Page 2 of Naughty Prince
Two
Lucas
“What is this?” My father drops the Daily Herald on the table in front of me. I’ve got a mouthful of cereal, which is probably a good thing, because he doesn’t quite hear the garble I respond with.
“A newspaper.”
“Don’t speak with your mouthful, son. You’re a twenty-eight-year-old man. Not a child.”
I swallow my food and look up at my father, the mirror of my own aging process. Photos of him and I at the same age are absolutely identical. We both have the same blond hair and blue eyes, same height and stature. We even have the same kind of smile which tells me that good ole dad used to be a bit of a larrikin himself before taking over the kingdom robbed him of his sense of fun. Now it’s all,trade agreements-this, andexport taxes-that. I don’t know how he does it without going batty. But I will tell you this, I’m glad the man is fit as a fiddle, because I’ve zero interest in taking over from him anytime soon. If I’m lucky, he’ll be like the Queen of England and live forever with Betty White and Keith Richards. Come to think of it, I should find out more about their diet and exercise routines to make sure dad looks after himself the same way. Wouldn’t want the kingdom suffering under the rule of a complete amateur (that’s me) when they have a wonderful—albeit stuffy—king already ruling.
“It’s hard not to feel like a child when I’m chided over going outside during a snowstorm.” Some friends and I took our snowboards into the mountains and had a bit of fun on the fresh powder that came down in a recent storm. We weren’t stupid enough to snowboardduringthe storm—we hunkered down in our cabin during that—but the papers are making it look like we were risking our lives and forcing emergency services to be on standby when they were needed elsewhere.
“You’re the next in line for the throne, Lucas. Stunts like this are not only dangerous, but they make you—us—look incompetent.”
“I hate to break it to you, father, but I am incompetent. Giving me a kingdom to rule would be ahugemistake.” I take a mouthful of orange juice then get up from the table where my mother is sitting tight-lipped while she eats a croissant, flake by flake. “Thankfully, the great people of Fürstheim have you. And while they grumble about what a tyrant you are, the economy has never been so good. Excellent work, dad. Keep it up.” I give him the thumbs up gesture as I grab my jacket off the back of my chair and make a move to leave.
“Tyrant? What does he mean they think I’m a tyrant?” Dad says, his words hitting me from behind as I make my way out of the dining room
“It’s nothing, dear,” Mom says. “He’s just teasing. You’re not a tyrant.”
“I’m not teasing,” I call out as I swipe a green apple from the bowl. “Check the opinion polls, the people think you’re unapproachable.”
I hear a few spluttering sounds as the door closes behind me and my royal-person-who-follows-me-around falls into step beside me. He’s supposed to be making sure I attend to my royal duties, but more often than not, he’s telling my parents I gave him the slip. And it’s not even his fault. It’s something I’ve been doing since I was a kid. I hate the restrictiveness of palace life. I enjoy getting out there and being at one with the people. My parents hate that I go around acting like a ‘commoner’ but if it wasn’t for me, opinion regarding the palace would be so low we’d probably be overthrown via referendum (or flaming pitchforks). As much as I don’t want the job of King, I’m pretty sure I’m the one keeping the position available since public opinion of me is at an all-time high. I have a fan club and everything.
“Sire…I mean, Lucas,” my aide says as he rushes along beside me. I’m an easy six-foot-two, broad and fit, and he’s barely five-ten and would probably blow away in the wind.
“Spit it out, man,” I say as he stutters through his words. I feel sorry for the guy, I do. And if my parents were kinder, they’d stop hiring and firing these guys and just let me do my thing.
“There’s an ambassadors’ ball in Milan. You’ve been asked to attend.”
“You want me to go to Milan? To work?”
“Yes. But I cleared your schedule so you can stay for ten days. And you only have to work one.”
I stop walking, my interest piqued. “Show me.”
His eyes light up as he taps at the iPad in his hands and shows me the information he has on my itinerary.
“OK,” I say, handing the iPad back. “I’ll do it.”
“You will?” The relief on his face makes me chuckle.
“Yes, I’ll do it.” I think this guy is the first aide that’s gotten me to agree to something.
“Thank you, sire. I mean, Lucas. Thank you.”
“What’s your name again?” I ask, feeling slightly bad that I don’t remember it. But I’ve been through so many aides that I’ve stopped learning their names. This one just might manage to stick around though.
“It’s Patrick, sire.”
“OK. Well, call me sire again, and I won’t go anywhere. It’s Lucas. Just Lucas. I don’t do protocol. That’s my parents’ thing.”
“Ah, yes. Yes. I’m sorry s—Lucas. It won’t happen again.”
“Email me that itinerary and tell my father you deserve a raise.” I have some bags to pack, something I don’t use staff for either. Being royal doesn’t make me useless. I can do things for myself.
Three
