The Controversial Princess (The Smoke & Mirrors Duology #1)(93)
As I’m rubbing in some face cream, my phone rings, and I peek down to see Josh flashing up on my screen. “I haven’t got time to speak,” I say to myself, letting it ring off. I spritz, and then dart into my dressing room, grabbing some black skinny jeans and a black lightweight jumper, throwing them on quickly. I finish with a black scarf looped round my neck a few times, and I release my hair, letting the messy waves do as they damn well please. I hope Josh appreciates au naturel. I have not a scrap of makeup on, and I don’t care. I’m too desperate to see him, and my window of opportunity will close any minute.
Throwing my bag over my shoulder, I grab the first pair of comfortable shoes I can lay my hands on. My Uggs. It’s the wrong time of year, but I shrug and pull them on, then I dip into the bottom drawer of my dresser, knowing it was in here the last time I saw it. “Come on, where are you?” I ask, as I rummage through the contents. I smile when I lay my hands on it. Taking myself to the mirror, I slip the New York Yankees baseball cap on. “Perfect.” If I keep my head down, I should be good.
As I’m rounding the gallery landing, my phone rings again, reminding me to turn the sound off. I can’t answer and risk being heard, so I let it ring off again. The next second, I get a text.
You’re shitting me, right? Sneak out?
I ignore him, not willing to let him talk me out of it, and make my way through the palace, choosing a less than efficient route through endless connecting rooms, but a route that will ensure the chances of me being seen are minimal. My only stumbling block comes when I have to pass the kitchen in order to get to the garage. With all the other external doors fitted with active sensor alarms, it is my only way. I hear Damon and Dolly chatting in the kitchen as I creep down the corridor, the exit into the small courtyard that leads to the garage block in sight. I’m as quiet as a mouse, tiptoeing with my shoulder close to the wall. A quick peek around the corner tells me Damon has his back to me and Dolly is rifling through a cupboard. I’m clear, but just as I am about to shoot across the doorway, Olive strolls into the kitchen, and I jump back, sticking myself to the wall.
“That’s me for the evening,” she declares.
“I’ll be off, too,” Damon says, and I hear the feet of his stool scrape the tile floor.
Damn it! It’s now or never. I hold my breath and practically dive across the doorway, and then run to the door on light feet, praying I don’t hear the signs of anyone coming after me. I only start breathing again once I have made it into the courtyard, shutting the door quietly behind me. Then I run toward the garage like my life depends on it.
Scrambling for Damon’s car keys in the cabinet, I click his car open and replace them before getting in the back of his car and wedging myself in the space behind the driver’s seat. I’m squished completely, but my time mentally moaning about my uncomfortable form is limited to seconds, because the heavy footsteps of someone approaching the car makes me still. My phone, however, doesn’t get the memo to be quiet and vibrates in my hand, illuminating the car with the light from the screen. “Bugger,” I curse quietly, fumbling in my confined space to get my phone in sight.
Answer your phone!
Josh rings again, and I apologize to him in my head as I turn it off quickly and try to settle in for the ride. My knees are virtually in my mouth, my body scrunched and bent in the most awkward way. A contortionist I am not. The door opens, and I hold my breath once again as Damon drops into the seat and starts the car. All is well … until he decides he is too close to the wheel and presses the button that slides the chair back. Oh God! My shoulders meet my earlobes, and I scrunch my eyes closed, waiting for the crack of bones.
For a moment, I question my sanity. Then I remind myself of what is waiting for me at the end of what is going to be a journey that is the furthest from first class travel I could find. Mentally willing Damon to drive, I force myself into complete stillness, aware I’m so wedged into the back of his seat, he will feel even the slightest move I try to make. This is hell. Pure hell. But Josh is heaven, and if I need to go through hell to reach my heaven, then so be it.
Damon pulls out of the garage and crawls along for a few moments before slowing again when I assume he reaches the gate. He lets the window down. “Have a good evening,” he says, low and gruff.
“You too, Damon,” the gateman replies, and I hear the gates starting to creak open.
The car picks up speed, and my misery gets some light relief when Damon turns on the stereo and starts singing along to … Take That? I have to hold my breath to stop myself from laughing out loud. Oh my, how will I ever refrain from teasing him about this? My big, bruising Damon belting out the lyrics to Never Forget is high up there on my list of most entertaining moments. Not because he’s good. He’s not. He’s terrible. My ears are bleeding, but his gusto and the effort he is putting into his rendition is priceless. I suppress my snort of amusement, wincing constantly. The man is tone deaf.
It already feels like the longest—and loudest—journey ever, and I know I have a way to go. From memory, Damon lives in Lambeth, all the way on the other side of the river. The Dorchester is a mere mile away from Kellington, on the other side of Hyde Park. I’m going miles out of my way, but it’s the only way to escape the palace.
After ten minutes, I’m covering my ears. I assumed Take That was on the radio. I was wrong. Damon has the greatest hits album wired through his iPhone, and he knows every single word to every blasted track.