Page 1 of His Princess Brat
Chapter One
Azid
“Dude, I am not going to Africa,” I said, standing in front of the well-lit, full-length mirror of the dressing room in the back of Ezra’s dive of a strip club. I was next up on the stage.
“Yes, you are,” Mazi replied over the phone. “You miss me and you want to meet your godson.”
I did, too, on both counts. Not that I would ever admit as much out loud. “You come here, then.”
Holding the phone with my shoulder, I adjusted myself in my shorts. They were gold—shiny-ass metallic gold. My cock was absolutely bulging in them, which would be great for tips, but... damn. It looked like I’d stuffed a sock in the front. I turned, looking at my ass from the back. It was very... cheeky. Lisa was absolutely going to smack it.
I frowned at the affront that hadn’t happened yet. One of these days, she was going to get the surprise of her life when she did that only to have me haul her up onto the stage, turn her over my hip, and get her back for every unwanted swat she’d ever delivered to the dancers here at Ezra’s House of Sin. And then some.
“I’m a king. I can’t just pack up and leave whenever I want,” Mazi argued.
“Bullshit. You’re a king. Doing what you want comes with the territory.”
“Only if you’re a really bad king.”
I’d missed this. Not just talking to him, but the easy camaraderie with which we’d always bantered back and forth, ever since we were kids in high school.
“You can afford to travel,” I told him, trying not to let myself be tempted. I made good tips here at the House of Sin, but not that good. Most months, I figured I was doing well just to make my rent on time.
“I’ll send the jet,” he countered, cutting through my excuse like it wasn’t even there.
It wasn’t. Not where it mattered anyway. I’d really missed him, and that feeling only got stronger with every phone call we made back and forth. We’ve always been close as brothers. It was a long way from New York to Africa, and the tiny kingdom of Osei located just off its coast. It felt like he’d taken a piece of me with him when he’d left.
“All expenses paid,” Mazi teasingly sang.
I could hear the soft contented coos of a little baby somewhere close to the phone. It was hard to control the wistfulness creeping so insidiously through me. I could practically see him, with his phone pinned to his shoulder while he rocked his son in his arms, smiling and making silly faces.
Where was I? I was half naked in a strip club called the House of Sin, getting ready to go on stage and shake my booty for a bunch of women out looking for a good time.
“Hey!” Ezra called from the dressing room doorway. “You’re up. Get a hoof on.”
“I gotta go,” I said, but for a man who was normally quite anal when it came to showing up to work and doing his routines on time, I was oddly reluctant to hang up.
“You can ride an elephant,” Mazi sang again.
I almost laughed. “Ma, I’m not sixteen anymore. The end-all, be-all of my life’s aspirations no longer revolves around riding elephants.”
“Well,” Mazi said, and I could hear in his voice that he was reluctantly giving in. “The offer stands, no matter when you want it.”
I hung up and for a moment, just stood staring at the phone in my hand. I missed him. The brother I’d never had. But that was life, wasn’t it? People come and go, and the only thing anyone can do is just figure out how to go on.
For me, right now, I was figuring out how to go on the damn stage and I was late. I shrugged into my tear-away costume—I called it my cowboy daddy routine. The ladies loved it, all swagger, jeans and chaps, and a white shirt so tight it showed every one of my rippling abs. Donning my hat, I made my way to the stage entrance, ignoring the censuring look Ezra gave me as the lights dimmed low, the red bulbs came on, and music began to thump out The Outlaws’ rendition of ‘Ghost Riders in the Sky.’ It was deep country rock, the pulse of the bass the perfect rhythm for me to shake my ass to.
I used to love this job. Who wouldn’t—women and beer all night long? But it wasn’t as much fun when your best friend wasn’t around to crack jokes and keep at bay the monotony of doing the same thing over and over every night.
The ladies erupted into cheers and catcalls when I walked out, thumbs tucked into my gun belt. I took center stage, right out front and tossed someone’s grandmother my first throwaway cowboy hat of the evening.
Then came that by now very familiar voice, “Hell, yeah, baby!”
It was Lisa, making her way to the stage at my right with a fresh drink in her hand.
She tips like a dream, I told myself, already fighting not to cringe. Whipping off my belt, I let it fall to the stage in front of her, giving her my best thoroughly practiced and smoldering hot smile. She grinned and, sipping her drink through the straw, began moving her hips in time with mine as I bumped and humped and stripped off my shirt so they could see what they were paying for.
Daddy needs to make his rent, I thought as I whipped the shirt down between my legs, flossing myself in a way I’m sure no cowboy on the range ever had. The bills hit the stage, a gentle rain that became a downpour when I dropped to the floor, an aggressive lover now, enthusiastically fucking a make-believe woman on the floor.
