize closet.

“I thought she was the King’s sister. Wouldn’t that make her royal?”

The reporter in Yves’ blind spot answered. “Her title was created by King Alphonse. Anne is the daughter of the queen consort, mother of the king, and her second husband—a common wog.”

The derogatory name hit Yves like a punch to the gut, but Doug sounded confused when he asked, “A what?”

“A wog. She married a half black immigrant.”

“Yeah? Well she still has more royal blood than you idiots, doesn’t she?” Doug shot the words right back at the reporters, and now Yves recognized the one. He had written a series of columns suggesting King Alphonse was gay, which explained why Queen Fenella hadn’t gotten pregnant in six years. It was a horribly cruel lie. Yves had seen how Fenella had struggled every time Albert’s wife had announced she was expecting. But instead of giving an insipid smile and ignoring the insults, Doug was firing back. “What kind of assholes are you to talk shit about a woman behind her back? Where I come from, we know how to take care of assholes like you.”

“Of course, because you are from the land of handguns.” The reporter’s voice dripped with disdain. “I suppose you would shoot us.” 

Given that Doug had been playing up the American stereotypes, he should have expected that.  Doug took a step forward and blocked most of Yves’s light.

“I come from a land of men taking care of business. We call it stepping outside to settle shit. And we use these.” Doug raised a fist. “I’ll even take you both on at once. And when I’m done with you, you’ll keep a polite tongue—assuming you can still talk when I’m done with you bozos.” Yves caught a bare hint of moving shadows to suggest the reporters were running for it.

“Cowards!” Doug shouted after them. “And you sound funny when you speak English!”

Yves wasn’t sure Doug had a lot of room to insult others’ accents; however, he was still Yves’s hero. No matter how much Yves wanted to shout and scream at the people who had flung insults at him, his aunt, or his family in general, he never did. He followed the rules and smiled and turned the other cheek until his face hurt.

Doug opened the door. “You okay?”

Yves could only stand mute as he tried to decide if he was, in fact, alright. His chest ached with fear, and the longing for narcotics had turned from a dull, aching ember to a full fire, but at least it was no longer a conflagration that threatened to burn out all coherent thought. If Yves didn’t get to Nick soon, conflagration was possible. Full on Armageddon might follow. 

“Whoa. Hey, if you’re going to puke or pass or something, you might want to sit down before you fall on your ass.”

“Your use of language is inspired,” Yves said weakly. He hated himself two seconds later because Doug had only tried to help.

“Yeah, yeah. All American football players are unthinking brutes. Feel free to spout stereotypes after you sit your ass down.” The man had the arrogance to grab Yves by the shoulders and shove him down onto the stool the attendants used when manning the key room. “You aren’t going to actually pass out, are you?”

“No. But if we get caught out here, we’re both in significant trouble.” Yves got up, but Doug shoved him back down. The man was damnably strong, yet he kept his grip on Yves’s arms gentle. He was a contradiction. With his foot, he kicked the key room door closed. Doug hit the light switch, and Yves squinted his eyes.

“You aren’t going anywhere until you have more color in your face than a bedsheet or a zombie,” Doug said.

“Pardon me?”

“Your face. You’re pale,” Doug said.

“I’m a Stenbock. Fair complexions run in the family.” Yves did not mention the Lady Anne, who was the exception to that rule.

“Unless zombies run in your family, that color is unnatural. Besides, you don’t want to go running out there right now. The reporters might hang around for a little while.”

A hard shiver took Yves. He did not want to risk setting off another media feeding frenzy. He’d been kicked out of two rehab places, not because of his behavior but because his presence at the facility made it impossible for anyone to have a moment’s peace in which they could actually recover. He knew how persistent reporters could be. So rather than argue, Yves nodded once.

“Oh, shit.”

Yves sat bolt upright as Doug’s exclamation sent fear coursing through him.

“Hey. It’s fine,” Doug said, and then he sighed. “It’s fine for you, anyway. I just realized I left my wallet with my identification in the glovebox of the car Rudy took off with. Crap.” Doug ran a hand over his face. Considering that he made his living playing a game where the players attempted to give each other brain damage, he had long, delicate fingers. Yves would have thought them better suited to the piano than an American football.

“Why would you give Rudy your wallet?” Yves asked. If Doug had thought that was a good idea, either he was a horrible judge of character or simply stupid.

“I didn’t. I locked them in the glovebox of the car I rented.” 

“When why did he have the keys?”

“Because I didn’t know where this place was, and driving in a foreign country is hard when the signs are all different. It was safer to let Rudy drive.” Doug leaned against the wall, his shoulders slumped. “Shit. I don’t know him all that well. Do I need to cancel my credit cards and call the police?”

Yves rubbed a hand over his face. Part of him wanted to say that Doug should, not because Rudy would openly steal but because Yves would enjoy causing Rudy a little grief. Another part was terrified of angering Rudy. He wasn’t sure which part of his brain was functioning on logic.

In the end, Yves had to shrug. “He never outright stole from anyone I know. He’s more the type to talk someone into renting a high-end convertible so he could drive it.”

Surprisingly, Doug chuckled. “Yeah, he’s using me. I know. Believe it or not, a lot of people do that. It goes with being on television.”  When Doug smiled, he had a rugged charm. His gray-blue eyes reminded Yves of the winter sky and it contrasted against his sun-darkened skin.

“Why do you let them?”

Doug gave Yves a crooked smile. “I was using Rudy, so it seems a little hypocritical to complain.” Doug opened the door a crack.  “The coast seems to be clear. Can you get us back to the party without getting seen?”

Yves took a deep breath and nodded. He could. He just needed a time. “Can you give me a second?” Yves pulled out his phone and checked for messages. Nick hadn’t gotten back to him, so Yves sent off another text.

-I hate this place.

-I nearly got caught by reporters 

-Where are you?

After waiting for a time, Yves sighed and slipped his phone back in his pocket.

“Girl stand you up?” Doug asked.

Yves threw caution to the wind. “My sobriety sponsor is likely driving down here, so he’s not answering texts.”

“That sucks,” Doug said with far more compassion than Yves had expected. Nick encouraged Yves to speak openly and honestly about his failings. After all, the worst of Yves’s antics had been broadcast all over the country, quite literally. However Doug was the first person who had not responded with awkward platitudes or by fleeing. “Just don’t fall off the wagon when you’re with me. I’d feel guilty since I’m the one who got you stuck out here.”

“I thought I was the one who ran to Lady Anne’s defense, and you followed,” Yves pointed out.

“Yeah, but I’m the one who said she’d gone after Rudy. You seemed pretty happy to stare at the sky until I told you. I tell you what, you text Lady Anne and I’ll text Rudy and maybe we can figure out where the lady went.”

Doug pulled his phone out of his pocket and started texting, but Yves simply leaned back against the wall and tried to take deep breaths. He imagined himself standing on the rocky cliff top, leaning against the fence as he watched the boats in the distance. He pretended he could hear the dogs barking. The sound was a constant companion at the remote estate, and Yves had grown to associate it with safety and comfort. The high-pitched play barks and the warning grumbles of the older dogs meant that all was right in the immediate area. No one could sneak onto the estate with the dogs running about.

“Rudy’s not answering,” Doug said with disgust. “Did your aunt respond?”

“She doesn’t carry a phone,” Yves answered. “We should get back to the party before someone starts questioning why all of us rushed out of the house.” If that happened, Hagan or possibly Duke Gerard himself would come looking. That would be a catastrophe. 

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Doug said. “Lead away.” He opened the door slowly, checking outside before he stepped out. His movements reminded Yves of a body guard. However, if someone caught them, Yves doubted Doug could protect him. Threatening to punch reporters was of rather limited usefulness. Plastering on a smile, Yves braced himself to head back into the monster’s cave.