Prince Brock

by Xavier Neal

  The waiter attempts to start, “Can I-”

  “He’s not thirsty.” Without breaking eye contact, I point for him to go. Once he has, I question, “What’s it gonna be, Mouse? More money or more dignity?”

  No. You can’t just assume he’s going to choose one or the other. You’d be surprised at how many people prefer cash to their reputation.

  He pushes the evidence containing the information on my attacker towards me. “Vault my secret. I love Emily more than any amount of money you or your father could pay.”

  I flip open the folder at the same time I reply, “Doubt it.” My eyes begin scanning the photos inside. “Tell me what’s in the other folder.”

  “I pulled all open and closed adoptions in the country for that year-”

  “Done.”

  “All public and private and absolutely private adoptions, both domestic and those going to foreign nations-”

  “Wasting my time.”

  Unfortunately, adoptions aren’t sorted by the name of the child adopted. They are categorized by the parents and the child’s name because they are a minor isn’t disclosed in information searches unless specifically noted. Yeah. Walls upon walls to climb.

  “And a list of all children who had name changes between then and the following year.”

  My eyes dart up. “Now that might be useful…”

  “Had to call in a few favors since many of those are sealed records, but it’s a better place to start than you have now.”

  I acknowledge his well-placed snippy comment with a nod.

  In general, I prefer those willing to push back more than those not. What can I say? After living a life far from easy, I have more fun with those willing to fight for something. For anything. It’s probably the thing I love most about Brock. There’s never been a moment he wasn’t willing to swing for something he thought truly mattered…Or take the hit for something he truly cared about. Only problem is after seeing the face in these photos, I know he’s going to loathe lifting his fists to protect me. Maybe I can get around it… Maybe I can make a point without destroying one of the only friendships he has... At the very fucking least, I need to try. For him. Fuck…am I going soft?

  Brock

  “If I wanted to eat cardboard, I’d let Ari cook,” Arik complains tossing the pizza back in the box. “Seriously, Chance. Would it kill you to serve better shit?”

  “This shit is really good, bro. Trust me! It’s the latest craze,” Chance swears. “Healthy pizza that tastes good!”

  “No such thing,” Hunter denies as he lifts his beer bottle to his lips.

  Every other week we do this Poker Night shit or at least fucking try to. At one time we were the longest standing Princes at The Castle. These nights were about building brotherhood outside of the clothes free career we’re all in for different reasons. If you can’t trust the people you deal with the most then there’s a fucking problem you need to fix. Even now with two of these assholes ‘retired’ I still trust them more than I do any other assholes under French’s thumb. You’ve already met the hippie whose obnoxious lecturing led me to confront French that night. The one with the black hair and green eyes that looks like he belongs in a fucking Macy’s commercial? That’s Arik. Quit last fall when he fell in love with a chick who could give him a run for his money. He used to sing during his show. That was his special shit. Now he plays piano and sings at some swanky hotel during the week. On the weekends he performs for weddings and other shit. The one with brown hair and slight country accent? Hunter. That asshole quit around Christmas and is the reason Fresh Meat has a space. He used to do the cowboy theme. I’ll never fucking understand why women love that shit. Don’t get me wrong. That shit makes some fucking money. Just don’t understand why. No. Don’t fucking try to explain it. After he quit, he started helping run some family company of his. Pretty sure he’s a millionaire… And that jackass over there, that’s Zane. Yeah. Wipe off that fucking drool on your chin. He fucking gets that shit all the time. Women love light brown skin and light eyed assholes. Well. Most fucking women. French never saw him as a dick she wanted to fuck. She only saw dollar signs.

  “Just one week,” Chance whines. “One fucking week, I would love for you to all just appreciate what I’m trying to deliver.”

  “Unhappiness?” Arik mocks.

  “Positive energy for your bodies!” He states cheerfully.

  He gets on my fucking nerves with that shit. He’s like a walking, talking, stripping fortune cookie.

  “Say the word energy one more time and I’ll fuckin’ bounce right now,” Zane interjects.

  We’re similar in temperaments, for similar reasons. I’ve got French to fucking protect and he’s got…well…that’s really his shit to share. Not mine. And whatever you think you saw French do for him…you didn’t. You feel me?

  “Can we wrap this shit up?” I grouse, leaning back in my seat. “I got shit I wanna do.”

  More like a woman I wanna fuck, but they don’t need to know that. And don’t fucking mention it either. It’s not that we’re hiding the shit. We’re just not rubbing it in people’s faces. French’s request to keep order under her reign.

  “Yeah,” Zane agrees, “I got somewhere I need to be too.”

  “You’ve always got somewhere you need to be,” Arik counters while Chance tosses out cards for the last hand. “Does somewhere have a name or maybe a great pair of legs?”

  “Not everyone has a life that solely revolves around when their girlfriend has time to touch their cock,” Chance chuckles. “Some of us have bigger pictures to fucking care about or…in my case too many women to make that consideration.”

  Leave it. He’s not worth the breath.

  I check the cards I’ve been dealt.

  “Little late in the game to be bluffin’,” Hunter jokes with a cocky smirk.

  We all laugh at Chance’s expense, which makes him glower.

  “Fuck all of you.”

  “Pass,” Arik continues to laugh.

  “I don’t swing that way plus I’m practically fuckin’ married, so that takes it to a hell no for me,” Hunter says with pride. “Speakin’ of, French sent us a baby gift.”

  The mention of her name shifts my eyes.

  Shut the fuck up. I’m not pussy whipped.

  “Was it a cradle with the pentagram symbol carved in the bottom?” Chance taunts.

  I restrain the urge to nail him in the shin under the table.

  Fucking asshole has no fucking clue what she does for us. What she did for Arik or Hunter. How she books a monthly order of his shitty hippie treats to be donated to a retirement community, so he can keep his fucking side gig afloat. Oh. And you don’t fucking know that either. Got it?

  “She got us a custom-made baby swing that looks like a tire swing. It’s got ropes and horses dangling down for the baby to grab at it,” his grin grows bigger, “and she also got Sugar a private pregnancy photo session with this big-name photographer, which she was surprisingly happy about. Not typically her thing, but she’s never done a shoot like that before, so getting to do something new always makes her happy.”

  Hm? Don’t fucking ask if I know about those gifts or helped picked them out. It doesn’t fucking matter. It also really doesn’t matter if she was right about the photoshoot thing and if I was wrong. Fuck off. It doesn’t…

  “Oh we can’t talk about energy at poker, but babies are totally fine?” Chance gripes.

  “Well you’re here, so that’s inevitable.” I retort.

  The guys laugh and Chance frowns again.

  “You nervous about being a dad?” Zane quietly questions.

  Hunter smiles wide. “Not even a little bit. It’s gonna be the best thing to ever happen to me. Just like Sugar was.”

  A hint of a smile flutters on Zane’s face, but he pushes it away before the others take note.

  Don’t. Ask.

  “If Ari and I can just agree on a fucking apartment, that will be the best thing to ev
er happen to me,” Arik grumbles.

  “Bitch, bitch, bitch,” I jeer, not thrilled with the cards in my hand. “Ever fucking occur to you to be grateful someone was not only willing to put up with your ass but support it?”

  My insertion lifts eyebrows around the table.

  A short beat passes prompting me to growl, “Stop fucking gawking at me and play fucking cards.”

  There are mumbles around the table and the game proceeds. After successfully bluffing my way through the round to a win, I send Chance to grab the money box to cash us out.

  We all put in the same amount when we arrive and divvy it up when we part. Easy and prevents me from draining them completely dry in one sitting. Which I would. These dicks can’t play for shit, not to mention poker tournaments helped feed me on the occasions when sex couldn’t. Every rich white-collar asshole thinks he’s a pro.

  “You still playin’ at The Den?” Hunter casually asks Arik between sips.

  While Arik makes these quite often, Hunter’s been a little less fucking steady. Don’t blame him. If I had a fucking fiancé and a kid on the way and ran a million-dollar business out of the city, it might fuck with my Poker time too.

  “Yeah. They’ve got me closing out Wednesday nights now. While they want me for the weekends, that’s my bigger shit like weddings and anniversary parties. On the upside, closing for them on Wednesday nights has given them a high increase in popularity for a previously dead night of the week.” He leans back with a playful expression. “What can I say? Ladies love me.”

  “Because they can’t punch you,” I sneer.

  The guys laugh and Arik shakes his head. “You seem like your cheerful self. What’s French done this time to make you oh so pleasant? Have laundry shrink your thong? Tell Sebastian no more Lobster tacos on Tuesday for you?”

  Very few fucking luxuries I give a shit about in life, but that has fucking become one of them. Every Tuesday, French orders those for the two of us. Sometimes we get to eat ‘em together, sometimes not. Last week not only did we have Lobster tacos together, but it was re-fuel food after fucking in her office chair. She had to work from the penthouse the next morning until her new one was delivered.

  “Bachelorette party again?” Hunter cringes, knowing my discomfort.

  “If you two could steal back your balls before you arrive, that’d be fucking appreciated.”

  Arik and Hunter flash me their middle fingers while Zane simply laughs and finishes the last of his beer.

  Don’t give a fuck what you say. I already fucking told you. I am not that pussy whipped and never will be. I’d take a fucking bullet for my girl, no questions fucking asked, but she’s not gonna carry my nuts around in her handbag. No, she doesn’t already do that!

  Once Chance pays out and we give him a little more shit about his poor choice in snacks, the four of us bail. It’s a little later than I usually try to stay, but not a big fucking deal.

  French is most likely ass deep in…whatever the fuck has had her attention for the past few weeks. She thinks I haven’t noticed. She thinks she’s being slick. She swears she’s not keeping shit from me, but I get this fucking feeling she’s only giving me the half ass truth about all of it. She says the attacker problem has been handled and her focus now is just on finding the best replacement for Wood. She’s full of shit. I hate how it feels like just because we’re fucking she can’t trust me with the hard shit. Fucking should bring us closer not fucking wedge us apart. French was fucking wrong when she said sex would ruin what we had. I’m prepared to spend the rest of my life proving her ass wrong if I have to.

  On my way to French’s office, I stop to check my vibrating phone.

  Q: Sorry I cancelled on Monday. Flu or some shit. Next week.

  No. He was never invited to poker night. Seemed like a shit idea back then and still seems like a shit one now. Not to mention he flakes out like no one else I fucking know. Loyalty, which is huge to me, is pliable to him. Sometimes I swear if we didn’t have fucking history…

  When I arrive, I don’t bother knocking. The hope is she’ll snap, I’ll bite back, and we’ll share a playful smirk. However, when the door cracks open, I’m slightly surprised to see her face planted in the palm of her open hand and her eyes shut. My body leans itself against the doorway. There’s a sharp tightening in my chest.

  I’m the only fucking person in the world who knows how fucking hard she works for all of us…She kills herself to give the Princes here the future of their dreams all because her mother fucking stole hers when she was younger. That’s what pisses me off the most when they talk shit about her.

  “She hasn’t eaten since she stepped foot in the office. Should I order her something to the penthouse, sir?” Sebastian questions in a whisper over my shoulder.

  I glance at the red-headed wizard.

  Which he is. Pretty sure he was an ex-spy and now he makes a living happily assisting French in whatever ways possible. He’s been here since the second year we were open. It took an act of God to force French to hire someone to do the jobs he does. Fucking woman thinks she can handle everything alone. I’m walking proof she can’t. I think she secretly loathes the fact.

  “Something light.” Turning back to where my sleeping girlfriend has her jaw slightly slacked, I add, “And a couple of Oreos with a glass of milk.”

  “Yes sir,” his voice replies before his footsteps stroll away from me.

  For just another moment, I stare on and drink in her unusual state of tranquility.

  Fucking beautiful, isn’t she?

  I stroll across the room, plant my hands on the desk, and lower my face until it’s just a breath away from her ear. Softly, I sing the chorus to Bed, by J.Holiday.

  No. I don’t sound as good as fucking Arik, but French, it’s something I do for her and only her. She says she loves my voice and will take it anyway she can fucking get it. But just so we’re clear. My taciturn nature is solid outside of this little brown skinned vixen. You will never fucking catch me singing where anyone else can fucking acknowledge it. Oh. And as far as the song choice is concerned? I prefer more dated R&B, but this one definitely slid in under the radar when it came out.

  All of sudden, she sings the last line with me. Afterwards, I move my face to rest my forehead against hers. “Like the song says, I’ma put you to bed…”

  French wets her lips. “In the same way?”

  My cock instinctively stirs.

  Fuck, do you blame him?

  “You awake enough for that?”

  “Always.”

  I stand up completely and instantly make note of her bleary eyes as well as her weary expression.

  Too fucking tired despite what her mouth may say.

  Rather than verbally argue with her, I extend my hand for her to take, allow her to grab her purse, and lead us out of the office, making sure she locks it once we’re on the other side.

  Don’t have a key to that yet. Not that it matters. Have the important one.

  On the way up to her place, she leans against me and I drape my arm around her. The moment her eyes shut, I shake my head at how ragged she’s running herself.

  Since day fucking one…

  “Baby, have you eaten today?”

  “I had my vitamin-D and need another dose,” she mocks with a smirk. “Isn’t that all that really matters?”

  My hand falls to give her a swift pop on the ass at the same time the elevator door releases us to her floor.

  During our stroll down the hall, I repeat, “Have you?”

  To no surprise she doesn’t reply. She merely arrives in front of her door, swipes the card, and allows us entrance. When the door closes, I gently swing her around, so her back is against the door, her bag is on the floor, and her body is boxed in my arms.

  In a low, displeased tone, I command, “Answer me.”

  French looks up at my face with a defiant expression. “No.”

  “No, you haven’t eaten or no you won’t answer?”


  She lets the corners of her lips kick upward slowly.

  Insane. This woman drives me fuckin’ insane.

  “I’m not fucking around, French.”

  Her glossed lips press together.

  “You can’t keep this shit up. You can’t run ninety to fucking nothin’ all goddamn day. You have to eat. How many fucking times do I have to remind you that should be a fucking priority?”