Accidentally Royal_An Accidental Marriage Romance

by R. S. Lively

  “Christ,” I say. “Spit it out, man.”

  His eyes grow wide and he looks startled – like I'd just pulled a gun on him or something. I sigh and shake my head when he finally starts to speak.

  “I was just going over the transactions for the last couple of weeks,” he says. “I was – your choice to invest in both Decker and Blumenthal, they...”

  His voice trails off and he looks down at the ground. He suddenly starts to look like a balloon that's losing air and is deflating.

  “Yes, what about them?” I ask.

  “They were just – irregular choices,” he says. “Two very little known defense contractors –”

  “And?” I say, snapping my fingers, my patience starting to dwindle. “What is your point? Get to the point, Peter.”

  “It's just that – if the SEC regulators look into it, they might think you got tipped off, and –”

  I turn to Rupert for a moment and then turn back to the kid, my irritation starting to boil over.

  “What are you accusing me of, Peter?” I snap. “Insider trading?”

  “Yes – I mean, no,” he stammers. “I mean –”

  “What do you mean, Peter?” I ask, my voice rising.

  There are a lot of things people can accuse me of being and not be wrong about them. But, I've never cheated when it comes to my business. I never cut corners. I never do anything illegal. I pride myself on my knowledge and my skill – and of course, my intuition. I run big risks. That's who I am and who I'm always going to be. As they say, go big or go home. But, one thing I do not do, is engage in the shady shit others do. I run a clean game here and it pisses me off beyond belief when anybody suggests otherwise.

  “Peter,” Rupert, the voice of reason steps in, “you're new here, so you don't quite understand the way Mr. Bishop works –”

  “It just seems strange,” Peter says, feeling a little more confident talking to Rupert, instead of me. “I mean, those are two little known contractors. We invest heavily in them and then all of the sudden, they're awarded multi-billion dollar government contracts. The timing of it all –”

  I close the distance between Peter and myself in the blink of an eye. He looks up at me and swallows hard. My rage is bubbling over and I can feel the dark expression on my face. Rupert puts his hand on my shoulder and tries to draw me back, but I shrug it off. I'm not having it.

  “Are you calling me a cheater?” I hiss. “Are you calling me a goddamn liar? A fucking crook?”

  Peter quickly shakes his head. “That's not what I'm saying –”

  “Then what the fuck are you saying?” I snap. “Spit it out. Now.”

  He opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water. “I just – the SEC – the –”

  “Speak!” I roar. “Open your fucking mouth and speak!”

  He takes a deep breath and turns to Rupert, trying to gain some confidence by talking to him instead of me, I guess.

  “I just – I think it looks suspicious, that's all I'm saying,” he says. “I just think we need to do things a little more by the book, and –”

  My fists are balled at my sides and I can tell my blood pressure is just about through the roof. Rupert pulls me back and inserts himself between me and the new kid. He gives me a look I know all too well – his look of “calm the fuck down already.”

  If only it were that simple. I got to where I am because I worked my ass off to get here. I don't take shortcuts. I have relied on my balls, my heart, and my brain to get to this point. I don't take inside information and the mere suggestion that I'm somehow cheating or gaming the system infuriates me. It's a slap in the face and minimizes everything I've done. Everything I've accomplished.

  To me, it's the ultimate form of disrespect and I'm not having it.

  “Get out,” I say.

  Both Rupert and Peter turn to me, the expression on their faces saying they don't understand what I'd just said.

  “I said get out,” I snapped, my eyes locked onto Peter. “Clean out your desk and get the fuck out of my building. You're fired.”

  His eyes widen, and his mouth falls open. “You're firing me? Are you serious?”

  “You're lucky I don't kick your fuckin' ass, kid,” I yell. “Nobody comes into my office and questions my fucking integrity. You've got some serious fucking balls on you, kid.”

  “Let's all just take a step back –” Rupert says.

  “I don't need to take a step back,” I say. “If this kid thinks we're running a dirty shop, then he needs to get the fuck out. I don't need that kind of bullshit in my office. I won't have that kind of bullshit in my office.”

  “Mr. Bishop –”

  I point my finger at him, my eyes narrowed, rage burning through me. “Get the fuck out of my office,” I say. “You're done. Fuck you.”

  “But, sir, I only –”

  I take a step forward and Rupert puts his hands on my chest, forcibly holding me back. The Hell's Kitchen part of my personality is flaring up and coming out. I want to get past Rupert and beat the kid bloody. Peter takes a few steps back and looks like he's on the verge of either crying or pissing himself – maybe both.

  “Get out of my way, Rupert.”

  “Can't do that, boss,” he says.

  “Who the fuck does this little asswipe think he is?”

  Rupert looks at the kid over his shoulder. “You should probably go,” he says. “You're obviously done here, and I don't know how much longer I'm going to be able to hold him back.”

  The kid makes a small squeaking noise, turns, and flees my office. I stop struggling against Rupert as I watch the kid run to a desk, throw some things into his bag and run out the office doors like the devil himself was on his tail, a look of absolute panic on his face.

  It's then I notice everybody else in the office has stopped and watched the little melodrama that played out in my office. I realize belatedly that the doors are still standing wide open and they probably heard everything that had just happened. I look over at Rupert and shrug.

  “Nobody is going to come in here and accuse me of being a crook. Nobody questions my integrity, Rupert. Nobody,” I said. “Especially not some little pissant two weeks out of college.”

  Rupert laughs. “I sometimes forget you were raised in the Kitchen,” he says. “Until moments like these.”

  “Yeah, that street kid still lives inside of me.”

  He shrugs. “Not always a bad thing. Gives you an edge,” he says. “Keeps you sharp. Not a bad thing for the business we're in. At least, not until you start beating your employees.”

  I let out a long breath and roll my shoulders, willing myself to calm down. It's not easy to do once I get my blood up though. But, he's right. I need to dial it back. I look through my window wall and see most of my employees still sneaking peeks at us, their faces pensive. The atmosphere out there has most definitely gone from festive to apprehensive.

  “I guess I should probably go out there and say something,” I say.

  A rueful grin crosses Rupert's lips. “Yeah, you probably should.”

  Clearing my throat, I step out onto the floor. The room is silent, and I notice people cutting quick looks to each other, maybe wondering if they're next on the chopping block.

  “Sorry to piss all over your parade, guys,” I say. “What happened in there was unprofessional and uncool. That's my bad, guys. I shouldn't have lost it like that. I just tend to lose my shit when somebody accuses me – accuses us – of being dirty. Of not playing fair. We all take great pains to run a clean shop here, am I right?”

  There are nods and murmurs of agreement around the room, though everybody still seems a little on edge, not wanting to say something that will incur my wrath.

  “Our teamma – excuse me – former teammate, believes otherwise,” he says. “Let me make this plain as day for everybody. We run a clean shop. We cut no corners and we do shit the right way here. We do not accept or go looking for inside information. We take big risks, but let
me make it clear – we do not cheat. You all work your asses off and you do things the right way. I will not tolerate your reputations – or mine – being tarnished by accusations of wrongdoing. That's bullshit and I will not put up with that.”

  And just like that, the air in the room goes from tense and pensive to relaxed again. Knowing I'm on their side and fighting for them as well, seems to have mollified my team. Everybody is nodding and then a burst of applause starts. Soon enough, the atmosphere turns festive again and everybody goes back to their breakfasts, feeling confident that I have their backs. And I do.

  I take another pull of my cigar and blow the smoke toward the ceiling. Rupert looks at me and I notice he still hasn't lit his own cigar. He's more of a play by the rules kind of guy than I am. I give him a smile.

  “See? We're all good now,” I say.

  He grins and shakes his head. “You can take the kid out of the Kitchen –”

  “But you can never take the Kitchen out of the kid.”

  “Exactly,” he says. “It's a double-edged sword.”

  “It's what keeps life interesting, my friend.”

  He nods. “Yeah. That it does,” he replies. “That it most certainly does.”

  ~ooo000ooo~

  I step into the apartment and close the door behind me. Walking down the short hall that leads to the living room, I can hear the sound of the TV playing, the voice of the announces echoing down the hallway to me. Because, of course it is. The man can never get enough of his baseball.

  “Pops,” I say. “How they doin' today?”

  “Fucking Mets,” he grumbles. “Down three runs in the bottom of the ninth. Two out. Another lost goddamn season.”

  “I told you they were gonna have a rough year,” I said.

  He grumbles and shakes his head. “Yeah, I'm gonna have to listen to you one of these years.”

  I drop down on the couch beside him and take in the last out of the game. He flips the TV off and tosses the remote onto the couch cushion next to him.

  “Seriously, why are you such a Mets die hard?” I ask. “All they ever do is break your heart.”

  He smirks. “I had an old lady once who said I was a glutton for punishment. A masochist or some shit like that,” he says. “She wasn't talkin' about the Mets though.”

  “Yeah, given your love for the Mets, I guess I can see how that applies.”

  He laughs. “Loyalty, my boy,” he says. “It's all about loyalty. I grew up a Mets fan and I'm gonna die a Mets fan.”

  “How ya feelin' today, old man?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Ain't dead yet. That has to count for somethin'.”

  “It counts for a lot.”

  “You know you should just put me in a home,” he says. “You shouldn't be wastin' your money on me like this.”

  “My money to waste,” I say. “And if not for you, I wouldn't have the money to begin with.”

  Once I started making some good money, Pops had a stroke. I guess the timing was the only fortunate thing about it because I was able to pay for top-notch care. And, other than having a shitty memory and being confined to a wheelchair now, he recovered fully. He's still the same old Pops I've always known and loved.

  After that though, I moved him out of that shitty apartment he'd long refused to leave, and set him up in a nice luxury apartment in a seniors community. It's got a nice view, a lot of good amenities he seems to enjoy. And the number of women to men in the community is two to one, which I know he enjoys more. He's also got a live-in nurse who's a nice view in and of herself – I figured he'd appreciate that.

  He's a proud man though, and doesn't like to take handouts – even though, he's given more than a few in his time. Including to me. He deserves it. I think he should be comfortable. He's getting older and can use a little help. Help I'm more than happy to give him.

  “Serious, kid,” he says. “You should be out livin' your life, bangin' as many chicks as you can. Trust me, when you get to be my age and your pecker don't work no more, you're gonna wish you'd banged just a few more.”

  I laugh. “I'm livin' my life, Pops,” I say. “And I'm doin' okay in that department.”

  “Yeah, I saw your picture on that piece of shit magazine,” he says. “That blonde. Wow. If only I were twenty years younger –”

  “Forty, Pops,” I say. “If you were forty years younger.”

  “Fuck you,” he snaps and laughs. “Fine, forty. Whatever. If I were your age and had that blonde arm candy in my bed, you wouldn't see me for a month. At least.”

  “She's fine,” I say. “Not the brightest bulb though.”

  “Who cares if she's smart or not?” he asks. “The only thing that matters is how she is in the sack.”

  “Well, rest assured, she's great in that department.”

  “Good,” he says, slapping my knee. “That's good to hear, kid.”

  The truth is, it does matter to me. I don't like vapid women, to be honest. I like a woman of substance. A woman who has a lot going on upstairs. One thing Pops taught me all those years ago, was to use my head. To outthink and outsmart people, rather than rely on being able to outmuscle them.

  I learned to use my head – and learned to appreciate a woman who does too. Unfortunately, I haven't found her yet. Living the life I do, a lot of the women who tend to throw themselves in my path are the ones who don't have a lot going on upstairs and are just looking to snag a rich man. Those kinds of women are fun for a while, but I want more than that.

  Once upon a time, I thought I'd found that woman. A woman who changed my perception of the world around me. Made me think and use my head. As cheesy as it is to say, she stimulated more than just my cock – something she did quite well, thank you very much – but, she stimulated my brain as well. And to me, that was the sexiest thing about her.

  That was a girl I could have seen myself settling down with. But – well – shit happens, and life gets in the way sometimes.

  “So, what brings you by today?” he asks. “Shouldn't you be out conquerin' the world or somethin'?”

  I shrug. “Conquering the world takes time and patience,” I say. “You also gotta be able to unplug and have some fun once in a while.”

  “That's true, kid,” he says. “So, why are you here messin' with me when you should be out nailing some underwear model. That's what I'd consider unpluggin' for some fun.”

  I laugh. “Man cannot live by pieces of ass alone, old man.”

  “Says you.”

  “He wouldn't know what to do with a young piece of ass if she sat on his face anymore,” Adriana says. “He might keel over and die right there.”

  Pops grouses. “At least I'd die happy.”

  I grin as Adriana, Pops' live-in nurse, walks into the room. She's tall, fit, has long, black hair and darker colored eyes. She's got dusky colored skin and one of the nicest asses I've ever seen. She's got a mouth like a sailor, takes absolutely zero shit from anybody, and isn't afraid to dole it out to Pops – obviously.

  Adriana is sarcastic and cutting, but she is beyond tender and caring with the old man. She gives him the best care around and as cantankerous as he can be sometimes, I know she cares about him. And although he won't admit it, but he cares for her too. It's for all those reasons and more that I adore the woman.

  “Time for therapy, old man,” Adriana says.

  Pops groans and rolls his eyes. I laugh as I get to my feet and turn around to face him.

  “C'mon, Pops,” I say. “Your chariot awaits.”

  “Chariot,” he huffs. “I feel like a damn infant, havin' you all pushin' me around in that thing.”

  Adriana shrugs. “Well, to be fair, sometimes you act like an infant.”

  Pops looks at her, giving her a salacious little grin. “You know, if you didn't have such an outstanding ass, I woulda kicked you outta here months ago.”

  She smirks. “If you do your therapy without complaining, I might let you see my outstanding ass.”

  Pops' face
brightens, and his smile grows wider. “Oh yeah? Really?”

  “No. Not really,” she says and laughs.

  I'm laughing as I lift Pops up and set him down in his seat, with him grumbling the entire time. When I have him situated, I straighten up and snap my fingers.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” I say as I reach into the interior pocket of my coat. “I have something for you.”

  “Pictures of her ass?” he asks.

  “Maybe next time,” I say.

  Adriana rolls her eyes but laughs. It's a good thing she's got a thick skin and a good sense of humor. I hand the envelope I'm holding to Pops and watch him open it. The smile on his face is priceless and something I never get tired of seeing.

  “This is terrific,” he says. “Damn, kid. You're too good to me.”

  “A box suite to the Mets game next week,” I say. “Adriana, you in?”

  “Hell yes, I'm in,” she says.

  She and Pop are smiling and give each other a high five. They share a love of the Mets and often watch the games together. It's one of the first things that bonded them together and has allowed them to develop such a strong relationship.

  “Great,” I say. “I'll call you and get it set up and have a car come by for you.”

  Pops looks happy as Adriana wheels him away for his therapy session and I'm glad to see it. As they disappear around the corner, the smile slips from my face though.

  I know one day, I'm going to be in his place. Deep down, I just hold out hope that I'm not sitting there alone, in a wheelchair, with nobody but my nurse watching over me. Deep down, I hope to find somebody to be by my side in those later years.

  I leave his place and take the elevator back down to the ground floor. I tip the doorman on my way out and am heading toward my car when I feel a hand on my arm. Eyes narrowed, I turn and see a kid who couldn't be more than nineteen or twenty looking back at me. His face and hair are dirty, and his clothes are ragged and frayed. He smells like he hasn't bathed in a week – at least – and his breath is utterly rancid.

  “You should probably take your hand off of me,” I say, my voice low.

  The kid snatches his hand back like I'd scalded him and takes a step back.