Chapter Twenty (Patreon)

I needed to get into another world this afternoon. It is hard--all the quiet. So I got out my dictation recorder and walked around the empty house.  So, if there are Dragon Dictation errors, please feel free to leave a comment pointing those out.

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Yves guided the car around the sheep truck stopped on the edge of the road. The car had been silent for too long, but Yves didn’t know how to broach the subject he had stumbled into. Without a doubt, Doug was either gay or bisexual, and Yves had backed him into a corner. Yves knew too well how that felt. His father had rarely made him feel trapped, but Hagan had. Hagan was a master of verbal warfare, capable of making a person confess to crimes he never committed.

And now Yves had managed, through verbal ineptitude, put himself in Hagan’s shoes. He never wanted to make Doug feel insecure. The man had such power and masculine power, and making him feel uncomfortable felt a little like poking a bison with a sharp stick—both cruel and infinitely stupid.

He sped up as they cleared the stalled truck.

Yves would promise to keep Doug’s secret, but he understood how little words mattered. His father taught him that. When he’d been eight, he’d begged to have a horse of his own the way Albert and Mary did. They were older, but each had a beautiful Andalusian. The Duke had offered to get Yves a horse if he could impress his tutors and receive all excelling marks. Never before had Yves cared so much about schooling.

When Yves had presented his marks to his father, he had expected… well, he had expected fairness. At eight, he had not yet learned better. However, his father had helped him learn that lesson by purchasing a two-year-old thoroughbred in his name. The horse was his, as the Duke had promised, but no child could handle an unbroken, young thoroughbred. Worse, the animal came from racing lines and was destined to race for the Stenbock stable. 

Yves had never been allowed to do more than watch Huginn. He couldn’t even feed it a carrot.

So Yves understood the worthlessness of a promise. He couldn’t promise to keep Doug’s secret and expect that to reassure the man. He slowed as they reached the first clump of buildings that marked the beginning of town. “You called my sad ruin a castle, but wait until you see the king’s residence. It is a proper castle.” It was a sad attempt to change the topic to a more acceptable topic, but Yves had nothing better to offer.

“Bigger than your father’s?” Doug asked. His voice seemed to lack any of the defensiveness Yves had expected. If anything, he appeared relieved to change the subject.

Yves jumped at the chance to pursue the change of subject. “My father has a palace. That place was built to show off excess wealth. However, the king always lives in the traditional Stenbock castle. Any ship that approaches the sound will have to pass the rooftop guns.”

Doug did a double take that was almost comical. “Guns? Like machine guns? I thought you guys had a peaceful country.”

“I was never a good student of history, but I believe my ancestors installed them in the 1600s when the Dutch were making general pains of themselves. They were replaced with French cannons in the 1800s, and I doubt they’ve been fired for any reason other than ceremonial ones since then.”

“Oh. Well,” Doug grunted. “Those wacky Dutch. They’ve always been troublemakers.”

The comment was delivered in such a dry, serious tone that Yves gave an inelegant bray of laughter. Then Doug started laughing, and that made it even more difficult for Yves to catch his breath. Then Doug snorted. The sound was so inappropriate—so crude—that Yves nearly lost his ability to draw breath, and he pulled the car over to the side of the road before he killed both of them.

Yves wiped tears away. “You are a menace to the driving of others.”

“Most people think my sense of humor sucks,” Doug said with a shrug. “I’ve never reduced someone to hysteria before.”

“I am not hysterical.” Yves sniffed and tried his best to be dignified—an effort undermined by the fact that his eyes were still watering. He put on his turn signal and rejoined the traffic headed south. “Perhaps Americans don’t appreciate dry humor or the true menace of seventeenth century Dutch.”

“I suppose you think all Americans get their humor out of a toilet.”

“Not at all,” Yves said. “Only some, but then the English are the same, and the less said about the Catalan, the better.”

“The Catalan? Are they bad?” Doug shifted in his seat, turning toward Yves in a way that suggested he honestly cared about the answer.

“They are obsessed with feces and religious images,” Yves said. “Their offers for where to defecate transcend profane.”

“Huh. Okay. That’s actually a little impressive. Where is Catalan?”

Yves was surprised Doug admitted his ignorance so easily. “I’m not entirely sure, but I believe in English the territory would be called Catalonia. It is the northeast part of Spain, and some who live there would rather have a country of their own. I know the United States has different regions. Do any seek independence?”

“Texas keeps threatening to leave when a democrat gets elected president, but we don’t take them seriously.”

“Der var helt texas!” Yves proclaimed with a smile. His father would kill him for denigrating another, especially when someone of the nationality was in the same car, but Doug inspired a sort of rebellion in Yves.

“Do I want to know what that means?”

“That’s so Texas.”

“What?” A wrinkle appeared between Doug’s eyes. Yves refocused on the road before he made an egregious error.

“Der var helt texas is a saying that is sometimes heard around here. It means, literally, that is so Texas.”

The silence lasted a number of seconds before Doug said, “I get the feeling there’s more to it.”

Yves shrugged. “It’s what Norwegians say to mean that something is crazy. For example, my aunt ran around with her underwear on her head. Der var helt texas.”

“Shit. Seriously? Are you shitting me?” Doug’s smile grew.

Something in Yves melted when Doug’s grin turned almost conspiratorial, as if inviting Yves to be part of the joke. “You are almost Catalan in your language, although the Catalan are more creative than simply repeating the scatological reference.” 

“Whatever.” Doug rolled his eyes. “Are you serious that people around here use Texas to mean crazy? Okay, that’s wrong.”

Yves’s heart stopped and his smile froze solid. He had not intended to offend.

“You should use Florida for that. You have no idea how crazy Florida gets,” Doug continued as if he hadn’t just given Yves a minor case of heart failure. “Even other Americans talk about Florida man when they mean someone has lost their ever-living mind.” Doug’s smile faded. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Yves broadened his smile.

“That’s not a nothing look,” Doug said. The man’s ability to torture language and twist images was unparalleled outside a Monte Python sketch, at least in Yves’s experience. True, he hadn’t known many Americans, but Doug was difficult to understand.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You look upset. You don’t think I’m going to rise to the defense of Americans, do you?” Doug asked.

“You did about homophobia,” Yves shot back before his brain could fully engage. Thank every ancient god in the pantheon that Yves didn’t have a position in the diplomatic corps because he would send his country to war with someone. “I apologize,” he said before Doug could recover. He searched for words, for anything that would erase the guarded expression on Doug’s face. Every sign of the earlier smile had vanished. “I am nervous about visiting my uncle. I haven’t been there since I rediscovered sobriety,” Yves said.

Doug frowned. Perhaps that was a hint of sympathy in his expression, but the openness was missing. Yves cursed his own short-sightedness. However, he had to focus on salvaging their professional relationship. Yves required help to develop the land, and that land was the only hope he had of escaping his father’s judgment once the duke became the next king. 

“What odds would you give us for making a profitable enterprise out of my shell keep castle?”

Doug seemed to focus on the traffic in front of them. “With the right investors, I would call it the closest thing we could get to a sure thing. The isolation and unique historical nature of the castle will attract a certain deep-pocketed crowd. The royal connection won’t hurt.”

“Investors?” Yves’s gut churned. 

“Yeah, you know, the people who write the checks.” Doug smiled, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes, and after a few seconds, the expression faded. “I had planned to make a proposal to attract investors. I wasn’t planning on paying for the renovations, and I assume from our conversations that neither your father or your uncle has millions of dollars in liquid assets to invest.”

“Of course I wouldn’t expect that.” Yves carefully controlled his tone. He had years of practice—enough that he could fool the Duke or even Hogan—so Yves knew he had perfected the art of hiding his emotions, but Doug still frowned.

“My pockets are not as deep as an investor’s would be. I know my millions seem like a lot of money, but in terms of business, it’s a drop of water in the ocean.”

The silence was painful, but Yves focused on the traffic. As they got closer to the city center, the madness of impatient drivers became more intense, and that provided a welcome distraction. Yves was beginning to suspect Doug might not be the ally he had hoped. So many times Yves expected too much of people. No matter how many times he reminded himself that he could only rely on himself, he kept falling back into the same ridiculous fantasy that someone else 

“No. I quite understand,” Yves said. No doubt there was some truth in that because the castle ruins were so isolated that getting any renovations done would require a massive effort. “Besides,” Yves said lightly, “your goal is to establish your credibility and social desirability. Partnering with me is unlike to achieve that goal. But I assure you that King Alphonse can help you in both respects. He is quite the most respectable and boring King we have had in many generations.” Yves prayed that was enough of a carrot to keep Doug interested because Yves needed someone to talk his uncle around any legitimate fears regarding the project. Yves knew he had lost his family’s trust.

“What?” Doug sounded confused.

“Not all royals are as solidly uninteresting as King Alphonse,” Yves assured him.  The Duke’s staff loved to gossip about the old king, Yves’s grandfather. Apparently he had a string of inappropriate mistresses, even back when married men were expected to indulge. The story was that one of them had been a Soviet spy and another worked for the Nazis. Yves had no idea either was true, but he could not see his uncle ever cheating on the queen. In terms of respectability, King Alphonse had all the wealth one could possibly hope to accumulate. He certainly had more respectability than Yves’s own father who had a reputation for indulging in one or two extramarital affairs himself. The staff did like to gossip.

“I hate that you talk about yourself as if you don't have social standing.”

Yves laughed. “I don’t. I am the troubled royal. The troublemaker. The indiscrete one who can’t be trusted.” Mandatory therapy had helped Yves understand just how many mistakes he had made and he had no interest in going back into denial.

“People love a come-back story. You're the troubled royal who has walked away from drugs to work with animals, and people love animals. You are the poster child for getting your shit together. I really need to introduce you to my publicist because she will weave you a public image that will make the pope jealous. People will vote you in as king.”

Yves opened his mouth to protest that, but Doug kept talking.

“However, you might need a therapist to deal with this inferiority complex you have. Get over yourself. Millions have gotten themselves addicted to something.”

“I assure you I have received many hours of professional therapy, and I will not pretend that my life has been anything other than a series of screw ups.”

Doug snorted. “Why do I get a feeling your father picked the therapist?”

“Can we focus on the project, please,” Yves asked. He was willing to beg if that’s what it took to get them off this subject. Hagan had chosen the therapist, but Yves tended to agree with her when it came to the choices Yves had made. He’d never been hit, never been denied food or shelter. And yes, both Yves and his therapist agreed that his father had been an emotionally neglectful father, but others had far more difficult upbringings, and they never resorted to drugs.

Doug was proof of that. If anyone had a valid excuse for seeking the escape of drugs or alcohol, he did. His father’s misdeeds had colored Doug’s life and the ways that others viewed him. And given the revelation he had inadvertently shared, he’d also been dealing with hiding his sexuality in a locker room full of homophobic Americans. Yves could not imagine a more difficult burden to carry, yet Doug carried it with grace. He would make a far more admirable count than Yves did. The sad truth of the situation was that they were both trapped in their own lives.

Or perhaps only Yves was trapped and he was simply projecting his own petty griefs onto everyone else. Yves wasn’t sure if the voice in his head suggesting that sounded more like Duke Gerard, Hagan, or his therapist. 

Nick would have simply told him to stop moping and feed the damn dogs.