Princely Bastard Read Online Free

to pull the woman away.
    “What’s her name?” Rudi insisted, without budging at all—and, after a long drawn-out sigh, Mrs. Falcona finally told her.
    “How would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow, Aimee?” Rudi went on.
    This surprised me. It surprised me so much that I turned to the woman and mumbled, “What?”
    “Ms. Goodwin, that’s not a good idea,” Mrs. Falcona pleaded.
    “Why not?” Rudi demanded.
    “She’s a very troubled young girl,” Mrs. Falcona softly replied.
    “Obviously. Or she wouldn’t be here.”
    “But she’s not like the other girls.”
    “I can see that.”
    “She’s insufferable! Been through countless foster homes, and fights with everyone. She’s also two years behind in school. That’s when she goes. And she’s already been in trouble with the law—for drinking, no less.”
    Rudi only smiled at this, which neither Mrs. Falcona nor I could understand.
    “So, are we on for lunch?” Rudi asked.
    “Is this how you get your kicks?” I barked. “Hanging around with poor little foundlings?”
    “ Foundlings? Where did you learn that word?”
    “ Tom Jones .”
    “You’ve read Tom Jones?”
    “Sure.”
    “I sincerely doubt that,” Mrs. Falcona interjected, with a condescending shake of her head.
    “Have her ready at noon tomorrow,” Rudi told the woman.
    I LIMP TO the bar and see Mark sitting on a stool, looking as if the world were coming to an end.
    “What’s wrong?” I demand, still angry at him.
    He doesn’t answer, so I look up at the TV and see that the score is still 30–20, with less than a minute left. Though the Browns are close to scoring.
    “What is your fucking problem?” I shout. “They’re gonna win! Even a moron Southie can see that!”
    “Shut up,” he says, and he jumps up just as the Browns attempt a field goal. “Miss,” he then gasps, while clutching his hands in prayer. “Fucking miss.”
    I can’t understand this, or him—and again part of me wants to leave. But for some reason I stay. I stay and watch as the kick goes up and through the uprights.
    “Fuck!” Mark screams, and he picks up an empty shot glass and slams it against the top of the bar—smashing it apart, leaving his palm both bloody and full of shards of glass. Though he doesn’t seem to care. He just keeps cursing, over and over—like his life was destroyed by this one single kick. He doesn’t even seem to notice that everyone in the bar is staring at him as if he’s insane, including the bartender—who I can tell wants him to leave but is way too afraid to tell him so.
    “What is fucking wrong?” I cry out—way too drunk to be scared of him.
    Instead of answering, he just sits back on the stool, and slowly the big mountain starts to crumble. And all that muscle begins to weep. Which strangely makes me want to weep, too.
    “What’s wrong?” I again ask—this time much softer.
    “Eight,” he cries, with tears coming down his face.
    “Eight what?”
    “They had to win by eight.”
    Suddenly, I understand. I understand everything. And I put my arms around him—something he doesn’t resist. He even puts his own arms around me, and he holds me tightly. He holds me so tightly that I think he’s gonna break my back.
    “I’m fucked,” he murmurs into my ear. “I’m so fucked.”
    “Me, too,” I softly tell him.
    “Let’s get out of here.”
    “We’ve got nothing to celebrate.”
    “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just go. Please.”
    “I can’t . . .”
    “Why not?”
    “I can’t pay my tab.”
    “I can.”
    THE TWO OF us exit the bar, arm-in-arm. We’re standing straight, but only because of the other.
    I’m so drunk that it takes a few seconds before I realize it’s raining. I also realize that the streets are almost empty. I look around and see only one solitary man, who’s beneath an umbrella a block away.
    “Where to?” I say to Mark, even though I don’t really care. I just want to keep his arm around me.
    “This