by Xavier Neal
She plays with the ends of her short, freshly dyed pink hair. “There’s nothing…nothing at all you want to try? Pyro? Maybe to Iron Man by Black Sabbath?”
Do I look like a fucking metal fan? Don’t bitch about it being a classic. Still ain’t my shit.
“Heavy lighting cues to an R.Kelly song?”
Closer but how many times do women really want a lap dance to Bump and Grind?
“Candy? We could do candy!”
“Do not say to Candy Shop by Fifty Cent.”
Her mouth clamps shut.
Talk about a fucking over played song.
After a beat, she questions, “So was that a no on the candy part or just a no with that song?”
I tilt my eyebrows down in question.
“Come on, Prince B! Give me something! If you can work with candy, I can work with that too. I need something.”
“Lollipop.” Leaning back in her oversized office chair I’m occupying, I add, “By Uncle Luke.”
Excitement appears into her eyes, and she quickly starts to typing. “On its own?”
“Mash it.”
“With?”
The memory of using French on stage to make a point to Fresh Meat slides back into my brain causing me to unconsciously smirk. “Lollipop by Lil’ Wayne.”
It was the song I was playing in my head when I did it.
There’s a small lull before she cautiously whispers, “Are you actually smiling?”
I quickly replace it with a scowl.
What! I don’t just go around fucking smiling. No one fears the asshole who is always grinning like a lunatic. Which is what happens more often than not when French and I are alone. Well, alone and not doing the two things we do best together.
Little Sami quickly returns to typing. “I can mesh those and tie in a candy theme, no problem. Play with the sticks and licks idea,” she continues rambling now more to herself than to me. “Get you into one of those old school white ice cream outfits…No! Just the old candy shop aprons! Oh my God and-”
“Can I go?”
Her eyes cut me a glance as if confused why I’m still sitting here.
Makes two of us really…
“Yeah! Go! Go! I got it from here. I’ll come to you next week and discuss all the details. I’ll shoot you the mix to rehearse with as soon as Clayton’s done.”
I stand, twist my black cap around, and exit in silence.
That’s how this shit works for me. I voice one opinion and Little Sami runs away with it. The others? Well they all have shit that means more to them and want it expressed in their sets. Whips. Guitars. Hockey. Everyone else has something they can’t wait to showboat. Me? I just can’t fucking wait to get it over with. Stripping in the beginning gave me the life French promised it would and then it kept me the heartbeat away from her I was determined to always stay. Believe me, I would’ve fucking quit the first night I had her underneath me if I didn’t think it would fuck up her world in a way she isn’t prepared to deal with. One change at a time. First, Wood’s replacement is never found and then I take his place. Cocky? Fuck yeah I am. Considering the fact I have to sign off on it, it’s pretty safe to say my days as Prince B are numbered.
**
I sit up in the outdoor patio chair and shove down my building irritation.
Fucking hate when people are late. Yeah, shit happens sometimes, but more often than not, they fucked up and could’ve just prevented it.
My phone vibrates with a text message alert.
French: Thank you for the office roses and the cream pastry.
A smile briefly appears.
Did a little errand running before I got here. She was gone this fucking morning when I woke up. Hate that shit. I at least wanna kiss her goodbye and make sure she fucking puts food in her face. Never fails. Day gets hectic and she neglects to eat. At least when I’m there for breakfast with her I can physically see her put something nutritious in her mouth and can guarantee the same thing again at dinner. What? Oh. The roses were just…I don’t know…An I love you thing? She doesn’t have any in there unless they’re sent by someone and other than Rhys, I don’t honestly recall anyone ever doing that for her, so I will. I’ll take care of that for her. Help distract her from the fact she deserves some asshole who can rock a pinstripe suit with a bank account almost as big as hers.
“Sorry man,” Q’s voice suddenly sings over my shoulder as he makes his way to the chair across from me. “Got off late and then traffic was a bitch trying to get over here.”
I offer him a nod of forgiveness.
Put your tongue back in your goddamn mouth. The last thing I need is to watch you fucking drool over him. Yeah. We’re complete opposites looks wise. He’s dark, smooth, and slick. I’m light, hard, and rough. Where he’s smiles, I’m all scowls. Where he’s a sly talker, I’m a silent motherfucker. No fucking ying and yang jokes. They’re played out. But the two of us, the mismatched pair we are, used to kill when French would have us tag team bachelorette parties.
“You still doin’ that unloadin’ shit?”
Q bobs his head at the same time the waiter comes to grab his drink order. After the rat face kid disappears, he sighs, “Not the best shit on the planet, especially with the way it has a nasty habit of beating up my legs, but at least I have a fucking job.” He lightly chuckles. “Can’t afford this shit though. Lunch is on you.”
I shake my head. “Lunch is always fucking on me.”
“You’re the one still livin’ the life where bitches make it rain.”
His snide comment forces me to shift my weight.
Q’s still bitter about the bullshit fallout…just like French is. Fuck what her mouth says about being fine. The situation is still a sore fucking spot…for all of us.
When the waiter returns, we place our orders and I change the topic to something less uncomfortable. Q welcomes the subject of basketball with wide open arms the same way he has since we first became friends.
Two Princes have been thrown into The Castle life because of me. Zane, who I met freshman year of high school, fell out of touch with, then ran into again about four years ago and Q or Quinton, who I met right after my senior year at a party I was crashing to get out of the fucking storm that was about to hit. He overheard me talking about my favorite team and joined in instantly on praising them. Over the course of our friendship, Q has disappeared and reappeared numerous times. Sometimes over a woman. Sometimes over money. Sometimes over drugs. Most recently…his split with The Castle was more or less because of all three. His test came back unclean for an STD and coke. Rumors ran rapidly around the building about him accusing French of stealing from us too. I squashed each one that crossed my path to them and to Q. He swears he didn’t fuck up. That it wasn’t his test. That French made a mistake…but… French has never made a mistake before. I don’t know. It was all one fucked up moment that resulted in the longest stretch of silence French and I have ever shared.
“They’re fucking dominating this year,” Q brags between bites of his burger. “And fuck McDuggal for switching teams. He didn’t carry the whole crew like he claimed he did to every fucking sport’s reporter who would listen.”
As I dip my fry in ketchup, I taunt, “His punk ass ain’t carrying his new team, is it?”
Q chuckles and sucks food out of his teeth. “You see his game last night?”
I shake my head.
“What the fuck? Why not?”
My hesitation to respond is proceeded with a grunt of disapproval.
“Oh. You and French are still fucking.”
His callous label of our situation receives a twitch of a glare. “We’re more than fucking, Q. You know that.”
“Call that shit whatever you fucking like.” I note the hatred in his eyes. “That why you didn’t fucking bother texting me back last night? Too busy getting your dick sucked?”
Knowing that’s true, I try to justify, “Do I fucking complain when you blow me off? You forget to fucking
text back? When you fucking cancel plans at the last fucking minute.”
“I’ve got a good fucking reason!”
“And fucking my girlfriend is a good fucking reason as far as I give a fuck.”
Q pauses in a way that implies he has to swallow his initial response. “At least I’m not potentially fucking up this friendship over pussy.”
“Neither am I.”
“You are and you don’t even fucking know it,” he grumbles under his breath.
See why I avoid the topic of her with him the same way I avoid the topic of him with her?
“She’s a manipulative bitch and you refuse to fucking acknowledge it.”
Instantly, I growl, “Disrespect her again and you’ll have another reason to fucking limp.”
He doesn’t back off. “You don’t know her as well as you think you do, Brock.”
“And she’s not as cold as you fucking think she is, Q.”
“She’s colder.”
I let out a warning grumble.
Punching him in the middle of a crowded restaurant isn’t how I saw this fucking day going…
“Just look at the fucking situation,” Q sighs, hands folding together. “You’re not even her goddamn type.”
“How the hell do you know what her type is?”
“Because women like that aren’t exactly a fucking mystery, man. You fucking know that.”
I don’t argue.
“Women like French, women who have to run the whole world and prove to everyone what a boss they are, like men of equal stature. Men who look good on their arms and who they look good on the arms of. Anything they fuck in between is always temporary.”
An uncomfortable knot begins to grow in my gut.
“The Castle is fucking profitable proof they only like bottom of the barrel shit when no one is looking. Where no one can see. That’s why it happens behind the very closed doors of your employment facility.” He cocks a nasty grin. “And you know this shit. You’re trying to ignore it. You’ll never be what it is French actually wants in her life. You’ll always be the dirty little secret she keeps in her back pocket. It’s just a matter of time she fucking ditches you for the real thing.”
Yeah. I should fucking pop him right in the jaw, but I can’t…Not just because he’s my fucking friend, but because he’s right. The shit he’s spewing is valid in so many ways. And the truth is, it is the same shit I wrestle with every time I try to wrap my mind around French actually being mine. Hope like hell he’s fucking wrong…Hope like hell she’s an exception the same way she lets me be one…Right now though? He’s successfully refueled the machine of self-hatred that she manages to stop.
“Truth is, man, there’s two versions of French. There’s the one you see and the one the rest of us do. When you’re gonna open those baby blues of yours and realize the one you deal with is just an act to keep you in line until she’s ready to dispose of you, I’ll never fucking know…”
A grumble of annoyance shakes itself loose at the accusation.
There are two versions of French, but he’s fucking wrong. The one I see is the one she shares when you’ve earned it and only then. It’s more than just trying to get her to let her fucking guard down. It’s about ripping that motherfucker to shreds, storming the trenches, and not taking a fucking breath until she sees you’re willing to cede all loyalties to her. Only then can you know the beauty behind the bitch, as so many call her. Trust me. The beauty? Like an angel with a foul mouth and a sex addiction. All she wants is to give you pleasure and protect you. I’m the luckiest fucking man on the planet and nothing anyone says can change my opinion on that. I just hope it stays this way…I just hope this doesn’t all come crashing down someday because she decides she wants someone with more…potential. Someone with a better marriage material resume. Someone I can never be…
French
“It’s a short list,” I snip, tilting my face Wood’s direction. “I make a habit of making friends not enemies. Of being feared not threatened. Deciphering who exactly attacked me shouldn’t be a mystery you need the FBI to solve. And if for some reason we suddenly do, you know who to contact.”
He drops his mouth to argue when I lift a finger to stop him.
“Get it done, Wood. Or you’ll be done and we both know that’s the absolute last fucking thing you want with a baby on the way.”
Cold hearted? Maybe. But Cleopatra didn’t run Egypt on fucking good looks alone.
All of a sudden, a blonde curly headed man, with a mouse face and oversized glasses, carrying two files, sits in the restaurant seat across from me. Without giving the opportunity to speak, I state, “Let me make this blatantly clear. You are my sperm donor’s last Hail Mary in a game that frankly should’ve ended weeks ago. You have approximately four minutes to impress me before you are dismissed and I enjoy my spring salad to the sound of my bodyguard pleading with me to have mercy on his career the same way you will be pleading with Rhys to have mercy on yours. And just in case you feel inclined to call my bluff or feel I’m just a little girl with a pretty face in a world she knows nothing about, I will not so gently inform you I am well aware of the nonpublic scandal that cost you your job as a detective out in California as well as very educated in your oh so secretive affair with the not so honorable Judge Condland’s youngest daughter. I don’t personally give a shit about the age gap, but something tells me if he knew you were banging his 19-year-old, he might find a way to make your private license…disappear.”
Impressed? Little late for that. You don’t get to sit on the throne of success without knowing how to conquer everything in your path.
“Clock started thirty seconds ago.”
He adjusts his glasses. “Have you been able to locate the man that attacked you?”
Not common knowledge but not impressive, especially since Wood has been poking around trying to discover the answer that I am fairly certain I know, but am desperate to be anything else. I’ve had my suspicions from the beginning. They were just heightened last week when one of my alcohol delivery trucks was hijacked.
“Did you know the reason your trainee didn’t flinch a muscle wasn’t because he was scared?”
My silence spurs him to continue.
“In fact, Wood actually picked quite a replacement on paper. Never been a body guard, but the military training should’ve sufficed. There was just one little thing missing from his stellar resume, which of course was the disgrace they scrubbed from his records because he blackmailed them with a homosexual scandal that would’ve harmed some very powerful men.”
The leak of new information successfully steals my attention.
“Your trainee, Murphy, didn’t try to stop the attacker because he was paid by the attacker to take the job to begin with.”
Rage begins to boil at the back of my throat.
“One giant set up to dethrone the ‘queen’ as you so cockily call yourself.” The mouse detective places one file in front of me. “This is what’s going to get me the job.” He places down the other beside it. “And this is what’s going to get me a pay increase.”
Intrigued, I fold my hands in my lap.
“It contains not only the identity of the attacker but him meeting with Murphy a month before to set up the transaction.”
“Open it.”
He shakes his head. “Employment first.”
“This is not an open discussion.”
“It became one the minute you not so subtly threatened my career.” He adjusts his glasses again. “I have no doubt that Emily’s father or more likely her mother owes you a favor and that you will cash it in without hesitation.”
Smarter and ballsier than I was expecting. Why didn’t Rhys lead with him and save us both some time? Oh, you can go ahead and rest your weary face. I’ll break him. I always do.
“I have no desire to relocate again and given the information you’ve managed to find, it is safe to assume if I’m employed by you it remains a private matter rather than on
e to be leveraged.”
“You don’t get to have it your way, Mouse.”
“My name’s-”
“Don’t care,” I interrupt. “While I am not in the mood for compromising I am even less in the mood to continue to have my team’s precious time wasted on some half assed coup.” My eyes hold his hostage. “So here’s what’s going to happen. You can have a pay increase for what you’ve brought to satisfy my standards or you can have your love of being dressed like a baby and spanked by the Supreme Court Judge’s daughter buried six feet under cement where I will not even consider bringing it to light unless you bite my hand after I bitch slap you with something else.” A glass of champagne is placed in front of me alongside my ice water. “Your move.”