Reed Royal Quotes

Reed Royal has broken me. I’ve fallen from the sky and I’m not sure I can get up. Not this time.

You should know whatever game you're playing, you can't win. Not against all of us. If you leave now, you won't be hurt. If you stay, we'll break you so bad that you'll be crawling away." - Reed Royal

Nuh-uh, you’re not getting off that easy. I want you to say it. Tell your big brother about your crush on your other big brother.” “You’re imagining things. I’m not crushing on Reed,” I lie. “Bull.” “I’m not,” I insist, but Easton sees right through me. “Shit, Ella, I need a smoke every time you two are within five feet of each other.

I tug his head down to mine. “I need you, Reed. Don’t make me beg.” And just like that, he gives in. One hand comes up to tangle in my hair while the other pulls me roughly against him. “You don’t ever have to ask again. I’ll give you anything you want.

She got under my skin the moment I met her, and she’s still there, in my blood, in my heart.

I'm not mad at you." He presses the cold cloth against my forehead. "I'm mad at myself. I did this. Well, Easton and I. I brought this on you. I'm Reed the Destroyer." He sounds sad. "Didn't you know that?" "I don't like that name." He sits next to me, drawing the cloth around and around my face, down my neck and onto my shoulder. It feels heavenly. "Yeah, and what would you call me instead?" I open my mouth and say, "Mine.

Hey, I was sleeping innocently until a big bear came in and decided that my bed was just right.” He tugs on my hair. “I think you got the wrong fairytale here.” “What would be the right one? Aladdin because you plan to take me on a magical carpet ride?” I waggle my eyebrows. Reed bursts out laughing. “Is that what you think of my dick? That it’s magical?” I blush so furiously that he laughs even harder. “Damn, you really are a virgin, aren’t you?” Cheeks still flaming, I flip up my middle finger. “That’s what I think of you and your magical, uh…” “Dick,” he supplies between laughs. “Come on, virgin, just say it—dick.” “Oh, you’re a dick, all right.” I glare at him all the way to the car. - Ella Harper

I keep waiting for that movie moment when Reed runs out of the house, screaming for me to come back. But it never happens. There’s no rain-filled reunion and the only moisture are the tears I can’t hold back any longer.

I’m tired of playing the good, calm girl. I rise up on my knees, reach over and hit him across the top of his head. “Fuck,” he curses. “What the hell was that for?” “That’s for being an asshole!” I hit him again… Reed pushes me back, hard, against the passenger door. “Sit the fuck down! You’re gonna make us crash.” “I’m not going to sit down!” I swing at him again. “I’m tired of you and your insults and your awful friends!

I was ashamed. Okay? Ashamed. Is that what you wanted to hear?” “Yeah, well, you know what I am? I’m the stupid girl in the horror movie. You made me into that stupid girl. I’m the one running back into the house where the guy with the knife is. You warned me. Over and over again, you told me to stay away. But I couldn’t listen. I thought I knew better

Yeah,” Easton says, coming up on Ella’s other side. “Your room’s a mess.” “Because you keep watching football in there,” she mutters as we lead her away. “I expect you to clean it the moment we get back.” Easton stops at the penthouse door and looks at her incredulously. “I’m Easton Royal. I don’t clean shit.” Dad sighs. The twins snicker. Even the cops look like they’re trying not to laugh.

When I look at Reed and his muscular frame and his hard face, sometimes I forget that he’s got a heart that’s as fragile as mine. But guys aren’t supposed to be emotional so they hide their feelings behind seriousness, crudeness, or dickish behavior.

Auden wrote that when the boy falls from the sky after calamity after calamity, he still has a future somewhere and that there’s no point in dwelling on one’s loss. But did he suffer this? Would he have written that if he had lived my life? ... Reed Royal has broken me. I’ve fallen from the sky and I’m not sure I can get up. Not this time.

I make an attempt to follow Reed’s lead and lighten the mood. “What was your excuse last week when you ate an entire batch of cookies?” “That was just me being hungry. Besides, they were cookies. Who needs an excuse to eat cookies?” “I feel like that’s a sexual question,” Wade chimes in. “And the correct answer is, no one ever needs an excuse to eat cookies.” “You do need permission, though,” Val says tersely, focusing her gaze on Wade for the first time since he sat down. “And if your mouth is all over someone else’s cookies, then other bakers aren’t going to be interested in offering you their cookies.” Then she gets up from the table and stomps off. “Hey!” Wade shouts after her. “I only had those other cookies that one time and only because the baker I wanted to get the cookies from was closed!” He shoots up from his seat and hustles after Val, leaving Easton, Reed, and me staring after them. “I have a feeling they aren’t talking about cookies,” Easton remarks.

He was so racked with concern for Reed that he simply blurted out, “I can’t deal with this right now. Steve, wait here for me,” and

Reed hasn’t issued the Royal decree yet.

Seriously, though, I know who my family is. Gid, Reed, and the twins are my brothers. Ella’s my sister. Callum’s my dad. Maria’s my mom. And you, you’re my heart.

I stare at the water. He stares at me. I can feel his gaze burning into my face, and I shift my head again, smiling wryly. “Let’s hear it.” “Hear what?” “Some more lies. You know, how last night was just you doing me a favor, you don’t really want me, yada, yada.” I wave my hand. To my surprise, he laughs. “Oh my God. Was that a laugh? Reed Royal laughs, folks. Someone call the Vatican because an honest-to-God miracle has occurred.” That gets me another chuckle. “You’re so annoying,” he grumbles. “Yeah, but you still like me.” He goes quiet. I think he’s going to stay that way, but then he curses under his breath and says, “Yeah, maybe I do.” I feign amazement. “Two miracles in one night? Is the world ending?

Steve’s downstairs. He showed up at the door just as Reed was taken away.” “Steve,” Easton echoes, slightly dazed. “Uncle Steve?” Sebastian makes a croaky sound. “Dead Uncle Steve?

To Juan at the Winter Solstice There is one story and one story only That will prove worth your telling, Whether as learned bard or gifted child; To it all lines or lesser gauds belong That startle with their shining Such common stories as they stray into. Is it of trees you tell, their months and virtues, Or strange beasts that beset you, Of birds that croak at you the Triple will? Or of the Zodiac and how slow it turns Below the Boreal Crown, Prison to all true kings that ever reigned? Water to water, ark again to ark, From woman back to woman: So each new victim treads unfalteringly The never altered circuit of his fate, Bringing twelve peers as witness Both to his starry rise and starry fall. Or is it of the Virgin's silver beauty, All fish below the thighs? She in her left hand bears a leafy quince; When, with her right hand she crooks a finger, smiling, How many the King hold back? Royally then he barters life for love. Or of the undying snake from chaos hatched, Whose coils contain the ocean, Into whose chops with naked sword he springs, Then in black water, tangled by the reeds, Battles three days and nights, To be spewed up beside her scalloped shore? Much snow if falling, winds roar hollowly, The owl hoots from the elder, Fear in your heart cries to the loving-cup: Sorrow to sorrow as the sparks fly upward. The log groans and confesses: There is one story and one story only. Dwell on her graciousness, dwell on her smiling, Do not forget what flowers The great boar trampled down in ivy time. Her brow was creamy as the crested wave, Her sea-blue eyes were wild But nothing promised that is not performed.

Sawyer: Seb woke up There’s a twenty-minute delay. From the other messages, it appears he called Dad in Dubai and Dad rounded up the troops. Ella: I just heard from Callum. OMG I’m on my way! Reed: Fuck yeah! Gideon: Reed & I will drive down tomorrow. Reed’s got a test at 1. Hold down the fort. Reed: I’m skipping that. Gideon: We’ll be down after Reed’s test.

Where are your monuments, your battles, martyrs? Where is your tribal memory? Sirs, in that gray vault. The sea. The sea has locked them up. The sea is History. First, there was the heaving oil, heavy as chaos; then, likea light at the end of a tunnel, the lantern of a caravel, and that was Genesis. Then there were the packed cries, the shit, the moaning: Exodus. Bone soldered by coral to bone, mosaics mantled by the benediction of the shark's shadow, that was the Ark of the Covenant. Then came from the plucked wires of sunlight on the sea floor the plangent harp of the Babylonian bondage, as the white cowries clustered like manacles on the drowned women, and those were the ivory bracelets of the Song of Solomon, but the ocean kept turning blank pages looking for History. Then came the men with eyes heavy as anchors who sank without tombs, brigands who barbecued cattle, leaving their charred ribs like palm leaves on the shore, then the foaming, rabid maw of the tidal wave swallowing Port Royal, and that was Jonah, but where is your Renaissance? Sir, it is locked in them sea sands out there past the reef's moiling shelf, where the men-o'-war floated down; strop on these goggles, I'll guide you there myself. It's all subtle and submarine, through colonnades of coral, past the gothic windows of sea fans to where the crusty grouper, onyx-eyed, blinks, weighted by its jewels, like a bald queen; and these groined caves with barnacles pitted like stone are our cathedrals, and the furnace before the hurricanes: Gomorrah. Bones ground by windmills into marl and cornmeal, and that was Lamentations - that was just Lamentations, it was not History; then came, like scum on the river's drying lip, the brown reeds of villages mantling and congealing into towns, and at evening, the midges' choirs, and above them, the spires lancing the side of God as His son set, and that was the New Testament. Then came the white sisters clapping to the waves' progress, and that was Emancipation - jubilation, O jubilation - vanishing swiftly as the sea's lace dries in the sun, but that was not History, that was only faith, and then each rock broke into its own nation; then came the synod of flies, then came the secretarial heron, then came the bullfrog bellowing for a vote, fireflies with bright ideas and bats like jetting ambassadors and the mantis, like khaki police, and the furred caterpillars of judges examining each case closely, and then in the dark ears of ferns and in the salt chuckle of rocks with their sea pools, there was the sound like a rumour without any echo of History, really beginning.

We stood in the wings together, side by side. Reed's mouth was still agape. "It makes sense when you think about it," I mused. "You get two people together who have you-know-what, and sparks are going to fly." Reed's cue was about to start. He pointed at me and said, "Tonight. There's a party. And we're going to talk." "Yes" "Because this is crazy." "Totally." "Okay. Well." He tugged a strand of my hair. "Good luck out there." "You're not supposed to say that." "Fine. How about..." He squinted at me. "Here's looking at you kid." The smile melted off my face. "What did you say?" "It's a line. From a movie." He shrugged and burst onto the stage with a hee-haw. It was a line. From Casablanca. The same line KARL had said to me when I was Elsa. The same like Karl didn't recognize when I said it to him as Floressa. Which meant... nothing. Right? Lots of people know that line. Just because Reed said it, and Reed was a sub, it didn't mean he was... he was... "You're on," the stage manager whispered. I stumbled onto the stage. The lights were too bright. The theater was packed. Reed gave me a quick, crooked smile, and I knew. My crush on Karl was less complicated than I thought, because it wasn't Karl I'd been with that day in the garden. Now my crush on Reed... ? THAT was a scandal all on its own.

As I’m walking back out to the living room, my bedroom door opens, and Logan steps out. I have to catch my breath at the sight of him. He’s wearing black trousers, a black turtleneck, and he has on a royal-blue button-down shirt with long sleeves that’s open at the throat. He’s not wearing a tie, and he doesn’t need one. Goodness, he looks like he just stepped off the cover of a magazine. He has a jacket thrown over his shoulder, hooked by his index finger. He lifts the edge of his pants for me. “Are these socks too much?” he asks. He has on socks with multi-colored stripes. He grins. I shake my head. “None of it’s too much.” I sweep my eyes from his head to his feet and back again. God, he’s handsome. “You look amazing.” “I guess I clean up okay, huh?” he asks. He looks unsure of himself. “Logan, you look fabulous,” my mom says. She claps her hands together like she’s at the theater.

Why the sudden interest in my life, Dad?” I ask. “Phone calls and lunches and showing up at matches… I don’t know what to do with it all. I don’t know why you’re doing it.” I pound my fist on the table, and the dishes jump. “You don’t have to pretend to love me for me to love them.” “I’m not pretending, Sky. I do love you. I know I royally messed things up. But I’m still your father, and if you’ll let me, I want to be there for you.” “Take, take, take, take.” I throw up my hands. “That’s all you ever do, Dad. You take. You took from Kendra’s mother. You took from Kendra. You take from the kids because they make you feel loved. There’s nothing like unconditional love from children.” I squeeze my fist in front of my heart. “You took from Mom.” “Your mom has her own demons.” “And so do you, Dad. It’s called being an unfaithful liar.” He opens his mouth to protest, but I hold up a hand. “Do you know that I can’t have a healthy relationship with a man because I’m constantly waiting for him to leave? I’m waiting and waiting for him to take off and go away, just like you did. I’m always waiting for him to drop me. And I don’t care if he does, because I never let anyone get close enough to hurt me.” Jesus Christ. Where did that come from? I get up and finally put the plates in the sink. “I think you should go, Dad,” I say. I brace my hands on the edge of the counter because my knees are about to give out. I hear Dad shuffle around. Then he comes over and kisses my temple really quickly. “I love you, Sky,” he says. Then he’s gone.

Ken Wharfe In 1987, Ken Wharfe was appointed a personal protection officer to Diana. In charge of the Princess’s around-the-clock security at home and abroad, in public and in private, Ken Wharfe became a close friend and loyal confidant who shared her most private moments. After Diana’s death, Inspector Wharfe was honored by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II at Buckingham Palace and made a Member of the Victorian Order, a personal gift of the sovereign for his loyal service to her family. His book, Diana: Closely Guarded Secret, is a Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller. He is a regular contributor with the BBC, ITN, Sky News, NBC, CBS, and CNN, participating in numerous outside broadcasts and documentaries for BBC--Newsnight, Channel 4 News, Channel 5 News, News 24, and GMTV. My memory of Diana is not her at an official function, dazzling with her looks and clothes and the warmth of her manner, or even of her offering comfort among the sick, the poor, and the dispossessed. What I remember best is a young woman taking a walk in a beautiful place, unrecognized, carefree, and happy. Diana increasingly craved privacy, a chance “to be normal,” to have the opportunity to do what, in her words, “ordinary people” do every day of their lives--go shopping, see friends, go on holiday, and so on--away from the formality and rituals of royal life. As someone responsible for her security, yet understanding her frustration, I was sympathetic. So when in the spring of the year in which she would finally be separated from her husband, Prince Charles, she yet again raised the suggestion of being able to take a walk by herself, I agreed that such a simple idea could be realized. Much of my childhood had been spent on the Isle of Purbeck in Dorset, a county in southern England approximately 120 miles from London; I remembered the wonderful sandy beaches of Studland Bay, on the approach to Poole Harbour. The idea of walking alone on miles of almost deserted sandy beach was something Diana had not even dared dream about. At this time she was receiving full twenty-four-hour protection, and it was at my discretion how many officers should be assigned to her protection. “How will you manage it, Ken? What about the backup?” she asked. I explained that this venture would require us to trust each other, and she looked at me for a moment and nodded her agreement. And so, early one morning less than a week later, we left Kensington Palace and drove to the Sandbanks ferry at Poole in an ordinary saloon car. As we gazed at the coastline from the shabby viewing deck of the vintage chain ferry, Diana’s excitement was obvious, yet not one of the other passengers recognized her. But then, no one would have expected the most photographed woman in the world to be aboard the Studland chain ferry on a sunny spring morning in May. As the ferry docked after its short journey, we climbed back into the car and then, once the ramp had been lowered, drove off in a line of cars and service trucks heading for Studland and Swanage. Diana was driving, and I asked her to stop in a sand-covered area about half a mile from the ferry landing point. We left the car and walked a short distance across a wooded bridge that spanned a reed bed to the deserted beach of Shell Bay. Her simple pleasure at being somewhere with no one, apart from me, knowing her whereabouts was touching to see. Diana looked out toward the Isle of Wight, anxious by now to set off on her walk to the Old Harry Rocks at the western extremity of Studland Bay. I gave her a personal two-way radio and a sketch map of the shoreline she could expect to see, indicating a landmark near some beach huts at the far end of the bay, a tavern or pub, called the Bankes Arms, where I would meet her.

I can’t decide what I like more. The calm Royal household with the voiceless Reed or the one where he’s yelling at me to stay away and threatening me with his penis.

A class of people who worked for the temple (which functioned as a proto–city hall) figured out how to keep track of stuff by elaborating on the tokens-pressed-in-clay system. They used a reed stylus to make marks on a little clay tablet and started using abstract symbols for numbers themselves. The first writers weren’t poets; they were accountants. For a long time, that’s all writing was. No love notes. No eulogies. No stories. Just IOU six sheep. Or, as a tablet from a famous mound in a Sumerian city called Uruk, in present-day Iraq, said: “Lu-Nanna, the head of the temple, received one cow and its two young suckling bull calves from the royal delivery from [a guy named] Abasaga.

A class of people who worked for the temple (which functioned as a proto–city hall) figured out how to keep track of stuff by elaborating on the tokens-pressed-in-clay system. They used a reed stylus to make marks on a little clay tablet and started using abstract symbols for numbers themselves. The first writers weren’t poets; they were accountants. For a long time, that’s all writing was. No love notes. No eulogies. No stories. Just IOU six sheep. Or, as a tablet from a famous mound in a Sumerian city called Uruk, in present-day Iraq, said: “Lu-Nanna, the head of the temple, received one cow and its two young suckling bull calves from the royal delivery from [a guy named] Abasaga.” Silver—a metal people had used previously for jewelry and rituals—was desirable and scarce and easy to store and divide, and it became money-ish in Mesopotamia, but for lots of people—maybe most people—money still wasn’t a thing.

Reed Royal hat mich gebrochen, Ich bin vom Himmel gefallen und ich bin mir nicht sicher, ob ich aufstehen kann. Diesmal nicht