Prince Brock

by Xavier Neal

  “I bet she’s been telling you she’s had a lot of ‘meetings’ lately? Refusing to let you come along?”

  I lock my ticking jaw.

  “She’s fucking around on you, Brock! Look at the fucking proof in those photos! Look at the fucking proof on my face, man!” He points to his broken nose. “You think she roughed me up because she fucking missed me? No! She found out I was having her bitch ass followed and tried to scare me away. Threatened me. Told me to keep my mouth shut and mind my own fucking business. She fucking froze my accounts. Got me fucking fired from the only fucking job I could find in town. Kicked out of my apartment. She’s done everything she could to keep me from bringing these photos to you.” Q leans towards me and stabs the photo of them beside her car. “But you’re my fucking friend. You need to see I was right about her. That the French you see is the one she wants you to see. Nothing but another fucking mask as she moves you around her fucking chess board. She doesn’t give a fuck about anything more than what you can do for her.” Another grunt leaves him. “Or fixing what you obviously can’t.”

  Frustration festers in the back of my throat as my eyes look at the photos once more.

  When the fuck did she have time to do this shit? When I was at poker? When I was playin’ ball with the guys? When I was fucking rehearsing to star in a fucking show for her!? Having meetings at night has always been something she hated doing, but over the past few weeks she’s done it more…At first I thought I was just misreading everything, but was I just fucking ignoring it? Was I being fucked over and looking the other fucking way because for the first time in my life I thought she was going to give us a fucking chance? A real fucking chance… You know what. Fuck this. I’m gonna get my own fucking answers.

  Without another word to Q, I snatch up the photos, stuff them back in the folder, and take off for my Escalade. The drive home is shorter than expected considering it’s damn near rush hour. Barging through the lobby, I brush of Sebastian’s attempts at slowing my stride and storm straight into French’s office.

  I drop the folder onto her desk and bark, “Are you fucking cheating on me?”

  She readjusts the office phone pressed to her ear as her eyes narrow in on me. “No…Everything is fine. Please continue.”

  Stunned by her response and seething with enough rage to destroying everything preventing me from getting the answer I want, I rip the phone off her desk, and throw it at the wall. The device breaks yet she doesn’t flinch. “Answer me!”

  French crosses her legs before leaning back in her chair.

  Her devotion to silence grabs another roar from my heaving chest. “Fuck! Fuckin’ answer me, French! Tell me you’re not fucking around on me!” I swipe the file open. “Tell me these fucking photos aren’t what they fucking look like! Tell me you’re not looking for my fucking replacement! Tell me I’m not some fucking placeholder while you find some asshole who looks good in a fucking Armani suit! Tell me you didn’t fucking have Q beat the shit out of to keep this a fucking secret! Tell me you didn’t destroy his fucking life!”

  She folds her hands, tilts her head, and shoves her shoulders back in defiance.

  “Tell me I haven’t spent the last ten years of my fucking life being played like every asshole who walks through your life.” When she still refuses to comment, my voice booms, “Tell me this isn’t all some sort of fucking head game and that you’re not the cold-hearted fucking bitch the entire world believes you are!”

  Fuck you. It wasn’t too fucking harsh! If she’s fucking around on me this isn’t even the tip of the goddamn iceberg.

  “Tell me!”

  “Why?” She counters in an eerily steady tone. “You condemned me for those crimes before you even stepped foot in my fucking office.”

  “Tell me I’m fucking wrong!”

  French tosses her head to the open door. “Get out.”

  Shaking with fury, I clear the objects off her desk, creating a deafening clamor from her shit hitting the floor. My wrath continues to spread like wildfire as I shred the photos that remained on her desk, knock over the chairs, and kick the roses lying in the pile of broken glass. The feeling of my lungs burning causes me to breathlessly bite, “I didn’t fucking deserve this.”

  Her chin tips a little higher up. “Neither. Did. I.”

  “Everything alright, Boss?” Wood questions over my shoulder.

  French nods. “Fine. Prince B was just leaving.”

  With a sneer, I shrug. “And never fucking looking back.”

  I turn sharply on my heels and barrel past him for the elevator.

  Don’t even fucking try to explain shit to me. Fuck you. Fuck her. Fuck all of this. I may be some fucked up monster impossible to love, but it doesn’t fucking mean I should be pitied or pity fucked or given one long pity party. And even if I am a monster, at least I’ve never fucking pretended to be anything else, unlike her.

  Brock

  The rapid knocking on my front door causes me to groan into the mattress edge where I passed out.

  After confronting French, I ended up treating Q to several rounds of shots, beers, and nachos. At least I think it was nachos. Not real sure how I ended up back here. Even less sure that I didn’t fucking drive…Oh fuck. Too early to start any sort of fucking lecture. My brain is throbbing, my chest feels like there’s a cement fucking block crushing it, and my dick is pissed it didn’t get off. The last thing I need right now is more discomfort.

  Unfortunately, the knocking turns to heavy pounding and I can’t stop myself from rolling out of bed to deal with it. I drag myself across the cold hardwood floor, around the small rarely used kitchen, and straight for the shaking door.

  When I yank it open the deep expression of displeasure for the noise is enough to have the unwanted visitor shoot himself backwards. It takes a moment for my bleary eyes to settle on the face, but the instant they do, my hand flies at his neck before bracing him by it against the wall opposite of my door.

  A growl grows as I squeeze tighter. “I will fucking kill you.”

  The weasel faced man flails around like ragdoll.

  Why not? Why not fucking kill the man who was fucking my girl and fucking destroyed my future? I’m gonna end up back in jail anyway. Might as well make it fucking permanent. Manslaughter would be the easiest way to go.

  “Let him go,” Wood’s voice demands.

  My grip tightens though my head rolls around to face him. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  Q’s dumpster description darts through my head with force. Images of her legs wrapped around his thin waist, moaning for him, and calling his name congregate in such a nonchalant manner that my hand reacts by increasing the pressure.

  Wood folds his arms across his chest. “She wasn’t fucking him.”

  The declaration isn’t enough to release him.

  “They were not involved.”

  “Then what?” I bark.

  “Let. Him. Go.”

  I do and the man immediately doubles over as he desperately struggles to breathe again. He wheezes. Rubs his bruised neck. Overdramatically makes motions of his relief.

  Irritation and ire collide forcing me to bite, “You will be eating out of a fucking tube if you don’t give me the fucking answer I want. Now.”

  The man quickly squeaks, “My name is Alan Flinn. I’m a private investigator.”

  My eyebrows pinch together.

  “I…” He takes in a long deep breath. “I was hired to locate your twin brother.”

  His words freeze me in my place.

  “Which I’ve done and will tell you everything you need to know, but first, do you mind if we take this discussion into your apartment? It is a private matter.” Alan takes another giant inhale. “And do you mind putting on pants or at the very least boxers?”

  I let my eyes dip to my naked body.

  Of course it doesn’t fucking bother me. I fucking get paid to be naked for a living…Or basically naked. Plus, did you forget the shit I use
d to do to feed myself? Being naked is second fucking nature.

  Wood clears his throat and tosses his head towards my apartment.

  The three of us relocate inside where I hastily search for shorts to toss on.

  Did he…Did he really say what I think he did? Did I fucking hear him? This shit…I…Fuck! My head hurts.

  Once my gym shorts are on along with a white t-shirt and my lucky hat, I walk back into the living room. My eyes fall to Alan who is sitting nervously beside Wood. “Explain.”

  He adjusts his glasses and swallows his nervousness. “French hired me a few months ago to locate your twin brother, Brody. She had been exhausting her resources for years trying to find him and finally turned to her father.”

  I growl. “Don’t call him that.”

  “Er…Rhys.”

  He hasn’t earned that right in my book…

  “She reached out to Rhys asking for help. After a couple bad runs, Rhys got in contact with me, and I was in touch with French. We’ve had several meetings over the past few months as I did what felt like the impossible.”

  Bad run ins…The other photos…Fuck…

  The ability to breath hurts worse than before. “You found him?”

  “Yes,” Alan quickly answers. “Not only did I find him, but we reached out and French arranged a meeting for the two of you this afternoon.”

  I let my mouth hit the floor.

  Holy…Fuck…

  “She was supposed to tell you last night,” Alan cautiously continues. “However, I suppose something else must have got in the way.”

  Guilt drops my eyes to the floor.

  Don’t fucking start with me. Not right now. Not…with my head spinning and no idea where the fucking ground is.

  “What time?” I shift my attention slowly to him. “And where?”

  “5:30 at Stickz.”

  The location pangs my chest.

  She even picked the spot she knew I would feel fucking safest. The spot she knew would feel like she was there with me. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  “And your brother is quite punctual, so I suggest you leave now.”

  My eyebrows lift in challenge.

  “Or soon. Soonish? Well whenever you’re ready,” he sheepishly backs down.

  I toss a look to the time on the stove in the kitchen astonished I was out the entire day.

  Way too fucked up. Haven’t gotten that wasted in…fuck…I don’t know. Since some time before French saved me. Fuck… And this is how I treat her? I know. I know. I shouldn’t have fucking doubted her but…just…shut up. Shut the fuck up! One life altering moment at a fucking time.

  “I’ll change and head out.” After clearing my throat, I take a step forward and extend my hand towards Alan. “Thank you.”

  “Thank French,” he quickly insists while shaking. “She wasn’t letting this go knowing everything she had was put into it. Barely slept some days.”

  Explains that too…Really, though. That’s how she is. Never expect anything else. That’s my girl…Was…Is…Fuck.

  The two of them rise to their feet, prompting me to ask, “French in her office?”

  Alan starts to answer when Wood drops a heavy palm on his shoulder and replies, “Boss is out at this time.”

  Uncomfortable by the lack of information, I bite, “Where?”

  “An undisclosed location.”

  I glare and to my surprise he returns the look.

  Don’t fucking say it’s deserved. I fucking know it is.

  “I’ll escort you out of The Castle,” Wood announces before saying to me, “Good luck, Prince B.”

  I watch the two of them exit my apartment in silence. As soon as the door shuts, I run my fingers down my face, snarling behind my hands.

  Fuck! One fucking thing at a time…First…Meeting my brother then…begging like the fucking Temptations to my girl for forgiveness. Sound like a good plan? Fuck, I hope so. It’s the only one I’ve fucking got.

  **

  Anxious, I dig my fingers into my jean covered thighs, eyes glued on the door.

  I’m fucking early. No clue how that happened, but it did. Made it here in record fucking timing. The entire ride over I felt like I was gonna fucking hurl. Could be from drinking the entire liquor store last night or from the fact I’m finally going to be face to face with the only piece of my past I’ve ever wanted to see again. Probably both, right? What if he hates me for not finding him sooner? What if he hates the person I’ve become? What if he never wants to see me again after this? What if…fuck…how the hell do I stop the what ifs? And no…French hasn’t answered my calls or texts. At least not yet. She will. She has too. We’ll fight. We’ll make up.

  All of a sudden an alternate version of myself walks through the doors and I clamp my jaw tight.

  Fuck…He still looks like me…Not identical, but…enough.

  Brody spots me and immediately smiles huge. He politely makes his way around a few people and drops in the seat across from mine. Words rush out of his mouth before I even have time to think, “Holy shit, you really do look just like me!”

  The corner of my mouth kicks up.

  “Forgive me,” he apologizes, smiling so care free my chest swells.

  Not in jealousy…but in pride. At least one of us got to live a life that allowed for that shit. I’m glad it was him…

  “This is all so crazy,” Brody continues to ramble. “Your girlfriend or wife, maybe? When she met with me last week, I could hardly believe it. I mean… who has a twin they don’t remember? A fucking twin!”

  His words push me back, and I try to swallow my sorrow. “You…You don’t remember?”

  Brody’s blue eyes bulge. “I thought…I thought you knew that.”

  “No.”

  “Fuck,” he rubs the back of his collared neck, “this is not us starting off the right way. Alright.” He clears his throat, sits up straight, and extends his hand at me. “Let’s try this again. I’m Brice Hader.”

  “Brock Beaumont.” I push past the pain of having to introduce myself to my brother. “You were Brody when we were kids.”

  He drops his hand into his lap as the waiter comes to take our beverage order. While I insist on sticking to water, he orders a beer along with onion rings, worsening the hell I’m already in.

  French’s favorite in case you’ve forgotten…

  Once we’re alone at the table again, he questions, “Brody? Huh. Maybe that’s why they kept the B in my name or why my middle name is Cody?”

  I simply shrug.

  “My parents never told me I had a sibling let alone a twin.”

  My fingers anchor themselves deeper into my skin.

  “But French digging like hell to find me, kicked over those stones, and well, it’s been a helluva week for me.” Brice loosens his black tie. “I knew I was adopted. I knew they were never ashamed about it. They were an older couple. She couldn’t get pregnant. Dad had slow swimmers anyway…They wanted to adopt us both but it was costing them everything they had to adopt just one of us.”

  So that finally answers that.

  “Apparently when I was little I had terrible night terrors and this unruly anxiety. I would go through panic attacks and wheeze at the sight of certain shoes. They took me to see a child therapist and insisted with me being so young to leave the past where it was. To treat all of my life as if this was the only life I had ever known….It seemed to help. I got a little older and couldn’t remember anything before them.”

  Our mother had a fondness for beating us with her high heels. Wanna bet that was the shoe that made him cringe?

  “When I got into high school, closer to graduation, they talked about telling me about you, but they stopped when they couldn’t even prove you were still alive. Your…foster care records are…I guess fucked up?”

  “Extremely.”

  He winces as if the word burned him. “And um…rather than…let me know I was a twin with a possibly dead brother, they figured it would be better to no
t know at all. But when French had the detective find me, they just let the dam break.”

  I attempt to smile.

  His beer lands in front of him and he shakes his head slowly. “Fucking crazy we look just a like. And it’s always been like this?”

  “Worse when we were kids. People couldn’t tell us apart without nametags.”

  No. Of course I’m not gonna tell him I should’ve had his life and he should’ve had mine. Fuck that. He’s alive and healthy and fucking loved. I did something right in my life. I protected him in the long run rather than just the short one. I may be a fucking fuck up to the millionth degree, but I at least did one thing right.