Thoroughly Whipped

I imagined a young Harry, lost—no doubt in a mansion—his fun and loving mother gone and only his cold father for comfort. King Sinclair would have given as much comfort as an iron lung.

“It’s a lovely thing you’re doing.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at me, and I could tell he was thinking hard about something. “The pitch had been closed off to journalists…” He let the question hang in the air.

“Is that so?” I shrugged innocently. I sighed, caught. “I used to go to that rec center, Harry, okay? When I heard you all down the hallway, I had to find out what was going on.” I pointed to my head. “Karma got me back for my nosiness, don’t worry.”

“It seems so.”

“Harry?” I asked, not wanting to hear the answer. “Did I say anything stupid when I was concussed? I can’t remember much. Was there something about angels?”

“No,” he said and took a long drink of his awful tea.

“I did, didn’t I?” I shrieked.

Harry held up his hands in surrender. “What? I can’t help it if you believe me the most beautiful seraphim in all of heaven.”

“Oh my Jesus Christ. Kill me now.” I paused and checked my surroundings. “No, that’s it, right? I did die, and I’m in Hell.”

“Wow,” he said, the slang word sounding strange coming from his proper mouth. “Good to know being in my presence would be your idea of Hell.” Harry said it as a joke, but I caught the slight echo of sadness on his face, heard the quick inflection of disappointment in his tone.

“Harry, since we met, we have been meteorites crashing together, knocking each other off course. I can’t imagine two more unlikely people trying to strike up a friendship.” He dropped his eyes to his cup, picking at the label. I felt a cave of sadness burrowing in my stomach.

“It’s like you’re two people.” Harry tensed, eyebrows furrowed. “You can be degrading, prideful, and curt.” I pointed at him. “Then you can be like this. The man I saw brief glimpses of in the elevator that night. The man you have been today, showing whispers of smiles at my shitty and inappropriate jokes.” He huffed a laugh at that. “This may be way out of line, but I thought you were just a carbon copy of your dad.”

At that, Harry’s head snapped up and his eyes blazed with fire. I held my breath at his strong reaction, which wasn’t wise, as the world seemed to tilt on its axis.

“I’m nothing like my father,” he said firmly. His wide shoulders tensed and his jaw was tight.

“I know,” I said, and I watched him lose some of the built-up tension. “I’m beginning to realize that now.”

Harry turned his head, facing the curtain. I thought this was when he’d get up and leave. Make his excuses. Instead, without facing me, he said, “You must understand that being raised nobility in England, there are expectations and a strong sense of decorum…” He trailed off and ran his hand down his face.

He faced me again and, with a self-deprecating smirk, said, “Not every prison is behind iron bars.”

“Harry…” I whispered, feeling something around my heart crumble. A wall? A fence? I didn’t know. But whatever it was, at those heart-wrenching words it fell away, leaving my beating flesh open to Harry Sinclair.

“More coffee?” Harry said, jumping to his feet.

“No, I…” The hopeful look on his face made me say, “Yes. Thank you. I can always use more coffee.” Relief beamed from him, and he ducked out through the curtain.

What had it cost him to reveal that? And his prison? Was he trapped by the rules and regulations of his social standing, or was his father not a good father at all? From the little I knew of King Sinclair, I couldn’t imagine him being anything but degrading. And if someone had lived with that all his life? Been on the receiving end of censure and never praise. And worse, he had lost the woman who’d shown him what love was at such a young age…

Seeing my cell on the nightstand, I checked to ensure that the coast was clear; then I conducted a quick Google search. After typing in “young Henry Sinclair III,” I pressed on “images.” In seconds, I was staring at a baby-faced Harry. In most of the pictures, he stood beside King. I searched through pages of pictures and, heartbreakingly, I couldn’t find one photo where Harry was smiling.

I looked more closely at his face on one particular photo and felt as though I might cry. He was standing in front of a stone wall of some sort, maybe a house? He was beside his father, but it was Harry’s eyes that held me captive. They, of course, were the same cerulean blue, but these eyes were haunted. They were tinged with such sadness and…loneliness that I felt my cheeks grow damp.