Dad smiled and waved at me. “See you in a bit, kid.”
“Bye, Dad.”
The three of them left and I stared at the room.
I couldn’t believe this place was mine. It was the size of a large apartment, way too big for one person, and yet apparently I’d be staying in it for two weeks. My apartment at school was probably smaller than this room.
And everything looked so expensive that I was afraid to touch it. As I gently tapped at the touch screen, looking at all the options, there was a knock at my door.
For a second, I thought it was going to be the secret police come to drag me to jail for striking the King.
Instead, it was a young man in a porter’s uniform with my bags. He quickly brought the bags in and then left without so much as looking me in the eye.
It was a strange and bizarre experience, being treated like royalty. So far, I couldn’t really say that I liked it, exactly, but I could see how it could get comfortable.
I unpacked my things and finally found myself lying in the middle of the bed. I didn’t have anywhere to be for an hour or two, so I began to do some research.
I realized that I didn’t know anything about the king I had slapped in the face. It took me only a few minutes to find his Wikipedia page, and from there I began to read.
Christophe Werner von Brunhild the Third went by Trip, a childhood nickname. He was one of the youngest rulers in the history of Starkland at only twenty-eight years old. He came to power when his older brother, Leopold Franz Karl Brunhild, was killed while fighting some rebels in the south of the country.
I frowned to myself. I didn’t know there were rebels in Starkland. The place seemed so nice and the people seemed so happy, but then again I’d only seen the main capital city so far. I didn’t know what it was like out in the countryside.
From what I could gather, the rebels started out as a protest movement. They wanted more democracy in Starkland. When the old king died, Trip and Leopold’s father, the protestors turned violent and soon a full-blown rebellion had formed.
I frowned. I had to admit, I sympathized with their need for democracy. It seemed wrong that Trip and his family were fighting these people and killing them just because they wanted the right to vote, like every citizen in America had.
I shook my head and sighed. I was getting off track. I clicked back and began to read more about Trip himself.
It took me ten minutes to realize that Trip was incredibly notorious in Starkland.
His older brother, Leopold, seemed like a favorite of the people. Trip was never supposed to rule in the first place, and as far as I could tell, Trip spent his time partying and drinking. So far, he had only been king for a few months. There were pictures of Trip with all different women, each one more beautiful than the last. He was a tabloid sensation in Starkland, and they even called him the Partying Prince, though I hoped the phrase sounded a little better in Starklandian.
I read article after article about Trip. I read about him drinking with Prince Harry of England, about him getting thrown out of a bullfight in Spain, about him stealing his father’s car at sixteen and crashing it into a lake. He was famous for his beer-drinking exploits and his womanizing.
In short, Trip was exactly the kind of man I thought he was. He was the kind of man who would whisper an extremely dirty and inappropriate comment into the ear of a total stranger.
But he was also handsome as hell. I understood how he got away with what he did. There was something magnetic about Trip, and I could see it even in the pictures online.
As I clicked on yet another tabloid article about Trip, I heard a knock at my door.
Without thinking, I stood up and padded over to the door. The stone floor was strangely warm under my feet, which surprised me.
I took the handle and pulled it open.
Trip grinned at me, his beautiful blue eyes staring into mine. He looked even better now than he had earlier in a pair of tailored dress pants and a white dress shirt, tucked in, the top button undone, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I could see tattoos inked on his forearms, disappearing up his sleeves.
I blinked, surprised, and couldn’t say a word.
4
Trip
The worst part of being a king was not being able to do whatever I wanted.
That was the paradox of power. When you were the most important person in the country, people did everything they could to try to control you. I had guards around me at all times, men utterly loyal to the crown. I knew their type. Hell, I was their type. I had served in the Starklandian military like every man of royal blood does, and I’d fought in the civil war before my brother was killed. But they were around to both keep me safe and to keep tabs on me for the ministers and their cabal.