Royally Not Ready(2)

“I need you to find her, Keller, and I need you—” He coughs again. I wait patiently for him to finish before picking up a glass of water from his night table and offering it to him. He nods as a thank you and takes a sip. “I need you to train her.”

My concerned brow pinches together. “Train her?”

He nods slowly before resting his head on the pillow. “Yes, she will not know of our country, our traditions, or our culture. If she is to take the crown, she must be prepared. The country will not take kindly to an outsider.” His tired eyes flash to mine. “And if anyone can prepare the next sovereign, it’s you.”





Chapter One





LILLY





“Three . . . two . . . one!”

My truck siren goes off.

The crowd erupts in cheers.

I unleash my hose, spraying the men and women wearing white T-shirts in front of me.

“Shimmy for me. That’s right,” I shout into my headpiece, my voice projected by the speakers attached to my bikini truck. “Let me see your best moves.”

Two girls to the right rub their thong-clad butts together.

The man directly in front of me pelvic thrusts at the crowd while sporting a cowboy hat.

And the couple to the left, well . . . they’ve stopped dancing and are now just making out, drinks clasped in their hands.

“Dry me up,” I say to Timmy Tuna, my best friend and co-founder of the Splash Wagon, South Beach Miami’s one and only bikini-and-swimsuit store on wheels.

He turns off my hose and then sounds the siren one more time. Timmy Tuna moonlights as a DJ down at the Neon Bar. He’s well-known for playing his remixes of popular Afro-Cuban music. He can get a crowd jumping with one beat drop.

“Do we have a winner, folks?” I ask into my microphone. The crowd cheers, boisterously calling out who they think looks best in a wet T-shirt. I walk up to the couple on the left and hold my hand next to them. “Who wants the couple who can’t keep their hands off each other to win?” The crowd cheers. I motion to the two girls on the right. “What about these two ladies?” The crowd grows louder. And when I approach the single guy in the front who is still pelvic thrusting the crowd, I ask, “And what about our single gentleman?” The crowd erupts.

It’s clear who the champion is.

I knew he was going to win.

It’s always the man with the beer belly that wins. Every single time.

I lift his arm and say, “We have a winner!” I hand him a gift card to the Wagon while everyone cheers some more. “Clap it up for the rest of our contestants, who are all receiving a twenty-five-percent off coupon to the Wagon.” Timmy Tuna sounds off a blowhorn and then hands out the coupons. “Before we close up for the afternoon, I’ll walk around as always for some simple Q and A.”

After every wet T-shirt contest, I always work with the crowd to see if I can drive business to any of my local friends. In my lime-green triangular bikini top and yellow sarong, I walk up to a couple who have so much sunscreen on, that their faces have been washed out with white goop.

“Do you have any questions about the area?”

“Yes.” The gentleman clears his throat. “Where is the best place to get a Cuban sandwich?”

Smiling, I cup my ear and ask, “Best Cuban, folks?”

Together, the crowd shouts, “Peter Palms!”

I smile at them and say, “Down the road to the right. Tell them Lilly from the Wagon sent you. They’ll give you ten percent off.”

I move to a group of single ladies.

“Anything I can help you with?”

“We need men,” they whine, but in a cute, pouty-face way. “Where can we find the perfect man for a one-night stand?”

I turn toward Timmy and say, “Timmy Tuna, we need some single men.”

From his perched spot on the hood of the Wagon, he shouts, “Word on the street is, some of the single players from the Vancouver Agitators are in town and they’re staying at Moxy Miami. The bar serves the best rum runners in town. Tell them Timmy Tuna sent you, and get your first drink for free.”

The girls squeal and take off. Bet some hockey players get lucky tonight.

I turn to the right and spot a beautiful man—tall, broad-shouldered with blond hair and a menacing scowl. He’s dressed in stark black dress pants and a black button-up dress shirt. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, displaying ink wrapped around his thick forearms. His presence feels threatening, like someone is about to get into a world of trouble. Thankfully, it’s not me.

“Looks like someone didn’t get the swimsuit memo,” I say as I walk up to him. “Dear sir, do you realize it’s summer in Miami?”

His chin juts out as his jaw grows tight, displeasure written all over his face. Maybe someone needs to grab a rum runner with the ladies.

“I need to speak with you,” he says in a low tone. The type of tone a father would use when he catches his teenager partying past curfew.

But, hey, I’m here to help, despite the puzzling expression on this man’s face.

“Sure,” I say into the microphone. “What can I assist you with? Looking for some cigars? Maybe a decent lap dance to help you loosen up? Not saying I’m willing, but I have been known to offer a lap dance with the right drink in me.”