Crowned by Hate (Crowned #1)

by Amo Jones

  “Only because I didn’t want to be a pain to Lydia.” A guy walks past behind Devon down our hallway, and I snap my eyes back to a guilty looking Devon.

  “And who was that?” I add a quirked eyebrow.

  “That?” he looks over his shoulder innocently. “What?”

  “Devon!” I bite at him.

  “It’s not as—” another person walks past him, only this time, it was a girl.

  “Really?” I deadpan. “You had to go there?”

  He grins at me, his baby blue eyes lighting up my room and enough to break through my pissy mood.

  I sigh in defeat. “I’m just jealous. I haven’t gotten any in well… almost a week.” Collecting up the rest of my clothes, my head slightly hanging between my shoulders. In this day and age, the word ‘Nymphomania’ is tossed around about as much as said ‘nymphos,’ but I truly believe both Devon and I suffer with this condition. Both for different reasons. I don’t know much about Devon’s family life. In fact, any time I ever asked about his family he always shut down, but I know my reasons have a lot to do with my home life. You know, ‘she wasn’t loved enough as a child’ blah blah. It’s all fun and games until someone really wasn’t ‘loved enough as a child.’ I have issues. Deep issues that I run away from by the temporary void sex gives me. I’m working on it, I guess. But if I’m being honest, I haven’t gotten much better.

  “Well…” Devon places his bowl on my dresser, coming further into my room. I watch as each muscle clenches with every movement. “You know I can scratch that itch, baby.”

  “Don’t!” I hold a single finger up. “I’m not… no. I’ll be okay. I’ll go out with Jen tonight.”

  I could go out with Jen, but in all honesty, a night out with Jen isn’t always a good time.

  “Baby, you know you need it…” Devon begins, inching toward me. “You need to find you a daddy. One who will not just rock your world, but fucking smash it into pieces.” Devon starts air humping the post of my bed, and I toss my shirt at him. “Get out!”

  I need a new best friend.

  Once he finally leaves, I tug on my jeans, jumping up and down to squeeze the goods in and then throw my shirt over my head. Walking into the bathroom, I fluff my dark hair up until it falls in natural waves down to my tailbone. I quickly dust on some make-up, I don’t wear much of it and hardly wear it so it’s all cracked and old. Brushing on my mascara, I chance a real look at myself in the mirror. I wouldn’t say I was unfortunate in the looks department, but I have insecurity issues that I fight with every day, which is why, in short, I have sex with men because it makes me feel good. It fills a void that was left inside of me when my mom abandoned me and my nonexistent father decided that his career was more important than raising his daughter. So yes, I enjoy sex. It’s something that makes me feel good—what’s so wrong with enjoying that? I’m so sick of the slut-shaming in this day and age. A girl gets called a slut if she has the sexual appetite of a man. Well, I’d wear that badge with pride and polish it with my middle finger.

  Exhaling, I place my mascara back into my make-up bag and look back at myself in the mirror. My eyes are a deep green, almost like greenstone, while my skin is more on the paler side — thanks to my mom’s Scandinavian heritage. I do have my father’s angular jawline and his small pixie nose. I think. I’ve only ever seen one photo of my mom and it was an old image of her and my dad sitting around a dinner table. The photo was in color—I’m not that old— but it’s the only time I’ve ever seen a photo of her. I have her skin and eyes, from what I could see. Maybe even her black heart.

  Shoving my phone into my back pocket, I head out of my bedroom and into our tiny living room. We live in a small apartment in the French Quarters of New Orleans, but my parent’s house—outside of the Whitehouse, the house I grew up in— is in Greenwich in Connecticut. So every time I have to fly home, that’s a two-hour flight. Lydia always pushes me to use my father’s private jet, but I’d be much more comfortable traveling amongst civilians just in case someone decides to shoot my father’s plane down or something crazy like that. Running for second term presidency, we have Peter S. Johnson. Aka, my dad. Though he’s never been overly active in my life as a teen, he’s still my dad. He stands for family values but doesn’t seem to have any himself. Figures. In order for him to keep up appearances and keep his unscathed name peachy and squeaky clean, I have obligations. It’s unfortunate really, and it’s why I moved to New Orleans in hopes to leave all this behind me, or rather, run away from it all. But no matter how fast and how good I am at running—

  “One of your MIB taking you to the airport?” MIB is code for Men in Black. Sometimes, Devon will even drop down and sing his own version of the Will Smith song.

  Yep. Secret services. The president’s daughter gets zero play time. It’s why, occasionally, (maybe like three times), I have done a solid runner. Before I can answer Devon, my phone beeps and I slide it open.

  Isa, Jerry will take you straight to the airport. Try to be early, please. You’re a headache for all the workers.

  Ahhh, now by workers, I’m guessing she’s talking about my friend Daniel who is also the pilot of our private jet. This is my father’s second league running, so all the workers are well acquainted with me. I send a message back to Lydia.

  (rolls eyes)

  Not funny, Isa.

  (double rolls eyes)

  ….

  See you soon.

  I giggle, tossing my phone back onto my bed. She has a point, and I shouldn’t be making the workers’ life extra hard. Truth is, most of them have been around me more than my father because he’s just never home. After gathering up the last of my things and tossing them into my suitcase, I yell out, “Devon!” while scooping my hair into a high ponytail.

  He saunters into my room with a towel wrapped around his torso. Water is still cascading down his rippling muscles, and I swear to God, fucking steam I still floating off his skin. The sweet smell of his soap hits me instantly, and I come hither him. “My family stressed me out.” I end with a pout.

  Devon grins, gripping the edge of the towel and dropping it, giving me a full display of his athletic body. His thick cock falls into the palm of his hand, all angry and hot.

  He pumps himself once, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth. “Come wrap your lips around me, Isa, and suck me good like I know you can.”

  I walk toward him, dropping to my knees while looking up at him from under my lashes. “Always.” Then I wrap my lips around Devon’s length, sucking on him slowly and licking around the rim of his cock. Peeking up at him, I slowly suck him deep down my throat. He groans, gripping my hair and tugging my hair back until the tip of his cock is resting on my plump lower lip. He grips his dick, rubbing his tip all over my lips.

  “God, I want you to be mine, Isa.”

  Ice fucking water. Nope. No. I inch back, my mouth slamming shut and my jaw tensing. “You know the rules, Devon. Say something like that again and I’ll find someone else to fuck me.”

  He growls softly. “Fine. Get on the bed.”

  I obey, and Devon does what he does best. Making me feel good, wanted, sexy. All until I can’t feel my legs and I almost miss my flight. Oops.

  3

  Slipping on some Jimmy Choos, I straighten my tits in my dress and run my nude lipstick over my lips one last time. As soon as I landed yesterday, I crashed at a hotel. Jerry and his MIB’s probably would have rather I be at the White House, you know, thus making their life and job a little easier, but the less time I spend with my dad, the better. For my own sanity.

  “Thanks, Jerry!” I knock on the glass separator in the back of the limo, fluffing up my hair. It cranks down, and Jerry’s eyes come to mine in the rearview mirror. “I’ll be a few minutes. Behave yourself, Isa.”

  “Aw,” I tease, giving him a small wink. “I always behave myself, and anyway, what could I possibly get myself into at the palace?”

  He sighs, and then the separator is closing. I gu
ess that conversation is over. I shouldn’t give Jerry such a hard time, but I’m guessing he’s used to it now what with almost five years dealing with me. Sighing, I gaze out the window as we pull in. I hate this place. It represents all things that I’m not. I’m not superior, nor do I think I am. I know that not all presidential candidates are like that, but my father, though he has America’s best interest at heart – always—is. He seems to leave his kids—my sister and I—to fend for ourselves almost all of the time. Or, he likes to think that all the men he has employed will do it for him. Which they do – every time. More Jerry than anyone else, but I always have at least three secret service agents following me around twenty-four seven. I’ve played poker with Jerry. He has chased away my one-night stand guys who wouldn’t leave my apartment. He has answered my cell phone when other guys never got a clue that I wasn’t interested, pretending to be my Navy Seal husband. In that regard, though, Jerry would be way scarier than any Navy Seal. My sister, on the other hand, isn’t as much hard work. She has her own MIB’s that follow her around, including her very own Jerry, who goes by the name of Chan. I’m truly not sure whether his actual name is Chan, I’ve just always called him that because he resembles Jackie Chan, and I never cared to know what his real name was. She’s the poster child for my father. Harvard law student, articulate, smart, classy. Everything that I’m not. I don’t think I’m not smart, but I believe more in doing something that sets your soul on fire than something that will make you miserable just to keep your father happy. That’s not me and not what I’m about at all. I tried, when I was younger, to satisfy my father and be something that he could be proud of, but every time my sister was around I would get tossed under the mat, so eventually, I stopped trying. I slowly started to realize that I don’t need to rely on family to make me feel wanted. There are lots of different ways you can make yourself feel good. Never rely on anyone else for that.

  One of the security personnel pushes open the front door for me, so I walk in, slamming it closed just as the strap of my shoe comes undone.

  “Shit, shit, shit.” Running my fingers through my hair to push the mass of brown strands out of my face, I hop up and down like a maniac while trying to fix my shoe. Eventually, my bouncing around moves me toward the back of the house where there’s a huge tent set up for the event. I’m still not sure what event this is for—charity, I think Lydia said.

  I’m still attempting to push my damn shoe on when I see how many people are here. Finally, I hook the little buckle back into its hole, swiping a glass of wine from a passing waiter before downing it in one go. These things are bad for my diet, not because of all the food, but because of all the alcohol I consume.

  “Isa.” One lady nods her head in passing. She’s wearing a bright red dress that screams ‘I’m important’, but I don’t know who the fuck she is, so I smile. “Hello,” I respond with my own head nod. I’m so terrible at this. Maybe I was adopted or swapped at birth. I’ve always felt out of my element at these things despite the fact that I’ve been around it all my life. I have never been able to get used to it.

  I look toward the front of the marquee, taking another sip of my wine when I stop. My skin blazes to life, the air gets sucked out of my lungs and the soft melody of whatever bullshit song that was playing disappears into the background of my heavy breathing. There, standing next to my father deep in discussion, is Bryant Royal. The Bryant Royal. When I say the, I mean the egotistical ass from the other night. Can I say he was an ass, though? I mean he didn’t really out rightly be an asshole to me, but his whole “I’m Lord” attitude pissed me off, so yes, I’m sticking to he’s an arse. My father looks as though he’s talking his ears off, though. He sure is fond of Royal. I can’t help the snarky chuckle that leaves me.

  Just as Bryant brings the rim of his glass to his lips, his eyes swoop to mine and then he pauses with his glass halting just short of his mouth. A sexy stupid grin tugs on the edge of his lips as he slowly tips his glass to me in a small gesture before downing all its contents. Why is it the more I see him, the more I think he looks familiar? I can’t even trust my own brain, though, because there are times when I meet people and I think I’ve seen them before, but it turns out, they just look uncannily similar to someone I’ve seen on television.

  It’s probably just because he’s ‘Bryant Royal.’

  I do a small curtsy to him Jesus fucking Christ. Why the fuck did I just curtsy him? Maybe because he’s fucking American royalty. Yes, I’ve done my research. As soon as I got home after that dinner, I Googled “Bryant Royal” and was surprised what came up.

  Bryant Saint Royal

  Twenty-seven years old.

  Youngest New York mogul to hit US soil in decades.

  Russian roots.

  CEO of Royal Enterprise Holdings.

  “Bryant Royal is American Royalty and is our very own high flying bachelor. Never pictured with the woman once, we wonder how such a man keeps his activities so private.”

  Yeah okay, so I googled a little deeper than what would be deemed appropriate. Bryant’s cold hard eyes go back to my father, obviously ignoring my witty curtsy and continues his conversation. Swallowing the rest of my spritzy champagne, I head toward the table laid with food. Second best thing about these things—the Champs being number one—is the food. I’m picking at a bunch of grapes when my dad calls out to me from across the room.

  “Isa!” My father’s voice feels as though it ripples through the room.

  I stop my greedy food grabbing and turn to face him slowly. “Yes?”

  “Come here for a second.” He come-hithers his index finger. I widen my eyes slightly at my father, and then slowly glance around the room, remembering where I am. Remembering I have to behave myself. I don’t need to cause a scene here, and I don’t want to. I try to pick and choose my fights with daddy-dearest, and this isn’t one of them.

  “Crap,” I mutter annoyingly under my breath, just as another waiter passes me. I quickly swoop up another flute, bringing it to my mouth as I make my way toward them.

  “Hmmm?” I murmur around the rim of my glass, just as I reach their table. My eyebrows raise slightly in defiance, but admittedly, that’s more aimed at Bryant than my father.

  “This is Bryant Royal.”

  Jesus, now he’s getting Alzheimer’s.

  “I know, Dad. I met him at the charity thing a couple nights ago.” I take another long—very, very long— gulp of my wine.

  My dad brushes off my response. “He’s the reason why we’re throwing this party, Isa, pay attention.” Wait. Pay attention? Is he joking, I haven’t missed anything at all.

  “Sorry.” I am not sorry. Bringing my hands to my mouth, I swipe at the small drop of champagne that fell onto my lip, and I’m just about to end my sentence with something sarcastic, when I again, remember where I am. I really, really, hate these fucking things. Tilting my head, I humor them both. “And why is he throwing this party here?”

  “Because he’s just made a large settlement, and it’s here because I offered.” My father looks to my wine glass. “How many have you had?” ‘Large settlement’ I have learned, is code for ‘this-is-something-important-that-little-people-won’t-understand,’ and I’m cool with this, because I really, really don’t care.

  “Not enough.” There’s a slight snap in my undertone when I reply before I finally let my eyes rest on Bryant. “Congratulations on your…settlement.” Whatever the fuck that means. “Excuse me,” I murmur, side-stepping away from Bryant and moving to the other side of the tent to raid the buffet. I can’t pass up free food. Piling small finger food onto my napkin, it’s not long before someone clears their throat from behind me.

  I crank my head over my shoulder slightly, a grin tickling my lips when I see who it is. “Yes? Can I help you?”

  Bryant steps closer to me, his hands going into his pockets. He narrows his eyes. “Yeah, actually, you could.”

  “Oh?” I pop a grape into my mouth. “Do go on, y
our highness.”

  His eye twitches, but he keeps glaring at me, and it feels like hot fire searing through the glacial glades of the Antarctic. I’m not sure how that would feel, but I’m guessing it would be this. His razor-sharp angular jaw clenches before his dark eyes find mine quickly. “You’re going to do me a favor.”

  I chuckle, turning my back to him and snatching another bunch of grapes. “Why on earth would I do you a favor?”

  I feel him before I see him. His hard chest slightly presses against my back, enough to light up everything that is in the direction of south, but then his breath falls on the nape of my neck and his strong hands grip around the curve of where my waist sinks in, and I find my thighs clenching together. “Because I have something you want.” He shoves me into his groin. Not enough to alert passersby, just enough force to tell me he’s not playing around.

  My eyes slowly close and my head tilts to the side softly, stupidly asking for his touch. “And what might that be?” It comes out as a small whisper. Damn it. Would I sleep with him? Hell. I’m pretty sure I’ve woken up to worse.

  “They should call me wolf...” My eyes snap open and a light panic begins to pulse deep under my flesh. There’s no way. I would remember him—I would surely remember. Though, I don’t remember much of those days.

  Tensing, I spin around to face him again, my eyes burning with so much intensity I hope he shrivels in his very spot. “What the fuck are you talking about?” Fuck. Please. Please let this be some bullshit game. He’s bluffing, he’s gotta be.

  Bryant cracks his neck, a devious grin pulling across his mouth. He smiles politely at a passerby, before bringing his attention back to me. “Summer 2012. That night ring a bell to you?”