“Your Highness,” Pressly says, “it seems that this morning’s actions have caused quite the stir.”
Fucking hell, can’t a bloke wake up in peace without someone bringing up trouble? I sit up on the bed and grab a bottle of whisky that I left on the bedside drawer; taking it to my lips, I have a long gulp and let the burning amber liquid go down my throat and jolt me into consciousness. I look over at Pressly only once I’m ready.
He’s holding a copy of evening edition of The News of the Times in his hands. I groan to myself. Those bastards have had it for me since the day I fucking moved to New York City. I brace myself as I read the title.
“Meet Prince Sin!” it reads.
There’s a picture of me holding one arm out and the other grabbing my cock as I wave it on around. Despite myself, I can’t but chuckle and smile to myself.
“I fail to see what’s so amusing, Your Highness,” Pressly says stiffly.
“Prince Sin,” I say to him. “Has a nice ring to it, mate,” I say. Fuck it. They want to have some fun, I’m on!
I get up and, get myself inside some jeans. It’s just me so I decide to go shirtless as I amble down to the dining room - it’s already way past lunch time, but Pressly knows how I fucking roll.
“Alright, Pressly. Lay it on me, mate,” I say to him as I eat.
He clears his throat as I sit at the glass table and start filling up a plate and devouring everything in sight. Nothing better than a night of drinking and fucking to build an appetite. And, fuck, after plowing through three Russian models and a reporter during the pas
t two days, my appetite is fucking huge right now.
“Well, Sire, as I said, it seems your antics this morning has caused an international incident.” An international incident - what the fuck? Apparently I’m some kind of fucking terrorist now? Since when is it illegal to fuck a willing woman in this country on camera? If anything, they should be applauding me for showing them how it’s fucking done. None of that politically fucking correct claptrap. “Every single media outlet from CNN to the National Enquirer have been talking about it all day. You’ve certainly raised some hell, Your Highness.”
Well, that does sound like me - I’m always ready to raise hell wherever I fucking go. And all the tabloids are always fucking talking about me. So, really, what’s different this time? “Relax, Pressly,” I say. “People like to talk. This will all just blow over soon.”
“I’m afraid it won’t be as easy as that, sire. I’ve heard that the District Attorney for the city wants to get involved now as well.”
“Who the fuck is he to get involved and what the hell can he do to my diplomatic fucking immunity?” I ask.
“By herself, the District Attorney can’t do anything, Derrick,” my attorney, Larry Summers says as he walks in. I wonder how the fuck he got up here when Pressly tells me, “I took the liberty of summoning Mr. Summers, Your Highness. He’s been waiting the last hour assessing the situation.”
I grunt. I’m fucking eating too. Larry continues. “However, what the DA can do is bring charges against you that if indicted on, will make you lose your visa.”
Fuck, did he just say what I think he said? And did he just say the DA was a woman? I’m not worried then. I can always fuck her real good, get her on the Blaine Train, and get her to drop to her knees while she’s dropping all charges.
“And if I know the DA,” Larry says, “Then Samantha Scar won’t stop till she gets blood.”
Samantha Scar?
Fuck. That rings a bell.
Former fucking noble from St. Penares. In fucking love with my best mate, Silas D’Avington – the prince. We fought together in Afghanistan. I was his best mate. But she and he ended on bad fucking terms. So she finally moved to America. She’s had many jobs in her lifetime. Even serving in the White House as Chief of Staff. But if she’s got her eyes set on fucking me over, then this shit is personal because of my friendship with Silas. And it’s also pretty serious.
“Alright, I’m going to sort this out,” I say, reaching for my cellphone and getting ready to call the Samantha. These bureaucratic fucks are always after one thing - money - and I have plenty of that. I’ll cut a fucking check and in a week nobody’s going to care about my cock’s appearance on TV. Well, the ladies will care, of course, but that’s life.
I unlock the cellphone but, as I do it, it starts ringing. My father’s name is on the screen like a fucking bad omen. My father, the King, is not really the kind of guy to call to know how I’m doing. Besides, after everything he’s ever done to me and my mother, may she rest in peace, he’s lucky I’m even going to take his fucking call.
But still, I take the call and press the speakerphone button. Before I have the time to say a fucking word, my father is already speaking. And he’s both upset and worried.
“You crossed the line, Derrick,” he says and then takes a deep breath. “Are you okay? Is everything alright?”
Sigh. Here we fucking go. Moral lectures from the man who started dating his Press Secretary one year after I left the palace. Seriously, the only good thing about Samantha, the Press Secretary was that she was Alicia’s mother. Alicia Bayer. I would love to just sit and fucking rub one out thinking of her, but I have a cunt father to respond back to.
“Fuck you, Leo. I guess you already know, then,” I say with venom dripping down my words. “Like father, like son, huh?”
“Derrick? Son? What are you talking about and what’s going on? I can’t turn on the television without seeing you make an ass of yourself! It’s all over every damn TV channel in the world!”
“Well, it’s not my fault I was made for the spotlight, you know?” I say, putting a toast inside my mouth while I lean back against the chair. Fuck, people are really getting bent out of shape. “But don’t worry, old man. I’ll call the DA’s office and I’ll get it sorted. I don’t need your fucking help.”