Deck the Palace (A Duched Series Holiday Novella), page 5
Me?
I spent most of my early adolescents in MINOH – Minors In Need Of Hope – and then was fortunate enough to be enrolled in Hannah’s Hope – the boarding school style orphanage – when it was officially established.
Chen?
Started and finished in an American branch of MINOH – there was not a Hannah’s Hope available for them yet.
Both of us were victims of sex trafficking.
I was six.
Never knew my biological father.
Was only worthy of being passed around as currency by the woman who birthed me.
She was focused on getting and staying high.
I was doing everything possible to stay hidden and not starve to death.
I still get a trigger response whenever I see or smell or even hear about cucumber sandwiches.
Chen – to continue our interesting comparison – was five.
Never knew his biological mum due to her dying during childbirth.
And his father?
Ripped away from him when he was deported courtesy of a so-called paperwork error.
At that point, he was not surrendered to foster care, but to the family his dad had done work for in the past.
From there, he was traded again and again and again whenever one “owner” grew bored or tiresome of his presence.
Like a bloody pet.
Their concerns were amusement and entertainment.
His was fleeing and trying to end his own life.
We each successfully escaped at age eight.
Found solace in the program.
Were taken – lovingly – under the arm of a paternal – essay word for the win – figure who for the first time in our lives wanted to nurture us rather than abuse.
I was blessed with Mum – er – um – Brie – a woman on her way to becoming a literal princess and Chen received Spirit “Suga” Chu, the wife or “old lady” of a man who belongs to a motorcycle kingdom – Camelot Misfits – therefore making her too, a princess of sort.
If you can follow that logic.
I know I could not originally.
“To answer your question – or at least what I believe you were attempting to phrase in the form of a question – I do not plan on doing anything.” I give the collar of my red and black flannel button up a tiny tug. “It is not my place to plan a relationship with someone else, particularly without their consent.”
“Consent is a non-negotiable,” Dad pipes in, brushing crumbs off his deep wine-colored suit jacket. “You both know that.”
“Yeah, but the thing is, the broadskie-”
“Honestly, must you call her that?” Annoyance immediately rises in my tone. “Must you refer to her like she’s some random jersey jerker that’s bestie to a Skin?”
“Is that English?” Dad teasingly pokes collecting my glare and Chen’s chuckles. “What dialect is that?”
“Athlete,” my mate loudly laughs prior to grabbing another cookie.
“Oh, jock talk,” awkwardly acknowledges the man still brushing away bits from his wardrobe.
“You ever play sports, Mr. K?”
“Lacrosse.”
“Meaning you had lacrostitutes.” He shoots him a pointed finger. “Which are the same things as Skins.”
Dad slowly shakes his head, dirty blond hair that’s similar to mine barely moving courtesy of the expensive product keeping it in pinned in place. “So many derogatory terms for young women.”
“Dudeskies have ‘em too!” Chen cheerfully acknowledges. “Like our brah version of Skins are Puckboys. For soccer-”
“Football,” we correct in tandem.
“-it’s jersey jockeys.” A proud grin grows across his dark feature bearing face. “Gender equality matters, Mr. K.”
Amusement doesn’t bother hiding itself in Dad’s expression. “I do not believe that is what people are referring to, Chen.”
His innocent brush off barely precedes him shoving the whole treat inside.
Our backgrounds?
Similar AF.
Our athletic journeys?
Same.
Both sports scholarship students.
Both enrolled to make the university “less” elitest.
Both top performers – and hated for it by upperclassmen.
The difference is that I play football – a far superior sport – and he plays hockey.
They give us shite.
We give them shite.
Occasionally it all goes too far; however, we are never involved in that rivalry.
It is moronic.
Besides, we care far too much about one another as people to let the style of our jerseys dictate who we let into our lives.
“Back to what I was sayin’,” Chen redirects the conversation while I resume my efforts of wrapping what is easily becoming my least favorite thing in existence to ever wrap.
The twins’ light up, music playing, and mist breathing dinosaurs “from Santa” were easier than this!
“The thing is,” my mate who now has me rethinking my decision about allowing him to join me on winter holiday, “Kay has been puck dropping ‘please WAG me’ hints the entire time I’ve known her-”
“WAG?” Dad confusedly interjects.
“Acronym,” escapes me in a mutter prior to crumbling the piece of retro paper that’s become too crinkled to be used.
“Thank you, Cliff. I appreciate your valiant effort to further prove your time at university is being well spent in class rather than at ragers,” Dad cheekily chortles.
“Daygers,” the other male in the room corrects. “Ragers are cheugy, fam.”
“And I thought learning American English for Brie and her parents was a nightmare,” Dad continues to chuckle. “You lot need a bloody translator attached to you.”
“You have one in your pocket,” Chen mirthfully reminds. “Google Translator drips. Even your family d-men think so! They use it when decidin’ if the pigeon chirpin’ is legit a threat or jus’ a rando pheasant.”
I reach for the roll of red and brown Ho Ho Ho paper and cut Dad off before he can continue this asinine conversation he has stumbled into. “The quickest way to end any discussion with a puckhead is to offer him food. They struggle to chew and think at the same time.”
My best mate laughs it off, yet the oldest male in the room smoothly offers, “Would you care for a fig with blue brie cheese?” He crosses the short distance over to the stainless-steel smart fridge with Goldie faithfully at his side. “Annaliese sent us home with the whirls while Andrew sent us home with the figs.” His hand winds around the handle. “Apparently – although I will not be repeating it where my wife can hear – they were not as popular during the ornament exchange as I had predicted they would be.”
Unfurling the object to the size I need is attached to an innocent thought. “Perhaps not everyone likes blue brie.”
“I’m in.” Chen greedily rubs his hands together. “I’m a secret foodie.”
“Where exactly is the secret?” is thrown out in between snickers.
“I would’ve been the best hype bud yesterday had we been here,” my mate energetically declares during Dad’s serving of the covered dish.
Likely.
And had we been here – instead of flying out late courtesy of the snowstorm that hit Vlasta which delayed our trip – I would have gotten to see Kay already.
We haven’t seen one another – face to face – in almost a week.
Doesn’t sound like long.
But tell that to my soul.
It swears it has been at least eighty-six eternities.
She was fortunate enough to leave early.
Perk of not being an athlete.
Double perk of being a member of the royal family is that she did not have to wait for one of the aircrafts to be available for transport nor fly commercial.
We did not have to do the latter either.
Perk of being…the…honorary son of a Prince.
We did however struggle with availability.
The holidays are quite intense around the kingdom.
It is why planning so far in advance is often required.
Missing the first event of the season was disappointing; however, the haphazardly glued together soccer ball ornament given to me by Great Uncle Fredrick and Great Aunt Lizzie to hang on the tree slightly made up for it.
It is a bloody disaster of a creation.
Which I don’t know.
Somehow makes it more meaningful?
Perhaps because I too made my own bloody disaster to gift someone, I love this holiday?
No, I do not mean the vintage car ornament I painted for Vincent, Dad’s security lead, but the gift I made for Katherine.
And I do love Katherine Kenningston.
As in…love, love.
As in…be mine forever love.
I have from the first moment we met.
From the first time her tiny, dainty, shaky little warm nude shaded fingers touched mine to hand me a napkin at Mum and Dad’s baby shower.
It may have been the faintest brush, yet there was no denying my heart belonged to her.
Even if hers would never belong to me.
Likely will never.
I may be tied to royalty, but I most certainly am not.
I don’t possess any of the poise or grace or wealth that comes with the territory of being a born royal.
I am merely an imposter.
The Aladdin amongst everyone else, only my Jasmine is aware that I am indeed nothing more than a well reformed “street rat”.
She does not hate me for it.
However, I struggle to imagine she wouldn’t be embarrassed by it if we were ever to be together.
And that…sadly…is a May Day Stadium sized if.
Dad casually removes the lid to the dish, allowing Chen to reach for a piece of fruit at the same time he says, “You and Kay are so into each other, I like can’t wrap my mind around why you two aren’t a fucking thing already.” Moving the treat closer to his lips occurs. “Is it ‘cause you can’t be? ‘Cause you’d be like kissing cousins and that’s some backwoods ‘Bama shit you ain’t into?”
Momentarily stopping post grabbing the scissors is done. “Eat your fig.”
“Oh, I’m gonna eat this shit,” he insists and chomps down violently, “and you’re gonna tell me I’m right about the bangin’ cousins thing.”
“We are not technically cousins.”
“Since her dad is Trenton and your dad is his nephew…that math that you’re mathing ain’t mathing, bro.”
“That is because you are bloody terrible at math.”
Dad chuckles on his own treat retrieval.
“Dad – Kellan – is not my biological father,” my fingers begin to carefully cut the remeasured paper, “and he is not legally my guardian either.” The clipping sounds act like a dramatic soundtrack I did not request. “Therefore, my…connection to the other royal members of the bloodline is honorary-”
“No one considers him honorary,” interjects the man who undoubtedly aided in saving my life. “And they would have me as well as my father to answer to if they did.”
Grandpa – which I was told I must call him just like all the other grandchildren – pushed the hardest to get me to reconsider being officially adopted.
Officially a Kenningston.
He wanted me to attend university with the name I not only belonged to but with the privileges it would carry.
He wanted – and still wants – only the best for all of us.
I declined.
And I will keep declining.
One, because pride is a bitch of a thing and part of me needs to know I can succeed on my own.
The other?
I lowkey wanna become a Kenningston only when I marry the girl of my dreams.
I have no qualms of taking her last name, nor would I about our children bearing it.
All I ask in that department is that they are to come out healthy.
Remain healthy.
Although, if they just so happen to grow an infinity for football, crêpes, or indigenous/tribal culture documentaries, I will or would – depending on the right tense of this hypothetical – be extremely grateful they share similar interests with me.
“Kay,” I proceed, finally convinced I have enough paper to make this frustrating situation work, “is Great Uncle Trenton’s biological daughter-”
“But not with the lady he just got engaged to, right?”
“Correct.” Folding over the left flap is accompanied by my next statement. “Kay’s mother is a French actress who has never been in her life, nor has she wanted to be. Full custody went to Great Uncle Trenton early on and boarding school became the steadiest home she had ever known.” It’s impossible to ignore the pang in my heart along with the sadness in Dad’s stare. “Dad is her biological cousin – they are blood relatives – who has been present since her birth while I only came into the picture a few years back. We did not grow up together. We were not raised around one another. And truthfully, it was not until we began attending the same university – in a different country – that our friendship even had the opportunity to take the course that it has.”
Chen hums, sucks the cheese off his finger, nods, and reaches for a second. “That shit sounds really fucked up.”
“Are you bloody terrible at history too?” Dad cheekily pokes between bites. “This is all fairly vanilla for royalty. You want twisted and complicated? Read up on the Ptolemaic Dynasty or the Habsburg.”
“I’ll audio it for the plane, fam.”
Oh, he most certainly will.
Chen – albeit questionably coherent in general – has an actual secret love of listening to audio books.
Often his teammates believe he’s listening to hype music when he’s really cup deep in a spy thriller or biography.
“And you,” my best mate shoves the remaining piece all the way into his mouth, “need to jus’ shoot the fuckin’ puck already. You know what The Great One says about the shots you don’t take.”
“Forfuckssake, please do not quote Gretzky at me right now,” I grumble in tandem with ripping a piece of tape free.
“Remind me again why I just had to wrestle two toddlers into dresswear when they are not going to the ballet?” Mum gripes upon entering the kitchen behind Killian and Kalum who instantly bum-rush the dog for hugs.
“Photo ops,” Dad answers, grin instantly growing the way it always does when she walks into a room.
Does not matter what she’s wearing.
Does not matter if she’s smiling or scowling.
She’s there?
He lights up.
I am the exact same way about Kay.
And like Mum, I highly doubt she notices.
“I hate those words,” Mum gags prior to sneering even more. “And I hate those fig things. They smell and look gross.”
“They’re pretty effing great, Mrs. K,” Chen insists and offers one to the boys. “Right little broskies?”
“Bleh,” Killian immediately states on a pushing of his hand away.
“Your son,” Dad teasingly taunts and lifts up Kalum.
“Up,” demands Killian, hands frantically tugging Chen’s jeans.
“Your son.” Mum mimics before fussing, “Manners, Killian.”
His little nose scrunches to his forehead as he signs the word, “Pwease.”
“Diggskies the signing, bud,” compliments my best mate after scooping him up, Goldie’s wet nose nudging his rearend, doing his best to assist in the lifting process. “You’re gonna have to teach me some.”
“Ceese,” Kalum cheerfully requests alongside the same hand motion, “pwease.”
“No.” Adjusting him around allows Dad to grab another fig with his dominant hand. “I am not comfortable giving you my car keys to play with.”
“Cheese, Dad.” Kalum shoots me a look of what is obviously gratitude. “He wants a cheese snack.”
“And I want to know,” Mum meanders her way closer, red and green flowy plaid dress swaying, “why you’re still wrapping that thing when you’re supposed to be leaving in five minutes?”
“I cannot quite,” the urge to crumple the paper and start over returns, “get it to…” turning it a fraction doesn’t help, “become completely covered while maintaining a bit of its mystery.”
“Did putting it in a box that’s easier to wrap ever cross your mind?”
There’s no stopping my jaw – or my shoulders – from plummeting in defeat.
No.
No, it damn well did not.
“Ah,” the woman I instantly bonded with the first time I met her at the shelter program sassily coos, “and you are also your dad’s kid.”
“I would never lose that hard to wrapping paper.”
“You’ve lost harder to gift bags,” Mum sing song sells him out while retreating to the next room to grab the suggested object.
“Which also would work,” Dad winks as Kalum grabs a palm full of cheese cubes from a small bowl.
“Dudeeeeeee!” shouts Chen unexpectedly. “No biting!”
Our attention rolls over to where Killian is struggling to look innocent when it’s clear he’s not.
“Killian,” my voice sinks, sternness unmistakable, “did you just bite my best mate?”
He scrunches his nose a second time.
Goldie loudly barks, wordlessly demanding the toddler fesses up.
At that, he frowns harder.
Nods.
“Did you give him an ouchie?”
The littlest troublemaker of the group inspects Chen’s extended hand to see his marks. Afterward, he offers him a sincere, “Sowwry.”
“Teeth are for food,” I remind at the same time I motion for him to come sit on the bench beside me. “Not family.”
His exasperated flop down precedes Dad putting a cheese cube on the table.
“Food,” is accompanied by me pointing.
“Fam,” Chen repeats the action I executed except inward.
“Food,” Killian echoes and chomps on the cheese.
“Box,” Mum playfully proclaims when she puts it down in front of me.
Laughter echoes around the light gray and white modern chic style kitchen I recall dad spending weeks renovating.
It is actually my favorite room in the house.
Yes, I have my own room here, of course. It is where I stayed whenever I wasn’t at the orphanage and now stay since the days there are completed; however, there is just something about this room that I adore.
