Royal Pain

by Pike, Leslie

  Waiting for my parents to return from the doctor is gut-wrenching. All three of us are trying to distract ourselves. We weren’t allowed to accompany him to his oncologist appointment. I get it. It would grab the paparazzi’s attention. Why is everyone there when it’s just routine tests King Mansa’s going in for? It’s feasible we would take advantage of the quality medical treatment in the United States. Not so believable that a man’s entire grown family shows up for routine bloodwork and yearly physical. That’s the lie.

  I pick at the breakfast choices laid before me. Kwai’s idea of room service is to order multiple choices and choose what you want when they arrive. Waste. Entitlement. Nothing suits me this morning. Not even the view of Central Park seen from the suite’s dining room can distract.

  “You going to eat the bacon?” Kwai asks, grabbing a piece off my plate.

  “Apparently not,” I say, not really giving a damn that he does this regularly.

  He takes the remaining two pieces and adds them to the pile of food still on his plate.

  Tarik finishes the last drops of his orange juice and wipes his mouth. “Tell us about the girl.”

  There’s no use denying the fact my motivation isn’t entirely pure. Not to my brothers. They know me too well.

  “She’s fucking hot.” My grin punctuates the statement.

  “No shit,” Kwai says. “We figured that bit out. Give us a few details.” I’m not entirely convinced there’s not drool involved. Kwai is like a lecherous character from a film. In contrast, Tarik finds the conversation funny. The contrast is sharp.

  “Blue eyed. Blonde. She’s got this strong personality, but it’s in a really feminine package. Her voice is cool. It’s soft, and…” I stop mid-sentence because my brothers are staring at me like I have two heads. “What?”

  Tarik and Kwai bust up laughing, in on a secret joke only they know.

  “Where the hell did Zan go? We aren’t interested in the woman’s tonal range, bro. Tell us about her tits and ass at least.”

  Kwai always gets to his lecherous point.

  “You’re both assholes,” I chuckle. But I know their shock is warranted. It’s rare I give two shits about a woman’s voice.

  “We’re just messing with you. Really, are you going to ask her out? There’s not much time.”

  I get up from the table and cross to the window.

  “I already did. We’re going to dinner tonight.”

  Our conversation is interrupted by the sound of my parents returning. There’s a short exchange at the door between my mother and David, my father’s personal guard. He and Asis will stay at their post outside the suite. Footsteps approach the dining room and my brothers and I exchange looks in anticipation of what we might be about to hear.

  “Morning, boys,” my father says as he enters the room. It’s his usual greeting, but somehow sounds fake, lacks authenticity. And he’s not making eye contact.

  Shit.

  “Morning, Father,” Tarik answers.

  “How’d everything go? Did you get the blood results?” Kwai asks.

  My mother gets busy doing nothing. She moves the salt and pepper shakers from one place to another and picks up a few crumbs.

  “I’m stable. No change.”

  Bullshit. The tears welling in my mother’s eyes says it all. Not one of us wants to bring attention to it though.

  “What time is Ms. Banks coming?” she says.

  “Three. You sure you still want to do an interview, Dad?”

  He looks at me with clear intention. I recognize the expression I’ve seen since that first day we met. When his mind is made up there’s no chance for change. He doesn’t have to say a word. But my mother weighs in.

  “Let her come. Your father’s mind is made. He wants Tarik to take the lead. You two make sure not to step on Tarik’s debut. Kwai, I’m talking to you,” she says without tiptoeing around her point.

  She gets a blank stare from him for her effort.

  Chapter 4

  Belinda

  My footsteps leading down the hall to the king’s suite seem endless. Or maybe I’m moving in slow motion. One of the two. No mystery. It’s not the interview I’m anxious about. That’s going to be like mining a gold vein. It’s Zan. He hasn’t left my mind since.

  It isn’t only his good looks that have kept my attention. It’s an overall impression of the man. Sometimes you meet someone who can’t be put in a familiar category. He’s not just the most delicious eye candy, or a cerebral personality whose thoughts and opinions seem to hold a greater weight. He is both. Mix in the intangibles and you’ve got one glorious man. That’s my twenty-four hour assessment of the prince.

  As I approach the imposing man standing guard at the door, he faces me. He’s black as night with muscles that strain the seams of his suit jacket. He looks menacing.

  “I’m Belinda Banks. I have an appointment at three with King Mansa and Queen Ayana.”

  “Afternoon, miss. May I see your identification?” he says palm up.

  Pulling out my press ID and my driver’s license, I pass them over. As he reads them I’m noticing the size of the man’s hands. They’re huge.

  “Alright. Just a moment, Ms. Banks,” he says, handing my identification back.

  He raps softly on the door and waits. Within fifteen seconds the door swings open, and Zan stands waiting.

  “Hello, Belinda. Come in. Please.”

  The greeting sounds formal but his eyes are speaking a much more familiar language. I’ve never been looked at so penetratingly. He’s happy to see me. He’s happy to see me! The fact I’ve been thinking about him almost constantly did nothing to prepare me for this. And there’s not a trace of that other Zan, the winking guy. There’s a slim chance this isn’t just business as usual, and I’ve been on his mind as well.

  I almost forgot how stunning his face is. Especially without the mustache. Oh, the mouth may be the most perfect part of him. At least of the parts I’ve been privy to.

  As I enter the foyer, the door is shut behind me. And then something unexpected happens. Zan puts his arms on either side and traps me against the back of the door. He leans in close. So close I can smell the soap from his shower.

  “What are you doing!?” I whisper yell.

  He just chuckles, but stays looming over me, lips inches from mine. “Quit fucking around. Give me a kiss. I want to taste you.”

  My hands push against his chest in protest. Correction. Half protest. “No! I’m not going to kiss you here. You’re out of your mind!”

  He releases me from the sweet prison of his making. We’re both grinning like idiots.

  “Alright. But it’s because you said the word here. That means you’ll do it in the right setting.”

  I smooth my hair and regroup. “You’re a little too sure of yourself, Prince Zan.”

  “Not really, Ms. Banks. My confidence comes from experience. It has nothing to do with vanity. I told you that.”

  I huff my retort, because he’s probably telling the truth. Few women have refused his advance. I can’t see that I would be able to either. Damn. I never imagined myself to be a foregone conclusion. But there’s only so much a girl can be expected to resist.

  “Come on in. The family’s waiting to meet you.”

  Walking into the living room I’m met with an impressive sight. King Mansa and Queen Ayana. Next to where they sit, Zane’s brothers stand. Friendly faces greet me.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Banks. I’m King Mansa, and this is Queen Ayana.”

  “Good afternoon, Your Highness. And thank you for the opportunity to interview you and your family. It’s an honor I don’t take lightly, sir.”

  “I’m Kwai,” Zan’s tall, commanding looking brother says walking toward me with an outstretched hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Prince Kwai.”

  He keeps ahold of my hand a few beats too many. I break eye contact.

  The stern look the king is sending his eldest son hits the tar
get. It’s just a whisper of a message and one everyone including Kwai observes. Even though he turns away, I’d say he doesn’t give a damn.

  “I know you already have met Zan, but let me present our other son. This is Tarik,” Queen Ayana says.

  The king’s face lights up with the introduction. Obviously Tarik is the chosen one.

  We meet in the middle and shake hands. His face is open and friendly. I’d say kind. He takes my hand in both of his.

  “It’s a pleasure, Ms. Banks. We’re always happy to talk about our beautiful country and let people know who we are as a nation. Please, have a seat.”

  I take my place in the vacant wing chair placed across from the family, as Zan takes a seat at the far right. Before sitting down, Kwai grabs a handful of grapes from a bowl of fruit then pauses to pop a few in his mouth.

  “Kwai. Please take your seat,” Queen Ayana orders.

  The command isn’t ignored. He takes his place between his brothers. It’s clear who will be the next king. Tarik sits at the right hand of the Monarch.

  Taking out my recorder and pad, I begin the interview.

  “I want to thank you all for allowing me this half hour’s conversation. I understand your trip is a relatively short one this time. So let’s get started. King Mansa, you’ve successfully ruled Mozia for thirty-seven years. Many other sovereign nations have fallen or become independent nations. Do you believe the rule of the Monarchy is applicable in this modern world?”

  I hold my breath for his answer, because I went in hot. After a few beats, a wide smile breaks out on the king’s face.

  “Ms. Banks, I understand the very idea of a royal family, a monarchy, is foreign to Americans. It sounds old fashioned, a little archaic. But look deeper. What is the proof of our choice of governance? It’s the state of the country. Not just it’s financial strength, although that’s important. The real test is in its people. Are they happy? That’s number one. Are they protected from forces without and within? Do they thrive under the rule of authority? The answer to all these questions is a resounding yes.”

  “There’s been talk the last few years of what the monarchy will look like going forward. What can you tell us about who will be the next king? The line of succession for Mozia isn’t conventional. The eldest son doesn’t necessarily ascend the throne.”

  I keep my eyes on the king, but I wouldn’t be surprised if my question hasn’t made its mark on everyone here.

  “It’s true, I’m coming closer to the end of my reign. I’m seventy years old. But for now no final decision has been made. All my sons are fine men and more than capable. Any one of them could handle the job. It’s just that only one of them is destined to do it. Time will reveal its choice.”

  * * *

  I can’t stop going over this afternoon’s conversations. Even as I step into my little black dress, I’m reliving the interview. My skin is tingling with the realization of what I was witness to. The allotted half hour turned into an hour and a half. Now I’ve got the makings of a great piece. No. Three pieces. There’s enough there for a series. I’m so friggin excited.

  Every one of them opened up, revealing their unique personalities. I learned the strengths and roles of each member of the family. Queen Ayana was the most guarded, but even she was warm and upfront with her opinions. I was afraid she was going to just be a figure head. A mouthpiece for the king. But no. Her take on things may be the most valued. She’s very bright. They all are. Even Kwai, who doesn’t really care about the monarchy other than what it can get him. There’s a good guy buried deep inside, though. That’s the sense I got. Although I’d bet my life he uses the position to his advantage when he gets the chance.

  Zan was the quietest. There was no talk about how he came to be a member of the family. I know the basics, but the details have always been guarded. There wasn’t any difference I could see between the brothers. All were equals in their parents’ affection. They treated Zan as if he was born to the monarchy. When I brought the subject of his childhood up, the queen shut it down. I took the hint and moved to a new subject.

  My cell sounds atop the bedside table. Oh good. It’s Soraya.

  “I’ve got five minutes. Literally five.”

  “Hello to you too. How did it go?”

  I begin to pace, originally my method of reaching ten thousand steps a day. Now it’s habit.

  “It was great. I’m going to make it into a three-parter. What an interesting family.”

  “How was African Adonis?”

  “Better than I remembered.”

  She starts to jump in, but I cut her off.

  “I know! I told you he was the best looking man I’ve ever seen, but it’s better than that.”

  “How can it be better than best?”

  We start laughing. Reminds me of our early days working the newspaper. Her with “Ask Ida”, me being one of the online researchers.

  “I want to meet him,” she adds. “I told Graham about it too. He thinks we should all get together for a drink. That would be a good way for you to see him again.”

  “They’re leaving in a few days! I’ll probably never see him again after tonight.”

  “What?! You’re going out with him tonight?”

  “He’s taking me to dinner. And no, I’m not telling you where.”

  With one final glance in the mirror, I grab my clutch and walk back into the living room.

  “There’s such contrast between the royal’s Plaza suite and this closet of an apartment.”

  My musings are interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.

  “Got to go. He’s here.”

  “You definitely need to hook up with him, Belinda. When will you get another opportunity?”

  “You’re crazy! Goodbye!”

  I disconnect and my stomach does a half-gainer dive. Get it together!

  There’s a rap on the door. Knock. Knock. Knock.

  I swing the door open. “You had me at the doorbell,” I chuckle.

  “I wasn’t sure I heard any ring.”

  God almighty! I didn’t think it was possible for him to look any better than he did this afternoon. I was so wrong. This man wears the hell out of a black suit.

  “You look beautiful, Belinda. Exceptionally beautiful,” he says, walking a few steps inside.

  “Thank you. I was just going for chic.” I smile.

  “Let me look at your place,” he says, perusing the space, or lack thereof.

  Suddenly I’m aware of every flaw in my design and tastes. Never have I doubted myself in this area, or really cared if someone liked my apartment or not. Tonight it’s a different story. He’s so put together, his clothes and jewelry, that I’m self-conscious.

  My lap blanket looks a bit worn. And I didn’t get to dusting this week. Fuck me.

  “The place is nothing special. I’m really not a woman who’s obsessed with feathering her nest.”

  A lovely smile lifts from the corner of his mouth.

  “I’ve never heard that phrase. Feathering her nest. It paints a picture, doesn’t it?”

  I chuckle at my own words.

  “No, I like this room,” Zan says. “It looks like you.”

  “Artless and plain?”

  “No. Classic and without artifice.”

  He gets me. Who knew that would happen?

  “That was a lovely thing to say.”

  Turning to face me, he gently wraps his arms around my waist. I’ve no objection. His beautiful eyes lock on mine.

  “Shall we start here?”

  I may be in a coma because no words are forming. He takes that as a yes and leans in until our lips are almost touching. The sweetness of his breath on me feels like it’s giving me life.

  “Kiss me, Belinda.”

  Then his lips are on mine. Tender, soft, saying so much more than I ever heard before. And the earth shifts on its axis. I’m in serious trouble. The kind any woman would love being in.

  Chapter 5

  Zan


  Good things come in small packages. We sit close together in the corner booth. The tiny French restaurant recommended by the concierge is a winner. I asked for quality and privacy. His suggestion that my driver use one of the hotel cars instead of a limousine was a good one. There wasn’t a paparazzi in sight, and no one dining here gives a damn about who I am. Refreshing.

  “Let’s finish this bottle and get another.” I pour the last few inches of wine in our goblets.

  A delicate hand touches my sleeve. “No more for me. This will do.”

  Gazing into her eyes is my new favorite thing. When she lowers her lids my dick twitches. It’s such a fucking girly move. Our table is overflowing with food, mostly mine. To a stranger it would look comical. The halibut entrée and single side of roasted vegetables she ordered is hidden among the ribeye steak, lobster, mashed potatoes, and three other sides cramming the space.

  “You’re a man of big appetites.”

  It was an innocent comment but as soon as the words leave her mouth I hear the double meaning. My eyebrows lift and I hold back a grin.

  “You know what I mean. All this food,” she says smiling.

  “I’ve always been a big eater. Think it’s because I knew hunger as a child.”

  I’ve never shared that with anyone outside a therapist’s office. The buried pain resurfaces and sits just behind my eyes. There’s no getting away from the past, no matter how much effort we might put into it. Even my story’s happy ending doesn’t erase the memories.

  There’s compassion on her face and tenderness as she braids her fingers between mine.

  “I know you’ve suffered and that you went through such a painful past. I don’t really know what to say, how to express my sympathy. I only know articles have mentioned the trauma was extreme.”