Duched (Duched #1) Read online

  Just as I unlock the front door, my roommate, Jovi and her boyfriend, Merrick, are coming out of her room on the opposite side of the apartment.

  “There you are!” She exclaims joyfully.

  She's just naturally cheerful. We first met in A Thousand Words, A Thousand Pictures, a class I swear whose sole purpose is to weed out those who only picked art as a major because they thought it was going to be easy. At that time her joy seemed forced, but after her boyfriend moved to town, I realized she was just love sick. She's been a bright ray of sunshine ever since she's been back in his arms.

  Jovi's mocha colored face instantly becomes concerned. “You're home late.”

  “And messier than normal,” Merrick chuckles.

  Stop staring...He's not that attractive. I mean...I guess if you're into the hot, tattooed, bad boy thing with a heart of gold or whatever. Yeah, I'm full of shit. He's a hottie and madly in love with my adorable roommate. They're so cute sometimes it's sickening.

  After flashing him my middle finger, I sigh, “Relax. I'm fine. Margret just happened to decide today would be the perfect day for me to clean on top and underneath the tables.”

  He immediately teases, “And the white splotches on your shirt? They're not from the principal are they?”

  Jovi lightly hits him in his lower stomach.

  As you can see he's got a mouth. And he's cocky. And charismatic. It's a really terrible combination. I honestly don't understand how she decides when it's time to kiss his face or slap it.

  “Dean,” I correct with a sarcastic smirk. “And no. This is what happens when teenagers get pissy and don't pay attention to what they're doing.”

  “So not a food fight?” Merrick jokes again.

  With a glare, I snap, “Please, tell me you're leaving.”

  “Yeah,” he turns his black baseball cap around before adding, “but you're coming with us.”

  “I'm sorry, what?”

  “Merrick got us all tickets a few weeks ago to The Treme showing at the Flatone gallery,” Jovi attempts to spring the memory. “Remember?”

  He drapes his arm around her black coat covered shoulder. “Because I'm an amazing boyfriend.”

  Jovi looks up at him. “Sweet.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “Thoughtful.”

  “Incredible.”

  “And humble too,” I add with another fake smirk.

  It takes him a minute to realize the joke.

  Okay, so not always the brightest. Just proof no one's perfect.

  He drops his jaw in preparation to retort when Jovi continues, “Come on, Brie. You've been dying to see this showing as much as I have.”

  “But my feet are dying more,” I counter in a whine. “Plus, I've got a test to study for and need to work on my final portfolio project that I haven't even started and-”

  “All of which you can do after the showing,” Jovi sweetly argues. She slips out of her boyfriend's grasp and makes her way towards me. “Look, we won't even stay long. We'll go grab a quick burger, swing by the showing, and make sure to have you home before ten o'clock.”

  Her big brown eyes suddenly become irresistible.

  Ugh. They're made for each other. Between her pout and his charm, I swear they could take over the world.

  “Please?”

  “Fine,” I sigh. “Let me get the smell of apples and adolescents off of me first.”

  Jovi squeals over her victory.

  Maybe a glass of wine and spending some time staring at former Ashwin University graduate's art pieces is exactly what I need. A blunt reminder of what I'm working so hard to one day possibly achieve. Maybe I'll be inspired to move in a new direction. See a route to take with my passion. A path I haven't seen before. Because as of right now, I'm months away from a BA in Art with absolutely no fucking clue what to do with the rest of my life. Hell, what I want to do for that matter. Who knows....maybe being at the showing will give my life the little nudge it needs. Can't blame a woman for hoping, right?

  Kellan

  I shove my hands into the pockets of my black suit pants. “Remind me one more time, why exactly we're here. You know I hate art like this.”

  “Because Dana made me swear I'd take her,” Hugh huffs as he swipes two glasses of champagne.

  Taking one, I question, “Is this some sort of power play? Is she with-holding sex from you? Using it as a weapon in her pursuit to control your life?”

  His head tilts at me. “Speaking from personal experience?”

  “Of course not,” I lightly chuckle. “You should know by now my dick is the ultimate weapon and it's always loaded.”

  He lifts his glass and mumbles behind a sip. “Horrific.”

  Hugh Delmar and I have been mates since his parents shipped him to boarding school at thirteen. Apparently, he had an early addiction to stealing his mother's prescription pills and a fascination with fondling her friends. Shipping him out of his country to ours might not directly fix the issues he so clearly had, but it would at least prevent the media from watching him self-destruct his way through puberty. While Hugh's hatred for his parents continued to grow over the feeling of abandonment, according to his therapy sessions he told me about in mocking, but he found solace in a new sport. His first week at school I caught him staring in confusion at the game of lacrosse and offered to explain it, after poking fun at his atrocious American accent of course.

  “Look,” Hugh begins with a heavy sigh. “I really like Dana.”

  “You really like every woman you date. You're a serial dater.”

  “You say that because you're afraid of monogamy.”

  “I say that because you're afraid of being alone.”

  He shakes his head. “I really like Dana. She's different-”

  “Three tits?”

  “She's smart. Kind. Has a job. Doesn't live off her trust fund. And she would rather become a lesbian than sleep with you.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Direct quote.” He beams. “I'd really like to see where this goes, which happens to mean doing things she enjoys. Like art showings.”

  “Why can't she enjoy things that are actually fun? Like white water rafting?”

  “You hate white water rafting. You hate how it frizzes your hair.”

  He makes that sound so feminine.

  “True, but you know what I mean.”

  “I know you're being a pain my ass because you're bored.”

  “Extremely. Art showings are by definition boring.”

  They are! Splotches of paint covering a piece of canvas? Oooo....Call the No One Really Gives A Damn Police and let them know one of their most wanted figures has escaped.

  “Well, Dana enjoys them and since you showed up a day earlier than anticipated you're going to have to deal with it.”

  It was either leave a day early or spend it listening to my father drone on over appropriate and acceptable public behaviors. At least this way, there's the possibility for fun. What do you mean do I mean fun or sex? They are the same thing, aren't they?

  After he has another sip, he tries to reassure me, “No need to worry. We probably won't be here too long. She really just wants to meet Treme and purchase one of his pieces.”

  “To sit comfortably above your kennel?”

  He rolls his green eyes. “I'm sure you can find something here to occupy your attention and make the headline of a bullshit blog.”

  I have another sip and smirk. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “Yes.” Seeing Dana head our direction, his smile expands and he commands through gritted teeth, “Now, make this portion of the evening tolerable or I'll let Dana play matchmaker for the rest of your trip making life absolutely miserable for you.”

  “You're a bastard.”

  “And that's why we're friends,” he mumbles before asking loudly, “Have you met Treme yet, babe?

  Babe? Bit trite of a nickname for someone who claims they're head over heels.

  “No,” she
pouts and moves into his embrace. “He's surrounded by women worshiping his every move. I can't get even get close enough to call out his name and potentially be heard.”

  Hugh's face seems to fall. “I'm sorry, babe. What can I do?”

  He sounds genuine. How unexpected...

  “Would you like me to send Kellan that direction? Give the women something else to follow around for the evening?”

  With an amused expression, I ask, “Did you just offer me up as a sacrifice?”

  He gives me a quick glance. “Yes.”

  “You didn't even hesitate.”

  “You didn't exactly object.”

  Deeming his point fair causes me to nod and have another sip of champagne.

  Even those who don't recognize exactly who I am in this country, still have no problem coming after me. Guess I look close enough like someone who should matter even without trying. Hey, I'm not egoistical. I was simply stating an observation.

  “Would you?” Dana's overly thinned eyebrows shoot up. “Would you just stand in their general eye range? I'm sure it would distract enough of them for me to actually ask about the painting I want before another buyer beats me to it.”

  Hugh gives me a stern expression.

  He looks constipated, doesn't he?

  “Fine,” I sigh and have another sip. “I've been meaning to give Swiss a reason to earn his pay.”

  Swiss is my security detail in charge of following me around whenever I enter the states. We pay to keep his calendar free considering I have no defined schedule and my father requires all members of the royal family to travel in public with protection. I believe it's ridiculous to have that rule while I'm here. Outside of the major cities that are heavily populated by celebrities, most people rarely recognize this face as anything other than a bed mate they desire. Hell, until Kristopher married Sophia whose father is American, most of this country didn't give a shit about Doctenn's socialites. Which is interesting considering the impressive mix of their language and culture has been smashed into ours for generations. However, the minute an American woman began dating an actual prince, their interest spiked, turning our royal family into a constant trending topic for this country as well as our own. Guess I should work on keeping my pants up or the curtains closed, hm? From the messages my brother has been sending me today, my little stunt is gaining me more attention than ever before. Apparently, the naked blonde who sent the photo yesterday is an American actress this country adores. Can't say I feel the same. Her cock sucking ability lacked focus and effort. Hope she gives more energy in rehearsing her lines than she does in foreplay.

  Dana quickly squeals, “Thank you, Kellan! Thank you so much!”

  I give her a wink and stroll off towards the left where a group of overly eager women are gathered around a thin man with intricate designs buzzed into his jet-black hair.

  This should be relatively easy.

  Sauntering Treme's direction with my glass in one hand and the other in my pocket, I scan the gallery in hopes of finding someone to pass the time with.

  As you can see my best mate's mission is to please his girlfriend for probably the next hour and as I might've mentioned before, I find art dreadfully boring. You might not feel that's necessary to repeat, but quite frankly it is. Keep your hopes up that I find someone who feels as equally annoyed by the subject so that we can sneak away together. Perhaps on the balcony. It's been awhile since I've made out with anyone on a balcony.

  I prepare to pause just behind the man of the evening when a pair of long, latte colored legs glide into my view. My eyes waste no time roaming down her backside that is presented to me. I'm immediately intrigued by the shoulder tattoo I can't quite make out from this distance and pleased with the deliciously round ass being displayed in an unusual black cocktail dress.

  It is unusual, isn't it? Between the way it has one thin strap while the other is thick and how it seems to purposely hug her hips tightly yet loosely fall to the back of her knees suggests the designer was indecisive. Or perhaps, the designer made it for women who were indecisive. You know, women who struggle to make decisions happen to adore me. I have no problem taking control.

  I casually move her direction, continuing my observation while nursing the glass of champagne. The woman, who hasn't changed art displays yet, tilts her head to one side as if in contemplation.

  When I arrive beside her, I paste my attention on the piece of so called art, and question, “Deciding whether it looks like a swan or duck?”

  “Actually, I was wondering why this one was done with pastels while the majority of the others were done with watercolors.”

  “Maybe he got bored.”

  “Maybe this one means more to him.”

  Oh...Lucky me. She's actually into art. Figures, one way or another I would be forced to pretend that any of this shit is remotely fascinating. At least with her it might end with the two of us mixing paints....You like what I did there? Fine. It wasn't my most clever moment.

  “And the answer is a swan,” she states giving me a quick smirk before strolling away. “Obviously...”

  Her remark causes me to grin in return and follow.

  Maybe she won't be as dull as I was assuming.

  This time when we stop in front of a display, I ask, “What about this one? A game of Twister gone awry?”

  The corner of her lip tugs upward.

  She has a sense of humor. I like that...

  “Should I go ahead and put my right hand on red?”

  “Abstract art is an acquired taste.” She turns and gives me a snarky smirk. “Like dating you, I imagine.”

  Not sure if I'm more impressed with her remark or the speed at which she had it ready to deliver.

  “Actually, everyone loves me. I'm like a coloring book. Easy to enjoy.”

  She swiftly counters, “You're more like finger paint. So simple it's irritating for anyone with a mental capacity past Kindergarten.”

  I drop my mouth at the same time there's a tug on my arm. “Excuse me.” When I turn to view the interruption, I'm not surprised to see a woman with long blonde hair and a barely there red dress. “Did you drop my number?”

  “See,” the brown skinned beauty whispers seconds before the sound of her heels moving redirects my attention.

  Don't agree with her.

  Politely, I remove my arm from the stranger's grasp to follow the other woman. “Actually, I was in the middle of a conversation with-”

  “Not interested,” the woman calls over her shoulder as she turns the corner.

  Of course she's interested. She's just playing hard to get. And I'm not fucking finger paint. Or paint by numbers. I heard that!

  The blonde tries to stop me again, but her words don't register. I turn the corner the same direction the dark-haired woman did yet am not instantly rewarded with her appearance. On a curious hum, I continue to examine the crowd on this side of the exhibit, which is filled with what appear to be portraits. While part of my attention is being summoned to give the bright paintings a glance, the other is determined to find where the coffee colored female went, not only to prove her wrong, but to get the last word in the conversation.

  Bad habit. What can I say? When arguing I happen to have a compulsive need to have the last word.

  All of a sudden, a couple steps into my pathway exposing the hiding minx.

  With a pleased smirk, I move into the position beside her, and state, “Hiding?”

  She doesn't bother looking my direction. “Following?”

  “Perhaps,” I reply and have another sip. “Are you a fan of Treme?”

  To my surprise, she questions, “As a person or an artist?”

  “Either.”

  “Not really.”

  Her answer arches my eyebrows.

  “He attended the same university as me. We actually started at the same time but because he never had a problem scraping up tuition, he graduated long before me.” The slight bitterness in her tone is unmistakable.
“He was a talented asshole then and from what I've manage to overhear him say to the groupies at his feet tonight, he's a talented rich asshole now.”

  Curiosity gets the better of me. “If you despise him-”

  “I never said that.”