by Alexis Angel
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?"
"Yeah," I say, my mind scrambling. "Daphne Apple."
Daphne Apple?
Oh my God.
It only fazes him for a second.
"Okay, Daphne Apple," he says as he walks me to the line of waiting taxicabs. "I don't suppose you're coming home with me, so I'll just call you tomorrow."
I turn to him one last time and genuinely smile at him as I get into the cab. Even if he is a major asshole, I feel kind of bad for lying to him the way I am.
But that's my assignment. Dig until I find something juicy on the billionaire bad boy prince.
Even if it breaks my heart in the process.
Abby Adams: A Sinful Sweetheart?
I’m Abigail Adams, and here’s what Abby’s hearing...
Looks like New York City’s very own Prince Sin has found someone he can spend an entire evening with. Our spies tell us that the young lady – and she was young – met the Prince at the fabulous Per Se restaurant at the Time Warner Center. They had cocktails and proceeded to enjoy a 14 course tasting menu put together by Executive Chef Jolan Tru.
But all is not well in Camelot. Sources in the restaurant confirm for Abby that the Prince pulled out all the stops. He booked the entire restaurant, and left it empty. Meaning that he and his special love were the only ones there that night. But witnesses saw the pair get into an argument – we’re still trying to figure out about what. The last thing people saw was the lovely lady running out of the restaurant before the Prince caught up to her.
Was it a successful night for the billionaire playboy? Apparently not, because the lady in question was seen hailing a cab off Columbus Circle, while the Prince was picked up by his own car. Woe to us for not getting a picture of the duo – especially when it means that Prince Sin struck out…
And for you skeptics there that think the Prince may have hightailed it back to the lady’s apartment, Abby has full confirmation that he was in fact spotted in the Meatpacking District. We lost sight of him after that. Oh well, we’re sure our bad boy Prince of Sin is going to show up sooner rather than later. Until then, here’s a recap on our brooding hero.
The District Attorney is still weighing charges to be filed against our wayward Prince. Should he be indicted, we are now almost certain with our legal experts, that the Prince will lose his residency visa and be deported from the country.
The Press Secretary for St. Livy, Samantha Bayer, gave no comment to the Prince’s condition, only referring to the ongoing trade talks between the Kingdom of St. Livy and the US, stating that that was the overriding concern of the King at the moment.
One things for sure, if Derrick Blaine is kicked out of the country, there’s probably a legion of women prepared to follow Prince Sin and his gorgeous body and enormous appendage to wherever he settles next.
Stay with us for daily coverage on this breaking news situation. Until then, I’m Abby signing out. Keep your ears open, New York City…
Derrick
Fuck me. I’m going fucking mental thinking about Daphne.
But she’s not fucking here, is she?
Don’t fucking roll
you’re eyes at me. I know what you’re thinking. That I’m a fucking wanker and I don’t fucking deserve her.
But I know she’s so much more than a fucking stripper. I know she’s got so much potential.
I’m actually fucking glad she didn’t act like all the other fucking girls and try to jump on my enormous cock right away. I want this to be right. I want to deserve this woman. I want to be worthy of her.
Then why the fuck am I in my Bentley with my mates not two hours after she and I parted ways?
Fuck me. I can’t give you a reason. All I know is that I needed to go out. I needed to clear my fucking head. So I called them up. They’re always down for a night out. Sons of fucking Wall Street titans and Senators and the lot.
I look out the window of the Bentley as it's driving down the street, and see that the line to the fucking club goes nearly one fucking city block.
Jesus Christ, I think. This many people on a Friday night want to go to this spot. Are there that many lonely fucking people out in the world?
It's not like I want to come here. But it gets me out with my mates. It’s a chance to clear my head, like I said, remember? A way to unwind. A place to pick up the sluts so I don't have to do a lot of work to figure out who I'm going to fuck for the night.
That’s right. I’m going to clear my head the only fucking way I know. I’m going to drink and fuck it out.
After all – if that cunt DA presses charges and gets an indictment, this is all gone, isn’t it?
A part of me can’t say I blame the DA for fucking me up the ass like that.
I know I sound like a cocky, arrogant bastard, and I guess if you called me that, I'd look you in the face and tell you that you were absolutely right.
Then, if you were a bloke, I'd beat the shit out of you.
But guess what? Nothing would happen to me.
Because I'm the fucking prince. My father, no matter how much of a wanker he is, is still a head of fucking state. Which means I have something known as diplomatic immunity. There are certain crimes I can commit and there’s very little the police can do about it, because I’m a foreign dignitary.
It's good to be the son of the fucking King. But it’s made me into an asshole. I’m realizing this the more I think about Daphne.
"Stop the car, here," my mate Max instructs the driver.
"Oh come on, mate," I say out loud. "What's the fucking point of having a car drop you off if we're walking the whole fucking block to get to the club?"
Max hems and haws but I know the reason all the blokes are going on with this stupid plan.
It's so we can walk by and have our pick of the ladies.
If these boys were just any old boys, I'd be gone faster than a Thai hooker once she's got your money. But they're my best mates. If we were at war, they'd be having my backs. I'd be having theirs.
I sigh and go along with their plan.
We exit our black stretch-Bentley and the five of us immediately draw looks. People take out their phones to take pictures of us.
That's right. They're taking pictures of me.
My 6 foot plus frame.
The way my jeans are draped down my legs and, with my shirt untucked and unbuttoned, showing off a part of my chest.
I know I have a cut fucking body. The sluts just fucking love to run their hands along my chiseled abs and fucking ripped pecs. They love to run their tongue all over that shit. I don't stop them at all.
I know they're staring at me right now. The way my shirt is tightly wrapped around my ripped body, highlighting what needs to be highlighted. I know they can see the bulge in my pants. The 11 inches of thick cock that I have swinging between my legs. Ready to be unleashed at a moment's notice to fuck the stray female of the herd that crosses my sights.
I know they're staring at my jaw. My royal fucking jawline. With my dimples. My icy blue eyes. My tousled hair.
My mates are doing their best to be the peacock, strutting and swaggering their way up the line, making their way for the fucking door. But I know that of the lot, I’m the only royal alpha male.
"Boys, this looks ridiculous," I tell them. "I’m a fucking Prince – we can get in whenever the fuck we want. It's not a big deal that we're skipping the line. We don't have to make a big show of it. People are going to laugh at us."
I'm just looking out for them. I give fuck all if anyone laughs at me. I'll just screw their wife on their bed while they're laughing at me.
I walk through the doors and look at my mates behind me. The boys didn't listen and I realize that maybe I have it too easy - with my looks, my cash, my title. Because what I thought is ridiculous is actually working. They're picking up a girl or two each, talking and spitting game out at the various ladies that are waiting in line.
I shake my head to myself. These women are dressed as skanky as they can get. Trying to emulate the hookers and the porn stars that they think all the blokes are after. Trying to shuck themselves silly. At least onto me.
I wonder how many of the boys will actually make it into the club and how many will decide to just quit while they're ahead and take these girls home.
Night ending before it even begins.
So much for fucking friendship, huh? After I gave you that giant spiel a few minutes ago about how they have my back and I have theirs, I’m realizing that not all of them may even make it into the club. They just wanted to come with me for the celebrity I afforded them.
Fuck, why am I thinking like this all of a sudden?
I’m just going to enjoy tonight, and try not to fucking think about Daphne. And if at the end of the night I want to fuck, I'm sure there'll be plenty of options.
Not that there aren't already.
Remember how I told you that the plan was working for my mates? Getting out of the Bentley limo early and walking down the street to the club before the bouncer let us in? Well, if they were attracting one or two girls, I've attracted at least five.
A fucking gaggle.
They're cute - I won't deny that. But guess who’s in my head? Fucking right.
I need a drink.
Scotch whiskey for me. I order a bottle. $4,000. Only the top shelf liquor for me. And by top shelf, I mean a shelf high enough that only I can reach.
The girls coo with delight as I order, but all I think is how this means so little to Daphne. She doesn’t give two shits that I’m a fucking Prince.
I mean, I’m fucking global, mate. Heir to a First World European island nation, the financial hub of Western Europe.
My face is splashed across the TV screens, newspapers, and tabloids - looking down on at least 4 billion people.
But that wasn’t enough for Daphne tonight.
I sigh as the girls sit down in the VIP section. I lean back, seeing what they're going to say. Maybe one of these girls will have something smart going on in their heads. Something that distracts me from thinking of the curves on Daphne, or that beautiful smile of hers, or those soft, wide, innocent looking eyes.
"Well, well, well, ladies," I say, putting my arms back on the sofa. "Who may you be?"
"I'm Carrie," the blonde next to me on my right says with a smile.
"I'm Anna," next to her.
"I'm Anya," her friend says.
"I'm Dee," one on my left chimes.
"I'm Candy," the one next to her says. She doesn't hold back either. "I give good head."
Fuck me. Whatever happened to fucking small talk?
I had looked for a night out with my mates to distract myself from Daphne. But all they wanted was for me to get them into the club. And all these birds want now is to tell their friends that they’ve been with me.
Fuck, a little late to discover how fucking shallow this is, isn’t it?
This life isn’t working for me anymore. It isn’t getting thoughts I didn’t want to think of out of my head. I looked at the sluts and expected it would be easy to fuck the feelings out. But I can’t do it. I’m not feeling anything for them.
&
nbsp; I need to go.
"Listen, ladies," I say, clearly exasperated. "I'm having a bit of an early night tonight. Have to behave."
"Why?" Carrie asks.
"Don’t want to get in trouble with the law, love," I say, drawn into the hint of a conversation. “Besides, I can’t get the thought of another bird I met out of my head – I’m just not in the mood tonight, I guess.”
"Can I come home with you?" she asks.
And there it goes. Boom. Why would I take back home when I just fucking said I was hung up on another bird and not in the fucking mood? Even if there had been no Daphne, I wasn’t taking her home. Ever.
"No," I say, basically figuring a question like that only deserves a one-word answer.
"Can I?" Anya asks, her face lighting up.
What the fuck? She thinks because I didn't take her friend, she now has a better chance?
I sigh and take a large drink of my scotch.
I know what you're going to say to me, okay? Not every girl is like this. There's some with great personalities. I know what you're going to say. And a few days ago, I would have said that any girl that comes near me with whatever personality and brains is going to want to fuck me and is going to forget everything else.
But then I fucking met Daphne. She’s got more fucking class and sense in her fucking finger than all of these girls combined.
"Do you want to fuck me?" the girl called Anya asks me, batting her eyelashes.
At least Dee is a bit more reserved. She just brings her fist to her mouth and makes a blowjob motion, then smiles at me.
I sigh. Even if I did want to fuck, it wouldn’t do anything for what’s going on in my head. I’d just feel worse. Like I cheated on Daphne. I had come here to forget about her. It wasn’t working.
"Listen, ladies, I'm out," I say. "Help yourself to the booze."
They look at me with sad eyes, but I know, just like real birds, they'll forget about it in the next few moments.
At least I fucking hope so.
Welcome to my fucking fabulous life. Fuck me.
God, I can’t fucking wait to see Daphne again.
