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"I know who you are," she says with a sneer.
Oh. Fuck. Me.
She must have seen me on the fucking telly. Waving my Godzilla cock around like I'm fucking drunk. Which, considering the vast quantities of booze, I can safely say I was.
I'm about to try and explain my way out of my actions when she asks, "Who was it?" She looks at me, and for a moment I think it might be her. That it might really be Alicia. But fuck me, that was so fucking long ago. After my mom died when I was thirteen, I remember coming back to school and wanting to talk to Alicia. She was the prettiest girl in the school. Smart and funny, as well. But above all, she was kind. I remember after Mom died on the first day back I felt an urge to talk to her. Fuck, I even got as far as getting up the courage to walk up to her. But fuck me, she was so fucking pretty when she turned my way, I had nothing. I froze. Couldn’t speak for the life of me. So what did I do? I fucking pushed her into the pond that we were walking next to. And after a moment, I ran away. Dad was pissed, of course. He said I needed more structure. Fuck that. I needed a father who didn't cheat on my mother and beat her. Didn't force her into an early fucking grave because she gave up on fighting the cancer. I can count the number of fucking times I've thought that if my father had only been nicer to Mom, treated her like a real fucking human being, maybe she would have been able to survive the fucking cancer as it ate her away.
Anyways, where was I? I'm sorry, I just got distracted, you know?
Right. For a moment there, I had the vibe that this bird in front of me was Alicia. God, she was gorgeous. And she didn't even know it. I'd managed to keep track of her until she graduated from Yale. Now I didn't know where she was.
"Someone I used to know, love," I say, answering her question. "Her name was Alicia. Alicia Bayer."
If I didn't know better, I'd think that her eyes are beginning to tear up. But she stops herself and she looks at me with a cold, hard, face.
"Well, sorry," she says. "My name is Misty."
Give me a fucking break. I know strippers have stage names. I own a strip club so I can fuck strippers, remember?
But the music is changing and the dancers are changing shifts so I'm not going to call her on it. Instead, I look at her.
"Listen, love, have dinner with me on Friday. What do you say?" I ask. Fuck, that's three days away and I want to fuck her now. But something tells me that with this girl, I need to play it right. Play it fucking old-school.
She's studying me. Like a fucking hawk.
"What's your phone number?" she finally asks. "I'll call you."
I program my number into her phone and she gives me a brief smile before walking away, without even a goodbye. I see the man she's with slink away behind her. Fucking loser. But whatever, I don't care. I'm too busy looking at that beautiful ass. I can feel my cock twitch.
But fuck me, mate. It'd be a lot easier if she were Alicia.
Then I wouldn't have to wait till this Friday to know that I was in love.
Alicia
"Just take it easy tonight, kiddo," Mike is telling me over the phone. It's Friday evening and he's in the office fixing up the evening edition of the paper that just went out before focusing on tomorrow's morning edition. "You have about three hours if you want to get anything juicy into the pages."
I sigh. Ever since my last foray into Page Eight, I've been getting a lot more respect at work. The fact that Mike is holding off on the deadline for printing the paper till after my date with Derrick goes to show how much importance he's placing on tonight and my continued association with Prince Sin.
Prince Sin. I still can't believe it. I mean, it took me a few times to look at the video of him waving his cock around but I came to the conclusion that every woman in America probably came to after seeing it - Prince Derrick Blaine was very, very large. He had a magnificent and beautiful cock. And even I, who hadn't had much experience in these matters could see that.
Oh, just to explain something to you really quick. There's no real one author that writes Page Eight. Well, I mean, in the newspaper the author is listed as Abigail Adams. But she doesn't exist. It's a team of writers that puts together the stories. That's why when Abigail says something, it's usually one of the writers or their assistants that came up with it.
Up until this week, the closest I had gotten to attributing words to Abigail Adams was doing research and looking over and proofreading articles. Until the Prince and his fateful "interview". I got 750 words that day - almost unheard of for a newbie to get. And Danielle and Mike are telling me to prepare for another 1000 words after this date.
And it is a date. But it’s a date where I have to pump him for information. I sigh into the phone, "I got it Mike, you've been over this with me like a million times already," I say.
"Don't give me that kiddo," Mike says and I roll my eyes on the other side. "I've been around the block, okay? I've covered these bad boy princes. Hell, I've even covered the ones that weren't that bad, but wanted the world to think they were. And let me tell you, this Derrick character, he's the worst of the lo
t."
I'm in a taxi and it's pulling up to Columbus Circle right now, so I tell Mike I'm getting ready to get out.
"Be careful, kiddo," are his last words before we hang up.
It's a nice summer evening and I'm glad I decided to wear a slightly tight, shimmering black dress. I have some heels to go along with it, and I had my hair done for the night.
What? Don't look at me like that, okay? It's my job to make sure Derrick keeps thinking of me as this stupid, little, stripper-girl. Is it the right thing to do? I don't really think so. But it's my career that's on the line. And for what? To publish the truth about a horrible human being whose been mean to me in the past, remember? It's not like I'm making anything up here. And this is for the man that either tormented me as a child or ignored me as I grew older. So I don't see the harm in what I'm doing, okay?
