Ever since we filmed The Suitorette together, Basher’s become something of a sidekick. Neither of us got the girl, but we ended up friends.
And while most may see it as me being the sidekick of the more famous Basher—he’s the appropriately named drummer of the band Water Rhinos—I don’t see it that way.
Basher followed me to Battle Harbour after we finished filming, where he promptly fell in love with Mabel Crow.
There aren’t many women who scare me, but Mabel does. She’s lived in Battle Harbour her whole life, manages The King’s Hat, and has more family drama than a soap opera. She also doesn’t reciprocate Basher’s almost pathetic feelings for her.
Yet.
His word, not mine.
Basher is the reason we’re here so often. But this time, Fenella invited both of us to Silas’s birthday party. Basher is between gigs and I’m between… not much since I haven’t got much going on.
Not since the incident last spring.
I’ve driven since then, and I’ve even been in a couple of races. Nothing big, just fund raisers—one was a late night drag race in Bueno Aires we don’t need to mention—but my own father recently dropped me as a driver, so I haven’t got much in the pipeline.
I don’t like not being busy.
Which is another reason we’re here. Because I’m bored.
I don’t like being bored.
“I’m not letting you drive my car because you’re bored,” Fenella says.
It’s annoying how well she knows me. She’s the only one, too—if I let women get as close to my secrets as I let my sister, I’d have more tabloids about me than Prince Harry, Princess Lyra, and Gunnar’s love life combined.
I guess I come here to visit Gunner too. We’ve been friends forever, even before he dated Fen, and he’s unofficially one of the Billionaire Brats, the lovely nickname some website gave us.
“I’m not bored, I’m at a party.” I lift my glass of club soda with extra lime.
“You’re drinking,” she accuses. “There’s no way I’m letting you drive my car.”
I push it closer so she can smell the limey goodness. “I’m not. It’s my New Year’s resolution.”
Fenella looks impressed. “You’ve made itthree days.”
The non-drinking isn’t a resolution but because the CEO of FluxFuel, maker of the newest energy drink, is pushing into extreme sports. I may not have anything in the pipelineyet, but I want on the team for the inaugural FluxFuel Overdrive Rally. It’s a thirty-six-hour relay race from Barcelona to Prague, and some of the top long-distance drivers are already signed up.
It’s perfect for me, but the issue is that the company only wants drivers who can keep their noses clean. No scandals, no social media flubs and fubars, and definitely no accidents.
When I met with them, I managed to convince them that the incident last spring was a onetime thing, that I can keep my temper and control of any vehicle at any time.
I’m in if I can convince FluxFuel’s people that the skeletons in my closet are locked up tight and not about to make a repeat appearance.
And I need to be in. I need something going on.
Fenella and I both glance at the countdown clock Kalle fixed on the wall. “That’s really what he uses to count down until the wedding?” I wonder.
Fenella nods. Six months and counting until the royal wedding, when Prince Kalle marries Edie England. When the engagement was made public, Kalle set up a digital clock in his bar to keep track.
Seeing the numbers slowly countdown to my wedding would be horrible.
Maybe that’s because a wedding would be horrible. For me, not Fenella’s. She’s planning her happily ever after with Silas, but it’s not happening until after the royal wedding.
The king requested that Fenella’s wedding be put on hold until after Kalle’s. Since King Magnus is Fenella’s new best friend, she agreed.
Silas, of course, went along with anything because he is completely and absolutely in love with my sister.
