Ok so this is set between series 1 and 2 after Eleanor comes back from partying around the world, but assuming Jasper went back to Vegas after he got out of prison.
While at the time it had seemed like a good idea, by the time she's been on the run for nearly two hours, her feet are starting to ache, she's thirsty, hot and bothered in a climate that is ridiculously unconducive to escape and beginning to think she's properly lost, she concedes that perhaps her plan hadn't been as well thought out as it could have been.
And looking back her decision was somewhat impulsive.
But two days in the Palm Oasis Rehabilitation Centre and Luxury Spa was more than enough for anyone. It wasn't that the facilities, or the quality of the surroundings, weren't superior. They were excellent, the best, in fact, because Royalty always got the best.
It was every bloody thing else about the facility that was the problem.
The rules - no drugs, no alcohol, no swearing, which was absolutely fucking ridiculous considering they had over 100 clientele going cold turkey off every type of drug conceivable with no drink penned up to simmer over their withdrawals together.
And then there was the therapy. If she wanted to spend time examining her inner being and navel gazing at herself to discover the cause of her addictions she could very well have done that at home. But she hadn't chosen to do any such thing. She didn't care to discuss her father or her brother or Beck or her mother fucking bodguard with her twin much less with strangers.
And thinking of her mother only sought to remind her that of course she was the origin of her present situation. That her mother announced three days ago when she had returned from her round the world party tour that she had had enough of the drugs, the drink, the headlines, the Royal Beaver making an appearance, and the scandel and she was admitting her daughter to rehab as soon as possible, whether she consented or not. And furthermore she would be going somewhere as far away as possible.
"You can't just do that," Eleanor had snapped, protesting.
"I'm the Queen of England," her mother had replied, with regal haughtyness. "Watch me," then turned on her heel and exited stage left to give Rachel her instructions.
Two hours later she was forcibly offloaded on the family's private jet, bound for Las Vegas. Her security had stayed with her until she'd checked in and then departed for England, the clinic reassuring her mother that they already had the best possible security arrangements already in place.
Bloody bollocks, Eleanor thought, smirking, as she recalled the ease with which she had scaled over the facility walls and made her escape.
She had survived two days being held hostage in the world's most luxurious jail before she had finally snapped. And formed a somewhat hasty, and now apparently foolhardy, and very possibly lethal if she didn't find some form of civilization in the new few hours, escape plan.
Eleanor was still stewing over the injustice her incarceration when she finally spied something that looked promising.
It was quite dark now as it must be nearly midnight, but she could make out a building in the distance.
Fifteen minutes later, she rounded upon what was definately a structure, and on the far side flurescent lights illuminated the name 'Jack's diner.'
There was a fair amount of relief, and triumph, in knowing that she had foiled her mother's plan and she wasn't going to be bitten by a rattlesnake, die of thirst in the desert alone or be eaten alive by a wandering bear or whatever other life threatening hazards could present themselves in this godforsaken part of this former colony.
Going by the outside, it was little surprise to her that Jack's diner turned out to be a dump peopled by hicks.
Never mind, she had no intention of hanging around here long.
Eleanor strode up to the bar purposefully as the bartender eyed her with interest. It was clear that she didn't fit the mold of his usual customer and he gave no sign that he had any idea who she is. Well he probably didn't watch the news. Or possibly even know that places outside America existed.
"Would you mind very much if I used your phone?" Eleanor asks in her best Princess voice. Unfortunately she doesn't have cash or her wallet, both having been confiscated on check in at rehab, and her phone died a half hour ago so she'll have to make do here.
The bartender shrugs with disinterest and points to the phone near the kitchen door.
She's not calling her security. She's not calling Liam who last she spoke with was drowning his sorrows in a pub on the arm of an anonymous blonde and she's sure as hell not calling her mother who'll order her straight back to that prison.
There's only one person who's number she knows who's even vaguely nearby.
There's only one goddamn American she knows who's slippery enough to make the cesspool that Vegas is his home.
She waits impatiently while the phone rings once, twice and then...
"Frost," comes the curt reply.
Eleanor clears her throat and attempts to clear her head.
"Jasper I require your services. Regrettably," Eleanor announces.
There's silence at the other end of the line for a good ten seconds.
"Princess," he greets her finally. "Good evening to you too. Now would you mind telling me where you are and why you require my services?"
Errm, this is going to be difficult to explain. She most certainly does not want to disclose the particular set of circumstances which have led to her being here, somewhere in the middle of the Las Vegas desert, with no money, no phone and no security, on the run from an exclusive rehabilitation facility and its security staff who could be very possible already be on her tail. Jasper will probably take her straight back there to be locked back up again.
"There were some ...extenuating circumstances involved," she prevaricates. "Anyway, I'm somewhere in the desert near Las Vegas and I need you to come and pick me up, Jasper. It is quite urgent," she adds, imperiously. The quicker she can get away from rehab and into the city, the lower the chance of the long arms of rehabilitation security catching up with her.
Jasper's immediately suspicious. "What the hell are you doing near Vegas. And where the fuck is your security?" he demands.
"There's no time to explain that," Eleanor replies, huffily. Although to be correct, its not that there's no time, its more that she needs time to get her story straight.
"Can you come and pick me up?" she repeats her question. "Or am I going to have to hitchhike?"
Jasper scowls down the phone. Knowing Eleanor she's probably wearing some ridiculously skimpy outfit and she would have no trouble at all catching a lift. But what might happen after is causing the vein in his temple to start throbbing and his temperature to rise.
"You had better tell me where you are," he orders crossly.
"I'm at a diner, Jack's diner, which is on a dusty road with a petrol station nearby and its about a fifty miles from Vegas and-"
"So basically you have no fucking idea where you are," Jasper interrupts her, sounding irritated. "Will you just pass the phone over to someone who works there then," he tells her.
Eleanor doesn't argue and complies, allowing the barman to give out instructions to get there.
The barman passes the phone back to her without comment.
"I'll be there in about an hour. And when I get there you'll have some goddamn explaining to do Princess," Jasper tell her, then hangs up.
Eleanor blinks, looking at the phone for a second before placing it back in the cradle.
She considers her options. There is absolutely nothing to do here and given there's no prospect of drugs here the next best option is a drink.
She's doesn't have any money but that's never been a barrier before.
She looks around the joint, casing the various inhabitants who have made this place their temporary home.
There's a a drunk who looks near 60 with a beer gut protruding from his singlet. He looks like he's onto about his tenth drink.
She discards him, her gaze flickering over a middle aged couple whose dress and loud mothed conversation proudly declares themselves white trash. Finally she spies a man drinking alone in the corner, maybe in his 30s. Not too bad looking, if a little rough.
Beggars can't be choosers, she supposes.
He's already spotted her and is looking her up and down with a confidence that suggests he's used to getting his way with women.
She sashays over to him casually.
"Can I get you a drink darlin'?" he offers, as soon as she approaches. "Nothing worse than a pretty girl drinking alone."
"I'm always up for a drink," Eleanor replies, cocking her eyebrow at him flirtaciously. "And I make it a rule never to drink alone."
Too easy. Game on.
