Page 8 of Royal Crush

“Call my man. You know I don’t remember things like that,” he said, waving his hand at me.

We each had our own personal attendant who handled appointments, but mine was always tragically bored because I was a control freak who hated letting anyone do things for me. I might have blamed the accident and the intense desire to prove myself on that one, but I’d always been wildly neurotic.

I was the toddler who tried to fire my nanny because I didn’t like the way she picked out my clothes in the mornings.

I’d since grown into a more reasonable person. I think. It was hard to tell with so much fucking deference going on around me all the time. The one thing I would kill for was a little honesty, but people still believed thatoff with their headsbullshit, even though we’d abolished the death penalty in the 1920s.

“So…where were you today?” Carlo asked, picking at his nails.

Fuck, I just wanted to go to my apartment and rot on my sofa for a while. “PT.”

His face went a little pale. PT was when he stopped being by my side so much. He struggled with the reality of my body. He didn’t mind when I was wrapped up in long-sleeved shirts and trousers that hid the tubes draining my piss and the way my legs were freakishly thin, and the shoes that hid my feet, which were always swollen.

But when he had to face me—the raw, real me—he struggled. I knew what it was. Too many people looked at me and were terrified because they knew that this could be their reality with one wrong turn. And I couldn’t say it didn’t sting.

Being someone’s cautionary tale was just as bad as being someone’s bullshit inspiration porn.

“Anything else?” he asked, quickly changing the subject.

“Yeah, I went to a whore house and got off watching someone suck my limp dick.”

“Camillo! Jesus.”

“Can I go now?”

“You’re such an asshole.”

I grinned at him. “I know. Is there anything else,your grace?”

“I hate you.”

He stormed off, and I couldn’t help but call after him, “Who’s the toddler now?”

He shot me a middle finger over his shoulder before turning the corner, and a beat later, I heard the door slam. I sagged with relief, then shook out my hands before giving my wheels a hard push, rolling along the smooth wooden floors my parents had renovated after I’d chosen the apartments I wanted to occupy after graduating.

My place was relatively small, which was how I liked it. There were too many rooms for just me, but I only used three of them. I had an office for writing, a gym so the rest of my body didn’t turn into a floppy mess, and then my bedroom with my massive, low-to-the-ground bed, and the en suite bathroom with my custom shower and bath. It was a damn delight, and now that I’d been able to shake off having a carer, I had the space entirely to myself.

I could be ugly and awkward and different, and I didn’t need to worry about anyone watching and judging and trying to fill my head with toxic positivity.

Rolling into the bedroom, I went right for the toilet to empty my bag and check to make sure I didn’t need a shit. With that done, I stripped down to boxers and a T-shirt, then used my trapeze handle to haul myself into my bed.

I clicked my do-not-disturb button on the remote, which would lock my doors and force anyone who wanted my attention to call, and then I lounged back. Eventually, I’d order dinner and maybe have a drink. For now, I just wanted to stare at my laptop screen and pretend like in a week, I wouldn’t have to babysit some asshole actor who was hoping to use me for his chances at an Oscar…or whatever the fuck award was for streaming TV.

But speaking of…

I’d previously told myself I would not be looking up Aleric King for any more than the information I’d already been given, but today, I wanted to know more. Janae had waxed poeticabout him inThe Faithlessfor so goddamn long that it turned into a little earworm. The only way to get rid of it was to see what all the fuss was about.

I typed his name and the title into the search bar, and a bunch of grainy late-eighties stills popped up. It had been a show, apparently. One that was on American cable TV. He looked oddly familiar, though he was young—a real early Johnny Depp vibe about him. The promo shots were of him in a leather jacket and a white T-shirt, a cigarette between his teeth.

It looked all wrong with his baby face. There was no way he could have been more than twelve, though that couldn’t be possible, could it? A kid that young working full-time on a show like that? But when I clicked on his profile, I realized the truth. He’d started the show at eight years old.

The first shots of him in the early seasons, he was bright-eyed and laughing. But as the seasons went on, something shifted. His dark circles were no longer hidden by makeup. He looked tired in ways no child should.

He looked defeated and broken and scared.

It was possible no one back then noticed because people rarely ever looked that deep, but I could see it because I knew that feeling a little too well.

There was something missing from the information I’d been given. Something the press was keeping under wraps. This was not some kid with a past drug problem trying to make a comeback. This was a man with a past full of trauma that no child should ever experience. Something that warped him—shaped him into the person he was today.

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