His Princess (A Royal Romance)(82)

I took in the lesson but I’ll never forgive him for the way he delivered it. I swore if I ever saw him again, I’d kill him.

Now I may have to make good on my promise.

I’m fine with that.

These people, I can’t believe they live like this. As I drive through this town I marvel at them. How can you stand behind a counter in a Laundromat all day, handing out tokens so people can bleach skid marks from their underwear?

It’s all so banal. There’s a fast-food joint, there’s a car dealer, here’s a little bookstore. Late nights and fast women, love ’em and leave ’em, roll the hard six. That’s me, not the burbs.

Now I’m stuck in this hellhole until someone comes to kill me. Probably Santiago. When he hears there’s a price on my head, he’ll probably go after the bounty himself. He’d consider it rude not to, an insult to allow lesser hunters to seek after his apprentice. Unless he sent that girl Lily after me.

I shouldn’t be here. These people are not ready for this.

I spend the next hour driving, until I have half a tank and pull into a gas station. A few admirers gawk at the car, until my glare sends them packing.

Stupid rules. What * decided you can’t park in your driveway?

For that matter, why do you drive on a parkway and park in a driveway? The same * probably came up with that.

I wish I knew before I filled the garage up with equipment. I guess I’ll have to move it into the basement, or something.

Sigh. Moving.

I need something to eat. There’s a diner. I park and as I walk inside I instinctively check the exits, planning a route of escape and mapping out the direction of potential threats. The hostess leads me to a corner seat, and I have to compromise. I can face the doors, but have to sit back against a picture window. Imagine the indignity. A common sniper takes down the legendary Quentin Mulqueen.

I tap my spoon on the table until the waitress calls me “hon” and takes my order.

Since I’m going to get my brains blown out soon anyway, I go hog wild and order a great big greasefest—the Hungry Momma, they call it. Pancakes, waffles, French toast, sausage, bacon, and eggs, so much food it takes up two plates. It’s the biggest breakfast on the menu.

It takes me an hour to eat and I can’t finish the short stack or the waffle, but the waitress gives me a knowing look as I walk, bloated, outside.

I guess if this is retirement, it’s okay.

Though I should just head back to the house, I find myself driving by the dentist’s office again. Not too slow. I don’t want to freak her out.

There’s something off about Rose. She gets my hackles up, among other parts of my anatomy, but something around her smells wrong, like she’s hiding some secret. My instincts are pretty good about this stuff, as a rule.

Let it lay, Quent. You have your own problems.

I head “home”, such as it is. I stop at the gate and the guard waves me through, and I roll on back to the house, pull up, and park.

There’s somebody in my backyard.

I bolt around the garage at full speed, my feet sliding in the grass. I don’t get a good look at the intruder, I just tackle them.

She lets out a high-pitched yelp, and I find myself sprawled in the grass, poised over a coltish teenage girl who looks a hell of a lot like Rose.

I’m on my hands and knees over a thirteen-year-old. Bad idea.

I throw myself back onto my ass and sit in the grass.

“What the hell are you doing in my yard?”

“Uhhhhhhh,” she says, “I… Ummm… I gotta go, bye!”

She rolls and shoots to her feet. I reach out and tug her ankle and she sprawls in the wet grass.

“What were you doing in my yard, kid?”

“Nothing! I swear!”

“Nothing?”

Panting, she brushes a red lock out of her eyes. “Okay, I was spying on you.”

“What? What the hell for?”

“I just wondered what was going on.”

“Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Well… Yeah, but—”

“What’s your name?”

“Karen.”

“Okay, Karen. Get in the car.”

“I don’t think I should…”

“Get in the car.”

She flinches and rises to her feet. I’m up quickly, though my leg is on fire. Don’t show any weakness, Quentin. Karen gets inside and huddles in the seat as I drop in next to her.

“What are you doing?”

I don’t answer her.

“Am I being kidnapped?”

“Yes.”

She flinches. “I’m sorry, mister. I didn’t see anything, I swear.”

“Mr. Mulqueen. That’s my name. Karen.”

“O-o-okay,” she says.

So I drive.

I wave at the gate guard. Karen gives him a worried look.

She bites her nails the whole way back to town. When she sees where we’re going, all the color drains from her face.

“Oh God,” she says as I pull into the parking lot of the dentist’s office where her mom works.

“Out,” I snap after I pull the parking brake. “Don’t run, you won’t make it.”

Trembling, Karen stands up. I get up and motion her inside, and she opens the door. I hold it and watch her go in, then follow.