Stuck With The Four Hotties

“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” I ask Windsor as we stand inside a bridal shop in Lujo, and I watch the tenth in line to the English throne get a pink bridesmaid dress fitted to his lithe, muscular body. He glances over his shoulder at me, red hair sticking up, hazel eyes twinkling.

“Go right ahead, my darling,” he says as the attendant stands up and excuses herself to grab some more pins. She looked at us like we were crazy when we wandered in here looking to get a dress fitted to a teenage boy as a Halloween costume, even more so when she recognized Windsor and then started frantically texting her friend behind the counter.

Word of this will be all over the Internet by dinnertime. Wind says he doesn’t care, but maybe he does, just not in the way others might think. He might not be ashamed, but he certainly does care: he wants everyone to know just how irreverent he is.

“Why didn’t your mother come to Parents’ Week?” I ask as Windsor examines his dress in the mirror, smoothing his hands down the glittery bodice. He said royals was really a boring theme unless he could dress up like a princess. “I’ve been a prince all my life, what fun is that?” So now both he and Andrew are going in drag. The latter is currently in the dressing room, testing out his pale blue gown.

“My mother?” Windsor asks, frowning, and then shrugging his shoulders like it doesn’t matter much either way. “Too busy being a beloved princess, I

suppose. The press worships her, you know. They talk about what she wears to every event, who she dates, how she fucking smiles.” Wind flashes an angry grin, one that’s half mirth, half simply gritting his teeth. “She can barely take a shit without the media snapping photos of her asking what toilet paper she uses. What a horrible existence. Can you only imagine?”

Windsor turns back to the mirror, and puts his hands on his hips, pouting his lips and giving this sassy little sway.

“That bothers you, doesn’t it?” I ask, stepping up on the dais next to him and fluffing his skirt. “Having to share your mom with the world?” Wind’s eyes slide over to me, and he raises his eyebrows at me.

“You think that’s what bothers me?” he asks, smiling sharply. “Oh bloody hell, love. No. It terrifies me, a life like that, having every move amplified until it means a hundred times more than it rightfully should. I don’t want people looking at me like some sort of community pillar.” He turns back to the mirror, pausing as Andrew comes out and plants his own hands on his hips.

The dress … actually looks really good on him, like passably good. He makes a very fishy drag queen (fishy is like … womanly; I have no idea where the term come from, but that’s what it is).

“You should apply for RuPaul’s Drag Race,” I squeal, putting my hands over my mouth. With just the wig, the padding, and the dress, Andrew Payson really does look a little like a princess.

“I feel like I’m always in drag anyway,” he mumbles, studying himself in the five-way mirror. “Okay, we’ll take it.” He nods at the seamstress as she comes out of the back with a fresh pin cushion. She pauses to help Andrew undo the back of his gown, and I study Wind’s tight, stoic expression.

I’ve just barely scratched the surface of Windsor York, but I feel like I have to know more. I need to know more.

I move out of the way, so he can finish up his dress fitting, and then I take a turn of my own.

By the time we’re done in there, we’ve definitely blown my original idea of the budget, but neither Andrew nor Windsor looks bothered at throwing down their cards and paying. When I take my own turn at the register, waiting to hear the price of the dress to see if I can afford it with the price of the alterations included, Windsor grabs my arm and yanks me into his.

“A lady of the court never pays for her own gowns,” he purrs, looking down at me with just a hint of a wicked smile. “I’ve got it, Your Majesty.”

“Stop calling me that,” I say with a laugh, pulling away from him. The three of us step out into the sunshine, pausing at a bookstore down the street before rejoining the others at the cafe.

I try to be surreptitious when I slip over to the manga section, looking for more yaoi. There’s one wrapped in plastic that says Explicit: Eighteen Plus Only! on the back. One corner’s already torn, and it looks like someone peeked inside already. I mean, since the deed is already done … I peek myself and feel my cheeks flush when I see the explicitness of the art.

Whoa.

Definitely getting this one.

“What’s this? More of your gauche manga?” Creed asks, surprising me by drawing the manga out of my hand and over my head. I spin around to find him standing behind me, dressed in a loose, slightly wrinkled blue button- down and jeans. He doesn’t even try to hide his actions from the bookshop employees when he peels the plastic off and flips right to a dirty scene. His pale blond brows go up. “My, my, Marnye. What have we got here?”

“Give that back,” I whisper, trying to snag it from him, but he’s quick, lifting it out of reach so he can stare at the two dudes, um, well, to put it nicely … fucking? Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.

“Whoooooa there,” Zayd says, slumping his inked body over Creed’s shoulders and peeking at the pages as Creed frowns at him, and scowls. “What the fuck is this? Sensitive Pornograph? Is that the title, really, Charity? The Queen of the Elite really is a perv.” Zayd grabs the manga and tucks it under his arm, reaching up to twist some of his sea green hair into little spikes. “I’ll buy this for you; maybe it’ll give you ideas for our next fuck.”

Creed sneers, and leans his shoulder against one of the bookcases, like it’s simply too much effort for him to stand up straight. Like any of the super- rich, he doesn’t seem to care that he’s in a public space. No, the whole world just belongs to him; that’s tNôvelDrama.Org owns all © content.

he way things should be.