American Prince

I mean, I didn’t mind the deep squats so much.

A good man would have cleaned up, given Ash a drink, and unselfishly listened to everything he needed to say. A good man wouldn’t grab Ash’s still wet shirt and drag him into the bedroom for more. A good man wouldn’t spend the next five hours in rough, filthy embraces without any thought of the ring still on Ash’s finger.

But I already told you at the beginning of the story:

I am not a good man.

I have to become more than a prince.

I have to become a king myself.

“You have a son, Ash. With Morgan. His name is Lyr, and he’s fourteen years old. He has green eyes and black hair and a pretty face—he should, shouldn’t he? Since he gets it from both sides, after all.”

I am not a good man.

When I was twenty-nine, I met a princess.

Her heart was broken, and so was mine. She had a raspberry dress, I had bright blue pants and deck shoes. She had tears and I had a hand to wipe them away. She had something she wanted to give me and I had something I wanted to take.

I don’t deserve joy or beaches or a New Camelot.

I serve at the pleasure of the President.

“You’re beautiful in the moonlight,”

Someday I’ll see what the great hero gets to enjoy every night.

I have not had a challenge in a very long time.