Page 13 of Prince Charmless
Steven knows royalty equals ratings, a fabulous predicament I like to think about when having a bad day. He’s terrible at hiding his, for lack of a better word, distaste towards the monarchy. Ironically, I couldn’t care less. I’m not blind to the fact that there hasn’t been a need for a royal family since feudalism ended. That said, I don’t appreciate the disrespect. And I have had a job. Well, maybe it was more of an unpaid internship. I worked at the embassy in Washington D.C. in between semesters at university.
“You should have seen it coming,” Steven says. “That picture was out for at least twenty minutes.” Sometimes, I forget how fast journalists work. I should hire more PR. “Don’t worry, no tricks after the break,” he promises while exhaling white vapor. He casually offers me the pen. I put my hand up in rejection. Our relationship truly confuses me.
Thankfully, Steven was honest. There were no tricks after the break, just more trivial conversations to remind me I could be doing something better with my time. When the camera turns off, I snake the lapel mic out of my shirt and hand it to the first person I walk past. Finally, I spot Alex in the back of the studio. He must’ve been hiding from me during the break.
I take a breath to rid my speech of expletives. “Why did I just find out about that picture live on air?”
“Sorry,” he says, baring his teeth. “I found out like you did. Looks like it was first posted by a royal gossip Twitter account. I’m not sure how they got the photo.”
Alex Lam is my private secretary, but I feel like that title isn’t all-encompassing enough. He’s more my right-hand man, life organizer, and taker of my bullshit for the last four years. In a week, he and his competency are leaving for Vietnam to do something family-related, a fact he reminds me of every day to make sure I won’t forget. I’ll survive, but it pains me to know I’m not the most important person in his life.
“The press hasn’t found her, have they?”
“Why?” he asks. “Is she someone prominent?”
“Why would that matter? I don’t want people harassing her.”
“No, I don’t think they have.”
Good. The last thing I want is anybody bothering Melina because I asked her to dance with me. My most insignificant actions never fail to domino effect into something huge and stupid.
On our drive to the palace, I assess the damage. Social media is the worst. We should’ve put a stop to it at Gutenberg’s printing press. Some of the more disreputable news sites have written full reports on this singular photo. I never entertain articles like these because they’re always filled with nonsense. Now that I’m thirty, people who like to speculate about my love life have been itching for me to get married, so it makes sense they would gocrazy over a picture like this. I wince at the shocking number of likes on a comment probably made by a woman-hater who has nothing better to do than masturbate and debase a woman way out of his league. She could be reading this crap, and it’s my fault. I hope she doesn’t do anything dumb, like come forward.
Or maybe I should make sure of it.
Julien messages me back the second after I send my text, unusually quicker than normal.
Julien:above a place called maple dry cleaners I think
Julien:on the west side why
Julien:???
5
Melina
Popcorn hops up on my keyboard and spamsllplp;;;l;l;llllinto my code.
“I don’t think that’s going to work,” I say, deleting the nonsense and setting my cat back down on the floor. I watch her jump up on my windowsill to chew on my curtain strings. She’s a menace.
The last thing I need right now is interruptions. I knew I’d be hungover today, yet I still left work for me to do on a Sunday. Procrastination is an evil game, so I’m determined to stay focused this morning.
Being a freelance web developer hasn’t been the worst job in the world, except for when I was operating on that pure I-have-to-be-able-to-pay-my-rent adrenaline right after I quit my office job. That was the worst. Now, I’m financially comfortable enough to take two or three days off a week and be a lot more selective in the contracts that come my way. Being my own boss is a pain in my ass, however. I have to be my own head of sales, accountant, and coffee girl. Though it feels like I’m always hustling, working from home has some perks. Like the part about how I get to work...but at home. I like my home. It has a thermostat I get to control, bagels with cream cheese, Popcorn (both noun and proper). The dark brick walls render it a little manly, but I’ve filled the place with colorful rugs, soft lighting, and plants. My brother tells me he’s jealous of my situation, but I’m more jealous of him. Mateo is a tattoo artist and painter who gets to be creative and work with his passion all day. Not thatdebugging isn’t what I signed up for, but it’s definitely not my passion.
The triple knock on my door has me jumping out of my chair. Part of the ancient locking mechanism on my street door fell off, and I have yet to call the guy. My own door upstairs has a working lock, so I haven’t been worried about it. Though whichever Jehovah’s Witness is here could’ve buzzed.
I freeze as soon as I open the door. Of all places, Prince Taylor is standing outsidemyapartment. Nope, not here to tell me about my Lord and Savior. There must be some rule about offending royalty, and he’s come here to behead me.
“Do you have a makeup wipe?” he asks.
That’s a weird way to say hello. I squint at his face. Heiswearing makeup. Not that guys aren’t allowed to wear foundation, but why is this one asking to take it off at my apartment?
“Um, washroom. Top drawer on the left.” I gesture over my shoulder, inviting him in for some reason. Usually, they warn you about letting strange men you’ve barely met enter your home, but this might be a special circumstance.
With my mouth slightly agape, I watch him stroll through my apartment. His perfectly pressed suit and perfectly flowy hair make me feel a little schlubby in my sweatpants, but I shouldn’t care. My sweatpants are the best part about working from home.
“Your door is broken,” his voice echoes from my washroom.
