Chapter 9 – Genevieve
GENEVIEVE
“Your name isn’t Kevin Sullivan,” I say as we go back outside.
He’s searching left and right, but for what, I have no clue.
As for me, well, yeah. The one-bed thing is tripping me up.
Being in this village and out of the cottage is messing me up.
All that aside, I’m kind of riding an adventure high.
“Your point is?”
Then a laugh hits me. “It’s likely not Rhys Stephan either.”
He slowly shifts back to me, venom lurking in the depths of his green eyes. He’s trying to be the big, bad wolf, and maybe he is. I saw the wanted poster. The reward for him is substantial, and I can’t imagine you get to that point by only stealing jewels.
He doesn’t trust me, and the feeling is mutual.
I don’t want to share a room with him. That part sucks, and I understand I don’t have a choice. He’s right. I have no ID and no credit card, and I’m pretty much at his mercy even when I pretend I’m the boss.
He smiles, and it’s not a friendly or charming smile. It’s one that says I shouldn’t fuck with him, and I take that threat seriously. He doesn’t need weapons, though he’s got the gun, and I have the knife. He’s not a small man, and I have no illusions that if he wanted to, he could overpower me.
Moreover, that shouldn’t make my blood surge through my veins, but it does.
Despite his bullshit ploy yesterday, he doesn’t want me that way, and while most of me is grateful and appreciative of that, the almost twenty-three-year-old virgin who’s never been kissed, let alone touched, has other thoughts and desires.
“Can I ask you something?” It comes out as a whisper, but I’m curious, and I want to know.
“What’s that?” he asks absently as he searches up and down the street.
“Don’t take this the wrong way because I don’t want to change it, and I’m not asking for compliments or anything. It’s simply that I have no frame of reference—”
He shifts in front of me. “What? Just ask.”
It’s a lot harder to ask with his handsome face giving me his full attention. “You said I’m far from your type.”
He tilts his head. “Is that your question?”
“No. I mean, why am I not? Am I ugly? I don’t think I am, but I was told that men take what they want, and you haven’t tried anything.
Not for real. It’s just that I don’t know how this works, and one day I’d like to.
Obviously not with you, but one day, and—” I cut off my rambling.
He got the point. I fold my arms and shift my weight, more than a little humiliated that I asked.
A smile sweeps across his face, and he emits a small chuckle. “Fuck, you’re unexpected. We’re sharing a bed tonight. I’m not sure you want my real answer.”
I don’t know what that means other than I shouldn’t have asked.
“Forget it. Dumb question.”
I start to walk away when he catches my hand and spins me back to him. His other hand cups my chin, and his thumb rests on my bottom lip. My breath hitches, and his smile grows as his green eyes flitter around my face.
“You’re beautiful. Honestly, you’re stunning. Way too good for someone like me. That’s what I meant when I said you’re not my type. Some men take what they want regardless of whether it was offered to them. I do the same with many things, but sex isn’t one of them. Okay?”
His gaze drops to my mouth, and his thumb drags my bottom lip before swiping down my chin. I manage a nod, and he releases me.
“Let’s find some food. I think we both need a breather.”
He’s right. Being here is completely insane.
Yet I can’t deny how liberating and exhilarating it is.
This is the real world, and so far, no one has tried to kidnap me.
Then again, it’s not exactly the safest place to be, and I know he’s aware of that, though he doesn’t seem bothered, just cautious and on alert.
Regardless, I can’t help but people-watch. This is so surreal.
He drags me up the block, still holding my hand. It’s likely because he’s afraid I’ll run off, but he’s holding my hand, and I’m letting him because no one has ever held my hand before, and I know I shouldn’t, but I love it. It tickles my insides like a feather.
I’m trying very hard to hate him and heed his warnings, but I’m not all that good at it.
“I can buy lunch,” I offer. “Or is it dinnertime?”
“Something in between, but I don’t care about definitions. I’m bloody starving. There’s a pub up the road we passed. It was dark and smelled of beer and grease.”
He gives me a hard tug in the direction of the pub he mentioned.
Matty’s Irish Pub, it reads, which makes me giggle slightly.
We’re in Messalina, somewhere near Italy.
I know because my mother only speaks Italian to me, yet people are speaking French around here too.
And instead of Italian or French food, he picked this one.
There are six people total in here, and all of them are at the bar drinking by themselves. There’s no music playing, no talking. Barely any lights. The wood tables appear to have the same film covering them as the windows. No one glances up as we enter, and Rhys sighs in contentment.
“Perfect.”
I guess this is what pubs are like? Somehow, I had something different pictured in my head.
I’m hauled up to the bar and shoved onto a stool.
“What will you have?” the bartender asks, his accent Italian even as she speaks in French, which I don’t fully understand. Maybe the national language of Messalina is French? Maybe we’re closer to France than I ever knew? So many things I don’t know, and I hate that feeling.
I look at Rhys. I have no clue, but how great is this?
He grabs a laminated menu that’s wedged between a salt and pepper shaker and looks it over. I snatch it from him and do the same.
“We’ll both have the fish and chips,” he orders in French before I can do it myself. “And…” He eyes me up and down before a grin curls up his lips. “She’ll have a French 75, and I’ll have a Grolsch. And keep the drinks coming.”
“I don’t have champagne,” the man replies.
“Right. Improvise then.”
The guy goes to make us our drinks, and I spin on my stool to Rhys. “What’s a French 75?”
He spins to me, our knees brushing as they slide past each other, but now one of mine is between his legs and one of his is between mine, and we’re face-to-face. “It’s sweet and girlie. Like you. You’ll like it.”
“What if I wanted the grilled chicken sandwich and wine?”
He shakes his head. “In a place like this, you should only have hard alcohol and food that’s fried or way overcooked.”
“You’re having a beer?”
“It comes from an unopened bottle. Safer that way.”
I squint. “Suddenly you’re protective?”
He shrugs. “We’re sharing a bathroom tonight, princess. The last thing I want you to have is food poisoning. Besides, if you die of salmonella, I won’t get my necklace.”
“If this is the real world, I’m not impressed.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“No,” I argue. “You tried to tell me it was all peaches and ice cream and not violent or sketchy.”
He mulls this over for a moment. “It’s honestly somewhere in between. But for now, we’re keeping a low profile.”
I grin cheekily at him. “I don’t have to. I’m not a notorious thief.”
He tugs on the end of my braid that sits just above my waist. “Humor me for tonight.”
“Sure thing, Kevin.”
“For a caged animal, you’re very feisty. And have a lot of mood swings.”
I wink. “I’m not caged anymore.” And depression and loneliness can be a bitch like that, but I’m working it. I’m here. Despite the restaurant and food choice and the bed situation, I’ve never felt more alive.
His lips twitch. “No, I suppose you’re not.”
Our drinks arrive, and mine is in a pretty high glass with a narrow mouth and is as pink as the shirt I’m wearing. I slide it across the bar and peer up at the bartender.
“Thank you.”
He nods. “I added cranberry juice.”
I’m not sure what that means, but maybe it was instead of champagne. “What’s your name?” I ask him.
“Masters.”
“Wow, that’s a seriously fantastic name. Thank you, Masters. This looks great. But curiosity question, on a scale of one to ten, how strong would you say this is?”
He eyes me as if he’s not sure how to respond.
“I need honesty, not bullshit. This is my first time in a bar, and my boyfriend here thinks I’m a wimp and can’t hold my liquor.”
Rhys curses under his breath and drags a hand up through his hair.
“Every bottle in here has been watered down.”
I turn to Rhys. “Did you already know that? Is that why you got a beer?”
“I suspected as much.”
I return to the bartender. “Do you have anything that isn’t watered down?”
“I have a bottle of Natterjack.”
I scrunch my nose, my eyebrows dipping in.
“It’s whiskey, and it’s strong, and no,” Rhys tells me, but he’s kind of my captive, isn’t he? My bodyguard in a way, since he can’t let anything bad happen to me or he won’t get his necklace.
I beam at the bartender. “That sounds great. I’ll have one of those, but first I want to try this.”
I lift the French 75 and take a sip. It’s fruity and delicious and not strong at all. “I like that. I’ll have this too.”
Rhys mutters something I can’t make out, but I don’t care that much either. I spin on my stool and look around before I note the prime minister’s face on a board with several holes poked into it.
“What’s that?” I ask and point so Rhys knows what I’m talking about.
“That’s the twat former prime minister on my dartboard,” Masters tells us. “He used to live outside town.”
I spin back to him. “Really?”
“The town was booming, and business was great. Everyone loved him, you see, and tourists came here as a show of support and to hopefully see him. Then he tried to kill the king and the new queen, and since then, no one comes here. Our town has dried up.”
I frown. “I’m so sorry. That’s horrible.”
“It’s all part of the curse.”
Everyone in the bar tenses, but I have to ask, “What curse?”
Shock registers all over Master’s face, and a man on my right says, “What curse? Have you been living under a rock?”
Pretty much. Embarrassment hits me, and I take a pull of my pink drink instead of replying.
“She’s not from here,” Rhys tells the man.
“It’s the ancient Messalinian curse on the royal family,” Master’s explains.
“Over the centuries, at least one person from each generation has died, gotten very ill, or had some strange tragedy befall them. But the current royal family has had the worst of it. Princess Desta was stolen from her crib, and the former king was murdered when he tried to stop it. The baby sister, Princess Brea, was born very ill, and no one has ever seen her. The current king’s first wife died in a helicopter incident, but it was the prime minster”—he points at the picture on the dartboard—“who tinkered with the helicopter and killed her. Then eight months or so ago, he tried to kill the king and his fiancée.”
I gasp, my hand covering my mouth. No wonder my mother kept me in the tower. I was kidnapped too, but thankfully, she tracked me down and found me. “What happened to the princess who was kidnapped?”
“No one’s seen her since. It’s assumed she’s dead.”
A shudder rolls through me, and when he slides the glass of whiskey at me, I pick it up and drink most of it down. A cough bursts from my chest, and I sputter, drawing another aggravated curse from Rhys, but I can’t help it. It feels like fire going down my chest.
“Can I see your phone?” I ask him.
“Why?” he asks suspiciously as he sips his beer. I steal it from him and take a swig, anxious to try everything. All I’ve ever had was wine.
My face scrunches up. “Gross.”
“Stick to your pretty drink then.” He grabs it back from me and takes a chug, but I realize what I just did.
I drank from his bottle after he did, and he drank after I did.
He must realize this too, because that flirty look is back, but now his eyes are darker. “Like swapping spit with me, princess?”
I scowl. “No, and don’t call me that.” Especially after what I heard about the royal family. “Can I see your phone?”
“For what?” His words come out as sharp as his glare.
I bat my eyes at him. “I want to look up how far we are from the ocean.”
“We can do that after dinner. Together.”
I smirk tauntingly. “Don’t trust me with your phone?”
“No,” he answers curtly, and right, why should he?
“I don’t trust you either.”
He rolls his eyes, and yeah, I need to work on my comebacks.
“You could still not be an asshole and let me see it. I don’t care about the stuff you have on there. You’re not interesting to me. The ocean is.”
He scowls, and score one for me.
“Fine,” he grumbles as he shifts his weight on his stool and pulls out his phone, unlocks it with his face, and hands it to me. I have no clue what I’m doing, but I go to that picture he used to show me the other stuff and start there.
I type in Curse of Messalina, but before I can dig deeper, our food arrives, and Rhys yanks his phone back from me, which frustrates me to no end.
I want to read more about this. Rhys mentioned that the festival was for the stolen princess and the dead king.
I didn’t know about the curse on the royal family, though.
“The festival is for you. For your birthday.” That’s what the woman I was with said to me that night.
The stories are beyond tragic, but a baby being stolen from her crib, never to be seen again... It’s sticking with me.