The Interpreter

Preview!

"Baby, I'm a hot stepper none betterI

f you looking for a boss chick then come get her

Make a boy wait if he don't measure

'll make a boy wait if he don't measure"

Shaybo – "No Pressure"

Author's Note: Italics in the dialogue are meant to be the Wakandan language.

"Ah, Miss Destiny Keith! I am so pleased to see you again."

King T'Chaka Udaku held his hands out to Destiny as she greeted him inside the U.N. lobby. She had been waiting forty minutes. It was unusual for him to be late for anything. His Dora, General Okoye Munisi flanked his side with another Dora Milaje lieutenant. Okoye's eyes were keen and ever watchful. Destiny gave a slight bow to the king, but he waved a hand for her to stop being formal with him. They had worked together for over a year, and she still couldn't bring herself to be informal with him. The man had charisma and kind eyes that twinkled when he smiled.

"I want to apologize for my tardy arrival..."

Destiny's eyes slid behind the king, and she observed why he was late.

Prince T'Challa Udaku stepped next to his father with dark surly eyes and a sour demeanor about him. His personal head of security, Ayo, was a Dora that never smiled or gave a flying fuck about what anyone might have thought about her Prince. He could do no wrong.

"Say no more," Destiny said cutting her eyes at T'Challa.

The Prince rolled his eyes and then rolled his tongue across his top teeth that gleamed with a platinum grill shaped like panther teeth. He was dressed to impress in a tight custom winter

 green tweed jacket and vest with matching slacks. The soft curls in his small 'fro were moisturized to the hair Gods. Baby boy was clean. Fine as all get out. But an arrogant xenophobic bastard. She could smell the disdain he had for Americans wafting off his skin. Coming to the U.S. for any reason was a chore for him. His bored eyes didn't even register her anymore.

"My son had a bit of a rough night last night so he needed a more time to prepare for today's gathering."

"Right this way, Your Highness," Destiny said.

She stood a clear two feet away from the King as his security detail kept him surrounded. The general meeting hall was noisy with the surge of delegates and interpreters finding their seats.

"How long will this be father? I would like to go back to the hotel as soon as possible."

Unlike his father who was fairly fluent, T'Challa rarely spoke English. He once told her it was a gutter language. He also told her that her Wakandan sounded like a whale breeching water before it died. Destiny suspected that he just wasn't well-versed at it and couldn't admit a personal flaw.

"Since this is a special session to elect a new President, plan on three hours minimum," she said sweetly in Wakandan.

He rolled his eyes and still didn't acknowledge her presence.

Asshole.

Destiny caught his eyes dusting over young, attractive, female U.N. staff scurrying about to escort men and women to their places. T'Challa never missed an opportunity to ogle Sandrine Oscar, a French interpreter for Senegal. Sis was stacked and packing heavy junk in the trunk. The Prince gave lascivious glances her way and Sandrine lobbed the stares right back at him. A hook up was imminent by the way they acted even in the slight passing. So uncouth.

Destiny tugged down on her short beige jacket that matched her pencil skirt. She wore her best four-inch black heels that made her ass toot out. Her neck-length lacefront had nice reddish-brown highlights she thought accentuated the cheekbones in her round face. The climate change made the weather in New York hotter in the fall, and she used more protective styles because she was tired of flat-ironing and styling her hair when her hairdos would fall or go back within minutes. She rotated three good wigs for the U.N.

Staring at the Dora Milaje, she wondered if maybe she should just shave off all her hair and rock a baldie. Glancing at Okoye, she slipped her hand inside her small handbag and pulled out a tiny wrapped bag. She tapped Okoye's arm and palmed the goods in her hand. Okoye winked at her. The new Fenty lip balm was about to drop later that winter, but Destiny had a hook-up at the company and was able to get the honey roast color Okoye wanted when she last came to New York and Fenty had run out of the product.

The meeting started and T'Challa pulled out his razor-thin cell and scrolled. Destiny cleared her throat at him and the Prince lifted his eyes and glared at her.

"No cell phones, Your Highness," she scolded.

"I hate the sound of your voice," he muttered.

Fuck you nigga, I hate your raggedy face, she thought to herself.

T'Challa's eyes ghosted over hers and Destiny froze thinking she had said the words out loud. The prince returned his focus onto his cell and she reached over and snatched it from his hand.

"With all due respect, I said, no cell phones, Your Highness."

Her English was blunt. Cold.

T'Challa reached over and slapped her hand, yanking his cell back.

"Don't ever touch me or my things," he spat out in perfect English.

Lucky for them they were seated next to one another behind his father and the Doras. She pinched the shit out of his wrist and the horror that came across his face made her almost giggle out loud. He shook his hand vigorously with great theatrics.

"You are lucky we are in public. I would spank your ass if you did this anywhere else," he hissed under his breath.

"Is that a threat?"

Destiny's voice didn't come out the way she intended it to. What was supposed to be boss bitch assertive in the "I-Wish-A-Nigga-Would" vocal motif came out limp and almost... needy.

"A promise. Now stop talking so I don't have to hear that dreadful American dialect."

T'Challa turned his head, and Destiny touched the back of her neck. The nape was damp. But another place on her body was too.

The Prince may have hated the English language, but the way he barked it with that Wakandan accent....

Destiny pressed her knees together and faced forward.