Peaches & the Duke (Rocking Royals Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  Peaches

  &

  The Duke

  A novel by

  Ginger Voight

  and

  Jeffrey L. Mayo

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  Chapter One

  I stared at the white toilet bowl in dread. The gurgling in my tummy was unrelenting, having dragged me out of bed a full twenty minutes before my alarm went off in a vain attempt not to yack all over my pretty pink and purple comforter.

  I could hear my alarm wailing away in the other room, an ominous theme song from one of my favorite TV shows, sure to get me out of bed before I got overtaken by a horde of ravenous zombies.

  But there was little I could do to silence the alarm while there on my knees, praying for mercy from a porcelain god. I had already projectile-vomited twice, leaving nothing on my stomach but acidic bile. Hence the dread.

  “Peaches?” I heard my sister, and other half, calling from the door of the bathroom we shared between our two bedrooms. “You okay?”

  “Perfect,” I replied, just before violently ralphing that dreaded bile. This took a few minutes, and I’ll spare you the ugly details, mostly because I’m sure you have plenty of questions, not the least of which, “Your name is Peaches?”

  Don’t feel bad. Most are taken off guard by it. Peaches isn’t exactly registered on any Top Baby Name site. If I had a nickel for each time I was asked, “Is that a nickname?” I would be kneeling before a better, more luxurious toilet.

  To understand my name, you would have to know my mother, Sunny McPhee. Whatever image that conjures in your brain is likely accurate, at least for one of my mother’s many phases. Blond? Yep. Hippy? Certainly. Free flowing flowery muumuu? On many occasions.

  My mother was a free spirit, so named by my grandmother for the sunny blond hair she was born with. I came out with reddish peach fuzz. You do the math.

  Not all her children were named after their hair. My sister, roommate, soulmate, twin (but not really) was named Fern, because that was hanging in the doctor’s office when Mom found out she was pregnant. Our older brother Archer was named for his Sagittarian birthday, my younger sister Dallas was named after the city in which she was conceived. Then there was my baby brother Dash, named because he shot out into the world in the car on the way to the hospital.

  Mom insisted that we were all born to stand out. Our unique monikers set the stage for us to carve out our own individual places in the world. For most of my siblings, this had worked out. Archer, while not as earthy as the rest of the family, had gone on to make his fortune as an attorney back east. Fern was an artist and a dancer, who had her own fitness channel on YouTube, teaching others the beauty and health benefits of dance. Her modest following of 50,000 fans helped pay the bills. Dallas was already a world class athlete at 12, having competed and won significant figure skating competitions, with an eye on the Olympics as soon as she was old enough to compete.

  And Dash, well he was the most fabulous five-year-old in kindergarten. He often co-starred in Fern’s workout videos with his own signature rainbow tutu.

  I know I’m not supposed to have a favorite, but Dash is totally my favorite. And none of my siblings are too offended because he’s their favorite, too.

  And then there’s me.

  I’ve been telling stories since I was two and writing them since I was twelve. I love poems and stories and the magic that comes from taking intangible things and making people feel tangible feelings. If I were a musician, I’d create music. I’m way too impatient to learn that language to create, so I became a writer. Because I’m too intimidated to write a book, I became a journalist. I write about things that already exist, plucking the story out of mundane reality.

  We all create our own, individual magic. That was how I chose to create mine.

  I worked at a pop culture news joint called Headliner Pulse, where we write about the rich and fabulous. It’s kind of my jam. I’ve made some solid connections in the entertainment industry, mostly because I like to keep it respectful. These powerful folks are still people, and I try never to lose sight of that. Because of this, I’m often requested by certain celebrities whenever they want to make a public announcement, like a wedding or a new baby. They know I’ve got their backs.

  I’m Peaches McPhee, for fuck’s sake.

  This was why it was no surprise that I was on the short list to interview with The Duke that very afternoon.

  This was also why I prayed for a quick end to my nausea. I didn’t want to barf all over the most eccentric rock star of our time.

  My alarm continued to blare from my bedroom, waking from its second snooze cycle. I groaned as I buried my face in my arms, hovering over the one place a face should never be.

  Fern opened the door. “You look miserable,” she commented, stating the obvious as usual. “You want me to get you anything?”

  “A new stomach,” I groaned without even lifting my head.

  I heard her turn on the faucet. Before I knew what was happening, she was on the floor next to me, bathing my face with a cool damp washrag. “You want me to call in for you?”

  “No!” I said sharply, raising my head. I immediately groaned because the world spun around me. “I can’t miss today. Today is the day.”

  “You really think he’s going to let you anywhere near that ridiculous castle of his when you’re practically green with the flu?”

  My bloodshot eyes met hers. “You really think it’s the flu?”

  She shrugged as she continued to bathe my face. “What else could it be? What did you eat last night?”

  I thought back. Realization dawned at the same time for both of us as we said together, “The Sushi Shack.”

  “Oh, no,” I groaned again, putting my head back in my arms.

  She continued to bathe my forehead. “We pay for the things we love,” she offered sagely. “You really should call in, Pea.”

  “No,” I said, once again lifting despite the world spinning. I took the rag from her and bathed my own face, focusing on my cheeks and my neck. “I’ve got this. There’s no way I’m going to give Christopher a chance to steal this away from me on account of some bad fish.”

  She rolled her eyes but nodded. There was only one person on planet Earth who knew about my complicated relationship with Christopher Tyler, and that was my sister Fern.

  Christopher was the reigning Dude Bro of Headliner Pulse. He was the one who hit on (almost) all the girls. He was the one who made the sexist or racist jokes, then hid it behind a charming smile and “Just kidding! Don’t take things so personally!”

  As if it was our fault that he was an asshole.

  He was also the first one to pounce all over near tabloid type stories just so we could keep one step ahead of our nemesis PING, the tabloid vultures who made regular sport of the rich and famous.

  “Why don’t you just go work for PING?
” I said one day after a meeting, when he was extolling the virtues of their ambush style of journalism.

  “When they make me an offer I can’t refuse, I will,” he assured with that damnable smirk that made me want to kick him in the teeth.

  That was Christopher. Always looking for the bigger, better deal. Status meant a lot to him, judging by the car he drove, the clothes he wore, and the women he dated.

  Our relationship had always been contentious because I’ve never been his type: the perfect girl with the young face and perfect body, and willingness to do anything to attract his favor. I was too avant-garde, with my oft-changing look, my many tattoos and piercings — not to mention my thirty or so extra pounds that just wouldn’t go anywhere, no matter how many workout videos I did with my super-fit sister.

  I was built for comfort, not speed.

  At nearly 30, I was already aged past my prime as far as he was concerned. Like many Dude Bros, he preferred them as close to eighteen as possible. He wanted them fresh off the factory floor, not because he was a sick perv who wanted the body of a kid, but rather a controlling shithead who wanted the mind of one. Older women like me saw right through his bullshit, which was why I was the one who constantly busted his balls on his frat humor and competed with him toe-to-toe on any challenge that reared its ugly head.

  About a month ago, that included a drinking game at a local baseball game where our company happened to have box seats. What started as a team-building exercise ended with a not-so-friendly game of Never Have I Ever, where we outlasted most of the coworkers in our zeal to win. It lingered on to our shared lift home, where we went on to other forms of intoxicants since we had run out of alcohol and I happened to have my discrete vape pen on hand.

  By the end of the night, neither one of us could list sleeping with the other on the Never Have I Ever list, because apparently hate-fucking is a thing. As it turned out, marijuana was the gateway drug to a one-night-stand with Christopher Tyler.

  Just say no, kids. Just say no.

  Fortunately, nobody else had found out about it. Lord knows Christopher would never openly admit he slept with someone like me, and vice versa.

  But, it had only intensified our competitiveness at the office. It was like he kinda hated me for having succumbed to sleeping with me. And I knew his dirty little secret because I was his dirty little secret. He consistently wanted to show me who was boss, and I consistently wanted to show him that it wasn’t him.

  Then the whole Duke interview came up. The Duke, whose stage name was the Duke of Mayhem, had been looking for an outlet to share his story for the first time in, well, ever. Apparently, he liked the way we handled things over PING, which happened to be his nemesis as well, so he wanted to interview a few of the top contributors, to find a good fit with whom he could collaborate. Since Christopher had that Mediocre White Dude thing going for him, he got the first interview. Monica Whitehall got the second. I got the third.

  Now, I could have let Monica snatch victory away from Christopher’s clutches, but there are two things wrong with that. One, I like to fight—and win—my own battles. Two, Monica is kind of a bitch.

  Let’s just say she was the kind of gal who was young enough and dumb enough to like Christopher and leave it at that.

  Today was my day and nothing, not even a horde of ravenous zombies, was going to stand in my way.

  This wasn’t to say I didn’t have a barf bag on the passenger seat next to me when I headed to our office in West Los Angeles that morning. Sure, I had to use it the minute I parked, but that was what it was for. I ditched it in the trash can on the way into the building, where I stopped to freshen up in the ladies’ room. I used a travel-sized toothbrush to brush my teeth, fighting the urge to gag as I did so. After I quickly pocketed said toothbrush, I washed my mouth out with some strong mouthwash, I reapplied my dark red lipstick and touched up the perfect cat-eye liner. Still a little waxen from my morning vomit-a-thon, I touched up my foundation to look more like a human and less like a fresh corpse. I fluffed my curls, reveling in the newly dyed dark violet color, before straightening my spine and heading for the morning meeting.

  My stomach rebelled as soon as I saw Christopher’s smug face, who smirked because I dared to be a few minutes late. I instantly reached for one of the ginger chews that Fern had shoved in my purse as I had run out the door. That and some of the water that was provided for all of us around the big conference table was all I had to keep me from blowing chunks all over that morning’s presentation.

  Not gonna lie, it got close a few times. I never realized how long and tedious those meetings were until I had to wait to spew until one was over.

  Finally, it got to the stuff I needed to pay attention to. “As you know, Queen Maeve will be holding her Silver Jubilee in August. The Duke’s European tour is expected to cap in Aldayne, so whomever gets this interview will need to have a current passport. I’ve been told he wants the journalist he chooses to travel with him to see both sides of his world. Peaches,” my boss, Lydia Randolph, addressed me as she turned my direction. “One of his assistants, Audra, will be here promptly at nine-thirty to pick you up. You will need to be briefed what he expects while you are in his home.”

  I nodded. “Of course.”

  Her brow furrowed as she looked over my pale features. I knew she missed nothing. It was what made her so damned good at her job. “Are you okay?”

  “Of course,” I repeated, hoping nobody could hear the little warble in my voice from trying to fight down another wave of nausea. “Something I ate.” I heard a chuckle from around the table and I knew without looking it came from Christopher. “I’ll be fine.”

  Lydia nodded. If working with me for the last couple of years had taught her anything, it was that I knew how to come through in a clutch. “Okay, well. You all have your battle plans. Go forward and kick much ass.” It was how she ended every meeting.

  As everyone disbanded, I heard Christopher’s voice from behind. “Looking a little green behind the gills there, McPhee. Nerves getting to you?”

  I knew he was trying to get into my head. “I don’t get nervous. You must be thinking of you.”

  He chuckled as I swung to face him. “Hey, joke if you want but I nearly shit my pants. This isn’t some regular person. This is royalty. They give you all the rules in the car on the way over there. Get just one thing wrong and the whole interview is over. I mean, I’m looking out for you here.”

  “Bullshit,” I scoffed. “You’re looking out for you. As always.”

  He shrugged. “I’m just saying. It’s stressful. I can see how it might make you a little nervous.”

  “I told you. I don’t get nervous.” With that dramatic exit line, I twirled on my heel and headed out of the conference room to get back to my desk.

  Chapter Two

  As it happened, the twirl was too much. I had to pivot and make a quick beeline to the lady’s room instead. I was on my knees in the stall when I heard, “You okay?”

  Great, I thought with a roll of my eyes. It was Monica. “Yep. Just some bad sushi.”

  “That sucks,” she stated as she lingered outside the stall. “And what a time to get it, huh?”

  Turns out my sister Fern wasn’t the only one with a penchant for stating the obvious. I waited for Monica to leave, but she outlasted me standing there outside the stall. It was ticking ever closer to nine-thirty so I had to clean up as best as possible and exit the stall with my head as high as could possibly be held after being on both knees in a public bathroom.

  “Wow, you look wrecked,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said before brushing my teeth for the fifth time that morning.

  “You know, friend to friend, you might want to reschedule. It’s not going to get any easier the closer you get to Fifty Oaks.”

  I glared at her. “Is that so?”

  She nodded. “It’s intimidating. It’s a legit castle. I mean, newly built but… an actual Duke lives there. God, I coul
d barely form words when he finally made his appearance.” I didn’t say anything, so she forged on. “They make you wait for it. They put you in one of the receiving rooms where you’re surrounded by all this royal stuff, paintings and busts… suits of armor. For a minute, I thought he might even be in it. You know how weird he can be.”

  I shrugged. When you’re named Peaches, weirdos don’t bother you much. “If he’s wearing a suit of armor, he might be better protected if I barf on him. Always look on the bright side, Monica.” I finished washing my hands.

  “It’s not just that. He’s… different. Like the energy changes when he enters the room. He may have given up on royalty, but he carries himself like a king. I practically bowed!” she giggled.

  I thought of her well-known reputation for using her sexuality to get the story. “I’m sure,” I murmured.

  “And he is gorgeous,” she continued, following me out of the bathroom. “That auburn hair. Those piercing green eyes. That beard. He looks like he just stepped out of a romance novel.” We reached my cubicle, where I sat immediately to turn the fan on me so I could fight off yet another wave of nausea. This time I figured it had less to do with bad sushi and more to do with a chatty coworker chewing my ear off. “I’m just saying. You might want to be at your best to meet him.”

  She was the second person to tell me “I’m just saying,” that morning. And both of whom had a lot to gain if I wimped out of this interview.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I smiled sweetly.

  “Well, good luck,” she said before twirling on one of her impossibly high heels to head back towards her own cubicle.

  I sighed in relief before booting up my computer. Normally I would spend this time going over any pertinent facts regarding the celebrity whom I might interview. I always wanted to go into battle fully armed with all the little details others might overlook. It was my job, and my specialty, not to overlook them.