CHAPTER 2

HENRY

IF THE CAPITAL WERE A uni campus, The Horny Goat would be my

safe space. My cocoon. My Snuggie—if those came with bottles of alcohol in their pockets.

It’s an historical landmark, one of the oldest buildings in the city—with a leaky roof, crooked walls, and perpetually sticky floorboards. Rumor has it, way back in the day it was a brothel—which is quite poetic. Not because of the debauchery, but because of the secrets these walls have always held. And still do. Not a single news story about my brother or me has ever leaked out from under its rickety door. Not one drunken royal quote uttered here has ever been repeated or reprinted.

What happens in Vegas doesn’t always stay in Vegas—but what happens at The Goat never sees the light of day.

The man responsible for the hush-hush environment is the owner, Evan Macalister—The Goat’s been in his family for generations. When I slide onto the bar stool, he’s the stout, flannel-shirt-wearing bloke who puts a frothy pint in front of me.

I hold up my palm. “Step aside, Guinness—this is a job for whiskey.”

He grabs a bottle from behind the bar, pouring me a shot. “Rough day at the Palace, Your Highness?”

“They’re all I seem to have lately.” I bring the shot to my lips, tilt my head back, and swallow it down.

Most people drink to dull the senses, to forget. But the burn that singes my throat is a welcome pain. It makes me feel awake. Alive. It gives me focus.

I motion for another.

“Where’s Meg tonight?” I ask.

She’s Macalister’s daughter, and a former late-night rendezvous of my brother’s before he met little Olive. I’m not picky when it comes to women, I don’t mind seconds and there’s nothing sloppy about Meg—but I wouldn’t fuck her even if the world were ending. My one rule when it comes to the opposite sex is to not dip my wick anywhere remotely near where my brother’s has been.

That’s just disgusting.

Still, I’d rather be looking at her pretty face—and arse.

“She’s out with the lad she’s been seeing. Tristan or Preston or some other girl’s blouse name like that.” He pours a shot for himself, muttering, “He’s a useless bastard.”

“Aren’t we all?”

He chuckles. “That’s what the wife likes to remind me of. Accordin’ to her I was hopeless before she got her hands on me.”

I raise my glass. “To good women—may they never stop seeing us as we could be, and not what we are.”

“Amen.” He taps his shot glass to mine and we both drain our glasses. “I’ll drink to that.”

This quip comes from a petite brunette who slips onto the stool beside

me.

I can practically feel James, my light-haired, stalwart security shadow,

watching us from his spot near the door. I’m used to security detail, it’s not new, but in the last year it’s gotten heavier, tighter—like a noose.

“What’ll you have, Miss?” Macalister asks.

“Whatever Prince Henry is having,” she replies with a smile, dropping enough bills on the bar to pay for both our drinks.

I like women. No, I love women. The way they move, how they think, the sound of their voices, the scent of their skin—their warmth and softness.

But there’s nothing soft about this woman. She’s all angles—prominent

cheekbones, taut limbs, a pointy chin and dark hair cut in a severe bob just below her ears. Not unattractive—but slim and sharp like an arrow. She

sounds American and looks near my age, but there’s an aggressive air about her that I’ve only encountered in middle-aged women. Cougars. I adore

cougars—women who are experienced enough to know exactly what they want and confident enough to say it out loud.

I’m intrigued. And horny. I haven’t had a good, thorough shag since . . .

Nicholas’s wedding. Christ—it’s been months. No wonder I’m a basket case.

Macalister fills a mug with Guinness and sets a shot in front of her.

Then he refills my shot glass and makes himself busy down at the other end of the bar.

I turn in my seat, lifting my glass. “Cheers.” Her eyes are ice blue. “Bottoms up.”

I wink. “One of my favorite positions.”

She gives a snort, then downs her shot like a pro. Licking her lips, she eyes my left forearm. “Nice tattoo.”

It’s two tattoos, actually. The Royal Coat of Arms begins below my

wrist and under it, the military crest of Wessco. I had the first done when I was sixteen, when I slipped my security detail after curfew at boarding

school and went into town with a few friends. I thought I could wear long

sleeves and my grandmother would never know. That illusion lasted exactly one day—that’s how long it took for photos of me at the tattoo parlor to be splashed across all the papers. I had the second added a few years ago—just after basic training—with the lads from my unit.

“Thanks.”

She holds out her hand. “I’m Vanessa Steele.”

Definitely American. If she were from Wessco, she would bow. I shake her hand; it’s dry and smooth. “Henry. But you already know that.”

“I do. You’re a difficult man to get in touch with.”

I sip my pint. “Then how about I finish my drink and you can touch me till your heart’s content, love.”

She laughs, eyes gleaming. “You’re even better than I imagined.” She taps a red fingernail on the wood bar. “I have a proposition for you.”

“And I do so enjoy being propositioned. Your place or mine?” Then I

snap my fingers, remembering. “We will have to stop by the Palace. There’s

an NDA you’re supposed to sign—a technicality. Then we can get right to the good part.”

Vanessa braces her elbow on the bar. “Not that kind of proposition. I don’t want to sleep with you, Henry.”

“Who said anything about sleeping? I’m talking about sex. Good sex.

Lots of it.”

That puts a flush on her pretty cheeks and she laughs. “I don’t want to have sex with you.”

I pat her hand. “Now you’re just being silly. The cat-and-mouse game can be tantalizing, but it’s not necessary.” My voice drops to a whisper.

“I’m a sure thing.”

Her smile is sly and confident. “So I hear. But this is a business opportunity, and I never mix business with pleasure.”

And as quick as that, my interest drops. These days, “business” is the most effective cold shower. “Pity.”

“It doesn’t have to be. I’m a television producer. Matched—have you heard of it?”

I squint, recalling. “One of those reality dating shows, isn’t it? Survivor,

but with cat fights and string bikinis?” “That’s right.”

Out of the corner of my eye I notice Macalister motion to one of his bouncers—a strapping, thick-necked bloke. Vanessa must notice as well, because she speaks more quickly.

“I’m putting together a special edition—a royal edition—and I want you to be the star. We’ll take care of everything, make all the arrangements— twenty beautiful blue bloods in one castle and all you have to do is let them fall all over themselves for you. It’ll be a month-long, nonstop party. And in the end, you can check off your most important royal duty: choosing your queen.”

As far as pitches go, hers isn’t half bad. The slumbering, neglected part of me that remembers easy, simple, laid-back days stirs and stretches. It’s that feeling you get in the coldest nights of winter—a yearning for sweet,

summer sun.

The bouncer stands behind her. “Time to go, Miss.”

Vanessa rises from her stool. “Think of me as the female Billy the Kid.” She winks. “I’ll make you famous.”

“I’m already famous.”

“But you’re not enjoying it anymore, are you, Henry? I can do

something for you that no one else can—I will make famous fun again.” She slides her card across the bar. “Think about it, then call me.”

I watch her back as she struts across the bar and out the door. And though I have no intention of taking her up on the interesting offer, I slip her card into my wallet. Just in case.

The eighties are a sorely underrated decade in terms of musical

composition. They don’t get nearly the respect they deserve. I try to use my platform in the world to bring attention to this travesty by singing eighties ballads whenever I get the chance. Like right now, as I sing “What About Me” by Moving Pictures on the karaoke stage. It was their one-hit wonder and a soul-stirring exercise in self-pity. My eyes are closed as I belt out the lyrics and sway behind he microphone.

Not in time to the music—I’m so pissed, I’m lucky to still be standing at all.

Usually I play the guitar too, but my fine-motor functions fell by the wayside hours ago. I’m a fantastic musician—not that anyone really notices. That talent gets lost in the shadow of the titles, the same way the talented offspring of two accomplished stars get discounted by the weight of their household name.

My mother gave me my love of music—she played several instruments.

I had tutors, first for the piano, then the violin—but it was the guitar that really stuck with me. The karaoke stage at The Goat used to be my second home and in the last few hours, I’ve given serious consideration to moving in beneath it.

If Harry Potter was the Boy Under the Stairs, I could be the Prince Under the Stage. Why the fuck not?

As I delve into the chorus for the second time, voices whisper on the periphery of my consciousness. I hear them, but don’t really listen.

“Christ, how long’s he been like this?”

I like that voice. It’s soothing. Deep and comforting. It reminds me of my brother’s, but it’s not him. Because Nicholas is in a land far, far away.

“He’s had a rough go of it.”

And that sounds like Simon—my brother’s best mate. He checks up on me from time to time, because he’s a good man.

“It’s been particularly difficult the last few months,” Simon says—not to be confused with the electronic game.

“Months?” the smooth voice chokes.

“We didn’t want to concern you until there was something to be concerned about.”

That voice is a beauty. It could almost pass for Simon’s stunning and frighteningly direct wife, Franny. I wonder if Franny has a twin sister? I would so hit that, if she does.

“James contacted me when he refused to go home. In the last two days he’s gone from bad to—”

“—rock bottom,” Franny says, finishing Simon’s sentence. They’re cute like that.

Hashtag relationship goals.

“Wow. You royal guys don’t do anything halfway, do you?” a pretty, distinctly American voice chimes in. “Even your mental breakdowns are historic.”

The song ends and after a moment, I open my eyes.

One lone patron at a table in front claps, the ash from the cigarette between his fingers falling in slow motion to the floor.

And then I look up.

And my eyes absorb a glorious sight.

My big brother, Nicholas, standing tall and straight by the bar, his face etched with worry. It may just be a fantasy. A delusion. But I’ll take what I can get.

I start to smile and move forward, but I forget about the stage—the fact that I’m standing on it. And that first step is an absolute corker. Because a moment later, my whole world goes black.

The next time I open my eyes, I’m on the floor, on my back, staring at the water-stained ceiling of The Horny Goat. And . . . I think there’s gum up there. What kind of demented bastard puts chewing gum on the ceiling?

Has to be a health hazard.

My brother’s face looms over me, blocking out everything else. And sweet, blessed relief surges in my chest. “Nicholas? You’re really here?” “Yes, Henry,” he says gently. “I’m really here.” His big hand rests on

my head. “You took quite a fall—are you well?” Well? I could fucking fly.

“I had the most ridiculous dream.” I point at my brother. “You were there.” I point at Simon beside him. “And you.” Then Franny, all of them huddled on the floor around me. “And you too. You . . . abdicated the throne, Nicholas. And they all wanted to make me king.” A maniacal laugh passes my lips . . . until I turn to the right and see dark blue eyes, sweet lips. and black, swirling hair.

Then I scream like a girl. “Ahhhh!”

It’s Olivia. My brother’s wife. His very American wife. I turn back to Nicholas. “It wasn’t a dream, was it?”

“No, Henry.”

I lie back down on the floor. “Fuuuuuck.” Then I feel sort of bad.

“Sorry, Olive. You know I think you’re top-notch.”

She smiles kindly. “It’s okay, Henry. I’m sorry you’re having a hard time.”

I scrub my hand over my face, trying to think clearly.

“It’s all right. This is a better, new plan—I won’t have to live under the stage now.”

“You were going to live under the stage?” Nicholas asks.

I wave my hand. “Forget it. It was Potter’s stupid idea. Boy Wonder Wizard, my arse.”

And now my brother looks really worried.

I gesture to him. “But you’re here now. You can take me with you back to the States.”

“Henry . . .”

“Give me your tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to be free—that describes me perfectly! I’m a huddled mass, Nicholas!”

He squeezes my arms, shaking just a bit. “Henry. You can’t move to America.”

I grasp his shirt. And my voice morphs into an eight-year-old boy’s, confessing he sees dead people. “But she’s so mean, Nicholas. She’s. So. Mean.”

He taps my back. “I know.”

Nicholas and Simon drag me up, holding on so that I stay on my feet. “But we’ll figure it out,” Nicholas says. “It’s going to be all right.”

I shake my head. “You keep saying that. I’m starting to think you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”