Prince Brock

by Xavier Neal

  “French!” I bark and use both fists. “If you don’t open the fucking door, I’m gonna tear it off the fucking hinges!”

  “Please don’t,” Sebastian unexpectedly states over my shoulder. “She will be furious if it has to be replaced.”

  My urge to snarl increases. “Then she should fucking open the door so we can talk.”

  He gives me a stern look. “She’s not in there, sir.”

  “Liar.”

  Sebastian lets out a heavy sigh, slips past me, and unlocks the door. He steps back and ushers a hand for me to check for myself.

  Immediately, I storm in prepared to shout over her extreme, albeit earned silence, only to see the entire room empty. Organized. Untouched. My body whips around to face him. “She hasn’t been in here all day.”

  “No, sir. She hasn’t.”

  Perplexity pushes my eyebrows down. “It’s Thursday. The Castle is open tonight. She’s always here.”

  Sebastian folds his hands together and braces himself in the doorway. “Not this weekend, sir.”

  “What?”

  “This weekend you are to be in charge.”

  Is this some sort of fucked up joke? I don’t get the punch line.

  “Where. The. Fuck. Is French?”

  “Out of town, sir.”

  “What!” my voice bellows. “Impossible!”

  He doesn’t flinch. “It is the truth. Her phone, lap top, and keys are all on her desk.”

  I cut the area a glance, the sight dropping my jaw. Feeling tension creep up the back of my neck, I meet eyes with Sebastian and barely question in an audible tone, “Where?”

  The expression on his face saddens. “She’s repaying a debt.”

  “To?”

  Instead of answering, he states, “I hope you enjoyed reuniting with your brother yesterday, sir. It came with a great cost.”

  Rhys…The little weasel mentioned something about him paying, but I didn’t think that meant it would cause French having to spend time with him. Around him. Putting her in a position she would loathe being in…And that’s where she is, isn’t it? Wherever he commanded her to go to repay him for helping her find my brother. For helping her do something for me. Fuck…..How is it I keep managing to feel fucking worse?!

  “Miss French left The Castle in your hands, sir.”

  “Did she say my hands or are you just assuming it should be me?”

  “She informed me The Castle would be run by the person who loves it almost as much as she does. The only person she would trust with such responsibility.” He tips his head a bit higher. “I couldn’t imagine her describing anyone else besides you in that nature.”

  I run a hand down my face as the pressure settles on my shoulders.

  Even when I’m an asshole she’s still good to me…Of course I’m going to run it. I’m going to run it and protect everyone in it because it’s my fucking duty. It’s…what I should be doing right alongside her. With her.

  A phone ringing causes Sebastian to dismiss himself without another word.

  I wander around to her leather chair and flop myself in it, still slightly baffled.

  I hate that she’s not in this chair. I hate the fact I can’t apologize. I hate that I can’t thank her or show her she’s making the right choice by trusting me to do this…French has never let anyone else sit on her throne. Yet here I am. Given the power while she wallows in the misery of fulfilling her end of a deal she struck to provide me with one more reason to smile. To prove she will always go the distance to make me happy. Fuckin’ hell…How the fuck could I not trust her? How the fuck can I ever expect her to trust me again?

  There’s a knock on the door that darts my eyes away from her unchecked cell phone.

  Zane gives me a confused look. “Looking for Boss.”

  “She’s out.”

  “It’s Thursday.”

  “All weekend,” I state and sit up.

  “You in charge?” My nod receives a crooked smirk. “It fits.”

  Right?

  “What do you need?”

  “We have a problem…”

  I stare silently waiting for him to continue.

  “We don’t have an MC for the night.”

  “What’s wrong with Clay?”

  “Fucked up hand.”

  “How?”

  “Someone smashed in his hand in his car door when he was leaving the recording studio. Doc checked it out. It’s broken.” Zane shakes his head. “Fucked up thing is they didn’t try to rob him or anything. It’s like they just wanted his hand damaged.”

  Suspicion twitches my stare.

  “Clay said the dude fucking bolted before security could find him.”

  Son of a bitch…

  I swallow my visceral reaction to roar and knock shit over. “You still know your way around a mic and system?”

  Zane cocks an eyebrow. “You don’t forget that shit.”

  “You’re on.”

  He gives me an inquisitive look. “And who’s taking my place?”

  Without true thought, I reply, “Fresh Meat.”

  To my surprise, he doesn’t argue. “Alright. I’ll go to talk to Little Sami about cues and shit. Give her a heads up?”

  “Yeah. I’ll call her.”

  Zane nods and starts to back out of the room yet stops himself.

  His unexpected pause shoots my eyebrows into the air. “What?”

  “Look, I don’t know why French is out of town or why you didn’t go with her…but…” his head angles to the side before he sighs, “you two need to fix this shit.”

  What the fuck did he just say to me?

  “The Castle needs it’s queen and king. This shit only works with both of you despite what some of the others are too stupid to see.”

  Zane returns to exiting, leaving me with more shame building than before.

  Every queen needs her king…even mine. How the fuck could I be so fucking stupid?

  After a quick call to Little Sami on the office phone, I grab French’s keys, lock the office door, and begin to head out with one specific goal in mind.

  Can’t grovel because she’s not home yet, but that doesn’t mean I can’t pound on the asshole who purposely stirred shit up.

  “Uh…Brock?” Fresh Meat’s voice calls from beside the front desk where he’s standing. “Sebastian mentioned you might need to speak with me?”

  How did that red headed bastard know exactly what I was going to do? You think Zane told him or it’s a lucky a guess?

  “You’re on tonight.”

  His hazel eyes widen as he stutters, “W-w-w-what?”

  Sternly, I state, “I do not repeat myself.”

  He runs a hand through his thick brown hair and shakes his head. “B-b-b-but I-I-I- I can’t be on tonight!”

  “You can. And you will.”

  “But-”

  I growl and his jaw clamps shut. “Here’s the deal, Fresh Meat. French kept up her end of a bargain. She brought you here. She gave you refuge. She has clothed you, trained, and done everything in her fucking power to give you a chance to be whoever it is you really fucking are. So do it. Man up. Turn the accountant nerd personality into an accountant nerd show. Chicks dig that. Learn to embrace your shit, then sell it.”

  Fresh Meat swallows his apprehension and nods.

  “You’re taking Prince Z’s place for the evening. Find out when it is, then see Sami. She’ll hook you up with wardrobe and a track.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I don’t expect you not to fuck up, Fresh Meat.” I casually add, “But I do expect you to fucking give this shit a real try.”

  He nods again this time smiling.

  “Go.”

  Fresh Meat quickly darts off the direction he was instructed, which prompts Sebastian to ask, “You’re not leaving, are you, sir?”

  “Small errand.”

  “Sir, check in is-”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Sebastian acknowledges my promis
e with a nod. “And dressed?”

  My brow creases. He points to my attire.

  Fuck. Can’t run this place in basketball shorts and a t-shirt, can I?

  “Would you care for the suit Miss French has picked out for you.”

  Always has my back…

  “Yes.” With a firm voice, I announce, “But I’m wearing my fucking hat.”

  “I expected nothing less, sir.”

  The moment I turn on my heels I’m face to face with Wood.

  Our eyes connect and an unspoken apology is given.

  Only one person is getting a vocal one.

  “You’re stepping out. Do you need…assistance?”

  I give him a smirk. “Could use an extra eye.”

  “It’d be my pleasure to be of service. I may also have some…information that might be of help as well.”

  My head nods the direction of the door, and Wood slides behind to follow me out.

  The drive to the motel Q is staying at is not what I initially expect. Wood takes the opportunity to inform me of the few things French was going out of her way to keep hidden. He explains how Q was the one who attacked her. How she gave him multiple opportunities to back down. How she even offered to relocate him, pay for his place for a year, and get him started with a new job. The more kindness Wood expresses she tried to dole out, the more bitterness that boils. He informs me how the attacks on The Castle and its employees were not random, despite French’s phrasing to imply it was. Wood also mentions how Q came on to her more than once in the past and didn’t appreciate being rejected.

  She kept all that shit from me! How the fuck- Protect me?! How’s that protecting me!? And it’s my fucking job to protect her! That’s my purpose! That’s what I’m for! Besides, he’s no fucking friend if he did everything he could to tear me away from the only person who’s ever given a fuck about me.

  My fist pounds on his motel door so hard the number falls to the ground.

  Q finally opens the door, eyes glazed over.

  Fucked up…Surprise. Surprise.

  Before his mouth can drop to question my presence, my hand is clamped around his throat, draining the pathetic life left in him. In one fluid motion I slam him against the motel wall seconds after Wood shuts the door. My voice seethes behind gritted teeth. “I should fucking kill you.”

  He gasps for air and I enjoy the ashen shade. I repeat the slamming of his head against the wall once more.

  “You fucked with my job?” Slam. “My family?” Slam. “My fucking girl?” I grip tighter lifting him higher off the floor. Another vicious growl grows. “No one fucks with her!” This time after I smash him back into the wall I let him fall to the floor, a withering gasping mess. Once he’s had enough gulps, my foot slams into his ribs. Repeatedly, I let my rage run rapid, with blow after blow to his chest, his sides, and his legs. His feeble pleas for mercy are completely lost upon me. My body drops so my knees are pinning down his shoulders and my hands are once more draining the color from his flesh.

  It isn’t until I feel he’s suffocated enough, that I release my grip but leave my hands in place.

  That’s what it feels like without her. Like I can’t fucking breathe. And it’s partially his fucking fault.

  “You’re lucky I don’t fucking kill you, right here, right now.”

  Q sneers. “You don’t have the fucking balls.”

  “I’d kill for her.” I squeeze again.

  After another moment of choking, I release, and Q gasps for breath again.

  “Game’s over asshole.” My grip slowly begins to tighten once more. “You were the one never fucking good enough for French or The Castle. Not me. You are the worthless piece of shit I should’ve gotten rid of a long time ago.” His pulse thumps against my palm. “You’re just a jealous fucking asshole who is pissed it’s my dick she’d rather suck.”

  Q’s arms attempt to flail as does his lower half. I relinquish the grip on his neck, remove my knees from his shoulders and allow him a momentary chance to deliver a hit.

  I deserve at least fucking one as a reminder to never let this shit happen again.

  He scrambles to feet, but misses his opportunity to throw a punch. My resentment filled fists strike him with blow after blow to his swelling face and most likely broken ribs. It doesn’t take long before he’s back on the floor, groaning in pain, silently sobbing for mercy compassion and forgiveness.

  Only French will ever receive those two things from me.

  With him pinned underneath and my weight resting heavily on his chest, I declare, “The next time I fucking see you will be in a fucking body bag.” Leaning closer to his face I growl, “And if you come anywhere near my woman, our home, or our family again, it’ll be me who fucking put you there.”

  I stand, give him one more hard kick, and knock on the door.

  Wood opens it but doesn’t bother to peer inside. “Are you ready, Boss?”

  With a casual adjustment of my lucky hat, I reply, “Yes. We have a business to run.”

  He nods and shuts the door with me on the other side. “Should I call a cleanup service?”

  “Yes.”

  “Something permanent?”

  I hit the unlock button to my SUV. “Absolutely.”

  That shit’s fucking over. No more fucking chances. Apparently sometimes it doesn’t matter how fucking loyal you are to some people, they still fuck you over. He’s lucky French loved me enough to leave him breathing as long as she did. And when she gets back, she’ll know how much more I fucking love her for it.

  French

  Rhys and I spend the afternoon horseback riding, which allows me to admire more of the view. Afterwards we groom, stroke, and provide them with treats as thanks for the pleasant ride. During dinner, like the rest of the day, we keep our conversations light. We bounce around the subject of sports like my detest for tennis along with the other racket related activities and his die hard love of squash. By the time our meal of scallops in white wine sauce, salade Lyonnaise, and champagne is over, I’m equal parts exhausted and relaxed. Rhys shows me to a guest room down the hall from his and thanks me for a wonderful day. I exchange a similar gratitude.

  It has been amazing to keep my mind off work and…disappointments.

  The room is decorated in golden yellows and deep blues. There are bows on some of the bedding as well as the curtains. The king size bed has roses carved around each of the four posts and there are roses in vases along the fire place mantel directly across from it. I admire the gorgeous hardwood floors before allowing my attention to float out the large windows where the beautiful stars are twinkling like I’ve never witnessed.

  Apparently, the view from a city and the view from the country are indeed very different.

  Once I’ve had a hot shower, twisted my hair into a wet bun on the top of my head, and put on the black silk pajamas I bought yesterday specifically for this visit, I slip back out of the room for an unsupervised exploration.

  It’s fine! He told me it was fine. Besides, I’m not as tired as I thought I was. Maybe wandering around and potentially getting lost will detour my mind away from what’s potentially going on at home.

  I only make it to the bottom of the stairs before a voice I don’t recognize asks, “Can I help with you something, madame?”

  My head cuts to the right where I see a young male face on a small frame. Curiosity causes me to question, “And you are…?”

  “Chip,” he answers cheerfully. “Well, Charles. But my friends at the university call me chip.”

  “Because?”

  He bares his teeth. “Clipped the front one skateboarding when I was thirteen.”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “Did you impress her?”

  His pale cheeks rosy. “How did you-”

  “Call it an educated guess.”

  Chip chuckles as he nods. “The stunt received me my first kiss followed promptly by the lecture of a life time from mère.” Another snicker leaves him at the same tim
e he shrugs. “She insisted I keep it this way to remind me we all do stupid things when we fall in love.”

  His word choice claws at my ability to vocally respond.