Page 28 of Her Royal Daddy
“If you do a good job and give me the kind of stuff I can actually use, then we’ll see.”
Oh, she was mean. Still, in the state I was in, I wasn’t prepared to ignore a solid maybe.
Pulling myself into a sitting position, I slapped a couple of pillows up against the headboard and made myself comfortable while she went to grab her notebook, pen, and voice recorder.
“I grew up in Harlem,” I began, folding my hands behind my head, crossing my ankles, and doing my best to keep my tone neutral, despite the parts that still bothered me. “My mom worked as a cook and housekeeper for a wealthy family, so I spent a lot of time on the Upper East Side. I was a solid B student, except when it came to math. Algebra, calculus, economics, you name it. I’m good with numbers. I did well on my SATs. At sixteen I got a job as an assistant youth coach at the same gym where I’d played basketball after school. I held that job through high school and saved enough money to pay for my first year at NYU. I was working towards my bachelor’s in economics, and would have gone for my master’s, when my mom got sick. Azid got me a job stripping at the club so I could help with her treatments, but I couldn’t go to school, work, and take care of her all at the same time, so I quit school. What the hell, right? I figured I could go back later, when everything back to normal. Mom’s prognosis was good. The treatments were aggressive and expensive, but they seemed to be working. Right up until she contracted sepsis, an infection that hit harder because of her weakened immune system. Her body shut down rapidly and with no warning. The next thing I knew, I had her home, her mountain of debts, and her funeral to pay for. I... didn’t cope well, but at least I had the club. The money was good, and Ezra runs a tight ship, which helped me get my act together. To be perfectly honest, I know it doesn’t come off all that great on a resume, but that job is probably what saved my life. I don’t know where I would have ended up if Azid and Ezra hadn’t stepped in when they did.”
Norah was nodding, scribbling furiously as she listened. “This is good, Mazi, I can work with this, for sure. It’s a perfect counter to the stripper angle they are pushing.”
“Good enough that we can be done now?” I asked hopefully. I really hated talking about myself, especially about the things that happened during that time in my life.
“Almost,” she promised, not even looking up from the notes she was taking.
I sighed, pushing myself off the bed. Stalking into the kitchen, I made us both some coffee. A stripper had to be able to read the room, and I was definitely reading this one. My girl was engrossed in creating her story. Sadly, nookie was going to have to take a backseat to making my father happy.
We were going to be here awhile. Even more sadly, it wasn’t going to be done with her mouth on my cock.
Chapter Ten
Mazi
My father loved Norah’s story, and the fact that he did made my girl extraordinarily happy. She’d worked hard on it, and I was proud of her achievement on her behalf. The mainstream press, however, was unaffected by the truth. They couldn’t care less about a human-interest, feel-good story in which I struggled to deal with the hardships I’d been dealt. They weren’t interested in the fact that stripping had actually been my redemption or that I’d done it to get on top of the bills my mother’s death had left behind. They didn’t even take note of the fact that my past field of study was economics, something that more than qualified me to tackle the leadership of a country struggling for economic stimulation and growth.
No, my scandal lived on, the flames of it perpetually fed by a two-minute Google search and a brand-new moniker: Mazi of Osei, King of the Strippers. The title didn’t bother me, not really. I thought it was funny actually, but it bothered the hell out of my father and he did his best to run damage control from his sick bed. And that meant that, in addition to learning about the culture and history of my new island home and spending quality time with my dying father, I now also had to make time for publicity appearances. Apparently, it was important that I show people I was more than King Ona-Mazi’s bastard son, who took his clothes off for money.
Every day I did something in the public eye. I visited the hospital, the local library, and the school. I read to the young and elderly alike, visited small businesses, and got to know the local farmers and ranchers. I even visited the local animal shelter. I almost inspired an adoption, my own. It was a damn cute dog, but Jax refused to allow it in the palace.
The only upside to the outings was that as the official reporter for the kingdom, my girl was required to go with me. These days, it was the only time I could get any time alone with her.
And then my father started acting funny. They say dementia can sometimes set in when a person is close to death, but that didn’t feel like what was happening. The king’s mind seemed sound. Every morning we met for breakfast, and he’d give me an impromptu history lesson, teaching me all about the island. Every day at lunch, we hammered through the list of duties and responsibilities I would have as king, and bounced around ideas for how we’d save the country he loved so much. At dinner, he would talk about his childhood, his parents, and sometimes, my mother. His stories were always perfect, with just the right mix of nostalgia and humor. I was enjoying spending time with him, something I honestly hadn’t thought would be possible when first I’d arrived here. I always left his presence with a smile on my face.
And then he decided to throw a ball. The last of his life, he’d said, and how could anyone refuse him when he phrased it like that. His idea from start to finish, he swore it was something he wanted more than anything, and yet from the moment it was scheduled, every time the subject was brought up, he started to act a little off.
For instance, over lunch after spending almost an hour going over ballroom etiquette and royal customs dating back more than two centuries, I asked him to send a dressmaker to Norah’s room so that she would have something to wear. He stared at me like he couldn’t remember who Norah was or figure out why she would need a dress. A silent shadow just beyond my father’s chair, Jax averted his gaze altogether.
Two days later, the very day before the ball was scheduled to take place, I stood at the foot of my father’s bed in front of the royal tailor getting final adjustments made on my very first formal suit. When he was done and about to leave, I asked again, “What about Norah? She hasn’t said anything about a dress. When is she going to get fitted?”
