I wait for a response, but he merely stands there like a statue in a tux, giving me nothing.
I reach into my purse and pull out a CD, a USB power stick, and a cassette tape. “I was hoping you could listen to this demo my sisters put together. They’re talented. Like, exceptionally so, especially for their age. But the thing is, my father signed them to a 12-album contract right before he died and it’s beyond horrible. It says they can only record with Majesty Records until they deliver those albums, which is something they’ve been more than willing to do for years now. But three years later, with the girls about to graduate from high school this spring, Majesty’s A&R department has yet to return any of my calls or emails about recording their first album.”
I allow myself a moment of irritation before saying, “It’s obvious they don’t want to work with the girls, but the way the contract’s written, Majesty Records would either have to cancel their contract, or we’d have to make the albums on our own, which we don’t have the funds to do. And even if we did, I wouldn’t want the twins to put that kind of effort into twelve albums—especially since their contracted royalty rate is so low that the record company would reap the majority of the profits on whatever they make. Since Majesty Records is refusing to play ball, I’m asking you to let the twins out of their egregious contract, so they can sign with another label or go indie if they prefer.”
I hold the three versions of the demo out to him, careful to keep both my eyes and head lowered as I do so. “And if you listen to this demo of covers they put together, you’ll see what a crime it is to let a contract they never should have been allowed to sign at the age of 15 silence their voices.”
I expel a breath. It feels like I’ve been talking forever. And when I risk a small glance up, I see that Zahir’s expression still hasn’t changed which leaves me to wonder if he’s even been listening while I explained the truly horrible position my father put my sisters in before up and dying. But then Zahir gestures to one of the guards and points to me.
Apparently, this translates to, “Take the CD, USB stick, and old-school cassette from her,” because that’s what the guard steps forward to do.
However, before I can thank him for agreeing to give the twins’ demo a listen, he asks, “Why do you think Majesty Records isn’t returning your calls?”
I still, because I don’t “think” the reason. I know the reason.
And so does Zahir, apparently. “I believe it is because your father embezzled so much money from his own company, the label would have gone under after his death if not for my brother’s ill-considered buy out of his shares.”
Funny, I remember every word of our previous conversation in Holt’s penthouse eleven years ago, but I’d forgotten how precise his English is. Like direct hits wrapped in a posh accent and disguised as conversation.
I falter under his hard assessment, but eventually I come back with, “Yes, my father embezzled money from Majesty Records. Not the twins. They’re victims of his crime same as all the other artists he hurt, and they shouldn’t be punished for what my father did.”
I try to keep my head and eyes down as I say this, I do. But my basic nature gets the better of me and I meet his gaze, too firm in my convictions to remain deferential.
He stares back at me for a cold second, then takes a step forward. It’s one step, but it eats up the space between us, bringing him as close as he can get without actually touching me.
Then he dips his head down so I can feel his hot breath on the side of my cheek as his quiet words hit my ear. “Eleven years ago, I specifically told you to stay away from my brother. Did you do as I instructed?”
A thousand protests spring to mind, but in the end, I lower my eyes and admit, “No.”
“No,” he repeats, “You did not. In fact, instead of staying away from him, you drew him deeper into your world. Instead of serving his family, he served yours. Instead of learning business, he learned to make inane pop records that did not advance our family in any way.”
I clamp my lips, remembering how Asir tentatively sat on my bed the weekend after Holt’s party. How hopeful he’d looked as he played me the CD of beats he’d secretly made alone in his dorm room, even though he’d known his family would disapprove of his newfound passion. How his face had lit up when I brought out my notebook of lyrics and shyly told him I could help him put together a song…if he wanted. For a while all his dreams had come true. Because of me.
But using his family’s money to buy my father’s record label was the last thing Asir ever did as far as his career in music was concerned. When everything came to light after my father’s death, his father gave him an ultimatum: finish college and go to B-school or be disinherited. With no money to continue on with his passion, Asir had re-enrolled at Manhattan University, just like his family wanted. Zahir was still angry at me, but in the end, he and his close-minded family had won, hadn’t they?
And though Asir had been gracious about everything, insisting to me that it wasn’t my fault, I will never stop feeling guilty about how many lives my father ruined, including his. Asir was so talented…anyone with half a heart or brain would have done what I did—
Once more, I forcefully cut my thoughts off. Reminding myself that I must play this right, remain docile even if every word out of Zahir’s mouth feels like a slap.
Keeping my eyes down, I say, “Asir…he was talented. I thought he deserved to live his dream and I was only trying to help him do that. Just like I’m trying to help the twins live their dream. I am deeply sorry for everything my father did, including not paying you back, but please don’t punish the twins because you lost money on Asir’s investment.”
Zahir chuckles, but the sound holds no mirth. “Do you think this is about money, Prin Jones? As far as our empire is concerned, that little music label is a mere drop in a bucket. If I wanted to, I could sign our stake in Majesty Records over to you and it wouldn’t feel like a loss.”
I blink, unable to fathom that the multi-million dollar record label my father spent nearly his entire life building from the ground up was just a drop in the bucket of the thirty-two-year-old standing in front of me.
“But I won’t sign it over to you for the same reason the record label will not return your calls…” Zahir continues “…because it is you making the request. You claim you only wanted to help Asir, who is of no blood relation to you and your half-sisters. But now your sisters’ creative futures are in the hands of a man who you told to, how did you so eloquently put it? Oh yes, to ‘go fuck myself,’ just like I tried to fuck you against the door.”
My eyes come up in surprise that he still recalls my words. And as if reading my mind, he says, “Yes, I remember your words, Prin Jones. Which means in this particular situation, your request for help has only made it so Asir and your half-sisters now have absolutely no chance of getting what they want.”
His expression finally changes, a cruel smile surfacing as he says, “It would seem you have more in common with your father than you think. You’re very good at ruining the lives of those you supposedly want to help.”
Wow, and I thought my real talk to Luca had been a direct hit. I’ve got nothing on Zahir. My entire body tightens with the validity of his words, like I’ve just taken a truth bullet straight to the gut.
Nonetheless, I push me eyes down and quietly plead, “Please don’t punish them because you’re mad at me. They don’t deserve that.”
He is so silent and still that for moments on end it feels like I am taking part in the most intense mannequin challenge ever.
But then his hand once again comes up and this time, he points it in the direction of the guard who took the CD, cassette tape, and USB stick from me. “Watch…” he says, the single word slicing across the air like a razor.
I turn in the direction he’s indicating, and my eyes widen when the guard holds the items he took from me over the balcony. “No, don’t—” I start to say.
But too late. They drop from
the guard’s hand and in the next moment, they’re gone like so much trash.
I stare at the guard’s empty hand, feeling like he’s dropped my sisters off the side of that balcony.
“Da fuck!?!” I explode, coming out of my deferential stoop to straight cuss him out. “You spoiled-ass motherfucker! Who the hell do you think you are?!”
Apparently, language is taken very seriously here, because the two guards take a step forward with their hands inside their suit jacket, like they’re ready to light me up for daring to talk to their king this way.
But Zahir’s hand goes up, stopping them in place even as a smirk raises one side of his mouth. “Who am I? I’m Zahir al-Jahwari, sheikh of the original Jahwari tribe, king of this land. And despite your efforts to appear reformed, you remain the hot-headed girl who flipped me off within moments of making my acquaintance. I see now that my instincts about your true character were correct.”
That said, he turns to leave, dismissing me with little more than a contemptuous smirk.
Years later, I will still be trying to figure out exactly what happened next.
One second, I am watching him turn away. And the next, I grab his arm.
Zahir rounds on me, his arm stiffening as if in anticipation of my punch. But I don’t punch him. No, I…
I wrap my other hand around his neck, pull him down, and press my lips hard into his.
I can’t tell you exactly why I did it. But with two armed guards standing by, the kiss felt like my only alternative to letting him completely humiliate me. A way to channel my rage and frustration and get justice all at once…a least for a moment or two.
But then I feel it against my stomach. Long and thick and insanely hard.
My eyes widen, and I let him go. Not understanding. Because his dick hasn’t swelled up against my stomach…it is hard at first touch, as if it had been that way coming in—maybe even during our entire conversation…
We stare at each other, the implications of what I just felt beating like a primal drum between us.
Chapter Four
The sound of Arabic breaks the trance. I turn to see the formerly stunned guards coming forward as if they’re reconsidering their earlier order not to pull a gun on me. Okay, well, let’s not give them time to make that call, I decide, turning on my heels and dashing back inside.
Thanking every deity ever, I find the twins on the dance floor with Wes and Ender, taking a well-deserved break as the DJ who has taken their place on stage spins “Watch Me Whip.”
“Hey, Auntie Prin,” Ender calls out with his still-thick Jamaican accent when he sees me. “Come nae nae with us, mon!”
“Hey,” I say quickly, dropping a kiss on Ender’s head. I also pulls Wes in for a top of the head peck because I consider him a part of my extended family now that his dad has married Sylvie.
But I can see Zahir having what appears to be a vehement conversation on the balcony with his guards. So instead of dancing, I tell the twins, “C’mon, we’re going back to your room to get your bags…”
Four hours and a shit-ton of teenage grumbling later, we’re waiting at the crowded Kingdom Air gate for the last direct flight out of Jahwar to New York.
“I still don’t understand why we had to leave the wedding and get here, like, a thousand hours early,” Kasha complains again, shifting uncomfortably in the seats we’ve been camped out in for over two hours.
“She probably just wanted to make sure we got here on time,” Sasha answers in my defense. “But even I think we left the party way too early. I mean, we still had another set planned.”
“I know,” I answer. “But my job is on my ass and you’re right, I want to make sure we get out of here on time.”
For more reasons than one…I silently add to myself.
“Wait until everyone at Hugs n’ Cuddles finds out I stayed in a real-life castle,” Kasha says to Sasha, deciding to abandon the aggrieved teen act and return to her usual bubbly self. “Take that, bouncy castle!”
“It’s a palace, not a castle,” corrects Sasha, who also likes kids, but unlike her high-spirited sister, opted to tutor during her after-school hours rather than work at an indoor playground.
“What’s the difference?” Kasha asks defensively. “I mean they both have a king living there, right?”
That question sends the twins down a research rabbit hole with phones whipped out like swords. It turns out Sasha’s right, it is a palace—technically a collection of palaces, of which Zahir’s is the largest. And many of his royal relatives, including Asir, have a mini-palace on the grounds.
“Look, all these sheikhs are like, fine 300, no unibrow,” Kasha says, scrolling through pics of the royal family. She turns the phone to show me a particularly tall and handsome bearded guy in a black-and-white patterned headdress. “See, if you’d let us stay longer, we might have literally met our prince,” she whines.
Yes, I ruined their chances to hook up with a prince. Just like I’d ruined their chance to get out of their draconian contract with Majesty Records.
I close the bar exam book I’ve been pretending to study from for two hours and turn to face them with a heavy heart. Zahir was an asshole on that balcony for sure, but he had one thing right… the twins choosing me as their representative was probably the reason they weren’t getting anywhere with Majesty Records.
“When we get home, we should talk about you getting real representation…” I tell them.
“What?” Kasha asks, face aghast as if I’ve announced that I’m kicking them out of our run-down mansion.
“No,” Sasha says at the same time, her voice clipped and final. “The music industry is cut throat, and you’re the only one who will look out for us. We already talked about this when you tried to drop out of law school…”
Don’t I know it. The only reason I bothered to finish my law degree after Dad died was because I knew the twins would need someone in their corner with their best interest at heart. But… “I don’t think me being your manager is doing you any favors.”
“No, you’re the best,” Kasha insists. “You take care of us, and schedule all our shows, and make sure there’s always hot cocoa in the house even when the bills are tight...”
“And we’re not going with anybody else,” Sasha adds, cutting off her sister’s list.
“You’re both so sweet. Seriously, I don’t know what I did to get such great little sisters.”
“Stuck around after the double funeral,” Sasha answered in the trademark tone that made it hard for most people outside our family to tell when she’s joking.
For the record, she is joking. We all know there was never any question of me bouncing out on them after their mom died. But I couldn’t let her derail a very serious conversation. “Look, guys, I’ve got to overrule you and resign as your manager. I did something today. Something that’s likely to get me full-on blacklisted at Majesty Records—not just regular old ignored.”
“Stop,” Sasha says, her face falling as her eyes bug out.
“No, just let me explain to you why I can’t be your manager anymore—”
“No, Prin, seriously, stop and look!” Sasha says again, cutting me off and pointing behind me.
I turn to look over my shoulder at the gate’s widescreen television. And my eyes widen when I see what’s happening behind a ticker tape of stock prices and a bunch of scrolling Arabic.
“Is that…is that you?” Kasha asks behind me.
I would have liked to say no. As broke as I am, I would have paid serious money to say no. But there’s no denying what we’re looking at…
A video of me talking to Zahir on the palace balcony. Someone captured the moment from a distant camera phone, and it doesn’t look remotely like what it really is. We were arguing…with him saying the most vicious things to me. But from the phone camera’s POV and without any audio, it looks like Zahir is talking to me intimately with his head leaned in close to mine…right before I pull him into my arms for what looks li
ke a short but very passionate kiss.
For a moment, all sound disappears and all I can do is watch the video of us shrink as two official news commentators talk about the clip with dead serious faces. I don’t realize I’m not breathing until the program goes to commercial and a huge explosion of air leaves my body.
“What the hell was that?” Sasha says, coming to stand beside me.
“That was you, right?” Kasha asks on my other side, her voice breathless with delighted surprise. “That was definitely you! Kissing Sheikh Zahir!”
“Um…”
The answer gets stuck in my throat as I watch first one passenger, sitting in the rows beyond ours, then several more, turn to look at me. An excited murmur soon breaks out with a few of the waiting passengers even pointing at me.
“Excuse me, ma’am…”
A man in a ten-gallon cowboy hat approaches me. I recognize him as the one Zahir was talking to at the wedding. “You’re Princess Jones, right? My wife thought she recognized you at Holt Calson’s crazy wedding! She used to love that reality show of your daddy’s. And that was you there on the news, right?”
The only answer I can come up with is, “Most people call me Prin.”
“Alright, Prin it is. I’m Buck. And my wife, Jolene, is off powdering her nose. Do you mind waiting for her to get back here? I know she’ll be wanting to get a picture with you.”
“Um…” I say again. Not because I’m one of those D-listers who denies picture requests, but because I can now see a bunch of airport security guards headed toward me. And behind them, three men dressed in tailored black suits.
ZAHIR_Her Ruthless Sheikh Page 4
