Royal Blue (Sovereigns of Savannah Book 1) Read online

Recovering quickly, I scoff. “Hearts and flowers? Me? I don’t think so.”

  He nods. “Good to know.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I ask. “And why would that be?”

  He leans towards me again, his scent—Viktor and Rolf, if I’m not mistaken—washing over me. “What? A guy isn’t allowed to get to know a girl?”

  “He isn’t if that guy is you and the girl is me.”

  “And why would that be?” he asks, repeating my words.

  “Because it will never happen.”

  “What won’t?”

  “Whatever you’re dreaming up in that miniscule brain of yours,” I tell him. “I’m not here to be your plaything or someone who will look good on your arm. And while I’m at it, I’ll let you know that you might be some hotshot jock, but that won’t get you anywhere with me. This is my school, my domain. If you think you can come in here and fuck shit up, I’m here to tell you different.”

  His brown eyes twinkle as he chuckles. “All right, no need to get your panties in a twist.”

  “No twist, just letting you know how things work around here.”

  “Consider me informed.” He nods.

  “Good,” I say, turning to face the front and Ms. Victoria, who is about to begin her lecture.

  “This semester we’ll be examining the media and its role in gender stereotypes.” I scoff. “Do you have something to say, Miss. Tremont?” Ms. Victoria asks.

  “Yeah, I do,” I reply, crossing my arms over my chest. Beside me, Captain Dick swings around to face me, an amused grin on his face. “The media’s role in gender stereotypes is to perpetuate them. Their job is to sell a lifestyle, a lifestyle the powers that be deem appropriate or that will sell the most of their advertiser’s product.”

  “Yes, well—” Ms. Victoria begins before Captain Dick interrupts.

  “The media only prints what they see in society,” he says. “They’re reporters, a mirror. They deal in facts. Do you honestly think they’d sell magazines or get people to watch TV shows or movies if they were widely out of touch with their audience?”

  “Of course. They sell us what they want us to see. They tell us what they want us to know. ‘They deal in facts,’” I scoff. “Please. I can think of a dozen examples of major injustices caused by the media’s misreporting of facts.”

  “Name them, then,” Captain Dick challenges.

  I open my mouth to do just that when Ms. Victoria steps in.

  “All right, you two, that’s enough.”

  “But—” I start.

  “We will have more than enough time to discuss that and much more during the semester.” Her stare dares me to argue.

  “Sounds good, teach,” Captain Dick says, breaking the tension in the room.

  I turn my glare on him instead. In reply he gives me a toothy smile while Ms. Victoria goes back to her lecture.

  By the time class ends, I’m more than done, both with this class and Captain Dick. The bell rings and we all scramble to put away our books and get the fuck out of here.

  “So, that was fun,” Captain Dick says, slinging an arm around my shoulders as we walk out.

  “What will be fun is cutting off your balls and feeding them to the poor horses who do the carriage rides around Midtown,” I reply as I push his arm off me.

  “So you’ve been thinking about my balls, huh?”

  “I’ve been dreaming about a world without you in it,” I counter.

  “Come on, now, baby doll, isn’t that a bit harsh? You know your life would be dull without me in it.”

  “First off, I’m not your baby, your doll, your honey, your babe, any of it. Second, don’t think because we just spent fifty minutes in class together that you know me. I’m telling you here and now that you don’t and never will, so you may as well give up now.”

  I turn away from him, but he grabs my arm, a tingle emanating from where we touch. “And you obviously don’t know me if you think that little speech is enough to make me give up.”

  I wrench my arm out of his grasp. “Touch me again and see what happens,” I dare.

  He holds his hands up in surrender.

  “Good, now if you’ll excuse me.” I push open the door to the girls’ bathroom, quickly locking myself in the nearest stall. As quietly as I can, I rifle through my bag, searching for the tin that holds the pills that are keeping me together, that are the key to my future.

  Popping the lid, I take one of the little white tablets and swallow it dry. Even though I know it won’t have taken effect yet, a sense of peace washes through me.

  Much to my delight, I discover I also share English and Math with Miss Cerulean Tremont. She may think she warned me off after Media Studies, but all she did was make the chase sweeter. Not that there is a chase, but there’s definitely a desire to get to know the blue beauty better.

  But for the moment, that has to be moved to the back burner.

  Reaching up, I pluck a football from the air.

  “You sure you’re set at QB?” TK asks. “’Cause those skills right there could give me a run for my money.”

  I laugh. “I just like having a ball in my hand, that’s all.”

  “How’d your first day go?”

  I shrug. “It is what it is. It isn’t as if I haven’t done this a million times before.”

  “At least this is the last time, right?”

  “Except for college and when I’m picked up by an NFL team, sure.”

  “Man, after this season, we’re gonna make sure everyone knows your name. You won’t be walking in anywhere as a nobody anymore.”

  I slap his hand, nodding my agreement, and continue to warm up.

  Today is the first day of the rest of my life.

  Practice is brutal, but this isn’t Switzerland. This is Georgia. It’s where I want to be; it’s where I need to be in order for me to get where I want to go, and that’s the top. Once my mother got an inkling of my talent and love for football she did her best to make sure wherever we were I was able to get some kind of coaching. Over the years I’ve had fifteen different coaches, all at varying degrees of skill. Army guys, ex pats, then eventually online coaches and a few summer camps Stateside my mother somehow managed to convince my father to let me attend. It was hard work but I’m here.

  I shower and change before making my way to the parking lot. As a welcome home/eighteenth birthday present my parents bought me a brand-spanking-new, what I’m calling cranberry red Mustang. I haven’t had much need of a car or to drive but it was one skill I insisted on learning, and now I can take advantage of that.

  The heat of the day is now gone, leaving a relatively pleasant evening.

  Looking to my left, TK is leaning against the wall, a girl, probably a freshman, caged between his arms.

  “You know it’s only the first day of the year, right? What’s got you so stressed you have to come to me?” he asks.

  I’m too far away to hear her response but it makes TK chuckle.

  “And just what exactly are you going to do for me in return? I mean, it’s no problem to get what you need, but one favor deserves another, don’t you think?” He plays with the top button on her blouse. I don’t know what’s going on here, but it doesn’t look good, and that girl looks far too young to be doing anything with TK.

  “Hey, man,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder as I pass. “Good practice today. You keep that up and the state championship is in the bag.”

  He turns and slings an arm around the obviously frightened girl’s shoulders. “Thanks, QB, and state is a sure thing.”

  “No doubt.” I nod. “Ah, just a heads-up. I don’t want to break up the cozy time you’ve got going here, but Coach looked like he was about to head out, so you might want to pick this up another time. Wouldn’t want him to think your focus is off, even at this early stage.” After practice, Coach made sure to sit us down and drum into us the expectations of the Forest Park system, as well importance of maintaining our focus and not being “the stupid teen
age boys that we are.”

  “Oh, shit,” TK says, thankfully disengaging from the freshman, who shoots me a relieved look. “If he finds me with my pants down again he threatened to bench me.”

  “So yeah, why don’t you two crazy kids go your separate ways before you screw up our season?” I joke.

  “Thanks, man,” he says as he holds out his hand for the manly slap/hug thing that seems to be the norm. “Good lookin’ out,” he shouts over his shoulder as he heads to his… is that a McLaren?

  The farther away TK gets, the more the tension in the air dissipates.

  “How are you getting home?” I ask the freshman.

  “I-I was going to t-take an U-Uber,” she stammers.

  “Where do you live?” I inquire, adjusting the heavy gym bag on my shoulder.

  “H-huh?”

  “Your house, where is it?”

  “Oh, um, Ardsley Park.”

  I nod and start walking to my car. When I realize she’s not following me, I stop.

  “You coming?”

  “Oh, I, um, didn’t think…. It’s okay, I can…. Um, okay,” she says, scrambling to pick up her book bag and trailing after me.

  “What’s your name?” I ask as she slides into the passenger seat.

  “Kingsley,” she squeaks.

  “Kingsley who?” If someone was to ask me why I have this girl in my car or why I stepped into whatever was going on between her and TK, I couldn’t answer. All I know is that something didn’t feel right and walking away from that didn’t feel right.

  “Kingsley Lee,” she replies.

  “Nice to meet you, Kingsley Lee,” I say, holding out a hand. “I’m Harley St. James.”

  She snorts as she takes my hand. “I know who you are. Everyone does.”

  I sigh as I start the car and motion for her to put her address in my GPS. “The advantages of being the principal’s son.”

  She scoffs. “I’m pretty sure that’s not the reason everyone knows your name.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I ask, taking my eyes off the road for a second. “Then what is?”

  “Er, maybe the hope that you’re going to be the savior of Forest Park football? Not to mention your—” She cuts herself off.

  “Oh, come on,” I plead. “You can’t leave me hanging like that.”

  Her mouth is mashed in a tight line, and she shakes her head.

  “You know I’m just going to fill the blanks myself if you don’t finish that sentence.”

  She shakes her head again. “Forget about it. I’m just a stupid, naïve freshman and you’re Harley St. James. Tomorrow at school this won’t even be a memory for you, whereas it’ll be, like, the highlight of my life.”

  I laugh. “The highlight of your life? You don’t think that’s a slight exaggeration?”

  She sighs. “Not really. I’ve lived here my whole life and I know how it’s all going to turn out, or how my parents have planned it to turn out.” The more we talk, the more she opens up to me.

  “Oh yeah? And how’s that?”

  “I’ll graduate Forest Park and be accepted as a legacy to the University of Savannah, where I’ll pledge a sorority and get in because I’m also a legacy. I’ll do some frou-frou degree I don’t care about because my sophomore year my parents will introduce me to a friend’s son, Eric Frogmore the fourth or something ridiculous like that. We’ll marry not long after graduation, whereupon I’ll pop out Eric the fifth and Kingsley Jr. and begin my career as mom and homemaker.”

  “Man, that’s bleak.”

  She shrugs. “It’s my reality.”

  “And you don’t mind?”

  “Eh, my husband will probably cheat on me, but I want kids so I’ll be the best mom ever. When we eventually divorce because he got his nineteen-year-old personal assistant pregnant, the kids will want to stay with me. His parents will always bring me up to his new wife at Thanksgiving and Christmas, so I guess it’s okay.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “You are one weird chick.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Look,” I say as I pull up to her house. “I know I’m the new guy and I’ve been here all of a day, but stay away from TK. He seems like an all right guy, but what I saw and where it was going was not somewhere someone as awesome as yourself should be going, okay?”

  She sighs. “Yeah, I know, I just…. That scenario I just spun you?”

  I nod.

  “Sometimes I think I can change it, write it myself. TK has… stuff I thought could help.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “A good southern woman knows when to rock the boat. This isn’t it.”

  I sit and consider what Kingsley has told me for a moment. “Why’d you tell me all that?” I ask. “You don’t even know me, and you wouldn’t even finish that sentence about how good-looking I am.”

  I laugh when she blushes.

  “I told you I’d fill in the blanks.”

  “I don’t know,” she says as she plays with the end of her blonde/brunette-ish braid. “Maybe you’re easy to talk to.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Or maybe I wanted you to know how it is for girls like me.”

  “Why?” I press.

  “Because guys like you have the world at your feet. It’s easy to forget about everyone else when that happens. But a damsel in distress who you save from making a colossal mistake then pours her heart out to you? That may stay with you.”

  She starts to get out of the car. “Or maybe I want you to feel sorry for me and if or when we pass in the hallway, you smile and say ‘hey,’ thus making me the most popular freshman at Forest Park Academy. Thanks for the ride.”

  She shuts the door and walks to her front door while my mind reels.

  What is it with the girls at this school?

  Driving home to our house on Skidaway Island, my head is buzzing with all that Kingsley told me. Why did she tell me all that stuff? Is it even true?

  Girls have never been a problem for me. I don’t say that to beat my chest and brag about how much of a stud I am, it’s merely the truth. But none of the girls I’ve been with have been anything like the two who put me in a spin today.

  But all that fades away when I open the door and a familiar, albeit older, face is there to greet me.

  “Mrs. Stark?” I ask.

  She smiles and opens her arms. “Get over here and give me a hug.”

  As her arms envelop me, her signature lavender scent strong, a million memories hit me. Her cleaning a scrape on my knee, coming home to cookies and milk after kindergarten, her tucking me in when my parents were at some function, saying goodbye to her when we left for Germany and taking my cat, Cookie.

  “Look at you, all grown up,” she says, rubbing her hands up and down my back.

  “And you haven’t aged a day,” I reply as we break apart.

  “Always a charmer.” She cups my face; her gray eyes shining with unshed tears.

  I’m not sure how long exactly Mrs. Stark has worked for my family, but I know while we were here, she was an integral part of it.

  “How come you’re here? I thought you’d be back in Maine, enjoying retirement and eating all the lobster rolls you can?”

  A sad look crosses her face. “I had every intention of doing that, but Joe passed away last year and the kids have all moved away and have families of their own. So when your mother called and said you were moving back, I decided ‘what the heck?’ and made the move too.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about Joe,” I tell her. Joe was Mrs. Stark’s husband, but God help you if you called him Mr. Stark. It was Joe or nothing. While Mrs. Stark worked inside, keeping our household running, Joe was our groundskeeper/handyman, whatever he needed to be. There wasn’t a gadget he didn’t have or something he couldn’t fix.

  She nods, a sad smile on her face.

  “What about—” I’m cut off when a large black cat with white paws and a white patch on the end of his tail winds though my legs.

  “Cooki
e!” I bend down to pick him up. Immediately he rubs his cheek against mine, a deep purr rumbling through his furry body.

  “I can’t believe you still have him.” I’m told Cookie was a present for my first birthday and at the time the only words I could say were “Mom,” “Dad,” “Kark,” “Joe,” and “Cookie,” hence the name.

  Mrs. Stark comes over and scratches his head. “Of course I do, he’s been a good friend over the years.”

  “I thought he’d be gone for sure.”

  Mrs. Stark shakes her head. “He’s got arthritis and a thyroid problem, so he doesn’t get around as easily as he used to, but he’s still hanging in there.”

  I bury my face in his fur, inhaling his funky cat smell.

  Being an only child in this house sometimes was lonely, and Cookie was my only friend.

  I pull back and look him in his yellow eyes. “Hey, buddy, I missed you. Did you miss me?”

  He swats at my mouth. I hug him tighter, and his purrs increase so I’m taking that as a yes.

  I put him down and he winds through my legs again before sitting on my shoe.

  “Looks like I’m not the only one glad to be back,” Mrs. Stark says, patting me on the shoulder before heading to the kitchen.

  If I thought Mrs. Stark’s presence would lighten things up, I was sorely mistaken. You’d think, seeing as though often we were the only English-speaking people in whatever town we were in—with the exception of Australia, but theirs is another dialect altogether—we’d be a close-knit family. You’d be wrong. My mom, the esteemed Dr. Heather St. James, is fine and does her best to be around, but as a doctor, that’s not always possible.

  No, it’s my father and principal, Cary St. James, who’s the real hard-ass, although that might insult to hard-asses. He’s a bastard, plain and simple.

  I give you exhibit A.

  “How was practice today?” my father asks over a dinner of pot roast and mashed potatoes.

  “Fine,” I reply, once I’ve swallowed my mouthful. I learned the hard way to never talk at the same time as I’m eating.

  He puts his knife and fork down and pats his mouth with his napkin. “Just fine?”