Page 6 of Royal Crush
I was. I pushed up to sit, used my arm to tuck my legs to my chest, then felt the burn in my biceps as I scooted my ass all the way across the mat to my chair. Getting up was old hat now. I still fell every now and again, but it was usually when people were watching and I was trying to show off.
Today was as simple as getting in and out of bed—a task that used to take ten seconds and now took ten minutes. But ten minutes was better than the hour it was when I was first learning all this shit.
“Plans for the day?” Janae asked, grabbing their water bottle and handing mine off to me.
I shrugged. “Meeting with my manager so we can schedule in this new bullshit consultation job I have.”
“You’re so angry about it. Shouldn’t you be glad they agreed to have you on set?”
“Theyshouldhave hired one of the thousands of disabled actors who could have done the role.”
They grimaced. “I mean, fair. But at least they went for a star, right?”
I snorted as I took a drink and almost choked. “If by star, you mean some washed-up former kid actor looking for a comeback? Then yeah.” I hadn’t known anything about Aleric King aside from the fact that he’d been retired for almost two decades.
The fact that his name was AlericKingwas bad enough.
But the moment I learned he was just some able-bodied, pompous asshole looking for his Emmy moment, I refused to give a shit. I had his basic bio: a child actor who got heavy into drugs, had a meltdown on camera, was banned from cinema for ten years, and was now trying to work his way back to the award circuit.
And that was enough.
Those handfuls of words were all I’d ever need to know about Aleric King.
I didn’t care if he was hot. Hell, I didn’t even care if he was talented. I cared that he was wrong for the part, and nothing would ever change my mind about that.
My therapist might say those were famous last words, but in this case, I knew I was right. I was tired of people making money off stories like mine—winning awards and inspiring millions—while also leaving people like me out of the fucking conversation.
The studio tried to butter me up by pointing out how my book sales had gone up since the announcement of the show, but I didn’t give a shit about that. The only reason—and I mean theonlyreason—that I was giving my time to those people was that they’d agreed to make sure my character was gay.
My parents had tried to negotiate bisexuality. My mother pitched a two-episode arc where my character got some on-screen kisses with a man before introducing a woman love interest. Luckily, before I could take her to task for that, the studio said no.
“We want authenticity,” some nameless, faceless cog told them.
They wanted authenticity on paper—for sound bites and interview quotes. But I wasn’t going to try and fight them anymore. It was pointless, and the last thing I wanted to do was torment my lawyer by keeping him eyeballs-deep in paperwork for this.
If I didn’t sign off, the studio would make some poorly scripted mimic of my life, and that was not something I could handle.
“I loved Aleric King inThe Faithless. I lived off those reruns. It was my total gay awakening in secondary school.”
I’d almost forgotten Janae and I were still talking about this guy.
“You ever seen it?”
“No. You know I don’t watch TV.” That was also true. Not because I was a pretentious ass who thought it was worthless but because after the accident, every time my family came on the news, all they wanted to talk about was me and all the things I’d never do again. I lost myself in books after that and never looked back.
“Anyway, I should head out. Lots to do. You can show yourself out, right?” That was a lie, but luckily, Jenae bought it and gave me a little wave as I turned my chair to head out.
“See you next month,” they called as I started away.
Gripping my wheels, I gave a hard push toward the swinging doors that led to the corridor, and I breathed a little easier now that I was out of the training room. My living room was waiting for me with a pile of snacks, several books to choose from, and maybe even the chance to forget all the bullshit currently going on.
There were better ways to spend my afternoon than rotting on the sofa, but there were worse ones too. My life was betternow that I’d decided to live it—which consequently was the working title of my second novel. It was a follow-up to the first part of my story that I’d written when I was still clawing my way out of a depressive void, not sure I’d ever find the person I was meant to be.
But it was hard, writing something that needed a happily ever after when I didn’t have one. There wasn’t even a hint at it. I didn’t hinge my future on meeting a man and settling down, but that was a quiet fantasy of mine. One that I’d been too afraid to really speak into the universe.
My luck with relationships had started weird and gotten worse until I’d given up entirely. I had a single friend with benefits—a guy I’d met in wheelchair basketball—and he scratched the itch whenever I had it.
And I had friends…sort of. But that wasn’t unique to me. That was the fate of all royals. My brother’s luck with people he could trust was even worse than mine, and although he loved his wife beyond reason, the marriage had been arranged. It was something my parents had been hoping to do for me, though I’d been fighting them on it since I could remember.
