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Infamy is temporary, celebrity is fleeting, but royalty…royalty is forever.
Infamy is temporary, celebrity is fleeting, but royalty…royalty is forever.
His one good eye glares disapprovingly, while the other—the wandering one—that my brother and I always suspected wasn’t lazy at all, but a freakish ability to see everything at once, gazes toward the opposite side of the room.
His one good eye glares disapprovingly, while the other—the wandering one—that my brother and I always suspected wasn’t lazy at all, but a freakish ability to see everything at once, gazes toward the opposite side of the room.
“Have you tried calling his mobile?” “Of course I have.” She clucks. “He answers, makes that ridiculous static noise, and tells me he can’t hear me. Then he says he loves me and hangs up.”
“I wanted to give you thirty days. You can thank your grandfather for talking me out of it.” She means the portrait on the wall behind her. My grandfather’s been dead for ten years.
“I wanted to give you thirty days. You can thank your grandfather for talking me out of it.” She means the portrait on the wall behind her. My grandfather’s been dead for ten years.
He’s one of those dogs that are so ugly, they’re actually cute. Sometimes I wonder if he’s the odds-defying result of a kinky canine three-way.
He gives me the sad eyes as he jumps down from the counter he’s not supposed to be on. Then he drops to his side, exposing his belly in contrition. But I’m not buying it. “Oh, get up. Have some dignity.”
He gives me the sad eyes as he jumps down from the counter he’s not supposed to be on. Then he drops to his side, exposing his belly in contrition. But I’m not buying it. “Oh, get up. Have some dignity.”
But I’m a New Yorker, born and raised. So there’s only one appropriate reaction. “Fuck you!” I shout at the top of my lungs, lifting both hands above my head, middle fingers raised loud and proud.
A foreclosure notice—the second one we’ve received, not counting the dozens of phone calls and e-mails that in a nutshell say, “Bitch better have my money.” Well, the bitch doesn’t have any.
She’s not trying to be a jerk—she’s just seventeen, so it’s inevitable.
“Liv, you know I love you like the baby sister I wish I had—” “You have a baby sister.” He has three, actually—triplets—Bibbidy, Bobbidy, and Boo. Marty’s mom was still flying high when she filled out the birth certificates, a little mix-up with the meds during delivery. And Marty’s dad, a rabbi from Queens, was smart enough not to quibble with a woman who’d just had the equivalent of three watermelons pulled out of her.
“Pay no attention to this sorry mess,” the redhead says. “He’s been smashed for three days straight.” The “sorry mess” raises a silver flask. “And on my way to four.”
“Apple,” he says softly—managing to make the benign two-syllable word sound totally sexy. My pelvis swoons like a romance novel heroine who just saw her Brad Pitt circa Legends of the Fall–like hero riding toward her on horseback.
“What’s your name? I don’t know if I asked before.” “You didn’t. And it’s Liv.” “That’s an odd name. Were you ill as a baby? I mean, is live what your parents were hoping you’d do or did they just not like you?”
“What is that?” I ask. “It’s my dog.” “No. No, I have dogs. Dogs are descended from wolves. That’s descended from a rat.” I look again. “An ugly rat.” She lifts the little monster into her arms. “Don’t insult my dog.” “Not trying to—just telling the truth.”
“Nice hat.” He raises a fist. “Go Yanks.” “Do you really think it’ll work as a disguise?” He’s surprised by the question. He glances around the room—only two other customers sit at the tables, and neither seems to notice him. He shrugs. “Glasses always worked for Clark Kent.”
“I said don’t look! That’s Prince Nicholas over there or my name isn’t Martin McFly Ginsberg.” I think Marty’s mom was kind of high when she named him, too.
He’s wearing black bike shorts, so ball-strangling-ly tight I adjust my own set in commiseration, and a ripped sleeveless shirt.
“Aye. It’s like my younger sister, Janey. She’s a good-looking girl, but one day she had a zit on her forehead that was so big it made her look like a dickicorn. And she was walking—” James, in the front passenger seat, reads my mind. “What the fuck is a dickicorn?” “It’s an expression,” Tommy explains. James angles around to look at Tommy, his blue eyes crinkled. “An expression for what?” “For…someone with something big coming out o’ their forehead that looks like a cock.” “Wouldn’t it be a unicock, then?” James wonders. “For Christ’s sake,” Logan cuts in. “Would you forget about the fuckin’
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“I like children. They haven’t developed ulterior motives yet.”
It’s like I’m living an episode of reality TV—a full-fledged fashion fucking emergency. Except no camera crew and makeover-expert fairy godmother is going to pop out of my bathroom.
“These will be perfect!” Bibbidy exclaims, waving a pair of obsidian high-heeled ankle boots around like a magic wand. “Mmm-hmm.” Marty approves. “Fuck-me boots if I ever saw ’em.” “I can’t wear those,” I try to protest. “I’ll break my neck. There’s still snow on the ground.” “You’re going from the coffee shop to the car,” my sister counters. “You’re not walking the Appalachian Trail, Liv.”
“Thank you. You look pretty great too, Prince Charming.” “I actually know a Prince Charming. He’s first-class prick.” “Well. Now that you’ve tarnished a precious piece of my childhood, this better be some date,” I tease.
“It was awful,” I say quietly. Then I take a breath and shake off the sadness that’s seeped into the conversation. “But…in the immortal words of Kanye, that which don’t kill me only makes me stronger.”
She munches on a piece of bread, head slightly tilted, watching—thinking it over. And I’m struck by the charming way she chews. Christ, what a strange thing to notice.
“Do you really believe that?” “That I’m descended from The Almighty?” I grin devilishly. “I’ve been told my cock is a gift from God. You should test that opinion tonight. You know…for religion.” “Very smooth.” She laughs.
There’s a cable show, My Strange Addiction—one of the most insane things I ever saw, one episode was about a wanker who was obsessed with sniffing women’s hair. I’m sorry I judged you, wanker. I get it now.
I know what he’s trying to do—and I hate it. He wants to be noble, helpful. Trying to be the hero. Isn’t that what princes do? But it just makes me feel shittier. I’ve been my own hero for a long time—I know how it’s done.
She makes quick work of my trousers, tossing them on the floor. And she stares at me, with a secret smile on her lips—long enough for me to ask, “What?” Olivia gives a tiny shrug. “The Internet was wrong. They said you wear Calvin Klein underwear.” They were very wrong—I don’t wear underwear at all. “Don’t believe everything you read.”
Nicholas looks at the helmet, then at Logan. “What’s the worst that could happen?” “Ah…you could get assassinated and the three of us will hang for treason.” “Don’t be silly,” Nicholas scoffs. “We haven’t hung anyone in years.” He smacks Logan’s back. “It’d be the firing squad.”
New Yorkers are cool about celebrity stuff.” He looks at me like I’m nuts. “Not the ones I’ve seen.” I shrug. “They’re probably from Jersey.”
Henry’s hair is blond, shaggy-long and curling, and his eyes are a brighter shade than Nicholas’s. Like wild grass after a rainstorm.
The arrest of a royal is big news—particularly in America, where the only thing they like more than building their celebrities up is tearing them down.
My brother smiles salaciously. “Hel-lo, Ellie.” “She’s a minor,” I tell him. And the smile drops. He pats her head. “Good-bye, Ellie.”
MY GRANDMOTHER IS A NIGHT OWL. She requires only three to four hours of sleep. It’s a common trait in leaders, captains of industry, top-notch executives—and psychopaths.
“I think you like her clueless—it makes her dependent on you. And it keeps her innocent. Untainted by this cesspool the rest of us swim around in every day. But you’ve left her vulnerable. She doesn’t understand the rules. She doesn’t even know the name of the game.” “So, you’ll what?” I growl. “Teach her to play?” Franny’s dark eyes blaze. “Oh no, silly boy—I’ll teach her to win.”
Perception is reality. If you can control perception, you control the world.
It’s funny—when people are stingy with their praise, it always seems to mean the most when it’s given.
The second the words leave my mouth I want to snatch them back. I don’t mean them. But words don’t work that way. Once heard, they can’t ever be taken back. All they can do is echo.
But pain is actually a gift. A warning that something is amiss and action must be taken to correct the situation. Without pain, an otherwise minor injury could lead to deadly consequences.
“And so, today, I, Nicholas Arthur Frederick Edward, abdicate my place in the line of succession and renounce all rights to the throne of Wessco. From this moment on, my brother, His Royal Highness Henry John Edgar Thomas, is the Prince of Pembrook.” The crowd roars like Brazilian soccer fans right after a goal. And Henry wakes up, lifting his head. Blinking. “Wait. What?” Nicholas slaps his shoulder—smiling big and bright. “It’s all yours, Henry. You’ll do great—I know you will.”
“He’s coming.” “That’s what he said,” Logan agrees. “He’s coming here…for me.” “Heard that part, too.” There’s so much to do…but…priorities. “He’s coming here for me and I haven’t shaved my legs in three days!”
“Do you want some help?” I ask. “No—the bridesmaids will take care of that. Women have a natural instinct for how to get these things done. Although, besides Franny, this is the first time I’ve met any of those ladies. And now I’m going to pee in front of them.”
Ellie Hammond intercepts my grandmother before she reaches us, blocking her path. She tries to execute a full curtsy, but the hem of her dress gets caught in the heel of her shoe and she ends up almost falling on her face. The Queen attempts to step back, but Ellie grabs onto her—wrapping her arms around Her Majesty’s waist and holding on like a baby sloth clinging to its mother. Christopher jumps into action, trying to extract her. “Miss Hammond, please! We do not tackle the Queen—it’s not proper protocol.”
