by Xavier Neal
Pricey lesson for him to have learned I’m sure.
“You will arrive on your private plane unescorted. The weekend is a chance for me to get to know you.”
Childishly I counter, “You do know me.”
“No,” he argues quickly. “I know who you pretend to be. I know the established face and reputation you go to great lengths to sustain. I am asking for one weekend to learn about the person behind the mask I’m certain you occasionally get tired of wearing.”
It gets a bit snug some days…But Brock sees behind it. Another reason we can never be more. He’s already seen me weaker than most. I’m not sure he would continue to love me as he does if I ever completely let my overly aggressive guard down.
“No cell phone. No computer. No internet. No ability to work or consider working or call in a favor to rescue you from my empoigner. There is not a need for a written contract. Your verbal one will be enough as far I’m concerned. Unlike the woman who gave birth to you, I trust your word. Those are my terms. Now,” his expression hardens, “is the person you need this favor for worth that price?”
Without hesitation, I answer, “Yes.”
Probably would sell my soul at this point to get this for Brock. The truth is I know what every Prince deeply desires long before they ever cross the threshold to The Castle. Most are easier to fulfill than they imagine. Brock’s however…I’ve spent years trying and have yet to come close. Above anyone else he deserves what he wants most. Technically, the second thing he wants most in life. I can’t give him the first. Even if some nights that’s all I want too.
A shocked expression appears on Rhys’ face. “Really?”
I hold the extra emotions at bay. “Yes.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “That proves to me you’re not the monster your mother tried to make you into.” He lets a beat pass before inquiring, “Should we order first or discuss what it is you need? Keep in mind, if we order first we can spend the remainder of the meal discussing the subject, if we discuss it first, you will be expected to make idle conversation until dessert is offered by the waiter who by the way, I think you frightened moitié à l'enfer.”
My attention steals a glimpse of where’s he’s nervously waiting in the wings.
Eh. The preschooler needs to toughen up if he plans to do more than wait tables in his life. The world is far from a kind place. Trust me. I contribute to its cruelness as much as its kindness.
After Rhys orders himself a steak and side of fries, I order myself fish with a fresh salad, and dismiss our server with slightly less sharp tactics.
Once we’re alone again, he lifts his champagne glass, leans back into his seat, and waves a hand at me to proceed. “You have all of my attention.”
For the first time since it was poured, I reach for my beverage needing the sip of encouragement.
A rare thing I need but bubbly always helps. I prefer it for appeasement above all else.
“I need someone found.”
His skeptical look is immediate. “I am certain your resources are more than capable of having that accomplished.”
“Under almost any other circumstance? Yes.”
“What makes this one exceptionnel?”
“I’ve exerted my reach. It’s time to use outside means. You require a slightly less painful favor than others.”
Intrigue begins to flutter in his eyes. “Who exactly are you looking for?”
“I do not know his name.”
“Makes it a bit more difficult.” My scowl is met with an apologetic nod. “Pardonne-moi. Please continue.”
“His brother’s name is Brock Walter Beaumont. That is his given birth name despite what foster care records indicate. Brock’s brother, the man I am looking for, was born Brody Walker Beaumont. They’re identical twins.”
You may have a minute. It was a shock to me too.
“At least they were. The level of identical where they had to wear name tags and bracelets to help people tell them apart, their own horrific mother included. When the time came and a family wanted to adopt Brock, he switched places with his brother. He let Brody become adopted instead.”
“Noble.”
“Protective.”
To a fault. Brock’s swap landed him with beatings, bruises, and torture that would give some people nightmares. Lucky for him we’re wonders with make up at The Castle. He’s mastered the art of hiding them well.
“Why didn’t the couple adopt both?”
“I don’t know.”
Valid question, but I assume it’s because twins would be harder to raise than just one. Then again, don’t you think it would hurt to tear two people apart? Yeah. This coming from the woman who doesn’t hesitate to destroy a family if it is to protect her company or better yet the people in it. I am as heartless as you’re thinking, probably more so, but they were children. They were innocent. Those who double cross me are far from it.
“They were just shy of five years old. Brody’s adoption information was lost in a fire about four months after it was official. This of course was long before everyone used back up servers and drivers and flash drives. Back when the state was excited to get rid of one more mouth to feed.” I have a sip of the nerve settling beverage. “I have….no idea if he is still even named Brody. And while Brock has given me all the information he can remember over the course of our years together about the last day he saw his brother, he was only a child. Memories fade. Details cannot always be trusted. His state records are…for lack of a more technical term, fucked up beyond belief. Some lies. Some confusion. Some misprints. Mistakes no one cared to correct. All of those factors made finding any sort of reliable path impossible. However, about two years ago, I finally located the home he recalls living in with Brody. The woman actually still lives there, but has Alzheimer's though and her husband has passed away.”
“Dead end.”
“Yes.” Placing my glass back down, I assertively state, “I need Brody found. I’ve been hunting him for years. It needs to end.”
Rhys’ head tilts at me, eyes still filled with copious amounts of interest. “Brock is…one of your Princes?”
“He’s more than that.”
His eyebrows lift. “A lover?”
“Family.” The declaration stings as much as I believe it should. “He is…without question…the only person in my life I trust.”
He nods slowly. “And how does one join the list of people you trust, French?”
“Loyalty. Patience. Persistence.” I fold my hands tightly together and rest them on the table. “And unlike you and the money sucking snatch who brought me into this world, no amount of cash or gifts can change my mind. Those are things earned not paid for.”
“You mislabel my attempts to shower you the only way you let me.”
“Or perhaps I label them accordingly and you have yet to learn the proper way to express affections for those you truly care about.” I shrug. “Perhaps that’s because the only person you’ve ever truly loved or that has ever truly mattered to you is yourself.”
He lets his eyebrows lower. “That’s an awfully brazen assumption.”
“You have never led me to believe otherwise.”
“I-”
“Your desire for my time and attention is not to benefit me or whatever lie it is you’ve convinced yourself of. It is nothing more than an illusion of absolution you have created in a relentless attempt to rectify the mistakes of your past.” My cold words are met with a glower. “I do not appreciate you trying to correct your errors by disrupting my life. The life I have worked long and fucking hard to build long before you were ready to openly admit I was your daughter. Now,” I let my voice take a similar tone to the one he used on me, “do we have an agreement or should I move my efforts of pursuit elsewhere?”
Rhys reaches for his glass and quietly states, “I’ll make a call after dinner.”
Label me however you see fit. Everyone does. I am many things. Cold, callous, and calculated are j
ust the ones that help people maintain their distance. Protective is the one that put my ass in this chair. Loyal is the one that made me stay. And love is the reason I’m risking my sanity. I’m not talking about that bullshit you swoon over while watching your latest soap opera on Netflix. I’m talking about the kind people die over. The kind you would take a bullet for, or have. The kind that gives you not only light but a hand when you have reached your darkest depths. Luckily for me, I only love one person in this fucked up world and only have to make a deal with a cross roads demon once. Don’t bother wondering if it’s worth it. When it comes to Brock…it always is.
Brock
A heavy grunt escapes at the same time I flop down on the edge of my couch. With my ear pressed tightly to the phone, I snap, “Where the fuck are you?”
There’s a long pause before French replies, “Where the fuck are your manners today?”
Don’t waste your breath. I don’t tread lightly on anything, especially not when the woman I’d fucking die for isn’t where she should be. I swear she better not be out with whoever sent her those fucking flowers last week in the wrong fucking color…She likes them fucking red. Like the ones I bought for her desk. Like the ones that should prove as a reminder I can be whatever it is she fucking needs me to be if she would just let me.
“Where. The Fuck. Are. You?”
“How do you know I’m not in my penthouse?”
“I knocked.”
“For?”
“My lucky hat,” I answer, voice unconsciously softening.
It was the first thing she ever bought me outside of a meal. It’s the one I prefer to wear day to day. It’s black, tattered, and worn out. That shit only makes me love it more.
“Use your key.”
Of course I have a fucking key. And yes, even with a fucking key I still knock because it’s not technically my penthouse and despite her insistence of manners, I typically treat her with more respect than most.
“Where the fuck are you? And don’t lie to me.”
“Do I ever?”
No. I can say with everything I’ve got, she’s the only person who never has and never will.
“You omit.”
“Occasionally.”
“French.”
She lets out a heavy sigh, “I’m shopping.”
“Shopping?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Between meetings?”
There’s a hint of smile in her voice. “Of course.”
She’s always fucking meeting someone every day. Not real sure if there’s ever a day besides Sunday that she doesn’t have at least one scheduled with someone, somewhere, for some fucking thing. If I didn’t find the shit irritating, it would be impressive.
“What are you shopping for? Antiques?”
“Lingerie.”
Just the thought grabs a groan.
Hate when she plays teasing games. Doesn’t matter they usually don’t last more than a well-timed comeback or viciously placed comment, they’re still more than fucking enough.
I slouch down further onto the leather couch. “French.”
“Brock.”
The sound of my name twitches a smirk. “What do you need lingerie for?”
“You mean besides the obvious?”
“The obvious better not mean to please the asshole that sent you the wrong kind of fucking flowers, whose face will be bashed in beyond recognition if it ever slips who the fuck he is.”
“Will you let those fucking go?” She snips. “They weren’t from someone I was fucking.”
“Then who?”
“Rhys.”
Her answer causes me to sneer. “Why? What does he fucking want now?”
French’s father’s an asshole in my book. He left her to be brought up by a sociopath. I don’t judge her for it. At least her old man is around and eventually admitted he was her father. Mine never did. And my drunken rage fueled mother used the lack of knowledge over who gave me my looks as another excuse to whip it off of me.
French’s lack of response pushes me to repeat, “What does he want from you?”
“Same thing he always does,” she mutters. “And not that it’s any concern of yours-”
“If it has anything to do with you it is absolutely my fucking concern.”
Always.
There’s a noticeable change in her tone. “I’m not currently fucking anyone.”
“Good.”
“Nor have I in over a year…”
The news brings an unexpected peace to my system. “Then what’s the lingerie for?”
“Aside from holding up my tits because they don’t naturally just sit that high, I have a fondness for robes.”
My eyebrows arch. “Why don’t I already know that?”
“Because you prefer to assume you’re the only thing I want wrapped around me.”
Her comment successfully receives another smirk.
She’s not wrong.
“You want me wrapped around you whether you admit it out loud or not.” I allow a pause for a retort, yet when I don’t receive one I push the limits, “Tell me what you’re wearing right now.”
“A red lace short robe.”
“And?”
“That’s it.”
My cock starts to stir as the back of my head hits the sofa. “Take it off.”
“Touch yourself.”
The counter falters my breath.
This is fucking new…
“You first.”
Silence attempts to settle between us but is banished by the most beautiful heavy sigh of relief. The unfamiliar sound ceases my ability to move. To fucking think.
Fuck. Me.
French’s voice whispers back, “Your. Turn.”
My hand follows the instruction effortlessly. I grip my dick over my black basketball shorts, releasing a thoughtless groan of approval.
Not like jerking off is something fucking special. I’ve beat my dick so many times over the past decade I’ve probably broken some sort of Guinness Book of World Record. Gold fucking medal of masturbation for someone who hasn’t decided to become a fucking monk. I wasn’t fucking lying to you when I said my cock only responds to French. It wasn’t some sort of fucking exaggeration. It wasn’t a way to make you feel sorry for me…which I fucking hate when people feel sorry for me…it was just the truth. The ugly, masturbating gets fucking old, truth.
“Out of your shorts,” she commands.
With one hand gripping the phone, I use the other to shed the clothing occupying my lower half. The minute my dick is free, I give it another good stroke using the pre-cum to turn my hand into a pathetic pussy imitation. “Tell me that pussy is as tight as I fucking imagine.”
French’s breath hitches. “Tighter.”
My eyes fall shut and I squeeze my pierced cock harder. “Push that finger deeper.”
“How deep?”
“As deep as it’ll fucking go.”
A long, loud moan slides out of her and into me.
Fuck. I wanna come from just hearing that shit.
“Drag it back out.” The scoff I receive conjures up the smirk only she can. “Now.”
She grumbles but I assume does as she’s instructed by the sudden change in demeanor.
“Again.” My cock thrums in pain. “Do it again.”
French unexpectedly whimpers, “Fuck, I want you to do this for me…”
The confession unhinges my jaw.
Never has she said anything like that to me. And trust me, I’ve been fucking waiting.
“Brock…” her unsteady voice calls out.
“Fuck, baby….” I tug roughly at my nuts. “What? What do you want me to do?”
She teases, “You don’t know?”
“I’m gonna let you keep your control this time.”
The pause has me picturing her victorious grin.
“Tell me.”
“Move your hand faster.”
And I do.
“H
arder.”
I abandon the leisure strokes I was fooling around with and begin pumping fiercely. The pressure from my hand is a poor parallel to French’s pussy, but it’s enough to get me on the brink of coming, which is all that fucking matters at this point.