by Dark Angel
Hey, I've fucking heard about beta males, but this is almost something else. It's almost enough to get me to lose focus on my mission at hand.
Almost.
The girl, Misty, is looking up at me now.
"Thank God, I caught you," I exhale out.
"Why?" the woman's voice is harsh, like she's stopping herself from slapping me. "Did you want to take me up there to your sex room?"
What the fuck?! I look at her with confusion. The anger in her voice makes me flinch.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" I ask her.
"That's what you do, don't you?" she asks. "You fuck girls. And then throw them away?"
What was with this bitch?
"Isn't that why you ran down to catch me?" she asks. Fuck, she's got a fucking edge to her. Normally, I'd just call her a bitch and walk the fuck away. I'm not wasting my time on some fucking feminazi bitch. No pussy is worth that much.
But this one somehow is, because I stand there, just taking the abuse.
She's looking at me, her eyes raised. "Well?" she asks.
I notice out of the corner of my eye that the man she was with is looking worried. Like he wants to intervene. I'm not sure what his deal is. Maybe her manager. Can't be her fucking pimp. Somehow, she doesn't fit the mold.
"Sorry, love," I say, wondering what else I can say at this moment. Fucking Prince Sin - yeah, don't look at me like that, I kind of am taking a shine to the fucking name - all of a sudden without anything to fucking say.
"It's just that when I saw you on stage, you reminded me of someone I used to know. A long time ago," I say quietly. Her eyes widen and I don't know why I say it, but I fucking do, "A happier time."
That fucking takes her back. She wasn't fucking expecting that. "Who?" She asks me. "Another slut you slept with?"
"Where the fuck is this hostility coming from? Jesus fucking Christ, love," I exclaim. "It's like you hated me before I even got here."
"I know who you are," she says with a sneer.
Oh. Fuck. Me.
She must have seen me on the fucking telly. Waving my Godzilla cock around like I'm fucking drunk. Which, considering the vast quantities of booze, I can safely say I was.
I'm about to try and explain my way out of my actions when she asks, "Who was it?" She looks at me, and for a moment I think it might be her. That it might really be Alicia. But fuck me, that was so fucking long ago. After my mom died when I was thirteen, I remember coming back to school and wanting to talk to Alicia. She was the prettiest girl in the school. Smart and funny, as well. But above all, she was kind. I remember after Mom died on the first day back I felt an urge to talk to her. Fuck, I even got as far as getting up the courage to walk up to her. But fuck me, she was so fucking pretty when she turned my way, I had nothing. I froze. Couldn’t speak for the life of me. So what did I do? I fucking pushed her into the pond that we were walking next to. And after a moment, I ran away. Dad was pissed, of course. He said I needed more structure. Fuck that. I needed a father who didn't cheat on my mother and beat her. Didn't force her into an early fucking grave because she gave up on fighting the cancer. I can count the number of fucking times I've thought that if my father had only been nicer to Mom, treated her like a real fucking human being, maybe she would have been able to survive the fucking cancer as it ate her away.
Anyways, where was I? I'm sorry, I just got distracted, you know?
Right. For a moment there, I had the vibe that this bird in front of me was Alicia. God, she was gorgeous. And she didn't even know it. I'd managed to keep track of her until she graduated from Yale. Now I didn't know where she was.
"Someone I used to know, love," I say, answering her question. "Her name was Alicia. Alicia Bayer."
If I didn't know better, I'd think that her eyes are beginning to tear up. But she stops herself and she looks at me with a cold, hard, face.
"Well, sorry," she says. "My name is Misty."
Give me a fucking break. I know strippers have stage names. I own a strip club so I can fuck strippers, remember?
But the music is changing and the dancers are changing shifts so I'm not going to call her on it. Instead, I look at her.
"Listen, love, have dinner with me on Friday. What do you say?" I ask. Fuck, that's three days away and I want to fuck her now. But something tells me that with this girl, I need to play it right. Play it fucking old-school.
She's studying me. Like a fucking hawk.
"What's your phone number?" she finally asks. "I'll call you."
I program my number into her phone and she gives me a brief smile before walking away, without even a goodbye. I see the man she's with slink away behind her. Fucking loser. But whatever, I don't care. I'm too busy looking at that beautiful ass. I can feel my cock twitch.
But fuck me, mate. It'd be a lot easier if she were Alicia.
Then I wouldn't have to wait till this Friday to know that I was in love.
Alicia
"Just take it easy tonight, kiddo," Mike is telling me over the phone. It's Friday evening and he's in the office fixing up the evening edition of the paper that just went out before focusing on tomorrow's morning edition. "You have about three hours if you want to get anything juicy into the pages."
I sigh. Ever since my last foray into Page Eight, I've been getting a lot more respect at work. The fact that Mike is holding off on the deadline for printing the paper till after my date with Derrick goes to show how much importance he's placing on tonight and my continued association with Prince Sin.
Prince Sin. I still can't believe it. I mean, it took me a few times to look at the video of him waving his cock around but I came to the conclusion that every woman in America probably came to after seeing it - Prince Derrick Blaine was very, very large. He had a magnificent and beautiful cock. And even I, who hadn't had much experience in these matters could see that.
Oh, just to explain something to you really quick. There's no real one author that writes Page Eight. Well, I mean, in the newspaper the author is listed as Abigail Adams. But she doesn't exist. It's a team of writers that puts together the stories. That's why when Abigail says something, it's usually one of the writers or their assistants that came up with it.
Up until this week, the closest I had gotten to attributing words to Abigail Adams was doing research and looking over and proofreading articles. Until the Prince and his fateful "interview". I got 750 words that day - almost unheard of for a newbie to get. And Danielle and Mike are telling me to prepare for another 1000 words after this date.
And it is a date. But it’s a date where I have to pump him for information. I sigh into the phone, "I got it Mike, you've been over this with me like a million times already," I say.
"Don't give me that kiddo," Mike says and I roll my eyes on the other side. "I've been around the block, okay? I've covered these bad boy princes. Hell, I've even covered the ones that weren't that bad, but wanted the world to think they were. And let me tell you, this Derrick character, he's the worst of the lot."
I'm in a taxi and it's pulling up to Columbus Circle right now, so I tell Mike I'm getting ready to get out.
"Be careful, kiddo," are his last words before we hang up.
It's a nice summer evening and I'm glad I decided to wear a slightly tight, shimmering black dress. I have some heels to go along with it, and I had my hair done for the night.
What? Don't look at me like that, okay? It's my job to make sure Derrick keeps thinking of me as this stupid, little, stripper-girl. Is it the right thing to do? I don't really think so. But it's my career that's on the line. And for what? To publish the truth about a horrible human being whose been mean to me in the past, remember? It's not like I'm making anything up here. And this is for the man that either tormented me as a child or ignored me as I grew older. So I don't see the harm in what I'm doing, okay?
Plus, I have to try to look good if I want him to open up to me. I mean, the other day when he asked me to dinner, I was still ske
eved out from the strip club, but my heart was racing. Whether it was because I had just gotten off stage after doing something I'd never thought I'd do, or because I was so close to him. I mean, despite his flaws, the guy has the body of a god. He's tall, handsome, and you can see his muscles no matter what he's wearing. And I don't know if it was because it was on television, but I snuck a couple glances at his crotch - there is definitely so much pleasure swinging from his legs. Don't tell him, or anyone for that matter, but just talking to him, it was a giant struggle to stay mad at him when he was looking at me. I was just getting wet. Really wet. Oh my God. Does that make me a bad person?
And then when he said he remembered who I was, I don't know why I pretended it wasn't me - Alicia. I don't know. It was like the look he had in his eyes when he mentioned me. It didn’t match his actions towards me in the past. But I couldn't tell him I worked for a tabloid newspaper - he'd go on guard around me.
I'm so confused! When I'm around Derrick, he doesn't seem that bad. I mean, he seems overpowering, sure - but in a good way. But the guy has a reputation that goes on for miles. And the only reason he's not in jail right now according to the DA is that diplomatic immunity that he carries around.
Derrick had told me to meet him at Per Se, which is on the fourth floor of the Shoppes at Time Warner. Per Se is like the most expensive restaurant in New York, and the only one in the city to be awarded 3 Michelin stars. So I'm a bit nervous by the time the escalator takes me outside Per Se.
Oh yeah, guess who called twice tonight?
Give up? Jake the Asshole Ex-Boyfriend.
He called once while I was on the phone with Mike and once as I go up the escalator. I sent it to voicemail both times. I have nothing to say to the guy.
The thing is, he’s called a couple more times this week. Whatever.
I’m not even mad at him. I just don’t think of him.
How is that even possible is probably what you’re wondering. Well, it’s empty when I walk in, but Derrick is standing right there in the center of the room and all thoughts of Jake vanish. And that’s why I’m not thinking of Jake at all. Derrick Blaine - dressed in a tuxedo. He cleans up really nice. Oh, my. Jake is an insect compared to this man.
Not that I’m thinking anything, or whatever you might be thinking.
I hate Derrick! Remember?
He looks at me and there's a glint in his eye, followed by a look - what kind of look is that? Like he remembers me from somewhere?
"I cleared the restaurant, love," he says as he walks up to me and places a hand on my back, guiding me to a table placed in the center of the dining room. "I wanted us to have this space to ourselves," he says.
Okay, I'm seriously impressed. People make reservations a month in advance and generally they don't let them go easily. For Derrick to have done this in three days meant contacting each of the people with reservations and giving them something else in exchange. The restaurant would never do that. Even for a Prince. They had too much to lose.
But all I ask is, "Do you do this for all your women?"
Derrick laughs as a waiter pours some sparkling water and brings a tray with two flutes of champagne.
"No, love," he smirks. "This is only for you," he says as he smirks at me again.
I can feel my cheeks blush and I look down for the menu to hide my eyes. But there's no menu yet. The waiters are just bringing out food.
"I hope you realize we're not ordering anything tonight," Derrick says, reading my mind. He grins, "We're signed up for the full Per Se tasting menu."
"What if I'm allergic?" I ask.
"I don't think you are, but let me know, love," he says, that smirk still on his face, as if he's enjoying this. "If you were, it would have been the first thing you'd have said and you would have thought about the menu before anything else. You were too busy instead looking into my eyes."
How cocky of him! But, I blush again. I can't keep doing this! I need to steer the conversation around!
"How do I know this isn't what you do with all your women?" I ask the first thing that comes to mind.
Derrick's face keeps its smirk, but I can tell he's leaving it on there. After a pause, he softens his gaze and looks into my eyes, "Because, love, I don't ever fucking take girls out to dinner. It gets in the way of fucking."
I roll my eyes. There's the Prince Sin I know and hate.
"So why me?" I ask.
"Because when I saw you on stage, I had to meet you," he says, almost immediately. No hesitation. "How long have you been dancing?"
I've always danced. Oh, wait! He means how long have I been stripping!
Somehow I never thought that we'd end up talking about me! I quickly think of the best answer I can come up with. "I've only just started auditioning," I say. "I just need a way to pay my student loans now that I'm out of school."
Hey, it's actually pretty close to the truth. Want to know how much money I picked up from the bills that were being thrown at me that night where I auditioned for two minutes? $187. That's right. For two minutes. You do the math and figure how much I could make.
Also, for what it's worth, this dress was bought with some of those stripper-bucks.
"You can't keep stripping, love," Derrick tells me, looking in my eyes. I look at him and almost melt. He's so hot. His eyes are so soulful when they want to be. I'm ready to nod and agree to end my fake-stripping career right there - I want to do anything he says.
But my brain stops myself at the last minute.
"I need the money," I say, able to meet his gaze because it's closer to the truth. More than anything else I've said tonight.
"I know," he says back to me. "And I have a solution for that."
I'm curious and I ask him what he means.
But the first of the plates come. "Eat first," he says, and I can't help but listen. The food is so delectable and amazing. Yay! I'm eating at Per Se!
Over the next hour and a half, I try to dig into his past. His mom died when he was thirteen. I knew that. But he doesn't go into more detail. He blames his dad and I find out the two aren’t close.
Okay, by itself might not mean much, but maybe a story there.
He moved to New York after Afghanistan. And before that he went to the Military Academy.
None of this will sell papers.
"What was your idea for me to quit dancing?" I finally ask as a waiter takes the remains of lamb skewers braised with black pepper and turmeric sauce and replaces it with small delectable bites of shrimp and lobster sausages with a garlic aioli drip.
"Be my girlfriend," he says and I nearly drop my fork. "For the public. Help me rehabilitate my image. We'll do some photo ops. I'll even pay you if you want."
Oh. My. God.
For a second there I was falling back and enjoying this evening. It was almost becoming magical. I was having a good time.
But then he decided that because he saw me as a stripper, he could treat me like a whore.
Career or no career, I'm not taking this.
I put my fork down and use the napkin to wipe my mouth. Then I look at him.
“You know, Prince Blaine, maybe instead of hiring me and doing some photo ops, you should, you know, be a nicer person,” I say with clenched teeth. “Did it ever occur to you that pretending to be a nicer person doesn’t actually make you one? Or are you too much of an overgrown and spoiled baby to realize that?”
Derrick is sitting there looking like I just hit him with a cold fish. I don’t know if anyone has ever spoken to him like that before.
"Thank you for a lovely meal," I say calmly as I get up from the table and walk towards the exit.
At first, I know Derrick's stunned. I take the elevator to the ground floor. It's past 9 pm now, and the mall is emptying out. But Derrick who ran down the escalators catches up to me.
"See, love," he says, as he opens the door for me. "You have your self-respect."
I look towards him sharply.
He continues. "If you
were really into the money and wanted to strip for dollars, you'd have asked me how much per hour." His eyes glint at me. "Don't you see; you want to do this?"
I'm still angry, and my brain is processing what he's saying. Of course I have my self-respect! I'm not a real stripper!
"And, I really need your help, love," he says. "I'll pay whatever you would make were you still stripping, but I need someone like you that the public will love."
I think for a long moment. This could have potential. And it might help me smooth out my story a bit more. I'm about to say yes until I realize that I have to ask Mike first.
I want to say yes. I want to see what this bad boy prince has to offer.
Instead, I write my number down on a napkin in my purse and hand it to him.
"Call me tomorrow," I say to him. "I'll have your answer."
Derrick smiles. I smile back slightly.
"And thank you, truly, for dinner," I say. "It tasted wonderful."
He looks at me like he wants to kiss me. Okay, if he does kiss me, I wouldn't mind, you know? Like, I'm not going to reach over, but just saying if he did, it wouldn't be the worst thing.
Instead, he asks me, "What do I call you till then, love?"
I'm a bit started and he smirks. "We can't keep calling you Misty. I know that’s not your real name.” Oh crap! He figured it out! I knew this wasn’t going to work!
“I’ve been around a lot of strippers to know Misty is your stage name, love,” he says with a wink. “What’s your real name?”
Just as fast as my heart sped up, it starts to come back down to normal. He doesn’t know I’m his Alicia Bayer. He doesn’t know anything about me.
I can be anyone I want to be.
I pause to think. A giant MAC truck from Daphne Furnishings drives by.
"My name is Daphne," I tell him. "You can call me Daphne."
"Daphne it is then, love," he says, smiling and showing me his gorgeous teeth. "Would you have a last name?"
