Plaything at the Royal Wedding: An MFMM Royal Romance

by Lana Hartley

  His life should be picture perfect. It should be what I want. But I just can’t.

  I crave the endless adventure of the fast-paced city.

  It’s always awake, vibing high, just like me.

  I live hard and I live fast. There’s no place for me in suburbia.

  He loves to go to the Expose with me any fucking chance he gets.

  He’s been my friend since freshman year of college, and I fucking love him to death.

  “What’s up with you?” Victor asks.

  “A shit storm,” I chuckle.

  “What else is new?” Victor teases.

  “You won’t believe the fucking night I had last night,” I begin. “My chance of tapping Crystal and getting a front row seat to tasting that sweet pussy is becoming a dream once again.” I shake my head woefully.

  “What happened?” Victor’s voice is curious.

  “Crystal is going up in smoke, yet again untouchable,” I complain, still fucking pissed.

  “What the fuck did Owen Wolfe do now?” Victor cackles into the phone.

  He knows my personality well. He knows that I might get into trouble sometimes but ultimately I always end up at the top.

  “Well, it started with me fucking Lola in the third floor bathroom at the Expose,” I begin. “I accidentally shot some of my cum onto the health inspector’s shoe when he was in the stall beside us.” I shake my head with the irony of the situation, and in spite of the consequences I can’t help but grin.

  “Damn, dude,” Victor responds.

  “So, of course the fucking prick has to go and tattle about me to the board members. Jay tells me my Gold Card membership is suspended for now.”

  “So when will you get it back?” Victor asks.

  “I have yet to find that shit out myself, brother,” I admit.

  I’m distracted momentarily when the intern pops into the room, holding my coffee. I motion to the desk for her to place it down and wave her back out of the office.

  She’s pretty but timid and mousy and just not my type.

  “So, why didn’t you just pay off the health inspector to keep his mouth shut?” Victor laughs.

  “Wow…that’s a really fucking great idea,” I admit. “In retrospect, I probably should have done that,” I chuckle.

  Victor’s suggestion gives me an idea that’s full of fresh hope. “Hey, man, do you think you could go to my meetings for me in my place?”

  “What? How the hell am I supposed to do that?” Victor protests, but it’s not the first time he’s helped me either, much like with Melissa.

  “I have an idea,” I say. “I really need your help man. Don’t make me beg.”

  I hear Victor sigh. “Okay, Owen, but you owe me.”

  I laugh. “I owe you everything, forever,” I remind him.

  “True,” he chuckles.

  “Can you meet me at my apartment later tonight?”

  “I’ll be there,” Victor agrees, then we hang up.

  Victor rules his house with an iron fist, and as long as he keeps giving his greedy wife fat stacks and handfuls of cash to spend, she’s not going to complain if he comes home late every now and then.

  I need to fix this fucking mess I’m in—right the fuck now.

  Owen

  I walk into the Health Inspector’s office like I own the fucking place.

  I practically could if I wanted to.

  I can own any goddamn thing in this city.

  But this place is depressing, dark and dreary.

  The mini blinds on the windows are drawn, which gives the receptionist’s area a dingy and shadowy feel, ironic given that his fucking job is to tell people how to clean.

  A sound of a little bell chimes through the room when I close the door behind me, alerting the secretary at the front desk that there’s a customer walking in.

  “Good afternoon,” she says cheerily.

  Okay, this might be easier than I think. I paint on my most charming and charismatic smile as I approach the woman.

  She’s a little on the heavier side and has the best-looking set of birthing hips ever. She’s wearing a burgundy infinity scarf even though it’s fucking summer outside. She has blonde hair that’s pulled back in a bun with a set of bangs that frame her pretty face.

  “Hi there,” I say, flashing my million dollar smile.

  I run a hand through my full, dark thick hair for effect and wink at her.

  I notice she has a half-eaten donut lying on a napkin beside her keyboard.

  “Having a little afternoon snack?” I point to the donut.

  She giggles. “You know, just a pick-me up of sorts to get me through the rest of the afternoon.”

  “I hear you on that one,” I say, trying to be relatable even though I don’t eat fucking junk food.

  Have you seen my muscular body? I pride myself on having almost no body fat.

  She continues to chuckle. “Can I help you with something?”

  “I’m sure you can.” I wink at her.

  She blushes and places a hand over her mouth.

  “I’m looking for Leonard French.” I ask for the Health Inspector who’s ruining my fucking life one minute at a time.

  The woman gives me a slight nod and then looks at her computer screen. “He’s actually not in a meeting right now,” she says.

  “Wonderful,” I exclaim and open my arms. “Perfect timing, eh?”

  The woman looks sincerely apologetic and perhaps even a little sheepish. “Unfortunately, Mr. French doesn’t normally allow for impromptu meetings.” She looks up at me and offers another solution. “If you’d like, I can try to squeeze you in tomorrow.”

  I lean against the side of her desk. “Hmm,” I whisper. “I don’t think tomorrow will work. You see, I’m having sort of a health inspection emergency…” I trail off, hoping that my sweet talk and feigned desperation will help me here.

  “Well…I…uh…” The woman looks between me and the computer, clearly feeling backed up into a corner of indecision about whether to send me away or allow me to talk to Inspector French.

  “It’s really fine,” I continue, piling on the charm to try to convince her. “We’ve actually met before, last night even. He might be expecting me, to be honest.”

  Okay, so I know he’s not expecting me to barge right into his office, but the other part of my little white lie has some truth to it. I did actually meet him last night.

  The woman looks truly torn, but I egg her on further. “Come on, I’m having a really shit day,” I tell her, laying it on thick. “You would be my hero if you let me go talk to him. And by the way, I love your scarf.” I point to her neck.

  She blushes again, and I can tell she’s soaking in all the compliments I’m pouring her way. And she’s probably soaking her fucking panties too. This sad woman probably goes home alone to eat her feelings every night. If I can help her feel better about herself for five fucking minutes, then just call me the good Samaritan of the day.

  “Okay,” she finally caves. “You can go back there on the one condition—that you tell him I protested,” she says.

  “Trust me, that won’t be a problem,” I say to her and give her another wink.

  She takes a deep breath as if she’s excited just to be talking to a guy as hot as myself. “If you go through that set of double doors, go all the way to the end of the hallway and turn left. His office is the first one on the left.”

  She points in the direction she’s instructing me to go.

  I nod. “Thank you so much, darling.” I blow her a kiss before walking away.

  A few seconds later, I burst into the inspector’s office, not giving two shits what he’s fucking doing in there. As soon as he sees me, he jumps up from his computer and peers towards the door as if he’s expecting a fucking bodyguard to come and rescue him.

  Not in this dingy office.

  He’s lucky I don’t buy the place and have him fired.

  He has a black eye from where I punched him.
Good for him. That should teach him a lesson not to mess with the master.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he asks as he takes a few defensive steps backwards.

  “I’m here to bring Christmas a little early this year,” I say and pull out my checkbook.

  “What is this?” He points to it as I scrawl out an amount on its surface.

  “Consider it a peace offering.” I grin at him as I tear the check from the book.

  I toss it to him and he looks at it, his eyes growing wider by the second.

  “Twenty-thousand dollars? What the hell is this for?” He waves the check in the air but then quickly looks out the office door as if he’s paranoid someone will walk in.

  “I need my Gold Membership reinstated at Expose,” I say matter-of-factly.

  “I can’t help you.” He immediately shakes his head and tries to hand the check back to me, but I refuse.

  “I think you’re mistaken,” I say and shove the money on paper back to him. “This is a non-optional negotiation here.”

  I picture the hot as fuck stripper Crystal in my mind, and she’s the fuel I need to make sure this guy agrees to my plan. In my mind, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get my suspension from the club lifted and removed from my record.

  Not many have authority over my life but this guy oddly does, that is until I fix the problem.

  To my surprise, the inspector starts laughing.

  “Is there something fucking funny?” I give him a sinister look.

  French scratches his head with his long, lanky fingers. “Yeah, actually there is. Your money isn’t necessary, especially not from the asshole that came on my shoe. I own you now.”

  His words incense me and cause my anger to flare.

  He doesn’t know just how dangerous I am.

  He should know by the fact that my suit costs more than he’ll make in a year.

  I shift my weight and square my jaw. “Do you have a point to your bullshit babbling?” I snarl.

  “Beyond that, if you think I’m the one in charge of suspensions, you’re sorely mistaken.” French shakes his head. “It’s my job to simply inform the board that the club will be failing the inspection, and I have to give them an honest reason why.”

  “You’re gonna need to fix this situation and fast before I fuck your life up,” I warn him.

  “I’m just doing my job, man.” The guy raises his hands defensively. “Whatever happens after that is beyond my control.”

  “Just go back to the board and tell them you changed your mind or something,” I toss out, finding any excuse that comes to mind.

  “Sorry, no can do,” the jerk says, and continues to shake his head. “The board already tried to pay me off to pass the inspection. I guess they beat you to the punch,” he adds with a flare of smugness.

  “So, are you telling me you’re fucking useless?” I raise my voice in irritation.

  “I’m saying that it looks like your suspension is your punishment.” He raises his eyebrows at me.

  I want to punch him in his goddamn face again and even out his black eyes for symmetry, but I hold back because I know it’ll get me fucking nowhere.

  This weasel isn’t going to do shit to help me.

  French’s expression softens, but only slightly. “If you want to have your suspension reversed, then you’ll have to go back to the club and take it up with them. Only the owners have the power to change that decision.”

  “Thanks for nothing,” I murmur, and stalk out of the office.

  Great. Just fucking great.

  Well, I guess I need to place Plan B into motion—if only I fucking knew what Plan B was.

  Molly

  The alarm rings in my ears and I don’t groan or fight getting out of bed.

  I’m an overachiever to say the least.

  Getting up early is on par with achieving success so I don’t mind one bit.

  I put one foot and then the other into my new Chanel slides. Once I’m up, there’s no point in getting back under those cashmere blankets—that’s the mentality I live out each and every day.

  I’m Molly Quinn, and if you know anything about me, it’s that I’m a successful woman, independent and not afraid to shine. I’m competitive and fearless, making my way to the top. I stop for no one, and I put every ounce of blood, sweat, and tears into everything I do.

  There’s no point in doing anything halfway, I tell myself.

  Climb higher. Reach farther. Beat them all at their own game.

  It’s dark as I hit the button on my cell phone to silence the alarm. I yawn, stretch, and pad along my thick, plush rug.

  I live a life of luxury and am proud of it.

  I work hard every day and I play hard too.

  The bathroom light comes on slowly and creates a warm glow in my bedroom. The point is to adjust my eyes to the light before walking out to the kitchen where the harsh light will assault my senses.

  I get dressed in my workout gear and head to my kitchen where I start a pot of coffee that I’ll drink after I have my workout.

  In my living room, the treadmill sits proudly in front of wall-to-wall panoramic window views of midtown Manhattan.

  I pump the music and start to run.

  And I run hard.

  And I don’t stop—until I reach that five-mile mark.

  I do the same thing every day, six days a week.

  Because what is life when you can’t move and stretch and push your body?

  I enjoy pushing myself to the max in all things.

  In a word, I am unstoppable.

  You probably think I’m crazy for getting up before dawn just to ‘fake’ run on the treadmill. You might ask why I don’t just jog the city streets.

  Well, I feel more comfortable in my own house, collecting sweat while I do something enjoyable like listening to Rihanna’s latest album. Running on my treadmill, overlooking the breathtaking view, is how a tightly wound and success-driven woman such as me gets her relaxing time in for the day.

  I am living my dream each and every moment.

  I run hard, beating yesterday’s time.

  I look around at my immaculate apartment. It’s chic and modern and simple—all whites and greys and blacks.

  The best furniture glamorizes my place. I didn’t spare a dime because I deserve the best in all ways. White tufted couches and faux fur rugs, low-level lighting and huge pieces of abstract black and white art make the place feel one-of-a-kind.

  I can’t fucking stand for anything to be out of place. Not even a speck of dust or a single crumb is allowed to live on my floor.

  My maid comes in once a week and I swear I’d be lost without her.

  The only things on my Cararra marble countertops are my coffee pot and $5000 espresso machine, because let’s be honest, I live for coffee—gourmet, imported from Italy.

  I’m what the male species refers to as ‘beauty and brains.’ I’m the hot nerdy chick, if you want to call it that. What an oxymoron right?

  But yes, that’s totally me in a nutshell.

  I’m also the only daughter of business tycoon Richard Quinn, owner of Quinn Industries. What does this enterprise do, you ask?

  Well, let’s just say my father runs the ‘special entertainment’ clubs of Manhattan. His company is in charge of hiring, firing, and the overall general management of the talent for the most popular strip clubs in the city.

  He’s a rich bastard, but I have to fucking love him because he’s my dad.

  That doesn’t mean I have to actually like him, though, right?

  My dad and I have a lot of the same qualities, which might be part of the reason why we butt heads so often. I consider myself to be a strong business-minded woman, much like my father thinks of himself, only from the male perspective.

  There’s just one tiny glitch in this system that keeps it from operating smoothly, and it has a name. Or should I say, he has a name.

  Yep, I’m not an only child.

  My o
lder brother Harry Quinn is my biggest competition. Not the other women out there trying to make a name for themselves in the business world of New York City. Nope, it’s my very own fucking older brother.

  Harry and I are opposites in every way, even when it comes to our physical features. Harry has dark red hair, almost an auburn color, and it’s wavy. I have straight-as-a-board, long blonde hair.

  Harry likes to remind me that if I’d stop being such an “uptight bitch with a stick up my ass” all the time, then maybe my father would give me the time of day and take me seriously.

  Yes, that is a direct quote from Harry fucking Quinn himself. I know I’m tense; it doesn’t take a fucking rocket scientist to figure that out.

  I’ll always be second when it comes to the beloved golden child Harry. He could half of what I do and my father would praise him for doing it best. That’s just the way the fucking cookie crumbles in the Quinn family.

  Meanwhile, my fancy mother just sits in the background, filing her nails, and judging everything that moves or breathes.

  We aren’t exactly the token family, and Dysfunctional should probably be our last name instead of Quinn, but take them or leave them, I know that they’re my only ticket to victory.

  I jump off the treadmill, sweaty and with my heart pounding. I went extra fast today, thinking about how angry my brother and father make me.

  It’s just a fucking frustrating situation to be in, especially when all I want to do in life is make a name for myself and succeed.

  I head back to my gorgeous en suite and draw myself a hot bath. Yes, I’m a weirdo and prefer baths after my workouts as opposed to showers.

  There’s something about lying in the water that makes my muscles relax, and I don’t feel as sore afterwards. Take notes, folks…I may be on to the top-secret workout tips of the world, you just never know.

  As I lie there, submerging my tightly sculpted and tanned body in the water, I think about how hard it is to be a woman in this society.

  I have to work twice as hard for the same results.

  I don’t just want to break the glass ceiling, I want to fucking shatter that motherfucker. Like with a sledgehammer, while all the glass rains down on all the men who tell women they can’t amount to anything.