Page 21 of Striking
“You win some, you lose some.” Atticus shoves his hands in his pockets. “Care to tell me why I’ve been included in this summons?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Warning bells go off in my head. “I have a meeting with grandfather and the council.”
My brother’s smile shifts into confusion. “That meeting was canceled, and I was told we were both summoned to his office. I assumed you knew.”
I replay his words over in my head.
Why the hell wasn’t I told the meeting was canceled?
I could have stayed on the island for another day.
“You don’t think this is about your American, do you?” He seems nearly giddy over that possibility.
“Shecan’tbe my American...” But even true as those words are, they feel like a lie. Which makes no sense.
“Interesting...” he drags the word out dramatically. Typical Atticus. If he can find a way to make something theatrical, he goes for it with his whole chest.
“What are you getting at?” I corner him in front of the king’s closed doors. “Don’t make something out of this, brother.”
The warning is weak. Another lie.
“You didn’t say shewasn’t. You said can’t be,” he challenges, knowing he’s right. “Listen, I’m not sure when I became the voice of reason, but the king is going to lose his mind if you bring an American to dinner.”
“I already told you, we’re not dating,” I snap, wanting to get this over with so I can get back to Bellamy and what little time I’ll have with her before she’s gone. I can’t explain it, not to myself and certainly not to my brother. But something about my little bee settles me, and I’m not willing to give that up just yet.
“Semantics,” Atticus tsks with a smile that rivals the Joker’s. “Oh, you are fucked, brother.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I groan before the outer doors to Grandfather’s office swing open, and his private secretary steps out.
Munson is an older gent, with a handlebar mustache and a stick lodged firmly up his ass. “Your Royal Highnesses. His Majesty is waiting.”
“Thank you, Munson.” Might as well get this over with.
“Is he in a mood, Munsy?” Atticus and his fucking nicknames. “I want to be prepared.”
Munson looks stoic as ever as he ignores Atticus. An act he’s perfected over the past fifteen years. “He’s inside.”
Atticus grips Munson’s shoulder. “One day, you’re going to pull that stick out of your ass, Munsy. And I swear it’s going to be a glorious new world for you when you do. Just think of all the new things you’ll be able to enjoy shoving up there instead.”
“I’m sure I will, sir.” Munson’s voice is void of any emotion as Grandfather’s inner office door opens, and the King appears, apparently tired of waiting for us. Exhaustion lines his eyes as he looks down at his watch.
Not a good sign.
“For once in your life, could you leave the man alone, Atticus?” The words are spoken in a way he only does if it’s my siblings and me, a warm smile on his face the rest of the world rarely sees. Until the door closes and that smile vanishes.
Then it’s all business, and it’s all directed my way.
Well, this definitely isn’t good.
“Sit.” The order is barked at us, and I’m reminded the man in front of me is my king first and foremost as I sit in one of the two chairs across from his antique writing desk. The crown may have attempted to modernize over the course of the past fifty years,but the king has not. He tosses a newspaper down on his desk, and I wince when I see the headline:
Playboy Prince At It Again
The picture under the clichéd headline isn’t even new. It’s from an event three months ago.
Must have been a slow news cycle.
“You are thirty-three years old, and next in line for one of the oldest thrones in the known world.” Well hell, he’s seriously pissed if he’s throwing that out there. “Grow up and act like it.”
