Page 23 of Fallen Crown

“But I guess you know that, don’t you?” he says.

Tears prick at my eyes, and I turn from him with a wave to duck into my vehicle. I toss my purse onto the passenger seat, and I sit for a beat staring out the front window. Maybe going to see Brice is a bad idea, given my own close and recent relationship with grief, but part of me thinks that’s exactly why I have to go. There are no good words, but it doesn’t mean you don’t try.

I hit the button to start the SUV, and I turn out of the Tucker estate toward the palace.

Chapter Eleven

Brice

My bottle of tequila is half full. I could look at it as half empty, but that would be fucking depressing, and who wants that? Turns out, Truth and Tequila isn’t as much fun when I’m the only one playing. Posey is in Michigan with Brent, Alex is with Rory and Grace, Nick is likely having grief sex with Julia, and my mother is holed up with my father in their suite of rooms, pretending everything is fine when it’s decidedly not.

For a guy who’s normally surrounded by a lot of people, I couldn’t find a single person in my contact list that I actually wanted to be around. The only people who might understand how I’m feeling have someone else to lean on. At least I’ve got my Gran Patron Platinum to keep me company.

“Just one shot,” I say to Jag, who is stationed by the door of the barn where I’ve had a climbing wall installed. “One. You don’t even have to tell me a truth first.” He’s got no idea how the game actually works, I don’t think. Or maybe he does because he simply raises his eyebrows and doesn’t answer me.

Propped up against the wall is the mountain bike he helped me fix this morning while we watched a series of YouTube videos on changing a tire tube. Not the most fun I’ve ever had, but it was better than thinking about what was happening at the lawyer’s office.

“Your Highness,” Jag says, touching his earpiece, “Ms. Tucker has just entered the estate.”

“Tucker?” My vision is slightly blurry, and the idea of seeing her is equal parts appealing and unappealing. Why would Tucker be coming here when there’s practice—and then I remember I texted Wren half an hour ago to say I wouldn’t be attending. I groan. “Drunk on a...” I squint at my watch and give up when the date won’t come into focus.

“Monday,” Jag fills in for me.

“Fuuuccckkk.” I collapse on the spongy ground, the remnants of my bottle of tequila between my legs. She’ll never let me live this down, and there’s no way she’ll go easy on me. The thought should be unappealing, as though her attention is a nuisance. Might be the alcohol, but I’m not really annoyed.

“Should I send her away?” Jag asks.

“No.” I run my hands along my face and then lie back to stare at the vast ceiling. “No point. One way or another, she’s going to think I’m an irresponsible idiot. Might as well let her see the proof.” She can call me on my shit. No one else is around to care.

“Do you want me to speak to her before I let her in?”

That would be the easy way out. Let Jag smooth over the rough edges between me and Tucker. Have him tell her about my father. Might not make any difference to her. Seth was right the other day—she’s an ice queen. Death is probably the tiniest blip on her radar. The way she went up the climbing wall, there can’t be too much Maren Tucker is afraid of. She walks through life daring it to come at her. Even though it galls me to admit it, there’s something admirable in her attitude.

Except I’m fairly certain something I said the other night punctured her tough outer shell. I stare at the roof with narrowed eyes as I try to remember exactly what I saw. Were there tears? Or was it simply the rain? Seems impossible that Maren Tucker would lower her guard enough to be hurt by anyone, let alone me.

“Your Highness,” Jag says. “Ms. Tucker has arrived.”

I don’t sit up to greet her, and with the spongy floor meant to soften any falls, her progress toward me is silent. Or at least I expected her to approach me.

“You had this built?” she asks from near the climbing wall.

With a sigh, I rise on my elbow and swig from the bottle. “Yep.”

“Hmm.” She runs her hand along the wall, and there’s a palpable longing emanating from her.

“I can’t belay you. I’m drunk. Jag can. He’s had some practice.” I gesture to where Jag is still standing at the open door, trying to ignore me and Tucker.

She motions to her flowing, knee-length dress in a seafoam green. “I’m good. Another day when you’re sober and I’m dressed for it.”

I roll onto my stomach, and I cross my arms to lay my chin on them. Then I remember my tequila, and I bring it around to sit on the ground beside my elbow. “Why don’t you like me?”

“Should I like you?” She arches an eyebrow.

“We hardly know each other. There’s no reason for you not to like me.”

“You don’t like me. And the same could be said.”

Christ. Do I really tell her that I don’t like her just because she doesn’t like me? Makes me sound like I’m five. Even drunk me can recognize that truth. “You’re very prickly.”