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Etienne
The bartender eyes me cautiously as he polishes a glass with a rag. “The king has let you off the leash, I see.”
I’d rather not talk about what the king has or hasn’t allowed me to do. “The palace has become suffocating, George,” I say, leaning on an elbow and scanning the bar for company.
The man pours a club soda and slides it across the bar to me.
Humph.
A young woman eyes me from down the bar, appearing to dare one another to approach me.
It used to feel good to be asked for selfies in public. Now, at 34, it feels a little … sad.
Sadness sucks. I won’t allow it.
I turn back to the barkeep, veiling my impatience.
George shifts his gaze from me to the other patrons as if on the lookout for spies. “How’d you get here, then?” He asks this low and direct, leaning toward me. “With the lockdown and everything.”
I scoff at the insult to my reputation. “I’ve had my secret ways in and out of the palace since I was 12,” I say, nodding with my chin toward the Bad Prince Lager on tap, wondering what’s taking him so long to serve me. “And drivers can be bribed.”
“I see,” he says, not meeting my gaze.
“What’s eating you?” I ask.
The bartender looks around again, then shakes his head as if disgusted with himself.
“I ain’t supposed to serve you, Your Highness.”
I lean back, reining in my irritation. “On whose orders?”
George shifts out of the way as a server slides behind the bar to pull from the Favored Prince Stout tap. I purse my lips in distaste.
Something moves in my peripheral vision. One of the young women steps forward, then loses her nerve, retreating to the corner with her friends. I must have forgotten to fix my face. Poor thing. My dark looks have been known to make a paparazzo piss himself.
No matter. The last thing I need is my father’s advisors seeing me tagged on social media in a bar with hot young things when I’m supposed to be under supervision.
“The palace sent out letters,” George says when the rush of orders passes. “No one in Arenhammer is allowed to serve you alcohol. Not since the Birthday Brawl.”
Is that what the tabloids are calling it? I haven’t bothered to attend any of the royal family’s publicity debriefings since my father, the king, locked us down. One familial shouting match per quarter is enough for me.
I brighten my tone. “So, you haven’t heard! My dear brother Prince Torben has been found,” I pronounce, not bothering to hide my sarcasm. “No doubt the king’s mood has settled and he’s already lifted that silly embargo. I came out to celebrate the news with a drink.” I push the club soda toward him. “How about topping this off with some vodka with a twist?”
The bartender shakes his head. “We’re all relieved the heir’s been found safe and sound, but the best I can do for you is this.”
He pushes the club soda back at me.
“He’s not the police or the governor. He doesn’t make laws,” I remind him.
Heaving a weary sigh, George says, “The palace owns everything from this building to the land that grows the grain. Your father could wreck my livelihood.”
A dismissive noise escapes me. “He doesn’t own the business or the brewery itself.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
“Even so,” I push without thinking. “How hard is it to get another job tending bar?”
