Royal Pain Read online

  Royal Pain

  Leslie Pike

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Cocky Hero Club

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Leslie Pike

  Copyright © 2020 by Leslie Pike and Cocky Hero Club, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Cover: Kari March Designs

  Editor: Insight Editing

  Proofreader: Virginia Carey

  Introduction

  Royal Pain is a standalone story inspired by Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward’s Stuck Up Suit. It's published as part of the Cocky Hero Club world, a series of original works, written by various authors, and inspired by Keeland and Ward's New York Times bestselling series.

  For Joseph,

  Who is not like an ordinary world. And even that is understatement.

  Morely, aka Vicarious Rex

  Chapter 1

  Zan

  Her eyes are the color of God’s sky, and there’s a kind of grace in the way she moves. Every time I look at her it feels like I’m getting drunk in church.

  Stepping up to the counter, she orders the usual. “Venti Pike Place room for cream.”

  It’s all said in one stream of consciousness. I wish she’d speak slower. Bring it down to a crawl. An outstanding ass like hers needs time to be appreciated properly. The round high hills, the projection. A mountain climber could scale that thing. Not to mention the feel of velvety skin I’m having no trouble imagining. Men could go missing in the fantasy.

  Over my knee, panties down. The sound of a sharp sting, palm against flesh. A little giggle that gets me hard. It’s a great scene. Not just any man could handle the job. This requires someone who has field experience and the ability to appreciate a woman’s body for what it is, a work of art. Hers is as beautiful as any Afrikaner’s I’ve had the pleasure to pleasure. The women of Mozia are known for their physical beauty, so that’s saying a lot. I know what the fuck I’m talking about.

  The young barista gets to the order, but not before holding eye contact a beat too long and shooting her a shy smile. She’s about thirty I’d say, and he’s a good ten years younger. Got to give it to the kid. He aims high, and the gesture is rewarded. She pulls back a long silky strand of blonde hair and places it over her shoulder. A corner of that kissable mouth lifts in acknowledgment. That’s all it takes. I can see his face flush from here.

  It’s a kindness from a beautiful woman who no doubt gets lots of attention from men every day. She knows exactly what she’s doing. I admire someone who knows their strengths.

  “Can I get you something from the case? A slice of lemon loaf?” The voice is shaky in the delivery. Poor kid.

  “Oh no, not today. Just the coffee, thank you.”

  It’s comical how he’s looking at her. Mesmerized is the word. Moving to fill her order, he misjudges the steps, trips over his own feet, then grabs the counter and rights himself. The eye contact is broken. He’s too embarrassed and pissed at himself to look again. I can feel it from across the room.

  Miss Bubble Butt walks to the end of the counter and waits for her actual name to be called. I’ve heard it four times now, and each time it sounds more beautiful. It suits her. Classic American. Belinda.

  She’s been at The Coffee House every day this week. Always at nine a.m. When I noticed the pattern I made it my own. Which is odd, given my usual aversion to stalking random women. And considering how difficult it is for me to have any control over my daily schedule, it’s rare.

  Now I’m jumping through hoops and risking the wrath of my security team and some members of my family just to get a look at her. Doesn’t make sense. There’s no need to scope pretty faces in coffee shops to make connections. Women always have come to me. All. Fucking. Ways. Sounds vain, even to me. But vanity has nothing to do with it. How can the truth be disputed?

  Where she sits never changes either. In the corner, against the window. I see her eyeing it now, making sure it’s still available. She goes through the same routine every day, opens her notepad, positions her coffee and phone, and starts working. Whatever that may be.

  The fact she gets so engrossed helps my cause. I can watch her undetected. Go through my usual checklist. Right before she starts writing, she puts an index finger on her bottom lip and taps. One, two, three. I’d be a fool not to notice.

  But normally it’s face first. Hers is really pretty. Overall toned body. Check. Clothes. I expect the same thing I bring to the table. I’m a good dresser and I like being seen with women who have the same reputation. This one’s got real style. Grey narrow skirt, a white tailored dress shirt with silver cufflinks. Simple black heels. Actually, all heels are fuck-me shoes. Good understated jewelry and the absence of a wedding ring. That’s everything I need to know.

  I wouldn’t be attracted to a woman who showcases her tits too blatantly or doesn’t know what works with her body type. I sound more like the gay best friend than a horny stranger. But it’s just that I’m particular. Or particularly picky with the details. Bad manicures, teeth, or hair need not apply. I know what works for me. Oh yeah, and they can’t be too talkative. Conversations about meaningless subjects make me go soft. My free time is limited and I can’t waste it on boredom.

  For the last few days I’ve taken my spot at the adjacent table. A Yankees baseball cap sitting low, dark glasses hiding my eyes, the fake mustache completing the disguise. My first-hand experience with American culture has come in handy more than once. Blending in with the masses is something attainable for me. I did it regularly while attending college in Massachusetts.

  So far there’s been no conversation between us. It may be because I look too much like a serial killer. Or as Kwai said, a seventies porn star. But it’s crucial I protect my identity. If she recognized me it would be a thing. The story would spread, I’d be photographed and the picture would be on the nightly news or Entertainment Tonight. I’d be busted for sneaking out and never be able to get away with it again. That’s too big a risk for a conversation with a random woman that my dick happens to be attracted to.

  But what if she thought I was a regular guy? That would work in my favor. Maybe we could hookup for a quickie sometime between now and when I return to Mozia next week. God, my pants just got tight. Maybe I could channel a stockbroker or an attorney enjoying an early morning coffee. With my international business degree and ability to get what I want, I could p
ull it off. No problem. Just a guy having his morning coffee. It would be the best time I’ve had in years.

  At 7:45 each day I’ve left the hotel incognito. Not sure the doorman buys it, but he’s been the only one to give me a second look. Those guys know where the bodies are buried. They see it all, but keep their mouths shut. New York doormen in particular. This morning we exchanged nods, sealing his silence.

  My goal of blending in with the people has been achieved with little effort. Jeans and hoodie. Tennis shoes. Cell in hand, and on occasion against my ear to pretend I’m deep in a conversation. The sunglasses disguise my unusual eye color which can sometimes give me away. I’m sick of hearing about them. Green like an emerald, or dark like a stormy ocean, I’ve heard it all. Green. They’re just green.

  Carrying a wallet is the oddest part of this whole thing. Have to keep my identification close. And cash. More than once I’ve had to go back and retrieve it after I’ve quietly left the building. Pisses me off when I get that careless. The problem is I haven’t ever been required to carry my own anything for years. Someone always does that for me.

  But here, for a few hours, I’m able to become an actual autonomous man. Not standing apart from a crowd is rewarding. There’s great freedom in anonymity. When I travel I get a taste of the life I only knew as a child, and I’ll never fully know again. I’ve learned to take what I can get.

  Somehow I need to get from this Point A to Point Belinda. Shouldn’t be too difficult. Even without the He’s a fucking prince! thing women love, the eyes will do the trick. Bottom line, I need her in my bed as soon as humanly possible.

  Correction. There’s no chance she’ll actually be in the royal bed. That position is reserved for my future wife. Her Royal Highness. Just the official title is enough to make me lose my boner. I’m never going to do it. Marriage is for other men. Tonight, only my fantasies will enjoy this woman’s company but there’s still some time to change that.

  Oh! Here she comes. Looking down I pretend to read the ten angry messages on my cell. All caps yelling their intent. WHERE ARE YOU?! PLEASE RESPOND! You’d think my utter lack of concern regarding my security team’s meltdowns would have sunk in by now. The required response to the first message was made. They’ll be no further replies. They know without me having to spell it out, I’m not about to give this location away. I’ll return when I’m good and ready.

  Belinda pulls out a chair, and taking a seat sets open the notebook.

  From under the cap, I catch her glancing my way. Uh oh, I recognize the look. Shit! She recognizes me! How in the hell did she figure it out? Must be a woman who follows the rags. Or maybe watches TMZ. After Kwai was arrested in Manhattan two years ago and I bailed him out, we were on the paparazzi’s radar. We ended up on Vogue’s Best Dressed List which Kwai took as reason enough to act like an out of control drunk in a bar. Attention whore. If I didn’t love the guy he’d really piss me off.

  I keep my eyes on the same news page I’ve been reading for half an hour. My fake interest in the finer points of flooding in the panhandle is interrupted by a strong male voice. Looking up, I see a slight nondescript man in his thirties. Looks like he couldn’t swat a fly with any conviction. The line he’s been waiting in just inched forward, and he’s got ahold of the hand of a child. A boy about five, whose eyes are cast down.

  “Quit laggin’ behind! Christ!”

  He emphasizes his displeasure with a strong yank of the boy’s arm. His fucking arm. The child hardly grimaces, but even from here I see his eyes well with tears. Shit. This kid’s used to keeping his pain hidden. The expression is all too familiar to me. I feel the anger rising.

  Then the man turns his attention to Belinda who sits watching. When he smiles there’s a darker tooth right in front that doesn’t match with either tooth to the side.

  “Smile, baby. Things can’t be that bad.”

  What an idiot. Her expression says it all. Eyebrows knitted, lips pressed together.

  “I’m not your baby, and whether I smile or not is none of your business. I’m pretty sure we’ve had this conversation before. Am I right?” She says it quietly but without breaking eye contact. Leaving no room for misinterpretation.

  A look of anger passes behind the man’s eyes. Instead of backing off he raises his voice when he answers. “If you’d smile you’d have a better chance of getting a man, bitch. Calm down.”

  His words reach the barista who doesn’t like what he’s heard any more than I do. I’m up before I even register rising. The asshole doesn’t sense me coming behind him. But the hands on his shoulders get quick attention.

  “Keep on moving before I have to embarrass you. And if I ever see you do that to your child’s arm again, I’ll break your fucking face.”

  A hint of a smile cracks Belinda’s serious expression. The man whips around and faces me and quickly comes to the correct decision to back down. I’m about a foot taller than him and twice as able and willing to break any body part required. It’s easy to read intention on an angry man’s face. He shakes off my grip and I let him back away.

  “A man can’t even give a girl a compliment nowadays,” he mutters. “The Me Too generation! Ha!”

  I watch as he guides the boy out the door, but I know my words will go unheeded. Worse, I believe the child is going to be a victim until he’s old enough to fight back. That’s the ugly truth.

  Belinda puts a hand out. “Thank you. I appreciate what you did. Especially for the child. It happens regularly.”

  I take her palm in mine and hold eye contact. Light runs wild in this one.

  “Some men have no idea how to treat a lady. But I do.” I say it with all the sincerity I have to offer. Never mind I know women love that kind of thing. Uh oh. What just happened? What did I say? Her expression has changed imperceptibly. But I see it.

  “You’re a smooth talker, aren’t you?” she says with confidence.

  Damn.

  “Wait. I think I know you,” she says, suddenly changing the subject.

  That’s it. My cover is blown. I was right. No changing the fact. So I remove my glasses hoping I can save my chance to convince her to bed me. I’m nothing if not adaptable.

  I slowly look up, knowing I haven’t misread the situation. I’m right. She’s staring at me with those soulful blue eyes. But now there’s a little excitement in the mix.

  “Are you Prince Zan? I recognize you from today’s front page of the Times.” She turns her screen to me.

  There for everyone to see are the smiling faces of my brothers and I. We’re surrounding my father, the king, and my mother. There’s no use denying what obviously is the truth. Suddenly my disguise seems cheap.

  I face the truth. “Hello. Yes, I’m Prince Zan.”

  But I say it in low tones hoping to convince her to keep her voice to a whisper. It works because she immediately softens her tone.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Belinda Banks. May I join you for a few minutes?”

  It’s not actually a surprise she’s coming to me. Few people wait for an invitation. I stand and hold out a chair for her to slide into. Grabbing coffee, iPad and purse, she moves to my table.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ve noticed you’re on your phone and notepad most mornings. Your work day starts early,” I say.

  “There’s really no set hours to my job. Fair warning, Your Highness, I’m a writer.”

  Red flag waving.

  Shit.

  I didn’t see that coming. Most writers I know don’t look like her, dress like her, or have a body like a brick shithouse. That’s what I get for concentrating on the surface things. It’s fucking disappointing to know her interest is only work related.

  “Don’t panic,” she chuckles. “I don’t have any designs on interviewing you. There’s no hidden agenda.”

  “Why not? Don’t you find me interview worthy?” I’m fucking with her, but only fifty percent worth.

  A smile lights her attractive face. “You’re
definitely worthy, and the fact you give few interviews makes me interested in speaking to you on record. But I wouldn’t lead with a request for your time.”

  Hmm.

  “What do you write? For whom do you write?” I ask.

  “New World. It’s an online blog. I’ve got a political column that runs every Friday, recapping the week’s news.”

  “Impressive. I’ll look for it tonight. I know you have plenty to weigh in on in these times.”

  “Unfortunately true. My hope is I can engage the reader to take an active role in their government. It’s the only way forward, and the one hope we have for change.”

  “Said like a politician.”

  She meets my gaze with steely eyes. They’ve darkened.

  “Or a writer who believes in the premise of the statement.”

  I like her. There’s a touch of the fearless in her.

  “Easier said than done,” I say.

  “That it is. I’ve been accused of being a dreamer.”

  There’s a confidence in her tone, as if being a dreamer has only positive connotations. Pretty cool.

  “Nothing wrong with dreaming. I think that’s where everything good starts.” I wink.

  She’s looking at me intently and it throws my game. Usually when I’m with a woman we get to the sexual chemistry before too long. Not this one. There’s an intellectual heft I sense. Beauty and brains, the dynamite combination a thinking man can’t resist.