Broken Prince: A New Adult Romance Novel (7 page)

"It's terrible, how these people love to carp over such trivialities," Marta said. "Don't ever read the newspaper."

"I try not to. But the economy has gone under," Eliot said. "They're probably right to focus on spending issues."

"Members of the National Assembly don't deserve to be insulted like that," Marta said. "Especially Otto! He works so hard!"

"Of course he does," Eliot agreed. Privately he knew that Otto spent less time at the office than Marta believed: many of his "meetings" were afterhours drinking parties with all of the other good old boys in the Assembly.

"Besides, there are so many other problems in this city. Have you heard about the riots?"

"I try not to read the newspaper," Eliot said, smiling.

"It's just terrible," Marta said decisively. She pulled in front of the salon and parked illegally on the street.

"One of these days your car will be towed," Eliot said, getting out of the Ferrari. "And you'll have to walk home."

"That's what cabs are for," Marta sniffed. "Anyway, nobody would tow a car with government plates."

Eliot sighed and held the glass door open for Marta. He walked in after her, his head tilted down. Still, one of the customers sitting on the couch did a double take when they saw his scarred face.

"—supposed to be a private appointment," Marta was saying to the receptionist. The receptionist nodded and went over to the customer. Eliot touched Marta's arm.

"There's no need—I don't require so much privacy."

"Nonsense," Marta said. "People stare. I hate it."

Eliot swallowed hard, but before he could respond, the stylist came out of the back.

"Welcome, Dr. Herceg!" he said, bouncing over to Eliot. "Please, come this way."

Eliot let himself be led into the back. Marta and the stylist chattered eagerly about his hair while he waited patiently, nodding in mute agreement whenever Marta suggested a course of action. When he sat in the stylist's chair, however, he flinched at his reflection in the mirror. The scar on the right side of his face broke his visage in two. The white seam ran from his hairline down to where the hairstylist had attached the collar of the cape around his neck. He hadn't looked in a mirror in full light for a long time; to see his face in stark brightness made him inhale sharply. No wonder people stared.

The scissors began to snip away dark locks of his hair, but his eyes were transfixed by the puckered skin of his scar. His lip lifted in a grimace unconsciously as he sat there, forced to look at himself.

"Now don't worry," the stylist said, concerned by Eliot's expression. "When it's done you'll be just fine."

"That's not it," Eliot said, frowning. "I trust you, I just—"

A shout rang out from outside the salon, then another. Eliot turned his head to see what the commotion was about, almost poking his eye into the scissors.

"Hold still," the stylist said.

"What on earth is that?" Marta said. She walked towards the glass windows of the salon, and when she looked outside her hand flew to her mouth.

"Eliot!" she cried.

A woman outside screamed. Eliot tore the hairstylist cape off of his neck and ran toward Marta, who was pulling open the door. When he got there, he saw what had made her cry out.

It was a protest of a few dozen people carrying signs, but two of the men were kicking the side of the Ferrari. Pedestrians quickly ran away from the scene. A second passed before Eliot could make out what the men were yelling.

"Down with government scum!"

"Filthy pigs!"

Marta began to step outside, but Eliot pulled her back just as someone threw a bottle at the door. It shattered on the frame and sprayed glass shards across both of them. Marta shrieked.

"There they are!"

"Criminals! All of you, criminals!"

Eliot swung the door shut and locked the deadbolt just as one of the protesters came up to the salon. The man pounded on the glass with a sign that read "No More Government Spending!"

"Open up, swine!"

The receptionist was already on the phone with the police. "Come quick! Quick! They're angry...they want to kill us!" she said, her voice near hysteria. "Please send the police. Send all the police you can!"

"Go away!" Marta screamed at the protesters through her tears. "Leave us alone!"

Eliot took her in his arms and pushed her toward the back of the salon. Her hair still had glass shards in it, and he tried not to cut her accidentally. The crowd had moved to the front windows, and the pounding shook the walls.

"Is there a back room?" Eliot asked the stylist. The man was staring blankly at the protesters outside, an expression of terror on his face. "Hey! Is there a back room?" Eliot shook the man's shoulder.

"Yes...yes," the man said. "The storage closet."

"Let's go!" Eliot shouted. The receptionist joined them and they made their way to the back, piling into the small storage room. Marta huddled in the corner and the stylist locked the door behind them, his fingers shaking as he turned the key. The pounding on the glass was still audible in the room, the thuds of the crowd reaching their ears through the door only slightly muted. Shelves lined the walls of the storage room, and the vibrations from the pounding made the bottles of dye and shampoo rattle against each other. The air in the small room smelled of hair setting product and bleach, a chemical smell that made Eliot's eyes water with its intensity.

"Why?" Marta cried. Her eyes were wild.
"Why
?"

"Hush," Eliot said. "Just stay calm until the police get here." Outside he projected an air of coolness, but secretly he wondered what would happen to them if the police failed to get there in time. A mob, once it turned violent, had no reason behind it. If the glass windows broke, it would not be hard for them to kick down the flimsy interior door. He only hoped that it would slow them enough for the police to arrive.

Marta sank down to the floor, one of her heels hanging off of her foot. Eliot crouched down next to her and began to pick the shards of glass out of her hair.

"Eliot," she said, looking up at him. Her voice was oddly quiet against  the pounding and roar of the crowd outside. "Eliot, you'll protect us."

"Yes," he said. His hand was cupped, holding the glass fragments as delicately as if they were diamonds. "Don't worry. I won't let anyone hurt you."

At the end of his sentence Eliot looked up. Something strange had happened. He realized after a second that the pounding had ceased. The crowd still roared, but the walls were not vibrating anymore.

"The police must be here," the receptionist said. Her eyes radiated a panicked relief. "We're safe."

"Should I open the door?" the stylist asked. He seemed uncertain.

"Wait," Eliot said. "I'm not sure—"

A crash from outside the room made the end of his sentence unnecessary. Marta screamed and scrambled backwards against the wall like a cornered animal. Eliot started as he heard the glass windows shatter, his fingers jerking tightly over the glass shards. Feeling the sharp pain, he dropped the handful of glass on the floor.

"Your hand," the stylist said. Eliot looked down to see blood dripping from his palm. The receptionist handed him a towel from one of the shelves, and he pressed the towel against the wound.

The crowd's yells were louder now that they were not muffled by the glass windows, and Eliot tensed, stepping in front of Marta to shield her if need be. Surely the crowd would be inside and through the door at any moment. Surely the wood would splinter and crack inwards. Adrenaline pumped through Eliot's body, and every muscle of his stood at attention.

They waited for the crowd to come storming in. Nothing happened. Eliot heard the faint sound of sirens.

"Oh, thank god," the receptionist said.

Eliot looked down at his hand, still wrapped in the towel. The blood had soaked through the fabric, staining it a bright scarlet. His eyes refocused on the crack under the door, and immediately knew why the crowd had not stormed the salon. Smoke was coming in underneath the door crack.

Marta shrieked as she saw the smoke, and pressed herself farther back against the shelves. The sirens sounded louder now, just outside the salon.

"We have to get out." Eliot pulled Marta to her feet, but she resisted.

"No! You can't go out there!" she cried. The stylist unlocked the door and looked back to Eliot.

"We can try the back exit," the receptionist said. Her voice quavered, but she was ready to get out. The smoke grew thicker, ribbons of white coming in under the door. Eliot's eyes burned.

"Yes," Eliot said. "Ready?" He grabbed Marta's arm to pull her. She clutched his arm but stopped resisting.

"Go!" Eliot cried, and the stylist threw open the door. Clouds of opaque smoke billowed into the small room, and a rush of heat washed over Eliot's face. He couldn't see anybody from the mob, which was no surprise since he couldn't see anything. He held Marta's hand tightly and turned to follow the stylist, but in front of them the heat intensified.

"Out the front!" Eliot said, coughing through the words. The stylist and receptionist turned and both disappeared into the smoke, leaving the two of them behind. Eliot followed in their direction, walking carefully across the salon with Marta behind him. With so much smoke in his eyes, all he could see were glimpses of daylight from the windows. His shoes crunched the shattered glass on the floor. His throat burned with the smoke—something chemical must have caught fire; the sting was acrid—and he felt Marta lean against him for support. Sirens blared in his ears as though they were inches away. Just a few more steps...

He hit the doorframe with his foot and stumbled sideways just as he felt Marta pitch forward. He caught her falling and lifted her limp body against his shoulder. The stylist and receptionist had already escaped, he hoped, and he staggered forward with Marta's weight out of the clouds of smoke and into the street. The air cleared, and Eliot saw where the siren noise came from: a half-dozen police cars circling the salon and blocking off the rioters and news reporters. A fire truck rounded the corner, engine roaring. Marta coughed and spat, and Eliot eased her to her knees in the center of the street. The mob's noise dulled to a mute din in Eliot's ears as he crouched down beside her.

"Are you alright?" Eliot asked. Marta nodded her head in a jerking motion before falling into another coughing fit. Eliot held her by the shoulders as she heaved. Surely an ambulance would be coming. He looked around frantically. Video cameramen and photographers crowded around the police barricade, the black lenses following Eliot and Marta. Rioters ran away from the scene.

"It's alright," Eliot said. He looked around at the mob of people swirling around the street. Smoke billowed out of the salon storefront, and the sirens flashed red and blue, the klaxons deafening. He saw Marta's white Ferrari, the windows smashed, the seats smoldering. The rioters had set it on fire.

"It's going to be alright," Eliot repeated, and he wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Marta, or himself.

CHAPTER TEN

Brynn

“For small creatures such as we, the vastness is bearable only through love.”

Carl Sagan

I didn't believe Csilla. I didn't believe the newspaper. But when I looked through the news archives on my phone, I found articles—dozens of them—talking about Eliot's trial. And then I came to one article where I had to look up a word in the headline.
Gyónás
.
Confession
. I shut my phone and jumped when it rang immediately. It was my grandmother.

"Hi Nagyi," I said, forcing brightness into my voice. "How are you?"

"I am well," Nagyi said. "How about you? How is your prince?"

"He's doing well," I said, my face turning warm as I thought about what I had just learned about him. "Working hard."

"I hope he's been supportive of you after...after everything that happened to you."

"He's been wonderful," I said. It wasn't hard to sound earnest—Eliot had done everything for me in the weeks after I was sexually assaulted. He'd come close to me when I'd asked him to hold me the one time I needed him to. He'd backed off when I told him that I wasn't ready to be with him in that way, even giving me my own room to make sure he wouldn't be any kind of pressure. Sure, he'd been more irritable, but that was to be expected after all of the issues he'd had working on the mathematical proof. I was still thinking about his embrace, about how nice it had been to sleep with him, when my Nagyi's voice came into my ear again.

"Sorry, Nagyi," I said. "What was that?"

"You can stop sending me money for the medicine."

"Oh? Did the doctors say you don't need it anymore?"

"Ah, no," Nagyi said. "They didn't. I...I actually haven't been able to get my medicine this week."

"What
? Why not? You got the money I sent, right?" I had sent the wire transfer last week with the money I'd gotten back from returning some of the clothes Marta had given me.

"Yes, yes, thank you so much. No, it's the insurance company. They're refusing to pay for their percentage. They say it's not a necessary expense."

"Didn't your doctor say it would help prevent strokes? You have a prescription!"

"They're absolutely refusing. The medicine would cost six times as much without insurance," she said. "I've talked with everyone—the hospital, the doctors, a thousand different people from the insurance company—and they keep telling me it will be weeks, maybe months, before I could appeal the decision."

I was shocked. I knew that Nagyi's doctor bills were expensive, but there was no way I could give her thousands of dollars without Eliot noticing. I would have to ask him.

"Brynn?"

"Can you get at least some of the medicine? To last you a few days?"

"I don't want you to worry. I think I'll be fine," Nagyi said, her voice crackling over the line. "The doctors said that it would only lower the risk of my having a stroke. And I feel very healthy!"