No Prince

by Stevie J. Cole

I faltered. That was not how this shit went. Ever. I complimented a girl—she swooned.

“Good girl,”

This was not a fairytale. I was no damsel, and Zeppelin Hunt was certainly no prince.

“I’m gonna go to jail for something, Roe. Might as well be you.”

“Who doesn’t drink milkshakes? You really are a psychopath.” “And you really are hot.”

“If it’s any consolation, it was a very committed performance.” I snorted a laugh. “I meant it. Brown can suck my dick.” “I’m sure you have better offers.” I focused on her, inhaling a puff of smoke. “Not the one I want.”

“The first time I noticed you was two summers ago when you were washing some shit car in your drive. I told the guys you were off-limits.” He nudged me. “You’re welcome. Hendrix would have tried to screw you.”

“You’re the only girl I’ve ever given a shit about.” I grabbed her hips and pulled her on top of me. Her hands went to my face. “Good.” And then she kissed me.

Her hand brushed my shoulder before her arms wrapped around my waist, her chin pressing to my shoulder. And goddamn, that broke me. I buried my face in her neck. Monroe was making herself a lifeline, and I was fucked. “That’s shit, Zepp.”