An Errant Prince

Jasmine

"I don't appreciate being painted as the swine who would ruin your son's life."

"I'm not calling you a pig, Jasmine." Kash's mother, Renu, had the stature of a fashion model and her son's flashing dark eyes. She wore a red and gold, modernized lancha, towering over her husband and the smaller woman who stood before her in a Givenchy dress and Aquazzura pumps. "You supply my son with drugs, feeding his habit. I don't think you love him."

"You and Ahnu object to everything about me," Jasmine snapped. "You've made your dislike of me quite obvious. Even though I've done everything I can to ween him off his drug habit."

Samruth couldn't help but notice the glower his mother exchanged with his father. "Kash left me a voicemail. He needs a few days to be by himself, Jasmine."

Kash's fiancé was too exhausted by her recent argument with him to battle the entire Mewari family. "Are you sure Kash handling his problems on his own is a good idea." She ran a hand through her luxuriant, coal black hair. Her assignment as the Meswari mole was spinning out of control. She had to expedite her marriage to their son and get him away from his meddling parents.

"Is that what you think?" Renu placed her hands on her hips and stared down at Jasmine. "If my son needs time to sort out his feelings, then that's his prerogative."

"I agree," Samruth came forward and stood by his mother.

Is he the acting king? No, but with his mother by his side, he possesses more authority than his father. Jasmine frowned. Now that Samruth was the crown prince, he'd grown a set of balls. He was no longer a pliable pawn for the English Queen's chess board.

~~~~~~~~

Kash awoke from a troubled dream. He'd been swimming upstream, grasping at branches to reach the swollen river's embankment. The current was swift and deep, and kept pulling him under. That's when she appeared. A fair haired woman calling to him from the shore. Smiling, her placid blue eyes encouraged him as she reached out her hand.

Drenched in sweat, he sat up and tried to orient himself. He was on a comfortable leather couch in an unfamiliar flat. His mouth was dry. On the lamp stand he found a glass of water and drained it. Once his thirst was quenched, he realized he needed a fix. He reached for his jacket to search for his phone, but found the pockets empty. No pill bottle either. He groaned as he swung his long legs onto the expensive  oriental rug. He wasn't firing on two cylinders. Three or four days of booze, and drugs, too much sun with no sleep had burned out his synapses. When he saw the pictures on the mantle, he remembered Sam Johnson and how he had arrived here.