Executive Engagement

And right now, I'm wolfing down my eggs and bacon, washing it down with some hand squeezed juice and running out the door. The Royal Press Secretary, a woman named Samantha in St. Livy, had booked a spot for me on Today, USA. I fucking hate Samantha. I know she’s fucking my Dad. But I don’t say anything because she’s the mother of Alicia. And Alicia…Fuck, we’ll talk about her later. Anyways, Samantha has me on some fucking morning show for people who slept well enough the night before to be up and at 'em at 6 in the morning. My interview is scheduled for 6 on the dot, and if I ride fast, I'll be there in fifteen minutes.

I bound out of the elevator and out of the steel and glass superstructure that I live in and hop on the motorcycle that the valet had brought out for me. It roars to life and I take off down 7th Avenue heading south to Rockefeller Center.

But first, I have to get through fucking Midtown traffic. Lucky for me, I'm on a bike. Not in a cab or on two feet like the pathetically weak pedestrians.

"Hey buddy, watch where you're going, will ya?" a Bangladeshi cabbie yells at me as I skirt by between two lanes and zip past him. Whatever. I give him the middle finger and dive forward. The light's yellow, but I put my foot to the gas. I'm going to fucking making it.

A fucking MAC truck blares its horns at me, just barely missing me as I zoom down 7th Avenue. I laugh to myself and yell as pedestrians get out of my way. Oh yeah, I may be driving on a sidewalk now.

"Fucking asshole!" some guy in black hoodie yells at me.

I stop the bike. Did I just hear what I think I heard? I'm maybe twenty feet past him but I get off the bike and turn around. I look at him. Wannabe gangsta. Thinks he Jay-fucking-Z.

"What did you say, mate?" I say.

He looks at me. I'm at least a foot fucking taller than this guy. He's got dreads but that's no match for the fucking skull and rose tattoo I have or the rose and thorns adorning both my arms. You can see them because I'm wearing a wife beater. But you can see my fucking muscles too, and right now, I don't mind flexing them.

The gangsta-wannabe looks at me for a second, then drops his eyes. "Nothin' man," he murmurs slowly.

"That's what I thought, mate," I say, and get back on the bike. It roars back to life and this time I fucking peal into the traffic.

But traffic is intense. And I'm fucking hungover. So I do the only thing I can to get some open road.

I head over to the other side of the street. With the oncoming traffic for the last block coming right fucking at me.

It's not a problem really. Most of the cars honk at me but I don't fucking care. They swerve out of the way, but I've already made my turn onto 51st street.

Life is fucking grand.

"Sir, you can't park that here," the building security rent-a-cop is telling me when I park in the ‘Reserved For Loading’ section.

I wave him the fuck off. I don't have time for this. It's 5:45 am and I need to fucking get upstairs.

"Sir! Sir!" he yells like a fucking parrot.

Luckily for me, my security contingent who was struggling to keep up catches up just as I head into the building. I'm not worried. Pressly leads the security detail. He'll deal with the rent-a-cop.

I head up the elevator, not giving two shits that I look so out of place with the rest of the people in there – dressed in their suits and uniforms of corporate slavery. What the fuck do I care? The women are staring me up and down. Hunger in their eyes. Lust in their hearts. Their husbands forgotten. The men are shrinking away from me - afraid when an Alpha is among them. Just the way I fucking like it.

"The interview is in Room 3, Prince Blaine," the receptionist who meets me outside the elevator is telling me as I walk out. She recognizes me instantly. I'm not surprised. Most people would, with the number of times the Post and the Daily News have my face splashed on there. "Mindy Friedman is waiting for you. They'll do hair an

d makeup as she preps you for the interview."

I'm not paying much attention to her, because we've just walked into the studio that's going to host the interview segment. The receptionist actually never came into the room - her job was done so she just gives fuck all about me. Leave it to the next schmo to take it from there.

The studio is empty except for a cameraman manning a camera and the interviewer - world famous Mindy Friedman.

"Where's the hair and makeup?" I ask, walking over.

Fuck me, this bird is fine. She's wearing a dark blue short skirt and a blue silk blouse. She blushes when she sees me. I give her an evil smile right back at her.

"You must be Prince Derrick," she says to me, a blush creeping across her face as she gets up. I can tell she's flustered.

Her tits are nice. Could be nicer. Body okay. Definitely fuckable.

I don't know what I'm doing but in times like this I usually just go with it. I reach over and pull off my wife-beater.

"What are you doing, man?" the cameraman exclaims.