Fallen Heir (The Royals 4)

Hartley leans against the passenger door of my truck. “Okay. So how do you do that?”

I give her an overly lewd look that includes a lot of eyebrow waggling.

“No way, Royal. Remember the rules.”

Val snorts. “What rules?”

“Har-Har over here—”

“‘Har-Har’?” Hartley growls.

“New nickname,” I say, waving a dismissive hand before turning to Val. “Anyway, Har-Har gave me a list of friendship rules. It’s the only way she’ll grace me with her presence.”

“And one of those rules is that he’s not allowed to hit on me,” Hartley explains.

“How do I sign up for that?” Val asks eagerly.

“Hey, I wasn’t hitting on anyone,” I protest. “You asked how I like to unwind, and that’s the answer.” Well, there’s another answer, too, but I’m not going to say it out loud, not with Ella still watching me like a hawk. She knows exactly what I’m hoping to do tonight, and she doesn’t like it.

“Why don’t we all go to Dom’s place in your truck?” Ella’s tone sounds overly cheerful. “I’ll leave my car here and get it later.”

Yup, she’s in babysitter mode. “Sorry, sis. That’s a dumb idea,” I say just as cheerfully. “You’re not leaving a convertible in the Astor parking lot where those asswipes from Gatwick can get to it. We crushed them tonight, and they’re petty.”

“He’s got a point,” Val says, backing me up. “When we beat them last year, they spray painted the south lawn neon yellow. Let’s take your car to be safe.”

Ella knows when she’s beaten. “All right. Val and I will meet you there.” She stares at me. “Right?”

“Of course,” I assure her.

I’m lying through my teeth.

The second the four of us part ways and Hartley and I are alone in my pickup, I turn to my passenger and say, “Mind if we take a little detour?”

Chapter 11

I can tell Hartley is confused and a little nervous, but she’s being a good sport about this. She hops the fence at the edge of the shipyard without a single complaint, and she doesn’t say a word as we dart through the dark maze of shipping containers. It’s not until we reach our destination that she turns to me with concern in her eyes.

“What is this?”

“Fight night,” I explain happily. Adrenaline is burning in my veins, and my fists haven’t even struck flesh yet.

Except then I look around and am a bit disappointed. There’s not much of a crowd tonight, which is weird, because it’s Friday and the weekend fights are usually packed. I guess people are still scared to show their faces after that bust that happened a while back.

But oh well. I’ll just have to live with the smaller turnout. I don’t need to beat the crap out of thirty dudes. Just one’ll do.

“You’re planning to fight?” Hartley asks anxiously.

I take her arm and lead her toward a stack of crates away from the action. In the middle of the circle, two big dudes are already at it, fists swinging and insults flying. I don’t want Hartley to accidentally get jostled by any of the cheering onlookers.

“Why don’t you sit down,” I suggest. “I’ve got to take care of something.”

Hartley sits, although she looks reluctant.

I strip off my shirt and toss it on the crate next to her. I don’t miss the way her eyes widen slightly. Is she checking out my chest? Guess she didn’t get enough of my abs earlier. I reach above my head and make a show of stretching. Hartley twists her head to avoid looking at me. I grin. Girl is smitten.

“Yo, Royal! Buy in!”

I reach into my back pocket. “Here,” I tell Wilson, the shaved-head dude who oversees the exchange of cash.

I slap a stack of bills in his meaty hand. It costs a lot to fight, but I’m a Royal. I can afford it. There’s potential to win a lot, too, but now that Reed’s not fighting, I’ve got nobody to bet on. I can’t bet on myself—that’s no fun, especially since I already know the outcome.

“Blondie over there called dibs on you the moment you got here,” Wilson tells me, flashing a toothy grin.

I peer past his huge shoulder toward the tall, blond gym rat standing with a group of three or four other guys. Ah yeah. I recognize them as the douchey frat brothers from that party I went to last weekend. I think I might’ve banged one of their girlfriends.

“Royal!” one of them snaps. His face is red, eyes narrowed. “You ever come near my girl again and I’ll end you!”

Guess it was his girlfriend. I give Tomato Face a little wave. “How about you try to end me right now?” I gesture to the center of the circle that’s blocked out for the fights.

“Gonna let Mike do it for me,” he sneers, patting his buddy on the back.

Pussy. He’s relying on his muscle man friend to punish me for hooking up with his girl? Whatever happened to fighting for your girl’s honor?

Hartley watches this exchange with increasing concern. “You hit on that guy’s girlfriend?”

I wink at her. “Who, me?”

“Easton.” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “I don’t like this.”

“What, that I flirted with his girlfriend or that I’m going to fight him?”

“The fighting.”

It’s hard to tell in the shadows, but I think her face is getting paler. I guess she’s afraid for me? That’s okay. She’ll realize soon enough that there’s nothing to be scared of. I can handle myself.

“Can you please be careful?” she pleads.

Nope. Careful isn’t fun. Careful is boring.

“Of course,” I lie, and she looks relieved by that.

But the moment I step into the ring, I charge recklessly at Muscle Man Mike, because I’m craving his uppercut. I want the pain that jolts through my jaw and rattles my teeth. I want the blood that I spit onto the pavement. Another thing my brother and I have in common, other than our taste in chicks, is our thirst for violence.

I let Mike pound me until I get bored. Then I take him out with two swift blows that send him onto his ass, and lazily wander over to Hartley, who’s staring at me in horror.

“You’re covered in blood!”

She’s right. It’s dripping down my chin and chest, and I can taste its metallic flavor in my mouth. I don’t care, though. I feel so fucking good right now. I feel wired. Alive.

“Wilson,” I call out, ignoring Hartley. “I want some more.”

“Easton,” she says miserably. “Can we leave now? Please?”

“Anybody else want a go at Royal?” Wilson asks the group, grinning from ear to ear.

There are about fourteen dudes littering the pavement. Nearly all of them volunteer to fight with me.

Guess I’ve got beefs with more people than I thought.

“Sit tight,” I tell Hartley. “Lemme just take on a few more.”

“No.” The one word snaps out fast and sharp.

She hops off the crate and gets right in my face, and now that she’s standing closer to the lights, I can see that her skin is pale.

“What’s your deal?” I demand. “It’s just harmless fun.”

“How is this fun! A bunch of guys trying to kill each other? That’s not fun!”

Her vehemence has me rolling my eyes. “Okay, chillax. Nobody’s trying to kill anyone. We’re letting out some aggression, that’s all.”

“Well, I don’t want to watch it!” She crosses her arms tightly. “Take me home.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I honestly never expected you to be this uptight.”

“I don’t like seeing people get hurt, so that makes me uptight?” Her voice is high and shaky, but her gray eyes are blazing. “Why did you bring me here? Why would you ever think I’d enjoy this?”

A frown forms between my brows. I haven’t brought a chick to these fights before. Ella, yeah, but that’s because she followed Reed and me here without our knowledge. Other than that, these late-night visits to the shipyard are just for me. Mine alone

. Easton’s world.

So why’d I invite Hartley into my inner world?

“I thought you’d like it,” I finally respond, but the words don’t sound right. That’s not why I brought her along. I…don’t know why I did.

Hartley is quick to call me out. “No, you didn’t. Nothing you do is for anyone else. It’s for you, always.” She scowls at me. “Do you get off on me watching, maybe?”

“No. That’s stupid.”

“That’s stupid?” Her voice rises another octave. “You and these idiots—”

“Hey!” someone protests, and that’s when I realize we’ve got an audience.

“—come out here at night and spend hundreds of dollars to play some idiotic version of Fight Club. If that’s not stupid, I don’t know what is.”

“Then leave, sweetheart!” one of the guys in Muscle Man Mike’s crew calls out irritably.

“Yeah! Quit shrieking like a banshee and get lost!”

“Royal, muzzle your bitch!”

I whirl around, seeking the moron who threw out that last remark. The moment he sees my expression, he takes several nervous steps backward.

“You,” I tell him, jabbing my finger in the air. “You’ll fucking pay for that comment.”

He takes another step back.

“What, you’re gonna hit him, too?” Hartley says in disgust. “Is that how you solve your problems, Easton? With violence?”

“I’m not gonna let some brainless motormouth run you down.”

“I don’t care. He can say all the bad things he wants about me. I don’t care.”

“Well, I do.”

“Then you’re fighting for yourself, not for me. I want to leave,” she says stiffly. “And I want to leave now. So here’s how it’s going to be: you’re either going to put your shirt back on”—she reaches behind her, and then she’s slapping my T-shirt against my bare pecs—“and take me home. Or”—she holds up her cell phone—“I’m going to call the police and get this little party broken up.”

“Narc!”

“Yo, bitch, ever heard the phrase ‘snitches get stitches’?”

“Your girlfriend sucks, Royal.”

Both Hartley and I ignore the shit flying in our direction. We stare each other down. Her eyes are on fire, a dark, stormy gray that sends a chill up my spine. She’s furious with me.

I screwed up, I guess. But I honestly didn’t think a few bareknuckle matches would get her this upset. Ella was kind of squeamish when she came along with us, but I think she actually liked seeing Reed go all animalistic on her.

“Easton,” Hartley says, low and threatening.

I find myself swallowing hard. “Yeah?”

“Take. Me. Home.” She gives me a look so cold it freezes the sweat on my bare chest. “Now.”

Chapter 12

I’m really, really, really sorry. 3 reallys! That’s how u know I mean it

After I send the text, I lie in bed for a good thirty minutes staring at my phone and willing Hartley to respond. She doesn’t. Just like she hadn’t responded to any of the other messages I’d sent between nine thirty and noon today. A total of eight unanswered texts fill our chat history.

There’s a weird weight in my chest that won’t go away. I feel bad, I guess. The look on Hartley’s face at the fights? That wounded look? I can’t seem to erase it from my head. Worse, I don’t know what to do to fix it. She didn’t say a single word on the drive home from the docks last night, not until we reached her apartment. When I tried to get out of the truck to walk her to her door, she glared at me and said, “How does walking me upstairs benefit Easton Royal? It doesn’t. So don’t do it.” Then she jumped out of the pickup and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame.

It bugs me that she thinks I’m a selfish prick.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I pick up my phone and type another message.

Plz, H, just talk 2 me. otherwise I’m coming over 2 apologize in person

I don’t know if it’s the threat that does it or if she suddenly decided she’s in the mood to answer. Either way, I get results—I see the three gray dots indicating she’s typing something.

Thank fuck.

Don’t you dare come over, Easton

I will if u don’t stop ignoring me. I don’t like it

Ya? Well, I don’t like getting dragged to some illegal fight club and then being told I’m uptight

Guilt arrows into me. And my stomach feels queasy, but that might be thanks to the bottle of tequila I sucked down when I got home after dropping off Hartley. Arguments like that almost always send me right to the liquor cabinet.

How many more times do I need 2 say im sry in order 4 u to forgive me?

No response.

Frustrated, I sit up in bed and bang my head against my padded headrest a few times. Then I type a follow-up.

Bcuz I AM sorry, Hartley. I feel like a shit for taking u there, and then trying 2 force u 2 stay when u asked 2 go home. U have every right 2 be mad at me

More silence.

What do u want from me?

Realness, is the reply I finally get.

Realness? What the fuck is that? I drag a hand across my jaw as I stare at the phone. I am sorry. That’s as real as it gets. The fact that I even feel regret is a new thing for me. Why can’t she see that?

My fingers hover over the screen. What do I say? What will be convincing?

Im as real as they come bby

I read it over once more before I send it. And then read it again. On the third pass, it occurs to me that it’s the worst response in the history of mankind. I’m not good at this texting thing. If she were here in person, she’d be able to see how sorry I really am.

Come over, u can see im serious

Now you are

What the hell does that mean? She’s like an advanced flight formula, and, unfortunately, there’s no cheat sheet or app to help me out.

Cant be srs all the time. Wld be boring

Sometimes boring is good. It’s in the quiet you hear the heart beat

Is she quoting song lyrics? I don’t even know with this girl anymore.

I tap my fingers against the sides of the phone, trying to come up with the best one-liner I can. All the usual suspects aren’t going to work, so…

Be real, she says. The reason I can’t think of anything good to write is because those lines are hollow. Be real. I let my fingers tap against the screen.

I don’t want 2 lose your friendship. I like u

As I press send, I realize that this might be the first time I’ve ever actually said that to a girl.

I like you

I’ve said I want you. I think you’re sexy, hot, smoking, banging. I’ve complimented girls. I’ve encouraged them. I’ve made more than a few squeal with happiness, but I don’t know that I’ve ever genuinely liked one.

But I like Hartley.

I stare at the screen and will her to respond. When the green balloon of text appears, I blow out a breath of relief.

You have a weird way of showing it

Not quite the response I was going for, but at least she hasn’t given up on me.

So I love 2 fly, right? But my dad’s grounded me. So sometimes I have 2 take the edge off. Fighting’s the only thing that doesn’t hurt anyone else. I mean, ppl r there bc they want to b.

I feel like I’m cracking open my chest and letting her see inside. It’s not pretty there, but I don’t want to let her go.

Give me another chance, H

Oh. OK. I don’t get it, but I do at the same time. You’re forgiven, but I can’t this weekend

I scrunch my nose. I don’t like that. That means she’ll stew the whole weekend about the fight.

What’s up? I’m free to help out

If you’re genuinely sorry, then give me the weekend

Why? I can show u im sorry in person

Or you can show me you’re sorry by respecting my request

Is this adulting cuz I do

n’t think I like it much

You’re welcome. This is followed by: Thank you for being real

I send her a smiley face, but she doesn’t respond. And after ten minutes of staring at my lonely little emoji, I get the message. She’s done with me today.

Time slows to a crawl when you’re bored. Each minute feels like an hour. Each hour feels like a day. By mid-afternoon, I’m convinced that a whole month has passed.

“What day is it?” I ask. Since my room is empty, no one answers.

I need to get out of this damn house. That’s my problem. I’m a doer, not a thinker and right now, I need to do something. So I text Pash. And then Dom. And then Babbage.

No one responds.

I guess that leaves the fam.

I hunt down Ella and find her outside near the pool with papers spread all around her. I grab two bottles of water from the fridge and then drop onto the lounge opposite hers, tucking one of the bottles against her leg.

“You looked thirsty,” I announce.

She looks up from her work. “Oh really?”

“Really.” I stretch out on the lounger. “And it also looks like you’re due for a break.”

Ella laughs. “Actually, I just sat down.”

“Perfect. Then I’m not interrupting anything yet. Let’s dish, girlfriend.”

Her laughter becomes a wave of giggles. “Oh God, Easton, please don’t ever say that again.”

“Why not? I thought you’d appreciate my offer to gossip. That’s all you and Val do.”

“We do not!”

I kick my legs up and grin at the clear blue sky. It’s a gorgeous day, and my spirits are rising. I’m still hungover, but my temples aren’t throbbing as hard and my heart definitely feels lighter. Hartley isn’t furious at me anymore—she’s been downgraded to just “mad.” I’ll take mad.

“But fine. If you want to dish, girlfriend, let’s dish. What do you want with Hartley Wright? Besides the obvious,” she tacks on when I raise an eyebrow.

“I don’t know. She’s new. I’m bored.”

“She’s not a toy,” Ella chastises.

“I know that.” I twist the cap off the bottle and take a few swigs of water. “She’s my friend, all right?”