Prince Brock

by Xavier Neal

  There’s a long pause before her choked voice says, “That’s awfully generous of you, Queen.”

  I coo, “It’s honestly not enough.” My cell phone begins to ring forcing me to wrap up the conversation. “I have to go. Other calls. The bread by dessert this evening.”

  “Yes Queen.”

  I swiftly answer my cell. “It has been almost six weeks since we met, Mouse, and I have to say I am not impressed.” My fingers land on the keyboard of my lap top to send Mr. Moneybags an email about the transfer.

  Mr. Moneybags, is more than an accountant. He’s a money magician who just happens to look like one of those cookie elves. He’s been at my beck and call since I’ve opened the doors. He’s paid handsomely and his identity change and citizenship papers are kept locked in my safe in case he ever forgets who it is that rescued him when no one else could.

  “Your lack of progress is causing me wrinkles. I do not approve of them on my attire and even less on my face.”

  “Boss-”

  “In case you have somehow managed to mistake me for someone paying you to go on scavenger hunts rather than do actual detective work, I’ll remind you the online store you buy your fetish props from also carries my name on the tax documents.”

  “You own-”

  “I own a lot of things and a lot of people. To avoid becoming someone people would rather die than associate with, I suggest you give me something that puts a bit of sunshine in this dreary as shit day.”

  No rain. No storms. Just overcast as shit. It almost feels like the weather is mocking my mood. Besides Rhys’ actually welcomed distraction, I’ve been dealing with an unexpected plumbing problem in the basement that I am fairly certain was caused by the same someone who aired out my tires, again, two real-estate investments needing my attention, and a sudden spike in membership requests. My day has been filled with irritatingly long conversations with people I have to repeatedly prove myself to. Honestly? I could go for a glass of champagne, a bubble bath, and a good round or seven with Brock who amazingly enough hasn’t barged in once today. Hm… Is it wrong to miss the fact he hasn’t? Lately, by now, if I’m here he has stormed in to demand I eat a snack…or a meal…Shit. I haven’t eaten today…

  “I have a lead,” he squeaks.

  The words push my body back in my chair.

  “Once I could narrow down the list a bit, it just became foot work, which is why I haven’t had anything for you. Crossing people off this list is a bit more time consuming than you imagine.”

  “I do not accept bullshit explanations masquerading around as excuses.”

  He tries to interject, “I’m not-”

  “And I damn sure don’t appreciate being lied to, so before you go off on a tangent, it would be wise to remember I have been beyond lenient with meeting you not only at the park close to the campus your girlfriend attends, but in the evenings and at night when she has Ethics with Professor Melkins, and you find yourself more focused knowing she’s as busy as you are.”

  “Boss-”

  “It would also be in your best interest to remember where you were three afternoons ago at 2 p.m. when you should’ve been working and she should’ve been in class.”

  “Are you…are you having me followed?”

  “Are you wasting my time?”

  Interesting to me that I’m required to flex my capabilities more and more often, like my reputation has a sudden hole in it. It’s infuriating and needs to be patched. I blame the thorn in my ass that is actively trying to take me down with these blitz hits like the mysterious plumbing problem. I know. I know. I need to handle him. I’m trying to use kid gloves. He is Brock’s best friend besides me.

  Mouse clears his throat and announces, “There’s a male who lives in the next city over. He’s been the best match I’ve come across so far. Physically, he doesn’t look much like Brock, but his unusual history makes him the best suspect.”

  I drum my fingers along the edge of the desk. “Sometimes twins that look identical when they’re young can actually be fraternal and evidence of it, not show up until they’re a little older.”

  “Which is what I am assuming is the case.”

  My office phone begins to ring and I sigh, “You have a week to give me more promising information than just a possible candidate.” After ending the call, I promptly answer the phone that I’m tired of hearing ring. “Speak.”

  “Ma’am, there is a small disturbance outside,” Sebastian cautiously begins. “I tried to call Wood-”

  “I sent him away for the afternoon. His wife wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Should I call the police then?”

  Giving the back of my neck a good rub, I groan, “No. I’ll handle it.”

  Probably just some heartbroken idiot who followed his girlfriend or ex-girlfriend here one night assuming this is where her new lover lives. See, one of the incredible things about The Castle is how well it blends in. It looks like a high-rise building containing pricey condos. The illusion is appreciated by my clientele. No. It’s not the only trick I have in place to keep the privacy levels as high as they are. Trust me. You don’t get to run the country’s most exclusive male strip club without being a master at the art of deception.

  The moment I step outside of my office, Holt crashes directly into me.

  Clumsiest dancer I’ve ever fucking hired.

  “Sorry!” He rushes to apologize. “S-s-s-sorry, French. I mean Queen…er…Boss…Um…Ma’am?”

  My eyebrows lower. “Pick one and stick with it.”

  “Boss.”

  “Fine.” I start to move past him yet he quickly begins to follow me like a lost puppy. The action causes me to bite, “What do you need?”

  “I just,” his voice hesitates to continue, although his footsteps don’t. “My routine-”

  “See Samantha.”

  “It’s not that I need one, it’s just…I’m not very good at the one I have.”

  Passing by the worried face of Sebastian, I simply state, “You’ll improve.”

  “But what if I don’t?”

  “You will.”

  “But-”

  I spin around on my heels before I can reach the glass front door. “Let me cut this short, Prince H. You’re going to piss and moan you’re not capable of what the other Princes are. You’re going to want validation that you belong here. That you are supposed to be here, but the truth is you don’t. You lack confidence. You lack strength. You lack the appeal of every other Prince on my pay roll. You are an anomaly, I am dealing with.”

  He doesn’t bother hiding his hurt expression.

  Hey, he needs to suck it up, if he’s going to make this shit work. I am not here to hold his hand. I’m here to guide him like a fucked up, sexy Fairy Godmother. I am sexy. Have you seen these heels?

  “However, if you allow everyone here to do their job then doing your own will easily become second nature. You need to continuously fail. You need discipline. You need to develop the ability to pick your ass back up when you fall. Figure out the man you want to become and I will not hesitate to push you that direction.”

  Holt starts to smile, and I refrain from rolling my eyes.

  “This is the end of the pep talk. You can go.”

  As soon as my hand hits the glass door to open it, he volunteers, “I think I should come out there with you.”

  “I can handle myself.”

  He ignores my declaration and returns to following me.

  Great. I have to defuse a situation and babysit at the same time. Lucky me.

  Once we’re outside, it only takes a brief moment for my eyes to fall on the reason Sebastian called. A thin, muscular man in a suit with disheveled brown hair is pacing back and forth in a displeased fashion.

  He looks directly past me at Holt. “Are you him?! Are you the asshole fucking my wife!?”

  Holt attempts to step forward when I lift a hand to halt him. “Excuse me, sir. I’m going to have to ask you to please leave the perimete
r of my establishment.”

  “Your establishment?” He mocks, outrage clearly coating his words. “This pathetic company is nothing more than a brothel façade! You’re not a ‘spa’! You’re a whorehouse!”

  Credit card receipts do list this as a spa…Due to clever paperwork filing and certain licenses we hold, I can do that. Helps with the anonymity everyone seeks. However, I am not a fucking brothel. I do not sell sex. What is established by both parties in private V.I.P. rooms is not up to me, but between the client and the Prince. The room is what is paid, which includes a private dance. If consensual sex occurs between them that is not on my hands. All monetary exchanges are for the dance only. No need to worry about the details. I have an iron clad team of lawyers I pay to properly word everything from the non-disclosures of employment to the policy regarding the consequences for wearing the wrong attire when you step foot through the door. Anonymity for all parties involved and the preservation of it are held in the highest regards.

  With a polite, calm voice, I state, “You need to lower your tone.”

  He scoffs as he stops in front of me. “You need to move the hell out of my way, bitch! I have business to take care of inside!”

  Holt tries to speak, “Sir-”

  “You the asshole leaving hickeys on her neck?” He points a finger harshly at Holt. “You know she’s fucking married!”

  Feeling my irritation rise, I fold my arms, and repeat, “I’m going to need you to leave the perimeter of my establishment.”

  “Problem?” Brock’s deep voice invades.

  My entire body instantly feels at ease.

  Ugh. Hate that.

  “Which of you pretty boys is it?” The man barks. “Who the fuck is sleeping with my wife!”

  Holt pathetically croaks again, “Sir-”

  “Fresh Meat, go.” Brock instructs without room for argument in his tone.

  He instantly obeys, and I let a growl fester in the back of my throat.

  Don’t give me the he was being chivalrous shit. I stated I could handle my own. I wasn’t trying to pretend to be stronger than I am. I really can take care of myself…I have a feeling you’re about to witness it.

  Once Holt has disappeared to the other side of the glass door, leaving the three of us alone, Brock repeats his question to me, “Problem?”

  “No,” I snip, eyes still planted on the unruly man in front of me. “This gentleman was just leaving.”

  “I’m not leaving!”

  “You are fucking leaving,” Brock reiterates. “How is up to you.”

  “What are you her bodyguard?”

  “I don’t need a fucking bodyguard.” My body takes a step closer to him. “I am more than capable of putting you in your place myself. So, I am politely going to ask you one final time, to please stop making a public disturbance and remove yourself from my property.”

  He chuckles in a mocking fashion.

  His mistake.

  The man lifts his hand as if to attempt to backhand me when I respond with a swift blinding strike to the eye. In one fluid motion, I nail him in the side followed promptly by a kick to the shin. Doubled over he groans and I shove him to the ground by the back of his neck.

  Warned you both.

  He attempts to roll over, but Brock stomps his foot onto the man’s back to keep him in place.

  “Now,” I fold my hands together, “you are going to scrape your balls and lack of respect for me off my fucking sidewalk and then limp away to whatever country club cookout is clearly missing your presence.” Squatting down to be closer to his face encourages Brock to apply more pressure. “You have an issue with your wife. I highly suggest you take it to her because if you ever step within sneezing distance of my establishment again, it will not be the police you have to worry about or my lawyers who could make yours cry. You will be introduced to a new type of monster that will haunt your great grandchildren for generations to come.” A devious smile slips onto my face. “Have we come to an understanding or shall my associate move his foot to your trachea while the pedestrians take photos? I’m sure this will look splendid to your employers or perhaps whoever it is that pays for you to behave like the pretentious little shit you are.”

  The man whimpers, “I….I….I understand.”

  “Good!” I exclaim and take a step backwards.

  Brock releases his hold and the disgruntled husband wastes no time scurrying off.

  With a wry grin, Brock acknowledges, “That was fun.”

  I tilt my head at him sarcastically. “That was not fun.”

  “It was,” he argues. “Reminds me of the good ol’ days.”

  His retort rolls my eyes.

  Never would mistake him for a sentimentalists, would you?

  Sebastian buzzes the door open to allow us entrance.

  As soon as we’re inside, I face Brock and question, “What’s wrong with your hand?”

  He frowns. “Nothing.” When my stern expression doesn’t falter, he repeats with more discontent, “Nothing.”

  “Give me ten push-ups.”

  “Just ten?”

  “Make it twenty.”

  Brock’s face doesn’t change. “Fine.”

  “And then I want you to lift me up.”

  “Gladly.”

  “By the ass.”

  “Done.”

  “And then carry me that way from here to the elevator, then stay that way all the way up to the penthouse.”

  “I can.”

  “Without being in excruciating pain?”

  His eyes lower to a glare.

  “Exactly. What’s wrong with your hand?”

  “What makes you think-”

  “The angle to which you are holding it. The nonchalant way you assumed you were rubbing it. And then there’s the blatantly obvious fit of denial you’re delivering.”

  Brock lets out a loud huff.

  “Now take your ass to medical, so it can be checked out.”

  “I’m. Fine.”

  “You’re. Not.”

  “I. am.”

  In a flustered grump, I bite, “You’re not fine, Brock. You’re clearly in discomfort and it probably needs to be wrapped. Most likely a sprain or on the brink of one. So, if you’re determined to be the biggest pain in my ass this afternoon yet then at the very least will you go to the penthouse and let me check it out.”

  He smirks.

  Fucking hate him. He honestly lives to make me pissed off.

  “Okay,” he agrees.

  My eyebrows pinch together in suspicion. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “You’re just going to give in?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  His smirk expands and he leans forward to quietly reply, “Because you called me Brock instead of Prince B.”

  The cocky comment causes me to groan in disgust before I turn around to reassure Sebastian everything has been taken care of. As soon as we’re on the elevator he drapes his left arm around my shoulder.

  We keep it…mostly professional where the others can see, but whenever we’re alone, Brock immediately makes sure to acknowledge the difference. Whether that’s with a grab of my ass or suck on my neck depends on his mood and the amount of time we have.

  Once we’re in my penthouse, I command, “Sit at the table. I’ll grab the kit.”

  To no shock, he returns to grousing, “I’m really fucking fine, French.”

  I hum my disagreement. “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Say nothing to me again and I will hand cuff your ass and have Wood drag you down to see Lucius.”

  “Wood’s not here.”

  I grab the emergency kit from under the sink and start towards him.

  “Where the fuck is he?” Brock basically barks. “His one fucking priority is to protect you!”

  Whiplash from his moods? Still? You haven’t gotten used to
that yet?

  Sitting down in the seat beside him, I place the kit on the table and open it. “No. His priority is his family. It’s why I’m looking for a replacement.” His mouth twitches to complain further, but I interrupt. “His pregnant wife wasn’t feeling well. She needed him, so I sent him home. I…can manage on my own as we both witnessed.”