Page 2 of A Royal Menace

Raven huffs. “You watch too many true crime documentaries. You’ve had this number for what? Three weeks? That text was probably meant for whoever had the number before you.”

“I didn’t even think of that.”

I had to change my number a few weeks ago thanks to a dating-app-meetup-gone-wrong. Archie seemedgreatonline. Very attractive. Sweet. Charming. A great sense of humor. We chatted for weeks on the app before exchanging numbers. We even shared a few video calls so we both knew the other was who we said we were. He was…perfect.

I should’ve known the perfect man doesn’t exist.

When we finally met up for the first time, everything started out great. We went to dinner at a nice, rooftop restaurant near the beach. The blue Pacific served as a perfect backdrop for a romantic night. After we finished eating, we took off our shoes and walked in the sand. He held my hand, and butterflies erupted in my stomach.

I couldn’t wait for him to kiss me.

But then everything went to shit. Fast.

A couple of guys glanced our way as they walked past, and my supposed dream guy morphed into this aggressive beast who dropped my hand and pushed a stranger forlookingat me. Theguy and his friend tried to deescalate the situation, but Archie was like a feral animal, refusing to listen to reason.

I froze, standing there staring with wide eyes as my date screamed at this innocent stranger, spittle flying from his mouth as he balled a fist and took a swing. I regained my motor functions when the second guy joined in, attempting to push Archie away from his friend.

So, I did what any woman with half a brain would do––I ran. Straight back to my car, where I locked myself inside and attempted to calm my racing heart.

I was halfway home when the first call came through. I sent it straight to voicemail, and three seconds later, my phone rang again. And again. And again.

I blocked his number the second I parked in the lot at my apartment complex, took a deep breath, and thanked the stars that it was over, and I’d escaped, unscathed.

Archie was obviously a psychopath, and I was lucky I didn’t go somewhere more private with him.

I deleted his voicemails without listening to them, then deleted the dating app from my phone. But that wasn’t the end of it, as I’d assumed.

I got a call from a strange number with a local area code the next day, and I answered it, not even considering it might be Archie. But it was him. He’d bought a disposable phone just to call and spew terrible words at me for abandoning our date and blocking his number.

I hung up without responding and blocked his new number, and a few hours later, I got a call from yetanotherunfamiliar number, which I let go to voicemail. The message was from Archie, promising to keep calling until I stopped “being a pussy” and talked to him.

I have no idea how much money he spent on burner phones to harass me over the next week, but the whole ordealculminated in me changing my own number. Thank God, I didn’t tell the man where I live or work. He knows I’m a teacher, but I never gave him the name or location of the school.

“You should just text them back,” Raven says, pulling me out of the dark memory. “Just say, ‘new number, who dis?’”

I smile as she laughs, then shake my head. “I’m sure he or she will get the message when I don’t text back. I don’t need to engage.”

“You’re such a cynic,” she says before draining what’s left of her coffee.

“No, I’m a pragmatist,” I argue, and she pushes up from her chair to go put her empty mug in the sink.

“All right, Miss Pragmatic, I’m going to get out of here so you can get your work done. Text me later? We can order a pizza and watchDateline.”

“I thought I watched too many true crime shows?” I shoot back, but she just laughs and waves before heading out.

I smile at the closed door for a moment, then look down at my phone on the table. Picking it up, I read the text again. The words make me a bit sad. They feel poignant. Like the texter is living in their memories of better times.

I close the texting app and set the phone back down before shaking myself. This lesson plan isn’t going to create itself.

Time to get back to work.

CHAPTER TWO

Royal

Monday mornings might berough for some, but not for me. I like my job. I love teaching. Molding young minds. Seeing the eagerness on their faces as we explore common subjects in fun, new ways.

I greet the office staff as I walk into the building, check my mail slot in the copy room, and then head straight to the teacher’s lounge for my usual cup of coffee. I stop short, blocking the doorway and blowing out a harsh breath when I see who’s at the coffee maker, pouring herself a steaming mug. Steeling my spine, I start moving again.

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