Senior Year Box Set

“Should I tell them what an asshole he is?” I asked.

“You’re not paying me enough for this shit,” Frank complained. “Just tell me.”

I explained his comments about a mistress, the men getting caught spending time with her, and how it caused Erika to end up in bed with me.

“That’s quite the story. We should probably get a script written and make a movie with all that drama. You could play the poor naïve farm-boy-turned-actor who’s been exploited,” Frank said, waking up. “We can make this work.”

“Are you telling me you want me to do the whole ‘aw, shucks’ routine with the paparazzi?” I asked.

“You do it all the time for sports. Why not?” Frank asked. “Oh! And lay on the American accent. People on the other side of the pond think we’re all drooling idiots, anyway. It’ll help sell how Princess Erika tricked you into falling between her legs.”

I started to think he might have just come in from drinking.

“Better yet!” he blurted. “Pull the whole ‘gentlemen don’t talk about such things’ routine. That will fit your Ian Bond persona to a T.”

“Are you going to send me talking points?” I asked.

“You don’t need no stinkin’ talking points.”

“Are you drunk?” I asked.

“Bite me, Snowflake. I’m trying to save your career here,” Frank said indignantly.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“You got any better ideas?” Frank asked.

“How about, ‘No comment?’”

Frank took a deep breath and held it before slowly letting it out.

“No. You need to set the narrative.”

“I thought the British tabloids had already done that. Remember the whole ‘Home-Wrecker’ headline?”

“You need to get your side of the story out there before Harry and Erika tell their version. They need to be seen responding to you, not the other way around,” Frank said, finally making sense.

I suddenly had a thought.

“Why do I care what the British tabloids think, anyway?” I asked.

“Because, even though they aren’t the world power they once were, people still love stories about their royalty and listen to the BBC. This isn’t just some story over there. It will be picked up here and everywhere shortly,” Frank predicted.

“Still want me to go out and wing it?” I asked.

He called me a name and said he would have something for me in thirty minutes.

◊◊◊

I was getting dressed when Paul came into my bedroom, looking harried.

“What the hell did you do?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“There are news trucks and what looks suspiciously like regular press showing up in droves in front of the house.”

“Wow. I’m impressed. Frank knows how to get the word out in a hurry,” I said and got a pained look from Paul. “I’m talking to them in a few minutes.”

“You’re wearing that?” Paul asked.

I chuckled because Paul was the last person I would ever expect fashion advice from.

“I’m supposed to look like a regular guy. If I get dressed up, it’ll look like I should have known better,” I explained.

“Whatever,” Paul said to dismiss me. “I only hope you’re wearing clean underwear since you insist on looking like a bum.”

My eyes got big. Someone had been listening to my mother. I thought about what he said and remembered that I was David Frickin’ Dawson: star athlete, model, and actor. Dressing like an average teenager would be out of character, especially in the heart of Monaco, where the rich and famous came to play.

I changed into a smart pair of slacks, a dress shirt, and a sports coat. Paul nodded his approval as he led me out front.

◊◊◊

Well, that might have gone better. I’d experienced rude paparazzi before, and I’d even considered punching a few. But never before had I lost my cool—to the point where Paul had to restrain me from launching into the crowd. I had a burning desire to beat the snot out of more than one of them.

Frank had sent me a statement to read that basically said I had no idea that Princess Erika was engaged to Lord Harry. I dived into detail about how I met her and described how I’d assumed she was simply part of the wedding party. I reported I hadn’t a clue she was an actual princess. We’d hit it off and spent the day together.

The first line of attack was how could I possibly not know that the two of them were engaged. After all, their betrothal was the talk of all the media in the UK. I might have said something to the effect that we in America only followed real royalty. Yeah, not the best of ideas, based on their reaction.

Their next offensive focused on asking how I could live with myself for taking advantage of poor Princess Erika. I told them that that question confused me. They circled around about how they suspected I’d knowingly tried to hurt Lord Harry because I had a history with him, having physically attacked him before. I reminded them that he admitted he deserved it.

When that didn’t work to rile me up, they next asked if I thought I was somehow entitled because of my newfound fame as an actor. Their questions continued on and on like that. If I’d been smart, I would have called it quits because I wasn’t going to get a fair shake from this crowd.