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This Isn’t a Normal Life
Tyler
Several weeks before that so-called “fateful night”
(She loved every minute of it, by the way)
London, England
“Can you please speed it up, Dillon?” I called out to my driver. “This woman looks like she’s about to die.”
Uttering those words en route to a hospital wasn’t how I originally envisioned the end of this weekend, but it served me right for making the same mistake seven Saturdays in a row.
Desperate for a taste of “normalcy,” I slipped out of Kensington Palace and rode to a pub outside London after midnight.
My goal was to find someone who didn’t keep up with the tabloid gossip—someone who had no idea who I was so I could finally get laid—but my family’s royal stain forever reigned.
Somewhere between the third and fourth round of drinks, my fake ruse exploded as always, and the same three events occurred: One, my security forced everyone in the vicinity to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Two, I rode home to serve another week in a gilded prison—dry spell intact. Three, my inner hatred for my family rose to new heights.
This morning’s incident was utterly new, though. The woman I “met” fainted and hit her head on the bar.
“Dillon?” I called out again. “Her face is pale.”
“I’m driving as fast as I can.” He tossed me a water bottle, and I pressed it against the woman’s forehead.
“I’m not paling at all.” She slurred. “I’m in awe and quite stunned. I used to hang your childhood photos on my bedroom wall. You’re the first boy I ever touched myself to…”
“Please tell me we’re around the same age.”
“I’ve always believed that you were sexy, but you’re like, a thousand times sexier in person.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that you were a Carrington, though?” she asked. “I would’ve dropped to my knees and sucked the soul out of your cock.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My mum taught me everything I know about deep throat techniques. You would’ve helped me make her proud.”
I blinked.
There’s no way she just said that…
“If you’re interested, I can give you a bit.” She smiled. “All you have to do is unzip your trousers and help me move my head.”
“I’d prefer if you focused on your breathing,” I said. “You look like you’re on the verge of vomiting on my floor. Again.”
“I just knew I’d seen you somewhere before.” She wasn’t listening to me at all. “Wait. Aren’t you supposed to be proposing to a Denmark princess or something? That’s what the tabloids are saying.”
“They’re quite mistaken.”
“Then why did you tell me your name was Matthew and you worked in finance?” She sucked in a deep breath. “Why did you lie to my face and deny me my lifelong dream of screwing a royal? Why would—”
She vomited on the floor mid-sentence, leaving our conversation unfinished.
The guard across from us opened an empty bag, and I lifted her head as the car coasted through the streets.
With every kilometer, the grey and rainy city softly taunted me.
