14 | Taylor
Taylor
Alex takes me on a detour to my office. Apparently, there’s a field trip going on and I don’t have time to say hi to thirty eight-year-olds.
I’m not at the palace as often as the public may think.
They say I’m moving here when crowned, so I’ll have plenty of time to explore it later.
Ironically, the place isn’t to my taste.
The neoclassical building is the stunning jewel of St. Claire, but it would be too gaudy and ostentatious to call home.
I’d feel subpar in comparison to the architecture.
Maybe I’ll live somewhere else and turn this shack into a museum or something.
I’ll rule from my little hut in the woods à la Henry David Thoreau.
It’s not like anyone could say no to me. I’ll be fucking king.
I can and mostly do work at home, but I know people like to meet me at the palace.
They want the full royal experience, and what else was I born for if not to give it to them?
I told the staff to take down all the portraits in my office and replace them with landscape or historical paintings.
I didn’t like being stared at by my ancestors, taunting and mocking me.
There was Octavius III, who liberated the island from English rule, Queen Agnès, the first monarch to embrace heliocentrism, and King Henri, who freed us from England again.
What will you do, Taylor? I would hear them ask me. Maybe you’ll open a hospital wing or an animal shelter, wouldn’t that be cute?
It’s not my fault the monarchy became constitutional. I can’t get any cool shit done. I won’t be called Taylor the Great, that’s for sure. Maybe Taylor, the Nothing to Write Home About, or Taylor the He Tried His Best With What He Was Given.
When we arrive at my office, successfully avoiding the eight-year-olds, I notice one thing out of the ordinary. A small brown package wrapped with a twine bow is sitting in the middle of my rosewood desk.
“Is it our anniversary?” I ask Alex dryly.
“I actually don’t know what that is,” he says.
I turn on my heel. “What do you mean you don’t know?” Alex always knows.
He only shrugs.
I shouldn’t be opening suspicious packages, but I reach for the box, anyway.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Alex warns. “There could be, like, terrorism and stuff.”
“I don’t remember Ted Kaczynski wrapping up his boxes in neat little bows,” I say, pulling the string.
When I open the lid, I’m presented with a small handwritten note.
I thought I’d wear something to bring me luck for my date that night. I must not be very lucky, or the maggot really missed out. Maybe you could find a use for it. -Melina
I run my thumb over the red lipstick print in the bottom corner.
Alex steps towards my desk. “What is it?”
After a few moments, he asks, “Hello?”
“It’s nothing. Did you see anyone go in here today?”
“No. Are you being blackmailed again?” he whispers. “You can tell me if you are.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Christ, Alex. No. It’s, uh, an inside joke. Could you go please?”
“Okaaay,” he draws out.
My explanation probably made him more confused. Who at the palace would I be having camaraderie with?
“You have a meeting with Anya Yadav in five minutes,” he reminds me before leaving.
I read the note again. And then again. And then one more time for good measure. This package is impossible. This package shouldn’t exist. How did she get this in here? Did she hire someone to do this? No, she doesn’t have the money for that kind of bribery. Think rationally, Taylor.
I would guess this was Tom’s doing, but he’s gone. He told me to watch Vinnie yesterday.
I lift off the note to find a jumbled mess of black lace. As soon as I realize the box’s contents, I immediately put the lid back on and shove it in my desk drawer.
I call Melina.
No answer.
Me: pick up your phone
Me: you couldn’t have gone into my office. I could have you arrested
Melina: how could I have gone into your office? I don’t have the keys
So she can text, but not answer her phone.
She must recognize her weakness and assume it’s easier to lie this way.
I stop myself from laughing at her message.
This isn’t a laughing matter, rather my punishment for being dickish the other night.
What she doesn’t know, and will never know, is that I had to rush her out of my house before my sex-crazed monkey brain asked her something extremely stupid.
Melina: sorry, I remember how much those handcuffs excited you
They didn’t. I was more interested in the fact that she had them in the first place.
Melina doesn’t seem like that kind of woman.
And I’m not that kind of man. When I fuck someone, I’d like their hands to be on me, please.
Melina handcuffing me, on the other hand, well, I’d have to think about that later.
I have to say I didn’t think she had it in her to do something this deranged.
I can’t tell if I’m creeped out or impressed.
Me: I’m going to throw your keys into the ocean
Me: what are you doing?
Me: how the fuck did you leave a package on my desk?
Me: answer me
I flinch when Alex knocks on my door frame. He’s with the Minister of Education. I’m giving her money for something. Education. Yes.
“Sorry, did we scare you?” she asks.
“No,” I answer way too loudly. “No, thank you for coming.”
We shake hands, and Alex mouths, ‘Are you okay?’ from behind her.
I ignore him and try to get into a more serious mindset.
I’m not in the mood to talk about finances right now, but I’m not rescheduling because of the contents of my desk drawer.
While I’d love to dust for fingerprints and play detective, this is a person who’s too accomplished for me to not give her my full attention.
What’s cruel is I won’t be distracted by sex but by the lack thereof.
I don’t want Melina’s panties. They’re useless in my possession, merely a scrap fabric, a reminder that I once had the most gorgeous woman on the planet in my home wearing lingerie, and I was too busy playing mind games to do anything about it.
“ I’m the maggot,” I mumble.
“What?” Anya asks.
“Nothing.”