Princely Bastard Read Online Free PDF

either.
    “So,” she mumbles while putting on a pair of laceless Vans.
    “So?” I mumble back.
    “Nothing.”
    I nod, even though I know it’s not nothing. I know it’s anything but nothing.
    “You okay?” I ask.
    She nods, while struggling to control her emotions. She actually looks as if she’s about to cry, which is the last thing I want to see. So, I turn from her. I turn from her and say, “You need, you need any money?”
    “You don’t have to,” she says back.
    “Do-you-need-money?”
    “I don’t have any.”
    With a bit of a sigh, I look around for my pants, and see them not far away—and I ramble toward them, again with lots of pain. Then I fish out my wallet and look inside, and see there’s about thirty dollars.
    “It’s not much,” I tell her as I hand her the cash, which is all the money I have in the world. Though I don’t tell her this.
    “Thanks,” she replies. She also puts on her coat and backpack and slowly heads toward the bedroom—and away from my life forever. And this upsets me, no matter how much I don’t want it to upset me. The truth is, the truth is I don’t want her to go anywhere. I want her. I want her right now. I want to dig into her and never stop digging, even if I only imagined how great it was.
    “Aimee,” I call out.
    Instantly, she stops, and she turns to me looking surprised.
    “You remember my name,” she whispers.
    “I remember,” I tell her.
    “I remember yours, too. Mark. Mahk .”
    I want to laugh at this. But instead I say, “Aimee’s a pretty name. You’re pretty.”
    “You don’t have to say it.”
    “But I did.”
    “You, too.”
    “Me what?”
    “You’re pretty.”
    “And I thought I was having problems seeing.”
    She giggles, and I see she has a nice smile. Too nice. Too nice for a shit like me.
    “I’m sorry,” I utter.
    “About what?” she asks.
    “About . . . about nothing.”
    “What?”
    “It doesn’t matter. I’m just, I’m just the wrong guy.”
    “And I’m the wrong girl.”
    For a moment she pauses, and then she turns around and heads into the bedroom—and I just stare at the door afterward, trying to summon the courage to call her back. I even open my mouth. But the words won’t come. So I put on my pants and head to the front door, which I now see is wide open.
    SHIRTLESS AND YAWNING, I walk outside the building, and at once the sea of people there converge on me, as if they had been waiting for me.
    “What’s going on?” I demand.
    “Mark Stuart?” a woman dressed in red yells, as she jumps in front of me and puts her phone in my face.
    “Yeah, that’s me,” I tell her.
    “Any comment?”
    “Comment on what?”
    “On being a prince.”
    “What the fuck are you talking about?”
    “The story this morning in the Telegraph .”
    “The Telegraph?”
    “It’s a British paper. They just ran a huge story about how you’re the son of Prince Charles.”
    “There must be some mistake. You got the wrong guy.”
    With a bit of aggravation, the woman shows me her phone, and I see a picture of myself next to that goofy-looking idiot from England—and she says to me: “Does that look like a mistake?”
    “I don’t care what it looks like,” I howl, before pushing her arm away. “It’s a mistake. My dad, he, he was in the Marines.”
    “Donald Stuart?”
    “Yeah, that’s right—that was his name.”
    “According to the Telegraph , there is no such person, and never was.”
    “What are you talking about? He was killed in Somalia.”
    “Your Highness!” some guy calls out.
    “Call me that again,” I holler, “and I’ll beat the shit out of you!”
    “Is it true,” he continues, with obvious fear, “is it true you have a criminal record?”
    “What’s it to you?”
    “And that you have two warrants out for your arrest?”
    “That’s a lie!”
    “How many is it then?”
    “None!”
    “Not according to the Telegraph .”
    “Fuck the Telegraph! And fuck you!”
    “So,”