“Fundraising isn’t really my thing, mother,” I say, but she’s looking at her phone, her brow furrowed. And you're assuming I'm going to stay until Fall.
“I have to run, I’m afraid,” she says. “There’s a crisis with the event tonight.”
“What event?” I ask, as she draws me in, kissing my cheek.
“Read the packet, darling,” she says. “I’m late.” I roll my eyes as she starts to walk away. Then she pauses, turning back to me. “Oh, I almost forgot to ask. How are you adjusting to everything?”
“Fine,” I lie. Thinking about returning home is what I deliberately leave out. Except the problem is that I’ve been living overseas the past two years, so I'm not exactly sure where home is anymore.
“Protrovia will grow on you,” she says. “Albert is taking care of you?”
My face flushes and I cover my reaction with a fake cough.
Albie is not taking care of me, I think. I’ve been taking care of myself. Every night. While thinking about how I’d like Albie to take care of me.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, my voice faltering.
She walks toward me, and speaks, her voice quiet. “Alexandra has…problems,” she says. “Albert can show you around. He was in Afghanistan, you know. He’s more serious now. Responsible.”
I choke back a laugh as my mother whirls around without waiting for a response from me. She walks down the hallway, every step of hers purposeful.
When I reach my bedroom, I pull open the door and toss the packet of paperwork on the desk. I know my mother wants me to be part of a foundation, to take some kind of administrative or public relations role -- whatever it is that a princess does.
But that’s just not me.
I’m hands-on, which is why I went to Africa in the first place. She totally doesn’t understand that.
I’ll read the paperwork later.
I turn, my eyes resting on the box in the middle of the bed – bright pink paper embossed with a subtle floral pattern and tied with an ornate gold fabric ribbon. There’s no card attached to the outside, so I sit on the edge of the bed, pulling the ribbon to open the box lid.
It’s probably a gift from my mother, a bribe to follow the not-so-subtle order to get involved with the foundation. The thought makes me immediately annoyed. If my mother thinks I can be bribed with some stupid gift, she’s mistaken.
I pull off the lid of the box, expecting to see a purse or new pair of shoes, something my mother thinks someone my age would like.
It’s definitely not a new purse or a pair of shoes.
I stare at the inside of the box, blinking several times to make sure I’m actually seeing what I’m seeing.
That prick did not do this.
I look at the contents of the box, unsure whether to be appalled or amused. A notecard is perched on top of a small pile of sex toys, and I set it on the bed beside the box. It’s no mystery who left me this ridiculously inappropriate gift.
I reach inside the box, pulling out the first thing I touch.
It’s a fucking gold dildo. Or gold-plated or something. It’s so shiny it’s nearly blinding, the end opposite the tip crusted in jewels, red and blue and green. I run my hand down the shaft, my fingertips sliding easily over the smooth cool surface. I should be appalled, I think. Instead, heat pools between my legs as I touch the toy.
The golden cock comes to life in my hands, vibrating when I accidentally trigger something on it, and I yelp, dropping it onto the bed, where it bounces around in a circle on the mattress. Scrambling to shut it off, a giggle builds up in my throat, escaping my lips despite my best efforts to not be amused by Albie’s antics.
He sent me a golden cock.
I peek into the box again, stifling my laughter as I take out the contents one by one and lay them on the bed:
Another vibrator of some kind, egg-shaped with a remote control
A glass dildo that looks more like a piece of art than a dick, purple and blue swirls of color through it.
And…
I pull out the last piece, unsure what the hell it is, turning it over in my hand for a moment, a long pink piece of hair attached to a glass object that looks like a small dildo.
Then I realize what it is.
Oh my God.
It’s a butt plug. With a fake, bright pink horse’s tail attached.
I toss it on the bed like it's radioactive, shaking my head as I open the card that came with this way-too-far-over-the-line inappropriate set of gifts.
Thought you might need a little help with your obvious frustration. If you’d only just ask, you could get more personal assistance.
I slide open the screen on my cell phone and text the royal bastard who thinks he’s so funny.
Got your gifts. Using them now. How did you know pink is my color?