Royally Bad (Royally Wrong Book 1)

bar to collect it.
The shrieking continues a few rooms over, faint but clear. “Oh yeah. Oh yeah. Oh yeah.”
I detour and slam my hand against a patch of bare wall between two oil paintings of lemons. “Will you stop?”
Silence. I check the paintings to make sure my thumping on the wall didn’t disturb them, and head back to the new love of my life, the object of my desire, the fresh steaming liquid from heaven that is my morning latte.
I’m about to take a sip when the voice calls again, “Give it to me, big boy.”
“Enough!” I set down my cup with all the reverence the Archbishop of Canterbury lowering a crown. Then I stride out of the palatial kitchen, my bathrobe billowing out behind me like a cape. “I don’t think so. Not again.”
I round the corner and almost take out a giant vase. With a growl, I gather my robe close and ease sideways between two Louis XVI armchairs. I keep forgetting this place is a museum. It’s a miracle I haven’t taken out a Ming vase by now.
“Give it to me. Give it to me. Oh yeah. Oh yeah!”
“Oh, no,” I clear the parlor and speed through the outer hall, past more oil paintings full of naked folk frolicking through epic landscapes, made all the more creepy with the porn-like commentary.
“Oh yeah! That’s the spot!”
The closer I get to the voice, the smaller and crackly it sounds, like it’s coming from a hidden radio. I open a door and pause as humidity blasts me in the face. Sunlight shines full bore from a skylight onto a thick canopy of leaves. The room before me is a jungle. A literal jungle. Or as close to one as a sunroom full of jungle plants can be.
The voice falters a moment, then continues full force: “That’s the spot! Oh yeah!”
“Oh no,” I shout. “I’ve waited. I’ve been patient. You have been at it... All. Night. Long!” I step over the threshold to the grand sunroom and bat giant banana leaves out of my way. My robe brushes giant ferns that have been growing since the Jurassic era. I bushwhack gently towards the hot ‘n heavy commentary, wishing I brought a machete.
Not for the plants. For the loud-mouthed “lover” who has crowed for the last time.
“Big boy! Big boy!” The sound of wings fluttering makes me change course. I duck under a flowering branch and head to the front of the room where giant windows overlook a perfectly manicured garden.
A parrot, grey except for white patches around its eyes and a splash of red on its tail sits on his perch in a patch of light, bobbing its head in time to its cries. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
I clear my throat.
The sound cuts off abruptly. The bird twitches, cocking his head at me.
I fold my arms across my chest. “Are you finished?”
“Big boy?” the bird gurgles.
“No.” I raise a finger. “I’ve had enough. I was okay with this... the first time. Even the second and third time. I thought it was funny. Now, you know what I’m thinking? No? I’ll tell you.” I level my finger at the bird. “Parrot à la King!”
I stalk forward, my finger still out. The bird dances from foot to foot as I approach, nervously fluffing its feathers.
“Roasted Parrot,” I enunciate clearly. “Kung pao parrot. Parrot cacciatore.”
The parrot ducks his head as if in contrition. I’m not fooled. There is nothing but mischief in its beady little eye.
Its curved beak seems to grin as it asks again, “Big boy?”
“Parrot tikka masala!” I reach the perch. Ignoring my threats, the parrot scoots closer and cranes its head under my outstretched finger, begging me to scratch its neck. With a sigh, I oblige.
After a few seconds, the parrot lets out a crackly, “Oh yeah.”
“You just can’t help yourself,” I mutter, massaging the grey parrot’s feathered neck until bits of white fluff waft around us.
Instead of answering, the parrot angles his head the opposite direction, pushing on my hand when I hesitate to keep scratching.
“Enough with the commentary while I’m drinking my coffee. I don’t know what idiot let you watch porn.” Actually, I do. It was probably the parrot’s owner, who by my guess is a little old lady. Never married, no children, and overly endowed in the bank account, with a passion for French revival furniture and garden topiaries. Oh, and for Elvis. The Pompadour-haired singer, and the parrot she named after him.
“Are you going to be good?” I ask Elvis, who is practically crooning in pleasure as I scratch his scrawny neck.
“Oh yeah.” The parrot ruffles his feathers, sending out a fresh wave of dander to float in the sun. I back away, grab a hand vacuum and clean up a little. At least the bird poops in one place. Either that, or the army of cleaners that comes in once a week spends most of their time in here, washing and buffing the glossy leaves of the banana tree plants.
“Fine. I’ll play you some music.” A few feet away from the perch is a sleek console containing a vintage record player and records in sleeves. The room is rigged with state-of-the-art speakers. No expense spared for Elvis the bird.
“All shook up, all shook up,” the parrot whistles as I load a record.
I leave him bobbing his head in time to “Blue Suede Shoes” and hope the neighbors have sound proofed their own breakfast nook. At this rate, Elvis will be singing all day, with angry porn-tastic narrative in between whenever the record turns over.
By the time I traverse the mile back to the kitchen, my latte is cold. I drink it anyway.
I knew this pet sitting job would be different from my usual, but this is another dimension. Lately most of my clients have been well off, wealthy enough to hire someone to care for their pet while they’re traveling for months at a time.
But there’s wealth and then there’s wealth. The fact impressed upon me