“Ours – the royals’. The ones who are siding with the coup are staying quiet.”
I thought about that. I’d seen a lot of rioters as I’d crept through the city. Jagor and his family still had a lot of support: but what could flag-wavers do against an army?
“What are we going to do?” I didn’t mean to say it out loud, but it was there before I could stop it.
“I have no idea.” He looked down at me – open and completely honest, nothing hidden in those deep green eyes. “It’s gone, Lucy: the life I meant to give you. I’m a prince without a throne.”
“I love you just the same,” I said, and kissed him. The kiss stretched out, becoming about more than just affection. It became about knowing that he was okay, that
we
were okay. He started to roll over on top of me, then stopped and pulled me the other way, so that I was on top. “The floor’s hard,” he said.
I pulled back from the kiss, as if shocked, and straddled him. “Your Highness!” I exclaimed, my hand to my chest. “What are you suggesting?” I hadn’t called him
Your Highness
in a long time. I knew I didn’t need to, as the Exkella. But right then, it felt good.
Despite everything, he smiled that sly, wolfish smile and ran his hands up my thighs, skimming under the torn-off evening gown. I gasped as his warm palms smoothed over my chill body. Then the dress was up and off over my head and I was leaning forward, kissing him again, in just my underwear now. My hands started working down the front of his shirt, pushing the open edges out so I could kiss his bare chest.
His hands were cupping my shoulders; moving down to my back. I felt my bra come loose and shrugged it off. We were speeding up: by the time I reached the bottom of his shirt and ripped the sides apart, he was lightly stroking my breasts, his palms on my nipples. I leant right down and nuzzled his chest, marveling at the broad curve of his pecs, taking one of his nipples into the hotness of my mouth and lashing my tongue over it until he arched his back and groaned.
We were frantic now, both of us working to undo his belt and pull his pants and shorts down, his cock springing erect between our bodies. He fished something out of his pocket.
“Condoms? You brought condoms to the opera?”
“I had plans: if it got too boring.”
He didn’t even wait to strip my panties off: just pushed them aside and guided me down onto him.
God, that moment as he plunged into me, as the heat inside me finally started to melt outwards and thaw my chill body. I was mud-stained and freezing, exhausted and strung-out and suddenly none of it mattered because I had
him,
the one thing that mattered. For once, I wasn’t a slave, or an exkella, or a princess, or even his submissive. I was just his love and his lover, and he was mine.
My hands went to his shoulders, caressing the heavy muscle there as I started to lift myself on him, rising and falling, setting up a rhythm. I could feel it in both of us: the same intense need, whipping us into a frenzy. His hands were all over me, as if he wanted to re-learn every curve of my breasts, every line of my spine. There was a burning slash of pain as he moved over one part of my back, but I was so lost in the feel of him that I barely noticed. The need for him was like an ache inside me, demanding that I twist my hips, grind myself against him, every hot millimeter of contact like a drug that made me crave more.
I kissed him again as he drove up into me, my gasps mingling with his, the hard length of him inside me like iron wrapped in silk. He was pumping up into me as hard as I was pressing down, strong fingers hard on the cheeks of my ass as he pulled me to him. My whole world shrank down to the point where we joined, to the pleasure that was arcing out from it. He sat up, his mouth finding my breasts, and as he grunted and pushed deep inside me, I came and came and came.
***
We woke with the dawn – there were no curtains. We’d pulled our clothes back on during the night, sleeping with me half on top of him; my head on his chest, my raincoat spread over us. When I tried to get up, my body laughed at the idea and dumped me on my ass.
“Oww....´
I started trying to rub life into my stiff, aching limbs.
“Good morning,” Jagor said. He managed a smile, but I could hear the tension in his voice. That brought everything that was going on slamming back into my head and I groaned.
“Did you sleep?” I asked. However bad I felt, he must feel worse: I’d used him as a mattress.
“For a while. I was watching you sleep. You looked so peaceful.” There was something different, now, when he spoke to me. No more secrets, I realized. We’d finally reached the point where I knew him completely, where he could be utterly open with me, and it was just as our world was falling apart. He tried to get up and gasped. I looked on in sympathy. Every muscle felt like icy concrete.
When we’d both finally managed to sit, I cuddled into him, his chest to my back. I didn’t have to say it. We were both thinking the same thing:
what are we going to do?
But I knew he wasn’t going to like my answer.
“We could run for the border,” I said gently. He didn’t respond. “That’s what...people do.”
“
People?”
I could feel his body going tense with anger. “Rulers – when there’s been a coup,” I said. I turned to look at him. “Jagor, I know it’s difficult, but—”
“So I’d go to...where? New York? London? Beg the government for asylum and live out my life in some townhouse writing angry polemics about our new masters?”
Would that be so bad?
I wondered. No danger. Jagor must have money in some Swiss bank account somewhere. I knew from the UN that there were any number of former rulers living in exile. “I’m not saying it’s right,” I said tightly. “But it would work, and we’d be together, and....”
And I don’t want to think about the alternative.
But he lapsed into silence and I knew what was going through his head.
“We can’t stay here. Jagor, we have no money.” I looked around at the bare apartment. “We have
nothing.
They’ll find us, and when they do they’ll kill us – or jail you for the rest of your life.” I pushed away from him so I could study his expression properly. His jaw was set: that wasn’t good.
“I’m not leaving my parents,” he said simply. He glared at me, daring me to challenge him. I knew he meant it: he’d rush headlong into some pointless bid to save them, one man against a literal army. Unless I stopped him.
I bit my lip. The last thing he needed was more guilt piled on him. But it was the only way to save him.
“What about me? What sort of treatment do you think I’ll get, when we’re captured?” Immediately his expression changed, the doubts starting. Hating myself for it, I pushed. “I’m the personal slave of the Prince: what do you think they’ll do to me?”
He dropped his eyes, his face haunted by the nightmares I’d just injected. I’d have to live with that, now. Eventually he said, “I could get you to the border. See you safely across.”
“I’m not leaving without you.” I was suddenly blinking back big, hot tears. “You know that.”
He put his head in his hands. “I can’t leave.”
I gently put an arm around him. “I know. But you have to.”
I figured I should leave it there: give him some space. I put my back against the wall and stretched my legs. Something burned on my back and I turned, trying to feel for it.
“What?” he asked, watching me. “Let me see.”
I shrugged the remains of the evening gown off my shoulders and crouched in front of him. I heard him draw his breath in. “What?” He didn’t speak for a second. “W
hat?”
“You’re cut – something must have hit you when the bomb went off – glass, maybe. It’s not deep, but it’s open. It needs cleaning and dressing.”
That wasn’t good. This whole block was derelict: I doubted there’d still be running water. I went through to the bathroom and tried a tap. Nothing.
We sat and stared at each other. “Even if we do go for the border,” he started, and my heart lifted, “We can’t do it yet. They’ll be watching the roads. We have to wait for at least a few days – we’ll need food, and water.”
“We can’t go to a hotel. We’re both pretty recognizable.” I looked at his torn dinner jacket. “Especially you, like that.” I looked out of the window – it was still early enough that the streets were empty. “If we’re going to go, we should do it now.”
***
We braved the bike again. Jagor’s driving wasn’t any better in daylight: and now I could see the asphalt rushing past. I clung onto Jagor with both hands, my head wedged against his back to stop the wind whipping my wig off. We rode towards the center of the city, looking for anything that might help us. When I saw a big chain supermarket, I thumped him on the shoulder.
“It’s not open yet,” he protested. “Even if it was, we can’t go in there. We’d be spotted straightaway.”
“Go around the back,” I told him. “I have an idea.”
***
A year ago, Gwen – being Gwen – had had a brief thing with an eco-warrior guy she’d met while he was protesting outside the UN. I think he got off on seducing someone from
the establishment
and she got off on having her bit of rough. It lasted about a month, until she got sick of only having the lights on in one room at a time.
One time, we’d been in some obscure Polish-themed coffee shop – I remember there was a girl in the corner playing the cello – and he’d told us all about being a Freegan.
***
“They throw lots of stuff away,” I explained to Jagor. “In the dumpsters.”
“I know,” he said, confused. “That’s what dumpsters are for.” He helped me over the wall and climbed over himself. Fortunately, freeganism hadn’t quite reached Asteria yet: there was no razor wire on the walls, or chains on the dumpsters.
I opened the first one. Cardboard, for recycling. I moved to the next. Garbage bags – they could have anything in them. Next one. I slid open the lid and found a small mountain of pre-packed sandwiches.
Jagor looked aghast. “Lucy, they’re
in the trash.”
“The stores have to throw them out on their sell-by date. They always build some leeway into these things.” I was reciting what eco-guy had told us. “Do you think the food magically turns poisonous one minute after they take it off the shelves?”
He looked half-disgusted, half concerned for my sanity. “Lucy, we
can’t!”
“It was a cold night last night,” I reasoned. “Almost as good as a refrigerator.” I rummaged. Egg mayo seemed risky: so did chicken. Cheese seemed a safe bet. I started pulling out packages and throwing them to him.
“But they’ve been in a dumpster,” he said, as if to a child. “With ants. And rats.”
“They’re
sealed.”
I pulled out something else. A microwave meal: pity we didn’t have any way to cook it. There were some bags of chips, though, and I threw those to him. There was no water, but there were some bottles of cola we could empty and refill.
I went to the next dumpster. We had enough food for a couple of meals, but I was hoping to find something else: the store was big enough to sell...
Yes!
Clothes.
I found something almost immediately, a loose-knit beige sweater festooned with “Sale’ stickers – it had been reduced and reduced and reduced and finally abandoned. I held it up, delighted.
He was gawping at me. “Clothes from the trash?” he asked weakly.
“Help me dig.”
***
When we left, Jagor was in a grey t-shirt and faded blue jeans that actually looked pretty good on him. There were no sweaters for him, but I found a couple of other t-shirts he could layer and – our best find by far – a parka-style jacket that just about fit him. The zipper was broken, but the buttons worked.
I’d found some jeans to go with the sweater and even a vest top to go underneath. We left the tuxedo and what was left of my evening gown behind, although Jagor kept his shirt to use as bandages. Best of all, I found a pair of huge sunglasses that hid most of my face.
As we changed, I saw the frustration on Jagor’s face. Not at me, I realized: at himself. He’d always been the provider, the organizer: always been there to supply me with a new wardrobe, or put together a surprise picnic at an hour’s notice. I loved that about him: the over-elaborate plans, the ways he found to surprise me. Now, without money or his army of staff to help him, he was feeling powerless. I winced. I probably hadn’t helped, getting so lucky with the dumpster diving.
We took off again on the bike. There were a few people around, now, but as long as we didn’t get too close I was reasonably sure we’d get away with it. Near a row of run-down stores, there was a sign for a public restroom. I got Jagor to pull over.
As we descended the dank stairs, I could sense Jagor’s unease. In truth, it was better than a lot of restrooms I’d seen in New York. But it still smelled, and when he saw the bare stainless steel sinks and the cubicles with the broken doors, he blanched.
I was going to joke about it, but something in his expression stopped me. It wasn’t just that he was appalled. He looked...
guilty.
He knew damn well he was sheltered and he was embarrassed about it. It hit me he’d likely never been inside a public restroom. I looked around the restroom again, as if seeing it for the first time. I tried to imagine what it would look like if all I’d ever known was marble and gold.
Urgh.
We scraped a wash – lucky for us, they had paper towels and not hand driers. He carefully washed the cut on my back with soap and tied a piece of his shirt across it. It was a long way from being sterile, but it was the best we had. I dumped out the cola and refilled the bottles with water.
Feeling slightly more human, we went back to the bare apartment and ate. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was: between us, we finished most of the food.
***
We spent the rest of the day there. He told me about growing up in Asteria, about life before his brother was killed. I told him about the UN and Gwen, and how I’d got into languages at school.