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Oh. My. God.
I spend literally three hours in front of the computer. My coffee has gone cold. I’ve been so caught up.
Derrick is so wrong about so many things.
And I decide I can no longer write character assassination pieces for Samantha Scar.
In Derrick words, I’m fucked.
18
Derrick
“So basically, the last three weeks have been tremendous, Your Highness,” Larry is telling me.
I smile. “Is that your professional opinion as my lawyer, mate?” I ask him.
He cracks a grin. Maybe for the first time since he’s been around me. “That’s my professional opinion. You have a court date for some parking tickets and fines for some citations, but honestly, if you keep up the good behavior that you’ve got going, you should be absolutely fine.”
Jesus fucking Christ. I can’t believe that less than a month ago newspapers were openly advocating that I should be tossed out of the country. I look over some of the papers this morning.
“Prince Charming!” reads The New York Post. It’s got a picture of me and Daphne, although her face is facing the other direction. I think the photographer was trying to capture her fucking perfect legs and ass. But we’re holding hands as we cross the street towards the Met. I’m wearing my tux and looking at her. I fucking remember exactly why I was looking at her. Because she looked fucking gorgeous. And I realized how long we’d been seeing each other.
“Queen of the Castle!” reads the Daily News. I’m carrying a box of some shit and taking it out of my condo with her pointing where on the street I should put it. Again, that’s all Daphne. She’s been moving more and more stuff out of her ransacked apartment and as she brings stuff over, a lot of my fucking shit is going out.
First to go was a fair amount of porn.
Don’t fucking laugh, mate. I didn’t really mind it much, because it was all fucking DVD’s and magazines. Stuff I never looked at.
And care to guess how fucking amazing Daphne was about all that? She didn’t mind at all when she discovered it. In fact, we fucked hard that night, doing it much better than the people on camera. Honestly mate, they should pay us to fuck. People could fucking learn a thing or two when I’m making Daphne cum for the 8th time in the night or when we both fucking pass out from hours of fucking.
But, I have to say, the biggest turnaround has got to be The News of the Times. Abigail Adams. That lady used to be a fucking cunt to me a month ago. Now, she’s the sweetest fucking thing. Today’s Page Eight headline is in front of me. Want to know what it says?
“Sweet Sinner.”
That’s fucking right. They managed to get a picture of us outside on the observation deck of the Empire State Building. Daphne is looking out and I have my arms around her, wrapping her up. I’m kissing her cheek and she’s leaning into me.
Fuck. I don’t know how they’ve been so fucking spot on. They got it first when Daphne and I first met at Per Se. They got it when I rescued the little boy, even though I didn't want it public. They got the details on Daphne and basically have been controlling the story around her.
It’s like Pressly or Sam, or even Larry has been tipping them off. Don’t think I didn’t ask them. But each said no, and I fucking believe them.
“As long as the three tabloids are on your side, Derrick, you’re golden,” Larry is saying to me, as if reading my thoughts. Fuck. If I’m so transparent, no wonder it’s so easy for the gossip pages to capture me.
“I have to say, the philanthropy isn’t going unnoticed amongst the diplomats from the US,” my father says over speaker phone.
Fucking hell. Just what he would think about. This fucking cunt doesn’t give two shits about family.
“Fuck me, Leopold,” I burst out. “Do you even care about whether I get deported or not?” I ask.
Larry and Pressly draw sharp intakes of breath. I continue, not caring. “You know, never mind,” I say. “I want this trade deal to mean more to you than me, because it makes hating you that much fucking easier.”
There is a long pause on the other end of the line.
“Derrick, you’re my son,” the King says. “I love you. I’m sorry you don't believe that.”
He sounds fucking tired. But whatever. I don’t fucking care.
“So, court date coming up, the city seems to love me even more, but the newspapers really fucking love me, and Leopold’s trade deal is going well,” I say to Pressly and Larry. “Anything else?”
