Royally Screwed
Page 45
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“What happened?” I ask sarcastically. “Did she insult your makeup video?”
Ellie sighs, long and tortured. “That’s Instagram, Liv—I seriously think you were born in the wrong century. And anyway, she didn’t insult me—she insulted you.”
Her words pour over me like the ice-bucket challenge.
“Me? I have like two followers on Twitter.”
Ellie finishes typing. “Boo-ya. Take that, skank-a-licious!” Then she turns slowly my way. “You haven’t been online lately, have you?”
This isn’t going to end well, I know it. My stomach knows it too—it whines and grumbles.
“Ah, no?”
Ellie nods and stands, gesturing to her computer. “You might want to check it out. Or not—ignorance is bliss, after all. If you do decide to take a peek, you might want to have some grain alcohol nearby.”
Then she pats my shoulder and heads downstairs, her blond ponytail swaying behind her.
I glance at the screen and my breath comes in quick, semi-panicked bursts and my blood rushes like a runaway train in my veins. I’ve never been in a fight, not in my whole life. The closest I came was sophomore year in high school, when Kimberly Willis told everyone she was going to kick the crap out of me. So I told my gym teacher, Coach Brewster—a giant lumberjack of a man—that I got my period unexpectedly and had to go home. He spent the rest of the school year avoiding eye contact with me. But it worked—by the next day, Kimberly found out Tara Hoffman was the one talking shit about her and kicked the crap out of her instead.
I’m not used to people hating me. And from the looks of it, thousands—make that tens of thousands—of people have signed up to do just that.
@arthousegirl47 says I have a fat ass. @princessbill thinks I’m a money-hungry slut. @twilightbella5 suspects my mother was an alien because my eyes are too big and weird. And @342fuckyou doesn’t care what the rumors are—Nicholas is hers.
Oh, and look at that—I’ve got my own personal hashtag. #oliviasucks.
Great.
I slam the laptop closed and back away like it’s a spider. Then I dive for my phone on the bed and text Nicholas.
Me: Have you seen Twitter?
I’m being Photoshopped in effigy.
He takes only a few seconds to respond.
Nicholas: Stay far away from Twitter.
It’s a cesspool.
Me: So you have seen it?
Nicholas: Shield your eyes. They’re jealous.
As they should be.
Me: There you go being modest again.
Nicholas: Modesty is for the weak and dishonest.
And just like that, my unease about the nasty comments starts to fade away, brushed from my mind like a hand through smoke.
This—this summer affair with Nicholas—is real and solid and here right in front of me. And with its expiration date looming, I’m not going to waste time, not a second of it, worrying about meaningless words from faceless ghosts that I can’t change, and in the end, don’t matter anyway.
Nicholas: Just avoid the Internet altogether. Television too. Go outside (bring security).
It’s a beautiful day.
If I had a nickel for every time my mother said those same words, minus the “security” part, I’d be as rich as…well…Nicholas.
Me: Okay, Mom.
Nicholas: Not working for me. But if you want to call me Daddy, I might be able to get into that.
Me: Ewwww.
Nicholas: Have to go in a minute, love.
Meeting about to start.
I’ll tell Barack you said hello.
Me: SERIOUSLY???
Nicholas: No.
I shake my head.
Me: You’re a royal ass, you know that?
Nicholas: Course I do. The Archbishop
of Dingleberry certified it the day I was born.
Me: Dingleberry??? You’re messing with me.
Nicholas: Afraid not.
My ancestors were a sick, twisted bunch.
Me: Lmao!
Nicholas: Speaking of asses, I’m imagining mine pumping between your spread legs right now.
Can’t stop picturing it.
What do you think about that?
As soon as I read the words, I’m picturing it too. And God…heat coils low in my belly, unfurling and expanding until my thighs tingle deliciously. My hands tremble a little as I type back.
Me: I think…we should stop thinking
and start doing.
Nicholas: Brilliant. Go to the hotel,
the front desk will let you up.
Be in my bed when I get back in two hours.
Excitement bubbles through me like freshly poured Champagne.
Me: Yes, My Lord.
Nicholas: If your goal was to have me
meet the Sisters of Mercy sporting a stiffy
—mission accomplished.
I hop off my bed, heading for the bathroom to freshen up and change. On the way, I type the only reply I can manage.
Me: Awkward. Xo
Days pass, and what was once jolting and new becomes…routine. A regular day. It’s amazing how quickly that happens, how quickly we adapt.
I have a boyfriend—at least for the summer. A sexy, gorgeous, fun boyfriend, who also happens to be a royal. That complicates things, but what would probably be most surprising to the Twitterverse and Facebook commentators and reporters is how…normal…it all feels.
We go to lunch—surrounded by security, but it’s still just lunch. We visit a children’s ward in a hospital. The kids ask him about his crown and his throne, and I get a round of applause when I juggle for them—something my dad taught me in Amelia’s kitchen years ago. I let Nicholas buy me clothes—casual but expensive clothes—because I don’t want to embarrass him by looking shabby when we’re photographed together. I wear my sunglasses whenever I’m outside and I barely hear the questions that get shouted by reporters anymore.
Ellie sighs, long and tortured. “That’s Instagram, Liv—I seriously think you were born in the wrong century. And anyway, she didn’t insult me—she insulted you.”
Her words pour over me like the ice-bucket challenge.
“Me? I have like two followers on Twitter.”
Ellie finishes typing. “Boo-ya. Take that, skank-a-licious!” Then she turns slowly my way. “You haven’t been online lately, have you?”
This isn’t going to end well, I know it. My stomach knows it too—it whines and grumbles.
“Ah, no?”
Ellie nods and stands, gesturing to her computer. “You might want to check it out. Or not—ignorance is bliss, after all. If you do decide to take a peek, you might want to have some grain alcohol nearby.”
Then she pats my shoulder and heads downstairs, her blond ponytail swaying behind her.
I glance at the screen and my breath comes in quick, semi-panicked bursts and my blood rushes like a runaway train in my veins. I’ve never been in a fight, not in my whole life. The closest I came was sophomore year in high school, when Kimberly Willis told everyone she was going to kick the crap out of me. So I told my gym teacher, Coach Brewster—a giant lumberjack of a man—that I got my period unexpectedly and had to go home. He spent the rest of the school year avoiding eye contact with me. But it worked—by the next day, Kimberly found out Tara Hoffman was the one talking shit about her and kicked the crap out of her instead.
I’m not used to people hating me. And from the looks of it, thousands—make that tens of thousands—of people have signed up to do just that.
@arthousegirl47 says I have a fat ass. @princessbill thinks I’m a money-hungry slut. @twilightbella5 suspects my mother was an alien because my eyes are too big and weird. And @342fuckyou doesn’t care what the rumors are—Nicholas is hers.
Oh, and look at that—I’ve got my own personal hashtag. #oliviasucks.
Great.
I slam the laptop closed and back away like it’s a spider. Then I dive for my phone on the bed and text Nicholas.
Me: Have you seen Twitter?
I’m being Photoshopped in effigy.
He takes only a few seconds to respond.
Nicholas: Stay far away from Twitter.
It’s a cesspool.
Me: So you have seen it?
Nicholas: Shield your eyes. They’re jealous.
As they should be.
Me: There you go being modest again.
Nicholas: Modesty is for the weak and dishonest.
And just like that, my unease about the nasty comments starts to fade away, brushed from my mind like a hand through smoke.
This—this summer affair with Nicholas—is real and solid and here right in front of me. And with its expiration date looming, I’m not going to waste time, not a second of it, worrying about meaningless words from faceless ghosts that I can’t change, and in the end, don’t matter anyway.
Nicholas: Just avoid the Internet altogether. Television too. Go outside (bring security).
It’s a beautiful day.
If I had a nickel for every time my mother said those same words, minus the “security” part, I’d be as rich as…well…Nicholas.
Me: Okay, Mom.
Nicholas: Not working for me. But if you want to call me Daddy, I might be able to get into that.
Me: Ewwww.
Nicholas: Have to go in a minute, love.
Meeting about to start.
I’ll tell Barack you said hello.
Me: SERIOUSLY???
Nicholas: No.
I shake my head.
Me: You’re a royal ass, you know that?
Nicholas: Course I do. The Archbishop
of Dingleberry certified it the day I was born.
Me: Dingleberry??? You’re messing with me.
Nicholas: Afraid not.
My ancestors were a sick, twisted bunch.
Me: Lmao!
Nicholas: Speaking of asses, I’m imagining mine pumping between your spread legs right now.
Can’t stop picturing it.
What do you think about that?
As soon as I read the words, I’m picturing it too. And God…heat coils low in my belly, unfurling and expanding until my thighs tingle deliciously. My hands tremble a little as I type back.
Me: I think…we should stop thinking
and start doing.
Nicholas: Brilliant. Go to the hotel,
the front desk will let you up.
Be in my bed when I get back in two hours.
Excitement bubbles through me like freshly poured Champagne.
Me: Yes, My Lord.
Nicholas: If your goal was to have me
meet the Sisters of Mercy sporting a stiffy
—mission accomplished.
I hop off my bed, heading for the bathroom to freshen up and change. On the way, I type the only reply I can manage.
Me: Awkward. Xo
Days pass, and what was once jolting and new becomes…routine. A regular day. It’s amazing how quickly that happens, how quickly we adapt.
I have a boyfriend—at least for the summer. A sexy, gorgeous, fun boyfriend, who also happens to be a royal. That complicates things, but what would probably be most surprising to the Twitterverse and Facebook commentators and reporters is how…normal…it all feels.
We go to lunch—surrounded by security, but it’s still just lunch. We visit a children’s ward in a hospital. The kids ask him about his crown and his throne, and I get a round of applause when I juggle for them—something my dad taught me in Amelia’s kitchen years ago. I let Nicholas buy me clothes—casual but expensive clothes—because I don’t want to embarrass him by looking shabby when we’re photographed together. I wear my sunglasses whenever I’m outside and I barely hear the questions that get shouted by reporters anymore.
