AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"This isn't the usual piece you bring, Hollywood," he says to Benedict, a cigarette hanging from his mouth and a disgusting cloud of smoke puffing out with his words. I try not to inhale, and I try not to cough.
"No. Let her go," Benedict says mildly, "or I'll gut you along with my brother." He tosses a few chips into the middle of the table and goes back to ignoring me. The man holding me eyes me carefully but loosens his grip and lets my arm slide through his fingers.
"You weren't this way when we were growing up," another one of the men says, mildly reddish-blond hair and accent betraying the fact that he is very much not American. England, on the south, probably, given how he loose he holds his vowels. He gives me an up-and-down glance before shrugging. "And I'll never understand the American fondness for including thehelpwith things that are above their station."
A third man laughs, tossing his cards down on the table, and all of them groan.
"And that's why you lost the war," he says to the British noble. They are noble, all of them must be. I see it in the way they hold themselves and barely even acknowledge me as I bring beer after beer to the table. There's a full ashtray that needs emptying, and I don't want to touch it, but ignoring it would call attention tomyself.
And if I'm in a snake pit, the last thing I want to do is draw notice. Instead, I memorize their faces, committing to memory the way they talk and how they refer to each other.
Benedict is Hollywood. Of course, their titles are more important than their actual names. The others are Dallas (the smoker who grabbed me), Brighton (the man from England), Wyoming, Orlando, Boston, and Columbus, who first asked who I was when we walked into the room.
"The help are useful. Especially when they know the benefit more from keeping their mouths shut—"
"I prefer it when they keep their mouths and legs open," Boston laughs, tilting his beer to me. "You ever ridden a train?" He leers at me as I pass him by, and I try not to freeze up. The thought of any of them touching me, ofall of them, is nauseating, and my body wants to bolt. I can't, though. That's what he wants. If I react, he'll only get worse and—
Benedict slaps his hand down on the table, his eyes flint hard and furious.
"Enough," he barks, leaning forward so fast the table shakes, threatening to upend all the chip towers. The other men protest.
"Leave her alone," Brighton says, giving me a good once over. "I wouldn't be tempted. But Benedict has his own reasons and tastes."
I'm not offended. Brighton has an upturned nose and looks like he's been kicked by a mule. I wouldn't be tempted by him, either.
"You're such an ass, insulting a lady," Orlando says with a roll of his eyes.
"She's no lady," Brighton shoots back. I get one final beer before retreating to the corner, not sure what to do with myself, but the less attention I draw to myself, the better. Right now, even my existence seems to be causing a stir.
I shrink into myself and watch them, head tilted down, making myself small and still. It's a skill you learn when your mother is a drunk and the nights are long and abuse-filled, I guess.
"Well, have at it. You dragged us out here to this corner," Wyoming says, Brighton and Dallas nodding in agreement.
"Do you know what a pain it is now that the Concorde isn't functional anymore?" Brighton grouses, and Dallas gives him a strange look.
"You don't fly on your own jet?"
Brighton growls, bristling at the comment so fast and furious that his face pinks up with rage.
"Sore point," Benedict answers. "His older brother cut him off."
All seven men at the table are silent for a moment, and then I realize it. What binds them together brings them here, to this small cabin on the edge of the estate that doesn't belong to any of them.
They're all younger brothers. Earls, lords, in their own right, barons, maybe, but from what I barely remember, the metroplex of Dallas-Fort Worth is a secondary duchy under the control of its larger proper of the entire princedom of Texas.
And so the rest of them are under similar control, under the thumb of some older brother who's titled and has more money than sense. The only one of them owning to a title properly is Wyoming, an entire state never made into a princedom either,despite its vast land mass.
I'm watching a collection of highborn malcontents. My mouth goes dry. And they're planning on killing the Duke of Los Angeles. My fingers start to tremble, and I hide them in the pockets of my dress, moving slowly so I don't attract their notice.
But why would any of them help Benedict?
They fall into silence, Orlando dealing out the cards, and I watch Boston under my eyelashes. He's quieter than the rest, having not said much of anything, holding his cards close to his chest. A ring glints on his wedding finger, the polished band platinum. No lordling like him would be caught dead in silver.
The rest have bare fingers, un-married, all of them. I wonder what Boston's lady-wife thinks of where he is right now? Does she know?
Columbus casts his cards on the table, and each man lets out a groan.
"Give it up, boys," he says, leaning in to gather up the chips with a laugh that ought to shake the dust from the rafters of this small building.
