Chapter 4

Chapter 4

RYKER

"Honey," I holler at him. My bodyguard gives me a petrifying look. He's looking at me with a face which says, 'what does this dude want from me now?' Little does he know, I revel in the annoyance I shower at him. He's the only comedic relief in my life. I can't do much better without him. This man is responsible for my needs, as my grandma has dictated. I ought to have my fun with him. 

"Honey," I yell again, "Can you get me a can of beer while you're at it?" He's putting away the things I put on a grocery list for him to buy and bring back with him. 

When I have women over, I want them to feel at home. It's not an empty promise that I make. I stick with what I have to say. So, it only makes sense I make my new bachelor pad as homely as possible.

I told Brynn I would be on top of things so we could have tropical fruits in the fridge when she visits. We are sexting a lot these days, and somehow mangoes have become foreplay. I blame the emoticons on my phone.

Once I mentioned the fruits in a conversation to turn her on, hinting I would love to bite small mango slices off her nipples, so now she's taken to using them to arouse me time and again. Hey, she can have all the fun she wants with tropical fruits, cacao and nuts. I'm not complaining.

And I don't want to complain about eating her out. Why would I want to do that?

"Here you go," my bodyguard shoves the beer can between my fingers with a stoic face, and I run my fingers over the cool condensation on the body of the tin can. I look over the things he has brought with him from the store, and it seems like he hasn't gotten himself anything. I calmly gaze over the rack of beer cans on the black marble countertop. I feel bad for the guy. And I'm in a good mood.

"Why don't you get one yourself too, bud?" I ask him as I unscrew the lid of the can, and the process makes a screechy sound as fizz bubbles over the mouth of the can. I bring my lips to the can and take a large swig. "Go get yourself one right this moment."

"Your Highness, I don't drink on the job."

"Your Highness wants you to drink on the job."

"It doesn't look very professional." 

He tries to eye me curiously, wondering what has come over me. I haven't talked to him more than three words before. I always stuck to what I needed from him for the two months he followed me around. 

"Do I look like I give a fuck?" I give him googly eyes. "Go get yourself a drink, mate." I take another swig and make an "ahh" sound. Noticing that he's still standing there, I cuss under my breath. "Off you go, son. Liven up a little, for fuck's sake."

He stares at me like I'm not supposed to cuss. I usually don't resort to cussing when I speak to others. There's no need for me to do that. But if someone disregards what I just said, I have a habit of getting mad and fussy. It only takes me a couple of minutes to get stabby-stabby. He better do what I just told him to do. Otherwise, I have my ways.

Goodness, I have to set my glare at him to get him out of the room. He does leave, and then, after a few minutes, he enters the room, straddling two red martinis in his hands. 

"Here you go." He hands me the martini glass. I look closely at the drink and realise it's not gin or vodka. Instead, it's rum neat. It does have an olive, though. I look at him with appreciation.

I take slow swigs of the drink, and I nod my head at him. "It tastes different."

"It's supposed to."

"Great, honey." I hand him the glass after taking a long swig of the alcohol. "You can go and fix another one for me."

He nods at me and leaves the room with the empty glasses. In a few minutes, he returns back with some gin and tonic in his hands.

He offers me the drink, and I take it. I eye him suspiciously. Why is he making me drinks? Did he take the warm-heartedness implied in the word 'honey' too seriously?

I take a large gulp of the drink I'm nestling against my chest. The spirit goes down my throat in one go.

"Woah, you can try to enjoy it." That comes from my usually silent bodyguard. "You're downing it too quickly."

"You're supposed to enjoy alcohol?" I look at him incredulously. "Stop and smell the roses and shit?"

"Kinda." He stands cradling his own drink in his hand and drinking it slowly. I notice that his martini is still untouched and sitting on the counter. He's taking small sips from his gin and tonic. 

"Where did you learn to mix alcohol like that?"

"I used to be a bartender before I started working as a bouncer for the clubs."

"And then you somehow progressed to palace security?"

"It pays well."

I give him me 'I don't believe you' face cause it's hard for me to imagine him behind the bar counters mixing alcohol and flirting with guests to get tips. He's tall, wiry in build and always stone-cold sober. I have never seen him smiling. Bartenders are supposed to be lively people who care about the people they are tending to since they care about people's problems. He hasn't tended to any of my problems at all, apart from taking orders from me. He hasn't even shown a teeny-tiny amount of interest in what I do or what my obstacles are beyond the role I play for my country. Although, I don't do much. Perks of being royalty, I guess. I still have my problems, though. 

I deserve to have someone who hears, adores and loves me. I am fifth in line in the order of succession to be a prince, after all.

I deserve some respect from my fellow man. 

I resist the urge to stomp on the ground with my feet, like a little five-year-old kid. Now that I'm thinking about it, I'm a little kid, aren't I? I literally have a babysitter following me around everywhere I go. Maybe, I don't need a babysitter. I need my family to understand I can survive without someone staring down my back my entire life. I can be independent. I know that I have it in me.

I genuinely wonder if they can understand that. My family tends to be a bit hypocritical when it comes to me, and it's because they love me a lot. They have adored me since I was a baby. I can understand their reasons for being completely protective of me. But it makes sense to leave me to my own devices sometimes. I can adapt to situations quickly. You learn that when you're royalty. You adapt like water. You flow as they want you to flow, according to the present condition, whatever requires you to be someone, whatever they need you to be. You learn and transform and become.

I can't understand why my grandmother and my mum still don't trust me with this? 

My folks need to understand I'm my own person. They need to wire their brains accordingly. I'm done with their prissiness, being polite and articulate when I present my needs. If they don't follow my boundaries, I'm bound to break some rules.

I'm going to bring along Brynn on my little world tour with me. I hope she enjoys what she's about to see. Not everyone gets the chance to be all wrapped up with a prince. I'm the good stuff they write about in those lengthy, steamy, late-night stories. Some girls have experienced the kink just being around me. Others had to work harder to get my attention to notice them. It's not that hard to get my attention. But these naive girls don't know that, and it's kind of cute when they beg.

I don't mind it one bit.

"Get me Brynn on the phone, Arthur."

"I'll be on that right now." My bodyguard finally gulps down the rum he brought me earlier. "In a minute."

I can't believe that this guy is still drinking? 

How long does it take to finish that one damn shot?

I have to teach him so many things!

It's crazy, I know.

The plan of touring Europe alone was on my mind long before I met Brynn. And to be honest, I had already been to some Greek Islands until my grandma called me back under some false pretence of her sickness. She made up to me by telling me she was missing my sweet face. First of all, I don't have a sweet or cute face. Second of all, I reminded her that some app called CallTime exists on her LPhone. When I said it, she wasn't pleased with my witty response. My folks can be a bit drastic at times.

She said, "Don't you wary the institution is about our safety? They are adamant about our privacy since it's a really grave matter." She chuckles as if still following the rules from the nineteenth century in the twenty-first century is funny. Maybe it is hilarious for an old lady like her. Her humour seems to be broken. After all, she was alive for the repeat edition of the World War. "We still use burner phones for communicating. Don't you have one of those burner phones, mein Sohn?"

I shook my head at The Highness, our Queen. "Yeah, I do, but LPhones are modernised. They come with the recent progressions in the cellphone industry, and they are as safe as they come, Your Highness. Maybe you should try using one sometime. You'll perhaps like it."

"But I've heard that they're plenty addictive." Then she puts her hand on her mouth, cupping the sound she's voicing next. "I've heard from our Intel that the company's main headquarters are underground. On top of that, all the regulatory activities of that company are conducted by some Eastern European country."

I dial back a laugh by coughing, putting a hand on my chest to calm down the sudden outburst of emotion. "It's not like that, grams. The company is definitely based in the land of freedom. There's nothing much running that company but capitalism."

"But you know how I feel about that too, mein Sohn?" She purses her lips. "I don't trust capitalism at all."

"I know, grandma." I sigh. "I wish we could all be socialists forever."

"Being a Socialistic republic is what's at the heart's core at the New Beerenland. Never forget that, mein Sohn."

"I don't think I would ever," I say as I twitch in my seat. I stand up and stretch my arms. "Don't worry, grams, I will use a burner phone that Arthur got me to contact you. I value your privacy more than mine, Your Highness."

"Don't forget to check in with us or even call Maria if you have the time." Maria has been my governess all my childhood, and I'm closer to her than my mother. I might not check in with my mother for a day or two, but Maria is always calling me daily, wanting to know about my day-to-day habits and if there's a reason why I've given up on God.

I haven't given up on the big old guy. There are just some connection problems that have gotten in the way. Maria is a protestant, and she has raised me to be deeply religious, while my royal family is Catholic, and they attend church like a lone sheep lost on its way home, departed from the herd. They are good at covering it up, though. They would pretend to be deeply religious like the godforsaken animals we all are whenever it comes to our attention. Especially if it's going on air to be broadcasted on the local media or the TV or even social media. We go through and through with the pretending, wearing Sunday church clothes made by some exotic designer companies as we show up at our royal Canterbury church, like regular churchgoers.

It's just one of the facades the institution handles on our behalf. We act like we are extremely good at it, but we can only do so much on our own. We need help, and sometimes the assistance we hire ends up helping us look the part way more than we ever intended it to look. 

Like my cousin, Marianne, who wore the traditional New Beerenland's royal Victorian brooch and other royal garbs to a church wedding of a commoner she knew. And somehow, the media was there to cover it. She had my grandma's overcoat on her back that was handmade by the Indian women and been sent off as a gift on Christmas Eve by the country's royalty to earmark the tradition of transporting tea and coal that goes all the way back to the 1500s. It was a popular piece of history that captured the local newspaper's attention on the incoming Monday.

Why did my cousin Marianne pick the overcoat? 

The berry-printed coat went well with her white ensemble. She knew nothing about the tea and coal trade through the Indian Ocean route. She had no prior knowledge about our diplomatic relations with the maiden country. When I saw her walking down the aisle as a bridesmaid on national TV, I could only laugh at her.

This episode is a simple example of what my entire family is like on a fair-weather day. I'm afraid to admit it.