The Interpreter

Part 2 of 2

The man had it. Star power.

The segment ended with Joy Behar asking about his love life as an heir and how women dealt with him wearing platinum grills with sharp teeth. T'Challa wisely kept his personal information off-limits, but he elaborated on his collection of priceless fronts and slugs as part of his style.

As the show went to commercial break, Destiny gave him a thumbs up and she texted King T'Chaka that they were on their way to the next interview at Good Morning America. Three days of interviews on the East Coast had been a flurry of conference calls, media training on the fly, and reigning in T'Challa's arrogance. Brilliant men were often trouble to contain with humility, and the Prince was no exception. It was hard for him to hide scorn on his face when he felt the person near his person was beneath him in intelligence and taste. She kept reminding him that he was standing in for his father and to take on the countenance of the diplomatic King.

The negro was hard-headed. He got on her nerves every day.

Despite the fact they were fucking each other comatose every night in his bed, despite the brand new wardrobe he bought for her, despite the personal hairstylist, make-up artist, and her own personal assistant as part of their ten-person entourage, Destiny and T'Challa were at each other's throats while they worked together.

After The View, they stopped at the hotel for him to shower, change and prep for Good Morning America.

"The NPR interview will happen before lunch and Pacifica radio is ready for you at nine tomorrow with Amy Goodman before we fly to Chicago," she called to him from the opposite side of his shower door.

"Can we skip CNN tonight?"

"No. Anderson Cooper is chomping at the bit to talk to you before Oprah gets her hooks into you out in L.A."

T'Challa burst out from the bathroom rubbing a plush towel across his chest. He was dripping wet and naked in front of his entire crew. They were used to him being like this. Destiny thought it was too intimate to watch his dick flop around in front of other women. Especially the young make-up artist that flirted with him every chance she got.

A female masseuse rubbed his shoulders while a female manicurist worked on his cuticles as he sat on a hotel chair. Destiny grabbed the towel from his hand and laid it across his lap. That was her big dick and heavy balls sitting out in the open. She wasn't having it. He sucked his teeth.

"Such a child about nudity," he hissed. The glint of his grill annoyed her.

His people were all Wakandan, so Destiny assumed this was the norm for them. But not to her. The masseuse was a little too handsy on his shoulders.

"Would you all excuse us?" she demanded.

Everyone stopped moving and glanced at T'Challa. He rolled his eyes, then flicked his wrist signaling for them to go through the adjoining suite door that led to her personal suite. Ayo followed behind them and shut the door.

"I don't like this."

"Like what?" he said standing up and checking his hair in the mirror. The taut glutes of his ass distracted her. So did his back muscles as they moved while he ran his fingers through his glossy curls.

"There should be some distance from you and your staff when you are getting dressed and we need to talk business. I prefer it when it's just you, me, and Ayo."

"What's your real issue?" he asked.

The gleam in his eye told her he wasn't taking her seriously.

"They are too familiar, and I don't think your father would like it. He knows how to separate himself."

"Well, it is a good thing I am nothing like my father. So rigid."