Highness
A Lonely Heart Series Novel
Latrivia S. Nelson
Highness
RiverHouse Publishing, LLC
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Memphis, TN 38104
Copyright © 2015 by Latrivia S. Nelson
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ISBN 978-0-9962725-2-0
This book is dedicated to Bruce Welch, who taught me the meaning of love at first sight.
Acknowledgments
To my awesome team of beta readers from the Love Pub, Karen Moss, Michelle D. Jackson, Leonie Radway and Sheila Kehinde, I cannot thank you enough for your encouraging words and wonderful feedback and most importantly awesome eyes during this process. To my friends, fans and supporters, I love you all and truly hope that it entertains you.
Chapter 1
London, UK
Brixton
The sun seemed bright. Too bright.
Rolling over in the bed to cover his face from the glimmering rays, Michael suddenly realized that it was morning, or at least daytime. The exact hour was as questionable as…
Oh God, where was he? His body went rigid in its stillness. While not fully sure of the answer to his question, he was still grateful it was not somewhere public. He had done that once as a young man in his 20s, and made front page news.
His auditory functions kicked in first. Without opening his eyes, he listened carefully to his surroundings. Through the open window to the left of him, he could hear vehicles driving down the street in the distance and the echo of people talking outside. Based upon their dialect, they were poor, and at least one of them was drunk and furious over 20 quid.
The smell of the room was the next thing he noticed. It was a curious and unintentional mix of cheap perfume, curry, and marijuana, which meant he had either gone home with a young woman over 18 but and under 25 years of age or a cross-dressing, Indian man who would soon have the munchies.
As he moved into a groggy consciousness, vivid flashes of the night before clouded his mind.
All Michael could remember before blacking out the night before was walking into Boujis, a well-known West London club with his entourage, where he decided to forgo VIP, and proceed straight to the main bar where he was forced to take a hundred selfies with socialites, down shots of Whiskey with celebrities and dance with pretty half-naked locals to DJ Klaus. By all accounts, the same thing he did any Saturday that he could steal away from travels and work.
About ten Whiskey’s and jelly body shots later, everything quickly and abruptly faded to black. The club began to swim. The music became louder. The strobe lights became dizzying and whatever he said after that, he should not be accountable for in a court of law.
Fast forwarding to early dawn, which was the next flash of conscious poor decisions, he vaguely recalled giggling girls undressing and fumbling with an edible condom in the dark, but who the girls were was as much of a mystery as what had truly happened afterward. Questions plagued him. Had he passed out cold or had he completed the deal?
There was only one way to find out.
Reluctantly, he finally opened the slits of his crystal blue eyes and focused.
There was a dirty blonde beside him on the bed, looking directly at him with a smile on her face – a sort of twisted smile. It was the kind a woman gave when she was proud of herself for her performance the night before. She was young, over 18 for sure but barely in her 20s. With a round face sprinkled with freckles and doe-like chocolate brown eyes, she gazed at him as if she was waiting for him to say something. Approve of her performance, perhaps?
Pity, he didn’t remember the night before. And he didn’t recognize her from Adam, but he did recognize his tailor-made Oxford, which she now wore and would probably ask to keep. Sure of this from multiple previous experiences, he made a mental note not to ask for it back this time.
“Good morning, love,” she said, biting her pouty pink lips. From what he could tell, they were the most attractive things on her.
Michael blinked hard and stretched out his long body. “Good morning,” he said at the same time covering up his mouth. Ugh. Morning breath. Only, he wasn’t sure if it was his or hers.
Raising his head up slightly, he yawned again and checked out the room.
First glance revealed a small bedroom littered with piles of clothes, old fast food containers, and posters of rock bands.
“Good morning,” another voice said from the other side of the large bed. He turned unenthusiastically and stared at a voluptuous mid-to-late 20s redhead, still very naked. Like a cat, she slinked up closer to him and rubbed down the center of his muscular back with the tips of her tiny fingers. Her blue eyes sparkled bright with promising mischief.
Now, he could understand how she had gotten him in bed, but the blonde must have been value added, like the coupons one gets in the bottom of a box after purchasing a very large piece of kitchenware.
He smiled back at the redhead, mirroring her knowing grin and then realized that he too was naked, only because at that moment, she was giving him a serious erection, or maybe it was just morning wood, though he dared not go to the loo in this place unless he was near an eruption.
Milky white, natural breasts pushed up towards his face as she wrapped her slender arms around his neck and hugged him tight, raking her nails through his tendrils of blonde hair. It was the manner in which she pulled him in that made him forget himself for the moment. She was warm and alluring, and something about her naked body reminded him of Christmas morning. He nuzzled his head into the side of her neck and smelled her scent - a mix of perfume and sex. Pushing her pelvis up against his erection, she started to slowly grind against him.
As if reading lines and following cues, the other blonde was on his back now, rubbing through his hair and kissing the back of his neck. He could feel her rigid nipples against him and her sex pushed up against his bottom.
Hmm. That felt good. A nice little early morning ménage à trois.
“Care to pick up where we left off?” the redhead asked in his ear as her legs parted just enough for him to feel the heat rush from her core.
What is your name? Michael thought to himself. For some reason, he’d really wanted to know, but was a little afraid to ask. In the past, when he had drank too much, he had promised women like her the world and when they discovered that he wasn’t serious the morning after, they had become…angry.
“I’d love to pick up where we left off,” Michael answered, feeling the blonde reach over him and run her small hands over his erection. “But first things first, ladies.” He managed a small chuckle. “Where the hell am I?”
Both of the women giggled. “You’re in our flat,” the blonde said, biting his ear.
“Brixton,” the redhead answered, being more specific. “Have you ever been to Brixton, your Highness?”
“No,” he said, smile faint. How in the hell did he get to Brixton last night?
The redhead moved to kiss him, but he quickly pulled back. There was no denying that he was a freaky guy, but he had a thing about kissing strangers. Not on the mouth. I
t was way too personal for his taste. A man had to have standards.
“Maybe I can kiss something else for you?” the redhead said, slipping her hand over the blonde’s hand around his shaft.
Temptation started to flood him again.
He closed his eyes and debated whether or not the impending threesome would be as fun sober. Sober meant that he’d remember it. Sober meant that he’d have to think about it later. But their heat was intoxicating as was their movements. He’d need some help to get out of this debacle, lest he find himself buried in between both of their thighs giving them a proper fucking.
Prayers answered, a loud knock on the front door interrupted his internal debate.
Arresting her progress for the moment, he held up her chin as she moved towards his throbbing penis. All three rose up and looked towards the open bedroom door. It was a clear view down the hall to the small living room, also covered in clothes and rickety furniture.
Goodness, did these women never tidy up?
“Who could that be?” the blonde asked the redhead, voice a lot less sexy suddenly.
“Don’t know.” the redhead shrugged.
Michael knew that knock without even seeing who was behind the door. He had heard it a hundred times before. With a cosmetic growl and internal relief, he pulled himself from the hold of the young women and stood up at the end of the bed.
On the floor were his clothes in a pile, right beside three used condoms, underwear, slacks, shirt, and wallet. Within seconds, he was dressed in all of it, and again another loud knock rang out at the front door. It was like a second warning shot in his ears, demanding his immediate attention.
“I’ll get it,” the redhead moaned, jumping out of bed. She walked towards the door naked, not bothering to cover herself.
With a gentle hand, Michael grabbed her softly by the fold of her long arm and smiled. “No need, love.” He slipped on his black loafers without socks. “That would just be my wake-up call.”
“Oh,” she said, lips parting. She rubbed a hand down the side of his square jaw. “Well, when you have some time, make sure to come by again.” A wicked smile crossed her lips. “We can all pick up where we left off. I would love to have you in my mouth again. The taste of you is delicious.”
Unsure of how to reply, he looked over at the blonde still in bed and cleared his throat. “I’ll make sure to remember that.” Inwardly, he was praying that all of his DNA had gone either down the girls’ throat or in the condoms. Otherwise, he might be in trouble.
The reality of his one-night stand sobered him completely up. Time to go…NOW.
Patting his pants for his keys, he looked down at his wrist to see the time.
Right. Of course, that wasn’t there.
With a raised brow, he looked back up at them. “You girls haven’t seen a Rolex around here by any chance, have you?” He had been through this a hundred times also, and he was certain that these girls were not amateurs. A man wakes up, realizes where he is, and prepares to bolt out of the situation and in the midst of it forgets to check for all the valuables that he may or may not have voluntarily parted with the night before.
The blonde gave a jig’s up smile to her roommate and then turned, perfect naked bottom up in the air, to dig over in the corner by the bed. He enjoyed all five seconds of her searching for the said watch and also noticed that she bleached her woman parts. Nice. Too bad they didn’t bleach anything else in their flat.
Pulling a Presidential Rolex from the pile of papers beside the nightstand, she got up from the bed; breasts exposed and passed it to him. The gold glimmered across her face as the sun’s reflection hit it. “I wonder how that got there,” she said, not bothering to hide her naughtiness.
“These things happen,” he grinned. “Thank you,” he said, slipping the watch on his wrist. With a sigh, he gave one last look around the closet of a room. Two beautiful girls. One shitty flat. One forgettable night. It was a shame that he’d done it all before. “You ladies have a wonderful…” He looked at his watch. “Afternoon.” He dipped his head respectfully. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
Walking through the messy apartment, past the pealed paint, over the stained carpet and through the woods, he arrived at the door covered in latches and bolts and worked his way through the locks. When he finally opened the door, his men were there patiently waiting for him.
“Your Royal Highness,” his head guard Geoff said nodding at him. “It was getting late, sir. I apologize for interrupting, but her majesty the Queen requests your presence at Balmoral Castle at once. We are to put you on a private plane and get you there immediately, if not sooner.” He had used her exact words.
Michael’s stomach growled furiously. “You are to take me to get some breakfast immediately, Geoff. The queen can wait. Besides, I don’t need two guesses to know what she wants.”
Michael reached for his shades to cover his bloodshot eyes and ward off the hangover headache approaching, but realized that they must still be inside. And there was no way in hell that he was about to revisit Cinderella’s stepsisters to get them back.
Closing the rickety door behind him quietly, he stuck his head over the iron banister and looked downstairs at the paparazzi waiting for him on the patchy lawn. Great!
“Is there any other way out of here?” he asked.
“No, sir. One way in and one way out,” Geoff said disgusted by the very existence of the place. “They’ve been camped out all night,” he said of the photographers. “They followed you here from the party. I think that your two lovely friends in there tipped them off.”
Michael chuckled. “But of course they did. Well, let’s get this over with,” he said, running a hand through his blonde locks. He paused. “Did you happen to get the paper?”
“Yes, sir,” Geoff said, passing it to him hesitantly. “You made the front page…again.”
Michael opened it and gaffed at the picture of himself. Not one of his favorites. There in bold block letters it read, PRINCE MICHAEL AND LADY THALIA ARE DONE. BREAKUP OF THE CENTURY.
He snickered. “Always the bridesmaid, never the bride,” he said with a huff.
Using the newspaper to cover his face, he followed his men down the rickety steps of Donovan Flats to the black Land Rover waiting for him in front of the complex. The flash was unbearable from the cameras. Reporters converged on him in an instant like killer bees on an animal in the wild.
“Prince Michael, how were they?” one reporter screamed.
“Did you do this to get back at Lady Thalia?” another reporter screamed.
“Did you know that those girls are sisters?” another reporter asked.
That question made Michael nearly stop. Sisters? Really? He looked back up at the flat and saw the two women looking out of their open window waving at him. He waved back in disbelief. He had never had sisters before – not intentionally and not at the same time. Now, he really was upset that he hadn’t remembered anything.
Luckily, his guards shielded him from the reporters long enough for him to jump in the back of the SUV and as soon as Geoff jumped in the front of the car, the driver sped off.
The photographers kept snapping shots of him, and the reporters kept screaming even after they pulled off into the streets. He looked back and shook his head. Who said being a prince was easy?
Sinking down into the comfort of the leather, he closed his eyes. Thoughts of the day before and the reason behind his momentary lapse began to come back to him. Thalia. The breakup. The reality of a two-year investment down the drain. It all made him want to start drinking again.
“So. How bad is it, Geoff?” Michael asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.
“I have no idea, sir. From what I’ve gathered, Her Majesty is not pleased,” Geoff said with a frown. “We tried to deter you from going home with those women last evening, but you were quite insistent.”
“I’m sure that I was,” Michael said. Grunting, he sat back up. “I’m a grown man.
For goodness sake, I’m 31 years old. I’m a fucking dinosaur in some societies. I should not be summoned by my mother, because I’ve made the fucking paper.” He slapped the newspaper on his knee. “I plan to tell her that as soon as I arrive.”
Geoff was silent.
Michael looked out of his window at the passing building, none of which he recognized. Dear God, what was he thinking last night? This place looked like a war zone. “I need to get out of here. It’s driving me crazy.”
“You are only about 30 minutes from the plane, sir,” Geoff reassured.
“No,” Michael said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I need to get out of Europe.”
Chapter 2
Dipping the delicate bristled tip of her wooden brush in a beautiful, vibrant almost translucent purple oil paint, Hope Daniels carefully lifted it and stroked strategically across her wide linen canvass, adding the perfect accent to the face of her newest muse.
In an artistic trance, she stood for a moment feet planted before her work, critically assessing every detail. The toned ground, the acrylic definition, the lines, the angles, the depth, it all told a story for her. And if it told her a story for her, then it could speak to others, much like words on paper or lyrics to a song.
The melodic sounds of Billy Holiday played in the background among scented pumpkin spice candles and the warm glow of low-lit Tiffany lamps. Crystal vases full of colorful rose bouquets were strategically placed around her studio to add color and inspiration, along with piles of leather bound books written by Maya Angelo, Gandhi, Plato, Nicky Giovanni, and Langston Hughes.
It was her perfect place. Serene and calming, full of beauty and harmony, she had created a peaceful safe haven from the world where she could be alone with her thoughts and her art.
Doing a complete collection on the many faces of Black Royalty throughout the ages, she was working on the very last of 10 remarkable life-size paintings. For the last six months, she had toiled endlessly on her work, determined to present to the world with an authentic and diverse look at African kings and queens, who were beautiful, strong, and polarizing.
Highness (The Lonely Heart Series) Page 1