by Xavier Neal
Prince Arik
By Xavier Neal
Warning: Content contains extremely foul language, sexually explicit scenes, and adult situations. 18 and over is advised.
Prince Arik
Prince of Teaser Novel
By Xavier Neal
© Xavier Neal 2016
Cover by Angie Merriam
All rights reserved
License Note
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without authorization of the Author or Entertwine Publishing. Any distribution without express consent is illegal and punishable in court of law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental
Dedication: To the Universe... Thank you for never just teasing me.
Arik
Did you know that money you get from grinding on women in a piece of string spends just the same as the money you get from waiting tables? Ha. I'm full of shit. It spends better. So much better.
“Goddamn it feels good to be royalty,” Chance chuckles slamming his black locker door shut. “Woooo!”
With a smile to match, I close my locker too. “Good night?”
“I cleaned up!” He brags as I twist my baseball cap around. “Only thing better than a Saturday night is a bachelorette party. You know that.”
We fist bump. “True.”
Chance has a valid point. Saturday night at The Castle, on average, pulls in more money than most people see in a month. Hell, more money than most people see in several. That's what happens when you're not only the sexiest motherfuckers in the city, but willing to take your clothes off for only those with exclusive access. Is that a look of judgment on your face? If you were rocking a cock like this and abs like these, tell me you wouldn't be willing to share them with the world for a pick your own price tag kind of deal. Is that...is that silence I hear?
Chase swings a right out of the changing area. “Cindy's?”
I shrug. “Eh.”
“Eh?” he mocks as he runs his hands through his black hair. “What the fuck do you mean eh? You know you want your dick wet just like the rest of us.”
Normally he would have a point. Fucking some random chick is the best way to come down from the high performing gives me.
“I've got an ass early meeting with Nikki in the morning. She might have a gig for me.”
“You and that fucking music...That bullshit is not your path to happiness.”
Yes that asshole just said path to happiness. Meet Chance. The hippie. Ha. A hippie male stripper. Sounds like make believe.
I argue as we reach the top of the staircase. “It's not bullshit.”
“It's bullshit.”
It's not. I'm not one of those assholes who says he wants to be in this business then doesn't do shit about it. I perform for people almost every day. It just so happens that at the end of the week I do it almost fucking naked. Hey, playing the piano is the only thing in my life I give a fuck about on a non-fleeting bases. Hell, if it wasn't part of my set, not even sure I would still be stripping. Oh quit that shit. I'm not a male entertainer. I'm a goddamn stripper. You don't have to hold my fucking hand like a pussy. I know what I signed up to be the day I laid my John Hancock down.
In front of the black door, Chance fidgets and bumps my side. “Knock.”
“You knock.”
No one likes to knock on the boss' door. Would you willingly knock on Satan's front door? Yeah. I didn't peg you for that kind of crazy.
“You fucking knock,” he grumbles at me. “Just fucking do it.”
“You fucking do it.”
“Don't be a pussy.”
“Oh, I'm a pussy?”
“You're both fucking pussies,” Brock grunts, pushing his way between us to bang on the door.
When you're the beast, you fear very little including what lies behind that door.
“In,” the voice calls out.
The three of us enter French's office to see her leaned back in a red leather corner chair, eyes on the security screens across from her.
Most important rule of The Castle? Don't fuck with the queen. The expression off with their head is not one you wanna learn. Trust me.
“Princes,” she coldly greets as Wood, her personal body guard, hands her a glass with a thin line of copper colored liquid.
“French,” we recite in unison.
Brock pushes forward, unaffected by the icy outer shield she clutches onto.
I'm sure you assumed Hell was hot. Yeah. Try ice fucking cold.
She uses her coffee colored fingers to pull her wavy hair to one side of her flawlessly made up face.
I know what you're thinking. And you're right. She is fucking hot. Fucking sexy. Any man in his right mind would find her attractive. The key to continuing to find her that appealing? Don't fucking work for her. Pretty ass face and an HBIC attitude to surpass the scariest women you've ever crossed is a dangerous combination. Do. Not. Fuck. With. Her.
“I assume you're here for a purpose.” French slowly lifts her glass towards her lips, eyes still planted on the screens. “Time is valuable.”
My eyes fall onto her to avoid looking at whatever it is that has her attention.
Don't look over there. It puts you in a completely different liability category I can't save you from. And I like you. I think you're worth keeping around. At least for now. Ha. Don't take it personal. I don't enjoy keeping many things in my life for too long. We talked about this, remember?
After clearing my throat, I speak up. “Chance and I just came to check out for the night.”
Brock leans against the edge of her desk. “I wanna talk about the event you booked me and Hunter for next week.”
“Body check.”
He grunts and lifts himself off. “I don't want it.”
Telling the queen no is just not a great idea.
French speaks without her attention moving. “I don't recall asking if you did.”
Chance and I take a step back to avoid being caught in the cross fire.
Brock doesn't like rules. Never has. Out of all of us, he's the only one who's been around since she opened her doors. Craziest thing about The Castle? It's like it appeared out of nowhere one day. Not fucking with you. One minute it didn't exist the next there were legends of women trucking across country just to see one show. Or so I'm told. As far as I'm aware most people have no idea it even exists. Which is perfect. Hard to be exclusive if everyone knows and gets an invitation.
“You can't keep fucking doing this shit,” Brock growls at her.
Nonchalantly she finally turns her attention to him and counters, “I can.” The second his mouth slips to yell at her once more she leans forward. “And I will.”
His face harden.
Yup. Time to get the fuck out of here.
“French,” I quietly interject. “Can we check out for the night?”
She gives us both a long drawn out look before tapping twice on the wall to the side of her. At that moment a panel slides up revealing a thick bullet proof glass window. French points, dark brown eyes now locked onto our every movement.
Not very trusting.
I approach the window first. “Hey, Mr. Money Bags.”
“Prince A,” he greets in return.
Looks like a Keebler elf, right? Yeah. Never mention that to him.
Routinely, I slide the cash filled envelope
through the hole and keep my eyes plastered on the machine he uses to record the total.
No one steals from this place. I don't think anyone would want to mysteriously end up on a missing person's flier. Besides, there's no real reason for any of us to steal from her. We walk away with almost every dollar we make. And despite her current standoff situation with Brock, French values us. Treasures us. Treats us like goddamn royalty. Well...most of the time.
“You know I hate fucking boats,” Brock growls. “Why do you fucking do this shit, French? Is that how you get off?”
In a sharp tone she quips, “I get off with my fingers and toys just like every other red blooded woman in the world.”
Holding in my snicker, I watch Mr. Money Bags take French's measly cut.
Trust me. Compared to what I leave this place with it feels like lunch money.
“You will be on that boat. You will be on time. And you will be wearing that cheetah print thong because I make the fucking rules, Brock. You jump when I say jump. You drop 'em when I say drop 'em and you come when I say come in all ways possible.”
That...well...I don't know about that. Never been put in that position before. Hell, I was pretty fucking certain she wasn't born with working parts capable of fucking. Or of course that she was a lesbian. Either one would make so much sense, right? Hey, just because I assumed she's a-sexual doesn't mean she can't be attractive.
“You do what I say, when I say it. If I get any more fucking crystal clear, I would threaten to put Windex out of fucking business.”
Mr. Money Bags slides me back my cash and receipt to sign at the same time a savage roar rips out of Brock.
See. A beast.
He doesn't say anything else as he storms out of her office slamming the door hard enough behind him it shakes the gold crystal chandelier.
I wish I could tell you his bark is much worse than his bite, but I'm not a huge fan of lying. What! I don't. Scoot around the truth. Make an omission here. Side line a question there. Pick the perfect words to give you one idea and let you runaway with it. Clever. Ha. No need to waste that look on me. Not worth it. Not changing any time soon.
Once Mr. Money Bags files the receipt, I take my cash, and he waves me off with his hand. “You're free, Prince A.”
I toss him a nod and a simple, “Thanks.”
Turning around, I prepare to give the coldest woman in the world a warm smile, which she questions, “Did you stop by and schedule your appointments for the week?”
“Medical. Massage. Hair. Wax. And rehearsal space.”
French lifts her eyebrows. “Wardrobe?”
Fuck. How could I forget that one?
“I'll drop by before I leave tonight.”
Instead of chewing me out like I expect she sighs, “See that you do.”
Quickly I nod, “Have a good night, French.”
She diverts her eyes back to the monitors. “You too, Prince A.”
On my way out Chance yells at me, “Fucktard. You're seriously not coming to Cindy's tonight?”
With a shake of the head, I shove the money in my back pocket. “Nah. I gotta meet with Nikki-”
“Which you could easily do after a few drinks.”
“And then Brunch with the family.”
“You do that shit every Sunday?”
“Not every Sunday.”
“Then fucking skip it.”
“I'm not fucking with my inheritance.”
My father threatened that at the last brunch I went to when I showed up still pretty drunk from the night before. Can't remember the exact threat. I just remembered the key word to my sobriety. Inheritance.
Chance chuckles as he hands Mr. Money Bags his cash, “Do you even need it?”
Patting my back pocket I shrug. “Don't plan to strip forever....”
And that's the truth. The last thing I wanna be is a fifty five year old stripper trying to make ends meet. Who the fuck wants that? Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying I hate what I do. Fuck that. I love what I do more than I probably should, but I'm not a moron. Shit like this isn't meant to last forever. To be honest? That's one more reason I do it. I like living in the present. I like making the most of the fucking time I have now with no regards to my future. Keeps shit simple. Keeps shit easy. Keeps me from over thinking the fact that I don't know what I want out of life other than to tickle the ivories until I've got Arthritis.
Ari
Liz lifts her red colored cocktail. “Have you even seen dick this decade?”
She's classy, isn't she? Believe it or not, it's her crass attitude that made me want to be friends with her. When you work around a bunch of politicians who tip toe around because avoiding entrapment is their first language, it's refreshing to have someone not afraid to be blunt, regardless if it's aimed directly at you or not. Plus, I'm a little forward myself.
“It's not that simple...”
“It is that simple. Ari, this is the only time I enjoy using math in my life,” she mocks, pulling her long blonde hair to the side of her face.
Woman is intimidatingly gorgeous. Long legs, long blonde hair, always well put together. She's like having a real life Barbie doll for a best friend, including the insane amount of outfits and shoes she comes with. Seriously. If you ever need to borrow something, I mean anything, check her closet first. It's saved me for thousands of dollars over the last couple of years.
“Well that and counting how many free drinks I can pull in one night.” She lifts her drink at me. “Up to four now.” Before I can respond she adds, “Oh! And how many orgasms I can have in a row, but that's been less fun since I stopped banging Unbreakable.”
I lean my coffee colored elbow on the bar and flop my face in my hand. “Wasn't that like...almost four years ago?”
“Exactly,” she mutters and has another sip.
“You haven't had that many since?”
She shrugs. “What can I say? The boy fucked like he was taking home an award...every time.”
Can't say I've ever had that. Not that I haven't had decent sex, just never one that should be given some sort of prize for it.
“What happened to him again?”
“Finally came to his senses and married that girl he had been pretending he didn't love.” The sigh is followed with another sip. “But we're not talking about the multiple Os that are missing from my life. We're talking about the one that's missing from yours.”
“I O!”
The bartender of the swanky hotel bar lifts an eyebrow.
Fuck me. Volume. She always makes me forget we're in public.
“Fine. Do you have them given by someone other than yourself or your little buzzing friend?”
My face scrunches.
It's not that big of a deal. Do you have any idea how many women don't come from sex? To be fair, you have to be having sex before that can a possibility. And in my defense, it's not like I can't get laid. Hell it's not like it's even hard to find someone to take home. That's not the issue. It's just easier to let her feel like it is.
“Your dry spell makes the Sahara look like a rain forest.”
“Now you're just being bitchy.”
Liz rolls her bright blue eyes. “Headline time! Have some goddamn fun! Swap the work panties nobody wants to see for a pair that everyone can't get enough of. Hell go commando.”
I smirk as the bartender gives me a crooked smile.
Could easily take him home to shut her up, but the last thing I need is to ruin one of our favorite drinking spots when I don't call the next morning. Yeah. I'm that girl.
“Loosen up. You don't have to marry every guy you sleep with but for God's sake Ari, sleep with someone.”
Again. That's not the issue. Sleeping with someone and then not calling them is typically the problem. Or...sleeping with them for a week only to break up with them when they want to start dating me. Gag. You're damn right you just watched me shudder.
“Dust off the cobwebs.” She rolls her finger around at my business
skirt covered crotch. “It'll help you destress, which you need, because working for that Congress woman as her personal slave-”
“Race card,” I jokingly interrupt.
Immediately Liz gives me a sarcastic glare.
Well, I thought it was funny.
“Fine. Working as her personal bitch girl is gonna cause you to gray soon if you don't balance that shit out.”