Desert Heat

CHAPTER ONE: BAD

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                                                                                      ***

For many in New York, the pouring rain that overtook the city would have been nothing short of a disaster, but for Prince Aziz Hassan, it was a blessing. While many viewed the pouring rain as a hindrance to their day, for him, it was a blessing. Prince Aziz smiled as he looked at the busy streets from his twenty-fifth-floor penthouse. Although it was raining, the roads were busy as everyone ran for cover or simply to the nearest cab.

Aziz took one sip from his glass of brandy, and that warmed him up—not that he needed any warming up because the new and improved heating system warmed his penthouse perfectly. He moved away from his window, and just as he landed on his Italian leather couch, his doorbell rang.

Aziz hated this, but he knew that it must have been important. For the past three days, he had been in his penthouse, avoiding yet another drama from yet another gossip columnist, and Aziz made it clear that he did not want any visitors unless the sky had fallen down. Well, the sky must have fallen then.

"Come in!" He called out; there was a click of the door, and when Aziz turned around, it was none other than Fahd, his personal bodyguard, walking in. Aziz turned to face the older man, looking bored and uninterested in Fahd's presence.

"Greetings, my prince," Fahd greeted Aziz, who then rose from his couch and faced Fahd dead in the eyes. Fahd quickly looked at his feet, knowing just what he had done wrong.

"I thought I told you not to call me prince; that part of my life has been forgotten, and I hate being reminded of it," Aziz reminded his bodyguard, who quietly nodded his head.

"I'm so sorry, boss," Fahd apologized, and Aziz smiled at the man. He hated being called a prince, and he had made it known to Fahd many times, but it seems that the older man was still bound by his vow to respect and protect the prince with his life.

"You are forgiven," Aziz told the older man, who then looked up to face him. Aziz had seen the look on the older man's face, and even he had to admit that Fahd looked shaken, and Fahd was not a man who got scared easily.

The man before him had fought more tribal wars than Aziz could count, and he was among the bravest warriors that their kingdom had ever have produced.

"What is it that is so important that you had to disturb me? Make it quick; I do not have the whole day," Aziz said, asserting his order.

Fahd bowed his head and stepped back before he spoke, and all these formalities bored Aziz so much that he simply let out a deep breath.

"I am sorry, boss, but I am afraid I have bad news for you. I was just informed that your father, King Abdul Imran Hassan, has passed away." The news hit Aziz so hard that he slowly sat back onto his couch.

For just a second, Aziz's mind left his surroundings as millions of thoughts swirled in his mind. He slowly turned to face the concerned Fahd, who still looked shocked. Aziz did not mind that Fahd was concerned with his father's passing; after all, the two men had fought side by side and won countless wars together.

Aziz deposited his glass of brandy on his glass table, folded his hands in a praying posture, and pressed his hands to his mouth. Aziz did not know what to feel other than relief that finally the old man was dead; his deeds must have certainly caught up with him.