His Princess (A Royal Romance)(109)

Rose and her kids deserve more than they have but they also deserve better than me. I’m not doing them any favors lingering here. If I’m already being watched, they’ll know about her.

Fuck. “Fuck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck!”

I slam my hand on the steering wheel.

Oh, hey, it’s the pancake place.

I wheel into the parking lot, walk inside past the Please Wait to be Seated sign, and flop down in a booth. A scowling waitress comes over and stands over me.

“Can’t you read the sign?”

I slap a twenty on the table. “Can you read that?”

“Yeah,” she says, warily slipping it into her pocket. “Okay, what can I get you?”

“Coffee, and keep it coming. A short stack. No, two short stacks.”

“Don’t you just want—”

“I said two short stacks, and three eggs sunny side up. An order of sausage and a double order of bacon, and tell ’em to hurry up. There’ll be another twenty in it for you.”

She shrugs and walks off with the order slip. I lean back in the seat until the coffee comes. I down a cup of scalding-hot black coffee and wave the cup at her to fill it again from the carafe before she even gets to leave.

The heat cuts into my throat and the caffeine gives me a surge. I sit up and devour the pancakes when they come out, then the eggs and the meat. I take a hundred bucks from my pocket and slap it on the table with the check, and leave.

Fuck it, I’ll probably never see this place again. If I’m going to be an * about it I should at least brighten these people’s day a little, right? Maybe if I overtip a few hundred waitresses I won’t wind up in the sixth level of hell after Santiago gets done with me. That’s got to be worth at least a few million years in purgatory, right?

I’m a little swervy on the drive back. I roll right past the front of the neighborhood. I can’t stand looking at Rose’s house right now. I just keep driving, and maybe that’s what I should do, just keep driving until I go right over the edge of the earth.

I resolve to leave, right now. Get a full tank of gas and head west. I don’t have a destination in mind but the more distance I put between myself and Rose, the less chance Santiago will get his hands on her. God, what’s wrong with me?

I drive for maybe an hour then pull over. I can’t see the road anymore. All I can see is Rose’s beautiful face, her soft cheeks wet with tears as I rip the heart out of her chest. Quentin, you f*cking piece of shit, look at what you did to her.

Wearily I turn the Impala around and drive back. It’s almost dark by the time I pass the front gate, the sky bruised by sunset as I head down my street. My street, ha. I have no right to be here.

Then I spot somebody skulking around Rose’s house. Of course I have to be driving a huge, absurdly flashy car. I couldn’t be out in a nondescript Toyota, no.

Whoever he is, he’s lurking around the back of the house, moving near the basement windows. The lights are on in the living room and upstairs. Everybody’s home. I drum my fingers on the wheel and think for a minute.

I can’t leave this alone, of course. How do I handle it? My instincts are not something I should be listening to right now. Need to keep my head clear and focused. Who the hell is this guy?

He tries to hide when I pull in my driveway. I use the time it takes my garage door to go up to watch him. He’s on the far side of the porch, crouched where it bolts to the house. He’ll make a run for it when the garage door closes.

I don’t close it. I throw open my door and run full tilt from the garage across the driveway and into Rose’s yard, angling to sweep around the deck. The prowler yelps and makes a run for it.

Not very fast.

I take him down with a tackle around the legs, roll, and get my hand over his mouth. He bites me. Bad idea.

I could make this hurt or I could snap his neck. Instead I slip my arm around him and lock him into a sleeper hold. I can feel his pulse tighten in his skinny throat against my biceps and forearm. I look up, half expecting to see Rose or one of the kids looking over the railing at me.

Nope. The prowler goes limp.

No time to be artsy about it, I throw him over my shoulder and carry him back across the yard, glancing this way and that. People are so blind around here. I think I could run a marching band through the neighbor’s yard and they wouldn’t even look out the windows.

I punch the button on the wall and the garage door rumbles down. Binding his hands with nylon rope, I toss the other end of the line over one of the roof joists and haul him up, stretching his arms over his head. Farther, farther, until his toes barely touch the floor.

For the first time I get a really good look at him. Mid thirties, a little out of shape with a bit of a potbelly and skinny arms. He has a camera with him. I cut the strap from around his neck and set the camera on my desk, walk over, and slap him in the face.

He sputters and his eyes flutter open.

“Fuck, my head, what the…” he trails off.

“Oh. Shit.”

“Oh shit indeed. The f*ck are you doing sneaking around that house?”

“You better let me go, man.”

“Oh really? I better. What happens if I don’t?”

He struggles as I go through his pockets. Cell phone. Wallet. He’s carrying his freaking wallet. I check for ID, find it in a little flap, and slip it out. I toss the wallet so it thumps off his chest and slaps on the floor.