* * *

“Yo, Vivian! What does a guy have to do to get a drink around here?” the Hulk Hogan look-alike grunted.

 “Just need to ask me nice, Mr. Fitzpatrick.” I shouldered a large, round tray with a few dirty glasses and made a beeline to his four-top table on the right side of the bar. I cocktailed at Mugshots, a beer-scented, hard rock 'n' roll playing, leather jacket-clad bikers’ bar.

Mr. Fitzpatrick and his buddies were in their late sixties with bandanas tied over their long, white hair. They were my favorite regular customers; rough around the edges but incredibly sweet. I picked up a few more empties. “What can I get you?”

“Vivian, my angel,” Mr. Fitzpatrick said. “I need three Jack and Cokes and one fake lemonade with no sugar for Artie. He’s on the wagon.”

“Got it. Artie. You okay? Not another ’bout of the gastritis?”

“It’s a blood sugar thing.” Artie tapped the heels of his scuffed, black leather biker boots on the scratched, wooden floor. “My wife keeps asking, ‘Why don’t you stop riding? When are you going to stay home, watch Jeopardy and play with your grandkids?’ Seriously, Viv. I’m already retired. I spend twenty-two hours of almost every day at home. I hit the road with my buddies one afternoon each week and after that I feel alive again. I don’t think quitting our rides will affect my blood sugar.”

“Those rides are good for you Artie,” I said. “Fresh air. Oxygen in your lungs. Getting out in nature is healing.” 

“When are you going to ride with us, Viv?” Artie asked. “We keep asking.”

Never. I would never ride a motorcycle again.

“I appreciate the offer, but life is so busy these days with school. One sugar-free lemonade coming your way my friend.”

I weaved around the sober customers, the tipsy folks, and all the in-betweens on my way back to the bar. 

I hoisted my tray onto the counter and delivered my order to Buddy Paulsen, the bartender and co-owner. Buddy was thick around the waistline, covered in tats, and sported a ruddy Irish complexion. Fifty years ago he could have been the poster child for a Rebel Without a Cause. Now he was a businessman who desperately wanted to keep his waning crowd of aging bikers happy while he catered to the bar’s newcomers. I unloaded the dirty glasses onto a rubber mat.            

My BFF, Lola Consuela Campillio, she of the tall legs and the dangerous curves, strode up in the same uniform I too had recently been forced to wear: a tight pleather mini, a deep V-neck Lycra top, fishnet stockings and black pleather, thigh pinching, high-heeled boots. She rested her tray on the bar next to mine. “I’m filing an official complaint, Buddy. I hate these new uniforms.”

“I second Lola’s motion.” I tugged my mini lower onto my legs to better cover my private girlie parts. “These outfits make us look like sluts from Slutsville and I fear I’m getting a bunion. How come we can’t wear our Mugshots T-shirts and jeans?”

“You both know why. I’m not in charge of this place anymore. Mike Woodman is.”

“Woodman doesn’t care that I have to change clothes in the bathroom because God forbid I go home wearing this and my kid wakes up and sees hooker mommy,” Lola said. “I’m putting meals on the table. I cannot deal with Child Protective Services.”

“Lola, you gotta play nice with the new guys. It was sell a stake in the place or close the doors. I love Mugshots. It wasn’t an easy decision.”

Buddy sold his majority share of the bar to thirty-something businessman Mike Woodman. He came from family money and parlayed his trust fund into making a shit-load more dough in the stock market. Woodman got bored and then bought up his favorite interests like they were Tonka toys. His purchases included a bowling alley, a Harley-Davidson dealership, a strip club, a Baptist church along with its charismatic leader, and finally, a biker bar—Mugshots.

Which pained me.

While I’d only worked here since the day I turned twenty-one—nine months earlier—I’d hung out here for far longer. My dad used to frequent the joint with his buddies. And before it was considered child-abuse to take your kid to a bar, he’d bring me along on the nights Mom was working. I hung out with the bikers, heard the stories about the rides, and the Sturgis’ outings. After my folks died in a motorcycle accident four years ago you’d think I’d want to get away from a biker bar. But the problem was this place felt like family. And I didn’t have a lot of that left.

So I started bugging Buddy to let me waitress at Mugshots. At the end of my first night he opened a bottle of Korbel, the regulars sang “Happy Birthday”, someone popped for cupcakes and Mylar balloons, and I had my first legal drink.

You’d think I’d like the new clientele at the newly remodeled bar. They were, after all, closer to my age. But Woodman’s crew was privileged and the majority of them were asshats. They always hung out at the biggest table in the middle of the cozy sized joint. Woodman would make his nightly appearance and buy a round or two for the snotty boys. He’d play with his gold pinky ring like he was a short, chubby version of Marlon Brando in The Godfather, sucking up all the cloying compliments about how he was “the man.”

“Hey princess!” a twenty-something metro dude seated at Woodman’s table yelled. “Get your primo behind over here. I’m parched.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on it.” I loaded my tray with drinks. “You’re sure this lemonade doesn’t have sugar, right?”

“No sugar,” Buddy said. “Hurry up. Stop spending all your time hanging with the old crew and wait on the new guys. They’re our future. Be nice to them.”

“The new guys tip like shit.”

“They’re filling seats and buying booze.”

“They’re assholes.”

He shrugged. “The bar wouldn’t be here and you wouldn’t have a job if I hadn’t taken Woodman up on his deal. Be nice to my new business partner and his friends. Please?”

“I’m not answering to Mike Woodman. He’s got attitude to rival an elephant’s behind. You hired me, boss. I’ll answer to you.”

Buddy cleared his throat.

“I’ll take their table,” Lola said. “I’ve already got the four-top next to them.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. 

“If they give me a problem I’ll just smile and delicately curse in Spanish. They won’t have a clue what I’m saying.” She winked at me and walked off.

“Yeah but I will. You taught me all the good Spanish swear words,” I said.

I dropped off the round to Mr. Fitzpatrick’s crew. I picked up a half-empty pitcher and some water glasses that had barely been touched on a recently vacated table. I poured the water into the pitcher, stacked the glasses, and was on my way back to the bar to stock up on pretzel mix when I heard Lola holler, “Beso mi culo, pendejo!” 

She edged away from Woodman’s table, a big fat frown on her pretty face, but the sweaty metro dude latched onto her wrist and stopped her in her tracks. “Do you not know who you’re dealing with? This margarita tastes like someone pissed in it.”

“Let go of that girl,” the guy seated next to him said and grabbed his arm.

I strode toward Woodman’s table and couldn’t help but stare at the guy trying to shut the asshole down. He wore a fitted black T-shirt and jeans and scuffed biker boots. He had hazel eyes, the highest cheekbones, and a cleft in his chin that a nickel would gladly dive into. He was a ginger, his hair cropped medium-length. Hello—this might be the best-looking man I’d seen in my entire life.

“Get me another drink, Ms. Cinco de Mayo,” the metro dude said to Lola. “Now.”

My attention turned from the hot guy to the matter at hand: harassment.

“I’ll get you a new drink, pinche idioto,” Lola said, “as soon as you let me go.”

I hustled in Lola’s direction.

Woodman ambled out of Mugshots’s back office into the main bar and eyed what was going on at his table.

“You own this place,” I said. “Do something.”

He shrugged.

“I know what the word ‘idioto’ means,” the metro dude slurred.

“So much for mastering your Berlitz course,” the hot ginger said. “Remove your hand from the young lady or I’ll remove it for you.”

I pushed through the crowd toward them, my tray still on my shoulder, righteous anger bubbling up with each frantic step.

“Fine.” The metro dude released Lola. “You stupid—”

She stumbled, dropped her tray, and glasses flew and broke. She broke into tears and kneeled to clean up the puddled mess of shards.

“Go.” I put down my tray on an adjacent, empty table, held out my hand, and helped her to standing. “Grab some towels, a broom, and a dustpan. I’ll help.” 

“Thanks.” She wiped her tears and walked off.

“Why do we even come here?” the metro dude said. “We could be hanging on Rush Street.”

I shouldered the tray, edged toward the table, and managed to toss my long brunette hair coquettishly over one shoulder. “I’ve got that drink you requested.”

“You see?” Metro leaned back in his chair, addressing his friends at the table. “You don’t put up with lower class bullshit and you do the help a favor. You school them on how to cater to people like you and me. Help them learn their place in life.” He smiled at me. “Thanks, princess.”

“No. Thank you. We brought you a pitcher of margaritas to apologize for your inconvenience.” I held it out to him, smiled…and then poured it on his head as he squealed. “Sorry! But you looked so thirsty.”

“Well played!” The gorgeous ginger burst out laughing. “Pawn takes rook.”

“Vivian!” Buddy yelled.

“Vivian!” Mr. Fitzpatrick and Artie jumped up from their chairs and sprinted toward me.

“Oh no, Vivian!” Lola’s hand flew to her mouth and she dropped the towels and the broom.

Mike Woodman strode toward me—his piggy nostrils flaring faster than he turned his pinkie ring. “Vivian DeRose you are banned from Mugshots forever. If I ever see you in here again I will have you arrested for assault. And, oh yeah, you’re fired!”

“It was worth it, loser,” I said.

I was in Chicago for business. Uncomfortable business. Business that should have been on the up and up but could turn unseemly in a heartbeat. Which is how I found myself in the company of Mike Woodman, a despicable man who had the veneer of legitimacy but if you scratched the surface, was shady as shit.

Woodman was an agent of sorts, a guy who could procure things. Some were honest and legitimate. Others were on the fringe. I was a man looking for the latter, searching for something, make that, someone, specific. It was probably my well-deserved karma that I was seated at a table next to the uncouth ass who treated that poor waitress despicably.

My first instinct was to pop the guy but I feared someone would snap a photo, I’d be recognized, and all hell would break loose. I couldn’t afford that right now because I was here on a secret, urgent matter of the utmost importance. And then she hustled up to our table on a mission to rescue her friend.

I could practically see the steam puffing out of her nostrils. I’d overheard bar patrons call her Vivian. She was fresh faced, pretty, young early twenties. She had long, brown hair, full lips, a tight, low-cut T-shirt that covered what looked like a great set of tits, and legs from here to eternity. My balls tightened because man, this girl was hotter than hell when she was riled up.

I was curious how she’d handle the wanker, and laughed when she played him for a fool and doused him with a pitcher of margaritas. I wondered what else she could manage when that odious prick Woodman fired her. I thought she’d cuss him out, but Vivian just bit her lip and turned white as a ghost. She turned heel and walked down a hallway into the back of the establishment. She stomped out a few moments later in those sky-high boots that started a few inches below her skirt, with her purse slung over her shoulder. Her friend accompanied her, the two of them whispering on her short trip to the front door. A few older men in the corner hollered out, inquiring whether she needed a ride home. “I’m good,” she said. “You’re the best. Thank you.”

I admired her spirit. She’d stood up to that loser who deserved far worse than being showered with a pitcher of margaritas. She was awfully sexy in that mini and I racked my brain trying to remember why she reminded me of someone… and oh holy crap, the opportunity I’d been desperate to pay a fortune to Mike Woodman had just landed in my lap with a bow on top. I almost missed it because I was too busy imagining her beautiful legs wrapped over my shoulders as I thrust into her.

She slammed the door on her way out of the tavern. I sprung to my feet and strode after her. It was close to midnight on a warm and muggy summer evening. Except for the biker bar squatting on the corner, it was a quiet, residential neighborhood populated with older, small homes. There was a low rumble from planes that landed at nearby Midway Airport. Street lights glared overhead on the narrow avenue lined with parked cars. The air smelled of fast foods: Italian, Chinese, fried chicken, with an underlying layer of rotting garbage and lower-middle class fierce work ethic.

I, paused for a few moments to check Vivian out. She was the right age, feisty as hell, and could clearly think on her feet. She had that girl-next-door kind of look, the girl that you’d known forever but one day blossomed and poof, like magic, became sexy as sin. A myriad of unknown factors could screw my scheme to high heaven but I couldn’t help but wonder if my crazy plan could play out.

Unfortunately, the beautiful girl who might have been the answer to my prayers was also walking away from me at an alarming clip. She threw her hands up in the air, either speaking with ear buds into a phone or talking to herself. “I’ll have you arrested for assault,’” she said in a falsetto. “Fucking wienie with short fat fingers. We all know what that translates to.”

Yes. Definitely talking to herself.

“Who needs this shitty, fucking job? Crappy hours. Minimum wage plus tips. Stupid short skirt that makes me look like I’m giving away pussy shots for free. Ugh.”

I snorted but clapped a hand over my mouth and followed after her.

“And I am done with these cheap, blister-producing boots.” She stopped in the middle of the street, propped one hand against a parked car, balanced on one foot, and unzipped a boot.

I was mesmerized as that zipper slid down her upper thigh, past her knee, over her calf and all the way to her ankle. She latched onto the heel, wriggled her hips, and wrangled the thing off. My cock started throbbing. I turned my head to see if indeed there was a free pussy shot, but sadly there was not. I was spying on her like some kind of weirdo voyeur. What kind of prince was I?

A prince who needed to get his act together or the golden opportunity that had presented itself would slip away. I walked toward her.

“Hey lady. Maybe you shouldn’t be undressing in public. But if you insist, allow me to help—”

She blinked under the glare of a street lamp. “Pervert! Stay away from me!”

“Not a pervert. The guy from Mugshot’s Bar. The one who—”

“Asshole!” She threw her boot at my head.

The boot bounced off my face. I stumbled backwards and caught myself on a parked car. “Ow.”

“Wait. You’re not that asshole,” she said. “Sorry! Then again, maybe you should think twice about approaching a single woman late at night on a deserted street and scaring the crap out of her. I’m in no mood. Leave. Me. Alone.”

She turned and hobbled away, which wasn’t easy considering she had one bare foot and was still wearing the boot on the other.

I could feel my eye socket swelling but I couldn’t help but laugh. I picked up the boot. “Hold on, Cinderella. You forgot your glass slipper.”

She turned and stared at me. “It’s pleather. Burn it. Oh crap, did I hit you in the eye?”

“Yes, Rocky. I’ve endured worse. It sounds like you’re out of a job. Will you be looking for a new one?”

“Will politicians always lie?”

I fumbled in my pocket for a card and extended it toward her. “I might have something of interest for you.”

She walked a few feet toward me, took it, and held it up to the light. “Your name’s not on here. Who has a business card that doesn’t have their name on it?”

“My name’s Maximillian—”

“Nice to meet you Max.” She slipped the card down her cleavage and unzipped her other boot. “You have an accent. Where are you from?”

“Bellèno.”

She kicked off the other boot. My gaze was torn between her gorgeous tits, her curvy hips, and her long, toned legs.

“Aha. The word on the card. I’ve heard of that place. It’s a skiing town in the Alps, right?”

“Something like that.”

She stood up straight, barefoot on the asphalt on a warm summer night. She was around five feet six inches tall. The right height.

“Tell me in one sentence what the job entails.”

“Tough to describe in one sentence.”

“So, it’s illegal,” she said, arching one eyebrow.

“Not really.”

“‘Not really’ means quite possibly.”

She looked even more wholesome without the boots, a far cry from the majority of women I met.

“You’re smart. And you’re impossibly gorgeous.”

“You’re hot,” she said. “But I’m not looking for that right now. Apologies about the eye. I wasn’t aiming for it. I’ve gotta go.”

“Change your mind, Vivian, give that number a ring. Mention ‘The Crown Affair.’”

“That doesn’t make your offer sound more legitimate, you know. Go home and put some ice on that eye.”

“I’m staying at a hotel.”

“I bet they have ice, too.”

“I’m in town for a few more days. Trust me, this is a great opportunity.”

“Thanks, Max.” She waved at me as she rounded a corner and then disappeared from my sight. “That’s what they all say.”

* * *

The Prince’s Playbook: The Crown Affair Book One Copyright © 2018 Pamela DuMond is the re-imagined, steamier, more explicit version of Part-time Princess Copyright © 2014 Pamela DuMond ~ All rights reserved.