Table of Contents Title Copyright Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Epilogue The Mother Road Chapter One
STROKED Meghan Quinn
Copyright Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing Copyright 2016 Cover design by Indie Solutions by Murphy Rae Formatting by CP Smith Cover model: Stuart Reardon Photo credit: Paul Reitz with Love N. Books This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at
[email protected] This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.
www.authormeghanquinn.com Copyright © 2016 Meghan Quinn All rights reserved.
Chapter One **PAISLEY** “What kind of fresh hell is this?” Finely manicured fingers snap in the air. “Hey, latte mule. Why don’t you haul your marshmallow hooves over here and try delivering me something that didn’t just seep like sewage from the barista’s asshole. And for the love of God, deliver it to me without panting like an out-of-work hippo.” Mocha-colored latte drops to the ground, rudely decorating everyone’s shoes and discoloring the laminate floor of the studio. “Why is it so hard to find competent people in this industry?” Bellini Chambers. Daughter of Buddy Chambers, millionaire, well known for getting humped by a pig on television and then suing the production company for “soiling” his reputation. Mind you, he didn’t have much of a reputation to soil to begin with. With the settlement, Buddy invested his money into a line of pizza stores – his business sense is on point, despite being humped by a pig on national television. These weren’t just any kind of pizza stores. Ever hear of Peyton Manning buying a bunch of Papa John’s pizza shops right before pot was legalized in the state of Colorado? Well, you can say Buddy pulled a Peyton Manning. Pothead Pizza and dispensary. Buddy invested all his settlement money into the idea of providing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtletype pizza toppings to all stoned potheads in Colorado. What kind of toppings are those? Think of the weirdest combination of food, got it in your head? Now times that by fifty and you have their specials. Thin Mint and Italian Sausage Pizza Bugle, Pretzel, and Skittles Pizza Pumpkin Seeds and Chocolate Covered Kale Chips Pizza – that’s for the healthier potheads. Oreo, Broccoli, and Doughnut Hole Pizza – that one makes me gag. Attach a coupon for fifteen percent off a pizza when you purchase from the dispensary and stoned consumers with the munchies, willing to put anything in their THC-filled faces, and you have a million-dollar business. Buddy now sits in his mansion in Malibu, sipping his PBR because he’s still the same pig-humped man, and rolls around in what I can only imagine is a velour jumpsuit two sizes too small for this rotund stature. Bellini—his one and only daughter—became famous after the general population found their family to be interesting to watch. Three seasons later, Bellini is the star of the show, waltzing around in her Prada heels, Chanel sunglasses, and carrying her miniature schnauzer around in a purse designed by Hermes, of course. People love to hate her. Americans tune in to her show every Thursday night just to see what kind of asinine, ignorant, and abhorrent filth will come out of her mouth. I’ve been guilty of partaking in such reality TV corruption.
“Carpenter? Where is the carpenter?” she shouts, looking around the room. A nervous man walks up to her, his tuchas tucked under and his legs quivering in fear. “Um, Miss Chambers. I’m the set designer not a carpenter.” “Whatever, Bob Vila.” She rolls her eyes. “What kind of wood did you use to make that bench? Is it oak?” “The b-bench is a prop, ma’am. We didn’t make it. The studio provided it for the photoshoot today.” The poor set designer is sweating bullets, stumbling over his well-thought-out words. “I specifically asked for a bench made out of African blackwood.” She points at the bench that would be well received in any park around the country. “Does that look like African blackwood?” “I . . . I don’t know what African blackwood is, ma’am.” Bellini sneers as she slowly, very, very slowly, scans the poor set designer up and down. “What kind of carpenter are you if you can’t tell the difference between an oak bench and one that is made from African blackwood? Did you go to a trade school made for squirrely little men who have atrocious social skills and smell like cheese? Was your major in fermenting your own Gouda under your armpits? Because I’ll tell you right now, the pungent dairy smell drifting from your sasquatch underarms is offensive to everyone around us.” She pauses and blows on her nails that were just freshly painted. “Now, if you’re not going to get me the African blackwood bench like I asked, then for the love of all artesian markets selling Gruyère, go serve up some crackers with those underarms of yours and get out of my face.” She’s the devil incarnate. I turn to Jonathan and shake my head. “I can’t do this.” He sighs, puts his clipboard on a table next to us, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Paisley, you know I love you, right?” I nod my head. “Good, because you don’t have a choice, this is it.” I lean closer and hiss at him. “You have got to be kidding me. This was the only job you could find me?” “There were plenty of jobs, sweetheart—” “Then why did you bring me here?” “Because this was the only one that would actually bring you on board.” “What?” I shout-whisper. “The only job in this entire industry you could find for me was an assistant to a reality star? How is that even possible? I have three years of production experience, specifically in sound mixing.” “Yes, and those three years were washed away the minute the incident happened.” The Incident. There is always a pivotal turn in everyone’s life that tilts the axis of their world, sending them in a different direction. For some, this moment could be getting a raise, having a baby, finding the love of their life. For others, like myself, the moment could be a death spiral, flying out of control into an abyss of solitude where you have one hell of a time trying to claw your way out. I made one mistake, and it caused the demise of my career, washed away three years of hard work making a name for myself in this industry—two and a half of those being a long-earned internship. Now, not only do I have to start from the ground up, but I have to work around a tarnished image as well.
You’re probably wondering what I did that was so bad I have to take a job as the assistant to the most over-the-top, self-centered human. It’s simple. I forgot to turn off a microphone. Yup, you heard that right. I didn’t click one single button. Just one. Let me enlighten you about this business. I was working for Good Morning, Malibu at the time, a local morning news station that goes into great detail about the surf report, celebrity parties in the hills, and what tanning lotion is best used for overcast days. Real riveting news, Pulitzer Prize type of stuff. I was in charge of keeping track of Malibu’s very own Minnie Winston’s microphone. She’s a Botox-injected, leather-skinned, seventy-year-old phenomenon. Her bones screamed seventy, but her face was that of a thirty-year-old. In my opinion, from the way her face didn’t move when she laughed hysterically, she looked like she belonged in a horror flick shining a light on discarded and mutilated Barbie dolls. It was terrifying. Like, she spins her head around on her neck kind of terrifying. But, weirdly enough, she is a Malibu staple, but she is also a loose cannon. The Incident happened on a Friday morning. Minnie was in a rare mood that day, pretty sure she didn’t take her Xanax. I was anxious not because of the show, but because my grandpa kept texting me about a Pez dispenser I was bidding on eBay for him. He didn’t know how to work a computer, but texting apparently was right up his alley. Before I go any further, quick side note: my grandpa means the world to me. I would literally do anything he asked of me. Growing up with the man sleeping in the bedroom next to me, we became best friends, inseparable at times. Other kids on the reservation would bike with their comrades, licking at their ice cream while directing teasing jokes at me. But it hadn’t mattered because my grandpa and I rode like pimps in our souped-up boxcar, taking down a sixty-four-ounce Slurpee with ease while listening to my battery-operated boom box, blasting none other than Queen. Back to The Incident. During production, we cut to the weather report just as I received a text from my grandpa asking about the soft-head Mickey Mouse Pez he needed so desperately to add to his ever-growing collection. I glanced at my phone for one second, without turning Minnie’s microphone off. You can see where this is going. She started swearing to her makeup artist about a visible wrinkle by her right eye. While the poor weatherman was talking about the sunny weather and urging viewers to drink plenty of water in the heat, Minnie was raging about the application of wrinkle cream by using adjectives, nouns, and verbs like fucking, shit, and whore face. Only one sentence was heard before I turned off her mic, but that was all it took. I was packing my box that afternoon and kissing my career goodbye. Word spread, of course, because the clip went viral, thank you, YouTube and Facebook. Social media was the nail in my career coffin and sent me packing with zero prospects lined up. In case you were wondering, my grandpa did outbid PleazPassThePez65 in an epic bidding war over Mickey Mouse, so at least someone won that day. I would like to tell you that during the time of my unemployment I spent time reflecting on my inner self, trying to improve my worth by taking other classes, continuing to educate myself, but that
didn’t happen. Instead, I spent hours upon hours binge-watching Netflix while eating my weight in Thin Oreos—thin because I convinced myself they weren’t that bad for my figure. It wasn’t until Jonathan, my best friend and roommate, came home one night with a girl while I was lying spread eagle on the couch, itching my inner thigh, and enjoying a can of tomato juice did he kick me in the ass and threaten eviction from the apartment we shared. (Technically I knew he wouldn’t throw me out, but I got his point.) Wanting to get back in the game, I started my running routine again, which was much harder than I remembered—thank you, Oreos—and searched for jobs everywhere. Six months later, I have one option. “What is the color of those walls?” Bellini shouts to whoever is in earshot. “Is that ceramic sand? I asked for mystical peach. Is this that carpenter ’s fault? Doesn’t anyone know Pantone colors around here? The orange hues are too harsh; they will wash me out.” She starts to fan her face. “I can’t do this, someone get my dad.” In an instant, the crew scatters away from her and starts searching for Buddy Chambers. Jonathan grabs my hand and squeezes it sympathetically. “You know I would do anything for you, sweetheart. I would stick my neck out for you, and I did. This was the best I could find. It’s this or start spreading your legs over at Sunset Boulevard. And even though I know this isn’t the job you were looking for, the rent is not going to pay itself. I’ve covered you as much as I can.” “I know.” I nod in agreeance. Taking a deep breath, I watch Bellini continue to snap her fingers at humans, demanding her father ’s presence. “My grandpa better cherish that damn Pez dispenser.” I take a deep breath, accepting my fate. “Let’s do this.” Jonathan beams at me and lets out a long, relieved sigh. “Awesome. This will be great, Pay. Just work with her for a few months, get some experience, and hopefully soon we will be able to scrub your record clean. The producer, Wally Rose, is well known for rotating his crews. If you prove you can handle someone like Bellini Chambers, and all the bullshit that comes with her, there is no doubt in my mind he will look at you seriously for other positions. Use this job as a test. If you do well, consider yourself on your way up in the industry.” “You really think so?” I would do just about anything to get back in the game, to get behind a mixing board and start assisting with production again. When I left the Pechanga Reservation in Temecula for college, my family scoffed at me, told me my pipe dreams were just that—pipe dreams. I should stay in the family business, the general store, and work to serve the community. Trying to earn a job in production wasn’t helping anybody, the great parting words from my father. The only person who believed in me was my grandpa. He funded college while I reached for the stars, hence ensuring I won his Pez dispenser. As I said, I would do anything for the man. Once my family caught wind of The Incident, they made a great attempt to shame me and lure me back to Temecula, but I refused. Thank God for Jonathan; I owed him. Taking this job wasn’t just for me, it was for him. He’s worked just as hard and held my head above water while I tried to find myself. It is time to pay him back. “I do think so, Pay, but you have to work hard. You up for it?” I eye Bellini and start pumping myself up. Rich white girl, blonde hair, and bird legs with her own
reality show: no problem. I grew up on an Indian reservation in one of the most materialistic parts of the country. I was called moccasin, dreamcatcher, and featherhead by my classmates from kindergarten through high school. If I can handle that kind of torture and abuse, what can this little Twinkie really do to me? “I am. Thanks for getting me this job, Jonathan. I appreciate it.” “Anytime, sweets. Now let me introduce you because I have some work to do on Backdoor Barbeque.” Jonathan worked with Wally Rose on one of his other reality shows, Backdoor Barbeque. It is the reason why he was able to get me this job, but he also assists with other shows where needed. It is a bit of an incestuous pool of employees with all shows falling under Wally Rose’s belt. Right then and there, I tell myself I’m going to take this job seriously no matter what the pixie stick throws at me. I’m determined to begin my climb back up to my dreams, starting with Bellini Chambers.
Chapter Two **BELLINI** It’s so hard being me. I’m so popular, everyone wants to be me, and do you know what? I don’t blame them? How can I? If I saw such a specimen like myself walking down the streets of Rodeo Drive, I would strive to be just like me as well. Just look at those cheekbones, smooth and perfectly round, framing the crystal blue of my eyes. I’ve accomplished the absolute ideal symmetry in my eyebrows thanks to the threading goddess at pagoda number nine in the mall. My hair looks like it’s been spun by Rapunzel herself into velvet tendrils of blonde, cascading perfectly to my shoulders. And don’t even ask me where I get it dyed, you dumb bitches, because you can’t find this color in a box. It’s natural. I’m beautiful. I’m popular. I’m famous. But most importantly, I’m rich, and what I found out when you’re rich is that you can get anything you want. With one snap of the fingers, you can have three people at your beck and call asking you how they can assist you while they try to stick their head as far as they possibly can up my perfectly bleached asshole. “Where’s Daddy?” I shout. “How long does it take for a bunch of Cheetos-eating production skanks to find one single man? Hello, he’s the fat, balding one in the Burberry plaid pants!” Ugh, yes, you heard that right, he wears Burberry plaid pants. He’s known for them now. Once Daddy earned his riches, he decided to make a fashion statement—be a style icon—and since Nick Jonas could pull off the Burberry print, Daddy thought he could too. All my dad’s life decisions are based around the Jonas Brothers, as in his words, they are a proper boy band, one to emulate. Hence the over-the-top karaoke machine in our living room, stocked with songs from the main squeezes in my father ’s life. In my opinion, they are a cheaper, yet more attractive version of Hanson. But like I was saying, it’s so hard being me. You can’t imagine the amount of pimply faced tweens—boys and girls—that come up to me on a daily basis, asking me how they can obtain the kind of perfection I exude. Do you know what I tell them? I pat their little chunky, pockmarked cheeks and say . . . you can’t. Every generation has their Audrey Hepburn, but I belong to the Millennials. Instead of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, my minions follow me to the Hamptons where they sit outside the house, scratching their lice-infested heads, watching me have brunch with Harry Winston while we talk about how there is no piece of jewelry in this world that could ever be prettier than me. Tiffany’s, ha! Pathetic, Audrey. Girls want to be me, there’s no question about that. Just ask my main follower, Pocket. No, her parents didn’t pull a Michael Jackson on her and name her after the inner lining of a jean sack, I just can’t remember her name. I think it’s something like Polly, but I’m too bored of her to figure it out, so I call her Pocket. It’s much easier this way.
Pocket is the perfect little minion. On a daily basis she pulls my pants down and blows compliments up my little white ass. Not literally, God, we’re not an episode of The L Word. She is entirely too ugly to upstage me, therefore she never steals the attention. I do dress her because I can’t be seen walking the streets with a Macklemore thrift shop monstrosity. I give her my hand-me-downs, even the underwear I only wear once. No use in throwing it away. I’m sponsored by Bordelle—kind of like Justin Bieber being sponsored by Calvin Klein—but instead of walking around like a bleached-blond douche, I strut my Bordelle as if I am Marilyn Monroe, occasionally letting the wind send a sexy uplift to my flouncy dress, showing off my perfectly waxed Brittney. No publicity is bad publicity if you ask me. Girls want to be me . . . but more importantly, boys want to get with me. Ugh, men. Their brains are in their dicks, thinking only with their lightning rod and coin purses. The amount of men who’ve panted over my mere appearance is overwhelming. I’ve had to increase my security detail because a nude shot of me has now escalated to a half million dollars. I’ve seen pictures on the Internet of naked women with my head photoshopped onto their bodies, and it’s disgraceful. Newsflash to everyone out there, including the Tumblr freaks dying to post a picture of me in my true essence: anyone who thinks those bodies belong to me are sorely mistaken. If you haven’t noticed already, there isn’t one ounce of fat on my body, and secondly, if you were to see my nipples, you would notice they are pretty little jelly beans rather than the pancakes some bored computer nerd thinks I have. Thankfully, I’m taken, and don’t have to worry about sifting through the trough of America’s finest. Who is the lucky man you ask? Only Olympic royalty, Reese King. I’ll wait while you fan your face. Done salivating? Such horny bitches. He’s everything a girl like me could ask for. He looks good standing next to me. He’s just sexy enough to be able to hold his own, but doesn’t overshadow me, and he’s rich as well, thanks to his underwear modeling and popularity. Anyone would want to have a threesome with us, but too bad for them, I’m a puritan and believe in abstinence before marriage. By no means are we engaged, but he isn’t sticking anything near me anytime soon. “Did my little angel puss call for me?” my dad asks. “I was walking Pope Francis, making sure he dookied outside.” “Popey!” I squeal, reaching out with my needy hands, wanting to feel his hair run through my fingers. The minute Pope Francis is handed over to me, I bury my face in his hair and take in the smell of frankincense and myrrh. He wears it as cologne, and it suits him well. I know what you’re thinking, why is the ex-officio of the Roman Catholic Church letting you bury your face in his hair? Shouldn’t he be hanging out at the Vatican, breaking bread for the homeless like Jesus did? He is, you ignorant shoehorns. The Pope Francis I’m talking about is my mini white schnauzer, the love of my life, and the only
good in this world. Gandhi, the real Pope Francis, Oprah, and the Olsen twins come in a close second. Popey is the perfect little companion and religious outlet I need. He is kind, has a deep concern for the poor—mainly homeless dogs—and is extremely humble. Despite my attempts to pamper him with mink fur coats and gold-threaded dog beds, he continues to sleep on the cold, hard floor of my bedroom like a saint and will only wear collars from . . . PetSmart. I cringe just thinking about it. Most importantly, Popey is the inspiration for my up-and-coming clothing line of religious wear for dogs. Where did I get such a fantastic idea you ask? After realizing my dog is a religious humanitarian, I wanted to make sure he was dressed properly for the part. After hours upon hours of research, I concluded there was a hole in the dog clothing market. I couldn’t find one Angelican surplice, Roman Southport cassock, or a simple short-sleeve, polyblend clergy shirt for a dog. What is the world coming to if I can’t buy a cassock for my own dog? Therefore, I took matters into my own hands and began creating my own line of religious wear to satisfy my dog’s needs. “What’s wrong, angel puss?” my dad asks as I’m nuzzling Pope Francis’s nose. “I heard you were upset about a bench.” The rage I was feeling instantly vanishes, and I know it’s because God rests in my dog, and he can calm the inner Lucifer that wants to pop out of me from time to time. “The bench is oak, Daddy. I asked for African blackwood.” “The nerve.” He slams his fist on the armrest of his chair. “Who do I need to fire?” I want to say the carpenter, but I know Pope Francis wouldn’t be pleased with me. He’s so thoughtful and respectful of others, and I don’t want to disappoint him. Instead, I put on a brave face. “No one, Daddy. I can tough it out. I only have to sit on it for a short time while they take pictures of me.” “I don’t want my angel puss unhappy and uncomfortable. Are you sure you can go on with the shoot? I will demand we reschedule.” I pat my dad’s arm. “Thank you, Daddy, but I feel like slumming it for a short amount of time won’t harm me. Might be nice to see how the people below us live. Let’s see what it feels like to be a blue-collar worker.” “You’re so brave.” My dad grips my face, tears of pride in his eyes. “Thanks, Daddy. It can be a blog post I make later and a moment to add to my scrapbooks. I can entitle it, ‘How people on the other side of the tracks live.’” My dad claps for me. “What a wonderful and inspiring title. You’re changing the world, angel puss. I couldn’t be more proud of you.” I grip my dad’s hand that still rests against my cheek, and I’m about to tell him I love him when someone from behind me clears their throat, interrupting the father-daughter dance of emotions I’m experiencing. “Miss Chambers, I have someone I would like to introduce to you.” “Who the hell has the audacity to interrupt—?” My words are cut short when I see Jonathan Byers standing behind me. Normally, I wouldn’t know someone’s name so well, especially when I don’t tend to care about the humans around me, but Jonathan is important. He’s good friends with Wally Rose, my producer. So I try to give him a miniscule of my respect, despite the fact he dresses like a hipster
straight from an Anthropology ad. No matter what anyone ever says, sock hats and plaid should never be worn together with leather bracelets. Ill-fashioned illiterates. “Jonathan, I’m sorry. I thought you were that pestering coffee mule again.” He straightens his skinny tie and shoots a fake smile in my direction. I’m not stupid. I know the irritable gingham-clad man-version of Blossom hates me, and well, the feeling is mutual. “I apologize for interrupting you and your dad but I would like to introduce you to your new assistant. Her name is Paisley Macarro. She is a graduate from UCLA and has a degree in film production.” From behind Jonathan, an extremely fit woman with tan skin, long black wavy hair, and grey eyes appears, looking a little gun-shy. She’s wearing a pair of cut-off jean shorts, combat boots, and a black tank top—what a monstrosity. Her skin is decorated with random tattoos of scribbled sayings, providing no rhyme or reason. It looks like Jonathan just opened a trash bag and she crawled out of it. “Hello, Miss Chambers, it’s a pleasure—” I hold up my hand, pleading with her to shut her mouth before a raccoon munching on an ear of corn pops out. “Did you say your name is Paisley?” The girl quickly glances at Jonathan and then directs her attention back to me, where it belongs. “Yes, it’s Paisley.” “As in the Persian pattern that decorates most elderly women’s living rooms? Mainly in mauve or dusty blue tones?” “Some people might say like Brad Paisley,” she says, in an attempt to correct me. I look at her, clueless. “You know, the country star?” “Fortunately his name is irrelevant to me. I don’t listen to that cheap southern twang you beer guzzlers call music. I only let my virgin ears listen to the harmonic composers of the Baroque period. For you imbeciles, that would be Bach, Purcell, Scarlatti, and Hendel, to name a few, but I’m sure you knew that.” I give her a knowing look as I pet Pope Francis, fully satisfied with putting her in her place. The uneducated, no-class twit standing in front of me surely doesn’t know the difference between an opera and a cantata. And by the look of her appearance, she wouldn’t be able to spot the difference between the lustrous and proportionally spherical pearls that caress the peak of my collarbone from ones bought from a menstruating tween with a coupon from Claire’s. She’s radiating the “no-class” vibe. How could she know when she’s wearing . . . combat boots? For heaven’s sake, I’m physically offended by her choice of footwear. “Personally, I enjoy the French-inspired basso continuo Jean-Baptiste Lully used as a backdrop for his ballads, so lively and radical for his time, wouldn’t you agree?” she replies, a smile on her face, as if she just topped me. Flabbergasted and outraged, I do the one thing I do best. I beckon someone. “POCKET!” I scream, looking for someone to attack the Ronda Rousey build of a woman standing in front of me who has the audacity to shove my snark right back in my face. “I sent Polly home,” Jonathan informs me. “She was looking ill after taste testing all the Mexican food you had sent to the studio. We have an hour to get these shots done or else we will be charged extra. According to your contract, any overtime caused by your delay will be charged directly to you.
And just so you know, this entire operation is costing thousands upon thousands of dollars an hour.” Don’t ever threaten me with money. My daddy worked hard to get us to where we are today, we value our money and spend it on necessities, like gold-lined waistbands and luxury Calacatta marble imported from Italy for the cutting board of our cheese slicer. We don’t spend money on people like petty staff. If they stay overtime, that is their own damn fault for not settling my needs sooner. Too bad I’m the only one who sees it that way. I’ve already been fined multiple times, and I will be damned if I get fined again. I can feel my temper start to flare; a fermented explosion of rage is about to boil over and spew high-class venom on everyone around me. Through clenched teeth, I say, “I’m not the only one in this photo shoot. Where the hell is Reese?” “He’s been here, Miss Chambers, in the back. We’ve been waiting to see if your highness will be willing to sit on a regular oak bench as opposed to African blackwood.” How dare he! Handing Pope Francis to my dad, making sure not to ruffle the rosary he wears around his neck— the blessed saint—I hold my hand to my chest and push back the tears that threaten to destroy my perfectly applied makeup. “I will have to suffer . . . for the people.” The Persian pattern standing next to Jonathan chuckles and my defenses immediately rise. Pointing at her, I say, “She is fired. Her attitude and barbaric appearance are not welcome here.” That shocks the twisted fig and erases the smile that recently resided on her face. Desperation laces her eyes, and I can’t help but enjoy the way her entire aura begs me to reconsider. “Unfortunately, Miss Chambers, you can’t just fire Paisley. That is not your decision, and unless you have a reasonable reason for her to be let go, you will have to learn to get along with her. She is here to help you.” “Fine,” I huff, turning away from him. “Daddy, escort me to the set. I need Pope Francis near me. You know how nervous I get when everyone is trying to soak in my beauty.” “Anything for you, angel puss.” I walk arm in arm with my dad over to the rink-a-dink photo-shoot set the network put together for me, all the while thinking about ways I can make the pattern loathe working with me until she quits. I don’t think it would be too hard. She seems pretty shakable. She will soon find out that she is going to wish I could fire her. Her life has now become a living hell. I can only hope Pope Francis will pray for her.
Chapter Three **REESE** Was this really what my life is spiraling down to? Me in a Speedo, my hair styled to Bellini’s standards, oil glistening on my chest, and a beach ball as a prop? I stare at myself in the mirror. Loathing, self-hatred, depression. Yup, they’re all there. “Is this necessary?” I ask Ashley, my publicist. “I look like a total douchebag.” Ashley looks up from her phone, her lifeline, and smiles wide, letting me know in fact, I do look like a douchebag. “It’s not that bad, the beach ball is a little much but the Speedo looks good.” “It’s leopard print,” I deadpan. A snort escapes her before she covers her nose. “It’s very becoming of you,” she lies and then looks closer at me. “Jesus, how much oil did they put on you? I’m pretty sure I can see my reflection in your abs.” I take a look at my stomach, flexing it as my head falls forward. I might be older than my peers, but I still have one hell of a body . . . one that is slathered in oil currently. “The girl who put it on was rather handsy. Pretty sure she spent extra time lathering me up.” I wipe my face with my hand in frustration and ask, “Ashley, is this really necessary?” “The photo shoot?” she asks, her attention back on her phone. “Of course. They need pictures for the next season of Rollin’ In The Bacon. You know how production companies are, they always want promotional material.” “I’m not talking about the show. I’m talking about the fake relationship you set me up with. In case you haven’t noticed, the woman is insane. She believes her dog is a disciple sent from God, she shames anyone who comes near her, and she seriously thinks this little publicity stunt you set up with her publicist is real.” I lean forward just to make sure Ashley is the only one to hear me. “She tried to kiss me the other day. She knows this isn’t real, right?” Ashley nonchalantly shrugs her shoulders. “I can neither confirm nor deny what she knows.” “Ashley,” I snap. “I’m a highly regarded Olympian—” “Who is on his way out. Don’t forget this is your last Olympics, Reese. The media is already over the top with this being your send-off swim. We need to leverage this as much as possible for sponsors and partnerships once you hang up your little Speedo, especially since you don’t have the best reputation on the pool deck. Your temper with interviewers and paparazzi has painted you with quite the bad image. Oh, and don’t forget, you’re still striving for that untouchable gold medal you haven’t been able to snag.” Didn’t I fucking know it. I sit down and bring my hands to my head where I grip my hair, not caring that I’m messing with my “look.” Three Olympics under my belt since I was sixteen and not one single fucking gold. I’m more popular for choking when it matters than my actual accomplishments. Rudely named The Silver
Stroke by announcers, newspapers, and every media outlet there is, I’ve accomplished everything a swimmer could possibly ask for, besides the epitome of athletic success. I don’t have a gold medal. Not from lack of trying; my mental game has been fucked with too many times, all at the wrong moments. I can be the fastest swimmer in the world but without a steady mental game, I can throw it all away. Every Olympics, I’ve come to a point where my mental game splintered right before it mattered and was unable to recover. Whether it was my dad having a heart attack, my grandpa dying, or private pictures being leaked to the media right before the big race, there has always been something that’s affected me that ultimately affected the outcome of every Olympic final I’ve participated in, christening me The Silver Stroke. It’s not like being known as second best in my career isn’t devastating enough, but I think about it every fucking day while training, that and all the stories running rampant in the media about 2016 being my last Olympics. My face is plastered across almost every magazine right now, going into the games, claiming me as The Silver Stroke, only able to win silver at the Olympics and nothing more. Ever hear about sports being eighty percent mental and twenty percent physical? It’s so fucking true. I’ve won championships, nationals, set records, established myself as one of the top male athletes in the world, but that one accomplishment—winning a gold—has eluded my grasp too many fucking times. This is it for me. I have one more chance, and instead of focusing on my training, I’m stuck doing promotional crap with a self-absorbed reality star. At the time, when Ashley first spoke to me about having dinner with Bellini Chambers, it made sense, since her popularity was on the rise—Lord knows why—and I had just announced 2016 would be my last Olympics. It wasn’t a surprise to see the media waiting for us outside of the restaurant, taking our picture. I couldn’t eat my food fast enough that night. Conversation was repulsive, given she talked about herself the entire time: how beautiful she is, how she has the best legs—ones that even rival Carrie Underwood’s—and how she is so rich, she doesn’t know how to spend the money. She giggled like an imbecile, had a piece of lettuce stuck in her teeth for at least three conversations, and of course, I never told her, because why would I? The girl needs to learn humility. Too bad for me the wine she had—served with ice—washed it down. When I returned home that night, I vowed never to have dinner with her again, but after the media caught wind of our night out, all hell broke loose, and we were the new celebrity couple. Since I needed a future after swimming, Ashely thought it would be a good idea to leverage her popularity for my own good, to help with my image, and expose me in a light the general public hasn’t seen. Looking at the leopard-print Speedo—which before today, I would never be caught dead in—I know I’ve made a mistake, but there is no going back now. I’ve already signed a contract to have my life recorded by a production crew and followed around, allowing the world into my life, a complete contrast to the private life I’ve strived for. “Mr. King, we are ready for you.” I nod at the production assistant and stand. Reluctantly, I grab my beach ball and head out to the set.
Before I am out of my dressing room, Ashely calls out, “This will be good for you, Reese. Suck it up for these next couple of months. I promise this decision will pay off.” “I hope you’re right,” I mumble. I am not a fame-whore, always seeking attention. It isn’t my cup of tea. I do magazine shoots, underwear campaigns, talk shows, and occasional announcing because it’s part of being a swimmer, not because I enjoy it. I don’t mind taking part in my duties, what I do mind is the invasion of privacy I deal with on a day-to-day basis with paparazzi and fans always taking pictures of me. Can’t a guy eat a burger without seeing his picture on Perez Hilton the next day with a half a strip of bacon hanging out of his mouth? This reality show is against everything I want to be a part of, but after a long conversation with Ashley, I know my career is coming to an end and I need something as a backup. Without a gold, I am just a rugged face, with a reputation as the bad boy of the swimming pool, the legendary Silver Stroke, who never reached the apex of his career, instead failed miserably . . . three fucking times. As I approach the set, Bellini is hyperventilating and waving her hands in front of her eyes, fending off tears. I resist the eye-rolling that forms from her ridiculousness and walk over to where she stands. Mr. Chambers is holding Pope Francis, the only legit being in the family, wearing his same Burberry plaid pants, white polo, and gold sunglasses. He looks like an absolute mockery. “Oh Reese,” she coos in relief, “thank God you’re here.” She grabs hold of my arm and hangs on to me dramatically. “They got the bench all wrong. It was supposed to be African blackwood, but it’s oak. I thought I could act like a peasant and sit on it but now I see it up close, I don’t think I can.” I look at the bench, confused. “It’s a bench. Just sit on it. Who cares what kind of wood it is?” The crew around me snickers from my clear logic. “Just sit on it?” Bellini scowls at me. “Just sit, as if it was a regular old bench?” “Uh yeah. Bend your knees and place your ass on the bench.” I mimic the movement. “Despite what you might think, you’re not going to die. The wood isn’t going to swallow you whole, and it sure as hell won’t ruin your makeup or hair if that’s what you’re worried about.” She studies me; there is a little twitch in her neck, a small pulse of indifference. I can tell she wants to lecture me on the “decency of talking to her”—believe me, I’ve heard her tirade a couple times— but I know she won’t do it in front of all the people staring at us. If anything, the fake wannabe CUNTry-club snob puts on a good face when she needs to, and right about now, with a few dozen people waiting on her, and money being spent, she will do what she’s told. Instead of yelling at me, she smooths the skirt of her dress and asks, “Will you hold my hand while I attempt to sit down?” I grind my teeth, refraining from head butting her back to her feeble roots. “Miss Chambers, I have your Fiji water you asked for.” Bellini reaches for the water as if it’s her lifeline. I glance up for a second to see the back of a woman’s head, long black hair falling past her shoulder blades. Soft tendrils of ebony capture me, and I wonder what it would feel like to have that hair wrapped around my hand. Her backside is covered in short denim shorts, cut off at just the right length that has me begging for her to bend over,
just an inch so I can see more of her beautifully tan skin. Her feet are encased in black boots that have seen better days. From certain angles, I can see words written on her body—her extremely athletic body. I observe the way the muscles in her legs flex with her small movements, the way her toned arms fall to the side. From her build, she must do CrossFit. “Uh, Mauve, are you just going to stand there? Offer Reese something to drink, for Christ’s sake.” Mauve? “My name is Paisley,” she corrects, and I cringe, wishing the girl had more common sense than to talk back to the she-beast herself. Bellini sets down her water and walks right up to Paisley, standing toe to toe. Bellini is a decent five nine in height, and this girl must at least be five five. Bellini towers over her. Getting in her face, she says, “You work for me, you assist ME! Therefore, if I refer to you as Mauve, the color of your stupid Persian-pattern name, then you will answer to it. Don’t think I don’t know you need this job. I can see it in your eyes. Now, we can either have a nice working relationship, or I can make your life a living hell. It’s up to you . . . Mauve.” Paisley’s jaw ticks and I can see the minute muscles of her neck flex in frustration. Talking back is on the tip of her tongue, everyone can see it, but instead of slapping Bellini like she deserves with a verbal onslaught of profanity, Paisley turns to me. Heart-stopping grey eyes and luscious lips. Fucking. Gorgeous. So gorgeous my heart rate picks up, and the palms of my hands begin to sweat. I’m a relatively slick man, but my anxiety kicks up a notch from the way her steely eyes are piercing me. There is no denying her beauty. The heart shape of her face frames her in an angelic light, the pink of her pouty lips beg to be kissed, and the length of her eyelashes speaks trouble. From the scroll of words that dance underneath her right collarbone, to the soft wave of her jet-black hair, she’s no doubt in my mind the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. “Mr. King.” Her voice shakes as she speaks to me. A part of me wants to think her voice is wavering because she’s nervous around me, but I realize I’m wearing a leopard-print Speedo and holding a beach ball. There is no way she finds this attractive. “Would you like anything to drink?” I clear my throat, surprised at how nervous she actually makes me. “Uh, I’m good. Thanks.” She nods and walks away without another word. Wow, real smooth, fuck-stick. No introduction, no “how are you”, just an “I’m good.” I mentally kick myself in the crotch for my lack of finesse. First impressions are a real thing, and by the way I’m dressed, and my smooth-operator introduction, I’m striking out. “Shall we get started?” the photographer asks. Irritated, I grab Bellini’s hand and force her to sit on the bench. She squeals, flops around for a good minute, sliding around on my slicked up skin while bitching about it, and finally settles on my lap, holding the beach ball in her hand and smiling for the camera. No doubt the tense set of my jaw is evident, but I can’t help but hate every minute of this. From behind the photographer, I glance at Paisley, trying to gauge her reaction to the photo shoot. What does she think of this sham of a relationship? Is it believable to her like everyone else? I sure as
hell hope not, because I know one thing is for sure: I need to get to know Paisley. There is something mysterious in her eyes, something vulnerable. I want to know her story, where she came from, and who the hell she wants to be. “Look at me and smile,” Bellini hisses in my ear. Not wanting a meltdown, I do as she says and stare into her blue eyes, picturing them as murky, rodent-infested pools of blue. In all honesty, she is a pretty woman, so it’s too bad her beauty is only skin-deep. Her heart and soul are the ugliest I’ve ever met, no contest. I have no clue why she is such a heinous human being though. Because she’s rich? Because she’s able to afford expensive things and brag about it? How does that make her better? It really doesn’t. I’ve made some money from my swimming career and have invested it into one elaborate thing: my Malibu beach house. All other income has been invested into funds that accrue fantastic interest— thank you, Sal, my CPA. But like I said, my house is my one luxury. Almost every morning, I rush to the ocean for an open-water swim and then dry off naked on my deck. I have privacy. I am secluded. It’s my welcomed escape from this crazy world. It’s the one place I told the camera crews they’re not allowed to go. I wouldn’t sign unless that was in the contract. To my surprise, they agreed to my terms. Other than my house, I am a normal man. I drive a Jeep Wrangler, I wear normal clothes you can pick up at any mall, and eat normal food like every other American, only in large, calorie-packed quantities. I don’t understand Bellini and her need for luxury. To me, it is a waste of money and only drives someone to be completely obsessed with possessions. “That’s it. Reese, slide your hand up her thigh just a little.” I do as I’m told and Bellini giggles in my ear. “Oh Reese, be careful, you know I don’t believe in sex before marriage.” I would rather cut off my own dick. Another reason why I would never be with Bellini. Not because I’m some sort of sex fiend and need someone on my cock all the time, but I believe in knowing your partner completely before going forward with the next step in life. Love isn’t just about connecting spiritually, it’s about connecting physically as well, making sure you’re compatible. “Don’t worry, dear, you won’t see me knocking at the flaps of your underwear.” She pinches my skin on my back, causing me to yelp and flinch. “Oh, did you get a splinter from the bench?” she asks, feigning innocence. “Fuck you,” I mutter under my breath, snapping her attention. She grips my chin and forces me to stare at her. Flames dance in her eyes, and for a second I’m almost terrified the exorcist is going to pop out of her mouth and choke me to death. She leans my head forward so it looks like she’s telling me a secret but what she whispers is anything but innocent. “Say that to me one more time and I promise you, Reese King, you will never see the deep end of a pool again, got it? Stroke me with your thumb letting me know you understand.” I don’t move. This bitch needs me just as much as I need her, so I turn her head so she can hear me
this time. “Try me, Bellini. You and I both know you need me in this show just as much as I need you, but where we differ is, I’m willing to give it all up just to distance myself from your self-centered ass. You, on the other hand, thrive and survive off your ill-gotten fame, so it looks like I’m calling the shots here. So turn your pretty little head toward the camera, smile and get this over with, because I’m two seconds away from calling it a day.” She pulls away from me and gives me a disgusted look before considering every word I said. Right then and there, I learn that, in fact, I do have the upper hand. I will use that to my greatest advantage. Ten minutes later, the photographer is calling it, happy with the pictures he was able to capture. The crew starts to pack up, and I’m able to get Bellini off my lap. Thank God she was covering up the leopard-print Speedo. “Here you go,” comes a soft voice from the side. I turn to see Paisley handing me a robe with a gentle smile. “Figured you might want to cover up after being exposed for so long.” “Thank you.” I smile sincerely at her. I hold out my hand and properly introduce myself. “I’m Reese King.” “Paisley Maccaro. I’m Miss Chamber ’s and your new assistant. If you two need anything, just let me know, I would be happy to help.” Assistant, so she was going to be around . . . a lot. I liked that idea. “I’m good for now, but I will be sure to let you know.” Ashley walks by, and I flag her down. “Ashley, please grab Paisley’s number for me. Just in case I need to contact her.” “Sure thing,” Ashely replies, not pulling her gaze away from her electronic lifeline. “All right, well, I better see if Miss Chambers needs anything,” Paisley says shyly. Before she can leave, I say, “We’re going to brunch tomorrow, you should join us.” She gives me an odd look, and I check my eagerness to be near her at the door. “I mean, so we can talk about what we are going to need in the coming weeks, with the Olympics closing in.” A small smile escapes her. “Not a problem, I will be there.” “Great,” I say, a little too excitedly. “I’ll be sure to text you the details.” “MAUVE,” Bellini screams, startling Paisley. Before I can say bye, she takes off quickly to provide whatever asinine thing Bellini needs help with. I tie my robe tight across my waist and turn toward Ashley; she is not to leave the studio without getting Paisley’s information. That’s for damn sure.
Chapter Four **PAISLEY** Holy shit I’m tired. I finally get the chance to sit down on my couch after a long day of running around for Bellini, cleaning the soles of her shoes, waving incense over Pope Francis—who is the cutest and sweetest dog I’ve ever met—and politely removing Buddy Chambers’s hands from my hip every two seconds. The man is foul. Despite the size of his bank account, he apparently doesn’t know what it means to brush your teeth, because gingivitis was prevalent in every up-close-and-personal word he spoke into my ear. I shiver just thinking about it. Now that I’m finally home, a burrito from Alberto’s in hand and a large iced tea ready to be consumed, I can sit back and think about how I completely forgot Bellini Chambers was dating Reese King. The moment I saw him, my stomach bottomed out, a light sheen of sweat took over my skin, and I felt physically nauseated from nerves. Reese King: Greek god in a Speedo, Bad Boy of the pool, known for his unruly temper when interviewed, his inability to earn a gold medal despite his other accomplishments, and also named Sexiest Man Alive last year. Yes, you read that correctly, Sexiest Man Alive. Everything about him captivated me. From the way his body moved with confidence and power, to the deep husky tone of his voice, to the slight crinkle by his eyes that shows his age. From the way he spoke to me, a side of gentle in his voice, I felt myself melting all over the floor, willing myself not to turn into a ball of mush. He’s dream worthy. But then, he isn’t your typical swimmer: smooth skin, short hair, and preppy polo made by Ralph Lauren decorating his chest. He is different. He’s dark, mysterious, sports a beard right up until competition where he shaves it before getting in the pool. His wavy hair doesn’t get trimmed very often, only on the sides, and he leaves the top heavy so he can push it to the left, forming a thick faux hawk. His eyes are so soulfully penetrating it’s next to impossible not to get lost in them. Then there’s his tattoo. Oh, sweet God, his tattoo. Most swimmers, or Olympians for that matter, have a tattoo of the Olympic rings somewhere on their body. Not Reese. He has a sleeve tattoo on his left arm that extends around his left pectoral, down his shoulder blade and wraps around his entire arm straight to his wrist. It’s intricate in design, as if someone tore off his skin and revealed a mechanical engine for his arm rather than the fine-tuned muscles he’s created. It is hot.
Sexy. He is hard not to stare at. Pretty much impossible not to drool over. And that’s exactly what happened to me today. Throughout the entire photo shoot my eyes found their way to Reese, taking in his smirk, the flex of his muscles, the way his body moved in each frame, or the strong hold he had on Bellini. There was no denying the immediate attraction I felt for the man, or the way I started to throb with each pass of his eyes over me. It almost felt like he was tracking me, seeking me out. Erotic images flashed through my head the entire time, igniting a burning need deep within my soul. But, that’s all imagination because . . . He’s dating the devil. How can he possibly consider being in a relationship with someone like her? I’m not much of a swimming fan, but I’ve watched the Olympics because I enjoy seeing him with his shirt off, streaming through the water. So I know a little about him. He is quiet with his personal life— which is confusing since he is doing this TV show now—he has charities he works with, mainly helping inner-city kids learn how to swim, and he has a reputation of having no friends on the pool deck, only enemies. Especially Bodi Banks, the man who stole the gold from him the past two Olympics. In addition to apparently not getting along with Bodi, he’s not very friendly with reporters either. He often refuses interviews and has been known to slam photographers up against cars and brick walls if they get too close to him. If I didn’t just meet him and see a softer side, I would have gone with the media’s portrayal of him: an unruly bad boy who strokes for silver. The front door opens then slams shut. Jonathan stands in the entryway, leaning against the front door and blows out a long breath. With a sideways smile, he looks over at me and eyes my burrito. “Get one for me?” “Of course.” I hold up his burrito. Dropping everything, he hops over the couch and plants himself right next to me. I hand him the burrito, and together we eat a much-deserved dinner, sharing my iced tea. “How was your first day on the job?” “Is that what you’re calling it?” I ask. “A job? More like a first-class ticket to Satan’s den.” Jonathan cringes, knowing fully well the kind of “job” he set me up with. “Pays well, so that’s good for both our bank accounts.” I feel guilty from his comment. The last couple months, Jonathan has been supporting me while I tried to get my act together, so I really shouldn’t complain about him finding me a job when he’s been giving me money to buy things like . . . burritos. “True.” I take another bite and quickly chew before saying, “Sorry if it sounds like I’m ungrateful. I guess I’m still trying to accept that I have to work my way back up to the top again. All that hard work in college was for nothing.” He puts his hand on my thigh and says, “At least your grandfather got his Pez dispenser.” “Heaven forbid.” I roll my eyes, just as I get a text from a weird number. Hey Paisley, it’s Reese King. I wanted to make sure you have my number.
I smile to myself, set my burrito carefully down on the coach, wipe my fingers, and text him back. My stomach flutters into somersaults. Paisley: Hey Reese, thank you. I will be sure to save it. I pause, not knowing what else to say, so I just click send. Not the most riveting conversation ever, but what is a girl supposed to say to the Sexiest Man Alive? Thank you, please come over and impregnate me so I can be attached to you forever, stroke you whenever I want, and lick your nipples just because I feel like it? Might be a little aggressive. “You have to admit, she is pretty.” “What?” I ask Jonathan, confused, having totally tuned him out before. “Bellini, you have to admit she’s pretty.” I scrunch my nose at him in disgust. “You have to be kidding me. You think she’s pretty? Uh, did you not notice the antagonistic venom oozing from every orifice of her body?” He scrunches his shoulders. “She has a good rack.” “That’s all it takes for you? A decent pair of boobs and you’re sold? Despite the utter drollery of her over-the-top actions?” “I’m a man, I’m easy.” My burrito finds its way back to my mouth as I chew over that idea. Is that what Reese sees in Bellini? A good pair of boobs? Or is she actually a decent human to him? Maybe she is excellent in bed. Nope, scratch that. She is an advocate for abstinence. There is no way in hell you would find her sweater set and pearls dangling from a bed post, engaging in any kind of sexual act, especially with her saint of a dog watching over her. My phone beeps again, just as Jonathan turns on the TV and tunes into Sports Center. I glance over at him quickly to make sure he is immersed in highlights before I answer the phone. “The Dodgers suck,” he mumbles to himself before taking another bite of his burrito. Using that moment to push myself against the other side of the couch, I put distance between Jonathan and me to gain an ounce of privacy and read the text message. Reese: Good. If you’re still in for tomorrow, we are going to Sand Dunes at nine in the morning. Think you can make it? Of course they’re going to Sand Dunes, one of the most premier brunch locations in Malibu. There is no doubt in my mind Bellini chose the restaurant. I just hope they plan on paying. Paisley: Sounds good. I will be there. His response is instantaneous.
Reese: See you tomorrow, Paisley. I smile to myself just as Jonathan clears his throat. Tearing my gaze away from my phone, I glance up at his knowing eyes. “Who are you texting over there?” “No one,” I lie. Setting my phone down in the crack of the couch. “Just saw something funny on Facebook, one of those cat videos, you know?” Can’t go wrong with a cat video. “Oh yeah? What cat video?” “Uh . . .” I look to the sky, trying to think of one damn cat video to describe to Jonathan, but not a single one comes to mind. Out of all the time I spent watching those videos, letting them consume my out-of-work hours, you would think I could remember just one. “Oh!” I point my finger to the sky, remembering one. “It was a video of cats getting scared by cucumbers. Funny shit.” “You insult me. You really think I can’t tell when you’re lying?” I cross my arms over my chest and give him a look of indignation. “You think you’re so smart? Okay, how am I lying?” He nods at my chest. “Your right nipple gets hard every time.” “No it doesn’t!” I look down at my right boob to see that Jonathan is annoyingly correct. My nipple is in fact hard. Shocked, I glance up at Jonathan who is laughing. “So what are you not telling me? Who’s texting you? A new boy I don’t know about? Or is it still Mr. Man Bun who believes he’s saving the whales by not showering for ten days.” “He was conserving water to help protect clown fish and their delicate environment,” I point out. Jonathan laughs out loud. “Oh yeah, he wore that dumbass shirt that read ‘Saving Nemo. One Shower at a Time.’” It was a dumb shirt. I couldn’t disagree with Jonathan on that point. That worst part was the man wore it every day with a pair of ratty jeans. He was actually quite gross. His only good quality, going down on me. Probably the best I’ve ever had. Dude had a magic tongue. It was fat, but also pointy at the end. He was able to flick me in just the right way that had me gripping his damn man bun for dear life. “So, are you going to see him?” “What?” I ask, confused from my daydreaming. “Uh, yeah for brunch tomorrow,” I answer before I can think about what I’m saying.” “Oh, come on, Paisley. You can do so much better than him. I thought you were done with Mr. Man Bun.” “What? I am. I’m confused.” Irritated, Jonathan turns to me and his face grows serious. “Who are you going to brunch with tomorrow? Don’t make me look at your phone.” “Why does it matter to you?” I ask, casually pushing my phone farther into the crack of the couch. “Because . . .” “Good argument,” I shoot back. “Paisley.”
“Jonathan.” I stick my chin up, not breaking under his tight stare. “Fine.” Before I know what he’s going to do, he lunges at me and reaches around my back, down into the crack of the couch. “What are you doing? Get off me.” “Give me your phone.” I palm his head and try to push him away but his stiff neck keeps him in place, not budging. From behind, I can feel him rooting around for my phone. “Get out of here.” I struggle against him, unwrapping my feet from their crossed position as I try to push them against his chest and move him across the couch. Thanks to my daily workout routine, I’m able to get a good enough push on him to send him back on his side. “Ha!” I call out in victory, only to be shamed by him holding my phone up in the air with a smile on his face. It’s my turn to lunge at him, but he puts up a leg force field, too difficult for me to penetrate before he can look at my phone. “Why are you texting Reese King?” Confusion is written all over his face when he invades my privacy. “I’m his assistant as well,” I respond, straightening myself up from the little rumble we just shared. “He wanted to make sure I was going to brunch with them tomorrow morning.” “Why would you need to go to brunch with them?” I pick at my cuticles, not looking him in the eye. “Uh, because maybe I’m their assistant, and they need to talk to me about what the next month or so is going to look like.” “But you were smiling,” he points out. “I told you, funny cat versus cucumber video.” I cover up my right nipple so he can’t detect my apparent lying. He sighs and sets my phone on the coffee table. “Paisley, I’m going to say this one more time. You can’t mess up this job.” “I know,” I say, exasperated from his constant lecturing. “Do you?” He pauses for a second, shifting his body so he’s looking at me directly. “You’re not just working for Bellini Chambers and Reese King; you’re working for Wally Rose, one of the most influential men in the business. One screw up, and he will hear about it, believe me, especially from Bellini. She complains to him about everything. If you get on his bad side, you might want to think about choosing a different career. You already have a black mark on your résumé—” “I know!” I wave my hands in the air out of pure frustration. “I get it. This job is important, it’s my one shot to get back into what I want to be doing.” “Yes, if you excel at this job, then you will be able to move up in the company. You want that, don’t you?” “Yes.” “Then that means whatever you’re smiling about because Reese sent you a text message needs to stop . . . now. He’s your boss, you have to maintain a professional relationship.” “I’m not an imbecile, Jonathan. This isn’t my first job. I know what it means to be professional.” He gives me a pointed look.
“Fine, was I giddy because Reese King sent me a text message? Yup,” I respond with gusto. “But I feel like any girl would have reacted the same way. It’s hard not to when the SEXIEST MAN ALIVE sends you a text message.” Jonathan rolls his eyes. “Pfft. Ladies just love him because of his tattoo and his smoldering look.” “Smoldering?” I lift a quizzical eyebrow in his direction. “What? I’m comfortable enough in my manhood to notice an attractive man when I see one. Doesn’t mean I want to rip his pants off and let him whack me in the face with his dick.” “Why is that something you would say?” He shrugs his shoulder. “It’s called embellishing to make a point.” “Weird point you’re making.” I look away and pick a piece of lint off the couch. “Back to the topic at hand. You know Reese is with Bellini, right? And that your giddy little school crush will have to be tucked away when you’re working with both of them.” My upper lip rubs against the bottom of my nose as I try to tamp down my temper, not wanting to shoot off at Jonathan. He did just get me a job and has been supporting me for a while. “How about this?” I suggest, not wanting to fight about this anymore. “You trust in the fact that I take this job seriously, that I want a better life for myself, and that I want to further my career. Trust I won’t screw this up, and you don’t talk about it ever again. Because I love you, Jonathan, but I’m two seconds away from strapping you down to this couch and sticking a needle up your dick hole.” He cringes and covers his crotch. “Damn, Paisley.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “You do realize that would mean you would actually have to look at my dick.” Since college, I have seen the man’s dick probably more than all his girlfriends combined. Almost every morning, he walks around naked. I still squeal and cover my eyes, avoiding any eye contact with his penis. Not that I hate penises. I don’t at all, but Jonathan is like a brother to me, and I don’t want to see his junk. Simple as that. And for all the men out there, yes, you have a penis, congratulations. But please note: it’s not God’s gift to all women, it’s not the most amazing thing to look at. It’s a rod of skin hanging between your legs. Unless it’s erect, supercharged, and ready to burst, cover that shit up because a flaccid penis is just a soggy meatball sub, balls sagging behind, and hopefully devoid of parmesan cheese. “Like I have a choice in the matter. I’m surprised your penis hasn’t been present for this entire conversation.” “Do you want it to be present?” His hands fall to the button and fly of his pants, threatening me. “No,” I yell. “Leave it inside your jeans. For fuck’s sake.” He laughs and wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me to his side. I rest my head on his shoulder and bask in the cool smell of his cologne. Jonathan and I have been friends for years now, nothing else. We never even thought about turning our friendship into anything romantic, just didn’t seem right. We are each other ’s soul mates, but in a “blood buddy” kind of way, not in a “my vagina likes your penis” kind of way. He kisses the top of my head and says, “For the record, if I were a lady and Reese King sent me a text message, I would get giddy too.” “You’re so annoying.” I twist his nipple, causing him to scream. “Watch it,” he says, rubbing his chest. “I forgot to wear an undershirt today, the nips are a little
chafed.” “Not my problem. Don’t give me hell over something you would do too.” “If I were a lady,” he drawled out. I look up at him and laugh. “You would be one hell of an ugly lady.” He pauses. “I would love to defend you on that point, but unfortunately I have to agree. I tried on one of your dresses once, and I just don’t think I have the hips or the bone structure to pull off a womanly sway.” “You did not put on one of my dresses.” He nods his head. “In college, for a stupid commercial my buddies and I had to do for a project. It was late, we had procrastinated and needed a shot of a guy talking to a woman. So, I took one for the team, put on your red dress and a wig and stood in. Let’s just say, we barely passed the project. The teacher wasn’t impressed with the broad-back hairy Mary in the commercial. He could tell we didn’t follow through on casting.” “Obviously.” I laugh. “Do you have evidence of this?” He shakes his head. “No, we deleted that shit as quickly as possible. It would be damaging to all of our careers today if it ever got out. It was total piss.” “If it had you starring as Lady in Red, I can believe it was total piss.” “Maybe one day I will reenact it all for you.” “Don’t play with my heartstrings,” I reply, holding my hands to my chest in a silent plea. “Get me good and drunk, flash me your boobs, and then maybe I’ll consider it.” I make a disgusted sound and push him away. “What?” He holds up his hands and smirks at me. “You may be my best friend, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to see your boobs. It’s a natural wonderment. I bet if I didn’t walk around naked you would be curious too. I’ve seen your ass plenty of times, what’s a little T to go with that A?” “First, you’re not doing anyone any favors by being bare for the world to see. Second, you’re not seeing my boobs. Ass is different. All butts look the same.” “False,” he points out. “Your ass does not look like everyone’s.” A slight blush creeps up my face. “Are you saying I have a nice butt?” “Hell yeah,” he says. “Those squats have done you well. Now let me see if your chest presses have worked out for you just the same.” “No!” I laugh. “Come on, just let me see them. It’s more for observation than anything.” “How do you say that? As if you’ve never seen a pair of boobs before.” His smile turns into a devious one. “I’ve never seen pierced nipples before.” Rolling my eyes, I get up off the couch and grab the empty wrapper to my burrito. “Better put out a want ad then, because there is no way you’re seeing my boobs. Not for any kind of observation.” He hangs over the back of the couch as he talks to me. “What about if I need to inspect them for infection? Or lumps? I really think we are doing each other a disservice by not doing random lump checks. Want to hold my balls while I cough?” “Not even a little bit,” I call out from the kitchen. “Fine, but you’re truly missing out on a fantastic opportunity. Can you at least grab me a beer while
you’re in there?” “Only if you promise not to walk around naked anymore.” He grumbles to himself, and to my surprise, gets off the couch and rummages through the fridge to grab his own beer. Using the fridge magnet we have that doubles as a bottle opener, he pops off the top and takes a long swig of his beer. With my hand on my hip, resentment evident in my voice, I say, “You’re that adamant about being naked?” He swallows, smacks his lips together and smiles at me. “There is nothing like reading the newspaper and eating a bowl of cereal while your balls rest against the cold surface of a chair. Sorry, sweetheart. Sun’s out, dongs out.” With that, he winks at me, and then heads back to the couch to watch his highlights. The man is infuriating.
Chapter Five **REESE** These wooden chairs are doing nothing for the pain searing through my back. My morning swim was a bitch. Coach Fern showed no mercy and kept drilling me on my one-hundred-meter freestyle. We were doing benchmark testing, preparing for the Olympics Trials, and he was not easing up, not that he ever would. This was my final swim. We were both giving it all we got. But fuck if I’m not sore. Two hours of relentless kicking and stroking every morning for the past few months has been grueling. Some people think since I’m a swimmer, I’m just floating through, allowing the buoyancy of the water to sail me to my destination. Not true. Water is approximately a thousand times thicker than air. It’s in the physics. Instead of a runner who is propelling their way through air, I have to stroke my way through water, an environmental element much denser than the oxygen we breathe. Ever wonder why we shave every last inch of our body? Every square inch of smooth skin counts. If I wasn’t meeting Paisley this morning, I would have had breakfast delivered to me while I sat in the hyperbaric chamber to aid my recovery. I’m older now, so I don’t bounce back like I used to, and I feel it every fucking day. But Paisley is coming, so I dressed in a pair of sweats, a swimming T-shirt, a backwards hat and left the pool. Bellini will probably stroke out when she sees me but I couldn’t care less what she thinks of my attire. I am sore, achy, and fresh from the pool, the last thing I wanted to do was dress up in a pair of stiff jeans and a button-down shirt. The restaurant didn’t care either, since I’m a frequent brunch customer. They have the perfect carb-filled wheat pancakes with banana and granola that fuel me through my day. I glance down at my Garmin and realize it’s ten past the hour. I wonder if Paisley is lost. I’m not surprised Bellini is late, as she’s never on time. Bored, I pick up my phone to check Facebook when I see a message from Paisley. Paisley: I’m at the front door. They won’t let me in to sit with you. “Shit,” I mumble, sorely getting up from my seat. I forgot to tell the hostess Paisley would be joining me today. I work my way through the restaurant, avoiding stares and phones snapping pictures in my direction, and see Paisley sitting in the entryway with a worried look on her face. “Paisley,” I call out. She stands immediately and straightens the dress she’s wearing. It’s black, just as black as her wavy long hair, and falls to the top of her feet. The middle of the dress is cinched at her waist, and the top is cut just low enough for me to see the swell of her cleavage. She’s wearing a light-colored fedora, wrapped by a thick black ribbon, and her wrists are decorated in bangles and bracelets.
She’s casual yet drop-dead gorgeous. When she sees me, her grey eyes light up, and she cautiously waves. I turn to the hostess and say, “She’s with me. Sorry about the confusion, I forgot to put her name on the list.” “Not a problem,” the hostess responds. I nod my head to Paisley, directing her back to the table I always have on reserve for mornings. It offers the perfect view of the ocean, with a decent amount of privacy from the outside world. “Sorry about that,” I tell her, making sure to pull out her chair. I can be a gentleman. “They’re pretty good here about protecting me from fans.” “Not a problem.” “You look good,” I say, scanning her one more time because I can’t help it. I notice something new about her each pass. Like her little toes, painted a midnight blue, or how she has her tragus pierced on each ear, a little heart earring wrapped around the thick cartilage. Along her forearms she has tiny tattooed words in script, words I can’t decipher unless I were to invade her personal bubble to get a closer look. Fuck, I desperately want to invade her personal bubble. “Um, thank you,” she replies, clearly nervous. “I would say the same about you, but you’re wearing ratty sweatpants.” Her comment is followed by a delicious laugh that makes my ratty old sweatpants tight in the crotch. “Athletes are superstitious,” I reply. “It’s pretty much impossible to throw out anything.” “So, you’re saying you’re a hoarder? If I came to your house, would I be able to walk through it? Or would it be full of leftover egg shells from every protein shake you’ve ever made?” Sassy. I fucking love it. “I keep the eggshells in a bin in the closet. I label each bin by year. Before every swim meet, I make sure to run my hands through every tub, while clucking like a chicken. It’s a habit I can’t seem to stop.” I give her a wicked smile before taking a sip of my orange juice. She laughs and nods her head. “Damn, you really are superstitious. Glad I’m not an athlete, would hate to look like a clucking idiot in my own home.” “You learn to live with it.” Her cheeks slightly blush, and she glows from our joking. There is the smallest dimple that peeks through on her left cheek, barely making a showing, but when it does, it’s sexy as fuck. “What’s good on the menu—?” she starts to ask right before a giant Gucci crocodile skin bag is dropped on the table. “Ugh, why is this world crowded with sweaty, fried-food loving masturbators? Some man eating a sausage and egg McMuffin chased after me on the streets while holding his crotch, manipulating his balls to represent the ‘OJ’ he wanted to offer me. It was vile. Has this country been so washed out by crude humor that we can’t show a touch of self-respect while eating breakfast? We have to go around, clutching our crotches, offering them up to people just to get a little bit of attention?” Bellini shakes her head and huffs out a disapproving sound. “I’m barely hungry after seeing that man drool all over the nooks and crannies of the over-processed gluten—” Throwing the menu up to block her face from Paisley, she hisses at me while pointing, “What is she doing here?”
Lowering the menu so Paisley doesn’t feel left out, I say, “Paisley is here because she is our assistant, and we have a lot to talk about.” “What do you possibly have to say to her?” Bellini turns to Paisley, looks her up and down in a sneer full of distaste and says, “Are you going to be serving us? Taking our order? I don’t want anything from here. Run across the street to Starbucks and get me a venti iced skinny hazelnut macchiato, sugar-free syrup, extra shot, only seven cubes of ice, and for Christ’s sake, no whip, with a side of two orange Tic-Tacs. Go ahead, scurry along.” Bellini runs her finger across the table, indicating for Paisley to leave. “Oh, might as well stock up on Tic Tacs, because I can down at least three at a time.” She says that as if sucking on three Tic Tacs is like eating five western bacon cheeseburgers from Carl’s Jr. in one sitting. Paisley, confused and a little disoriented pushes back from the table and grabs her purse. Before she can leave, I say, “Don’t go, Paisley. Please sit down.” I turn to Bellini and try not to blast my fingers through her eye sockets. “Get a drink here. We have things to discuss.” Like a child throwing a temper tantrum, Bellini stomps her foot, crosses her arms over her chest, and pouts. “What could possibly be so important that Mauve over here can’t get me my venti, sevencubed, iced, skinny, sugar-free syrup, extra shot, no-whip hazelnut macchiato and two orange Tic Tacs?” Testing my patience, I say, “For one, she is not here to serve you, she’s supposed to help with our travel arrangements, run media interception, schedule our days, and assist with our jobs, not our needs. And two, trials are coming up in two weeks, and we need to make sure we are set for those.” “Trials?” Bellini looks at me confused. “What trials? If it’s some kind of Botox trial, I will not partake in it. My features are flawless, why mess with perfection?” Before I can answer, Paisley says, “I think he’s talking about the Olympic Swimming Trials.” Bellini’s head snaps in Paisley’s direction, a look of pure death on her face. “No one asked for your interjection, you stupid piece of fabric.” Bellini then proceeds to shut Paisley’s menu and say, “You’re not eating here. You can feast on one of the Tic Tacs I spit out after sucking on it for a minute.” “That’s enough,” I say, raising my voice and hitting my hand on the table. People surrounding us look in our direction but I don’t care. I don’t put up with Bellini’s crap . . . ever. Like the drama queen she is, Bellini waves her hand in front of her face as she looks around. “Reese, people are staring.” I lean forward and talk through my teeth. “Then I suggest you start acting like a normal human being, and not some spoiled little debutante who thinks she’s better than everyone. Newsflash, Bellini. Your real name is Agatha and your dad is only rich because a pig humped him. Believe me, you are in no way better than most of the people in this damn restaurant.” “How dare you!” she hisses, possibly pissed from bringing up her real name. Her lip trembles, her eyes start to glaze over, and I immediately prepare for what’s next. Have you ever seen Kim Kardashian cry? Her face squishes together, her mouth thins and widens, and you’re not quite sure how it’s possible for one person to morph their entire face into another person within a blink of an eye, but it happens.
That’s what Bellini looks like when she cries. Right before us, her face transforms into a squished-up version of Bellini, and she starts to cry, large crocodile tears. “You’re being so mean to me, after I’ve had such a stressful and disastrous morning. I didn’t want to bring it up, but I just can’t hold it in anymore.” I can barely understand her as she continues to cry and talk at the same time. Paisley hands her a napkin that surprisingly Bellini takes. “I’ve been working day and night over a new design for Pope Francis, a cassock with glitterthreaded rickrack trim, and a cadmium-red pigmented rope girdle, but do you think they sell cadmium-red pigmented rope girdles on ‘dress your priest dot com’? No! I spent precious minutes on the phone with those bible-busting witchcraft hunters telling me I had to dye the rope myself. ME! Dye something? Are they insane? It’s such a nightmare.” She gets up from her seat, steps toward me and sits on my lap, burying her head in my neck. “Oh Reese, I don’t know what to do. This is such a disaster.” I glance over at Paisley who is looking down at her lap, biting her lip from the smile threatening to take over. She looks so fucking adorable, that all I want to do is toss the wafer sitting on my lap to the side, clear the table, and nibble on Paisley’s luscious lip myself. But that’s not the case. Instead, I inwardly roll my eyes, buckle down to my commitment, and pat Bellini on the back, trying not to catch the bitch virus she emanates on a daily basis. Her cheek rubs against my neck and her hand grips my shirt, clinging on for dear life. “I’m so upset,” she cries out. “Maybe I should leave,” Paisley says, a smile still evident on her face. “Don’t,” I say rather sternly, more out of self-preservation than anything. She listens and straightens herself in her seat. Needing to take care of the leech, I say, “Bellini, I’m sorry about your misfortunes this morning.” It pains me to be nice to her. “Maybe we can start this brunch over again, start off on the right foot. How does that sound?” Her wet and snotty nose rubs against my neck, and I refrain from standing up quick enough that she falls to her back on the table like a flipped turtle. “I think that’s a good idea,” she says between cries. “Good. Then you should get up and sit back in your seat. We don’t want to cause another scene, do we?” God, this is like parenting a toddler. “No.” She sniffs and shakes her head. Patiently, Paisley and I wait for Bellini to gather herself and sit back down in her chair. From a distance, I can see the waitstaff observing our table, wondering what’s going on. The wheels in their brains start to turn, coming up with some kind of asinine story as to why Bellini was upset. One hundred dollars says she’s pregnant with child by tomorrow, according to the tabloids. What the hell did I get myself into? Right about now, I am picturing a good swift kick to Ashley’s clam. Once Bellini is settled, and she dries her fake tears with her napkin, she clears her throat and looks up at me. Taking a calm breath, I say, “Bellini, I’ve invited our assistant, Paisley, to join us for brunch this morning so we can go over our upcoming travel schedule. You’ve expressed interest in going to the Olympic Trials with me, and to Rio, once I’m on the team. She will be of great assistance to you during that time.”
Bellini clutches her chest in adoration. “Oh Reese, you were just thinking of me this whole time? I should have known. Of course, I will be a nervous wreck watching you swim. I will need all the help I can get. Mauve will be a welcomed hand when I’m in need.” Just like that, she’s switched from psychotic babbling bitch to grateful shrew. “Always thinking of you.” I swallow hard from the blatant lie. “Isn’t he just the sweetest?” Bellini asks Paisley, hand on her chin, infatuated with me. “I’m so lucky that he chose me to be his girlfriend.” “He’s very sweet,” Paisley compliments, avoiding all eye contact with me. Clapping her hands together, with a new sense of vigor, Bellini picks up her menu and searches through it. “Forget the Tic Tacs, we’re going to celebrate. I think a bran muffin is in order.” “I was thinking about the French toast, eggs sunny side up, and a side of bacon myself,” Paisley says. “What about you, Reese?” Her pink lips glisten under the lights of the restaurant as she smiles over at me. Fuck, the woman eats, and it’s a huge turn on to me. “Oh Mauve, aren’t you worried about calorie intake?” “No.” Paisley shakes her head. “Had a big lift this morning at the gym, I’m starving.” Bellini’s nose turns up at Paisley mentioning lifting weights. By no means is Paisley a ’roid-raging specimen, but she is toned, sculpted perfectly, an impeccable product of the gym. Her shoulders are chiseled, but still feminine; her face is round, but thin, and from what I can remember, her ass is a symmetrical masterpiece. “The French toast is good, but the banana granola wheat pancakes are my favorite.” Paisley opens her mouth to say something but Bellini cuts her off. “Ugh, all this carb talk is making me fat from just hearing it.” She snaps her finger in the air, calling over the waitress who appears out of thin air. “I’m going to have a quarter of a bran muffin, only a quarter, do not give me any more than that, with precisely a third of a cup of grape jelly on the side. I would also like one leaf of romaine lettuce with three strawberries cut into roses in the middle, pineapple, and blueberries decorating the side. As for my drink, I would appreciate it if you could run across the street and grab me a venti, seven-cubed, iced, skinny, sugar-free syrup, extra shot, no-whip hazelnut macchiato and two orange Tic Tacs. Also, a glass of distilled water, three tablespoons of orange juice, and a shot of wheat grass with a dash of pepper.” She sets her menu down and points at both Paisley and myself. “These two will be gorging themselves on glutinous products that I’m sure will give me hives.” Without regret or remorse, Paisley orders her French toast, and I get my pancakes. We both order sunny side up eggs and decide to share a side of bacon. While our orders are processed, I open up my phone to my calendar app to go over some of the most important upcoming dates of my career. Paisley pulls out a pad of paper, a black sparrow gracing the front. In the spiral, there is purple felt tip pen tucked inside. With her teeth, she uncaps it, her beautiful lips, barely caressing the cap. My mouth waters from the sight, and I wonder what it would feel like to have her mouth around me, those lips sucking me off, her grey eyes staring up at me, as if I were the only man in the world good enough for her. Shaking the dirty thoughts from my mind, I start to discuss my schedule. “Trials are June 26th to July 4th.”
“Noooo,” Bellini whines. “How un-American. It interferes with this country’s birthday. What kind of treasonous nonsense is this? Who came up with those dates? Did Hitler rise from hell, become an event planner, and screw over all of us red, white, and blue-blooded Americans just for his own sadistic pleasure?” “You don’t have to go,” I say between clenched teeth, inches from flicking a sugar packet at her forehead. “Are you kidding me? Of course I’m going to go. I would never miss my boyfriend’s swim party.” “Bellini, it’s not a swim party. It’s the Olympic Trials. You know what that means, right? If I place at the Trials, I go to the Games. The Olympic Trials are one of the single most important events of my career besides the actual games.” She waves her hand in front of her face. “Oh sure, yup.” She doesn’t even look at me as she speaks; instead, she taps away on her phone. So instead of trying to gain her attention, I turn to Paisley who is jotting down notes. “Are you going to need a flight?” she asks. She looks up at me and that’s when I realize she put on a pair of glasses, black, thick-rimmed glasses. Framed by the onyx lining, her steel-colored eyes look that much more exotic. Ignoring the urge to lean in and kiss her from how adorable she looks, I say, “I already have my travel accommodations, but I’m sure you and Bellini will need to book something. Production should be willing to cover the expenses; you should see who you can talk to about that. Bellini has an entourage I’m sure she will need there.” “Pocket has to go and so does Melon. I refuse to be seen on camera if I am forced to do my own hair and makeup,” Bellini cuts in. “I will check into that.” Paisley writes down some more notes. “As for the rest of the season, assuming I will make it past Trials—” “You will.” Placing her hand on my arm, Paisley calms my already raging nerves. Warmth sears through me, running wickedly through my veins, settling my racing heart, and amping up my libido. I glance down at her small hand, holding a pen between her fingers, while caressing my arm. It’s a sweet, and kind gesture, one I’m sure she is offering as a friend, an employee, but I want it to be so much fucking more. “Thanks.” I cough, clearing my throat. “After that, there is training camp in San Antonio, July 17th to 24th, which then extends into the International Training Camp from the 24th to August 1st. Then the Olympics in Rio de Janeiro. Opening ceremonies are August 5th.” “Wait.” Bellini holds up her hand. “You’re going to be gone that entire time? How the hell am I supposed to shoot this reality show with you at your little summer camps?” Fed up with her disrespect toward my sport, I say, “You can either go, or you can sit on your ass at home, petting your dog’s hair, and watch reruns of your dad getting humped repeatedly by a pig.” She shoots up out of her chair and grips the edges of the table, as if she’s about to Hulk-style flip it over. “How dare you speak of my father that way? It wasn’t his fault that Billy Jo Inbred wasn’t conducting his job properly and keeping the horny bacon slices away from my father.” She slings her purse over her shoulder and raises her chin. “I don’t need to sit here and listen to you disgrace my family. When you want to apologize, you know where I will be. Mauve, for Christ’s sake, make sure
your hair is brushed when I see you later today. I refuse to be seen with an ill-informed hipster making a poor attempt on dreadlocks.” The waitress walks up just in time with Bellini’s drink for her departure. Without thanking the woman, Bellini grabs it from her hand, takes one sip of it and then scowls. “Did you spit in this? It has a distinct flavor of human saliva.” The waitress shakes her head. “We will see about that. Where’s your manager?” Stomping her three-inch heels one right in front of the other, her sweater set flaps in the breeze as she retreats to the back of the restaurant. Relieved, I take a deep breath and lean back in my chair. Christ, that woman is going to be the death of me. Right about now, the sponsorships and deals the reality show will bring in don’t seem viable enough for me to stick around to deal with her bullshit. Too bad I already signed the contract. I just mentally pray Bellini isn’t going to fuck with my last chance at the gold. “Um, should we continue?” Paisley asks, looking uncomfortable and running her fingers through her hair, clearly affected by Bellini’s comment. Without thinking, I stop her hand from combing through her hair and hold it while I scan her features with affection. Her breath hitches in her throat, her tongue slowly licks her lips, and her eyes bore holes into my soul. A side smile peeking past my lips, I say, “I don’t know about you, but I was looking forward to my pancakes. Eat breakfast with me.” Gently, she retreats her hand away from mine and straightens the napkin on her lap while taking a deep breath. Did she feel the same way I felt? The burning need to get to know each other, mentally and intimately? Did she feel the electricity starting to build between us as well? A spark so heavy, that if our lips connect, it will feel like the entire room will explode? She glances up at me, her head tilted to the side. “I really am starving.” “Good,” I say, leaning back again. “Remind me to tip that waitress heavily later on. She deserves it after dealing with Bellini’s crap.”
Chapter Six **PAISLEY** What the hell am I doing? I am doing exactly what Jonathan told me not to do. I am slowly becoming attached, I am getting too close to Reese, and I’m dropping that professional façade I’m supposed to be wearing. Hell, we just held hands. HELD HANDS! His thumb rubs across the top of my knuckles. Thank God I used lotion before coming here. He could have been faced with crocodile hands. Shit, he keeps looking at me and not looking at me like a regular person looks at another regular person. No, his soulful hazel eyes speak volumes of what he wants to do with me. They search for approval, for validation in his profession, as if what I think of him actually matters. His posture is relaxed, slouched in his chair, legs spread for a decent foundation, his knee occasionally bumping into mine under the table. His smile stretches naturally across his chiseled and scruffy face as he speaks of his workout routine and the swim practice he had this morning. His hair curls out from under the backwards baseball cap he’s wearing, giving him an almost boyish charm, but I know there is nothing boy about him. Under those clothes, lies a six-foot-two man, wrapped in well-defined muscles and ink, a body sculpted to perfection by the smooth surface of water and many relentless hours in the weight room. Everything about him exudes sex, from his bad boy image, to the tattoo running down his arm, to his confident swagger. His appearance is unforgiving and whenever he looks at me, his eyes are ravenous, hungry, ready to pounce. And then there is Bellini. I am kind of shocked to see how Reese interacted with her, not really caring about her feelings. Their whole relationship is really odd, which makes me wonder, is that the kind of man Reese is? One who doesn’t seem to mind insulting his significant other? It shouldn’t matter to me; I shouldn’t care what kind of boyfriend he is, or how he treats Bellini. But there is a difference between the way he looks at me and the way he looks at her. “Want to try some of my pancakes?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts and shifting his plate toward mine. “They lack in the sugar department since I try to avoid the substance as much as possible. I’ve found it much easier on my body to recover when I’m not loading it down with sugar. But they are still really good pancakes.” “Sure,” I respond, shrugging my shoulders and sweating just slightly from the recent camaraderie between us. With my fork, I cut a triangle of pancake off his plate, douse it in some sugar-free syrup, and place the bite in my mouth. Flavors of banana and syrup flood my mouth. “These are so good,” I say, covering my mouth with my hand so he doesn’t see the half mutilated food rolling around.
“Told you.” He winks, right before reaching over to my plate and taking his own bite without permission. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” Mid cut into my breakfast, his face rings shock. “What? I don’t get to try yours? That doesn’t seem fair.” “You should ask before you go and reach over to grab a hungry girl’s food. I wasn’t kidding when I said I like to eat.” “Apparently.” He laughs. His face turns sincere, and he relaxes his arm on the table, waiting for me to give him permission. “Paisley, may I please have a bite of your French toast? It will only be a little one.” “Because you asked politely.” I gesture for him to take a bite. What I think is going to be a little corner of my French toast, turns into a huge square, and before I can protest, the bite is quickly eaten by the man sitting next to me. His smile is broad; he knows what he’s done. “That was not a small bite,” I protest. Talking with his mouth full, clearly not concerned about food flying out of his mouth, he says, “I will get you another plate if you’re still hungry after you finish that one.” I point my fork at him. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” “Believe me, if you want more food, I will order you more food.” There is a twinkle in his eye, a little spark I haven’t seen before. I don’t reply. Instead, I stare down at my plate and will my breath to steady in its erratic behavior. I’ve never felt so nervous around a man before in my entire life. So, why now? Why does it have to be this man, one that I work for, one who is attached to a woman who could literally make or break the tiny thread that is my career? Casual conversation, that’s what we need. Simple questions that will get me through the rest of this breakfast without shedding my clothes and begging Reese King to lick my nipples to hardened points. Nope, I’m not having inappropriate thoughts at all. Not one bit. I don’t want to hump his arm one bit. “Um, are you excited about the Olympics?” I ask, rather shyly, hating the long bout of silence between us and my idiotic question, but it seems pretty safe. He chuckles and pats his mouth with his napkin. “Yeah. I have to get there first.” I nod my head, mind blank of what else to say. “Do you have more practice after this?” “I do. I have another session in the pool and then some dryland training. Pilates and weight lifting.” “You do Pilates?” I ask, laughing from just thinking about him on a reformer. “Have to.” He sets his napkin on the table, and I notice he’s finished his entire breakfast. Christ, he can eat. “A strong core is important when it comes to swimming.” “Don’t you ever get tired? I get tired just after one workout.” He shrugs and stares out at the ocean to the side of us. “It’s second nature now. I don’t even think about it. This morning was a little rough, the main set was strenuous, but I’m at the peak of my mesocycle right now. Taper week is coming up, that’s when I’ll be the happiest.” “Taper week?” He looks at his phone, checking the time, and I realize maybe I should stop asking
him questions, finish my meal, and let him get on with his day. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. You can go if you need to be somewhere.” I grab my pen and tear a piece of paper out of my notebook. “Here is my email address, and you have my phone number. Send me your schedule, and I’ll make sure to sync it up with mine and Bellini’s. I will work on those accommodations and travel arrangements. I only wonder about tickets, would we be able to get into the venue?” “Take a breath, Paisley. You’re not prying. I have some time this morning before I have to be anywhere. We can talk swimming if you would like.” “No, that’s okay.” I stuff a giant piece of French toast in my mouth, chewing quickly so I can finish my meal. Talking with my mouth full, I say, “Just want to know about the tickets.” He gives me a quizzical look before answering. “I will make sure there are tickets for you and Bellini.” “Oh, I don’t need a ticket if you can’t get one.” I shove an entire egg in my mouth, feeling the yolk drip down my chin. Quickly, like a ninja, I dab my chin with my napkin, praying he didn’t see the mess. A massacred pile of French toast, eggs, and bacon float around in my mouth, threatening to overspill at any minute. “Are you okay?” I shove one last piece of bacon into my already full trap, praying the maximum capacity doesn’t rebel on me and explode right in front of Reese. “Fine,” I reply, covering my mouth with my napkin just in case something falls out. “All good over here.” I give him the thumbs up and pat my stomach. “Delicious.” From the pace my teeth are working at, you’d think steam is coming out of my ears, but thankfully it doesn’t when I swallow and wash everything down with my drink. Once my mouth is clear, I smile at Reese who is studying me intently. “All done.” I feel the need to open my mouth and lift my arms in the air to show him all food has been consumed, as if I was on a reality show where eating food was the contest. “Did you even taste it?” I snort. Yes, you read that correctly. I snort. I’m not a snorter. I laugh, I chuckle, I giggle even. I don’t ever snort. Snorting is a violent way to force air out of our nose, a human reaction that happens usually uncontrollably when you are nervous and in need for relief somewhere in your face. So you snort. Needing to check my nose to make sure during my vicious exhalation of air out of my nose, I didn’t accidentally lose any mucus, I casually—like a professional—run my finger under my nose in the most offhand, yet smoothest way possible. “You didn’t shoot anything out of your nose if that’s what you’re checking for,” Reese says, leaning back in his chair, observing me. Immediately, heat flushes my cheeks, sweat forms over my upper lip—I can feel my ears turn red from embarrassment—and all I want to do is crawl into a hole from complete mortification. “I uh, had an itch.” I make a point to use the tip of my finger to itch my nose, rather vigorously. “Funny how skin itches, huh?”
Funny how skin itches? Someone please come punch me in the face and end this miserable moment. Reese leans forward and crosses his arms on the table, turning up the heat in my body to lava levels, melting me right in my seat. He points under his nose and says, “Oh, I guess you did shoot something out when you snorted.” “Oh my God!” I exclaim, bringing my napkin to my nose, completely and utterly humiliated. Clapping his hands together, Reese laughs and says, “Just kidding, but damn was your reaction priceless.” What? He was just kidding? Irritated, embarrassed, and wanting revenge, I lean toward him and without an ounce of thought or concern for repercussions, I flick him between the eyes. As if my digit is a bullet out of a gun, a highpowered flick makes an impression in his forehead, causing both of his eyes to shut out of reaction. Holy crap! The minute my fingernail connects with his skull, I realize I made a big mistake. I’m not making good decisions today. He’s shocked. I’m shocked. My finger is shocked out of its own betrayal. Silence stretches between us. No words are spoken, just two humans who barely know each other, staring at one another, one flick of a finger straining the tension that settles in the air. What the hell do I do? Flick myself between the eyes as well, laugh like a lunatic, and then tell him I forgot to take my meds this morning? Maybe play it off as if there was a bug on his face and I was doing him a favor? Salute him, grab my purse, and run like hell? Take in the chair next to me, smack him in the face with it, knocking him just hard enough that he will forget this entire morning, then tell him a story about how he fell on the pool deck earlier and that’s why he’s in the hospital with a concussion, unable to compete anymore? Stealing the man’s last chance at the Olympics, or saving my image? I weigh both options in my head, truly considering the chair idea when Reese clears his throat. “Did you just . . . flick me between the eyes?” Fuck. A small part of me wishes he imagined the whole thing, but I’m just not that lucky, never have been. My hands twist in my lap, my armpits are soaking up every last drop of anti-perspirant I coated them with this morning. I know I have to answer him, but I don’t know what to say. Just say something, anything to cut the tension that continues to build between us. I bite the corner of my lip and giggle – an obnoxious giggle I don’t even like. “Oh, do you not like to be flicked in the head?” I grab my notepad and pen, quickly writing a note in it while talking out loud. “Note to self, Reese King doesn’t like to be flicked in the head, but does enjoy banana granola pancakes.” I shut the notepad and tap it a couple of times. “Noted. Won’t happen again.”
I smile, but I know it’s more of a nervous one—the corners of my lips turn down, almost like I am a horse trying to show off my gums. It’s unattractive; I can feel how unattractive it is. “Well, now we got that settled, I think I’m going to take off. Thanks for breakfast.” I tap his hand but quickly retreat when he stares at our connection. “Text me!” I stand up casually, but then realize what I said. “Or not, I mean, don’t text me just to talk, text me if you need anything.” That sounded a little asshole-ish. “I mean if you want to shoot the shit, feel free to text me, or call . . .” I shake my head. “I mean, don’t call, only if you need something. I’m not good at chatting on the phone. I hate awkward silences. Okay, this is mortifying. Don’t fire me.” I take off, bumping into the table directly behind me. “Oops,” I call over my shoulder. “Look out for incoming place settings. See ya.” From behind me, I can hear him mumble, “Did she really just flick me?” Working my way through the restaurant, I ignore the blaze of mortification rushing up my spine. Never in my life have I ever flicked someone between the eyes. Why did my first time have to be with Olympic heart-throb, Reese King? *** Reese: Please be sure to stop by the store before you see Bellini today and take her some flowers on my behalf. Tell her I’m sorry. I will be sure to reimburse you. Thanks. I stare at the message a few more minutes before I walk into Bellini’s house. Did I say house? Oh, I mean obnoxiously sized mansion. I received the message moments after I left the restaurant. At first, I thought Reese was texting me to have a laugh over the flick to the forehead, but who am I kidding? I dug my grave, and he is probably ready and willing to fill it in for me. Instead, I went to the florist, picked up some flowers, wrote in the stupid little card for Reese, and stuck it in the middle of the bouquet. This is what assistants to celebrities do, they buy flowers for their significant others and make rich-people apologies. I can’t be more thrilled. Sense the sarcasm. Before I enter the house, I text Reese to let him know I bought the flowers, and even though I flicked him in the forehead, I’m still really good at following directions. Paisley: Flowers are in hand, the ‘I’m sorry’ card has been written. Let me know if you need anything else. I debate over apologizing one more time for my jackhammer finger but decide not to harp on it. The only way to forget what transpired at the breakfast table while sharing a side of bacon is to not speak of it . . . ever again. I actually plan on taking a bottle of bleach to my brain when I get home, to erase any kind of memory of the situation. The driveway to Bellini’s house is elaborate with shrubbery lining the road, twirling up toward the sky like corkscrews. In front of the house is a grand three-tiered water fountain, raining down water, creating a harmonious atmosphere for visitors.
The exterior of the house is beige with sand-colored bricks and adobe-covered walls. Pillars grace the entryway and balconies extend across the second floor with touches of wrought iron spanning across the façade, giving the home almost a Santa Fe feel. It is magnificent. A dream house, no doubt about that. When I arrive at the front door, flowers in hand, I’m not sure if I should knock or just walk in. I’m pretty sure Bellini won’t be answering the door herself, but I also don’t want to walk in on her doing something ridiculous, like pulling an Alicia Silverstone, chewing up food and feeding her dog like a mama bird. I wouldn’t put it past her. So I knock. Within seconds, a man in a butler ’s suit, hand towel over his forearm, and white gloves covering his hands, opens the door. Dear Lord. I push back the eye-rolling from Bellini’s need to show off her money and give the man my best smile. “Hello, I’m Paisley Maccaro, Miss Chambers’s new assistant.” “Paisley?” the man repeats. “I don’t believe I have anyone by the name of Paisley on the list.” I grit my teeth and say, “What about a Mauve?” “Ah yes, Miss Chambers is expecting you. She’s in the back on the patio. I will show you the way.” I nod and follow the man through Bellini’s house, taking in the expensive art, wallpaper, and décor that grace the walls. Her style is tacky, exuberant, and abhorrent. Horse heads, gold damask wallpaper, and Jesus Christ candles are scattered around the house, sending mixed signals of their decorating direction. Are they going for a sanctuary for nuns or reliving an episode from The Godfather? It’s a hodgepodge of extravagant and over-priced crap no one needs in their house unless they are trying to prove something. We get it, Bellini, you have money. Too bad money can’t buy the she-beast a heart. I still have no clue what Reese sees in her. As I draw closer to the back patio, passing a collection of gold-encrusted boar heads on the wall, I can hear Bellini chatting it up about the stylist she has coming over later today to go over her wardrobe for the summer. “Miss Chambers, Mauve is here to see you.” Bellini’s back is to me, a wide black sunhat gracing her head and a silk robe falling over her shoulders. She turns to face me, sunglasses covering her eyes entirely too big for her face. “It’s about time. What are those weeds in your hand? Are those for me?” “Yes, they are from Reese. He wanted to apologize about breakfast.” For the record, they are not weeds. They are one dozen white calla lilies, wrapped in lavender tissue paper and cinched together with a deep-purple velvet bow. I spent a pretty penny on the damn things, she better damn well appreciate them. In a dramatic fashion, Bellini takes off her sunglasses and brings her hands to her heart. “Oh my gosh, he got me flowers. And here I thought he wanted to break up with me.” “Never,” the girl on the right of Bellini says. Her red hair shines in the sunlight, framing her freckle-speckled face and beautiful brown eyes. The flowers are ripped out of my hand by Bellini and shoved into her face where she takes a deep
breath. “Don’t you just love the smell of fresh-cut flowers?” “They must smell extra special because they are sent from your Olympic-star boyfriend,” the girl to the side coos. Bellini pauses mid sniff and scowls at the girl next to her. “Pocket . . .” Ahh, that’s Pocket. Poor, poor girl. “Would you please take your head out of my ass? Despite your ginger qualities, brown doesn’t suit your face very well, so lay off the ass kissing.” “I’m sorry, Bellini, I was just trying—” “That’s your problem,” Bellini says. “You’re trying too much. Your desperate attempts to make me like you are pitiful and uncomplementary to your five-dollar haircut you get every month at Fantastic Sam’s. Now make yourself useful and take care of these flowers for me. I need to meet with Mauve.” “Anything for you, Bellini.” Pocket pops up and takes the flowers. I feel bad for the poor girl. At least I am getting paid to put up with Bellini’s crap. Is Pocket getting anything in exchange? “Sit,” she says, pointing at the white upholstered chair sitting across from her. From behind, it seems like Bellini is only wearing a robe, but once I round her lounge, I notice the black bathing suit she’s sporting under the robe. It is plain, but cut dramatically low in the front, showing off a great portion of her skin. I am sort of surprised by her choice in bathing suit, given she owns a sweater set in every color and claims to be a distant relative to the Virgin Mary. “Jasper Maddox is going to be here soon to talk about upcoming filming we have in the schedule. In case you didn’t know how a reality show works, they plan out ahead of time what they are going to film. The crew knows if they want to be in this house filming, they have to schedule it with me first. That’s your job. Make sure to match our schedules with Jasper. I refuse to be caught off guard when cameras are around.” “Understood,” I answer, knowing full well how reality shows work, but I wasn’t about to point that out to her. Instead, I pull out my notebook and start taking notes on everything she’s saying, even the ridiculous things. I can’t forget one minor detail, even if it was the smallest of tasks. I know if I have one screw up with Bellini, she will make sure I won’t be working for her anymore. She doesn’t seem very forgiving. “But before Jasper gets here, I need to talk to you about something.” Bellini crosses her legs and fans out her robe as she stares me down. “You understand you work for me, correct?” “Of course,” I answer, wondering where this conversation is going. “And you understand that you work for Reese as well?” “Yes, Miss Chambers. I’m very excited to assist you both with the show and Mr. King’s upcoming events.” “Good.” She examines her nails and then stares daggers at me. “Then you realize the way you look at my boyfriend is completely inappropriate and if I catch you ever looking at him with longing in your eyes again, be assured that your hole in your sneaker-wearing ass won’t find another job in this town.” Hole in the sneaker? I think back to my shoes and can’t think of one pair that have a hole in the shoe. Then what she said clicks in my head, not about the shoe, but before that.
I look at Reese with longing in my eyes? How is that possible when I tried to avoid eye contact with him during breakfast when Bellini was there? Did she spy on us afterward? “I’m sorry, Miss Chambers, but I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.” “You don’t understand? Let me say it in words you might.” Bellini’s face contorts into something entirely too menacing to see on a frail blonde. “There are two types of girls in this world. Girls like me, who have men draped across their feet, wishing and hoping for one sniff from their very soughtafter lady garden. And then there are girls like you.” She sneers, looking me up and down. “Girls who flap their dilapidated garden gate open for any kind of attention, doesn’t matter, man, woman, child, or dog. Bestiality isn’t beneath girls like you, nor is acting like a complete whore to other women’s men. You have no morals, and no ethical guidelines when it comes to your dank taco. Newsflash, not everyone enjoys Taco Tuesday, so close it up, shut it down, and don’t look at my man like you want to dangle between his legs, dick in your mouth, with one task at hand . . . swallowing. Lord knows you are one of those dick guzzlers I pray for every night.” Flabbergasted. It’s the only reaction I will allow myself to show because I need to keep this job. So I tame down the inner lioness who wants to get all stabby with my pen in Bellini’s eye, mutilating it until it looks like ground lamb, ready to be balled up together with breadcrumbs and fried as a tasty treat. Lamb eyeball—I would eat it just out of sick pleasure. That’s how stabby I feel. I’m talking about grinding up someone’s eye into an Italian delicacy. Without showing my anger, I take a deep breath and nod my head. “Understood, Miss Chambers. I’m sorry if I gave the impression of a . . .” I pause for a second and swallow hard. “If I gave the impression of a loose . . . taco.” “Just don’t let it happen again.” She flips her hair to the side. And then puts on a bright smile. “So, tell me, what did Reese say about me when I left? Was he desperate to make up with me? I can only imagine how heartbroken he must have felt, knowing I left on bad terms.” If only she knew. “He seemed pretty upset,” I lie. The truth will not go over well right now. This is exactly why people lie to uptight, dramatic celebrities all the time, to avoid the lashing of a lifetime. Hell, I apparently looked at Reese a certain way and was deemed a taco-flaunting whore. Who knows what she would call me if I actually told her the truth about breakfast? Which would be what? That we touched hands, shared food, and then I flicked him in the brow. Now that I think about it, maybe she wouldn’t care. “I knew he would be.” She picks up her champagne glass and swirls the liquid in the narrow flute while she speaks to me. “I can tell you’re single, Mauve. It’s written all over you in a Crayola Crayonlabeled desperation. Naturally it’s a puke color, because well,” she looks me up and down and shivers, “you’re slightly repulsive.” What a freaking sweetheart. “What you need to know about men, is that you can’t just throw yourself at them.” She stares at my dress and says, “That means the see-through cheap cotton blend of a dress you’re wearing has to be shredded the minute you get home. It reads impetuous, needy, like you’re meeting a gang of street youths down at the 7-Eleven to share a blue raspberry slurpee Big Gulp. If you want a man in your
life, you’re going to have to—” “I’m a lesbian.” I cut her off, before she starts getting too deep into relationship advice. It is so not needed from her. And no, I’m not a lesbian, but I would say just about anything right about now to shut her up. She leans forward, her eyes big, and her lips parted just slightly in shock, like I told her I gave birth to a killer whale last week. “You’re . . . a lesbian?” She whispers the word and looks around to see if anyone heard her. Note to everyone out there: you don’t have to whisper the word gay or lesbian when saying it out loud. It’s not a swear word, you’re not going to be banned from the universe for speaking of those who are same-sex oriented. It should be a word spoken in regular tongue, a word that is a part of everyone’s vernacular . . . and not in a derogatory way. I nod my head in confirmation, thinking of my friend Carrie back home, and how she would be proud of me for joining her side. She is one of those girls who you envy and realize that one saying is true. “All the cool girls are lesbians.” She’s chill, laid-back, and STUNNING with her long blonde hair and full eyelashes. She’s made men cry before, breaking their hearts when they realize she’s batting for the other team. Taking a moment to mull over what I confirmed, Bellini not so casually covers her bathing-suit exposed body, making it known she doesn’t want to be ogled. I roll my eyes. Another note to everyone out there; not all gay men and lesbians are checking you out. They have better things to do with their lives than prey on the heterosexuals of the world. “So . . . you like women?” “Yes, that’s what lesbian means.” Maybe she will get off my back about Reese, realize I’m not after her man . . . at least give it the illusion I’m not. I can’t help the way I look at him. He’s all muscular and smooth skin. Hump-worthy for sure. Perusing me once more, her lips turn thin. “I can see it. Your arms are too toned, your style is rather boyish, and I thought you smelled of musk and wood.” Well that’s a ridiculous stereotype if I’ve ever heard one. “Is that how you think lesbians smell? Like a lumberjack?” “Well, that’s what you are, aren’t you?” I bite my tongue, literally bite down on the motherfucker because if I don’t I will be telling this woman off so fast, blowing my career up quicker than I could tweak her nipple. She’s such an ignorant wench. I need this job. I need this job. I take calming breaths and smooth my hands over my dress. “The media portrays lesbians to be flannel-wearing, lumberjacks when in fact—” “Jasper, you’re here!” Bellini claps her hands together, interrupting my verbal onslaught. A wiry man with glasses leans over Bellini’s lounge and kisses her on the cheek before nodding at me. “We were just discussing lesbians. Look at me, Miss 2016 with an open mind.” “You’re so progressive,” he compliments, sarcasm and annoyance clear in his voice. “Who is this?” He nods at me.
Waving her hand in my direction, she says, “Oh, that’s Mauve.” Whispering once again with her hand next to her mouth, like she is about to tell a secret, she answers, “She’s a lesbian. She’s my assistant, and she’s a lesbian.” “Oh, your new assistant.” He reaches his hand out to me to shake. “I’m Jasper. Nice to meet you, Mauve.” He cuts to Bellini quickly and says, “Bellini, don’t out your employees, it’s very disrespectful and condescending.” I refrain from correcting him when it comes to my name and shake his hand instead. He’s one of the producers of Bellini’s show, Rollin’ in The Bacon, if I need to impress anyone right now, it would be him. “Nice to meet you, Jasper. I’m excited to be a part of the show and will be happy to help wherever. I actually have a background in—” “You can be quiet now. Jasper doesn’t want to know about your background in knowing your way around female organs. It’s irrelevant to the show but good to know since I won’t have to worry about you drooling over Reese again.” A part of me, a very small part of me wants to call up Reese and invite him over just so I can hump his face tonight out of spite, but knowing I have a good opportunity with my career, I hold back my finger that itches to place the call. “Good to know,” Jasper says, sitting across from Bellini. “Let’s get down to business. Reese’s publicist sent me his schedule for the upcoming swim season. Production plans on following him every step of the way.” “And what about me?” Bellini asks, insult evident in her voice. “The show is about me, you know.” “We are aware,” Jasper deadpans. “But ratings have been down. We have to add another element to the show, more than just you talking on the phone to your dad about the newest shoe he needs to buy you.” Bellini crosses her arms in defiance. “Reese is an American treasure with an interesting image that will bring in a new set of viewers.” Spitting venom, Bellini says, “He hasn’t even won a gold medal. He’s spent more time on a Wheaties box for accomplishing absolutely nothing than any other athlete on this planet. He’s the male version of Anna Kournikova, famous for his looks and ability to wear a triangle of underwear in front of a camera.” “Now that you got that out of your system, let’s remember not to say something like that in front of the camera or during interviews.” Jasper ’s patience with her is wearing thin. I’m surprised he hasn’t already snapped her femur in half. “I’m just pointing out the obvious. There is no need to tiptoe around it. He’s a professional choke artist.” “Do you even like him?” I say, letting the words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. Very slowly, Bellini’s sunhatted head turns in my direction, a sneer to her lips. “Excuse me?” I cough and pat my chest, clearing my throat and giving myself a second to respond properly. “I’m sorry, I had an itch in my throat. I asked do you like the gym?” She eyes me skeptically before saying, “What does that have to do with what we are talking about?” Think Paisley. What does that have to do with the present conversation?
Jasper and Bellini both wait for me to answer, their eyes blazing holes through my thin clothing. From the distance, I can see Pocket standing in the doorway, the vase of flowers to her nose and an evil glint in her eye. For the record, Pocket is creepy. Like she watches people while they sleep, breathing heavily, without their knowledge kind of creepy. “Um, well, I thought I would ask because . . .” I pause, not sure what the hell I want to say. “Ugh, assistants are so annoying, just get on with it already.” My creative mind picks up and I think of a fantastic way to not only torture Bellini, but embarrass her while advancing my career . . . hopefully. “I think it would be a great idea to see Bellini immerse herself into Reese’s world. You know, try to do a few swims with him, maybe join him in the gym. It would show their relationship and how close they are, plus give the audience an inside look into Reese’s life and Bellini’s undying support for him.” Before Bellini can respond, Jasper slaps his knee and points at me. “Mauve, that is a fantastic idea. What a great angle.” “Wait.” Bellini sits up, worry in her eyes. “We can deck her out in Team USA gear, get her those star-spangled-banner swim goggles.” “Ew, I don’t wear star-bangled anything,” she adds, panic setting in. “Reese can teach her to swim, and then they can have a competition in the pool,” I add. Jasper nods his head. “Maybe we can get Pope Francis involved as well, get him to doggy paddle in the pool.” “No!” Bellini stands, stomping her foot on the ground. “There is no way I will subject my precious angel to the deterioration of chlorine that man-dolphin smells like every day. And I don’t swim. I sit by pools and stare at the water, but if you expect me to dip my freshly manicured toes into that peeand-snot infested water, you can think again.” “Check your contract, sweetheart,” Jasper says while making notes. “You have to do what we say. So if I say jump in the pool with your boyfriend, then get your one-piece on, because you’re learning to swim from an Olympic medalist. Great idea, Mauve.” “Thanks.” I smile brightly, even though Bellini is scowling. “Like I was saying earlier, I have a master ’s in film and production, so any help I can assist you with on top of helping our two starlets, let me know.” Like a three-year-old child, Bellini stomps off into the house, Pocket tagging closely behind her. The next two hours are spent with Jasper, going over storyboards for the season and upcoming schedules. I take copious notes, sync my schedule with his, and plan on doing the same with Reese and Bellini. By the end of our meeting, Bellini is in her room, cucumbers on her eyes and music from the Baroque period streaming through her surround sound while Pocket is massaging her feet, and I am one step closer to working my way back into the film industry. Despite my flicking to the forehead earlier, my day is ending on a good note.
Chapter Seven **BELLINI** Why is it so hard being me? I should be able to skate around this world, people bending over backward trying to press their chapped and cracking lips to my perfectly manicured big toe. I shouldn’t have to deal with manipulative shrews trying to embarrass me in front of the masses. Swim? Workout . . . IN A GYM?? That’s where people go to roll around together, trying to catch the next latest and greatest staph infection, rubbing their bodies against bars of metal and trying to lift them above their heads while their wiener veins pop a chub in their raggedy mesh—puke—shorts. It’s where they go to look in the mirror at their janky, bubbly bodies, and compare the recent red hue of the ringworm in their elbow pit. Gyms are for heathens, the less fortunate, the imperfect striving to be like me. I don’t go to gyms, there’s no need with the kind of metabolism I have. “You’re so tense,” Pocket points out, running her thumb across the arch of my foot, digging deep just in the right spot. My arm rests across my forehead as I speak to her. “It’s because my life is in ruins right now. It’s crumbling right in front of me, and I can’t do anything about it. I’m forced by contract to do what the production company says, and that devious lady lover knows it!” “What lady lover?” Pocket asks. “You can be such a daft cow at times, do you know that?” I lift a cucumber from my eye to look at her. “I saw you lurking at the door with my flowers shoved up your nose. Mauve likes women. She confessed it to me today.” “I thought you were worried about her and Reese together.” I slam my hands on the bed out of frustration. “I was, but since her confession, I know it’s nothing to worry about now. Keep up, won’t you? It’s not worth having a minion if you’re going to sit there with a hole between your ears, no brain to be found, and a look on your face that reads, ‘Please don’t speak to me, I only know four words: penis in my mouth.’” It’s such a hardship, running an empire like mine, creating a line of religious wear for dogs, and having to babysit nitwits like Pocket. I feel exhausted from this conversation. I wonder if the Kardashians have such a hard time finding decent people to blow steam up their skirts. I can’t imagine they struggle on a day-to-day basis like I do; they have Ryan Seacrest at their helm. Who do I have? Wally Rose? He’s not famous for anything, other than my riveting show. Ryan Seacrest at least dyes his hair, just the tips. Wally Rose has no hair, and in place of the six-pack I’m sure Ryan is sporting, there lies a pot belly full of ten-year-old Twinkies and processed bacon fat.
“I don’t like that girl, Pocket. I don’t trust her.” “Is it because you don’t know anyone in the gay community?” I’m about to verbally lash out at Pocket when her words sink in. Do I know anyone in the gay community? My hair and makeup stylist is a girl, could she be gay? How can you really tell these days? I sit up on the bed, and cucumbers fall from my eyes and onto my chest. “I don’t think I know any gay people, besides Mauve. Is that a crime?” “They’re nice,” Pocket adds, smiling down at my feet and poking them. I whack her hand with the top of my foot to make her stop. “What are you trying to do? Irrigate my foot? Stop that.” She pulls away immediately. “Do you think . . . I should meet some gay people? If I immerse myself in the culture, maybe then I will understand Mauve more and her intentions for ruining . . .” I pause. A light bulb as bright as the sun shines above my head, indicating the most brilliant idea I’ve ever had. I grab Pocket by the shoulders and look her in the eyes. “Pocket, do you think Mauve is trying to make my life miserable because she’s miserable, because she can’t find a lady for herself?” Pocket’s eyes flash wide, realizing what I’m trying to convey to her. “I’ve heard the lesbian dating circuit is hard.” I don’t even bother asking her how she knows that, as I’m too consumed by my brilliant idea. “Pocket, I think it’s time I play matchmaker. Mauve is just a lonely hot-box, she needs a boob to squeeze at night, and I’m going to make that happen for her.” Being the good minion that she is, Pocket praises me. “Bellini, you are a genius and a humanitarian.” I really am a humanitarian. Add that to the list of things I excel in. Maybe if I can find the one for Mauve, I can turn my generous gesture into a philanthropic empire. Love for Lesbians. It has a nice ring to it. “I need to talk to Pope Francis,” I shout, looking around for my dog. Pocket springs from the bed and bends over, reaching her arms to the floor. Of course that silly dog is on the floor, he knows nothing more than living on just the bare minimum. If I could be more like my dog, I would call myself the luckiest person alive. “Here is his majesty.” Pocket presents me with my mini white schnauzer. “Such a prime example of religious royalty.” Bowing away, Pocket steps aside, hands clasped in a prayer. Idiocy radiates off her, making me wonder why I keep her around. “He’s not the actual Pope, you annoying cowbell. How many times do I have to tell you that?” She just bows in a “namaste” kind of way. The urge to throat punch her is real. Instead of releasing my anger, I tamp it down and gaze adoringly at Pope Francis, the love of my life. His brilliantly white hair is fluffy, like a bunny’s fur, so I bury my face in it and take in his frankincense and myrrh. He’s perfect in every way with his beady little eyes and paws that smell funnily enough like corn chips. Silly puppy. “Oh Popey, I have such a great idea I think you will be very proud of. Remember that garbage-baglooking lady from the photo shoot the other day, the one with the combat boots?” Pope Francis
sneezes, and I take that as his memory cluing him into who I’m talking about. “Well, she told me a secret today.” I whisper into his ear, “She likes women.” The non-judgmental dog resting in my hands nods his head, not even thinking twice about my comment. He really does God justice—love thy neighbor. I learn every day from this little white fluff ball. “Just from the mere sight of her, I can tell she’s ornery, missing that aspect of love in her life she so desperately wants to find. It’s the only explanation I can come up with as to why she was rudely setting up moments for me to fail in front of the camera today. But instead of being bitter, and harping on how she’s ruining my life, I’m rising above her spiteful prejudice against me. I’m going to find love for her.” I pause for dramatics and take a deep breath. “I’m going to become a matchmaker.” From the other side of the room, Pocket holds her phone up in the air, a wave of clapping echoing out of the speaker and into the room, giving me a sense of accomplishment. Maybe she’s not that bad of a minion after all. “What do you think, Popey? Should I help out our lesbian friend and find love for her?” The room falls silent as both Pocket and I wait in anticipation for his answer. With a side tilt to his head, he licks his mustache and blinks. That’s all I need, he’s agreed. “I have the Pope’s blessing,” I shout to the ceiling, praising anyone who can hear about my newfound mission in life. “I’m a matchmaker.” It’s all too overwhelming, my emotions get the best of me and I start to cry. I wave my hands in front of my eyes, warding off tears of joy. Pope Francis eats the cucumbers that rest on my chest, and Pocket is dancing to joyous instrumental music now playing on her phone. It’s a celebration, a jubilee, a grandiose occasion to praise me. Just when I thought my life was over, I resurrect myself from the pit of despair and offer myself a new life. I’m the pinnacle of patronage, a prime example of a good Samaritan, a holy and blessed public servant. I’m such a gift to this overpopulated and tortured earth. Thank God for people like me.
Chapter Eight **REESE** The sun scorches my back, beating down incessantly, not a cloud in sight to lighten the burn. But I welcome it. Today is my day off from training, a day off from Bellini, from production, from Ashley my publicist, and from the public eye. It’s a day for me to relax, re-group, and prepare for my upcoming taper week. Even though it’s my day off, I still glide my sore muscles through the open water of the Pacific Ocean, stroke after stroke, until I reach the beach where the sunburned sand meets the ocean waves. It’s been a few days since I’ve heard from Paisley. All communication has consisted of schedule updates on where I need to be and why. She’s planned out my days down to the very last minute, and it’s terrifying how I rely on her phone alerts now. At times, I feel like I can’t think for myself as to what to do. That’s how I feel today, slightly confused, unstructured, but also a little liberated. I rest my hands behind me, letting them sink down into the sand as I look up at the sky, taking in the warm heat and the rolling sound of the waves crashing against the shore. This is exactly what I need: a break from it all, but especially a break from Bellini. Last night when I was forced to talk to her on the phone, she kept going on and on about the gay community, and how she is an integral part of it now. So confused, I stopped listening and tuned her out. I played solitaire—with actual playing cards —on my coffee table while she rambled on and on. It wasn’t until she yelled at me that I started paying attention again. Why she felt the need to call and talk on the phone was beyond me. Does she not understand the concept of a “fake relationship”? I make a mental note to talk to Jasper and Ashley about that, as I don’t want her getting any ideas of engagement, and I don’t want her to influence Ashley and Jasper either, fill their heads with proposals and lifelong commitments. Fuck no. One season. I keep telling myself that over and over again. I just have to get through one season with her and then it will be all over. Off to the right, there are four puny, teenage kids playing with a frisbee and daring each other to talk to a woman they can’t stop pointing at. I smile to myself, remembering those days. Wanting to see what the commotion is all about, I look to the left of me and see a woman sunbathing, wearing a red two-piece bikini. Her stomach is pressed against her white towel and her rear end is eatable in the most perfect way possible, sticking up in the air, with a thin scrap of fabric showing off her ass. The woman has no shame, and she shouldn’t; her ass is perfect. Because I’m a man, I glide my sunglass-covered eyes past her rear end, up her back, and to her shoulders, her well-defined and familiar shoulders. There is a pile of black hair, twisted and pulled to the top of her head with a red bandana pulling back any strays attempting to escape. I take in the inked
words that decorate her body in a beautifully scripted way, playing with the contours of her sunkissed skin, highlighting her gorgeous curves. Fuck. She is seriously sexy. Paisley. Without even thinking, I stand and walk her way. The boys behind me all shout their encouragement, but I ignore their pre-pubescent catcalls and make my way toward Paisley. My broad shoulders cast a shadow over her delicious body. From afar, she is irresistible. Up close, she is damn near lethal. From my shadow, she turns to the side, confusion on her face, until she sees who’s standing above her. Instead of covering up quickly to hide her exposed skin, she turns completely over and stretches out with her elbows propping her up. I have no shame; I look up and down her body. Her bikini bottoms barely cover her skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. Not only are they low rise in the back, with two straps on each side connecting around her waist, but the front of the bottoms dip incredibly low in the front as well. Her stomach is toned, to the point that I wonder if she was an athlete in her past, making her that much more tempting to me. My gaze rides up to her breasts, full and cupped in a matching red top, a little more modest than the bottoms, but still quite revealing, just enough to make me want to rip the strings apart and explore every last inch of her delectable body. “Reese, I’m surprised to see you here.” Interrupting my perusal, she forces my eyes to fall on her makeup-free face. “I would have thought on your day off you would avoid the water.” She looks casual, as if talking to me is something she does every day. However, I can hear the waver in her voice, belying her calm with each word. “I like to stay loose,” I answer, licking my lips. She nods and bites her bottom lip, unsure of what to say next. She looks up at me again and says, “I like your sunglasses.” They’re aviators, not even expensive ones, and I hold back the chuckle. “They’re from Old Navy,” I answer, making her laugh. “What’s so funny about that?” “I don’t know. You just don’t seem like an Old Navy kind of guy.” “Don’t be so quick to judge.” Tilting her head to the side, she smiles and says, “Want to join me?” She pats her towel and scoots over. There is no way in hell I’m going to pass up this chance, so I sit down next to her, sharing the width of her towel. We sink our feet in the sand, stretching out our legs and leaning on our hands to prop up our chests. The waves beat down on the sand in front of us and the sun reflects off the blue of the ocean, making sunglasses a necessity. Days like this I’m grateful I live in California. “So,” she drags out, “I’m surprised you own board shorts. I would have expected you in some small piece of spandex.” “Thinking about me in a Speedo?” I tease, making her cute cheeks blush. “I would have sworn
you’d try to come up with other ways to get away with flicking me in the head.” “There it is.” She looks down and shakes her head. “Only took you about five minutes to mention it.” I bump my shoulder into hers. “Did you really think I wasn’t going to mention it? Paisley, you flicked me right between the eyes, with a dart of a finger. I think I bruised for days.” Her hands cover her face in embarrassment. I love how real she is, showing her emotions, emotions that are not overdramatized or theatrical. “I don’t know what came over me. It was a low point in my life. I’m just glad you didn’t fire me over it.” “Please, I would never fire someone over that. Now, if you punched me in the throat without a reason, then we would be having a conversation.” She giggles and removes her hands from her face allowing her beautiful grey eyes to dance with my hazel ones. “I could never just punch someone in the throat.” She pauses and says, “Scratch that, I totally could.” Her voice dies off as she winces from her comment. “Let me guess, you want to punch Bellini in the throat?” “I didn’t say that.” She turns in shock, fear playing in her eyes. I just nod, not sure if I can trust her completely yet. I so desperately want to tell her that Bellini and I are living a farce, but I don’t know this girl. Then again, I barely know Bellini either. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” I ask, knowing the weather is always a safe topic. “It is. I’m surprised it wasn’t overcast this morning. Once I heard the weather report, I knew I had to head out to the beach.” “Do you surf?” I ask, wanting to know more about her. She tilts her head back, taking in the sun. From the column of her neck, to her chest, I observe every word and saying painted on her skin. Little sayings and phrases I’ve heard before float through my brain, sparking my memory, but I can’t quite place them. “I do surf,” she answers me. “Waves were a joke today, though, so I didn’t even bother dragging my board down here. I never want to be one of those surfers riding two-inch waves and fist-pumping the air for nailing something a toddler can ride out.” “Wave snob,” I joke. She just shrugs her shoulders, accepting my name-calling. We sit in comfortable silence, taking in the sun, feeling the heat radiating between us. From the corner of my eye, I watch her chest rise and fall to the rhythm of her heart. Her skin glistens in the light, and her lips are barely parted, making me wonder what they taste like, what they would feel like gliding across my body. Fuck, I want her. I want to fucking taste her, to nibble my teeth across her hardened nipples, to feel the weight of her breasts in my hand, to feel the tight confines of her pussy. Just from our short interactions, my body has already begun to crave her. But, I just don’t want her physically. I want to know more about her. What’s her background, why is she an assistant for Bellini and me? Does she have family? What’s her story? What do her tattoos mean? Does she have hidden tattoos, ones I can run my tongue across and worship until she’s writhing under my body, screaming my name so her voice echoes against the walls of my house.
Fuck, I’m hard and having a difficult time hiding it in my board shorts, so I bring my legs up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. I lean my chin against my knees and stare out at the ocean. I’ve always been able to be smooth around women, but with Paisley, I feel like I’m back in grade school, trying to figure out how to approach her, how to strike up a meaningful conversation. “So, you surf. What else do you do in your spare time?” “Hmm. If I told you I paint would you be impressed?” “I would.” I could totally see it, Paisley as an artist makes total sense. She seems very artistic. “Well, I don’t.” She chuckles, throwing me off. There goes that image of her painting naked, her ass crack peeking past the stool she’s sitting on, and a good amount of side boob exposed with every rise and stroke of her hand. “I do color though.” “Those adult coloring books?” She shakes her head. “No, those things are way too complicated for me. The spaces are tiny, practically impossible to define, you’re bound to color out of the lines.” “And why would you subject yourself to such ridicule?” I tease. “Exactly. Oh, hell no, I refuse. So, I end up coloring little kids coloring books. I’m going to tell you right now, the Frozen coloring books can stop. I’m one Olaf away from writing Disney a letter.” “They just can’t let it go, can they?” I ask, a grin spreading across my face. “Clever.” She chuckles. “Ana or Elsa?” “I’m more of a punk rock Ariel fan.” “A what?” She crinkles her nose in confusion. “Oh, come on.” I shove her shoulder with mine. “You haven’t seen those pictures trending all over Facebook? Artists drawing the Disney princesses in all different get-ups. There’s been the book nerds, the hipsters, the average woman, the punk rock chicks. Ariel dressed up in tattoos with long black hair, fucking boner worthy.” It doesn’t escape me that Paisley is a close relative of Punk Rock Ariel. “Ah.” She gives me a sideways glance, looking up through her lashes. “You like tattoos, huh?” “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?” I ask, not talking about my own ink, but about hers. Electricity bounces between us, heat starts to develop, and all I can think about is pushing her down on her towel and exploring her body, tracing every single one of her tattoos until they are memorized. She clears her throat and lies completely down on the towel, closing her eyes. I take that moment to scan her body once more, appreciating every curve, every defined muscle in her stomach, the little dip in her hips where her bathing suit bottoms caress her. Her chest is full, her breasts propped up from her position. What I wouldn’t give to slip her top off right now, just for a small fucking peek. “What hobbies do you have other than swimming?” she asks, covering the sun from her eyes and squinting while she looks up at me. Drawing my eyes away from her body, I answer, “Not many. My life has been one long session in the pool. My days off usually consist of me out here, on the beach, soaking in nature, listening to the waves crash and little punk teenagers fawn over a hot woman in a miniscule bikini.” I raise my brows at her. “Damn kids.” She laughs and shakes her head. Pausing, she studies me and says, “You know, you’re
different than I expected.” “What does that mean? What were you expecting?” She shrugs. “I don’t know. You have this persona about you on the pool deck, a don’t-fuck-with-me attitude, so I presumed you were like that in real life, but you’re not.” “Shit, am I forgetting to act like a prick? All right.” I straighten up, lower my sunglasses, and blatantly scan her body. “Do you make a good living selling hot dogs?” “What?” She sits up, completely confused. “Because you sure as fuck know how to make a wiener stand.” I give her a side smirk and wait. She studies me, and then starts laughing, a rich, sultry laugh that has my dick hardening in seconds. “Oh my God, please tell me you’ve used that on a woman before.” “Only one.” I wink. “And from the way you reacted, I’m going to chalk that up as a fantastic pickup line.” “Yeah, have fun with that one.” She continues to shake her head, laughter in her eyes. “Seriously though, you’re nothing like I expected. You’re sweet and down to earth.” I hold my finger up to my lips and “shush” her while I look around. “Don’t let people hear you, you will ruin my image.” “Your secret is safe with me. But why portray yourself as a different person?” I look out at the ocean and consider her question. I’m not a dick in real life, but that’s not how I’m portrayed in the media. Fuck if I care, though. “I don’t portray myself as anyone else but me. The general population knows me as Reese, the Olympic swimmer, they know of me as the guy who shaves his beard right before I dip myself in the pool, as the man who is laser focused on the pool deck to the point I don’t show much emotion. The media plays up rivalries and shortcomings that irritate me, so during interviews, I only want them to be over. You only see what the media shows. They don’t see me going to hospitals to talk to sick patients. They don’t see me at swim camps for kids with disabilities or hanging out with wounded war veterans. They see me as Reese King, The Silver Stroke, the short-tempered man who can accomplish everything except earning a gold medal.” There is sorrow in Paisley’s voice when she asks, “Is that why you’re doing the reality show, to show a different image of yourself?” Quietly, I say, “Yeah something like that.” Knowing full well the reality show is a load of crock I signed up for out of pure desperation during a low point in my career, when I was panicking about life after I hung up my goggles and swim cap. Seconds span between us before Paisley grips my hand resting in the sand and says, “For what it’s worth, I don’t think of you as The Silver Stroke or Reese the swimmer.” Connecting our eyes, I ask, “Yeah, how do you see me?” She bites her bottom lip, contemplating her answer. A smile spreads across her face before answering in a teasing tone, “Reese the underwear model, of course.” I roll my eyes and laugh. “Oh, how could I forget? How fortunate for me.” “You know I’m kidding.” She nudges me. “You’re way more than that, and I’m so happy I get to work with you. You’re an awesome guy, Reese.” “An awesome guy, huh?” I quirk an eyebrow at her. “Why does that seem like something a middle
school girl would tell her crush?” Slyly, she says, “Maybe because you were a middle school crush to a little black-haired girl.” Fuck, yes! “Have some Teen Bop cut-outs of me?” From the shift in her body, I can tell she’s feeling uncomfortable from her confession and my teasing. Clearing her throat, she says, “Uh, it’s hot, I think I’m going to head back. I’m also hungry for lunch.” She sits up next to me and grabs her bag. She snags a pair of white-rimmed sunglasses and puts them on. She looks like a goddamn pin-up girl. I can’t take my eyes off her and panic sets in. I don’t want her to leave, so I do something completely unexpected. “Come back to my place for lunch.” If sunglasses weren’t covering her eyes, I know they would be speaking a thousand words just from the small drop in her jaw and the rise in her brow. I don’t know what possessed me to ask her back to my place, besides the fact that I’m infatuated with the woman who is also my assistant and my fake girlfriend’s assistant. I’m so fucked. “I don’t know,” she says, clearly uncomfortable by my invite. “I have some, umm, tuna back at home calling my name.” I scrunch my face at her and shake my head. Without thinking about the consequences, I stand up and reach out my hand to her. With a quick pull, I help her stand on her feet and try not to drool over the way her breasts bounce with her movements. “You’re coming to have lunch with me. I’m having some healthy pasta salad and grilling out. You can wear your bikini too . . . if you want.” I wink at her and start walking toward my house. From behind, I can hear her gathering her things to follow me. I sigh in relief. I need more fucking time with her. “Hold up,” she calls out. Halting in my tracks, I turn to see her unsteadily walking through the sand, her arms full of her beach gear. Like the gentleman I am, I grab her bag for her and link her arm with mine. The shocked look on her face is adorable, so fucking adorable that all I want to do is push her back up against the sand and ravage that sweet mouth of hers. But I have time to make that happen. *** “Your place is amazing,” Paisley coos, now wearing a white crochet cover-up, if that’s what you want to call it. To me, it’s a fucking tease because it barely skims the tops of her thighs. There are slits on either side that go up to her waistline and the holes in the crochet netting are big enough that I can still see her entire body. The sleeves just fall past her elbows, pulling tightly on her toned arms. All the cover-up does is make her that much more enticing. Now that we’re inside and the sun isn’t reflecting off her skin, I can’t help but continue to stare at her while she observes my house. Gracefully she glides across the floors, her hips swaying with every movement, whispers of her hair blowing in the light breeze coming through my open sliding
glass doors that lead to a private pool. Although she has an athletic build, it doesn’t hide her feminine curves. “Did you decorate yourself?” She turns before I can stop taking her in. Once again, her cheeks flush from my blatant perusal. I clear my throat and run my hand through my hair, slightly embarrassed that she caught me staring. “Uh, I did. It’s not much, but it works.” She nods and crosses her arms over her ample chest as she looks out the back of the house. Spanning the rear of the living room are sliding windows that pocket into the walls, providing a wide-open feel to the outdoors. It’s my favorite part of the house. I added sheer white curtains so when I close them, I have privacy and a breeze. Needing to clean some of the sand off me—I can feel it in my crack—I say, “Make yourself at home. I’m going to take a quick shower.” “Oh, okay. Can I start making some of the food?” “No, just get comfortable. I’ll be right back,” I answer matter-of-factly before I head to the shower. Taking no time to let the water warm up, I jump in and start running my bar of soap over my body. I want to clean up quickly so I can get back to Paisley in her see-through cover-up. I lather my hands, collecting a generous amount of suds before I run them over the length of my body, under my arms and then slowly moving them down to my cock. The minute I connect with my arousal, I press one of my hands against the tile of the shower. “Fuck,” I grumble, applying more pressure and letting the water bounce off the top of my head, not able to stop. It’s been so fucking long since I’ve been with a woman and the one sitting in my house— right down the hallway—is testing my will. Flashes of Paisley’s perfectly round ass run through my mind as my hand continues to stroke up and down my length. Paisley has me practically panting at her feet with need. If I’m going to get through lunch with her in that outfit, I need some sort of relief. Not caring how long it takes, I envision her in her two-piece, her breasts floating against her chest as she walks toward me, her hips swaying in a hypnotizing rhythm. I think about what it would feel like if she snuck into my bathroom right now and caught me jacking off to visions of her in my head, what it would do to the wafer-thin control I have over my feelings for her. Would she climb in the shower with me? Would she assist me in my release? Would her lips find the tip of my arousal? I would fucking beg her to join me and then peel off that tiny red suit of hers, one string at a time, until her entire inked-up body is revealed to me. I bend my head even more and groan to myself as my balls tighten. “Fuck me.” I expand my fantasy and picture her falling to her knees in front of me, those beautiful grey eyes staring into mine. With the lightest lick of her lips, she would let me know she was ready to take me in. From above, I would tortuously watch her open that delicate, fuckable mouth of hers take my cock, licking and sucking until I couldn’t fucking take it any longer. Just like that, I snap. I pump feverishly, my chest rising and falling at a rapid rate until my orgasm takes over my body. Shots of white pleasure cloud my vision, and pure euphoria runs rampant through my body from my toes to the tip of my head as I come in my hand.
My hand slows down and I grumble to myself, fucking satisfied with my shower decision. Knowing I didn’t take too long, I clean up quickly and grab my towel to dry off. It just so happens, I left my Nike shorts in the living room, where Paisley is. Looks like I have to go get them.
Chapter Nine **PAISLEY** What the hell am I doing? Oh sure, Reese, take me back to your place, show me around your extravagant beach home and then let’s make lunch together after you take a nice hot shower, naked, only a few doors down from where I sit. Sure, what a great idea. Real swell. *Thumbs up* Yup, I’ve lost all moral sense and have followed one of my bosses to his house to share lunch with him. Did I mention IN HIS HOUSE? This is a bad idea. A very bad idea. The worst idea I’ve had in a very long time. All I can hear is Jonathan’s voice in the back of my head, harping on about being professional, about keeping my distance. Why can’t I listen to him? Oh yeah, because I have a six-foot-two piece of walking sex standing in front of me, wanting to share a towel and talk about the damn weather. Hell, I would have talked about how toilets are made with him if it meant his sun-kissed skin was rubbing against mine, smelling like a combination of salt water and tanning lotion. I tried to play it cool, act like I could hang and joke, but inside, my stomach was twisting in knots, and I prayed to the heavens above that my finger didn’t end up flicking him again, or my hand get a mind of its own and start cupping the man’s package. But what a glorious package it is. The way his semi-damp swim trunks clung to his powerful legs outlined his crotch, giving me a good idea that his Speedo is in fact . . . not stuffed. Yup, that will be an image that stays in my mind for quite some time. After a long stretch of silence between us, I couldn’t take it anymore. I was either going to roll over and start dry-humping his tattooed arm, or leave. I chose the latter. Too bad for me—he had a backup plan to continuing our little afternoon soirée. And of course, his house oozes sex. Everything about it makes me want to take my clothes off and walk around naked. From the white linen curtains blowing in the breeze, to the natural wood furniture and white upholstered couches, to the stainless steel kitchen that overlooks the living area; it is sleek, modern, grown-up, and just flat-out sexy. Everything about his place matches the man that lives in it. There are dark pieces of art on the walls, rivaling his rebel image on the pool deck, and smooth surfaces scattered around his home, emulating his silky skin. I am so screwed, if I stay, bad things are going to happen. I can feel it. He is too attractive and he has too much swagger for me not to throw my entire body at him. Deciding right then and there that it is time for me to leave before I lose control of my emotions . . . scratch that, lose control of my sexual attraction, I stand up from the couch to look for my bag just in time to see Reese walking down the hallway, hair wet, chest glistening, and his white towel riding dangerously low on his waist. From my viewpoint—not that I’m closely examining him but I can’t help it—I see his bulge
pressing against the terrycloth of the towel causing me to instantly swallow the saliva attempting to become drool from the mere sight of him. “Going somewhere?” he asks, coming dangerously close to me. Just a few feet away, he stands tall, confidence in his bones, a smirk on his face, one of those side smiles that make your panties melt right off. “Um, I was just looking for my bag. I think it might be time to go home.” He steps even closer, I can feel the humidity of the shower coming off him, the fresh smell of his soap permeating my senses, wrapping me in the perfect little Reese cocoon. “Leave?” his husky voice asks, stepping even closer so now we are only inches apart. My heart beats in my chest, my legs start to give out on me, and a delicious pulse starts to throb in my clit from his proximity, delighting every nerve ending in my body. “But we haven’t even had lunch yet. I need help making my pasta salad. You won’t skip out on me now, will you?” He leans even closer; if I stuck my tongue out, I would be able to touch his cheek with it. What is he doing? Going for a side kiss? A cheek-on-cheek thing? Maybe butterfly kisses? I can butterfly kiss him real good right now if I want to. Would he like that? Of course he would. What kind of heathen doesn’t like butterfly kisses? “I-I guess not,” I stutter. “Good.” He smiles and leans forward even more. I suck in a deep breath of air, waiting for him to make his move, when he quickly reaches behind me and then pulls away, holding up a pair of shorts. A long whoosh of air flies out of me, full of relief and disappointment. Did I want him to reach around me and undo my bathing suit? Hell, yeah. Did I want him to reach behind me and stick his hand down my swimsuit, cupping my ass only to push me up against the world’s most comfortable couch and fuck my mouth with his tongue? Pretty much. But he is in a relationship, and he is my boss. Two things I have no intention of screwing up. With resolve, I step farther away and dust off my cover-up for some reason. Really, I am nervous and fidgety, so I need something to do with my hands. “You good with the knife?” he asks, stepping around behind a chair. “I’m okay with . . .” I pause just as he whips his towel off, revealing the bottom of his waistline, where his hip divots cut in and the root of his cock rests. I pant. I pant right there in front of him . . . like a dog in heat, staring dramatically at the vision of a Grecian god standing in front of me. There it is, the root of his cock, short, trimmed hair resting beside it. Just like that, my clit starts pounding with arousal and I want one thing and one thing only: the man standing in front of me. There is no denying it. Too bad for me, though, I only get a sneak peek, but from what I can see, his dick is thick. Eff me. He puts his shorts on, snaps the waistband and steps out from behind the chair. “You were saying?” he asks me, clearly tuned into my perusal. “I know how to use knife,” I respond like a caveman. Thankfully I refrain from scratching the top
of my head and one of my armpits at the same time while dancing in place. He chuckles, a rugged rumble from his chest. Eff me . . . again. “Good to know. Want to show me your skills in the kitchen?” I nod, not able to speak. I follow behind him like a lovesick puppy, wishing he would give me a little more attention. Maybe a pat on the head, a lick to the neck, or a penis to my vagina. Any would really do right about now. While he grabs the ingredients for the pasta salad, I watch his steady movements, his confidence in the kitchen, and his familiarity with his surroundings. He doesn’t seem like someone trying to act like they cook; he knows what he’s doing, and that is downright sexy. Any man who can cook, can easily win a piece of my heart. “My mom and I came up with this recipe for pasta salad back when I was in high school. I was eating over four thousand calories a day to keep up with my training regimen, and this healthy version of pasta salad was a lifesaver. I took a bowl of it to school with me every day as a midafternoon snack.” “Over four thousand calories?” I ask, finding my voice. “That is an insane amount of calories.” “I eat about thirty-five hundred now. It’s one of the positives of being a swimmer; you get to eat a lot. But now that I’m older, I don’t necessarily sit down and eat a giant burger, I try to find calories in a healthier way. My pasta salad helps with that.” “But aren’t you grilling up burgers for lunch?” I tease. “I am, smart-ass.” He laughs. “Instead of buns, we’re eating them on lettuce wraps.” “Appetizing,” I say sarcastically. I am a healthy eater, but I love my bread, I don’t appreciate people taking it away, especially when burgers are mentioned. “You’ll live. Now wash your hands while I cut the peppers. I don’t know where those hands have been and I don’t want them all over my food.” “I’m not disgusting,” I say, going to the sink to wash up. The soap next to the sink is from Bed Bath & Beyond, and it smells like heaven. It’s funny to me that he has a fancy hand-wash soap. What man stocks such a thing in his house? “Why are you giggling to yourself over there?” I didn’t realize I was giggling. Busted. “Your soap. I just didn’t expect a bad boy like you to have black-cherry-apple-scented hand wash.” “My mom brings over a bunch whenever she’s visiting. She is constantly making sure I’m prepared to be a good hostess when I have people over, which is pretty much never.” “Oh, I’m one of few,” I joke. He slides the peppers, a cutting board, and a knife in front of me. “You are.” His voice displays no humor in it. “This is my sanctuary. I don’t like a lot of people messing with it.” His breath practically tickles the hairs on the back of my neck. Gulp. I clear my throat. “I can understand that. You must get hounded a lot when you’re in the public eye. I’m surprised no one approached you at the beach. Your tattoo is kind of a giveaway.” He looks down at it and then scans my body. “I could say the same about you. What’s the story
behind your ink?” The peppers are left in front of me while he grabs a box of veggie pasta from the shelf and starts boiling a huge pot of water. He covers it with a lid and then turns to me, waiting for my answer, hands resting behind him against the counter. His chest expands with his breath and his abs ripple with each movement. It would be no hardship having to stare at him all day. “So, are you going to tell me?” he prods. Not caring about chopping vegetables, I say, “Ever hear a phrase or saying that touches your heart to the point that you want it branded on your soul?” “I have,” he answers, curiosity in his eyes. “I grew up on an Indian Reservation. My parents weren’t too keen on me exploring outside of the general store they own. I was sheltered, big time. I didn’t really know life outside of going to school and stocking shelves. My grandpa was my only outlet. Every Friday night he would take me to the movies, and I would sit there, a big tub of popcorn on my lap and a huge smile on my face. The movies were my escape, very much like swimming is yours. I fell in love with the production, the storylines, the creation of putting it altogether. I wanted to be a part of making dreams become a reality. I studied film, went to school for it and got a master ’s degree in production. Movies have been a part of me ever since I can remember; they helped me escape a humdrum life and gave me a dream to live for. Along the way, I collected phrases, musings from movies that touched me in a way I can’t explain. Those sayings were branded in my soul, so I branded them on my body as well.” He steps closer and examines my tattoos. Gently, his finger pulls down my cover-up, exposing the tattoo that runs across my collarbone. “You had me at hello.” His grin peeks past his lips, lips I wish would press against my own, just for a small taste. “Jerry McGuire, great movie.” “The first movie I ever saw with a sex scene.” I laugh. “But one of the best romantic lines ever in a movie.” He chuckles. “Hell of a good sex scene, you’re lucky it was your first.” He tilts his head so he reads the tattoo along the length of my neck. “I figure life’s a gift and I don’t intend on wasting it.” He pulls back and studies me, unsure of where the quote is from. “Titanic,” I answer. “Leonardo DiCaprio will forever be a part of me. I would never let go.” I laugh, and he joins in with me. He then lifts my arm to see the tattoo on my left wrist. It’s small, but legible. “Anything can happen, if you let it.” “Mary Poppins,” I say before he can guess. “A wise woman.” He smiles, looking at my lips as if he wants to kiss me. The tension between us grows as he continues to examine my tattoos. With every turn of my body, I feel his heat, filling my space, suffocating me in all the right ways. He can only read the visible tattoos, I don’t plan on taking my clothes off for him to inspect every last inch of me, but to be honest, if he asked me to, I would be stripping right here, right now, in the middle of his state-of-the-art kitchen. “These are all words that have touched your soul?” he asks, running his finger along the tattoo on my right forearm. “Yes, in one way or another, these words have helped me through my life; they’ve inspired me to
be a better person, to strive for more.” He nods and steps back, giving me some space, space I don’t want. “I can relate. I have a saying I carry around with me everywhere I go and tape it to my locker before each swim meet.” “Really?” I ask, curious to find out we are similar in a way. “What does it say?” Without skipping a beat, he answers, “Every champion was once a contender that refused to give up.” “Rocky Balboa,” I say, holding up my right arm and pulling up the sleeve of my cover-up, so he can see the small saying etched on my inner bicep. His hands automatically go to my arm, and he reads his saying that is scrawled across my skin, his fingers carefully caressing the ink. “No fucking way.” He laughs. “Damn, I think my heart just skipped a beat.” His heart just skipped a beat? How about mine is about to pound right out of my chest from the light caress of his fingers along my arm. There is a fire in his eyes, a passionate fire, full of heat, yearning . . . wanting. The feeling is mutual. An addictive pulsing runs through my body, settling in my core. Beat after beat, our silence surrounds us. His chest falls in rhythm with mine, our breathing syncing as one as his hazel eyes continue to bore down on mine, looking for answers as to what this burning sensation is flowing between us. I clear my throat and take the first look away. His gaze is too strong; I’m bound to do something stupid. “So, these peppers need to be chopped, huh?” I ask, turning quickly so my back faces him. My hands rest on the counter, and I take a few deep breaths, trying to still my heart from exploding out of my chest. Not the smoothest of transitions, but at least I didn’t have to face him anymore; I just get to feel his stare beating down on my back. From behind, I can sense his body retreat from mine. I peek over my shoulder to see him casually pace the kitchen, his hand running through his hair, tension evident in his shoulders. “Yeah,” he grumbles. “Cut them up into little squares. I’ll grab the cheese and start working on that.” It’s awkward. Incredibly awkward. I can feel my armpits start to sweat and my ears heat from embarrassment. Why I’m embarrassed, I don’t know. It’s one of those reactions I’m prone to. Some people might get angry, or laugh it out, whereas I get embarrassed and my ears turn a bright shade of red. Should have listened to myself earlier, I should have left when I had the courage to leave. But then Mr. Muscles just had to take off his towel in front of me, giving me the smallest of peep shows. In silence, we work on our respective foods. I chop, not paying attention to what I’m doing, and to the side, it sounds like he’s doing the same. Nonchalantly, I look over at his cutting board. He has a sharp knife in his hand, and he’s cutting a block of cheese like a professional chef, in perfectly symmetrical cubes. The peppers on my board look like they’ve been half mutilated by a spork. Cringing, I turn back to my peppers and try to concentrate on what I’m doing, which is pretty much impossible with Reese King standing next to me—shirtless, his shorts riding incredibly low on his
hips, and smelling like some damn piece of heaven dropped from the sky. Earlier, when he turned around, I was able to check out the dimples right above his ass. I envisioned sticking my tongue in them, just for the hell of it, testing the depth with my fingers, maybe even doing a little nipple play with those dimples. You know, placing my nips right in there just for the hell of it. “What are you doing to those peppers?” Reese asks me, mirth in his voice. “Um, cutting them?” I ask, knowing full well it looks like I’m shredding them like pulled pork. “Let me show you how it’s done.” Like any other normal person, they would have asked the pepper mutilator to step aside so they can take the helm of the cutting board. Not Reese. He’s not like every other normal human being. I should have known that by the deep V in his waistline. Instead of sliding me to the side, he steps behind me and wraps his arms around my body. His sixfoot-two height towers over my short frame. His head ducks down to mine, where his lips speak directly into my ear. The warmth emanating off his body breaks through my thin cover-up and spreads over my skin. Without any control over my body, my back rests against his chest, giving him a better view of my front and the peppers. His arms encase me, and his right hand wraps around mine that is holding the knife. Together, he forces us to pick up the pepper, so we are working in tandem, exercising our ability to chop vegetables . . . in the most intimate way possible. I don’t think I can breathe. There is an inferno raging in my stomach, my clit is pulsing uncontrollably, and my mouth falls into desert mode, drying out completely. With a rugged voice, he says into my ear, “You have to cut the pepper lengthways first.” He demonstrates, using my hands as well. “Then, you start cutting little squares.” As if we are one, our bodies are fused together and we chop, not saying a single word to each other, just completing the task at hand. Time slows down, our breathing becomes ragged, and no longer are we chopping. From behind me, Reese’s head dips to my neck. I can feel his lips a whisper away, begging to press against my sensitive skin. Chills run up and down my spine, and I wonder if he’s actually going to make a move. I want him to make a move, desperately. Every square inch of my body wants him to take charge, to tear my bathing suit off and ravish me on the kitchen counter. I want to know what it looks like to have his head between my thighs, to see him look up at me during my throes of passion. “Paisley,” he breathes out and turns me around, slowly. Pushing me up against the counter, he tilts my head so I’m forced to face him. His eyes are searing with hunger . . . for me. My breath catches in my throat as he leans forward, inches away from my lips. He smells, expensive, addictive. Male. His body is hard against mine, heated, and willing. All I have to do is press myself a few inches closer, weave my hands in his wavy black hair, and revel in the feel of his short scruff on my face. But I remain still. I don’t move for two reasons: my job, and he has a girlfriend. Shit, he has a girlfriend. Just as he closes the last few inches between us, I slide to the side and part from our connection. Feverously running my hands up and down my body, as if I am trying to wipe myself off, I glance at
him, confused. “What are we doing? You’re in a relationship . . . with my boss. Am I insane?” I poke him in the chest, his rock-hard chest. “Are you insane? I can’t believe you would cheat on Bellini like that.” I pause for a second and then think about what I said. “Well, I guess I could believe it. She’s not the biggest charm on the bracelet.” I shake my head. “That doesn’t make any sense. This doesn’t make any sense. What am I doing here? This was a huge mistake. I need to get my things.” I weave my way past him, through the kitchen and into the living room, all the while he’s laughing. LAUGHING! Annoyed now, but hiding my fingers so I don’t have another flicking episode, I turn to face him, hands on my hips. “Why is this so funny to you? Is adultery funny to you?” Still with a smile on his face, laughter crinkling the corner of his eyes, he glides toward me until his hands meet my hips. I step away but he stops me, not letting me go. In his deep, sultry voice he says, “You have to be in an actual relationship, Paisley, in order to commit adultery.” “What?” I ask. “I’m not in a relationship, you are. You are the one being the adulterer.” “Also, adultery is for married people. Neither of us are married.” His calm attitude is starting to make me mad. “Fine, cheater, you’re a cheater.” “Also incorrect.” “Oh, because you didn’t actually kiss me? Well, getting close enough so you can lick me is pretty much cheating, I don’t care how you spin it. Now, if you would please let me go, I need to leave before I do something stupid.” “And what might that be?” He brings me closer, so our chests are pressed together. Lord, is he strong. I sigh in exasperation. “Reese, you’re my boss. Your girlfriend is my boss. You are attached to someone. This isn’t a good idea.” “But you want to,” he counters, a spark in his eye. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing can ever happen.” I disengage his hands from my hips and step away to grab my bag from the floor. I feel empty without him near me even though the heat between us is still very strong. I tell myself not to look back, to keep moving toward my exit, but my body defies my mind and gives him one last glance. A cocky grin stretches across his face while one of his hands pulls on the back of his neck. His muscles flex, his bicep bulges, and everything about him screams, “jump me right now.” “We’re not together,” he says. I roll my eyes. “Yes, I know we’re not together. I’m well aware—” Pressing his finger to my lips, he says, “Bellini and I are not together. It’s all for the show. It’s not real. Our publicists set it up.” Come again? Did he just say his relationship is a hoax? This delicious man standing in front of me is actually available, and he wants me? And just like that, the throbbing in my body starts up again, my mind draws a blank, the only thing running through it are thoughts of Reese naked and on top of me. “What did you say?”
“It’s a lie, Paisley.” He cups my cheek. “The only relationship I have with Bellini is a working one. There is nothing romantic between us.” Annoyingly my head presses against his hand, and I revel in the way his thumb rubs adoringly along my cheek. Before I know it, both his hands are cupping my face, and his head is lowering toward mine. No, this can’t happen, despite how much I want it to. He’s my boss. I can’t lose this job, even if the man in front of me smells so divine I could orgasm multiple times. From his smell alone. Virile. Sexy. Edible. Available. Stop! Boss. Boss. Boss. Boss. Basic stranger danger instincts register in my head, and I snake my arms between us, with my forearms, I throw his hands off my face while simultaneously slamming my forehead into his for an epic headbutt, sending him backward a few steps. Pain radiates through my skull as I realize the wrong instincts kicked in—once again—and I abused the man. He holds his head where I smacked him and gives me a dazed and confused look. Oh God, not again. I didn’t mean to headbutt him. I was just trying to get away as quickly as possible before I did something incredibly stupid. Too bad for me, I still did something incredibly stupid. We stare at each other, not saying anything, while he searches me for answers. I will myself to say something, anything to get this moment over with. Instead of apologizing like any other Chuck Norris impersonator, I hold up my bag to my ear and say, “Do you hear that?” “Hear what?” he asks, still holding on to his head. Digging through my bag, I find my phone and then give him the universal “one minute” finger for hold on. “Hello, oh hey, yup, give me one second.” I cup the fake call to my chest, like I’m blocking off the speaker and say, “Sorry, I have to take this. Got to go. Okay, talk to you later, Reese.” I point to his forehead. “Ice, rest, and Tylenol. See ya.” I walk toward the front door, pretending to talk on the phone as Reese calls after me. “This isn’t over, Paisley. I know that’s a fake phone call.” My eyes squeeze shut from being caught, but I continue to move out the door. If I’m faking a phone call, I will see it through, despite not fooling anyone.
Chapter Ten **PAISLEY** “I’m so tired I think I’m about to pass out,” I say into my phone, while trying to navigate the streets of Los Angeles in the early morning dew. “But I made you coffee . . . with love. You should be alive and ready for the day.” “With love? What is with love?” “You know, stirring in your cream while naked,” Jonathan says with laughter. I roll my eyes and turn on my blinker, scoping out the parking lot I’m about to turn into. Please let there be a close spot, please let there be a close spot. “Please tell me you used a spoon to stir.” “As opposed to what?” From the jovial way he asks the question, I’m quite sure he knows what I’m talking about. “I swear to you, Jonathan, if your naked dick went anywhere near my coffee I’m going to make sure you’re never able to get it up again.” Chuckling, he answers, “You think so low of me, Paisley. It truly hurts me.” “You’re fine,” I tell him. Pulling into the parking lot, I start searching, hoping and praying for something close. I can barely turn the steering wheel, let alone drag my carcass across the early morning asphalt. After I left Reese’s house in a state of panic, I spent the entire evening replaying our time together over and over in my head. From the moment he saw me at the beach, his blatant perusal of my body, to the way his bare chest burned against my back while he was helping me cut those damn peppers. I couldn’t erase the images out of my head, causing me to toss and turn endlessly until the wee hours of the morning. When I finally fell asleep, my alarm started ringing, letting me know I had half an hour to get ready before I needed to meet Bellini, Reese, and Jasper at the pool to go over some logistics. “Want to get dinner tonight?” Jonathan asks. “I’m feeling like some pizza.” “How can you even think about dinner? It’s not even seven in the morning.” I find a parking spot that’s not as close as I was hoping, but I settle since I have about two minutes to meet everyone at the pool. Surprisingly, this was the place to be in the morning. I have no clue why. Venice Beach is a few blocks down, so if people want to swim, they should just go to the ocean. Gathering my coffee, keys, and purse, I work my way out of my car as Jonathan continues to speak. “Just trying to schedule some time with my favorite girl. You’ve been working a lot. I miss you.” “Are you trying to get me to pay?” “Maybe.” He laughs. “Come on, you owe me some pizza. It’s the least you can do for me getting you that job.” “Ah, yes, I can’t thank you enough for helping me land the opportunity of a lifetime. Every time Bellini points at her mouth and shouts for a Tic Tac, I praise to the heavens above for the blessed chance you’ve given me here.” My sarcasm is heavy.
“You’re more than welcome, sweetheart.” I know there is a smirk on his face. “I’m hanging up now.” “Wait,” he says quickly. “What about dinner?” “You know I’ll have dinner with you. Now I have to go. I’m almost at the pool.” “Okay, make good decisions today.” If only he knew. We say our goodbyes, and I hang up just as I turn into the pool area where the water in the pool is being sprayed around by flailing arms and kicking legs. There are a few athletes on the pool deck, conducting some dryland training while everyone else is in the lap pool and coaches are calling out instructions. There are eight lanes in the pool and at the very far end, three lanes are still, with only one athlete hanging on the edge of the pool, listening to a coach instruct him while pointing at the clipboard. Reese. Instant recognition. Not hard due to the unforgettable tattoo cascading from his shoulder blade. Scanning the perimeter, I don’t see Jasper or Bellini and wonder if I have the time wrong or if they decided to sleep in a little longer. Moving past the swimming club gathered at one end of the pool, I watch Reese intently as his coach kneels down to talk to him. From his schedule, I know Reese has been out here for at least an hour already and is going on hour number two. Even though I berated myself last night for letting things get out of hand yesterday with Reese, I can’t help but watch him intently, taking in the way his muscles shift ever so slightly with his movements: his back flexing, showing off his countless hours in the pool. Memorizing. Taking a seat on the bleachers near his lane, I listen carefully without being detected, not wanting to intrude. “This last set is going to push your limits, but I included it because we need to test your strength and endurance. You’ve been smooth all morning, let’s keep that up.” “Okay,” Reese gruffs out. “We’re doing fifties with fifteen pushups at each end. Freestyle. Pyramiding down. We’ll start with a set of five and work down from there.” I have no clue what they’re talking about—as I don’t speak swim—but from the hard set of Reese’s jaw, I can tell he’s not too excited about the workout he’s about to do. “Start on the block and listen to my signal. Go on my count.” I watch Reese’s long and sturdy body hop out of the pool and stride to the block. He adjusts his swim cap and looks at the pool. The minute his eyes meet mine from across the deck, his face brightens and his gaze sharpens. From the light smirk that blesses his features, I know he’s happy to see me. He snaps his goggles in place, adjusts his swim jammers that ride incredibly low on his waist—like dangerously low—and gets in position. Bending over at the block, he grips the edge, his feet positioned askew, and his head angling down toward the water. “Take your mark,” his coach calls through a mini megaphone. Reese’s arms tighten just before a beep sounds, sending Reese flying through the air and straight into the water. I’m angled so I’m staring down the length of the pool and he’s coming right at me. I wait in anticipation to see him pop up out of the water. After a few seconds, his head emerges and his strong arms stroke through the water while his
powerful legs kick behind him. Fluidly his legs, torso, and arms work together, propelling him forward at a pace I’d never be able to keep up with. I would be flopping around in the water, begging for him to wait up. His hands enter the water with precision, barely making a splash as he glides toward me. Just when I think he is about to flip under the water to turn around, my mind plays games with me because it almost seems like slow motion as his arms straighten and his chest pops out of the pool. With his foot on the edge, he climbs out, water streaking down every sinew in his body, down to his waistline where his jammers cling to the bulge in his crotch. Fuck. Me. It’s like he’s giving me my own personal erotic show. He stops right in front of me. Droplets of water decorate my tennis shoes and as he planks over the ground, getting into a pushup position. He gazes up at me and winks just as his coach starts counting in rapid succession, setting the pace for Reese’s pushups. I’ve never been one to stare at another human being while they’re exerting themselves, because sometimes, humans are not the most attractive when they’re working their body weight up and down, coming inches from touching the ground. But that’s not the case with Reese King. He’s flawless—seamless—so freaking fluid with his movements that it’s impossible to look away. Erotic. Water drips off him onto the pool deck that’s starting to heat up from the rising sun, his dominant shoulders flex with each press, and the dimples above his tight ass draw my attention to his lower half. Just when I’m starting to get comfortable with the view, his coach calls out fifteen and then tells Reese to take his mark. Springing up from position, Reese does just that and then dives back into the pool when his coach sounds off a beep through the megaphone. I’m able to catch the flex of his calves right before he sails into the pool and a slow pulse starts in the pit of my stomach. Reese isn’t just attractive; he’s sexy. Never did I think swimming would turn me on, but hell, watching Reese glide over the water—his powerful arms pushing him forward—is one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen. For the next half hour, I watch Reese work his way down the pyramid, swimming fifties—look at me learning swim terms—and doing fifteen pushups on each end as his coach calls out each rep by counting them off. I’m fascinated in his endurance, in his ability to keep up with his coach’s relentless pace, and his determination to never show weakness. Every single time Reese pops out of the pool on my end, he blatantly makes an attempt to wink, smirk, or even blow a kiss at me. Yes, he blew a freaking kiss. I wore a mask of indifference but inside, every vein in my body turned into Jell-O with the slight pucker of his lips pointed in my direction. Yup, I’m that girl right now. During his workout, Bellini and Jasper never show up. Did I miss something? I check my calendar for anything but don’t see where I went wrong. I have the time and place right so I chalk it up to them being incredibly late. As Reese does some sort of cool down, I take in the relationship between his coach and him. They are close, there is no denying that. His coach talks about their workout, what they accomplished and then starts asking Reese questions that involve his mental game. Reese answers them without skipping a beat, telling his coach he feels strong and confident going into trials and that he’s looking forward
to his taper week—whatever that means. The day starts to heat up, and I’m thankful for the tank top I’m wearing under my light zip-up hoodie. Taking off my sweatshirt, I let the sun’s rays warm my exposed arms. Having to wake up so early left me with no fashion sense as I put on workout Capri spandex, a purple tank top, my all-black Nikes, and because I wasn’t interested in doing much with my hair, I quickly styled it into two loose French braids. My white-rimmed sunglasses protect my eyes from the sun reflecting off the pool and hide my burning gaze of Reese. Finally, Reese hops out of the pool, shakes hands with his coach, grabs a towel, and starts walking in my direction. There is swagger in every single step he takes; there is purpose in his approach, and there is fire in his eyes as he connects with me, never breaking contact. “You came,” he says, taking a quick sip of his water bottle. Despite his towel draped over his shoulder, he makes no attempt to dry off, and I wonder if it’s because he can tell I have zero selfrespect when it comes to watching water drip off his body. Clearing my throat and trying to show a shred of professionalism, I stand and say, “Of course. Where’s Jasper and Bellini? I thought we had a meeting.” “I canceled with them.” He smirks. Raising an eyebrow, I ask, “What do you mean, you canceled with them?” “It’s just a practice, didn’t think they wanted to watch.” “Soooo . . . there is no meeting?” I’m so confused. “No, I sent them an email last night about what I wanted to discuss for Bellini’s pool training. I guess I forgot to copy you on that.” “I guess you did,” I reply skeptically. He shrugs. “Sorry about that.” Even though the apology comes out of his mouth, I don’t believe him for one second. “Enjoy the practice?” I cross my arms over my chest and lean one hip to the side. “Yeah, but kind of wish I got to sleep in. A girl needs her beauty sleep, you know.” “Looks like you got enough sleep to me.” He bites his bottom lip and gives me a once-over. I swear, my stomach does an entire somersault and my nerves jump in excitement. Taking the towel in his hand, he rubs the top of his head, drying off his curly black locks, and then asks, “Want to get breakfast? I’m starving.” “Umm . . .” Your answer should be no, Paisley, tell him no. I berate myself in my head, but for the life of me, I can’t seem to form the words to reject him. “It’s on me.” He winks. “You know . . . for forgetting to copy you on the email and making you get up so early. Give me a few minutes to wash off. I’ll be right back.” Before I can tell him I’m too busy, he takes off toward the locker room, his backside flexing with every stride. Real smooth, Paisley, way to hold strong. *** “I’ve never been to Flake,” I say to Reese as we walk along the sidewalk of Venice Beach. Of course, Reese insists on driving together, so I get to ride in his black Rubicon and pretty much suffocated in
lust from the fresh soap smell rolling off Reese. At one point, I rolled down the window but all that did was waft his heavenly scent in my direction. Stupid sexy-smelling soap. “Really? They have the best breakfast in the area. I come here at least once a week, although not when I’m craving my banana granola pancakes.” “As you could tell, I’m not much of a morning person, so I don’t go out to breakfast very often. I usually go to CrossFit and then shove a protein bar down my throat on the way to work.” “Well, this place won’t let you down.” We turn the corner to the entrance of Flake, a grey stucco building with orange doors and a surfboard with a bacon sign hanging off it. It’s laid-back and cute, just the kind of place I like. Placing his hand on my lower back, he opens the door for me and ushers me inside, the heat of his palm branding me the entire time. Trying to ignore the way Reese ignites my body so easily, I take in the ambiance of the restaurant. It’s quaint with a row of olive-green booth seating flanking the length of the wall with orange tables lined up next to it, providing a great deal of seating. The walls are decorated in cream and orange hues with surfboards and the fronts of cereal boxes scattered across the space. Above the register are chalkboards with the menu, and below it, a cereal bar with toppings that range from fruit to Reese’s Pieces. I think I’m in love. Leaning in close as we stand behind a few people in line, he speaks softly, telling me all about their menu. “They have a bunch of egg sandwiches, burritos, and yogurts, but then they also offer bowls of cereal.” “Cereal?” He’s so close, I have to pull away slightly to look him in the eyes. “It’s not just cereal.” He chuckles. “It’s cereal with a twist. You get two scoops and then depending on what you’re interested in, you can either get two toppings or one toppings.” “What are the toppings?” I ask, starting to be more interested in this cereal idea. He points to the jars in front of the bar. “Anything really. They have a bunch of fruits, nuts—” “Gummy bears?” I ask, my mouth starting to water. He chuckles next to me, the rumble of his chest vibrates against my back. “Yes, they have gummy bears.” “Sold.” I study the menu as we step forward, preparing my order, making sure I have the perfect combination of toppings to my cereal. “Mr. King, we haven’t seen you in a while,” the worker says as we step up. “Hey George. Yeah, it’s been a bit. I had a long swim today and decided to bring my friend. She’s a newbie.” George looks over at me, and it doesn’t go unnoticed to me that Reese referred to me as his friend and not his assistant. I don’t know why that makes me happy. It shouldn’t. “Welcome then,” George coos. “I’m hoping Mr. King gave you a run-through of how things work, but if he was neglectful to a beautiful lady like yourself, I would love to answer any questions you might have.” “Settle down, George,” Reese says before I can answer. His voice has a more rugged tone to it. “I explained everything to her.”
Chuckling to himself, George nods. “The usual for you today, Mr. King?” “Please.” “And what would your friend like?” Stepping up to the counter, Reese once again puts his hand on my back, and I wonder if it’s a territorial thing or if he’s taking any opportunity he can to touch me. He did make his attraction toward me quite clear at his house. “I’m going to have The Basic Bowl.” George touches the screen in front of him. “Okay, two scoops of cereal, two toppings, and your choice of milk. What will it be, sweetheart?” From the endearment, Reese’s hand presses harder against my back. Settle down, buster, it’s not like George is trying tongue me from over the counter. “I’m going to have two scoops of Crunch Berries, a scoop of gummy bears and one scoop of mini M&M’s with one-percent milk.” There is a smile on George’s face as he plugs my order in. Looking up at Reese, he says, “You payin’?” “Do you think I’m some kind of chump that will make the lady pay?” All George does is lift an eyebrow. “Fuck off.” Reese laughs and pulls out his wallet to hand George a twenty-dollar bill. Watching Reese pay for my breakfast sends a thrill of excitement through me. It feels like he’s taking care of me, and there’s something to say about the feeling of being taken care of. If anyone says they don’t like that feeling, they’re lying. It’s a simple gesture, paying for a meal, but it still hits home for me, causing me to yearn for the man that much more. Once again, going to breakfast with Reese is a poor decision on my part because I’m unable to separate professional from personal. Right now, everything is muddled into personal wanting, professionalism nowhere to be seen. I should be so ashamed, but hell if I’m not excited to be around Reese. While we wait for our breakfast, we take a seat at a table. I try to avoid all eye contact with his hazel glare, knowing I can easily get lost in it. “I forgot to wear my cup,” Reese says, pulling me into conversation with him. “Your what?” I ask, completely confused. “My protective cup, you know, for my balls.” Caught off guard, I lean forward and ask, “Why would you need to wear one? You’re a swimmer.” The corner of his mouth lifts up in a smirk. “Not for swimming. I need it for around you. Seems like every time we have a meal together, I get hurt. You’ve flicked me and headbutted me, so I’m just waiting to be crushed in the balls by your knee now.” I can feel my face heat up and my ears turn red from embarrassment. I hate to admit it but he’s right. Breakfast was a flick and almost lunch was a headbutt, so I pretty much try to damage this man around any type of food. I shake my head. “I’m so sorry.” He chuckles. “You know I’m kidding.” He pauses and then says, “But seriously, do you plan on kneeing me in the junk? A little warning would be appreciated.” “No.” I laugh. “I don’t have kneeing you in the junk in my schedule.”
“All right.” He nods. “You’ll let me know if it ever shows up, right? I mean it’s the least you can do after the last two attacks.” “I promise.” Our order is called and Reese tells me to stay seated while he stands to grab our breakfasts. Before he left the pool, he changed into a pair of athletic shorts, a plain black shirt, and a black backwards hat. He’s very casual, yet with the way his shirtsleeves cling to his biceps, or how his shorts encase his butt—showing off how perfectly round it is—he is sexy as hell. His tattoo extends from this shirtsleeve down his arm showing that even though he might dress like a teenage boy with a backwards hat, he’s still very much a man. Two trays are placed at our table. One has my cereal concoction with a bottle of water and the other has a breakfast burrito, two fruit kabobs, yogurt with granola, and a bottle of water. Reese wasn’t kidding when he said he ate a lot of food. “Got enough food over there?” I ask, pouring my milk onto my cereal, my mouth watering over the not-so healthy breakfast I’m about to partake in. “Hopefully.” He smirks then takes a look at my tray. “How’s your bowl of sugar?” I’m mid spoon to my mouth when I pause. With a questioning look on my face, I ask, “Are you judging my breakfast?” “No, not at all.” He holds up his hands. “Don’t knee me in the junk.” “Ha, ha,” I deadpan just before I put my first scoop of sugary goodness in my mouth. “Mmm . . .” I moan, then realize I’m in public, sitting in front of a very attractive man. His mouth is slightly agape, his eyes heady, and his shoulders tense. “I’ve never been more jealous of a bowl of cereal in my life.” “Reese . . .” I warn. “What?” He smirks at me through his eyelashes while he gathers his burrito in his hand. “You’re fucking sexy, especially when you moan like that. We should try it out in bed some time.” “Reese!” I hiss, leaning forward and scanning the place to see if anyone can hear our conversation. “I’m your assistant.” He shrugs. “Technicality.” Taking a big bite of his burrito, he just smiles at me as I start to sweat. I should have known he’d be persistent. Maybe I should have knocked him harder in the forehead yesterday. “So, you like looking at my body, huh?” he asks nonchalantly, as if we’re just talking about the weather. I choke on some milk and take a sip of my water, trying to steady the cough that is taking over. “What?” “You like looking at my body. Nothing to be ashamed of. I noticed you ogling me at the pool deck.” “I wasn’t . . . ogling you,” I whisper, not wanting anyone to hear our conversation, apparently Reese couldn’t care less. “Please,” he takes another bite of his burrito and talks with his mouth full, “I saw the way you perused my body. You were blowing kisses the whole time at me.” I straighten up from the blatant lie. “No, I wasn’t. You were the one blowing kisses at me.” My
voice rises and catches the attention of George. “Is there a problem over here?” he asks, mirth in his voice. Mortified, I sink down in my booth seat. Reese just laughs as he continues to shovel his breakfast in his mouth, barely taking a moment to breathe. “I hate you,” I say timidly as I scoop some more cereal into my spoon. “No, you don’t.” He winks and then offers me a piece of his fruit kabob. “Kabob?” I glare at him. “Don’t try to suck up to me now with your stick of fruit.” He brings the kabob to his mouth and pulls off a strawberry with his teeth and says, “If I were to suck up to you, I wouldn’t be offering you a stick, I would be offering you a log.” The sexual innuendo is heavy, and I gulp thinking back to when he took off his towel in front of me and I saw the base of his thick penis. Yup, he would be offering me a log all right. “Thinking about my cock?” he asks, taking another bite of his kabob. “What? No. Why would you ask that?” My ears are flaming with heat right about now. Casually, he spreads his legs and leans back in his chair. His curly hair wraps around the sides of his hat and even though he’s grinning at me, with his dark beard covering his hard jawline, he still has a sinister look about him. He points at my spoon that’s halfway to my mouth. “Because I said log and then you stopped feeding yourself and your eyes became all hazy. You paused for a good couple of seconds. The only reason I can come up with is you’re thinking about my cock.” I shake my head. “Awfully full of yourself today, aren’t you?” “Just letting you know where I stand.” “And where’s that?” The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them. Leaning forward, his hazel eyes connect with mine, light flecks of gold amidst green. “I think you’re sexy as fuck, Paisley. I want to get to know you more, and I want to get you into my bed, fuck you until you scream my name at least three times.” Oh God. My face is burning up, my body feels numb, and there is a steady pulse in my clit just from the words that deliciously rolled off his tongue. I try to tamp down the fangirl cheering for me, repeating his words over and over in my head. He thinks I’m sexy. Reese King thinks I’m sexy. I almost want to pinch myself. “Your cereal is getting soggy.” He nods at my bowl. “You better finish up.” And then that’s it, he continues to eat his smorgasbord, and I’m left feeling turned on, horny as hell, and wondering why he won’t let up, despite my tireless attempts to reject him. I don’t have much strength where he’s concerned. After we finish breakfast, Reese guides me out of the quaint restaurant that I’ll definitely return to. I start toward where we parked, but he has different plans as he pulls on my elbow and directs me down the street toward the beach. “Where are we going? The car is back there,” I say while pointing behind us. “I’m well aware of where the car is. It’s not going to kill you to spend some more time with me. Chalk it up to getting to know your boss.” That’s what I’m afraid of. The more I get to know Reese, the more I’m drawn to him. I’ve never
really been in the market to find a man. I’d always been career driven, and if a man came along during my journey, I had some fun. But with Reese, it almost seems like he could make me think of more than just a career. He makes me think of a future, a family, a life partner to spend my days with, and that terrifies me, because even though Reese might be the perfect man for me, I’m most likely not the perfect woman for him. He would probably end up breaking my heart, which then in return, would once again leave me without a job. It’s so not a good idea to get involved with him. But . . . Ugh, he’s so. . . so everything Hold strong, Paisley. I’m pulled out of my thoughts when a plethora of little barks grow louder. Looking to the side, I see a little gated area on the beach full of puppies. “What’s this?” I ask as Reese walks me to the fenced-in area. “Want to play with some puppies?” he asks, a spark in his eyes. Oh hell . . . A man who wants to play with puppies. A hot man with bulging muscles—and a tree trunk for a dick—wants to play with puppies. And my resolve is paper-thin right about now. “Hey Reese, how’s it going?” an older lady with a sun hat and a charming smile asks. “I’m glad you’re able to come down today.” “Hey Rita.” Reese wraps his arm around her and gives her a side hug. “I brought a friend with me today.” “Fantastic.” Rita hands Reese a clipboard. “You know the drill, sign and date, and if you want to make a donation to the shelter, please feel free to do so.” Reese signs and hands her the clipboard just as he’s pulling his wallet out. “You know I always make a donation.” Searching through his wallet, he pulls out two one-hundred-dollar bills and hands them over. “Here Rita. Did you guys get the shipment of dog food the other day?” “We did. Thank you so much. Your generosity has been so valuable and appreciated. Are you sure we can’t put your name in the newsletter?” “Keep it anonymous.” He winks and then rubs his hands together. “All right, who do we have today?” “Whimsy just had puppies. We think they are a poodle collie mix, not quite sure though.” “Is that what the fluff balls are?” “It is. Would you like to play with them today?” Turning to me, Reese asks, “What do you say? Want to play with some collie doodles?” “Sure,” I say, a little too excited. Rita smiles at both of us and goes into the pen. She picks up two dogs. One is grey with black spots, and the other is white with a black spot over the right eye. They are adorable! “Here are some toys, stay within the area, and bring them back when you’re done.” “Thanks, Rita.” I take the puppy with the spot over his eye and Reese takes the grey puppy. Together, we walk over to an area in the sand and take a seat. I cross my legs while Reese sprawls his long legs out in front of
him, facing in my direction so we form a little bit of a closed-off area. The puppies are both energetic and instantly start biting our fingers and wrestling with our hands. Glancing up at Reese, I ask, “You play with puppies often?” “When I can. It’s relaxing.” He smirks, an evil glint in his eyes. “The shelter rescues mill dogs, you know, dogs that are used for breeding only. You should see some of the horrible things these people do to them. Breeders treat them as cattle and stuff them in cages their whole lives, giving them only six inches on all sides to live in. It’s disgusting. To raise money for the shelter ’s medical bills and expenses, they bring down some of the puppies that are born in the shelter for people to play with. Individuals can make donations to play with the puppies and also learn about the shelter. I ship some food to them every month and play with the puppies when I can. Occasionally I’ll go to the shelter and help clean the kennels, but that’s rare given my schedule.” He shrugs. “I do what I can.” Are you swooning as well? Not only is he extremely attractive, but he has a giant heart for animals. How is a girl supposed to hold up a front when she learns about something like that? “Is this some ploy to get me to fall head over heels for you?” “Is it working?” “No,” I answer quickly even though my mind is screaming yes. Playfully, he pushes his foot against my knee, a huge grin on his face. “Liar.” He caught me, but there is no way in hell I’ll let him know that. Trying to move past the heated tension between us, I ask, “So you play with puppies, but you don’t have one?” “Not yet. After I retire I’ll get a dog. I want to be able to devote time to him, make sure he’s loved. Right now, I spend so much time training and traveling, I would feel guilty not being around.” I chuckle. “After you retire, sounds so funny coming from a thirty-year-old. Are you looking forward to it all being over? Or are you sad?” Playing tug-a-war with his puppy, he sighs and answers. “I have mixed feelings. Ever since I can remember, I’ve been in a pool, training. I think it will be weird to just stop it all, but it will also be nice to focus on other things.” “Like what?” My puppy has his mouth wrapped around my finger but is starting to drift off to sleep. Adorable. “It will be nice to hold more camps for inner city kids, to help out at the Boys and Girls Club with Bodi.” “Bodi Banks?” I ask, referring to Reese’s biggest competition to date. “I thought you guys didn’t like each other.” “You shouldn’t pay close attention to what the media says. Bodi and I get along just fine. Do I want to rip his arms off sometimes, especially during the Games? Yup, but he’s a good guy. He’s a little more closed off, quiet at times, but still a good guy.” “Interesting.” I smile and say, “He’s hot.” Reese stares at me, a look of dislike across his features, clearly not happy with my comment. It’s just the reaction I was looking for. I’m learning I like pushing his buttons. “Got a thing for Bodi?” His voice is terse. “How can you not? His eyes are beautiful, all dark and sinister like. And his body . . . it’s like someone sculpted it—”
“We can talk about something else.” His terse comment sends me into a fit of laughter. He nods his head in acknowledgement to my teasing. “You’re so fucking funny, Paisley.” My puppy is passed out and so is Reese’s. I bring mine up to my chest and cuddle it as he does the same. He scoots next to me so we are both looking at the ocean, a familiar position. His shoulder nearly grazes mine and his fresh scent still wafts in my direction, causing me to lustfully yearn for him. “Not very good at taking jokes?” I ask once my giggles subside. “No, I can handle a joke just fine. I just don’t like the girl I’m going after to be talking about some other man. Kind of want all of her attention.” I shake my head in exasperation; the man is relentless. *** “Thanks for breakfast and the puppy play date. I’m going to have to go there again,” I say as Reese pulls up next to my car. “Anytime, Paisley. Hope you learned something at my training session.” “Yeah, like I never want to be a swimmer ever.” He chuckles. “It’s not that bad. I’m at the end of my hard training. Coach was pushing me today. I’m glad he did, as I got to show off in front of a girl I’m trying to impress.” I take a deep breath, “Reese . . .” Before I can finish, he leans forward and captures my hand with his, twisting our fingers together. I stare at our connection, wondering why I’m letting him hold my hand, why I’m not pulling away, why for the first time in my life, it feels so freaking right to be held by a man. “Paisley, have dinner with me tonight.” His eyes are pleading. I shake my head. “I can’t, Reese.” “Why not?” His thumb rubs against the top of my hand, grazing my knuckles with tenderness as his voice vibrates through me, searching for an answer. “I work for you and Bellini, Reese. It’s not right.” “That’s where you’re wrong.” He leans forward even more. “We would be so fucking right.” Stealing a glance up at him, I see the need in his eyes, the yearning, the promises of how right we really would be together. My nerve endings start to ignite with lust. It would be so easy to give in, to let him take me back to his place, to allow myself the pleasure of getting lost in Reese King, but then I think about Jonathan and what he told me the first day I got back from my new job. I need this job, and I can’t do anything to forfeit it. I shake my head and pull my hand away, disconnecting the flow of heat between us. “No, I can’t Reese. This has to remain professional. I’m sorry.” I open my door just as Reese calls my name. “Paisley, wait.” Not wanting to hear what he has to say, I shut the door on him and get in my car, never looking back. Because if I look back, I know it will be all over. I will give in. Even though everything in my body is telling me to get back in his car and accept his invitation to dinner, to relish in the feeling of having Reese King wrapped around me, I hold out. I hold strong. I
cling to that last tiny thread that’s holding me back from plunging deep into the world of Reese King.
Chapter Eleven **BELLINI** “I’m drowning. Water is in my lungs. Someone help,” I call out, flapping around in the water, wondering why Reese is just floating next to me, not doing anything. “Man-fish, why don’t you save me?” “Because you’re not drowning, Bellini. You’re perfectly fine, and if you don’t stop acting like a drama queen, we will never get through this. Kick your feet and propel yourself across the pool.” “It’s too tiring, and the rubber flowers on my swim cap are starting to wilt,” I whine, not in the mood to play Flipper for the camera. “Bellini, we need one more shot of you going down the pool with Reese,” Jasper calls out from the pool deck. “Just one more lap down. Come on, Bellini, just do this and you’re done. I have a photo shoot I still have to do with Hollis and Bodi. Everyone is waiting.” Frustrated with this entire “segment” for the show and Reese’s inability to sympathize, I grab hold of the concrete wall so I can easily prop my head above water. “What the hell have you incompetent camera men been doing this entire time? I’ve been swimming for the past half hour, my entire body looks like a dried-up raisin, and I’m sure I’ve increased the chances of having skin cancer under this melting sun by at least fifty percent. You’re telling me you need my tired-out and chlorine-chapped body to float down this ringworm-infested pool one more time? What are you getting paid for?” Sighing, Jasper steps in front of me and squats down to my level. “Bellini, remember what we talked about? What Jonathan reiterated? The longer you keep us here with your dramatic antics, the more you will get charged for holding up production.” Tears threaten to fall. How dare he! “Don’t cry,” he says in a calming voice. “I understand you’re tired and hot and want to get out of the pool, but this piece will be great for ratings. We can do the gym portion another day. Let’s just get you going down the pool one more time. Can you do that?” I sniff, willing myself to calm down before I turn blotchy from irritation. “You realize this is like working in a sweatshop, right? The conditions I have to work under are preposterous and hazardous to my health. You treat me like your little lab rat, thinking of different ways to torture me. Do you even have any moral boundaries? Or is your heart a cinder block hole where slave drivers from the past reside?” “Bellini . . .” Reese begs. “Please let’s just finish this.” I shoot a look over my shoulder and shoot daggers at him. “I will swim when I want to swim.” I turn back to Jasper. “Can’t he just pull me down the pool? Look at my arms. They’ve boiled down to over-cooked noodle status. You would think this vat of water would be cold, but under this godforsaken sun it has turned into a pressure cooker. Please just let me be done.” “One more time down the pool and you’re done.” Jasper doesn’t let up, tipping me over the edge.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh! I scream at decibels that can crack glass, splashing water with my hands, making sure to get Jasper wet in the process. Everyone on the pool deck stops what they’re doing and turns to look at me. Crew members from my show and the photo shoot setting up to the side for Reese afterward, spectators, and family members all stare at me. Any other person would wilt under the pressure of the human race observing them as an outsider, but not me. I thrive off it. I want the attention; I crave the attention. I DESERVE the attention. I bring the back of my hand up to my forehead and sigh. “If you’re requiring me to take one more lap in my state of mind and physical handicap, than I guess I have no choice.” From the corner of my eye, I see Reese shake his head in disappointment and I make a mental note to talk to him later about the way he’s making the audience perceive our relationship. Even though it’s fake, he needs to treat it like it’s real. I will be damned if he will make a fool of me. “You’re so brave,” Pocket calls out from the side. I raise my fist to the sky, showing off my strength and then take my position next to Reese who looks like an imbecile just floating there. “Ready?” he asks. I turn my head away from him in defiance and wait for Jasper ’s cue. “Action.” Just like the ten other times I swam the length of the pool, I kick my feet and doggy paddle my way down the pool, taking my time, and refusing to get my hair wet. Reese is swimming backward, encouraging me, and putting on a good face for the camera, all the while, calling me cute nicknames, which grates on my nerves. “Almost there, sweetheart.” If he weren’t incredibly attractive and popular, I would pop him in the nose. Yes, he might sound sweet to everyone else, but I can read that condescending tone anywhere. Lately he’s been giving me more sass, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s getting nervous about his stupid swim games coming up, or if he’s just turning into a type-A bastard like the rest of the men in this world. I finally make it to the end and everyone cheers for me as Jasper yells cut. Exhausted, and practically suicidal, I grab on to the edge of the pool and beg for help. “I need an air lift,” I call out. “I can’t possibly extract myself from this hell.” “I’ll help you,” Reese says next to me. Before I can protest, he hoists my body out of the water and flops me down on the pool deck so I roll across the steaming hot concrete a couple times. “You barbarian!” I cry, outraged from his manhandling. With a quick push up from the side, he’s out of the pool and walking toward the photo shoot, stopping to shake hands with Jasper briefly. “I have your towel,” Pocket calls out, falling to the ground next to me and covering my body. I lie on the searing concrete, dazed and confused. Practically delirious from the strenuous job I have.
A shadow casts over me and through blurry eyes I see it’s Jasper. “Good job, Bellini. We will talk about tomorrow’s setup. Get some rest.” He walks away without letting me speak my mind. In a blur, Pocket helps me up from where I’m lying, walks me over to my chair, and sits me down. Carefully, she takes off my swim cap and offers me water. “I can’t believe they made you swim for so long.” “I think I saw death at one point,” I answer, leaning back in my chair and looking up to the sky. “I need to get my lawyer to look over those contracts again. And after a long night of researching lesbian bars, I can’t keep up with this kind of demand. I’m only one person.” “But think of all the good you’re doing.” “True.” From the side, I see Mauve approaching. “Pocket, quick, hand me my flag.” Scurrying behind me, Pocket digs into my purse and then places a small rainbow flag in my hand just in time for Mauve to walk up and see me waving it. “Hello, Mauve. How are you doing?” She glances at the flag and asks, “I’m fine. Why do you have that in your hand, waving it around like you’re in a parade?” I laugh. “Oh Mauve, it’s called gay pride. I want to make sure you feel comfortable around me. I’m pro-vaginas touching. I’m waving your colors for you. It’s to show my support for you.” “Such a humanitarian,” Pocket compliments me from behind. What I expect to happen is for Mauve to lighten up, maybe brush her hair from time to time, and applaud my decision to be an activist for her rights, but instead, she ignores me and opens up her notebook. “Tomorrow, Jasper and the crew will be over around noon. Melony, will be at the house around eleven for hair and makeup. They want to record you having a conversation with your dad about your swimming lessons with Reese. He’s already been informed. Wear something comfortable and casual, something you would wear while lounging around the house. I’ll arrive around ten thirty. If you need anything before then, let me know. I have to finish up the photo shoot with Reese, and then I’ll be heading home. Oh, and your dry cleaning is in your car.” “Um, are you not going to react to my blatant display of generosity?” I wave the flag a little faster, this time in her face. Mauve pushes my flag down and leans closer. “Bellini, that’s not . . .” She looks around and then I realize what’s going on. “Oh my God, no one knows you like ladies.” I place my hand on my chest flabbergasted. Mauve cringes, looks around one more time and then nods. “Yup, so, if we could just keep this between us, that would be great.” She wants to keep this a secret? I guess I can do that. But who really wants to live a life in secrecy? “Well, I was unaware. I thought since you wore combat boots in public, you were telling everyone about your personal choices.” “You know it’s not a choice, right?” she asks. I wave my hand at her. “Nature versus nurture, whatever. Now, stop standing in front of me, you are blocking the spectators’ view of my divine body in this Missoni striped bandeau halter-top bikini I’m
wearing.” “So you will be ready for filming tomorrow?” I cock my head to the side and study her. “Are you aware of these two pieces of cartilage hanging off the side of my head? They’re called ears. They unfortunately help me hear your lackluster monotonous voice every time you squawk at me. Of course I will be ready. If anything, I’m a professional. Now beat it, before I renege on my flag waving. You’ve annoyed me.” With sealed lips, she nods and walks away. “Ugh, why I decided to take that lesbian under my wing is beside me. She’s exhausted me even more. Pocket, bring me my Tic Tacs. I’m hungry for lunch.”
Chapter Twelve **REESE** “Your assistant is hot,” Hollis says next to me, snapping the waistband of his Speedo against his skin and staring blatantly at Paisley. If Bellini and the entire production crew weren’t here, I would slam him up against the wall and tell him to pick another woman to stare at. “Seriously, look at her ass, it’s like two volleyballs sitting in a pair of barely there denim shorts. Didn’t I fucking know it? Today has been absolute torture, and not just because Bellini has been a nightmare since she got to the pool, but because Paisley chose to wear a pair of denim shorts cut so short that I swear, if I stared long enough, I would be able to see her butt cheek. Then, to go with the short shorts, she wore an equally revealing hot pink tank top that scooped low for the sleeve, showing off her black lace bra and bare side. Not the most professional outfit, but then again, it was hotter than fucking hell today, hence the early swim. After the terror of Bellini in the pool swimming next to me, and hanging all over my arms praying to Pope Francis to save her, I don’t get to go home and relax. Instead, I get to pose with Hollis, my best friend, and Bodi, for a GQ article regarding the upcoming Olympics. Hollis is a diver, the best in the world, and given our relationship, his success, and our popularity with the female population, they want to feature us. Bodi is an easy add-on, since the media loves to play up our rivalry. Well, that and the multiple Olympic gold medals under his belt. King versus Banks, the Yankees and Red Sox of the pool. It’s always been a battle between us. He’s been to two Olympics and I’ve been to three so far. This is my send off. The media is having a field day with the rivalry and my last goodbye. Even though on camera it seems like Bodi is my arch nemesis, in reality I have no beef with him. We’ve hung out a couple times, swam together during the past two Olympics, and I can’t say anything truly bad about the man, besides the fact that when it comes down to it, he keeps robbing me of my gold. “What color are her eyes?” Hollis continues. “Are they, grey? Looks like it. Shit, that’s hot.” “Will you shut the fuck up?” I mumble under my breath, trying not to let the set designers hear me. “Whoa.” Hollis holds up his hands. “Did you change your tampon before you got in the pool? Don’t want you menstruating all over the place.” Hollis is my boy, but right about now, I want to plow my fist through his face. I’m not in the mood. Paisley has been radio silent since we had our puppy play date, rejecting me once again. Bellini has been an absolute nightmare today, and all of my physical energy is directed toward not sporting a chub with Paisley walking around like some sinister goddess, wisps of black hair falling over her face and her tattoos perfectly placed on the curves of her body. It hasn’t been easy. Hell, ever since I’ve met Paisley life hasn’t been easy. I haven’t been able to focus. My swimming has been pure shit, and all I can think about is how I’m grateful I’m in the middle of tapering because my coach would be on my ass about my mental game.
There is none right now. The woman is driving me absolutely nuts, to the point that when my head is buried under water, staring down at the black tiled line at the bottom of the pool, all I can envision is her wavy dark hair, floating beneath me. Everything about me is off. “We decided on just taking individual shots and then Photoshopping them together,” the photographer says, breaking me out of my reverie. “Bodi is done. Hollis, let’s do you next so Reese can collect himself.” “Not a problem. Make sure to get some back shots. I’ve been doing a lot of lunges, earning some lift on my ass, and I want it noted.” “Oh sure,” the photographer acknowledges. I walk past the poor man and say, “He’s being an dickhead. Just photograph his front and be done with it. The man has no ass, it will probably break your camera if you focus on it for too long.” “Fuck you!” Hollis calls out to my retreating back. “I heard that and I do to have an ass; it’s just smaller than other asses. Don’t shame me in front of people.” Ignoring him, I spot Paisley, and without hesitation, make my way toward her. Her hair is piled on top of her head and there is a light glisten to her skin from the heat. She’s focusing on typing something into her phone when I come up next to her. “You’re doing a good job avoiding me,” I say quietly. Startled, she fumbles her phone, dropping it into a bowl of yogurt fruit dip Bellini demands to be present everywhere we have to be, but never ever eats it. “Nooooo.” She shoots a glare in my direction and then fishes out her yogurt-covered phone. “Great, thanks a lot.” “Oh no, you can’t blame me for that. If you hadn’t ignored me for the past few days, or since you got here, then maybe I wouldn’t find the need to come to you.” I’m not even sure if she’s listening to me. She’s too busy wiping her phone off with napkins from the snack table. “Are you going to talk to me?” I ask, feeling a little desperate to hear her voice. Side-eying me, she glances at my appearance and then quickly turns away. “Don’t you have a photo shoot you have to participate in?” “They’re shooting individually. Don’t you have to pretend to be nice to me since I’m your boss?” Sighing, she turns to face me, hand on hip, and nerves in her eyes. Call me a dick, but I like that I make her nervous. I like that she shows her true self around me, her unguarded and natural self. Someone who flicks humans in the forehead and then headbutts them a couple days later has to be as honest as they come. With a less aggressive approach, she says, “What can I help you with, Reese?” “Why have you been ignoring me?” My voice is heavy, raspy even, as I’m almost frantic to talk to her. She scans our surroundings and steps a little closer so our conversation is more private, more intimate. I can get on board with this proximity. “Reese, I’m your employee and you’re in a relationship—”
“Fake relationship.” “Whatever you want to call it. We need to keep this strictly professional.” Frustrated, I try not to show my irritation with her when I say, “Can I ask you one thing?” “As long as it’s not out to dinner or to go on some date.” I ignore her smart-ass comment. “Do you want me?” “What?” Her eyes shoot wide and her entire body becomes fidgety with nerves. “Why would you ask that?” Softly, yet roughly I say, “Because I can see it in your eyes, the way you look at me, the way your body reacts to mine when I’m near you. You’re nervous, you’re yearning, you’re desperate for me to touch you. It’s written all over your face. I just want you to fucking admit it.” “You’re wrong.” Her voice shakes, confirming my exact thoughts. “Reese, we’re ready for you,” the photographer calls out. I wink at her and start walking backward. “Believe what you want, Paisley. You can only deny it for so long.” Turning on a dime, I meet the photographer at the set where Hollis is begging for one more pose. “I really think you need a picture of me doing my ‘come hither ’ face. I will guarantee a million copies sold if you put that look on your front cover.” I grip Hollis’s shoulder and speak to the photographer. “Don’t listen to him. He’s been selling that look for years now, all it does it scare people away and turn nipples inside out with displeasure.” “Dude, you’re supposed to have my back,” Hollis replies, laughter in his voice. “You know I do, but I also care about the American people. Do not force them to see your stupid mug trying to pull off some Zoolander look. It’s not good for country morale.” Sighing, Hollis says, “Fine, pick the picture displaying my massive twig and berries.” “You realize that’s a contradiction, right?” I ask. “If it was massive, you should have said canon and bowling balls. You’re not fooling anyone.” “Damn, man.” Hollis scoots away from me. “What’s crawled up your dick hole today? Get some ass, you’re all clogged up. Your inner bitch comes out when you haven’t had your vein drained in a while.” I cringe, such a gross term. Hollis points to the photographer as he walks away. “Just so you know, I have a huge dick, massive. That’s on the record, you may use it wherever you want. Peace out, King.” He throws deuces in the air and walks away. Hollis and I have been friends for many years. Even though he’s on the diving team, we’ve leaned on each other during our time in the Olympics. When he was flipping his way to gold, I was stroking my way to silver. The Olympics wouldn’t be the same without him. I’m just hoping I have one more chance to share the experience with him. Who fucking knows at this point, though? I’ve been swimming like shit and can’t seem to get my mind off the small ebony-haired fireball a few short feet away. “Reese, we are going to have you pose in front of the white screen. Are you comfortable with what you’re wearing?” I glance down at my American flag Speedo and nod. “Yup, It’s not like it would be the first time I have my picture taken in a scrap of fabric. As long as you are good with this.” “Works for us.”
“Do I need to style up the mop?” “You just need a spray down. Let me find someone to help—” “Don’t worry about that, I have someone more than happy to assist.” I call out over the crew. “Paisley, could you grab the spray bottle and come here?” She looks up from her phone, points at her chest a little shocked. I nod my head and quirk my finger at her, indicating for her to come quickly. Looking around frantically, she finds the squirt bottle and walks up to me. Confusion is in her eyes. “What are you doing?” she asks between clenched teeth, a fake smile plastered on her face. “I need my assistant to squirt me with water and fix my hair.” “There are makeup and hair stylists for that.” “I don’t trust them.” “Give me five minutes, and we’ll get started,” the photographer says, cleaning his lens. I glance down at Paisley and ignore her irritation. “Better get squirting, don’t want to hold up the photo shoot, do you?” “You’re doing this on purpose,” she says, wetting down my chest. “Yes, you’re correct. I am. Now don’t forget to rub the water into my skin. I want to look like I’m not only wet, but glistening.” I put extra emphasis on the word wet, just to grate on her nerves. “Oh, and try not to feel me up too much, despite how much you want me.” Reluctantly, she sprays me, coating my chest and hair first before rubbing her hand along the contours and curves of my muscles. Her breath grows deeper with every pass of her hand, her eyes grow heavy, and right about now, I would give my left nut to know what she’s thinking, to feel what she’s feeling, to fucking rip her clothes off and see how turned on she is. Because I’m a man, I peek down at her chest to see if her body is reacting to mine. To my delight, both of her nipples are hard, and she’s licking her lips as she concentrates on running her hand diligently across my broad and defined chest. “What are you thinking?” I ask her, breaking the silence between us, my gravelly voice pulling her from her concentration. She startles and meets my gaze, shocked she was lost in thought while smoothing water over my chest. She shakes her head, a million thoughts running through those gorgeous grey eyes of hers. “Um, I think you’re set.” “That’s not answering my question. What were you thinking, Paisley?” She doesn’t answer, she doesn’t even look me in the eyes. Instead, she focuses on the water bottle in her hand, peering at it as if it will transport her to another location. “Let me guess, you were thinking about how much you wish we were somewhere private so you can lower your hands past the waistline of my suit to feel my thick, long cock. Am I right, Paisley? Don’t think I didn’t see you staring at my cock when you were at my house. I notice everything you do, especially when it comes to those grey eyes of yours igniting with flames whenever I’m around.” She clears her throat and takes a step back. “You’re all set,” she repeats. Happy with her awkward and uncomfortable reaction, I ask, “Are you sure? What about my hair?” She scans my curls and cringes. I can’t help but smile at her facial expressions. I’m about to ask her
to run her fingers through it when she stands on her tippy toes and dumps the rest of the water in the bottle over my head, drenching me. Stepping back, she bites her fingernail, a regretful look on her face, and says, “All set.” Then she puts a great distance between us, standing back with the crew. Soaked, I run both hands through my hair, catching all the water and smoothing out my waves, slicking them down so it looks like I just got out of the water. Droplets fall off my chest, and all the spraying she did goes unnoticed from the downpour she just bestowed upon me. Smirking, I shake my head at her. I should have known better, the woman holds nothing back when it comes to her actions. “Perfect,” the photographer says, lifting his camera to his eye. Wanting to get Paisley back, I do what I do best, I pose in a Speedo . . . while she watches. Casually, I lift my right arm and place my hand behind my neck, gripping it and flexing my bicep at the same time. With my left thumb, I hook it under the waistband of my Speedo and pull it down, just far enough that I’m not revealing anything, but moments away from letting everything hang out. Then I give the camera a sultry look. “Hold that pose,” the photographer yells, getting shutter happy on me, clicking his camera in rapid succession. From behind him, I can see Paisley gripping the water bottle, hugging it closely to her chest, and her straight teeth nibbling on her lip, staring directly at my package. Yup, it is only a ticking time bomb until I have her just where I want her. *** “Are you going to cry about this the entire time we’re on the phone?” I ask, wrapping a towel around my waist before I take the phone off speaker. He always calls a couple times before a big race, it’s ritual. I do the same thing when it comes to his competitions, so this post-shower call is not at all surprising. “I’m just saying, you could have supported me when it came to my dick size.” I chuckle into the phone. “I’ve never seen your dick, therefore I can’t vouch for it.” “Want me to come over? Better yet, let’s FaceTime. I’m wearing an elastic waistband, easy access.” “Yeah, I will hang up on you. I love you, man, but I don’t want to see your dick. It’s not something I’m particularly interested in.” He exhales and says, “And what would you be particularly interested in these days? That little assistant of yours? She’s hella fine, I can’t blame you.” “She’s cool,” I answer, evasively. But apparently not evasively enough because on the other end of the phone call, Hollis busts out in laughter. “Fuck, man. You’re going with ‘she’s cool?’ Have you fucked her?” “No,” I say quickly. Hollis is quite aware of my fake relationship with Bellini. He’s not a fan of the setup. To be honest, neither am I, but I’m already signed on, not much I can do about it now. “She’s my assistant, that’s it.” “You’re such a shitty liar. I saw the way you looked at her, you were two seconds away from plowing your dick inside her at the photo shoot.”
Fuck. Was it really that obvious? I hope to God not. If Bellini caught any whiff of my attraction to Paisley, she not only would have her fired within seconds, but she would be up my ass before I could put my Speedo back on. “There might be a little attraction there,” I admit. Hollis is trustworthy. As my best friend, he would never say anything. “Yeah, a little is a boldfaced lie. You like her a lot. What’s her story?” I relax on my sofa, a towel as my only garment of clothing. “I’m not quite sure.” I sigh and run my fingers through my hair leaning against the couch. “She hasn’t really opened herself up to me. She has a master ’s in film production. I don’t believe this is her choice job, but from the looks of it, it’s something related to what she’s interested in. Her tattoos are meaningful to her.” “They’re hot as shit. I bet she has some under her clothing as well.” Having seen Paisley in a bikini, Hollis is absolutely right about that. “They’re all quotes from her favorite movies.” I rub my eye with the palm of my hand. “Fuck, she even has the Rocky quote I carry around with me tattooed on her bicep.” “For real? Dude, you totally popped a chub over that, didn’t you?” Pretty much. “She wants nothing to do with me, though. She’s so adamant about keeping a professional relationship, she won’t give in to the attraction between us. I saw her on the beach the other day, invited her to my place for lunch, hoping it would relax her, maybe have a little make-out session.” Hollis laughs. “I thought that maybe I was going to get somewhere with her, even just a fucking kiss would have been awesome. The sexual tension between us is fucking heavy, but she didn’t give in, instead she headbutted me.” “What?” Hollis laughs into the phone some more. “She straight-up headbutted you? Like some kind of sexy ninja?” “If you want to call it that. She didn’t even do it right, she hit my forehead with hers. I guess I have to be grateful she didn’t go for my nose. That wouldn’t have been pretty today.” “Fuck, if she gave you a black eye from headbutting you, I would have asked for her autograph.” “Thanks for the support dickhead.” “Anytime.” He laughs. “So what are you going to do about it?” “I have no clue.” I feel a headache coming on and try to rub it out with my fingers. “I asked her to dinner the other day after I took her to breakfast, kind of had to trick her into that, but she denied me. I don’t know, man, I’ve been off my game lately. My strokes are choppy, my mind isn’t in it, and all I can think about is why this girl won’t give in to the feelings I know she has.” Hollis grows serious. “Reese, you leave for trials in two days. You can’t be fucking with your swimming right now.” “You don’t think I don’t know that? I’m well aware of when trials are, as well as this being my last chance at gold. But fuck if I can’t get her out of my mind. It’s never been like this before. I feel like a foreigner in my body when I’m in the pool. I can’t get my cadence down, and my main sets have been shit.” “Shit,” Hollis breathes out. “Have you talked to Coach Fern?” “Hell, no,” I say quickly. “Hollis, we both know that would be a huge mistake. The man would rip
me a new asshole for letting a girl affect my swimming. I’ve been with him since the beginning of my career, from the very start of our first practice together, when I was standing in front of him, knobby knees, barely able to fill out my Speedo. He told me if I wanted to be an Olympic swimmer, I had to take it seriously, and that meant girls were not to get in the way of my goals. Back then, it was no big deal, I was the scrawny kid no one wanted to talk to.” “And what are you now, some dreamboat every girl wants to get their hands on?” Hollis laughs. “Not every girl,” I mumble, just as my doorbell rings. “Hey, someone is at the door. I’ve got to go.” “Okay, but text me later, we’re not done with this conversation.” “Later, Mom.” I toss the phone on the couch and walk to my front door, praying it’s not Bellini. She loves showing up unexpected at night to “talk.” Her talking involves complaining about how her beauty is too much for the general population to accept, and that’s why people are so mean to her on Twitter and Instagram. Little does she know, it’s her actual personality that makes her so ugly. Hoping there isn’t a rich blonde on the other side, I open the door and nearly drop my jaw to the floor when I see Paisley standing in front of me, twisting her hands in front of her nervously. Surprised and excited, I extend one hand up the door jamb and lean against it. “I didn’t expect to see you here. How can I help you?” Her eyes scan up and down my body, taking in my bare chest and towel-wrapped waist. Before she speaks, she clears her throat. “I forgot to give you some papers Bellini wants you to sign for the show.” “Well, by all means, come in.” I step aside, allowing her space to walk under my arm and into my entryway. The minute she’s in my house, I shut the door behind her and close in. She holds the files in front of her chest, eyes wide, and her lips wet from licking them. Her back is pressed against the door and she looks almost frightened to be in my presence. Not in the way that I scare her, more like she’s scaring herself with her decision-making. “Here.” She pushes the files between us, arms outstretched, creating a large gap. Grabbing the files, I toss them on the console in my entryway and close in on the space between us, not caring one bit about the paperwork she brought over. “Wh-what are you doing?” I don’t answer. I press my hands against the door, capturing her body between my muscled one. My hands rest by her narrow but toned shoulders, and I examine her reaction. My bottom half is pushed out just far enough that she has a good view of my flexing chest and barely covered torso. It’s time to break down that cemented heart she’s erected around her feelings. “Did you forget to hand me those files at the photo shoot because you were too busy staring at my dick, or was it because you wanted to see me tonight after staring at my dick for so long?” Her eyes widen even farther. “I wasn’t staring.” She stumbles with her words. I call her out. “Bullshit. I saw the way you looked at me, nibbling on that delectable lip of yours, eyes trained on my cock. Do you think I was posing like that for the camera? Fuck, no. I was giving you your own personal show, Paisley. And from my viewpoint, I knew you appreciated it.”
She is speechless as her chest rises and falls with each heavy breath. I lean my head forward, the scruff of my cheek pressed against her smooth skin, my lips mere millimeters from her ear. “Tell me I’m lying. Tell me you didn’t stare at my body that entire photo shoot.” “You’re . . . you’re lying,” she says nervously, her hands at her side, her purse now on the ground. “I don’t believe you, Paisley.” My breath is heavy against her ear as I say, “Just do it.” She keeps her head forward, her chest moving rapidly, her sweet breath tickling my shoulder. “Do what?” she asks. I move my lips even closer so they dance with her ear. “Remove my towel. I know you’re thinking about it. I can feel it in the way your body reacts to mine, the way your fingers itch at your side. Remove. My. Towel.” She doesn’t move, so I nip at her earlobe, causing a soft moan to escape her lips. Satisfied, I do it again, then move my lips to her neck, where I can feel goosebumps spread across her skin. Kissing her softly, just a whisper of my lips caressing her, I say, “You’re making me lose my mind, Paisley. You’re all I can think about; all I dream about. You’re fucking with me on a daily basis. I’m not the same man when you’re around, and I’m half the man I normally am when you’re gone. I need you, Paisley.” I kiss her neck again and round my head to the front where she is forced to look me in the eyes. In a gruff tone, I say, “Take my towel off.” Her eyes search mine, rapidly looking back and forth from one to another. Just when I think she’s going to push me away, she places her hands on my waist, her fingers slowly working their way under my towel. I hold my breath and wait, praying there will be no headbutts, flicking fingers, or abuse of any kind. Only pleasure.
Chapter Thirteen **PAISLEY** I can’t breathe. My chest feels like it’s closing in on itself, my lungs are collapsing, and little palpitations keep restarting my heart. I’ve never felt so alive. How is that even possible? Reese is staring down at me, waiting for me to pull off his towel, begging me with his eyes to undress him. This isn’t what I expected when I came here. I was hoping he wasn’t going to be home. But to my dismay, he was, and fresh out of the shower, looking sexy as hell, muscles rippling with each and every movement he makes. Did I stare at his package during the entire photo shoot? Pretty much. Except for the few seconds when took in his built body, the way his abs rippled, or how his tattoo going down his left arm captured the essence of his persona. The entire time he stood there, hand grabbing on to his neck, straining in the sexiest way possible, my stomach flipped with lust. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. Believe me, if you were in my shoes, you would have done the same thing. It was impossible to look away. Every female in the vicinity stared, actually gawked, mouths agape, and beads of sweat forming on their upper lip. The entire photo shoot felt like something out of a dream, a very horny and inappropriate dream. Now, I stand here, my hands on his hips, fingers dancing at the edge of his towel and a burning sensation running up my spine. I can’t remember the last time I was intimate with a man. I know it’s been a long time, but it’s because there hasn’t been a man that’s actually made me feel the way Reese makes my entire body shiver. I can still feel the imprint of his lips on my neck, the nip of his teeth at my ear, the way his beard scratches against my cheek in the most delectable way possible. He is a tease, a bad influence, a poor decision when it comes to protecting my career, but why, for the hell of me, can’t I stop running my fingers across his skin? Because I’m a masochist, because he’s everything I would ask for in a man. Kind, sweet, caring, sexy, athletic, rugged, and all alpha. He’s my kryptonite, a combination of everything I’ve ever wanted, I’ve ever dreamed of. Taking a chance, I glance down at his torso, where his hardened length is pressing against the towel that barely hides his bulge. One shift to the right and I would be on the receiving end of a giant cock staring up at me. Holy shit. I look back up at him, and I’ve been caught. His grin widens, and his eyes darken. “Fucking do it, Paisley. Take if off.” His voice is so heavy, so gritty that my pussy clenches from the sound of it. The heat coming off him is palpable. His arms surround me, blocking me from moving away, and his eyes bore down, willing me to do what he’s asking, but should I? Every nerve ending radiating with lust is begging me to.
He leans his head forward some more and barely caresses my lips with his, running them along my jaw, sending chills all the way down my body until he reaches my ear once more. “I’m about to explode, Paisley. End this misery for me and take my towel off.” I can’t stop myself. The power of his words—of his body—of the electricity sparking between us— is too strong. My fingers dig all the way in his waistline and I remove his towel. I drop it on the ground but stare straight ahead, too scared to look down because of what I might do. I don’t have time to react though, his left hand flies to the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair, and his lips fine mine, pressing deeply. Everything fades into black the moment his mouth meets mine. He’s demanding, needy, desperate, every last emotion I’m feeling. One hand props him up against the door as his other grips me tightly on the back of my head, as if he lets go, I’ll disappear. He’s completely naked in front of me—no shame—fucking my mouth with his tongue, letting me know how much he wants me. I want to explode, right then and there. His deep kisses are throwing me into a downward spiral, arresting my breath, seizing my heart, and occupying every inch of my skin with desire-filled chills. He’s consuming me with just his mouth to the point that I feel myself evaporating, our bodies molding together as one. “Jesus,” he mumbles, “you taste so sweet.” From the back of my neck, his hand travels along my jaw where his thumb strokes my cheek tenderly. Seductively, he removes his lips from mine and then traces his thumb along them, his stare full of heat. “Touch me, Paisley. Run your hands up and down my chest. Explore my body. I know you fucking want to.” He is right. I want nothing more than to trace every ridge and divot in his abdomen, to feel his taut and toned skin under my fingers, to know what it’s like to grip his length in my hand, and make him lose all common sense by the pull of desire. My entire body is tingling, there is a rapid thump in my core, begging me to proceed, to just take one peek down below, just this one. Not answering him, I take a deep breath and glance at his erection, standing tall and thick, ready to be stroked. Fuck me. Losing all abandon, I float my hands behind his head and pull him closer to me, mingling our mouths together once more. He groans, pleased with my decision, and wraps his hand in my hair once again, yanking on the sensitive strands so my mouth is pulled open. He proceeds to crush his lips against mine, feeding off my intensity. His hair is soft, thick, the curls wrap delicately around my fingers, while his beard is a complete contradiction, rough and unforgiving against my chin and my lips. I welcome the burn, the small abrasions, the rough to my soft. I get lost in him, in his touch, in his aggressive mouth, in the little groans escaping his lips. Needing more, I continue to let him take over my mouth while I move my hands south, to his erection that is pushing against my thigh. In one swoop, I capture his length in my palm, causing him
to freeze in place and then melt against me. He’s rigid, yet soft. His girth is thick, unyielding, and his length has me questioning the tiny Speedos he wears in a pool daily. “Fuck . . . fuck,” he breathes out, his forehead resting against mine, his breathing heavy. Unsure of what I’m doing, but knowing I need to taste him, I slide down his body and drop to my knees. He’s propping his body against the door behind me, his feet spread now, welcoming my new position. At eye level, I take in his cock, perfectly hard, straight with a slight curve leaning toward the sky, making my mouth water. He’s shaven, not bare, but short, showing that he still is a man, if I didn’t realize that already by the giant cock sitting in front of me. “Paisley,” he groans. Taking that as an indication of how impatient he is, I glide my hands up his thighs and grip his balls with my left, squeezing just enough that he shifts his stance. With my right hand, I grip the base of his cock and prop it up just enough for my tongue to run along his length. The minute I taste him, my mind goes blank and my mouth takes over. I run my tongue along the underside of his cock, from the very top to the base, where I flick his squeezed balls. “Christ.” I glance up to see one of his hands covering his face, his control slipping—one lick at a time. Satisfied, I continue to lick my way back up to his tip, and circle the head, once, twice, three times and then descend my entire mouth over his dick, sucking him into the back of my throat, letting his length fill me. “Jesus. Fuck, Paisley.” I don’t let up. I’m relentless. I match every suck of his cock with a stroke of my hand—my mouth and hand work together in tandem—pumping Reese to the brink of his orgasm. His body straightens and he tangles himself in my hair, gripping me tightly. “I’m going to come, Paisley,” he announces, but I don’t stop. I take that as a cue to dive down harder, never letting up until he’s moaning my name, pulling on my hair and releasing himself deep in my throat. “Motherfucker,” he groans just as his fist hits the door behind me. I wipe my mouth and stand up, still trapped between him and the door. His eyes have a heady feel, sleepy and satisfied. His entire body is relaxed, as if he just dropped a two-hundred-pound piece of luggage he’s been carrying around for months. With a goofy grin on his face, his hand cups my cheek and brings my lips to his, and he gently kisses them, passionately twines my tongue with his, slowly and methodically making out with me, sending chills once again down my body. Between kisses, I hear my phone start to ring, breaking the silence that rests between us. I pull away and look down at my bag. “I have to get that.” “Are you serious?” he asks. “Yes.” I bend down to my purse and find my phone. Without looking at the caller ID because I’m in such a daze I answer. “Hello?” “Hey sweetness.” “Hey Jonathan,” I say before thinking what comes out of my mouth. I glance up at Reese who now
has anger in his eyes. “Are you coming home for dinner?” Have you ever answered your phone in front of someone else and known right then and there that the volume is too loud on your phone, and the other person can hear everything the person on the phone is saying? Yeah, that’s happening to me right now. I fumble with my phone to turn the volume down, to only turn it up. “I made dinner for us.” A dangerous tick in Reese’s jaw starts throbbing as he grinds his teeth, his hazel eyes so dark I can no longer see the gold flecks that speckle his irises. “Um, yup. Just have to drop some things off, then I’ll be back. See you soon.” I hang up before Jonathan can say anything else. I loop my arm through my purse, tuck my phone away, and stand back up. Reese now has his towel wrapped back around him and every muscle in his body has tightened with anger. “Who the fuck was that?” he hisses at me. “That was Jonathan—” “Are you fucking someone else and didn’t tell me? If you have a boyfriend, Paisley, you could have mentioned that before you went and sucked me off.” Like a slap to the face, his words insult me. Does he really think so poorly of me that I would drop down to my knees in front of him while I have a boyfriend back home, making dinner for me? “Excuse me?” “Fuck!” he shouts, running both of his hands through his hair, curls springing from his fingers. “Do you understand what you’re doing to me, Paisley? I can’t fucking concentrate on my swimming, as you’re all I can think about, and you didn’t even have the decency to tell me you’re in a relationship? At least I was open and honest with you.” He pauses and turns to me. “Did you at least have fun? Sucking off The Silver Stroke? Are you going to go brag about it now?” That’s it. I don’t take much crap from people, no matter how gorgeously hot they are. Without thinking, I slap him across the face, this time meaning to hit him. “Fuck you, Reese, and your asinine assumptions. Jonathan is my roommate; we make dinner for each other when the other is not home yet. He was just calling to see if I was going to be home, not that I have to explain any of this to you.” I grab the handle of the door and open it. Before leaving I look back at him, his hand is to his face and his eyes sorrowful. “This wasn’t what I wanted, you were the one who pushed me, so don’t blame me for your inability to get your head out of your ass and swim. It’s not my damn fault.” With that, I left, leaving behind a satisfied, yet abandoned Reese King. *** “What an arrogant prick,” I mumble to myself, opening the door to my apartment. Maybe I misjudged him. I spent the entire drive from Reese’s beachfront property to my crappy inner-city apartment stewing over the irritating, irrational, yet gorgeously attractive man. How dare he think so poorly of me that I would allow him to kiss me when I have another man at home. I know my general
appearance doesn’t read virginal saint, but never in my life have I been a cheater, and I don’t plan on starting now. “You’re home,” Jonathan calls out from the kitchen. “I made chicken and broccoli casserole.” Mentally exhausted, I drop my items at the front door to be picked up later and head to the kitchen. Jonathan isn’t wearing a shirt, only a pair of khaki shorts—his boxer briefs poking out from underneath—and oven mitts cover his hands. “Where is your shirt?” I ask, flopping the upper half of my body on the counter, too tired to hold myself up. “In the hamper. I pumped it up at the gym today, wanted to flex my muscles for you.” And he does just that, impersonating an early eighties Arnold Schwarzenegger. “Wow, very impressive,” I deadpan. He stops mid-flex and straightens up. “Hey, what’s wrong?” Drawing closer he examines my face and says, “Why are your chin and cheeks all red?” Instinctively my hand caresses my skin and I think about the beard that was just rubbing against it. Shit. “Uh, sunburn probably,” I lie. “It was really hot out today, and I guess I didn’t apply sunscreen properly. That’s what happens when you’re running around a production shoot, trying to accommodate your prima donna boss.” He eyes me skeptically, and I try not to wilt under his stare. Letting up, he rounds the corner and pulls me into a hug, his warm chest pressing against my beard-burned cheek. As Jonathan hugs me tightly, his muscles wrapping around me, I’m reminded of the man I’d been kissing passionately only minutes ago. Oh my God. I made out with Reese King. Better yet, I gave him a blow job. In his entryway . . . On his welcome mat. I’m that girl. What the hell is wrong with me? Why did I feel compelled to give in to his temptation, let alone place his dick in my mouth? I told myself if I gave in, this could end terribly. Jonathan warned me to stay away, and what did I do? Did I listen? Ohhhhh no. That would be too easy to listen to reasonable logic. Nope, I like to torture myself, make things complicated. So, I dropped to my knees and sucked the man off. And holy hell, I loved every last minute of it. And you know what? If Jonathan hadn’t called, I would have probably sat on Reese’s face and asked him to return the favor. What kind of person did that make me? A horny and desperate one. “I’m sorry you have to deal with Bellini, but I’ve heard great things about your swim idea. Jasper was raving about it to Wally on a conference call. You’re making an impact, sweetness. You just have to hang in there. This will open doors for you, I promise.” Guilt weighs heavily on me. Jonathan stuck his neck out for me and here I am, fooling around on
the job, something he told me not to do. But for the life of me, I can’t stop. I can’t keep my eyes off Reese. I can’t help but be drawn to his swagger, his athletic stature, his captivating hazel eyes, or the way he gazes at me, as if I’m the only woman on this planet, one who’s been made for him. And then there is his voice, rasping into my ear, begging me to touch him, asking me to finally give in. I’m confused, frustrated, and horny for the one man I should stay away from. Tears well in my eyes from the emotions building inside me, and Jonathan pulls away from me just in time to see them. “Hey, what’s going on?” he asks, wiping away the tears that stain my cheeks with his oversized oven mitts. I shake my head, my throat tight with remorse, unable to speak. The timer goes off in the background, indicating the casserole is done. Taking a quick look at me, his lips quirk to the side in concern, and then he retreats to the kitchen to pull out dinner. A wave of heat floods the small space and a cheese-coated baking dish is pulled from the oven. Jonathan turns off the timer and the oven and then pivots in my direction, both hands mitt-less and pressing against the counter in front of him. “Why are you so upset right now?” Jonathan has been my best friend for years. He’s been the one person I’ve relied on ever since I left my family in Temecula. He’s been my backbone, my cheerleader, and I’ve never lied to him, but ever since I took this job, I haven’t been able to tell him the truth. I’ve been unable to confess my feelings about Reese and the way he consumes every last inch of my body, how he makes me feel, like I’m the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen, or how he refuses to let up on his pursuit, how he’s worn me down to the point that I’m weak around him, unable to stay away. “Paisley, why aren’t you talking to me?” I hate that look in his eyes, a part of me thinks he knows what’s going on. He’s perceptive and can read me like a book. I kind of wish he would just say it and get it over with. I clear my throat and say, “I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” My confession is on the tip of my tongue. All I want to do is get this heavy weight off my shoulders, but then Jonathan’s disappointment would be too strong, so I chicken out. “I’m on my period.” “Eh, gross, Paisley. Damn, we’ve talked about this.” He turns his back to me and starts grabbing dishes from the cabinet. “We don’t talk about womanly problems.” Offended, even though I’m not on my period, I defend all womenkind. “Don’t say gross. It’s a natural process of the human body—” “No, the human body would include men. You don’t see us bleeding out of our buttholes.” “Um, that’s called hemorrhoids.” He shakes his head. “This conversation is ending. We are not talking about menstruation, womanly things, or hemorrhoids while we eat this rockin’ casserole. You hear me?” He puts two plates on the kitchen bar with two cups of green tea. Pulling up a stool next to me, he sits down and starts digging into his dinner, blowing viciously on the steaming casserole before he
sticks it in his mouth. “I have a girl coming over tonight, hope that’s okay.” I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to ask me every time.” “I do when I’m kicking you out of the living room. You’re going to have to spend the night in your room.” “I don’t care,” I say, blowing on some food. “I’m probably going to go to bed early anyway. Long day out in the sun wore me out.” “Good news for me.” He raises his fork in triumph. “But can you please just make sure to keep all your mingling private parts in your bedroom?” He thinks about it for a second before answering. “Just because you’ve already seen my penis this morning, I will keep sexual intercourse to the bedroom.” “You’re so kind,” I respond sarcastically. We spend the rest of the evening eating dinner together, talking about the girl Jonathan is having over for a Netflix and chill. He says he plans on actually trying to watch some Netflix, but by the fresh shower smell coming off him and the fact he’s eating dinner with me, I’m pretty positive we are looking at a certified booty call. I help Jonathan clean up and then grab my purse from the entryway and head back to my bedroom, which thankfully is on the opposite side of the apartment from Jonathan’s, while he preps the living room. The minute I get into my bedroom, I hear the knock at the door, followed by Jonathan saying, “Hey sexy. Glad you found the place.” The man is a whore, a glorified, no-questions-asked manwhore. I get ready for bed in record time, slipping on a pair of boy shorts and a loose tank top—thanks to the hot night—and flop onto the white fluffy comforter that adorns my bed. It feels like a cloud in the middle of the sky, sucking me into relaxation. Not quite ready to shut my eyes, I grab my phone from my purse and I’m instantly assaulted by a barrage of text messages and missed calls from Reese. My immediate reaction is to read them, coo over them, and swoon like a teenage girl in the nineties attending her first New Kids on the Block concert. But I refrain . . . for two seconds, and then I open them. Listen, I have no will. NONE! Reese: Paisley, I’m sorry. Will you please come back so I can talk to you? Reese: Clearly you’re not answering your phone. I need to talk to you, Paisley. I was an ass and overreacted. Reese: Please, Paisley. I need to talk to you. Reese: If you’re not going to talk to me, then I will have to come see you. My heart stops in my chest as I read the next text message. He can’t come here. Jonathan would lose
his shit, probably de-friend me, in real life and on Facebook, the ultimate disconnection of friendship. I’m about to hyperventilate when I realize, he has no clue where I live. I heave a sigh of relief and look at the last text message. Reese: Lucky for me, I have some awesome connections. I’m headed over to your apartment right now. I jackknife out of bed and run around in place, unsure of what to do. There is no way he’s coming over, right? He’s just messing with me, trying to get me to talk to him. He’s bluffing. From behind my closed door, I can hear Jonathan and his girl laughing at something and I wonder what the hell he would do if he saw Reese King standing at our apartment door, looking to come in for a little chat. Jonathan would kill me. Yup, he would slaughter me in my sleep, shove me through the wood chipper, pretty much rip my nips off and feed them to a wild pack of mangy dogs. I check the time on the text message and realize it was quite a while ago. “Shit.” I look around, wondering what I should do. He can’t possibly be serious, right? My phone dings with a text message. With one eye open, cringing, I look down to see Reese’s name pop up on my phone. Frantically, I open the text message and read it as fast as I can. Reese: Headed up the stairs to your apartment. “Fuck!” I say, a little too loudly. I text him back, my fingers flying faster than I can think Paisley: Book do t co rui here I look down at my text and swear. “Fuck you, phone!” I try again. Paisley: Boom do t co evil here “Dammit!” I shout, hating my frantic fingers. Before I can type another response, a text from Reese swoops in. Reese: I think you’re trying to tell me something, but I can’t really tell what it is. A smirk crosses my face but then I chastise myself for letting his charm through a text affect me. Another message comes in. Reese: I’m at your door. Let me in. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Without thinking, I burst through my door, eyes wide and frenzied and so beyond distraught that Jonathan will find out about Reese that I feel like puking. Jonathan and his girl are making out on the couch, but pull away quickly when they see me standing in front of them, chest heaving, and phone in my hand, standing ramrod straight and awkward. “Uh, Paisley, whatcha doin’?” he asks, giving me his What the Fuck eyes. I point at him and say, “If you’re going to have sex, do it in your room.” “Paisley,” he warns. “Maybe you should go back in your room.” I know we just discussed him having the living room for the night, but that clearly changed the minute Reese decided to show up at the apartment. “This is a common space, Jonathan. I have every right to be here.” I stand tall, hands on my hips, realizing I’m barely covered by the low-dipping tank I’m wearing. Literally, the sleeves are cut down to my hips, showing off a massive amount of side boob. His face is full of confusion, questioning my motives. Times ticking. I know Reese is about to knock on the door, I can feel it. So I say the first thing that comes to mind. “I’m sorry. I know we talked about this earlier, but, umm . . . all I can hear is your lips smacking against each other.” “Then turn on some music,” Jonathan counters. I point my finger at him and say, “Valid point, roomie. But it’s gotten to the point that I’m . . . umm.” I swallow hard. “It’s gotten to the point that I’m now horny, knowing you two are out here. So I’m going to have to ask you to go to your room for the night and stay in there.” “What?” Jonathan asks, completely confused. “Oh my God, just go to your room,” I shout. “I can’t have you two out here turning me on. For the love of God and my horny ass, just go to your bedroom. GO TO YOUR BEDROOM!” Yes, I officially start flapping around like a crazed lunatic. The girl turns to Jonathan, a look of disgust on her face. “I’m kind of freaked out. I think I’m going to go.” “No,” I shout before Jonathan can respond. “Don’t go . . . girl.” I don’t know her name, calling her girl is not the best, but I’ve got nothing else. “Um, Jonathan has been talking about you all night. Don’t let me cock-block him. He has a great penis, you’re going to want to take advantage of it.” She looks me up and down, questions flowing through her eyes. I hold my hand up before she can jump to conclusions. “I know what you’re thinking. Yes, I’ve seen his penis, no we have not had sex. I’ve seen his penis because he walks around naked.” She scowls at Jonathan who then shoots daggers at me. Shit. I pull out the only tool left in my arsenal. “There is no need to worry though, I’m a lesbian so his dick doesn’t affect me.” I’m sorry to all lesbians out there. Jonathan pinches his nose and shakes his head at me. Yup, I’m a dead person tomorrow, especially if he doesn’t get laid tonight. “So what I’m trying to say is, go back to his room and let him show you his giant penis. You won’t regret it. Oh, and he has a long tongue, very useful . . . for special things.” I cringe, hating every word that comes out of my mouth. The girl turns to Jonathan and says, “Let me see your tongue.”
For a second I don’t think he’s going to oblige her, but he gives in and sticks his tongue out for her, curling the end just right to widen her eyes with intrigue. “See, look at that thing.” A large smile crosses her face as she stands and grabs hold of his hand, pulling him to his feet as well. “Let’s go to your bedroom.” Leading the way, she directs them back to the bedroom but not before Jonathan can quickly mouth, “We will talk in the morning.” I gulp, knowing damn well how that conversation will go. The minute his door is shut and I can hear giggling, I run to the front door and throw it open to see Reese’s hand raised, ready to knock.
Chapter Fourteen **REESE** I can hear Paisley rambling on the other side of the door. I can’t quite make out what she is saying, but I can tell her voice is frantic, so instead of knocking right away, I hold off. The last thing I want to do is piss her off even more. I pull the hood up on my zip-up jacket and hope no one thinks I’m a creep, lurking in the hallway. When I decided to go to Paisley’s apartment to see her, I didn’t think about what I might say or do. Hence the athletic shorts, sandals, and a zip-up hoodie with nothing under it. I wasn’t thinking at all, I just knew I had to get to her, to apologize, to fucking grovel at her feet and beg for forgiveness. Luckily, Ashley was able to find out her address for me. She wasn’t pleased to hear my desperation, but I told her if she didn’t figure it out, she would be fired by tomorrow morning. She got me Paisley’s address within ten minutes. I’m not going to lie, I’m nervous as fuck. Talk about shoving one’s foot in their mouth. I didn’t even think when I heard a man’s voice come from her phone, asking if she was going to be home for dinner. All I saw was red, and I overreacted. I didn’t think about her having a roommate. I’m jolted out of my self-hatred trance when the door in front of me flies open, revealing a perfectly beautiful, yet crazed Paisley. Her eyes sear me, not in a good way, and it looks like she’s about to headbutt me again. Through clenched teeth, she asks, “What the hell are you doing here?” Because I’m the biggest ass in the world, I act innocent. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” “No.” She goes to shut the door when I stop her with my palm to the wood between us. “If you close this door, I will be sure to ring your doorbell all night until someone lets me in.” Her eyes widen and then thin out in frustration. She looks over her shoulder, to the left and then back at me. Opening the door, she points to the right and says, “March your smart-ass to the door at the end of the hallway. I’m not kidding when I say you have two seconds to hide yourself.” I’m not going to battle with her. I take my opportunity and quickly follow her directions. Once I walk in her room, I’m instantly taken aback. Paisley is a tough girl, a little rough around the edges, wears cut-off jean shorts, boots, and has tattoos decorating her skin. I would consider her to be hard as nails, with a room to match, but that’s not what I find in front of me. Her room is all white. White furniture, white walls, white decorations. Her bed has white sheets and a huge, fluffy white comforter that looks so fucking welcoming I want to bury my head in it. A collection of pastel abstract paintings hanging above her bed provide the only color. The door behind me closes and locks, and I prepare for a verbal lashing. I turn to see her come up next to me and push me in the shoulders, sending me back an inch. Only an inch. Despite her athletic build, she’s still small compared to me.
“What are you doing here? You can’t just show up at someone’s place unexpected, disturbing the apartment peace.” Her voice is quiet yet stern. “Technically, it wasn’t unexpected. I sent you a text that I was coming over.” “Urggggg,” she screams . . . quietly. She paces the room, hand to her head. “Just tell me why you’re here.” Knowing I need to hang up my sarcastic comments, I capture her with my hands and hold her still. Her dusky eyes stare up at me, searching for answers. I take a minute to observe her, and that’s when I notice she’s wearing a rather revealing tank top with nothing underneath. From the armholes, I can see her entire ribcage and from the front, I notice her hardened nipples poking through the thin fabric. My body heats up and the jacket I’m wearing almost feels suffocating. Needing some relief, I unzip the front and expose my bare chest to the cool night air flowing through her open window. Her breath hitches in her throat, and her eyes fall on my partially exposed chest. Satisfaction runs rampant through me from her reaction. She can’t be that mad at me if she’s still willing to show heat in those hungry eyes of hers. Deflated, she asks again, “Reese, why are you here?” I press my finger under her chin and force her to meet my stare. “Paisley, I want to apologize for the way I reacted at my house.” I take a deep breath and continue. “I’m a jealous fuck most of the time, and when I heard some other man talking to you on the phone, I lost it.” “So you accuse me of being a cheater? Do you really think that poorly of me?” Fuck, this is harder than I expected it to be, not because it’s hard for me to apologize, but because Paisley’s eyes are practically bleeding they look so upset. It’s killing me, one blink at a time. “It’s the opposite, Paisley. I think too highly of you.” “What is that supposed to mean?” Gripping the back of my neck, I think of the right words to say to her. “The minute you walked into my life, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head. You’ve consumed me, in and out of the pool. I can’t focus, I can’t think of anything else but your sweet lips and your devastating body. All I want is to fuck you against a wall every time I see you, so much so my mind goes blank when you’re around. You’ve captivated me, Paisley. When I thought you were with someone else, I fucking lost it and jumped to ridiculous and hurtful conclusions. It was a dick move that I immediately regretted.” “It was a dick move,” she says softly, looking down at her feet. “That’s why I’m here. I needed to see you, to apologize and tell you how sorry I am.” “You could have done that the next time I saw you. You didn’t have to come here.” “I did.” I lift her chin to look at me again. “What don’t you get? I can’t stay away from you, Paisley.” She shakes her head. “This can’t happen, Reese.” “You keep saying that, but I don’t understand why. I know it’s not because of Bellini. Is it because I’m your boss? Fine, you’re fired.” I say it in a joking matter, but her eyes well up with tears and I immediately regret it. “Shit, baby, don’t cry.” I pull her into my chest, but she pushes me away. “You don’t get it, Reese. I’m not some Olympic medalist with millions of dollars and endorsements. Nor am I a reality star who can blow money on things like Belgian chocolate-covered schnitzel. I am a girl, with a hefty college loan and one chance at redeeming myself in my chosen
profession.” “What are you talking about?” Instead of falling into my arms like I want her to, she pulls away even more and sits on her bed, clearly in distress. “Remember a while back, that reporter on Good Morning Malibu who went off the deep end and swore on camera when she didn’t think people could hear her?” “I think so,” I reply, thinking back to when it was trending on Facebook. “Well, I was the one in charge of her mic. I was distracted and forgot to switch it off. Needless to say, one minor error cost me years in building up a career through interning and school. Now no one in the industry wants to hire me, except for this job. I don’t want to be an assistant to a reality star, but it’s the only option I have that puts me close enough to the camera that I can help out with production. I was able to offer suggestions to Jasper, and it felt amazing, like I was back in the game, but then you had to come along and ruin everything.” “How am I ruining everything? Seems to me like you’re flourishing with your job and making strides.” “You don’t get it. If I’m caught fraternizing with my boss, with someone on the show, especially someone who in the public’s eye is dating the most famous reality star of our generation, I can get canned and banned so fast from this industry that I should probably go back to college for another profession.” She takes a deep breath. “This job is important to me, Reese. Not only did my parents practically disown me when I left home because of my aspirations, but they’ve been waiting for me to come crawling back from not being able to make it in this industry. I can’t have that happen.” She takes a deep breath and continues. “Jonathan, my roommate, got me this job, and he’s very adamant about me making a good impression. I can’t let him down. He’s already warned me to stay away from you, not because he thinks you’re bad news, but because he saw the way I lit up when you texted me. If he knew you were here, he would kill me.” Damn, I had no idea. Here I am, looking like a giant dick who can’t keep it in his pants when all she wants is to prove to herself she can make it in the film industry. Knowing I will regret what I say in the morning, I walk up to her and squat down to her level. I pull her hand in mine and kiss the back of it. “I’m sorry, Paisley. I had no idea this job meant that much to you.” Even though deep inside, I want to push her back against her fluffy bed and fuck her until the morning sun rises, I press one more kiss to her hand and stare into her soulful eyes. Fuck, I don’t want to do this. “I’m going to go. I’m sorry, Paisley, for pushing you, making losing your job a possibility. I’ll leave you be. We’ll keep this strictly professional.” I stand, zip up my hoodie, and prop the hood over my head. With a sad smile in her direction, I turn to the door to leave. This is not how I expected this night to go, but then again, I wasn’t expecting her to show up at my door earlier in the first place. So if anything, at least I got to taste a little bit of her before it ended. I reach for the doorknob but stop when I feel her come up behind me; her hands press against my back. “Reese,” she whispers. Turning, I glance down at her. “Do you want to make sure your roommate is not in the living room
so he doesn’t see me?” She shakes her head, and glides her hands up the front of my chest to my zipper where she snags it and pulls it down, exposing my chest. I suck in a deep breath as my skin is exposed to her. “What are you doing?” Without answering, she slides her hands up to my shoulders and gently pushes the sweatshirt off my body to puddle at my feet. Her eyes wander the expanse of my chest while her fingers delicately dance over my tattoo, exploring it, memorizing it. My heart is beating rapidly and my cock is hardening with every touch. “Paisley,” I say in a rough whisper. Pulling her eyes from my tattoo, she meets my gaze and licks her lips. “I can’t let you walk out that door.” Her voice is soft, yet husky, full of lust. “Despite why this is so incredibly wrong and the repercussions I could face, I can’t for the life of me let you walk away.” Without thinking, or letting her change her mind, I scoop her up in my arms and take her over to her bed where she kneels down on it and props herself up so we are almost eye level. Hunger-filled eyes watch me as her hands gracefully stroke my body, running up my sides, over my pecs, and down my shoulders. I don’t move, just allow her to explore while I enjoy glimpses of her tank top spilling forward, exposing an expanse of cleavage. “Why can’t I stay away from you?” she asks, more of a question to herself than to me. Her hand runs up my neck and cups my cheek. “You’re a fixation I can’t avoid. When you’re around, I’m drawn to you, tempted to make mistakes I’ve never even thought about making before. You make me want to rebel, Reese, to walk dangerously just for the feel of your lips against mine.” “We don’t have to do this,” I say, hoping to fuck she doesn’t agree with me. She shakes her head. “Impossible.” Before I can respond, her lips press against mine, devouring the words on the tip of my tongue. Not able to hold back any longer, I bring her in closer and match the thrusts of her tongue with mine, tangling our mouths in the most intimate way. Her thumbs run against my beard, leaving me wanting more of her touch, wanting more of her body, so instead of crushing her head to mine with my hands, I push her shoulders back so she is forced to lie on the bed. Beautiful. Her dark-as-night hair fans across the pure white of her comforter, providing a stark contrast of heaven mixing with hellion. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.” She smiles brightly up at me, her eyes heady with lust. Needing to explore her some more, I prop myself over her body and play with her tank top. Since it’s open on the sides, I easily slip my hand in and feel the taut muscles along her ribcage up to the underside of her breast. From my touch, her body wiggles, begging for more. With our eyes connected, I move the opening of her tank top until her breast is exposed. I glance down and take her in. A sharp breath escapes me. Fuck. Her nipple is pierced. “Christ,” I mumble. “You’re so fucking hot.” Not able to stop myself, my hand immediately cups her breast and my fingers play with the barbell
of her nipple piercing, moving it ever so slightly, causing Paisley to writhe under me, little moans passing through her beautiful lips. “Do you like that, baby?” “Yes,” she answers without skipping a beat. Needing to see if she matches, I move the other side of her tank top so both armholes are meeting together in the middle of her chest, nestling in her cleavage. Fuck. Her other nipple is pierced as well. “Fuck me, this is so fucking sexy.” Not wanting any article of clothing to get in my way, I grab hold of the hem of her tank and pull it over her head. She lifts her upper half to help me out, her defined abs flexing with her movements. Her chest is now completely bare and exposed to me. Taken aback by her heavenly body, I run my hand over my jaw and simply look. How the fuck did I get so lucky? I’ve been with a few women, but never one this gorgeous, never this open, never this perfect. It’s like she is made for me with her dark hair, steel-colored eyes, and inked frame. Everything about her makes me want to hold on tight and never let her go, even when she is flicking me on the forehead, or headbutting me for that matter. She’s feisty, sassy, all kinds of contradictions with her sweet personality but with a fiery attitude. There is also something dark about her—mysterious—that intrigues me, that makes me want to hold her in my arms and open her innermost secrets. I’ve never wanted a woman so badly in my life. Unable to control myself, I grip both of her breasts, causing her to spring up from the bed and wrap her arms around my neck. She connects our lips together, our frenzied moans intermingling. My cock is harder than fuck, begging to be released from the confines of my shorts. Even though her lips were recently wrapped around my length, I still want more. I need more. There is a weight resting heavily on my chest, needing that one last release, the moment where I connect with her, sink inside her to feel the tight clench of her pussy. “Are you on the pill?” I ask in between kissing. She nods. Does she have the same thoughts as I do? From the gentle smile on her face, it’s as if we just exchanged a silent agreement—that we both trust each other, a mutual respect for one another. “Good,” I rasp out. “Because there is no way in hell I can fuck you with a condom. I need to feel every inch of your pussy gripping my cock.” Leaving her breasts momentarily, I shuck my shorts and then pull off her underwear, stripping us both naked. With a giant smile on my face, I tackle her back onto the bed, both of our bodies slapping together, our limbs tangling, and our laughter mixing. In the midst of our coiling, she ends up on top of me, her ass resting against my cock, her hands on my chest. With her hair draping her body, she looks like a dark angel. Her breasts sway with her movement, and her toned arms flex under her weight. “Tell me what you want, Paisley. What do you want me to do?” She flips her head to the side and starts rubbing her wet center against my length, her hands resting on my chest for balance. A hiss escapes between my teeth from the friction. I lean on my elbows, lifting my body up ever so slightly and stare down at her wet pussy, glistening
with arousal. Completely bare, her slit glides up and down, throwing us both into a state of pleasure. Sweat coats our skin and our scents mix, creating an erotic atmosphere. Sitting all the way up, I cup her ass and move her hips so now my cock is lined up with her pussy. I look her in the eyes and say, “Fuck me, Paisley. I want you to ride me so I can watch your delicious tits bounce in front of my face, teasing my tongue for just one taste.” One of her hands grips the base of my head while she sits up on her knees and inserts my dick inside her. She doesn’t take her time, she doesn’t revel in the feel of me slowly sliding inside her. No, my girl pushes down on my cock until we’re fully connected. “Fucking hell,” I mutter, my head resting on her shoulder. She’s so tight, so warm, so fucking perfect that I can feel myself already starting to reach the precipice of my orgasm, just from one quick stroke. Shifting her hair to the side again, she grips both sides of my head and presses her mouth against mine, kissing me like it’s her last day on earth. My hands run up the side of her body, my thumbs connecting with her breasts, carefully playing with her nipples, loving the feel of the cold barbell against the pad of my thumb. She moans in my mouth while thrusting up and down on my lap, working her hips back and forth, rubbing her clit just right to cause her pussy to clench every single fucking time. Her tongue matches her thrusts and I realize when I told her to fuck me, she took it seriously. Every inch of her passion is possessing me: the way her hips melodically fuck me, the way her tongue won’t ease up, just keeps begging for more, and the way her fingers grip the curls of my hair, pulling aggressively, just enough to turn me on even more. She’s playing my entire body like an instrument, her sexual need strumming me to the point of orgasm. Losing myself and needing to be in charge, I flip our connection so her back is resting against the covers. Spreading her legs and hooking my arms under her knees, I thrust into her, her breasts moving with each push. Her hands dig into her hair, and her expression is one of utter satisfaction as she bites down on her lip. She’s the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen. Just from the sight of her, my orgasm takes over my body. My toes curl beneath me, my breath is caught in my throat, her name at the tip of my tongue. She moans loudly and then covers her mouth just as we both reach the precipice of ecstasy, falling over together. Her hand slaps over my mouth as I shout her name, muffling my voice just in time. I’m too distracted by the pure, all-consuming ache bursting through me, and the utterly satisfied woman in my arms. I continue to thrust as we ride out our orgasms, before lowering my body on top of hers, still connected. Fuck. Me. My hands fall to her face where I brush her cheeks with my thumbs and stare into her beautiful, contented eyes. There is a goofy grin on her face, and I know if I look in a mirror, I would be sporting the same grin. There was something almost magical that transpired between us, as if we’ve been doing this for years. There is a slight tilt to her head as she gazes up at me, a look of adoration crossing her features. “How the fuck am I supposed to leave you alone now?” I ask, adding lightness to my voice even though I know the task at hand is not possible.
She giggles and touches her hand to my cheek, playing with the scruff of my jaw. “A strong will.” I’m caught off guard by her response. Was she really going to let me walk away after this? Then she laughs again, shaking her head. “Reese, you’re adorable. Do you really think I would have the courage to let you go now, after having you deep inside me? I couldn’t even let you out my door.” “That’s fucking right,” I breathe out, seeing the worry in her eyes. I kiss her lids and then play with her hair, stroking it tenderly to soothe her. “Don’t worry, baby. We will keep this a secret for now. For both of our jobs, we need to keep this a secret.” A side-smile peeks out. “Baby? Is that what you’re calling me now?” “You got a problem with that?” She shakes her head, her wavy hair falling over her face. “Not a problem at all.” “Good.” I lean down and kiss her, so fucking happy I feel like I can burst. A pleased moan escapes as my tongue finds hers again. My body’s not quite ready for round two, but I don’t mind playing around until I am. She pushes me away for a second and points her finger at me. “You have to be quiet, mister. I can’t have Jonathan hearing us.” Fuck I forgot about her roommate. “I was quiet.” “You were the last thing from being quiet with your sexy groans, banging of the headboard, and shouting my name at the end.” I raise a rakish eyebrow at her. “And you’re complaining about that? Shall I shout someone else’s name?” “No.” She laughs. “Then deal with it. You make me lose control, I’m not ashamed.” “You will be when Jonathan comes flying into my bedroom ready to pummel your ass.” “I’m not scared,” I say before kissing her neck, working my way back down to her breasts. She wiggles under me, goosebumps popping up over her skin. “Who knew you were a screamer? Such a vocal man.” I laugh against her skin. “Never was until you, baby.” *** I feel amazing. I actually feel like I have some sort of super-human strength, and not just from the glorious fucking I had last night with Paisley, but because of the bed I got the best sleep of my life in. I shift away from the sun beating down on me and reach for Paisley who is nowhere to be found. Opening my eyes, I look around to find her room empty, the only thing taking up her place is the bright sun reflecting off every surface in her room. Groaning, I roll to the side of the bed and look at her phone to see what time it is. Seven thirty. I groan some more and rub my eyes with the palm of my hands. Thankfully I don’t have to be in the pool this morning for a workout. I have some training to complete today, just to keep my muscles loose, but nothing that required me to be up at the ass-crack of dawn.
From the living room, I can hear Paisley’s voice as well as a man’s. Must be Jonathan. I need to find out more about this roommate. He better be gay. Paisley’s laugh draws closer to her bedroom door and I can hear her say, “Put some clothes on, you’re going to be late for work.” Put some clothes on? Yeah, I don’t like the sound of that. Motherfucker better be really gay. The bedroom door opens and Paisley slips in, holding a cup of coffee. She’s wearing that damn tank top again and a pair of very short pajama shorts. From my vantage point, I can tell she’s not wearing a bra. Seriously, Jonathan better be the gayest man on the planet. I sit up in bed, the comforter falling down to my waist, showing off my six-pack, giving Paisley quite the show. She turns to face me, her hair all kinds of messed up, and a freshly fucked look in her eyes. “Hey you.” She smiles and saunters toward me. “Hey baby,” I reply, scooting over, making some room for her. “Sticking with that baby thing?” she asks, handing me the coffee and sitting down so she’s facing me. I take a sip and grab a lock of her hair to twirl in my finger. “Yup. Now come here.” Tugging lightly on her hair, I guide her so she’s sitting on my lap and I’m leaning against her headboard. I run my fingers along the hem of her neckline, casually brushing the tips across the swell of her breasts. “What are you trying to do?” “Make your nipples incredibly hard so you can’t go anywhere today until I fuck you up against the white of your wall.” “I was already planning on it.” Her sexy smile captures me and I’m moments away from cashing in when I realize there are a few things I need to discuss with her. Setting the cup of coffee on the nightstand, I pull her in closer and rest my hands on her hips. Her I got fucked look has me hard underneath her, and I hope I can talk to her before she starts to rock her hips against me again. “Mmm . . . morning wood suits you well.” I laugh and press my fingers up her shirt but still keep my hands on her hips. If I move any higher, I’ll be a goner. Her breasts are so entirely boner worthy that I fucked them last night right after I ate her out. We got to know each other rather personally during the late hours of the night. “You suit me well,” I respond. She leans in to kiss me, but I stop her. Confusion crosses her face so I speak quickly. “Before I take your pussy again, I have a quick question for you.” “What’s that?” She leans forward and kisses my chest right before flattening her tongue against my nipple and licking it. Fuuuuuckk. Concentrate. “Funny thing, I heard you tell your roommate to put some clothes on.”
In between kisses to my chest, she says, “Ugh, yeah, he’s always walking around naked. I’ve seen his penis so many times it’s like second nature to me now.” I grit my teeth, the tension in my jaw overpowering. She knows what his penis looks like? “So, he’s gay, right?” Her kisses halt, and she glances up at me. “Who? Jonathan?” I nod, too angry to open my mouth. To my dismay she laughs and shakes her head. “Oh my God, no. Jonathan is the furthest thing from being gay. Probably the biggest manwhore I know.” “And you see him naked, almost every day?” I feel like my teeth are about to turn into dust. She pulls away a little more and asks, “What are you getting at?” Knowing how we got into this situation last night, I choose my words wisely. “This man, does he see you naked?” “Oh my God, Reese.” She stands up from the bed but I quickly catch her and pull her back down, trapping her with my naked body. “Get off me.” “No.” I pin her hands above her head with one hand and force her to look at me. “I trust you, Paisley, but I don’t trust other men. You do realize you’re incredibly fucking hot, right? Like any man would fall to their knees if you gave them the time of day.” “Not Jonathan. He’s like a brother to me. God, Reese, are you really jealous of him?” “Hell yes, I am. Why wouldn’t I be? He walks around naked, and he apparently is a manwhore. Of course I’m jealous, and worried.” Her face lightens from my confession. “And why would you be worried?” Without skipping a beat, I say, “Because I don’t share, ever. If I’m going to be with you, Paisley, then I want all of you, not half.” The tension in her body releases. “Does that go both ways?” “Of course it goes both ways. Despite what the media says, I don’t fuck around, Paisley, especially on girls I really like.” “Awe, you really like me?” she responds in a teasing tone. “All right.” I shake my head and get off her, looking for my shorts. “Oh, come on, you’re going to be all sensitive now. Can’t take a little ribbing?” “No, I can.” I look for my shorts and then run my hand through my hair. “I just need to go tell your roommate who your man is, and maybe break his dick off so he doesn’t walk around naked anymore.” I head to her bedroom door, knowing full well I won’t be talking to Jonathan but wanting a reaction out of her. “What? No,” she shouts a little too loud. Jonathan calls out from the living room. “What, sweetheart?” I will tell you right now. I don’t fucking like him calling her sweetheart. “Oh my God, hide.” I don’t move. “Reese, hide.” She tries pushing me but I don’t budge. “What are you doing? Hide.”
“Paisley, did you call for me?” His voice is nearing and panic sets in her face so I decide to ease the fear in her eyes. Just before the door opens, I duck into her closet, hiding from Jonathan. From the crack of the door, I can see his tall, muscular frame. He’s not as defined as me, but he’s definitely got a strong body on him. You know those horrible movies where the best friends don’t realize they’re meant for each other so they date other people until they realize they are meant to be, leaving the poor chumps left behind? I refuse to let that be me. “What’s going on in here?” Jonathan asks. Paisley immediately bends down and grips her calf, wincing. “Charlie horse. These things are a real bitch.” Jonathan is silent and I can see him looking around her room. I’m actually kind of nervous that he might find me, dong out, squatting in Paisley’s closet. Not the best first impression. “What the hell did you do in here last night? Your room is never this messy.” “Um, restless night. Bellini has me all kinds of crazy.” “I can understand that.” He looks at his watch and winces. “Shit, I have to get going. Your leg okay?” “Yeah, sorry about startling you.” “Not a problem, sweetheart.” He leans forward and presses a kiss against her cheek before taking off, making my inner Hulk want to bust through this closet and tear him limb from limb. “Catch you later. We should go out to dinner before you leave for Omaha. I’m going to miss you.” “Sure. Text me later.” “See ya, Pay.” Oh what a fucking cute-ass nickname. Fucker. The minute the door shuts, I’m out of the closet and closing in on Paisley. I pin her up against her wall and hold her hips in place as I speak sternly to her. “I don’t fucking like him.” She laughs, and the sound that normally makes me sweat with need, grates on my nerves. “You didn’t even meet him.” “I didn’t need to. He called you sweetheart. That doesn’t settle well with me, Paisley.” She cocks her head to the side, studying me. “Are you being serious right now?” “Fuck yes, I’m being serious. I told you, I don’t share.” “Well, you don’t have to worry about Jonathan. Our relationship is completely platonic.” She lifts her hand and strokes a stray curl floating over my forehead. “Why would I want anyone else, anyway? You’re too much man for me to handle.” “That better be a good thing,” I growl into her ear. She grips my cock and starts stroking me, making me hard as hell in seconds. “It’s an extremely good thing.”
Chapter Fifteen **PAISLEY** Reese King is jealous over me? How is that even possible? World’s sexiest man, Olympic swimmer, and underwear model, jealous over me. Jealous over my relationship with Jonathan. Now that’s laughable. Is Jonathan a ruggedly handsome man? Of course. And does he call me sweetheart and make me dinner? Naturally. And have I seen his penis almost every single day? Yes, but not by demand. But is there any kind of romantic vibe between us? None whatsoever. Not even the slightest inkling. Back in college we might have had a fling, but we quickly worked out we were better as friends than being romantically involved. Ever since then, he’s been the best friend a girl could ask for. “Do you see what you do to me, Paisley?” Reese breathes heavily against me, his dick hard and ready. I’ve been with a few men in my time, but they are nothing compared to Reese, not even close. This man makes me tingle from my toes to the top of my head with just his gruff voice. He sends shivers up and down my spine with one deep glance from his hazel eyes. He makes me throb uncontrollably with one single lick of his lips. Everything about him exudes sex and I get to call him mine . . . secretly. I try not to think about that factor. I know what you’re thinking. Paisley, relationships are never good when they’re built on a foundation of lies. But this is different; there are no lies between Reese and me, just lies to the people who surround us. That’s not bad, right? “I want to fuck you so hard against this wall,” he mumbles along my neck. Nope, lies to people around us are completely fine, especially when I have this man mauling me against my wall, naked in all his glory, his length prodding against my leg, and his lips cascading down my body. I don’t see anything wrong with this situation. “Then do it.” A couple things I learned last night: Reese likes to talk dirty, which is a major turn on. He is also very demanding in the bedroom. He allows me some control, but when he’s about to snap, he takes over, driving himself so deep inside me I feel like I can’t get any fuller. He also likes to cuddle, like fully envelop me in his muscular arms kind of cuddle. I was barely able to extract myself from his steel-like arms this morning before Jonathan came barging through my door like he always does. And apparently, to my delight this morning, I found out he is insanely jealous. I know, how animalistic and alpha of him. For some it can be a turn off and I get it. Some alpha men can be absolute control freaks that have the ability to turn into giant turd nuggets. But for some reason, I love the way Reese is possessive of me. It makes me feel wanted, cherished, a feeling I haven’t felt in a long time, thanks to my mommy and daddy problems. Got to love parents and their ability to give their children inferiority complexes. In the midst of Reese taking my tank top off, exposing my breasts, he asks, “Are you really going
to have dinner with Jonathan?” His fingers find my piercing, sending a bolt of pleasure straight to my core. I can feel my arousal spike, and all I want to do is feel him inside me once again. Not have a conversation about Jonathan. “Yeah, why?” I respond, puffing my chest out farther for him to touch. I’m going to be honest. I’ve never been the type of girl to willingly thrust my breasts at a man, but Reese has magic fingers; it’s like he was born to play with my nipples, not swim laps in a pool. “What if I don’t want you to?” He captures one of my nipples in his mouth, distracting me from his question. Even though his mouth is working wonders, I’m able to register what he says, and shock alert, I don’t like it. “Well then, too bad. You can’t tell me what to do, Reese.” Lightly biting down on my nipple, he looks up at me, an evil glint in his eyes. “Is that right?” “Yes,” I breathe heavily, not sure if I’m answering his question or if I’m encouraging him to keep doing what he’s doing. Either way, my answer works. “You might have amazing man muscles and a glorious cock, but you still can’t tell me what to do.” “What if I asked you politely to have dinner with me instead?” My heart hammers in my chest as I cup the back of his head. His eyes . . . the lust I see is intoxicating. Stroking his hair, I say, “I would love to have dinner with you, Reese, but Jonathan wants to talk to me tonight about last night’s happenings. If I blow him off, he’s going to know something is up. Plus, you need to learn some control,” I add. “You’re kind of horny.” “Kind of horny?” he asks, a grin spreading over his face. “Babe, I’m so fucking horny where you’re concerned there is no stopping it.” “No one likes a horndog,” I say putting some lightness in our conversation. “Is that right?” I can see him getting ready to test me. “So a horndog wouldn’t fall to the ground and give someone a blow job . . . let’s say . . . on their welcome mat?” He wiggles his eyebrows at me, letting me know he’s teasing. “Oh my God.” Embarrassment lights up inside me as I playfully slap his chest. “You know that knee to the junk you were so nervous about? Well, it’s coming your way in about two seconds. Heed my warning.” Blocking his crotch, he laughs and steps away, only putting a few inches between us. His eyes are pleading but playful as he speaks. “Haven’t you hurt me enough? Haven’t you emasculated me enough? Leave me with an ounce of pride.” I cross my arms over my chest. “You’re ridiculous.” “You love it.” He steps toward me again, nuzzling his lips into my neck, melting what little tension I felt. “So, dinner with me tonight?” he presses again, causing us both to laugh. I sigh. “You know I would love to, but I have plans. Now accept them.” Standing tall from his bent-over position, he presses me closer into the wall, his cock heavy against my stomach. His hands reach down between us and push off my shorts, making me just as naked as him. “Fine, but I don’t fucking like it.”
“Yes, you’ve made that quite clear by the way you’re practically growling and pissing around me to mark your territory.” “Can you blame me?” He nips at my skin with his lips, and his voice is heavy when he asks, “When can I see you again?” “Omaha?” He nods reluctantly. “If I have to wait that long, then I guess tomorrow night it is. But once you get to the hotel, you’re mine.” Concern washes over me. “Tomorrow night you should be preparing for Trials. You don’t need me distracting you.” His palms run up my sides and cup my breasts roughly, squeezing me hard. I want to moan out his name for everyone to hear. Seriously, he might not have the highest accomplishment in the pool, but in the bedroom, he’s the master at foreplay, and a gold medalist in fucking me senseless. “Paisley, I think you’re failing to realize something.” With my hand holding his dick, I rub the tip against my slick entrance, enticing him to move quicker. “What’s that?” He groans against my ear, pushing his cock against my pussy, rubbing me in all the right ways. “It’s well known that elite athletes have an extremely high sexual drive. Not only is our metabolism working at a faster rate, but so is our libido.” “What are you saying?” I ask, spreading my legs and standing on my tippy-toes to slip his dick inside me. He hisses out a breath from my hot, wet heat enveloping his tip. Releasing my breasts, he scoops me up by the butt and inserts himself fully inside while propping me against the wall, leaving my feet dangling in the air. His chest flexes under the strain and his biceps pop out like boulders. Fuck, the man is strong. With one thrust, he says, “I’m saying, I’m going to need to fuck you as often as I can. I will let tonight go, but after that, you’re in my bed, straddling my cock and squeezing me with your tight pussy. Got it?” He thrusts again and all I can do is nod in agreement. Hell, I would agree to just about anything right about now, as long as he keeps hitting that hidden spot deep down inside me. “Let me hear it, baby. Tell me you’re going to be in my bed in Omaha.” He pauses, waiting for my answer, his forehead pressed against mine, our sweat mixing together from the pure euphoria building up inside us. “I will be there,” I barely get out, needing him to start moving in and out of me again. That’s all he needs to hear. His once-sweet position—of him staring into my eyes, begging me to answer him—is switched to animalistic power, pounding into me with a force so strong I’m afraid I might break through the wall right into Mrs. Kalideapea’s bathroom. “Fucking hell. I can’t get enough of you.” His admission is mutual. I want to claw myself all over him, mark him as my territory. If I didn’t have to pack for Omaha today and make sure Bellini is ready for her trek to where “the children of the corn live,” then I would spend the day worshipping Reese’s body. My back rubs up and down the wall, my sweat-soaked skin making it easier to glide up and down.
Reese’s thrusts are overpowering, and all I can do is raise my arms above my head, palms to the wall, chest pressed out, and revel in the feel of Reese’s thick cock devouring every last inch of my pussy. “Yes,” I scream, unable to hold back anymore. Poor Mrs. Kalieapea. I just hope she’s not in her bathroom. “God, yes. Fuck me harder, Reese.” He grunts, grabs hold of one of my nipples with his teeth and bites down, eliciting another scream from me. Every nerve in my body ignites as if on fire, sending my body into an erotic frenzy. The throbbing in my clit takes over, my mind goes blank, and I’m transported into a world full of pleasure. My eyes close, shutting out the rest of the world surrounding us, leaving me with only the feel of Reese pushing my body to its limits. A deep burn coils within me, centering in the depths of my core, enflaming my body with desire for the man buried inside me. His mouth releases my nipple as his head falls back. I open my eyes to see the veins in his neck pop, his control wavering. Every sinew in his body is working, making him a statuesque piece of muscular perfection. Thrust after thrust, I’m thrown into an endless oblivion of all-consuming bliss. Right when I feel I can’t take anymore, he drops my position so I’m at eye level, positioning my hips at a different angle. That’s all it takes. Bursts of pleasure skyrocket through me, sending me spiraling out of control. Through my erratic breathing, I scream, “I’m coming.” Reese is right there with me, grunting out his pleasure, picking up his pace, burning me—branding me—leaving me spent and useless, unable to move any limb in my body. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes out, lowering me to the ground. His lips fine mine, and I have just enough strength to wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him back. Cock still hard, he picks me up off the ground and takes me to my bed where he lays us both down, our lips never parting. He straddles my body and positions himself on top of me, letting some of his weight fall heavily on me. I welcome the warmth of his body. His arms straddle my head as his hands run through my hair, and his lips continue to seek mine. His frantic kisses turn into light ones, occasionally slipping his tongue in my mouth, letting me know that even though he’s being sweet, he’s still very much naughty. The position we are in is intimate, tender, almost loving. It makes me want things I’ve never had before. It makes my stomach flip in excitement. Knowing something is blossoming between us, at this very moment, is all I need to continue down this road paved with lies and deceit. *** “You don’t get any kind of alcohol until you tell me what the hell last night was all about,” Jonathan says, setting a beer down in front of me but not letting me have a sip. After a long day of thinking about Reese, his gorgeous eyes and throbbing cock, and helping Bellini pack—which was a total nightmare thanks to her inability to decide what to bring for the short trip—I’m keen to guzzle the beer down in one gulp. Playing everything off as casual, I kick my feet up on the coffee table and shrug my shoulders. “What about last night? Did you get laid?” “Of course I got laid. Should that even be a question? It’s a guarantee where I’m concerned.”
“Wow.” I look around the room. “When did the douche nozzle walk in the room?” “Stop deflecting.” He laughs. “What would possess you to come into the living room last night and let my date know she was making you horny? In case you didn’t notice, that was high on the creepy scale.” Yeah, I didn’t feel good saying it last night, but it was the first thing that came to mind. I thought about the conversation all day, and I couldn’t come up with a good excuse to protect my secret with Reese. Anything I said, Jonathan was probably not going to believe so I decided not to tell him anything. “Honestly, I don’t know. I think the sun got to me. I’m sorry if I made things awkward for you.” He eyes me suspiciously. “It wasn’t awkward; she was quite excited after her conversation with you.” “See, and here I thought I was doing you a disservice.” I reach for the beer, but he stops me. “Funny thing though, when I came into your room this morning, I saw a man’s hooded jacket on your floor and a pair of shorts. Care to explain those?” Shit, shit, SHIT! I force myself to stay calm, to not freak out and have diarrhea of the mouth where I tell him everything just so he can yell at me for failing once again. “Borrowed them from you.” I nod my head, loving my reasoning. Quick thinker, that’s what I am. “I don’t own a red hoodie,” Jonathan states, cutting my victory dance in half. “Um, that’s because I’ve had it for so long you’ve forgotten about it. You can have it back if you want.” “Sure, go get it for me.” SHIT!! Of course, Reese wore it home this morning. Couldn’t he have walked out of this apartment complex naked? I snap my finger in disappointment. “Oh darn, I um, put it in my hamper today. It’s probably musty. I will give it a good cleaning and then return it.” I reach for the beer again, but he scoops it up and holds it in his hand, his arms crossed over his chest. “Get me the sweatshirt, Paisley.” “But it’s musty,” I try to justify. “What’s a little must between friends?” “Um, I think I put it on top of my dirty underwear. You’re not going to want that sweatshirt. I do weird things in my underwear.” Nope. Not what I wanted to say, definitely not what I wanted to say at all. Disgust is written all across the expression in his face, and I don’t blame him. “Why would you say something like that?” “Just being friends.” I smile. He shakes his head, probably trying to rid the thoughts of my dirty underwear from his mind. Hell, I’m trying to do the same thing. “Just get me the damn sweatshirt, Paisley.” He’s a persistent little bitch tonight. Knowing my ladybug sweatshirt won’t be able to be masked as the red one he saw, I give in. “It’s
not here.” “And why not?” Do I tell him? He’s been my best friend for years. Would he be able to handle the truth? I think back to our night together after my first day with Reese and Bellini. He was incredibly adamant about me not getting mixed up with Reese. Kind of crazy persistent about it. Would he understand? Deep down I want to believe he would, but I know that’s not the case. “Fine, there was a guy here last night, BUT before you go and start asking questions, it’s new and I don’t want you scaring him away just yet, okay? Guys tend to freak out when they hear my roommate is a handsome heterosexual man with a giant penis.” “Giant?” He quirks an eyebrow at me, a smile on his face. “Don’t push your luck.” “Was he in your room this morning?” “Maybe,” I say, picking a piece of lint off my shirt. “But I made him hide because I didn’t want him seeing you. It was bad enough that he heard you call me sweetheart.” “Well, that’s never going to change so whoever this loser is, he can deal with it.” “He’s not a loser,” I say, warning myself not to go into detail. That’s exactly what Jonathan wants me to do. “If he’s too intimidated by me, then he’s a loser.” As a peace offering, he finally hands over the beer I’ve been drooling over. “So where did you meet this mystery man?” Taking a longer sip than normal, I buy myself some time before I have to answer. “On a photo shoot with Bellini,” I answer, not lying. It’s true. I met Reese at their photo shoot. “Is he in production?” Hmm, was Reese in production? Well, technically, he is, since he is part of the show. I saw him lift a couple things at the pool, assisting production assistants. Yeah, he could be in production. “Yup.” I nod, not elaborating. “What’s his name?” I shake my head. “Not going to happen. I’m not going to tell you his name so you can meander on Facebook and stalk him. Just let me figure this out on my own. Okay?” Jonathan doesn’t look pleased, but he will learn to live with my decision, at least until I figure out how I’m going to handle this. “Does he at least make you happy?” Last night—I know it’s going to sound lame—I saw stars. Reese brought me to a place of pleasure I’ve never experienced before. And then this morning, tangled in his limbs, making out and holding each other, it was romantic, sweet, memorable. I spent the entire day with a smile on my face, unable to stop thinking about the man. “He does,” I say shyly, my hands twisting in my lap from the need to text him. “Holy shit, he does. Look at you, you’re all giddy.” “Am not.” I turn away from him, bringing the beer to my mouth so Jonathan can’t see the smile plastered across my face. “You are giddy. Damn, Paisley. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this.” I just shrug my shoulders, entirely too shy to talk about this with Jonathan. “Can I just ask you one thing?”
“I’m not telling you his name,” I respond, exhausted. “I’m not going to ask that. This is serious.” He takes a deep breath and stares directly into my eyes. “Does he have a bigger penis than me?” I roll my eyes and get off the couch, giving him my leftover beer. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?” “Where are you going?” “To bed,” I call out over my shoulder. “I have an early flight in the morning. Bellini was kind enough to let me book a middle seat in coach on the earliest flight out to Omaha while she is taking her private jet. But don’t worry. I have a list of chores I have to do to her hotel room before she arrives. Who knew hiring a priest to bless a room upon arrival was a thing?” Jonathan laughs. “So glad I got you this job.” “Me too,” I answer, secretly grateful for the chance to meet Reese. “But seriously, is his dick bigger?” Knowing this will never end, I say, “Yes, by a few inches.” “Bullshit,” he calls out. “You’ve seen it erect. It’s not a fair comparison. Let me get hard for you. Then you can make an accurate assessment.” “Don’t even think about it.” I slam my bedroom door and run straight to my phone where there is a text waiting for me from Reese. Reese: You owe me big time for ditching me tonight for your other lover. Why are the men in my life completely impossible? I quickly get ready for bed, change into another tank top, this one less revealing, and a pair of boy shorts. I have a roommate for when I’m staying in Omaha, so I’ve packed all my clean and non-revealing pajamas. Once ready, I hop into bed, turn off my light, and text Reese back. Paisley: Poor baby. How could I ever possibly make it up to you? He must be relaxing because he texts me right back. Reese: Send me a picture of your tits. That should hold me over until tomorrow. Paisley: Sorry big man. I don’t sext pictures of myself. Don’t you learn anything from social media? Reese: Do you really think I would ever show anyone a picture of you topless? I can barely stand the fact that you live with another man. Paisley: I’m not saying you would, per se, but there are some really good hackers out there. My tits are going to have to live on in your memory.
Reese: And here I thought you were in the business of making things up to me. Paisley: Are you pouting? Reese: Yes I laugh. Such a giant baby. Puffing my hair up and pinching my cheeks. I turn the camera around, angle it high so at least he gets a good shot of my cleavage, and send him a picture of me. Once the picture is uploaded, I wait impatiently for his response. I’m not wearing makeup and I have some dark circles under my eyes thanks to him. Hopefully he still finds me attractive. Minutes tick by and he doesn’t text me back. Nerves start to set in and I wonder if maybe we weren’t at the point in our new relationship where we send each other pictures. I’m about to text him again when my phone starts to ring. FaceTime. From Reese. Shit. A little nervous to see him again, since we are still getting to know each other, I fix my hair quickly and then answer. A vision of Reese pops up lying in bed with one hand behind his head. He’s barechested, glorious muscles on display, floating in a sea of pillows. “Hey baby.” He smiles seductively at me, licking his lips, lips that I want so desperately all over my body. This was a terrible, terrible idea. I should have ditched Jonathan for some more Reese time. “Hey you.” “Sorry if I’m bothering you. I just had to see you after you sent that picture. You’re a little fucking tease, you know that?” I laugh and sink deeper into my bed, holding the phone up. “And here I thought you didn’t like the picture since it took you so long to respond.” “Had to get ready for bed. Wanted to fall asleep to your sweet voice.” “Is that a line?” I ask, not falling immediately for it. “No lines needed with you, Paisley,” he answers sincerely. “You can believe everything that comes out of my mouth.” “Is that right? So tell me, am I the best you’ve ever had?” Instantly he answers, “Without a doubt.” “I better be,” I tease. “So, are you ready for tomorrow? You have some press conferences and an interview with—” “Paisley, I don’t want to talk about work with you when we are not on the clock. This is our personal time, time to get to know each other.” My heart melts. I turn on my side and prop the phone up on my nightstand before resting my head on my pillow, staring at the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. “What do you want to know?” He smiles brightly and says, “Everything.”
Chapter Sixteen **BELLINI** “Pocket,” I scream from my chaise lounge that sits in my beheaded room. Normally when surrounded by the mounted poly-resin taxidermy heads of Prince Harry, Mark Paul Gosselaar, Carnie Wilson, and Masaharu Morimoto, I feel at ease, but their cemented heads decorating the gold wallpaper in my relaxation room is doing nothing for my rising anxiety. Once again, the world is against me. I have to fly to the cornfields today for Reese’s swim thing in the midst of an absolute crisis. As the amazing human being I am, I spent the last two days interviewing lesbians under false pretenses. What they thought was an interview to work for Pothead Pizza as an artistic food stylist— aka, come up with stupid flavors—was actually me questioning everything from their personal life to their financial status so I can find the proper match for Mauve. Being so popular and sought after, I barely have time to pray with Pope Francis, and now with my new endeavor, Love for Lesbians, and my religious doggy wear fashion line, something is bound to slip. And it did. “Pocket,” I scream even louder, wondering where that Neanderthal is. Mauve is on her way to the airport now, leaving me without an assistant. If I knew today was going to be the worst day of my life, I would have kept her around to dab a damp cloth over my forehead. Now, I’m left to dabbing one myself by using tongs because touching a wet washcloth is for people with large cuticles, not someone of my pristine perfection. Breathing heavily and stopping in the doorway, Pocket stands before me—pants unzipped and her shirt hanging over her crotch just enough so I’m not forced to see what kind of hobo underwear she’s wearing. “What the hell are you doing with your pants?” I ask her, utterly disgusted with the way she’s breathing out of her mouth, as if she’s Shrek after a one-mile run. It’s revolting just being around her right now. “I was going to the bathroom when you called,” she answers, her breathing heavy. “For heaven’s sake.” I sit up on the chaise. “Put yourself together, you merciless ape. What makes you think I want to see you with your pants practically around your ankles and your floppy clam eating up your crotch-stained cottons?” I shiver and avert my eyes from the uncivilized blockhead. Mumbling apologies, she tends to her pants and then presents herself properly to me. “What’s wrong, Bellini?” Dramatically, I rest my arm over my head and twist on the chaise lounge. “It’s all over,” I say, just as my dad walks in the room. “Angel puss, is everything okay? You seem upset.” Grabbing on to the back of the chaise lounge and sitting up, I take in my father. He’s wearing a white tank top that’s tucked into his Burberry pants while a plethora of gold chains hang from his
neck. He’s so gaudy, but he has the right to be. He’s seen the gates of heaven during his near-death experience of being brutally humped by Orson, the demon pig. After such an act of the devil, my father can wear and do whatever he wants—since he got a second chance on life. “Oh Daddy,” I whine, “everything is falling apart.” Deep concern crosses his face. “Oh, angel puss, tell me everything.” Flopping back down on my chaise, my gaze directed at the wall in front of me rather than the two people behind me, I hold up one single article of clothing in the air, as if I’m waving a white flag in surrender. I hear both Pocket and my dad step forward to take a look at what I’m holding up in the air. “What is that?” Pocket asks. Tossing it to the side in exasperation, I say, “What is it? WHAT IS IT?” My voice rises as hysteria ensues me. “It’s a mockup of a clergy shirt made with dry clean only, Mulberry silk, intricate gold inlays, and a hot-pink clerical collar, that’s what it is.” “It’s beautiful,” Pockets says. I’m starting to get really uncomfortable with how far she’s trying to stick her head up my ass these days. I’m pretty sure Mauve is starting to give her a territorial complex. Flipping my legs so they hang off the side of the lounge, I stare up at her ordinary face. “Pocket, do you not see how the stitching is all wrong? How the sleeves of the shirt don’t have enough give in the shoulders? If I put this on Pope Francis, he’ll be walking around like some kind of fabulously dressed robot. That would be humiliating to him because if anything, he’s a man of God and deserves the respect of loose-fitting clothes to accommodate his doggy shoulders.” “This is outrageous,” my dad says. Grabbing the poorly sewed clergy shirt, he tosses it on the ground and stomps on it with his Bellucci genuine alligator zipper boots, trying to turn it into dust. “I refuse to let my angel puss be subjected to such poorly constructed doggy clothing.” “It’s so poorly constructed, Daddy,” I whine. His face starts to turn red as his fists clench at his side. “Who did this? Who made this piece of clothing? I want names and addresses.” “Ethel Morris,” I state, my fist raised to the air for justice. “She is the owner of Granny’s Garments. That old cotton-haired mistress conned me. She took my money and gave me a product that’s not even worth looking at. Not to mention, she wasted some of my Mulberry silk fabric. Oh Daddy, what am I to do?” My breathing is heavy, and I can feel a spell coming on. “I feel faint.” “Pocket, tend to my daughter. I need to have a conversation with Ethel Morris. Don’t worry, angel puss, Daddy will take care of this. In the meantime, rely on Pope Francis for strength.” “Where is he?” I ask, looking around. “Popey!” Down the hall, the clang of Popey’s nametag against his collar rings out as he trots toward me, a look of sainthood on his face. Instantly I start to relax from his presence. Jumping up on the chaise with me, he presses his paws against my heart and stares me in the eyes, his energy filtering from his little doggy paws straight into the center of my displeasure. We stare at each other for a couple good minutes and I know right then and there, he’s saying a prayer for me, it’s written all over his face. When he pulls away, I say, “Amen” and then hug that little white furball to my chest.
“Such a blessing.” My dad smiles down at me and then takes off. Calling over his shoulder, he says, “I will seek revenge for you, angel puss. You have my word on it.” The door slams behind him just as I turn to Pocket. “Please tell me I’m all packed for my journey today” “You’re all set. Mauve made sure to have everything ready before she left. I double-checked because I don’t trust her.” I nod. “Very good, Pocket.” Sighing, I squeeze Pope Francis and say, “Being a humanitarian is hard. I never thought Love for Lesbians was going to be so difficult.” “But look at the good you’re doing. Just think, when you introduce Mauve to the new love of her life, she’s not going to be so ornery anymore and then in return, she’s going to be so much nicer to you.” “It’s true, she’s lonely. You can tell by the way she doesn’t brush her hair.” “Unkempt people really are the lonely ones of the world.” Glancing over at Pocket, I take her in and say, “Imbecile, before you go around judging people, why don’t you make sure your fly is zipped. Honestly, I can’t take you anywhere.” Looking down at her pants, she blushes and then zips up quickly. “I wondered why things felt so breezy. I just thought it was being in the presence of our Lord in Grace.” My hand slams on the chaise. “How many times do I have to tell you?” I yell, utterly frustrated with her idiocies. “He is not Jesus, he is not God, and he is not the real Pope Francis. He’s a spiritual being with wisdom beyond his years.” Getting out of the chaise, I storm off to the kitchen to grab a blade of grass to gnaw on. Grass is a delightful mid-morning snack when my Tic Tacs wear off. “Listen up, Pocket. Normally, I would have Mauve make this phone call since she’s in charge of business, but given that we’re surprising her with a lesbian of her own, I need you to call our winner. It’s between Litter Box and Bread Box.” To catch you up, I gave all the lady applicants nicknames so I could remember who they are. Litter Box impressed me with her ability to name off clothing designers without skipping a beat, and she had a good pizza topping idea of poppy seeds, lemon Girl Scout cookies, and raspberries. I would be bringing that one up to Daddy. Bread Box, she was quite the competitor for Litter Box. She was well versed in nail polish and owns a truck. Everyone likes a person with a truck, but her pizza topping idea was subpar at best. I know I’m supposed to be looking for someone of like interests with Mauve, but I’m pretty good at reading people, so I’m one hundred percent positive I know what I’m doing. “Oh, Bread Box I think is the winner.” Pocket claps to herself. “You are just a retched cow today,” I say in exasperation. “Do you not know how to read people at all? The obvious winner is Litter Box. She is educated in hairstyles, knows her way around a curling iron, and will be able to get Mauve to brush her godforsaken hair. And isn’t that the real goal here? To avoid dreadlocks at any cost?” Pocket nods in agreement. “You’re so right, Bellini.” “I know I am. That’s why I’m prettier than you.” Taking a bite from my blade of grass, I point at pocket and say mid chew, “Call Litter Box, let her know she’s won the pizza topping contest and invite her over here for when we get back from Corn-tucky. We have some matchmaking to finalize.”
Chapter Seventeen **PAISLEY** “If you are storing luggage in the overhead compartment, please be sure to maximize the space allotted for everyone. It’s going to be a full flight. Thank you.” How many times is the flight attendant going to say that? I feel bad for them, constantly having to repeat themselves over and over again, no one ever really listening. My phone beeps with a text message. Thankfully the cabin door hasn’t been shut yet so I’m free to use my electronics and personal devices. See, I listen. I’m in the middle seat—thank you, Bellini—and waiting for the window seat person to show up. My fingers are crossed that they are a no-show. The lady next to me has to be at least ninety, going on one hundred ten. She’s wearing sunglasses, you know, the ones that wrap around the entire head, blocking off any kind of possible light, and her flowered crochet sweater is not only sporting smiling daisies, but it’s also buttoned up wrong . . . and tucked into her Alfred Dunner elastic-waisted khaki pants. A part of me wants to hug her and see if she has any M&M’s in her pocket to share with me, and the other half wants to poke her to see if she’s still breathing. I look down at my phone to see a message from Reese. Just like a fourteen-year-old girl back in high school, my stomach flips in excitement. Reese: This hotel room is empty. Know of anyone who might want to share it with me? Knowing the lady next to me is probably as blind as a bat, I freely text him back without a worry of her reading my messages. Yes, you have to worry about those people, the ones looking over your shoulder, reading everything you type. I know this because I am one of those people. I learned my lesson once though when I was peeking at a man’s phone as he flipped through douchey pictures of himself, only to come across a naked selfie. Let’s just say bro was Italian and showing off his salad and macaroni. Paisley: Who’s this? I’ve always enjoyed being a ball-buster. Reese: Oh shit, is this not Jessica? My bad. Okay, maybe I’ve met my match. Paisley: For that, I guess I will be warming my own bed tonight.
Reese: So you can dish it but you can’t take it? I will file that under information I need to know. Paisley: Might be a good idea. Reese: Did you get the little package I left in your bag? Paisley: What? No. Reese: Check your backpack. Leaning forward, I reach for my backpack that rests under the seat in front of me and check the back pocket–the only one I didn’t use this morning since it has my laptop in it. Sure enough there is a drug store bag inside. Excitement courses through me as I open the bag to find a coloring book— construction trucks and planes—a package of twenty-four crayons and a package of Swedish Fish. He remembered I like to color: cue the girly melting. Damn it, my heart is beating a mile a minute from his gesture. Paisley: I want to kiss you so fucking hard right now. Reese: The feeling is mutual babe. Paisley: Trucks and planes? Am I not lady enough for princesses? Reese: Believe me, you’re all fucking woman. But the only girl coloring books I could find were Frozen. I think it’s time you write that letter. Paisley: Haha. Thank you for sparing me from another coloring of Olaf. I’ve made him every possible color by now. I’m not a traditionalist. Reese: I knew that from the moment I saw you. It’s why I like you so damn much. Seriously, this man is very quickly burying a hole in my heart. Paisley: Swedish Fish? Reese: A little sweet from your fish . . . Paisley: Cute but kind of lame attempt at explaining. Reese: Be happy you got them at all. I was tempted to stuff them in my own bag.
Paisley: Well, thank you. I love everything. Reese: When do you get here? I’ve been through enough interviews and promo ads for USA Swimming that I’m about to lose my mind. Thanks to Bellini, I’m on the earliest flight ever out of Los Angeles, and of course it wasn’t a direct flight. I got to stop in Denver. And even though Denver is a huge airport with a lot to do, it’s also a huge airport and therefore has delays. My flight is about two hours late. I had to call ahead to make sure Bellini’s room was prepared for her and blessed by a priest. The hotel manager was very kind. Bellini, on the other hand, was irritated I wouldn’t be there when she arrived. I held my tongue from lashing out at her, explaining I could be there if she’d let me travel in her private jet with her, like every other personal assistant. Paisley: You realize you have a big weekend right? Like you have to swim . . . Reese: Minor detail. Paisley: Are you ready? Reese: I’m always ready baby. It’s not my first rodeo. Paisley: Well it’s mine. I’m kind of a nervous wreck over here. I don’t know how you do it. Reese: I just think of your tits at the end of the pool, I try to race to them as quickly as possible. I snort and shake my head. Typical man. Paisley: You’re ridiculous. Reese: I’m really not. Have you seen your tits? Like actually looked at them? Well, I have, but only briefly. You haven’t given me clearly enough time with them, but from what I could observe in my short time, I not only deemed them the sexiest pair of tits I’ve ever come across, but they literally can make anyone have a boner. Paisley: Is that so? Reese: Let’s see. They’re pierced, round, perky and the perfect size for my hand. Yup, by far the best. “Excuse me, I’m sitting there,” someone calls out, pulling me away from my phone. Standing above the old lady is a petite, sun-kissed, honey-haired girl. Her hair is just below her
chin and framed in beach waves. Her eyes are a dark green and her makeup is beautifully on point, accentuating her features so they stand out but not offensively. “Ma’am, I’m in the window seat,” the girl says again to the old lady who hasn’t moved. She glances at me, looking for help so I poke the elderly woman, praying she isn’t dead. “Ma’am, are you okay?” She still doesn’t move or acknowledge either of us, so panic sets in. Holy shit, she’s dead. “Umm, I think I will get a flight attendant,” the girl says. “I will ring the call button.” The line of people looking to get in their seats is held up and due to the miniscule space planes offer, she is unable to step aside to allow others to pass. “What is the hold up?” an angry man waiting to board shouts. “Someone won’t take their seat,” another passenger offers. The poor girl bites her bottom lip and looks around for help. “Maybe you can climb over her?” I offer. “Let me see. Can you take my bag?” “Sure.” Grabbing her purse, I set it on her seat and then offer a hand. She’s mid-step over the elderly woman when the flight attendant makes her way toward us. “Is everything okay?” The girl retreats her foot back to the aisle way and says, “Um, this woman is not moving. We’re not sure if she’s responding.” “Oh dear.” The flight attendant takes a closer look, at the same time as I do. It doesn’t look like she’s breathing. “Have you spoken to her?” “We’ve asked her to move,” I whisper for some reason. “But she’s unresponsive.” “Okay, let me get the paramedics.” “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” the old lady says, springing up from her seat like a spry chicken, scaring the crap out of all of us. “Can’t an old lady find out more about this one’s pierced nipples from her boyfriend? Her texts were just starting to get good.” A couple men tuning into the conversation stare at my boobs making me feel incredibly selfconscious. “Ma’am, are you okay?” the flight attendant asks, some irritation in her voice. “Of course I’m fine. Now move it along so I can sit back down.” The girl at the window seat stares at her blankly. “Go on, chicky. I don’t have all day.” Scrambling, the girl scoots in and I squat on my seat, letting her in as well. We all take our seats as the waiting passengers grumble over the wait they had to endure. I duck my face away from them, avoiding eye contact and hiding my phone from the prying grandma next to me. “For what it’s worth, your boobs do look like they could be prime meat for any man,” she says before putting on obnoxious set of earphones over her head and pressing down the play button on her Walkman. “Oh my God,” I mumble to myself. “She seems like a fun companion,” the girl next to me says, talking out the side of her mouth. “Could be worse,” I whisper back, not sure if the lady is actually listening to a cassette player or if
she is pretending to. “Could be a smelly dude with flaky skin.” Shivering, the girl laughs. “So gross.” She sighs and looks out the window. “Here I am, sitting on a commercial flight when my boss is taking a private jet to Omaha. How is that fair?” Private jet? That seems too coincidental. “Your boss is taking a private jet to Omaha?” I ask. “So is mine.” “Why does this feel like a Parent Trap moment?” She laughs. “Should we both pull up a picture of our boss and show one another on the count of three?” “Could be a magical moment.” I laugh. “Let’s do it.” With a smile on my face, I search for a picture of Bellini on the Internet and wait for the girl to do the same. When she’s ready, I count down. “Three, two, one . . .” Flipping our phones to each other, we both display a picture of Bellini Chambers. Mine is of her holding Pope Francis on a sidewalk, an obvious paparazzi shot. The girl next to me picks a picture of Bellini with her mouth wide open, clearly screaming at another human being, most likely Pocket. Together, we laugh and grab each other ’s phones. “Man, I wish I pulled up this picture. Where did you find it?” “I always have it in my photo album, so when people ask who I work for, I can just show them the picture and instantly receive their condolences. It’s easier that way.” She holds out her hand. “I’m Melony, also known as Melon by the Satan’s Mistress. I’m her hair and makeup artist.” I laugh and take her hand in mine. “Paisley, aka Mauve, the assistant.” “Oh, it’s great to finally meet you.” Melony turns in her seat so she’s facing me. My phone dings in her hand and she looks down at it. “Oh, you got a text from Reese . . .” Her voice trails off and my heart drops to the floor. Her eyes widen as they look up at me. Shit! “I didn’t mean to look. I’m sorry.” Quickly we trade phones and I look down at the preview text. It reads clear as day. Reese: I can’t wait to fuck you once you get here. No, no, no. My heart beats rapidly against my ribcage; fear tickles the back of my neck as my entire body heats up into a state of pure panic. I’m speechless. There is no way to cover this up. It’s clearly Reese King texting me. There is no mistaking that. Not because he is in my phone as Reese King, but because in my phone, he’s Reese with a swimming Emoji next to his name. Doesn’t get more obvious than that. I can’t move. My body is frozen in place. Is this girl going to tell Bellini? She did call her Satan’s Mistress, but still, that didn’t mean she wasn’t loyal. Was Melony actually here to spy on me? Was Bellini aware of my situation with Reese? Did she not fall for my lesbian line? I feel like I can’t breathe. “It’s okay,” Melony says, resting her hand on mine. “What?” “I won’t say anything. Almost everyone in production knows their relationship is fake, so you don’t have to worry about me saying anything. Good for Reese actually. You’re hot.”
A nervous laugh escapes me. “I would say it’s not who you think it is, but it’s a little obvious, isn’t it?” “Pretty much. The Emoji kind of clued me in.” “I’m so embarrassed.” My face heats up, and I can’t help but start to sweat over the whole situation. “No one knows. It’s still new, like really new.” I want to bite my nails, fidget in my seat, bury my head in the smiling daisy sweater next to me. “Don’t worry.” Melony smiles. “I’m friends with Reese; clearly I am not with Bellini. Trust me, your secret is safe with me.” I can’t help but eye her skeptically. “Will this make you feel better?” She pulls up a text message on her phone, makes it out to Reese and types. ‘Guess who I’m sitting next to on the plane right now? I will give you one guess, someone who has your name listed in their phone as Reese. *swim Emoji*’ She keeps her phone open and says, “Just watch.” Within seconds, a text appears and we read it together. Reese: Hmm, one guess? I’m going to have to go with my girl, Paisley. Black hair, fantastic rack, eyes that will cut you in half with their beauty. Want to talk about stomachs doing somersaults, yeah, mine is trying to medal in gymnastics right now. Melony types back quickly. Melony: Ding, ding, ding. You’re a winner. Reese: What’s my prize? Please tell me it’s her. Melony: That’s not for me to decide. Satisfied, Melony says, “See, told you.” “What, is he telling everyone?” Once again I feel raw panic. Just as I’m about to text him, my phone beeps with a text. Reese: Don’t worry, Paisley. Melony is good people and won’t say a word. Wishing I had a little more privacy from prying eyes. I text him back. Paisley: How many people have you told? Reese: Just Hollis. He’s my best friend who is really close with Melony. Believe me, they are both trust worthy. This won’t get out. That’s easier said than done. I didn’t even tell my best friend, but that was also because he would
most likely disown me and then slaughter me in my sleep. An uneasy feeling creeps inside my belly, making the plane feel that much smaller. My breathing starts to become labored and I feel like a panic attack is coming on. “Hey, are you okay?” Melony asks, heavy concern in her voice. “I feel like,” I wave a hand in front of my face, “I can’t . . .” I don’t finish my sentence because my phone starts ringing in my hand. I look down to see Reese calling me. “Answer it,” Melony says. “We’re about to take off.” “They haven’t told us to turn our phones off yet, answer it.” “Yeah, answer it,” the old lady says. I knew she wasn’t listening to any music. Taking their advice, I press the green button. “Hello?” “Hey baby.” Reese’s voice instantly calms the heavy weight on my chest. “Listen, I don’t want you to worry about Hollis and Melony knowing. They will keep this a secret, I promise.” I nod my head, knowing he can’t see it but still needing the movement. “Okay.” “Are you scared?” “You know I am. You know what kind of stakes I’m facing here.” “I know, but no one is going to find out, and better yet, Melony will be able to cover for you since she is your roommate in Omaha. We can use this to our advantage.” “He’s right.” Melony winks at me, clearly able to hear our conversation. Stupid loud phones. “Are we okay?” he asks, worry in his voice. “We’re good,” I whisper into the phone. “Okay, well, I’ll let you go. Have a safe flight, text me when you land.” “All right, bye.” I hang up and stare at my phone for a couple seconds, wondering if this is going to trip up my plans. Maybe I should just end this before it gets worse—before it blows up in my face —because by the looks of it, it probably will. “Don’t overthink it,” Melony says, reading my thoughts. “Hey, how about you get to know me a little more? That will put you at ease. I’m telling you, I’ve been hoping for a girl like you to join the team. I need an ally. I think Pocket has it out for me.” I laugh at that. “I think Pocket has it out for anyone who even looks at Princess Asshole.” “You got that right.” I spend the rest of the flight talking to Melony, comparing horror stories, and learning that we have a lot in common. I wonder if this girl was meant to be my soul sister. Reese is right; she’s very trustworthy, and not just because she says all the right things, but because there’s something about her eyes that says she doesn’t hand out trust very easily. I can appreciate that.
Chapter Eighteen **REESE** “I have an interview lined up for you after your races with ESPN. They want to do an exposé on you and your journey from your first Olympics when you were sixteen to now and the changes you’ve seen in the sport along the way.” I don’t absorb a word Ashley says to me over the phone. Something about an interview, honestly, I don’t give a fuck. It’s late, Paisley’s plane landed hours ago, and I’ve only received one text from her, letting me know she landed. Ever since then, radio silence. “And don’t forget, you have a photo opportunity with Bellini before the meet. Production will be there. I was able to gain clearance through USA Swimming as long as we offer them footage.” “Mmm-hmm,” I respond. I have the call on loud speaker so I’m able to flip through my phone while I talk to her. “Are you even paying attention to me right now?” “I am. Interviews and photo opp with Bellini. Check.” “Can you please look interested in the girl tomorrow? If we are going to pull off this fake relationship, you have to do more than just stand next to her.” Would punching her in the throat count as doing more? In my head, it seems like a legitimate way to act in a fake relationship. Even though it is a fucking fantastic idea in my head, I know it won’t go over well, not just with production, but with Bellini. Pretty sure she would have her priest dog do some kind of hex on me. Not that priests can do those things, but who knows when it comes to something that belongs to Bellini? “Yeah, sure.” “Maybe kiss for the camera.” Now I’m fucking paying attention. “Not going to happen,” I curtly tell her. Not only do I never want to press my lips against her evil skin, but I don’t want to do that to Paisley. The girl is on the rocks as it is when it comes to me, and she’s putting a lot on the line, so I don’t want make her feel bad. “You’re going to have to do it at some point.” “Actually I’m not,” I answer back, looking through my text messages to see if I missed anything from Paisley. Still nothing. “Nowhere in my contract does it say that I have to kiss her.” “It’s all about being in a relationship. You should try it sometime, it’s actually quite fun.” I want to shout at her and tell her that I am trying it, and all it’s caused me today is an overwhelming sense of nausea. Why the fuck hasn’t she text me back? Trying to be cool, I only sent her about a half dozen text messages and held back from calling her. I didn’t want to look like a psycho. But damn, I needed my Paisley fix. I needed to make sure that what happened on the plane wasn’t going to deter her from what we’ve started to develop. “I’m good,” I reply to Ashley just as there is a knock on my door. My entire body perks up with the hope that Paisley might be on the other side of the door. “Hey, got to go. Email Paisley and me
anything else you need me to know. Have a good night.” I hang up, spring from the bed, and quickly check myself in the mirror. Semi-pleased with what I’m working with, I fling the door open to see Bellini standing on the other side. Christ. “What’s up, Bellini?” “Can I come in?” She’s whining. I fucking hate when she whines. “It’s not a good time. I have to wake up early for the meet tomorrow. What’s up?” “I feel like we never talk.” “That’s because we’re not in a real relationship,” I harshly whisper to her, wishing she would leave immediately. I don’t need her seeing Paisley near my room—that’s if she ever decides to show up. “We could be.” She runs her fingers over mine that are gripping onto the door jamb. As fast as I can, I remove them from touching distance. “Never going to happen, Bellini. We talked about this. Now unless you have something important to tell me that deals with the show, I’m going to have to say good night.” “Fine.” She stomps her foot on the ground, hands at her side. “Just treat me like crap, I don’t care.” “Good to know. Have a good night.” I shut the door on her just as I hear her say, “Mauve, what are you doing up here?” Mauve? Oh shit. Flinging the door back open, I see Paisley, wide eyes and startled by the everpressing Bellini. “Finally,” I say with a stern tone. “Christ, Mauve, how long does it take you to answer a simple call?” Bellini looks between the two of us and then points at Paisley. “You called her up here?” “Who else could I send out to the store to pick me up my essentials as well as press my warm-ups for me for tomorrow? But I’ve been calling her up here for hours now. What took you so damn long?” “Oh that was me,” Bellini answers flippantly. “I had her color coordinate my wardrobe, shine my shoes, and tend to Pope Francis while I bathed for an hour. If I knew you were needing her assistance, I would have sent her sooner.” Bellini then turns to Paisley. “Mauve, it’s called multitasking. Try it. We celebrities don’t have time to wait for your scribbled-up body to make the rounds. If you’re going to keep this job, then you have to be efficient, not be some wandering Neanderthal, dragging your knuckles along the ground. Do I make myself clear?” “Yes,” Paisley bites out, obviously not happy. “Good.” Turning back to me, Bellini taps my cheek with her hand and says, “Get a good night’s sleep, handsome. I’ll be thinking about you all night.” With zero regard for others, Bellini blows by Paisley, knocking her shoulder and not bothering to apologize. Once out of sight, Paisley gives me the death glare, and I wonder if she’s actually going to step foot in my room. Instead of playing the doe-eyed guy who shies away from her anger, I egg her on, wanting her to take it out on me. “Get in my room,” I say sternly. “Excuse me?” One of her eyebrows shoots up in question. “You heard me, get in my room and don’t make me say it again.”
Her posture wavers from retreating to joining me, and I just pray she chooses the latter. I’ve been waiting—quite impatiently—for her to arrive so I can get lost in her body. With a stern look in her eyes, she stomps into my room. “You have some nerve.” My door can’t shut fast enough. It swings quickly into place, causing the walls to rattle, and Paisley’s eyes to widen in shock. Before she can get out another word, I cup her face with one of my hands while the other pushes her against the wall of the entryway of my room. Her breath catches in her chest from surprise right before my lips capture hers with a greedy need. Right when I’m settling in, tasting every inch of her mouth, she shoves me away, extending her arms between us but not putting much distance between our faces. I glance down at the space she put between us, and then back up at her. “What do you think you’re doing?” Her breathing is a little ragged and even though she is calling a timeout, I can still see the lust in her eyes. “Why are you acting like some alpha male plucked straight from a romance novel?” “Acting like?” I give her a quizzical lift to my brow. “Baby, I’m a one-hundred-percent born and bred alpha male. It’s about time you accept that.” Swiftly, I scoop her up in my arms and bring her over to my king-sized bed. I lay her down and don’t give her time to try to change her mind of going anywhere. With both my hands, I grab the hem of my shirt and slowly lift it over my head, giving her a show, knowing full well my sweats are resting very low on my hips. I toss my shirt to the side and look down at her. Her lips are recently moistened, her eyes are glued to my chest, and she is taking me in with a devious glare to her eyes. I place my knee between her legs and move over her body, pressing her into the mattress. Her hair fans out behind her, filling the bed with her black waves. “I didn’t think I could wait any longer for you to show up tonight,” I admit, working my hand under her shirt until she’s forced to take it off. To my delight, she is wearing a red lace bra that pushes her breasts up to mouth-watering proportions. Her stomach is taut underneath my hand, flexing under my movements, wavering with nerves as I move south to undo her jean shorts. “And why’s that?” she asks, her voice breathless. Removing her shorts reveals a matching thong. I pull away and rub my jaw as I say, “Because I’m in desperate need to fuck you until the early morning light.” My fingers graze the waistband of the thong, loving the way her skin looks with the vibrant color. “Fuck, Paisley. You’re so damn sexy.” A devastating grin crosses her face as she sits up and then stands in front of me. My hands instinctively fall to her ass where I caress her bare skin, loving the achingly beautiful curves of her petite body. Grabbing my hands from behind her, she guides me over to a chair and forces me to sit. From the bed, she plays on my phone until music starts to play. A slow, seductive melody plays through the speakers. To amplify the sound, she places my phone in a cup so the music reverberates off the glass. Her body sways back and forth while she gathers her hair and brings it over her shoulder. Leaning forward, she places both hands on my shoulders and straddles my waist, her breasts coming close to eye level. I’m already hard as fuck so when her hips start grinding on me, I know she can feel my arousal.
There is no question there. Methodically, so her nails scrape along my skin. She runs her hands to the back of my neck where she holds on tightly, moving slowly against my hips. My hands fall to her ass, loving the way her movements make my hands rise and fall on her skin, creating an erotic caress. Even though she set her hair to one side, it doesn’t stay contained with the sway of her head. Instead, it tickles along my arm and rests over her shoulder, cascading down like a midnight waterfall. Not able to contain my eagerness, I release one hand from her ass and glide it up her back until I reach the clasp of her bra. With precision, I release the clasp, springing her bra open. She doesn’t even take a second to think about it, she slides the straps down until they are completely off her, revealing her full breasts. “Christ,” I murmur, letting her bring them closer to my head where I take one into my mouth. I play with the barbell of her nipple while she writhes on my lap, still gripping to the back of my head. “You make me so fucking hard, Paisley.” Like a wave in the ocean, her body moves against mine—grinding, thrusting—enticing me until I don’t think I can take it anymore. I try to take in her other nipple but she stops me and pulls away, leaving my lap aroused and ready. Smiling, she stands in front of me and pulls down her thong, dropping it to the floor and exposing her naked body completely to me. It takes everything in me not to tackle her to the floor and fuck her right there on the spot. She leans forward, her breasts swaying with her movements and pulls on the waistband of my shorts. Knowing exactly where she wants them, I help her remove them, exposing my sprung cock. Lucky for me, I wasn’t wearing any underwear. Turning in place, she sits down on my lap so her back is to my chest. Her hand wanders between our legs where she grips my cock, lifts up, and then inserts me inside her tight, wet pussy. “Fuuuuck,” I breathe out. She grips the back of my neck from behind her as an anchor and starts to work her hips up and down on my length. Needing to watch the way her form works against mine, I move my head forward so I’m looking over her shoulder directly at her rocking body. Moving my hands from her hips, I gradually glide them up her stomach. I love how her breathing picks up with every inch north. I grip her breasts, rolling her nipple rings in between my fingers. I kiss her shoulder, needing more contact with her, wishing her lips were on mine, our tongues tangled together. “Yes,” she hums, grinding her hips faster against mine. “Harder, Reese. Pinch my nipples harder.” Happy to do what my girl needs, I squeeze the nubs harder, tearing a crazed moan out of her. The grip on the back of my neck becomes tighter, and her head turns to the side just enough that my lips find hers. She’s riding me, like a fucking champ, her tongue is diving into my mouth frantically searching for release. My hands continue to assault her nipples, the feel of them driving me harder and closer to orgasm. The slap of our bodies echo in the room, and I can’t think of anything more erotic than Paisley’s body thrusting against mine, bringing us both to the point of pleasure. “Oh God,” she moans into my mouth. Her hips begin to move even faster. Her lips take a break as her breathing becomes more labored. Her core tightens around me, gripping me like a motherfucking vise, squeezing me to the point that my balls draw in. My entire
body turns numb, and there is only one source of feeling in my body: where I’m connected to Paisley. Leaning forward, she places her hands on the armrests and rocks harder on my cock, screaming my name. “Reese, yes, God, yes.” My hands hold on to her hips, guiding them along, and I feel the moment when she loses all control. Her head falls back—her hair tickling my stomach—and she calls out to whoever wants to fucking listen that she’s coming. Her pussy clenches me, skyrocketing me into another world where all I can do is feel. A pure, guttural groan pops out of me as I come inside her, pump after pump until I ride every last drop out of me. Leaning back in the chair, I bring my hand to my head in disbelief and satisfaction. How is it this fucking good with someone I’m still trying to get to know? How can I feel so fucking obsessed with another human that all I want to do is spend every waking hour inside her? Turning on my lap, she smiles down at me and kisses my lips softly, gently cupping my face. “I love your dick.” I can’t help but laugh. “Well, I sure as hell hope so.” Wanting to spend some quiet time with her before I spread her legs again and fuck her senseless, me being in charge this time, I pick her up and take her to the bed where we lie down and face each other. Still naked, we stare into each other ’s eyes, our hands clasped up by our pillows. “Are you excited about tomorrow?” she asks, running her fingers along the stubble of my jaw. “I am. I’m ready. I had a good swim when I got here so I feel blasted and ready to go.” Studying my beard, she says, “Is this all going to be shaved tomorrow?” “Yup, right before the meet. Why, are you going to miss it?” “I am,” she answers honestly. “It’s really sexy on you.” A shy smile pops up on her face. “Want to know something embarrassing?” Scooting closer and placing my hand on her waist, I say, “You take pictures of my cock while I sleep, and you’ve started a scrapbook. No need to be embarrassed, baby. All you have to do is ask, you’re more than welcome to take pictures of my penis.” “Never mind.” She rolls her eyes and tries to turn away, but I stop her and pepper her face with kisses. “Tell me what’s embarrassing.” She bites the corner of her mouth and looks up at me through her eyelashes. The fucking minx is killing me. I can feel myself becoming hard again. “I might have done some Internet stalking of you last night.” “Is that right?” I ask, perking up. “What did you find?” “A lot of half-naked pictures of you.” “Yeah? Any tickle your fancy? Give yourself a little diddle?” “Ew.” She slaps my chest. “No!” I squeeze her side. “Come on, don’t lie to me. We should always be honest with each other. How many times did you pleasure yourself to my picture?” “None,” she states, offended. “You mean twenty, right?”
“No, I mean none.” She laughs. “And why not?” A wicked grin spreads across her face. “Because, I was already worn out from touching myself while looking at pictures of Bodi Banks.” Ouch. Double fucking ouch. Bodi Banks, my one and only rival in the pool and in the looks department. “Damn.” I pull away, faking extreme and utter betrayal. “That hurts, Paisley. I think you should probably go back to your hotel room.” “Okay.” She shrugs her shoulders, calling my bluff, and starts moving off the bed. “Don’t even fucking think about it.” I stop her and bring her back into my chest as she giggles. I press my lips to her ear and speak to her in a gruff tone. “Now tell me, Paisley, whose pictures were you looking at?” “Bodi’s.” She laughs some more when I tickle her side. “Whose?” She’s out of breath as she answers. “Bodi. He’s so fine.” “That’s fucking it.” I roll on top of her and pin her hands over her head with one of mine. Her chest heaves. I lower my head to her nipple and bite down, just hard enough to get her attention. “Whose picture were you looking at?” Her hips rub against my erection but I pull away, making her pout. Normally, I don’t find a pouting woman attractive, especially Bellini but for some reason, Paisley’s pout makes me want to pull on her bottom lip with my teeth. “Don’t get upset with me, you’re the one causing trouble.” Lowering one of her arms, she rubs my jaw again in a smooth caress. I then rest my weight on her. I frame her face with my arms, setting up on my elbows. “Do you want to know why I was stalking you?” I think about it for a second and answer, “Because you like to stare at human perfection?” She rolls her eyes, making me chuckle. “No, because I wanted to see what you looked like without your beard. I wanted to prepare myself.” “Oh yeah? And what did you think?” I kiss her nose lightly. Her eyes close from the affection and then open, sparkling at me. “I thought you looked hot. Makes me wonder what you would feel like between my legs.” I can’t even try to hide my thrilled smile. “All right.” I nod. “So, I have to ask. Am I hotter with or without the beard?” “What would you do if I said without?” “Never grow it out again,” I answer honestly. “Well, good thing I’m a rugged beard kind of girl.” “Is that so? Your boyfriend Bodi Banks doesn’t have a beard.” “He doesn’t need one. He’s just the epitome of sex, so he doesn’t need little tricks like a full-grown beard to make him look sexy.”
I know we’re joking, but a part of me wants to rip Bodi’s dick off right about now. “You’re about two seconds from getting spanked,” I warn. “Is that supposed to be a threat?” “We’ll just have to find out, won’t we?” Quickly, before she can move out of the way, I roll her over and pin her against the bed. She’s laughing . . . that’s until my hand falls with a slap across her ass, quieting her before a low, erotic moan is heard. My dick grows to exponential length. Out of curiosity, I slip my hand between her legs and press my fingers against her tight hole. I glide right in from her arousal. “Fucking hell, baby. Did that turn you on?” Her hips move against my hand. “More than you know,” she whispers. Shit. This woman is going to be the death of me.
Chapter Nineteen **PAISLEY** I feel like I’m going to throw up. Reese left this morning, after thoroughly exploring my body with his tongue . . . with a giant smile on his face and more confidence than I’ve ever seen. He wasn’t at all nervous, not even a tiny bit. But here I am, about to walk into CenturyLink Center in Omaha, sweating profusely and with a pile of nerves in my stomach. This is his last chance at the gold, and this is only the trials. I don’t follow swimming. I know, shame on me. I should at least for the bare-chested men prancing around in spandex, that’s an added bonus. With my lack of knowledge, I’m unsure who the top contenders are and if Reese has a definite chance of making it or if he’s going to slip in by the skin of his teeth . . . or should I say fingertips? Dressed in white shorts, red Converse, and a blue USA shirt, I clench my purse at my side and walk to the venue. The steel and glass structure of the CenturyLink Center is quite impressive, standing at an extraordinary height, almost intimidating. From the outside, you can tell this is a venue where dreams are made, and where dreams are crushed. My goal is to find Bellini and Reese but the media room is deep in the depths of the building, causing me to flash my badge to everyone who asks just to get to where Bellini is interviewing with Reese. Last night, Reese was irritated with his commitment to show up with Bellini today. He felt cheap, like a sellout, and hated every aspect of it. I wasn’t going to tell him that he was a sellout. I didn’t think it would go over well. I understand his reasoning for signing; he was preparing for life after the pool. Luckily, I wasn’t needed right away so I slept in while Reese prepared for the day. He left before I even tried to unglue my eyes. He placed a chaste kiss on my cheek and left me a note on the bedside. Good morning, baby. Can’t wait for you to watch me secure a spot on the team today. I plan on having multiple celebratory fucks with you tonight so make sure you eat some protein today. Your tits will be pictured in my head as my end goal, first to the wall means first to your sexy-as-fuck nipples. xxxx--->o (That’s me kissing you and then fucking your hole. You’re welcome) - R Not the most eloquent man, but it sure as hell got me excited for tonight. Lucky me. I didn’t have to get to the venue early, but unfortunately, Melony did, being the one who had to do Bellini’s hair and makeup for the event. Poor girl. Aww. To live the rich life where you sit in a chair and everyone else does the hard work around you. On the plane, Melony shared that Bellini is the worst person to do hair and makeup for. Not because she won’t stop playing Candy Crush Saga on her phone, and not because she has to work around Pope Francis. No. Apparently, Miss Prim and
Proper is not quite the classy debutante she tries to portray herself as. Bellini has some serious morning gas. When I heard that, I could not stop giggling. I walk down a narrow hallway, full of bustling people with many jobs to do. Shoulders bump into mine, people cut me off, and camera flashes go off in my eyes, shooting off test shots. From a distance, I can see a white backdrop and a plethora of media correspondents huddled around, including Bellini’s camera crew. Bingo! I approach the set-up but am quickly stopped by a large man with no hair but enough tattoos on his head to make up for the cue-ball look. “Ma’am, only authorized personnel are allowed.” I flash him my badge and start to walk past him but he stops me again. “That doesn’t grant you access into this room.” “What?” I say, looking down at my badge. “I’m Bellini Chambers’s personal assistant. I’m pretty sure that should grant me access to anything.” “Not in here it doesn’t.” “Are you kidding me?” I say, a little frustrated. This is all I need, to not be allowed into the room where Bellini will call out for a Tic Tac and then fire me because I’m not around to toss one in her mouth like a trained seal—by no fault of my own of course. “No, you don’t have the media box checked on your pass.” “But it says all access. To me, that means all access . . . to everything, including the media room.” “But the box isn’t checked.” “But it says ALL ACCESS.” I raise my voice in frustration. Right before me, I swear he grows two inches taller as he puffs his chest out. He is actually quite intimidating. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to step aside.” Not backing down, I puff my chest as well, hands on hips and say, “Or what?” “Or I will strip you of your badge and ask security to escort you outside so you miss the entire meet.” “You can’t do that.” Giving me a smarmy look, he brings the walkie-talkie that’s attached to his belt up to his mouth and presses down on the button. “She’s with me.” Behind the man stands Reese with a stern look on his face. “Mr. King. I’m sorry but she doesn’t have the media box checked on her badge.” Being the amazing man that Reese is, he says, “Thank you for doing your job properly, sir, but I assure you, Miss Maccaro is with Bellini and me. Please let her by so she can do her job, and also punch the hole on the media box so she won’t run into another problem in the future.” “Yes, sir,” the security man says, quickly grabbing my badge and punching a hole in it and then letting me by. Reese puts his hand on my lower back and guides me through the crowd, talking closely to my ear. “You look fucking adorable in that shirt, baby.” “Reese . . .” I warn, garnering a laugh from him. The last thing I need is for some reporter to catch on to our relationship. One slip up and it will be all over the news.
We step up to the backdrop where Melony is primping Bellini. Her ensemble for today: a pink sweater set, white cami underneath, a short khaki skirt, and her signature pearls. Where’s her American spirit? She looks like she’s about to get drunk at a tennis match rather than attend a swim meet. “Ugh, look who decided to roll out of bed and join us. You could have at least brushed your hair. What did I tell you about that?” Bellini says with a roll of her eyes. For the record, I brush my hair, every day, multiple times a day. She then points to her mouth with her finger and looks at me. “Hey, fabric pattern, why don’t you pop a Tic Tac in my mouth, I’m starving.” I’ve become accustomed to carrying around Tic Tacs for Bellini. In fact, the rattle in my purse has a new norm, practically my cadence to follow while walking down the street. When I don’t hear the little sugar tablets jingling, I get slightly freaked out now. This is what my life has become: Tic Taccarrying donkey. Mumbling to myself about her trying to actually eat something for breakfast like every other normal person instead of relying on sugarcoated droplets to replenish her, I fish out the pack in my purse, trying not to think about how I spent a decent amount of time on my hair this morning. I tamed the waves and made it piecey and sleek. In my opinion, it looks really good. “Here,” I say, holding the pack out to Bellini who instantly sneers at me. “Do I look like I want to get the orange coating on my fingers? Place it in my mouth, for heaven’s sake, Mauve. Do your job.” Assistant sound technician to assistant to reality star dickhead who specializes in feeding said dickhead Tic Tacs. Splendid. How the mighty can fall. Grinding my teeth, I place one on her expectant tongue, trying to avoid touching the saliva-coated muscle sticking out at me. Knowing her, I would contract some kind of disease that transformed me into a massive, insult-flinging, sweater-set-wearing slut bag. “Melon, what the ever-loving hell are you trying to do? Pull out my hair?” Bellini’s hand grips the back of her head. From behind, Melony winks at me, and I have to turn around to avoid showing the smile that crosses my face. I really like that girl. “Where is Pope Francis? Pocket,” Bellini screams, causing the entire room to silence. “I need him to bless me before this interview. Pocket!” I glance over at Reese who doesn’t seem affected by Bellini’s over-the-top behavior. How he puts up with it is beyond me, or how he can even possibly stand to have his name attached to hers is crazy. “Here he is,” Pocket screeches, holding out Pope Francis and running toward Bellini. How the hell did she get access into this room and I didn’t? She probably rolled in with Bellini, her lips stuck to her ass, and security didn’t even realize. “God! Pocket, get away from me, you’re breathing like a cow.” “I did just sprint in here.” Bellini pushes her to the side. “Yes, we can all see that from the out-of-shape platypus look you have on your face. Gah, you’re really disgusting right now. Is that sweat on your brow?” “It might be?” Pocket touches her forehead. “It was a long run from outside to in here.” “Security,” Bellini calls out. “Please remove the sweaty, fowl-smelling stork standing next to me. Stick her up in the stands, downwind from others.”
“Yes, ma’am.” And just like that, Pocket is escorted out of the interview room without one ounce of remorse from Bellini’s pursed, devil-blessed lips. Christ, this woman is the worst. “Tic Tac!” She points to her mouth again, calling out to me. And this is what my life has become: popping Tic Tacs into the mouth of a heinous human being. Yup, so proud of myself right about now. “All right, let’s get these interviews done, Reese has to prepare himself. Bellini, please step up next to Reese.” Ashley, Reese’s publicist is giving him a pep talk off to the side, Jasper is directing everyone in position, and Bellini speaks closely to Pope Francis, lifting his ear so she’s speaking directly into it. “Amen,” Bellini says, finishing up her pep talk. I REALLY want to know what she just said to him. And to be that dog, who quite literally is a saint for putting up with his owner. If only I could read his mind, I wonder what he would say. Melony stands next to me, bumping me with her side. “Long night last night?” She wiggles her eyebrows and I can’t help the smile that pops up. “No,” I answer honestly. “Hard and fast, and then a good night’s sleep.” “Oh damn.” She fans herself. “I bet he’s really good in bed.” She whispers so our conversation can only be heard between us. Jasper sets up Bellini and Reese, and we watch over them. “You have no idea.” I refrain the pathetic sigh of infatuation from releasing. “Are you going to miss the beard?” I think about how I stroked it last night, let it prickle across my fingertips, loving the way it roughened up my soft hands. Hell yes, I’m going to miss the beard. It makes him look dark and mysterious, sexy and rugged. Lucky for me though, he’s all man and will have it back in no time. “I will, but he’s told me it grows back quickly so I won’t have to miss it for too long.” “That’s a good thing.” Together we watch Reese and Bellini interact. Of course Bellini is all over Reese, holding his hand, leaning into him with Pope Francis in her other arm, looking up at him with affection in her eyes. Does she really like him? I find it quite impossible for her to like anyone other than herself. I can only think of her as asexual. For her to have any feelings for another human being seems an insurmountable challenge. Then I take in Reese: he’s holding her hand right back; he’s smiling down at her, laughing with her and even . . . kissing the side of her head. My heart erupts in my chest the moment his lips connect with her temple. I know they’re supposed to have a fake relationship but it never dawned on me that he would have to be physically affectionate with her. I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience as they sit down in a chair together—Reese on the chair, Bellini in his lap, and Pope Francis resting in her arm. Reese encases her with his strength, his arm wrapped around her, his hand on her thigh and his head resting on her shoulder. She snuggles into him and he does the same. The media practically salivates over the scene in front of them while I turn away, physically nauseated. “It’s all an act,” Melony whispers into my ear, sensing my aversion to the scene in front of me.
I know she’s right, but I still can’t help but feel a little betrayed. The way he looks at her, it seems all too familiar. I grip Melony’s arm and say, “I need to step into the hallway. Text me when it’s done or if Bellini needs anything. I will meet you up in the stands.” “Paisley, it’s nothing.” “I know.” I nod my head, wondering why Melony is defending Reese so fervently. With a quick squeeze to her arm, I take off past the snarly security man and into the hallway where staff continues to prepare for the event. I lean my head against the wall and try to clear my mind. You knew this was going to happen. You were going to have to watch them together, knowing fully well that it’s fake. But why did it seem so real? Images of Reese hovering over me, stroking my hair sweetly float through my mind. He was so genuine, so sweet, so . . . loving. He can’t possibly be playing me, right? Shit. I play with the ends of my hair and stare at the ground, wondering if this is right to pursue. I would have to put up with a full season of this—and who knows, maybe two seasons—of watching Reese and Bellini act like a couple, be all cutesy together, as if they were actually in love. The mere thought of it makes me sick to my stomach. My mind wanders to all different scenarios just as someone grabs my upper arm and starts escorting me down the hall. Shocked, I glance up to see Reese guiding me past everyone and into a private room in which he shuts and presses me up against the door. “What are you doing?” I hiss, hoping no one saw him take me in here. He presses his hands against the door, bracketing my head and bringing his lips inches from mine. “I’m showing you who I belong to.” Before I can react, his lips are on mine, searing me with his heat, prying my mouth open with his tongue. Instinctively my hands fall to the back of his neck, pulling him in closer, getting lost in his kisses and the way his tongue tangles with mine; the distinct cologne he wears envelops me every time I’m around him. His hips move against mine, pressing me farther into the door, his strong arms wrap around me and pull me closer. Every inch of his body is tangled with mine. I feel safe, adored, and I can’t help but sigh against him, loving the way it feels to be pressed against his hard, defined body. I run my hands into the curls of his hair and pull on them slightly, loving the way I can make him groan so easily. Stepping away, he presses his forehead against mine and speaks softly. “Please don’t ever think I want her over you or that I even want her near me for that matter.” “I didn’t—” He cuts me off with a kiss. “Paisley, I saw the way your face fell flat when she was sitting on my lap. I’m not an idiot. I know this is hard for you, but you just have to hang in there. These spotlights are few and far between. It’s rare I spend time with her. Can you understand that?” Being in the business, I know how it works, so of course I can understand it, but that doesn’t mean I like it. “Yeah, I can.”
“Good.” He kisses my nose and pulls away. “Now, I have a race to win. You’re going to be watching me, right? “Wouldn’t miss it.” I smile up at him, stroking his beard one last time. “I guess you have to go shave.” “It will be back, baby. I promise. I will be scratching up your inner thighs soon enough.” I blush from his admission. He then lifts my arm and pushes the folded up sleeve of my T-shirt down, exposing my Rocky tattoo. He runs his thumb across the phrase and then kisses it gently. I look him in the eyes and smile. “You got this, Reese.” “I know I do. Catch you after, baby.” One more quick kiss and then he’s gone, out the door before I can wish him good luck. I take my time, counting to fifty before I leave just in case anyone followed us. It is time to get up to the stands to watch my man. *** The lights are dim, the stadium is buzzing, and the scoreboard ahead is playing a swimming montage of highlights from last Olympics. Every time Reese’s face and body flashes over the screen, my stomach dances with butterflies and thousands of women scream. I don’t blame them. All I want to do is jump up and down and clap. I love a sports montage. Flashes of sweaty people, unforgettable and very inspirational music all cinematically put together and tied harmoniously with a voiceover that gives you chills. Gets me every time. This time being no exception, especially since I know the man who is striving for his last go of it. Swimmer after swimmer appears on the screen, saying what the Olympics mean to them, what it would feel like to return to the big show, to compete for their country. Chills sprinkle across my skin, my stomach flips with nerves, and just when I feel like I’m going to burst in anticipation, Reese comes on screen, slowly lifting his head, showing off that beard of his. The crowd erupts and then his voice takes over the stadium reciting his favorite quote from Rocky. “Every champion was once a contender that refused to give up.” The cheers surrounding me are so loud, I almost can’t hear what he says next. “I refuse to give up until I hold a gold in my hand.” Energy and excited electricity bounces over the stadium as the montage fades out, laser beams start to race around the room, music builds up and the first race is about to begin. The announcers take over, working the crowd, pumping everyone up even more. I’ve never in my life been a part of something so intense, so energetic, and I can’t help but get caught up in everyone’s excitement. “This is so cool,” Melony says, clapping her hands with everyone else. I have to agree with her. I turn to Bellini to see her excitement, only to find the priss sitting in her seat, holding Pope Francis who is wearing earmuffs, blocking out the loud sounds of the speaker. She has a bored look on her face and it almost seems like we’re torturing her by being here. I get that she is one of the worst humans to ever walk the planet, but can’t she be excited for Reese? They are co-stars after all, so she could show some enthusiasm. “Bellini, aren’t you excited?” I ask. Giving me the once-over, she curls her lip in disgust. “Contrary to what you might think, I don’t
like to hop up and down like some overly charged tween at a Justin Bieber concert. I prefer to hold my dignity.” “But it’s for Reese.” “Look around you, fool, he’s not even out there yet.” Once again, I’m rewarded with a disdainful once-over and a smirk appears on her face. “You know, Mauve, I’m quite parched. Bring me a drink. Fiji water in the bottle with a cup of ice. Tick tock, the clock is running.” She points to her wrist. I know exactly what she’s doing; she’s trying to ruin my experience. Fair enough, at least Reese’s race won’t be up for a bit, so I have some time to spare. I move to leave when Melony grips my arm. “Where are you going?” Keeping my voice low, I answer, “Bellini wants some water.” “You’re going to miss everything.” “Reese’s race isn’t for a while. I have some time.” “Well, hurry up.” She winks. “You don’t want to miss anything.” I didn’t need Melony telling me that. I give her a wink back and then take off to the concession area, knowing fully well they’re not going to have Fiji water, but thanks to my mastery of knowing Bellini’s demands, I keep an empty bottle in my purse at all times and just fill it up with whatever water I can find and then pour it for her. I would use tap water from the bathroom, but for some reason, the water always comes out murky, so it would be obvious it’s water from the tap. So, I head over to the concession stand and wait in line. From above, I can hear the announcers talking about the first race and introducing the swimmers. The energy in the stadium is contagious and even though it’s not one of Reese’s races, I still want to watch the other swimmers compete. I’ve heard bits and pieces from Reese about his other previous teammates, especially Bodi Banks. I want to see just how good they are. “Can I help you, miss?” the concession store worker asks. “Yes, one water please, the big one, and a cup with ice.” I pull out my wallet and use the credit card Jasper gave me. Luckily, I didn’t have to charge any of Bellini’s crazy demands to my own card. I would be about three hundred dollars in debt due to Tic Tacs and obscene Starbuck’s orders. “That will be five dollars and fifty cents.” Feeling like Tom Hanks in You’ve Got Mail when he hears the price of the books he’s buying, I shake my head and swipe the card. Concession stands should all go to hell for the price gouging they take part in. “Enjoy the meet.” “Thanks.” I nod at the worker and go in the bathroom where I can have a steady hand while I pour. There are TVs everywhere, even in the bathroom so when I set my purse on the counter, I watch the first race take place. The camera is panned out for an above-the-pool view, arms fly through the water until the line of swimmers hit the wall and float under water for a few seconds before resurfacing and disturbing the water once again. I can barely doggy paddle my way across a pool, so it’s insane to me that humans can move that fast through water. Wanting to get back into the stadium, I pull out the Fiji water bottle, uncap it and then do the same with the other, less fancy water, that still tastes equally the same. Don’t try to tell me they don’t. It’s water.
Funneling carefully, I pour the water in, making sure to fill it to just the right height that won’t throw Bellini off. Just a little bit more . . . “What are you doing?” Startled, I shake the water bottle, spilling contents all over my hand and on the counter. I turn to see Pocket standing against the wall, her arms crossed over her chest and a devious look in her eyes. Shit, I forgot she was quarantined from Bellini due to “sweating like a cow” or was it a gorilla of some kind? I can’t quite remember; Bellini’s insults can be rather erratic. Honestly, the girl smelled fine to me, I didn’t see what the big deal was. “Oh, hey there . . .” Do I call her Pocket? It just seems so demeaning to call her something other than her real name, but what the hell was her real name? Patricia? Polly? I couldn’t remember. So I went with something simple. “You. What’s going on?” I lean against the counter, striking a casual pose, trying not to look like I was just caught red-handed. “I’m wondering the same thing about you. Is that water for Bellini?” I glance down at the water bottle and then back up at her. I could lie, come up with some foreign reason as to why I’m putting water into this water bottle, or I could lie in a good way—if there really is one—where it makes it seem like I care about Bellini and looking out for her best interest, I choose the latter. “It is.” I nod. “She’s thirsty.” “Why are you putting the water in a Fiji bottle? You know she only likes Fiji water.” “Yup.” I nod some more and shrug. “They didn’t have any.” “I knew it!” Pocket cheers, obviously loving that she “caught” me. “You’re being deceitful. I’m going to make sure Bellini knows about this.” She starts to walk away when I call out to her. “No. You can’t.” In the matter of seconds, Pocket is in my face poking her finger into my shoulder and talking in a menacing tone. “Ever since you’ve started this stupid job you’ve been stepping on my toes. I was supposed to be her assistant but instead, she denied me the pleasure and had someone hire you. I’m just waiting for the moment where you screw up so I can take your place. This will throw her over the edge.” Pocket is someone I need on my side, pronto. That’s if I ever want to work in this industry again. “I’m so sorry,” I apologize, pulling her into a hug, catching us both off guard. “I didn’t know you were up for the position, if I did, I never would have taken it.” I pull away and grip her shoulders. “You are her best friend. I can’t imagine it being easy to work with your best friend. Your relationship would probably shift, I wonder if that’s why she didn’t hire you.” She ponders my reasoning. “Do you really think so?” “I do. It’s evident from how she’s reacting in the stands now.” “Why? What’s going on?” Pocket asks, seeming less likely to call me out, and more interested in how Bellini is feeling. “I think she’s pretty distraught over not having you by her side, but she’s too proud to admit it. You know how she is, super guarded, always protecting herself. I think she knows what she did to you was wrong and is now regretting it.” “I can see that.”
“Before I left, she was really looking to Pope Francis for strength.” Pocket agrees full force. “That dog is the reason she’s able to wake up in the morning and willing to help others.” There is a heavy sensation to roll my eyes but I hold back. “That’s why when I saw that they didn’t have Fiji water, I bought a regular one to refill the bottle I already have for her. I didn’t want to upset her any more than she already is. You can understand that, can’t you?” Pocket’s face twists in understanding and the once-nasty purse of her lips turns into a bright smile. “You know, you might be better for her than I thought. That’s some quick thinking.” “Thank you. It was a tough decision but if anything, I want to preserve the relationship between you and Bellini. I don’t ever want that to put that in jeopardy, that’s why I didn’t want to make the situation worse.” “Wow.” Pocket fans her eyes with both hands, shifting on her feet. From the TV monitor above, the next race is starting. I still have some time, but not a lot. “That is so sweet of you, Mauve.” Mauve . . . All right, so I guess we are calling each other by our demeaning names. Noted. “Well, it’s a bond that’s so pure, I can’t imagine it ever being ruined. It’s a relationship for the ages, kind of like . . .” What’s a famous relationship? Thelma and Louise? Ben Affleck and Matt Damon? Justin Timberlake and Jimmy Fallon? Taylor swift and Selena Gomez? “Like Pope Francis and his beige, diamond-encrusted cassock?” Poppet asks. I raise a quizzical eyebrow. “Does Pope Francis have a good relationship with his beige cassock?” I ask, perplexed from the correlation. “Very much so. It’s his favorite outfit, probably because it’s the first outfit Bellini made him. I think if he were to have a bro-mance, it would be with that cassock.” With my lips thinned in a what the hell? kind of way, I nod in agreement. “Sure then, like Pope Francis and his beige, diamond-encrusted cassock.” Pocket jumps up and down in glee. “Oh, what an honor to be compared to such a friendship. I think you’re right. Bellini and I are really two peas in a pod.” “You’re a lucky girl,” I say, hoping my sarcasm isn’t evident. Lifting the bottle up to her, I add, “Well I better get back to the stands. But just know, when I’m up there with her, she’s thinking about you the whole time.” “Thank you, Mauve. And don’t worry, we found you the perfect lesbian.” With that she pats me on the shoulder and heads out of the bathroom. They found me what? *** As there are many races in the same distance, Reese doesn’t pop out of the locker room until the end of the meet. It’s three days of racing but today’s race sets the bar for the rest of the meet for him. I wait in anticipation as the swimmers start to emerge from the locker room. “This is it,” Melony whispers in my ear. The camera crew has set-up to capture Bellini’s reaction so now she’s on her feet next to us, petting Pope Francis and looking semi-interested. “For Christ’s sake, what is taking them so long? They have a pair of spandex to put on, it’s not like
they’re battling in a full suit of metal armor. Although, that would be vastly more interesting than watching these want to be mer-men flop around in the water.” Scratch that, she is not interested at all, just acting like it. “There he is,” Melony shouts, pointing to Reese who is wearing his swim cap, goggles on his head, and sporting his freshly shaven face. Even though I love the scruff, he is still handsome as ever. The lights are dim in the stadium but I can still see the outline of his body in his track suit, the dark scrawl of his tattoo peeking past the zipper, and the deep concentration in his hazel gaze. Just like that, I’m on edge. This is what it comes down to. He wins this race, he’s in. He’s going to Rio. He will compete for gold one last time. “In lane four, returning back to the pool, three time Olympic medalist, Reese King!” The entire stadium erupts in cheers as chills take over my body, tears threatening to fall. With a lift of his hand, he addresses the crowd while people chant his name and scream for him. Signs are scattered around the stadium proclaiming their love for Reese and his career. It’s overwhelming, and I’m getting emotional over the widespread love pouring out for him. Shaky hands rest on my lap as tunnel vision eclipses me, pulling me into one view and one view only; Reese King, standing tall next to his diving block, swinging his arms back and forth, smacking his muscles, waking them up for the swim that awaits him. Black and green goggles decorate the top of his black swim cap, black jammers cling to his legs, and his eyes are laser focused, zeroing in on the lane in front of him. Eight swimmers, one hundred meters, and the difficult butterfly stroke separate him from his first qualification to Rio. “Are they ever going to get in the pool?” Bellini asks. “Like they really all need an introduction. They are a bunch of grown-ass men who want to impersonate dolphins for a living.” She condescendingly slow claps. “Yes, let’s cheer about their commitment to masquerade as wet porpoises in crotch-hugging spandex. What is wrong with America?” Ignoring the ignorant bitch next to me, who I can only truly assume is asexual, I clasp my hands together and steeple my fingers at my chin, a faintness starting to consume me. Stepping up on the block, Reese bends over, stretches his arms and then gets in place as a hush falls over the crowd. From a megaphone, you hear “Take your mark,” and then a beep, causing all eight swimmers to shoot off their blocks and into the water. My heart plummets and I watch with anticipation. Reese is the second out of the dive, surfacing with a wide stroke, his upper half gliding over the water. In a blur of splashes, Reese’s tattoo shines through, letting me know where he is in the pool. I fixate on that tattoo as fans around me scream and cheer. To his right, Bodi Banks extends what only seems like a few inches further, beating Reese to the wall where they turn flip and head for the home stretch. Above the pool, the jumbotron shows the world record pace line and how close both Bodi and Reese are at catching it. “Come on, come on,” I whisper, my hands sweating together. “King is coming up on Banks, he has a lot to do if he wants to win this over Banks’ steady pace.” Announcers are annoying, let’s just get that out there. They do nothing but ruin the experience for viewers, filling their minds with unnecessary stressors.
They’re closing in, Reese and Bodi are battling for the lead, it’s too close to tell with the human eye, it will come down to who’s fingertips touch the wall first. “They’re neck and neck coming into the final meters, it looks like it might be Banks . . .” Both swimmers touch the wall and turn to the screen up above, as well as the entire stadium. Lane four lights up with the win and Reese’s name appears at the top just as the crowd erupts in cheers. Fisting the air, Reese celebrates, water spurting from his mouth. Bodi reaches over the lane and holds out his hand. Both men, pull each other in for a hug and then look back up at the screen displaying the time. He’s done it. “Ahhhhhh!” Melony screams next to me. “He won!” “Thanks for pointing out the obvious,” Bellini says. “Are we done here?” she asks Jasper who is taking notes on a clipboard in his hand. “The chlorine smell is making Pope Francis nauseous, and I can’t stand to see one more rounded ball poking through those ill-fitting swimsuits.” “We got the shot. Even when you clapped Pope Francis’s paws together.” “Oh good,” Bellini states, gathering her items. “He always wants to clap but can’t seem to work his paws the right way.” “We’re good here,” Jasper says to the crew. “Someone inform Pocket we’re leaving. I can’t even think about her right now, I will throw up. Let’s go, Mauve and Melon.” “Wait, what?” I ask, my feet cemented in place. “What don’t you understand? We’re leaving. Did you really think we would be staying for this entire weekend? No, not a chance. Book yourselves on standby flights, we’re heading home. I have some sorting of fabrics I must attend to and, Mauve, you have some assisting to do. So get up, I don’t pay hired help to sit on their asses all day long.” My heart sinks to the ground as I realize I won’t be staying for the rest of the races, or even the rest of the weekend. I should have known better than to think Bellini would stay the entire meet. I’m surprised she even showed up in the first place. On our way out, I shoot Reese a quick text message to let him know what’s going on and then hightail it back to the hotel where I spend a good two hours packing Bellini and trying to find a flight for Melony and me back home. “Oh, Mauve, please order ten cases of tomato juice to be sent here. Put it on the card.” “Aren’t you leaving?” I ask, confused by the insane request. “Yes, but I refuse to fly back with Pocket smelling like a used trash bag that she ate, puked up and the swallowed again.” “I don’t understand.” Rolling her eyes, Bellini hovers above me, a patronizing look in her eyes. “What don’t you understand? I’m going to dip Pocket in tomato juice to get that horrid smell off her. Honestly, Mauve, how you’ve been able to walk through life with half a brain cell is beyond me.” She storms off, Pope Francis trailing behind her. But tomato juice is for skunks . . . Pocket deserves a purple heart for the shit she has to put up with.
Chapter Twenty **REESE** “Feels great. I’m excited to join the team down in San Antonio in a few weeks,” I say into the phone, answering questions for my tenth interview today. I scan my watch. Six forty-nine, Paisley should have been here almost two hours ago. It’s bad enough she missed the rest of the swim meet because of Bellini and left me without a fuck and snuggle in Omaha, but I haven’t seen her since I’ve returned, and it’s driving me insane. “You’re only doing three events this year, a significant drop from your usual seven and six, was there a reasoning for that?” Yeah, it’s called getting fucking old. I am barely able to get out of bed these days, swimming prelims, semi-finals, and finals for seven events in a five-day span seems like hell to me. I talked it over with my coach and we came to the conclusion I’m just not built to do that many races anymore. My body can’t keep up with the young twenty-year-olds I will be swimming next to and I would rather not look like a dick trying to float around with them. So we’re stuck with my three best events, the 100M Butterfly, 400M Individual Medley, and the 100M Freestyle. Being as professional as possible, I answer, “My body isn’t what is used to be, Dave. Do I wish I could do all those events and keep up through the entire course of the week? Yes. Is it realistic? No. I would rather give up some races for some new blood to come in and give it a shot than hoard all of them. I’m comfortable and confident with my three races.” “Do you think this is the year you finally shed the nickname The Silver Stroke and capture a gold for the first time in your career?” That question never gets old, still makes me want to punch a hole through the wall. Do I like being known as the biggest choke artist in Olympic history? Not so much. I hold world records, world championships, and have built a brand and a name for myself by stroking my way through water. I’ve done everything a professional swimmer can accomplish, besides one thing . . . winning gold. No matter my other accomplishments, I feel like a complete failure from never being able to take home a gold, but instead I watch Bodi Banks stand in the middle podium, his arm propped over his chest, singing our national anthem. Silver is great and all, but what it comes down to is it’s the first loser. I don’t want to be remembered as the first loser for the rest of my life. “Who knows?” I answer as casually as possible. “I’m definitely gunning for it.” “Well, we wish you luck, Reese. We would love to see you rise from the ashes.” I grit my teeth and hold back the slew of curse words threatening to take over the interview. “Thank you,” I grit out and hang up as the interviewer finishes up the call, reading off my stats. What a prick. Tossing my phone on the coffee table I run my hand through my hair. This weekend in Omaha was a whirlwind, and I don’t even remember most of it. I do remember swimming some of the best races of my career. I felt like I was twenty again, gliding through the water with ease. Bodi Banks wasn’t
even a concern of mine this weekend. If I wasn’t pushing my early thirties, I would think about racing more events, but I’m smarter than that. After this Olympics, I plan on wrapping up this godforsaken show, getting out of it as quickly as possible, “breaking up” with Bellini, and cashing in on some promos, maybe go into some announcing, or start my own swim camp. Who knows? Starting a family would be on the top of my list, but I’ve just started seeing Paisley, and she’s significantly younger than me, just starting her career out of college. She still needs to find her way before settling down. Shit, is that something I would want? To settle down with Paisley? I might not know everything about her, but what I do know is she makes me happy, and she eases the tension constantly coiling in my stomach over my last ride down the Olympic pipeline. With just one smile on that beautiful face of hers, she brings me to my knees, and I pray she doesn’t leave me. I’ve only known her for a few weeks, but within those weeks, I don’t think I’ve ever smiled as much as when I’m around her. A knock startles me from my reverie, pulling me to the entryway. I fling the door open, ready to pull Paisley into my arms when I see Hollis and Melony standing on the other side of the door: Hollis with a six-pack of beer in his hand and Melony with a pie in hers. “Well, don’t look like you want to kill yourself,” Hollis says sarcastically, blowing by me and into my house. Holding up the pie, Melony says, “I made some chocolate pudding pie, it’s all sugar-free.” I plaster a fake smile on my face. “Thanks, you can put it in the fridge for now. Looks good, Mel.” She shrugs. “Made it all from a box, wish I could say I ground the graham crackers myself.” “Your secret is safe with me.” I wink at her and let her in the house, quickly looking outside before I shut the door. Where the fuck is Paisley? While Hollis and Melony take care of their items in the kitchen, I look at my phone again to see if Paisley sent me a text. Nothing. She hasn’t even read the five texts I sent her. Yup, I’ve turned into that guy. “Grip that phone a little tighter and an itty-bitty gnome might pop out,” Hollis says, taking a sip of one of his light beers. “Shouldn’t you be watching what you consume?” I ask in a rather gruff tone. Hollis holds up his hands in defense. “Hey, Mom, get off my back. I just made the Olympic team, pounded it out in the gym and on the tramp today, so my shit’s covered. Let me enjoy a beer. Damn, what’s your problem? You’re the one who invited us over for a cookout. Is Paisley in the back? She needs to calm you down.” “She’s not here,” I answer curtly. “She’s coming though,” Melony says. “I talked to her about it today. When I left Bellini earlier, she was still there, addressing envelopes to celebrities for the fashion show Bellini is putting on later in the year.” “Fashion show?” Hollis asks. “What is she going to show off? Different colored sweater sets?” “Dog fashion show,” Melony answers. “She’s created a line of religious wear for dogs. She’s
gathering auditions now for models.” “Dog models?” Hollis asks, not quite comprehending the idea. “Dude, you know she’s fucking insane. Why do you even try to understand?” I ask, walking into the kitchen to grab a beer. Fuck it. It’s light. It won’t kill me to have one. “What if I want Taco to walk in the show? Might be a good opportunity for my little Chihuahua to get some exposure. You know I’ve been thinking about breaking her into the acting side of dog careers.” “You have a Chihuahua?” Melony asks Hollis. He sidles up next to her, his interest in her clear. “If you actually let me take you out on a date like I’ve been asking for a while now, you would know that.” She rolls her eyes. “I told you, Hollis. I don’t date.” “What about a late-night fuck? I’m sure you do those.” She sizes up his six-foot stature. “Not with men who drink light beers and own dogs smaller than a cat.” “Ouch.” Hollis feigns hurt as I laugh. “She’s got a point, man.” “So if I drank Guinness and had a St. Bernard, where would we stand?” A smart smile peeks past Melony’s lips. “Then I would probably be taking you to the back of Reese’s house right now to give you what you want.” “Hell,” Hollis mumbles, pulling out his phone and typing away. “What are you doing?” Melony laughs, trying to take a peek at his screen. “Searching to see if an Amazon drone will deliver a St. Bernard and a six-pack of Guinness to me right now.” “Pretty sure those drones don’t carry dogs, man.” “But what if they did?” There is hope in his eyes. The man can be beyond ridiculous at times. “I’m going to start getting dinner ready, why don’t you two go enjoy the sunset outside?” Taking another sip of beer, I slip into the kitchen and listen as Hollis and Melony walk out to the pool area, talking about Hollis’s dog, Taco, and why he found it necessary to name him after a Mexican delight. I purchased four steaks, some zucchini and summer squash to cook on the grill with hopes that Paisley would be lounging on one of my chairs, keeping me company. But by the looks of it, I’ll have to listen to Hollis try to score a date with Melony, a task he’s been working on for six months now.There is something about Melony that screams “no relationships.” I don’t know much of her background, but what I do know is she wants nothing to do with Hollis despite his endless attempts. And it’s not like he’s a bad-looking guy. He’s done a few modeling jobs as well, always wearing his hair longer on top and flexing to get attention. It works for him. If I tried such a thing I would look like a giant dickhead. After I wash the squash and zucchini in the sink, I dry them off with a towel and take them over to my cutting board. Memories of Paisley using my cutting board flood my mind, reminding me of how close I got to her that day I found her on the beach. It was the first time I actually got to wrap my arms around her.
“Need help with that?” That voice stops my hands from chopping the vegetables in front of me. I set the knife down and look up to see Paisley leaning against the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest, wearing a red sundress. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and her cleavage is on display. Fuck. Me. “Hey, handsome.” She smiles, walking toward me. My stomach sinks to the floor from the mere sight of her. My addiction, standing right in front of me, waiting to feed the need I have for her to be in my arms. “Where’ve you been?” I ask, leaning against the counter and playing it cool even though I want to maul her right about now. “Developing carpal tunnel,” she answers, standing in front of me and running her hands up the front of my chest and then wrapping them around my neck. I grip her hips, settling her between my slightly spread legs. “It better be from writing and not something else.” Her eyebrow rise in question. “And what might that other thing be?” “The thing you did for me on FaceTime the other night.” “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.” She wants to play with fire, fine by me. I lower my head to her ear and say, “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You better not have finger-fucked yourself without me around.” “And what if I did?” she shoots back, her body moving in close to mine. “Then there is no need for my services.” “You’re right, there isn’t.” She taps my cheek and pushes away but not before I can rein her back in. “I missed you,” I state, dropping the act. “You don’t return text messages now?” “You becoming an obsessive boyfriend now?” Fucking sassy woman and her comebacks. “Is that what I am, your boyfriend?” I ask in a teasing way but not before her face falls flat in question. “Um, I didn’t mean it like that.” “And how did you mean it?” “You know, like . . . my boyfriend.” She does some weird contortion with her body and hands, as if she’s saying “my homey.” It doesn’t work for her. “I don’t like what you’re doing right now.” I chuckle. “Whatever.” She rolls her eyes and tries to pull away once again, and this time I let her go. Turning around, I tend to the vegetables, chopping them precisely like I started before while I listen to her huff behind me, grabbing a drink from the fridge. I can feel her irritation from my avoidance of the word but I want her to bring it up again. Not because I’m a dick, but because I like playing around with her. I like it when she’s feisty. “Are you just going to stand there and chop things?” she asks, poking me in the back. “What would you like me to do?” I ask, talking over my shoulder. “Nothing.” She shakes her head and walks past me, heading for outside. Chuckling, I pull on her hand and twirl her into my chest. “You’re so damn stubborn, you know
that?” I lift her chin and press a light kiss to her lips, loving the taste of her cherry ChapStick. “Do you want me to be your boyfriend?” “Up to you,” she answers, her lips whispering against mine. “I’m neither here nor there about it.” “Oh, is that right? Seems like you are both here and there about it . . . if that makes sense.” “It doesn’t.” She laughs. “Just admit it, you want to be my girlfriend.” She shakes her head. “I will admit no such thing.” Pressing her up against the counter, I trap her body, igniting a flame between us. “Say it,” I demand softly, my nose running along her jaw. “Say you want to be my girlfriend, Paisley.” “Doesn’t . . . matter to me,” she answers breathlessly. Wanting her to admit it, I move my hand under her shirt and rub my thumb against her skin while I hover my mouth just above hers, barely a whisper between us. “Say it, Paisley, and I will be sure to treat you like my girlfriend tonight.” “How does that differ from any other night?” “Because,” I whisper, “when you’re my girlfriend, I will be the ever-pressing gentleman by letting you come first every time by driving my cock into you with such force you black out, only to cuddle the fuck out of you right after.” I hover, I don’t press my lips against hers until I hear her say the words she wants to say, and I want to watch them come out of her mouth. “Say. It.” She looks up at me through her eyelashes, those steely greys cutting right through me. Licking her lips, she grips on to my sides and says very quietly, “I want to be your girlfriend.” “That’s fucking right.” Moving in that last inch, I capture her mouth with mine, reveling in her sweetness. She can be so edgy, so feisty at times, that I love the moments where she melts into me, shedding her hard exterior she wears on a daily basis. A low moan erupts up her throat as our tongues connect, our hands exploring more and our bodies lightly rubbing against each other, as if we’re trying to scratch a deep itch within our souls. “Dry humping is such a lost art, isn’t it, Melony?” Hollis asks, breaking the spell between Paisley and me. “I don’t know, I’ve have had some pretty good dry humping sessions recently.” “What?” Hollis questions while Paisley and I pull apart. I grip her hand in mine, entwining our fingers together. “I thought you said you don’t do sex things.” So prolific, my best friend. “I don’t do relationships,” Melony corrects him. “Dry humping and sex, now that’s a different story.” “I can do that for you.” Hollis sticks out his leg. “Go ahead, hump away.” “Dude, a shred of self-respect.” “He’s right,” Melony adds. “Maybe if you weren’t so desperate, I’d be more interested.” “So the fact that I’m a five-time Olympic gold medalist with a part-time modeling contract and a nice-sized bank account does nothing for you? I have to play hard to get to gather your interest? Well
then, game on, baby.” He winks and then turns to me. “I’m hungry, jackass. Can you stop making out with Paisley and start grilling? I think this light beer is going to my head.” “Not surprised.” I reach behind my girl, grab the cutting board and steaks, and bring them out to the grill while everyone follows behind. Hollis and Melony—reluctantly—sit by the pool, their feet dangling in the water. Paisley comes up next to me and wraps her arm around my waist, looking up at me with pride in her eyes. I place the steaks on the grill, lower the hood, and then turn to her. “What’s that look for?” I ask, kissing her on the nose. “I’m proud of you.” I point to my chest. “Little old me?” “Yes, you.” She laughs and pinches my side. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay through the entire meet.” “You already explained yourself.” I rest my palm on her cheek. “It’s fine.” “I still feel terrible. I really wanted to be there for you. Bellini was being a massive cad the entire time.” “No need to hash it out again, baby. Lucky for you, Bellini won’t be able to escape the games in Rio. Not only will the camera crew for the show be there, but, so will all the network cameras. She’s going to have to stay the entire time, and so will you. The trials weren’t that big of a deal. What really matters is what happens in Rio.” “Damn right!” Hollis calls out from his position. “The dorms better be nice this year.” “I heard they don’t have air conditioning,” Paisley says, stopping both Hollis and myself. “What?” we say at the same time. Wincing with regret from her statement, Paisley says, “Uh, I read an article about it the other day. They cut out air conditioning because of expenses.” “There will be no air conditioning, in Rio, during the summer?” I ask, dumbfounded. “No.” “What the hell!” Hollis shouts. “How do they expect us to survive with no air conditioning? We’re going to melt at night.” Melony deadpans, “Do you see why I won’t sleep with you? You’re too much of a lady.” “Because I demand to be comfortable at night? Well then, color me purple. Sorry that I would prefer to have a restful night’s sleep before a big competition. And you know what?” Hollis loops his fingers in his jeans. “Want me to prove I’m not a lady, I will give you an eyeful right here, right now.” “Not necessary,” Melony says, quickly covering her eyes. Cutting in before things get out of hand, Paisley adds, “I heard you could buy an air-conditioning unit for your room if you want, though.” Visibly Hollis and I relax. “Well, that will be the best money I ever spend.” Looking over at me, Hollis asks, “Steaks ready?” *** The moon shines through the white linen curtains blowing over my window. Paisley runs her fingertips along my stomach, and while her head is nestled on my chest, I play with her silky strands. Tonight was exactly what I needed: some fun with friends only to quickly kick them out after dinner
so I could bury myself ball deeps in my girl. Her panting, the curse words that flew out of her mouth, the incoherent sounds she made while she was coming all over my cock, were not only memorable, but they are now ingrained in my mind. “Do you know what’s weird?” she asks. “Umm . . . that I already want to turn you over and fuck you from behind?” “No.” She laughs, slapping my chest lightly. “Hmm, that you want to get a tattoo of my face?” I kiss the top of her head. “That’s not weird at all, baby. I will give you a good picture to take to the artist.” “You’re so stupid.” “Mmm, not in the teasing mood?” I ask, nuzzling her hair, taking in her intoxicating scent. “Fine, what’s weird?” “Whenever I smell chlorine, I get a flutter in my belly. The smell reminds me of you.” From the bottom of my belly a laugh erupts. “Why are you laughing at me?” Sitting up, her hand on my chest, her brow comes together. “It’s not funny.” “Calm your tits, baby. I’m not laughing at you. I’m just laughing at—” “At me,” she huffs. I can’t help the smirk that escapes me. “Fine, I’m laughing at you. But it’s cute, does that make you feel better?” “Last time I tell you something.” Flipping to the other side of the bed, she pulls the covers over her shoulder and faces away from me, boxing me out. It’s funny to me that she actually thinks turning away will stop me from talking or touching her. Scooting to her side, I palm her stomach and with one swift yank, pull her into my chest. I land my head over hers and kiss her cheek. “Are you looking for attention, baby? I can give you attention, just tell me where.” I kiss her cheek, down her neck, and rest on the spot where her neck meets her shoulder. With a nip, I get her attention. “Stop that,” she says with a light tone. “You can’t try to charm me with your sexual ways.” “Well, how the hell else am I supposed to charm you then?” “Maybe with your mind.” The pompous but humorous tone doesn’t escape me. I pull away from her and rest on the mattress, my hands behind my head and my gaze at the ceiling. “My mind, huh? What a novel idea. All right, how’s this? About one hundred people choke on ballpoint pens every year.” Nailed it! Slowly, Paisley turns around, pulling on her ear slightly, confusion written all over her face. “What did you just say?” “People choke on pens.” “Why is that something you would tell me?” “You told me to charm you with my mind. So I told you a fact. Chicks dig smart guys.” She shakes her head, turning completely around to face me, the sheet falling just above the crest of her breasts. “Not guys full of useless facts.” “Useless?” I repeat, insulted. Sitting up, using my elbows to prop my body up, I say, “How is that
useless? It’s far from useless, more like a public service announcement. I’m doing you a favor.” “How is that?” I think about my answer, giving myself time. “Next time you’re writing away in your little notepad and come to a halt, trying to figure out what else to write, and you find the need to bring the plastic flute up to your mouth for a little nibble, you will remember my VERY USEFUL factoid about choking on a ballpoint pen.” “I use felt-tip,” she counters, the smart-ass. I press my lips together. Shit, this girl can cut a man down at his knees. “Last time I share with you.” Pulling a Paisley, I turn to my side of the bed, this time boxing her out. See how she likes it. Too bad I can’t hide the smile that graces my lips. “Oh my God, are you really going to pout?” “My feelings have been hurt, I’m a wounded man, bleeding from my soul.” Hopping on my back and straddling my body, she laughs and says, “You’re so ridiculous.” I don’t budge. “Please, let me nurse my wounds in private. It’s the least you can do after castrating me with your comment.” “Well,” she hops off me and onto the bedroom floor, “guess I’ll head home then.” Damn her! Sprinting out of bed, I run after her, naked parts flying around my bedroom. Her giggle fills the room, and right before she escapes the bedroom, I hook her around her waist and pull her back to my bed, corralling her body with mine. Pinning her hands above her head, I say, “Why can’t I ever win with you?” “I’m smarter.” She winks. “It’s the jock in you.” “Hey now.” I chuckle. “I know things.” “Random, nonsensical pen facts.” Outraged with laughter, I say, “These facts save lives.” “I’m sure they do. All I can say is, thank God you’re pretty.” “Pretty?” I ask, a raise to my eyebrow. She raises her chin, sticking to her term. “Yeah, pretty.” “Not ruggedly handsome? Sexy? Some might say I have the body of a Greek god, but that’s just hearsay.” “I can’t stand you right now.” She chuckles. “That’s disappointing, because I was getting ready to lick the fuck out of your pussy, but I guess if you can’t stand me—” “On second thought.” She palms my head and pushes it down between her legs. “Fucking horny woman.” “Whatever.” She settles into the mattress. “You know you like it.” I part her slit that’s glistening and give her one long, luxurious swipe with my tongue, causing her to moan. “You’re right, I do like it.”
Chapter Twenty-One **BELLINI** I feel bad for anyone who has to be around me on a daily basis. Not because I’m some deviant looking to cut a bitch with every turn of the corner. No, I’m a saint in a sweater set with high morals and a heart of gold. I feel bad for people because I am the epitome of everything beautiful, inside and out . . . but mainly out. I don’t care what society tries to tell us; we judge people by their looks. It’s human nature. I’m guilty of it. I refuse to be served by the giant mole with a residing black hair poking out of it at The Brown Derby—it’s where all the celebrities go—despite the wretched waitress who refuses to see Dr. Kevin downtown who can laser off such monstrosities. Honestly, I’m at the point of taking my father ’s state-of-the-art samurai sword and chopping it off myself, only to serve it to her on a platter. See how she likes it. Thankfully, I was born with perfect bone structure, flawless skin, and hair as golden as the sun. I’m beautiful, an integral cog in this world for making it a more suitable place to live. Could you imagine if we had pot-faced platypuses walking around this earth, their lips plucked out and unshapely clothes that would look better on a homeless asshole caressing their bodies? Harsh? No, it’s the truth. That’s how I see the people around me. Most of the time, the human race is too offensive to look at. You think I’m being a little severe? I’m not. Fact one: high-waisted pants have come back around in the fashion world. Sure, they look cute on Taylor Swift but on everyone else, they’re a picture frame to the art you’re mounting between your legs. The camel toe. Ladies, if your lips are defined by your pants, it’s time to make a change. No one wants to see the crevice to your private parts. Positively ghastly! Fact two: glitter. It will never be in style, despite how you want to paint it. Oh, it’s unicorn farts, it’s the rain at kitty’s play palace, Leprechaun sneezes are just glitter spreading around the world. No mythical idea will ever make glitter okay. It’s made for whores, prostitutes, and drag queens. Unless you’re one of those, then your glitter use should cease immediately. You’re no longer a menstruating tween making poor decisions that will affect your social life forever. Cut it out. Fact three: tattoos. What an appalling idea. You want to express yourself? Here’s five dollars, go get a diary and write it down. They’re hot, they’re symbolic, they represent who I am . . . false. If you are a trash bag dug up from the inner depths of the graveyard of biker ’s anonymous, then sure, get a tattoo. You’ll fit in perfectly. Fact four: cat shirts. So you’re wearing a sock hat these days with jeans so tight that when you bend over, they stretch to the point we can see your skin. You’re a hipster, congratulations, oh, I mean, whatevs. I won’t even go into how hipsters are just geeks trying to act cool, but I have to mention the cat shirts. No matter how much you try to spin it, it’s a cat on a shirt. I don’t care if it’s flying on a Pop-Tart, if it has laser beams coming out of its eyes, or its face is mingled in a pepperoni pizza. It’s a cat on a shirt and should never be worn by a grown adult unless your name is Aunt Milly and you
can’t remember if you put your dentures in your mouth or in your butthole. Burn the damn shirt and ask for repentance. I could go on forever about the poor choices made by the human race, but I’m already bored. Back to me. I’m gorgeous. I wonder what it’s like for someone like Mauve—a tattoo person—having to serve me every day within the beauty that surrounds me. Does she go home and draw mustaches on her own pictures, hating the fact that a black dick broom would actually make her look more appealing? I wouldn’t be surprised if I stopped by her apartment and saw discarded pictures all over her floor. I would never do that though, go to her apartment, that is. No doubt in my mind that it’s a hot bed for vibrating wannabe man wands and a soiree of bed bugs. If you want to stick something up your whoo-ha, why not just wait until you’re married to a man to have him up in your business? It makes no sense to me. I’m pro-choice over sexuality—I’m so progressive. If you want to smack two doughnuts together, that’s your business. It’s the people who try to fill one single woman in all her holes at the same time that should be exiled. You know, the people who enjoy foursomes. Pope Francis prays for them every night, as it’s on his list of sinners, along with chefs, people who live with more than four cats, and individuals who enjoy eating Cheerios—no one should eat a bowl of vaginas. “Tic Tac,” I shout, pointing to my mouth as I walk down the stairs of my mansion. Mauve appears at the bottom of the stairs with a container in her hand ready to pop one in my mouth. She really has become more efficient over the last few days. She’s been organizing me, taking care of all of my menial tasks, and even cutting my toenails when I’m too lazy to bend over to do it myself. It is a little unsettling why she is doing so well, even when I start to test her. Does she know about the lady I found for her? If so, she must be extremely grateful, seems like my plan is a smash hit, not that I’m surprised. I’m great at everything. “Jasper will be here around noon, so in about fifteen minutes. He wants to discuss Rio and his plans for shooting activities.” “Ugh, Rio, that’s all anyone ever talks about anymore. What’s the big deal?” “It’s the Olympics . . .” Mauve suggests but I wave her off, blowing by her to head to my living room. “Melon,” I call out, needing someone to brush my hair. Pocket has some kind of vaginal infection right now. When she told me, I banned her from being near me until she could provide a certified letter from a doctor stating she no longer has the buildup of yeast in her crevice. Apparently it’s from sitting in a vat of tomato juice but I refuse to take responsibility. “Melon,” I shout again. “Where is that damn cantaloupe when you need her?” I mumble. “She went to go pick up lunch,” Mauve answers. “What for?” “Because people need to eat,” she says under her breath. “Excuse me?” Plastering a smile on her face, Mauve says, “Jasper called it in. I thought it would be best if Melony went to get it in case you started to feel faint and needed some more Tic Tacs.” Eyeing her skeptically, I try to gauge her intent. Is she being a sarcastic ass? If it wasn’t for her
recent track record of doing everything correctly, I would think, yes, but she’s been so helpful, maybe she’s telling the truth. “Fine,” I answer, turning on my heel. “Will you wait at the door so you can let Reese in when he gets here?” “Reese is coming over? Why didn’t I know that? I should know that. That should be on my schedule. Who made this decision?” I hold up my hand to stop her incessant jabbering. “If I wanted a lice-coated parrot to be squawking in my ear, I would have asked for one. Before I start throwing stale saltines at your face to shut your trap, just do what I say and wait at the door. Honestly.” Storming off, I sit in the porch swing and rest my head against one of my cream-colored Sferra Abbey throw pillows. They cost one hundred eighty-five dollars each, but they’re well worth it. Instead of pressing your skin against a poorly crafted polyester cotton-filled sack, you can rub your face over the velvety smooth fabric while playing with the stitched variegated color fringe. It brings relaxation to an entirely new level. “Bellini, there is a woman at the door waiting for you.” “Who is it?” I snap, hating the vagueness. Whatever happened to servants announcing people correctly? Attention, please welcome Scott Eastwood of Malibu. Looks like I’ll have to put everyone through another Downton Abbey training if I want anything done right around here. “She says her name is Lauren but you call her Litter Box.” I sit up, from the mention of the woman I handpicked for Mauve. I completely forgot she was coming over today. I can feel my eyes glow with excitement as I adjust myself on my cushiony swing, fanning out the silk robe I have on. “Send her back here.” Leaning forward, Mauve asks, “Do you really call her Litter Box?” “That is none of your concern. Now bring her back here, I have a surprise for you.” Skeptically, Mauve eyes me and then says, “Okay . . .” “Popey, Popey!” I call out, hearing the jingle of his heavenly bells ring out as he approaches. Everything I do in life is for my dog, to impress him, to make him feel proud, to make him love me more and more every day. This is a moment I don’t want him to miss, my most humane act so far. “There you are. Come here, you little disciple of Christ, come to Mommy’s bosom.” With his paws on the edge of the swing, I quickly snatch him up and snuggle him close, taking in his cologne, loving the way he smells like an old church, like he just came from scrubbing grime from church pews. I wouldn’t put it past him. I once saw him lick the floor of an altar, his way of blessing the sacred grounds of Saints Constantine and Helen Greek Orthodox Church. We’re not Greek but we are lovers of Christ, so we go to all the churches, blessing them with Popey’s tongue, despite our Catholic origins. “Hi Bellini,” Litter Box’s voice calls out as I sniff Popey’s paws. They always smell like corn chips, they soothe me. “Litter Box, how nice of you to join us. Mauve, please grab us some waters, one for you as well.
Oh, and I need a Tic Tac.” Pulling a pack from her back pocket, she puts one in my mouth and then goes to the outside bar to fetch us some water. Litter Box positions herself on the swing across from me and adjusts the flowy top she’s wearing. Examining her short black shorts and matching high heels, I wonder if Mauve will find her attractive. Who am I kidding, of course she will. I’m a brilliant matchmaker. “Did you find the house all right?” “Yes,” she answers with a smile. “Pocket gave wonderful directions. Is she here today?” Litter Box looks around. “No, she has yeast coming out of every orifice of her body.” I shiver. “She’s been banned indefinitely until she gets everything cleared out.” “That sounds unpleasant,” Litter box replies. “Tell me about it. She was near me when things started to fester in the inner depths of her folds.” I gag. “I can’t imagine what I would have done if I caught it.” “Yeast infections are not contagious, Bellini,” Mauve says, handing me a drink, acting like a knowit-all. “It’s not like an airborne virus.” I see right through her, Mauve is trying to show off in front of the piece of meat I brought here for her. Fair enough, I will let this slip by, because I’m all for gay pride. “Sit down, Mauve.” She takes a seat, just as Jasper and Reese walk to the back of the house where we are all convening. “We let ourselves in, hope that’s okay,” Jasper says. “Oh, you’re here,” I say, ignoring Jasper. “Come here, sweetheart.” I hold my hand out to Reese who looks confused from my term of endearment. I purse my lips, trying to get him to notice our company. He glances to the side and sees Litter Box so he clears his throat and holds out his hand, which I take and pull him to sit on the swing with me. Placing my legs over his lap, I force his hand down on my thigh as we swing together. We make such a good couple. “Jasper, sit down. You two got here just in time to witness a very magical occasion. Melon,” I shout, forcing Reese to cringe and cover his ear. “Where is that woman?” “Getting lunch, remember?” Mauve says, a little concerned. “Oh, right.” I clear my throat. “Thank you all for joining me today.” “How long is this going to take? We have a meeting, and Jonathan is coming over to hand me some paperwork from Wally,” Jasper says, cutting me off rudely. Trying not to raise my voice or snap at him, I say, “This is just as important, Jasper. You are about to witness love in the making.” “What’s going on?” Reese tenses up, trying to remove his hand from my thigh, but I stop him and instead hold his hand. Mauve’s eyes search out our connected hands and I feel pity for her; the poor girl just wants to be loved. Very soon she will be, very soon you, bologna-eating monster. “A few weeks ago, I was privy to information about a certain someone in our little circle here. I was told that we have someone who likes the same sex in our presence.” “What?” Who? Jasper?” Reese asks. “I thought you were married to Meredith.” “I am,” Jasper answers.
“It’s not Jasper.” Standing up quickly, Mauve says, “Bellini, can I talk to you? It’s kind of important.” I wave her off. “Sit.” She doesn’t listen to me, and there is some sort of begging coming from her eyes, but I ignore her. “I said sit,” I snap, causing her to fall back in her chair. “Now, where was I? Ah yes, there is a homosexual in the group. Being a good Catholic girl with a dog of God in my care, I found this to be a little startling at first, to be so close to someone who prefers common-like sexual organs touching. But with the help of Pope Francis by my side, I’ve risen from the stereotypes that all Catholics hate gays and have accepted the fate of the gays. Mauve, I accept you being a lesbian.” “What?” Reese asks, a twist of confusion in his eyes. Poor man, so close-minded, I will have to open his eyes, teach him the lessons Pope Francis taught me. Love thy neighbor.
Chapter Twenty-Two **PAISLEY** Oh, Jesus. This is happening right now. I should have known better than to tell Bellini such a lie. I should have known that in her crazy, demented brain she would take someone’s sexuality and make it into a promotion for herself. I’m so glad Reese is here right now, listening to all of the crap coming out of Bellini’s mouth. This isn’t awkward or uncomfortable at all. Note the sarcasm. “Bellini, it’s completely inappropriate and uncalled for to out one of your employees,” Jasper states, anger in his voice. “Oh, please. Everyone knows just from the combat boots she wears and the way she sits that Mauve is of the lesbian kind.” “I don’t think she is,” Reese suggests. Bellini pats his face with her palm. “Oh, you’re so naïve. She is a lesbian, sweetheart. She told me herself, in a state of dire need to get the information off her chest, she just blurted it out. Isn’t that right, Mauve?” Everyone turns to me, looking for answers, even Litter Box . . . I mean Lauren. I can’t bear to look at Reese right about now because after what he did last night and this morning to my body, I can’t imagine what he must be thinking. “Well, Mauve, are you going to tell us about being a lesbian?” Clearing my throat, I twist my hands in my lap and stare at the ground. “I did say that to Bellini.” “See!” Bellini throws her hands up in the air. “Honestly, would I really lie? Especially with Pope Francis on my very lap? Lying is one of the Ten Commandments just in case all of you sinners didn’t know that.” Jasper pinches his nose. “Christ, Bellini. You can’t just announce to the world when someone is gay; that is their business, not yours.” “Psshh. Everyone is so sensitive these days. Let’s call a spade a spade; Mauve likes vaginas, marijuana is the miracle healer, and there is a new trend bouncing around high schoolers where they eat out of dog bowls and pee on fire hydrants. The more we become aptly aware of our surroundings, the more we will be accepting and less sensitive to being told by society that you are in fact an ugly cod face.” She pets Pope Francis, gives him a kiss, and then continues. “So with Mauve exposed as her true self, I’m here to tell you that Litter Box is not here to talk to me.” Oh, shit. Sweat starts to pool in my armpits, the back of my neck tingles, and I can feel an utter sense of dread creep over me. “Before we went to that godforsaken homeless-man’s state where the children of the corn live, I interviewed a bunch of women to become your lover.” She says that so naturally.
“What?” Lauren asks, looking just as perplexed as the rest of us. “Oh Christ,” Jasper mutters as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just stop.” She doesn’t listen. “I created a fake document, interviewed these women, letting them think they were interviewing for a job at Pothead Pizza, when in actuality, I was seeing if they would be the perfect match for Mauve. Brilliant, I know. I’m such a do-gooder.” And there it is. In all honesty, I’m not surprised. “I spent mindless hours watching over Pocket as she read me profile after profile. I was looking for someone who knew style, who had a nice car, and a good Pothead Pizza topping idea, because I had to get something out of this as well.” She leans over and touches Reese’s cheek, gazing into his eyes. “I really wanted to find her the kind of love we share.” “And seeing what kind of car they drive is a great question to start out with,” Reese says sarcastically. “Sure is,” she responds, not hearing the condescending undertone of Reese’s statement. Every time Bellini touches Reese, I feel my heart sink just another notch. It’s beyond fake, but I don’t like sharing, and right now, Bellini has her hands all over my man, telling him how I’m a lesbian. Not my best moment. But sure as hell not my worst either. “My choices for Mauve came down to two women: Litter Box and another woman not worth mentioning. I chose Litter Box because she’s well versed in hair and can help with that mop on your head, Mauve. Maybe teach you how to brush it?” I grind my teeth . . . hard. If I wasn’t so terrified about losing my job and making a bad impression in front of Jasper right now, I would tell Bellini off, and then leave, because, hell, I’m on the verge of not being able to take her crap anymore. Not only is Bellini insulting me, her employee, but she’s being incredibly rude and offensive to Lauren who thought she was picked to perform a job, not be matched up with a fake lesbian. My gut churns, and I instantly start to feel sick to my stomach. Not caring about any of the awkwardness in the air, Bellini continues, “So, Mauve, meet your new life partner.” “Umm, I didn’t sign up for this,” Lauren says. “Shhh.” Bellini waves her off with her hand and then looks at me with excitement. “What do you think, Mauve? Are you overwhelmed with love right now?” Jesus. This can’t go on any longer. Lauren is clearly uncomfortable and Jasper looks like he’s about to have a stroke. Everything about this entire conversation is wrong. “Yeah, about that.” I rub the tops of my thighs. “Funny thing, I’m not really a lesbian.” Sitting up straight and placing her feet on the ground, a look of outrage and murder coming off of Bellini, words drip from her mouth in disdain, “You’re not a lesbian?” “Not really.” “This ends now!” Jasper demands, and I turn red with embarrassment. This is just what I need, for Jasper to think I’m some kind of unstable person who lies to their boss about their sexuality. I was hoping to gain a recommendation from Jasper, but after today, pretty sure that ship has sailed. I’ve so fucked up, and big time. “Bellini, you are—”
“So you’re telling me your vagina doesn’t like touching other vaginas?” Bellini squints, trying to gain some understanding, once again interrupting Jasper. “No,” I answer. “So, you don’t like to clap flaps together?” “That’s offensive,” Reese points out. “You can’t just say you are ‘for gay people’”—he uses air quotes—“and then go around and say shit like that, Bellini. I don’t care how much money you make, these are human beings, and you need to learn not to belittle them or be offensive.” “Your crotch wrapped in spandex is offensive, but you don’t hear me insulting you, do you?” There is no winning with this woman. Bellini turns her attention to me. “Listen here, you ass-face whore bag, tell me right now why I spent many nights praying with Pope Francis about your life decisions, why I took the time out of my day to force Pocket into reading applications, and then spent time talking to these women on the phone when I could have been getting my armpits lazered?” “Why did you tell her you were a lesbian?” Jasper asks. My hands twist in my lap, my stomach bottoms out, and for the first time ever, I actually feel like I’m going to puke in front of a circle of people. “Well, umm, you see, Bellini was concerned about how I was looking at Reese, and I felt that if I told her I was a lesbian, she wouldn’t be stressed about anything between us, which she shouldn’t be. We’re strictly professional. I actually have a boyfriend, his name is . . . Clyde.” Clyde? Why is that the first name that comes to mind? And why the hell am I lying again? “Clyde? He sounds hideous.” Bellini gets up from her swing, her robe blowing in the breeze. A voice that sounds awfully like my father ’s sounds off in the back of my head, telling me what a failure I am, how I’m never going to succeed, how I should give up everything and just come home, to where I belong. Is this what it takes to succeed in this industry? Constant lying? If so, I hate every minute of it. I think there has to be a better way, but then I look at Bellini and know, right then and there, there is no winning when it comes to someone like her. I can tell her every day I brush my hair, and she won’t believe me. I could literally stand in front of her, five brushes running through my hair, and she still wouldn’t believe me. That’s the kind of person she is. So, if I have to lie to her, if I have to stretch the truth to help her comprehend something, then I guess that’s the way it has to be. Too bad for me, I chose the wrong thing to lie about. Little did I know it was going to blow up like this. “So, does that mean I don’t have a job with Pothead Pizza?” Lauren asks, looking a little shellshocked from this entire interaction. “Of course not, you hot-faced armpit,” Bellini snaps, gripping one of the pillars decorating her patio area. “Jasper, I don’t think I can work with a lying, manipulative hog-whore. If she’s lying about her sexuality and keeping men by the name of Clyde away from me, then what else is she hiding? Maybe a patch of moles that connects together to form a penis on her back? Or maybe the fact that the dried-out mop on the top of her head is actually a wig made from an Italian’s man butt hair? Or, heaven forbid, she has a secret stash of empty Tic Tac cartons stacked up in her jalopy just so she can reminisce on all the times she fed me.” “I can assure you none of those are true,” I say quickly, looking at Jasper who looks fed up.
Taking a deep breath, he says, “Bellini, I suggest you keep your insults to yourself. You are one lawsuit away from losing everything your dad has ever worked for. Paisley is a solid worker, we are not firing her—” “How is this your decision?” she barks at him, interrupting what he was saying. Again. “She works for me.” “She works for the production company to keep you happy,” Jasper shoots back. “Now, I suggest you apologize to Lauren, thank her for coming by, and set up a time to speak to our lawyers. This shit has gone on long enough.” “Well, I’m not happy,” she screams at the top of her lungs, clenching her fists at her sides and squinting her eyes shut, ignoring everything Jasper told her. Pope Francis howls and Reese covers his ears, protecting his eardrums from the high-pitched squeal of Bellini Chambers. “Bellini, unless you want me to cancel your season, I suggest you grow up and try acting like an adult.” Jasper turns to me. “Paisley, will you help see Lauren out and grab her contact info so we can be in touch with her later about making up for today.” “Of course.” Standing, I avoid eye contact with Bellini and direct Lauren to the entryway, awkward silence encompassing us. What do you really say to a girl who was tricked into thinking she has a job when in fact she was picked as a match to a woman who isn’t a lesbian? “Um, sorry about that being super awkward,” I say as we reach the door. “I hope you weren’t offended. I don’t want you to think I take your sexuality lightly. I know it comes with struggles and stereotypes.” Lauren waves me off and chuckles while shaking her head. “No worries. I did this all on a bet anyway.” Glancing back to where Bellini and Jasper are fighting, she says, “I’m just glad I don’t have to work with her like you do. And hey, don’t sweat the whole lesbian thing. The other day, I had to pretend to be straight to get out of a speeding ticket.” “Did you get out of it?” I ask, laughing. “Of course.” She winks. “We do what we have to do.” Taking a deep breath, I look her in the eyes and say, “I’m really sorry. I feel terrible.” “Don’t sweat it. I would have had to turn you down anyway. I have a girlfriend. You actually might know her.” Confused, I ask, “How so?” “She’s Bodi Banks’s sister, Eva.” “Seriously?” I ask, a little surprised with how small this world is. “Yeah, ten years and going strong. She’s my sugar mama. She’s the most brilliant artist you’ll ever meet. Paints murals all around the city and is contracted out to other cities a lot of the time. She takes me with her to keep her company while I work on my novels.” “You’re an author?” She nods. “Yeah, just starting out. I was working as a school counselor but that ended quickly when some of the parents found out about my sexuality.” My heart breaks in half. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. It was a long battle that I don’t want to get into, but now I get to work on something I’m very passionate about. It’s been a difficult process, and I’ve had my ups and downs but Eva has been a constant champion for me. I couldn’t do it without her.” “Do you have anything published? I would love to read it.” “Not yet, soon.” She winks. “Well, I haven’t had the chance to meet Bodi yet, but when I do, I will tell him I met you.” “Please do. He adores me; I like to think more than his own sister. And hey, keep in touch. I would love to hang out, if anything just to hear about the other asinine things you have to put up with.” “That would be amazing,” I say, feeling a little brighter. “I could use some more girl friends. I don’t have many.” “Then I’m your girl. Let’s have coffee, and you can meet Eva. She will absolutely love this story, especially since she thought having to come up with a pizza flavor was beyond ridiculous. I did it just to prove to her I could win. Guess I won the jackpot.” “You sure did.” We both laugh. “Plug your info in my phone, and we’ll get coffee sometime.” “Sounds great.” Quickly, she types in her information and then hands my phone back. Leaning in, she gives me a hug and I return it. “It was great meeting you, Paisley. Call me, Eva would just adore you.” “I look forward to it and sorry again, I really hope I didn’t insult you.” “You didn’t.” With a little wave, Lauren takes off. I shut the door and slouch against it, my heart starting to slow down. When Bellini told Jasper to get rid of me, I felt I was about to have a heart attack. This entire situation I’ve gotten myself into was bad decisions all around; my massively huge bad decisions. My career matters more to me than anything, and here I am, messing around with it because I can’t keep my thong shoved up my ass, but rather on the floor of Reese’s bedroom. The sliding glass door shuts, and I see Reese approaching, charming smile intact. For some reason, it’s not making me feel better. Needing some space, I ignore his approach and visit the powder room that’s off the entryway. My hands grip the edge of the sink, and I look at myself in the mirror. Why do I always have to make everything so complicated? I couldn’t just be the next owner to my family’s general store, I had to go out and be my individual self. And I couldn’t do my job without letting my grandpa distract me, I just had to answer his questions only to get myself fired. And then when I get a job, I can’t just do it, I have to go and make out with my boss’s fake boyfriend. Actually, not only make out, but have sex with him, several, seriously hot times. Weren’t people supposed to have a little Jiminy Cricket inside them, telling them what to do? How come mine seems like he’s drunk all the time, making the worst possible decisions ever? The door to the powder room props open and Reese walks in, making the space significantly smaller with his stature. “What are you doing?” I hiss, looking at him in the mirror. Without answering, he grips my hips and pulls me against his chest. His head falls forward and he kisses my neck. I can’t help the way my stomach flips with each caress of his mouth across my skin, despite my reservations.
“Reese.” I try to stop him but it comes out more as a moan. “Shh, baby. I just need to make sure you’re not a lesbian.” That wakes me up. I elbow him in the stomach and pull away while he buckles over, laughing the entire time. “Unless you don’t plan on ever getting sucked off, you will never bring that up again.” “Why not?” He moves forward, mirth all over his face. “It’s cute, you lied about your sexuality just so Bellini would ignore the way you yearned for me.” “You’re done.” I cross my arms over my chest. Chuckling, he asks, “Why? I think it’s cute, sweet really. You were crushing on me and got caught.” The teasing lilt to his voice only makes me want to crash my knee to his balls. “I hate you.” “No, you don’t.” Grabbing hold of my hips again, he traps me against the sink and leans his head down so his lips are barely grazing mine. “Did you have a poster of me in your dorm room?” Not giving in to his advances, I reply, “No, wall space was reserved for gold medalists only.” Reese stills and I regret the words right after I say them. He steps away and pulls on the back of his neck. “Wow, low blow.” Feeling incredibly guilty and remorseful, I wrap my arms around his back and pull him close. “I’m sorry,” I say right away. “I didn’t mean that. I’m just highly strung right now. That was a dick thing to say.” “It was.” His face doesn’t lighten up. “I’m sorry, Reese.” I kiss his chin and then his neck. The tension in his back eases slightly from my touch. “Please forgive me.” His fingers play with the strands of my hair. “I guess I could let you make it up to me.” He wiggles his eyebrows, causing me to roll my eyes. “Oh my God, you’re impossible.” I go to leave the bathroom, but he yanks me back into his chest and captures my face, his lips pressing against mine before I can even guess what he’s about to do. “Are you okay, Paisley? Are we okay?” The way he’s able to turn so serious in a matter of seconds throws me off. I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if this is all worth it.” I know my words sting, they hurt to just say them, but it’s a concern I have, a great concern. “There is just so much risk for me. Jasper—” “You’re not the one Jasper is mad at, Paisley.” Reese tilts my head up so I’m forced to look him in the eyes, to see his concern. “I’ve spoken with him. He loves you and thinks you’re a great asset. He’s mad at Bellini for being a self-absorbed, offensive asshole.” “Are you sure?” “Yes, positive. You have nothing to worry about, so please don’t think this isn’t worth it. Because to me, I really feel something for you, and I don’t want to lose that because you’re worried about your job. Trust in your ability.” Leaning forward, he captures my lips once again, his scratchy new beard running deliciously along my sensitive skin. I melt into him, my lips matching his, our bodies molding into one. His fingers dig into my hair and my hands run up his back, under his shirt. His
warm skin spurs me on, encouraging me to open my mouth and play with the seam of his lips, my tongue begging for entrance. “No.” He pulls away, putting distance between us. “No?” I ask, knowing my nipples are hard and on display. He grips his hair. “If I go any further, I will be fucking you on that sink.” He’s right, one more caress and he no doubt would have me propped on the sink, shorts off and his cock out, ready to plow right into me. It’s happened before. “You’re right.” I straighten my hair. “Jasper probably wants to get on with the meeting anyway.” “I’m sure he does. He was lecturing Bellini about legal shit when I left. Seriously, if you were a lesbian, you could have made some easy money over that conversation. I’m sure he’s stressing out about that Litter Box girl.” “Her name is Lauren, and she’s actually in a relationship with Eva Banks.” “Really? Huh, interesting.” He chuckles and then kisses me on the lips one more time, a quick chaste one, leaving me wanting more. Before I can get him back for it, he opens the door and exits. I chase after him and smack his ass. “You will pay for that later.” “I look forward to it,” he calls over his shoulder as he walks away. I can’t help but watch his incredibly toned and perfectly sculpted backside leave me, swagger in his stride. I sigh to myself, thinking this might be difficult, but at least there are some benefits. I begin to walk after him when I hear someone say, “Paisley.” I flinch. I recognize that voice. That voice doesn’t sound happy. When I turn around, he is standing with his arms crossed over his chest and has a disappointed look in his eyes. Shit. Jonathan. *** Just as the door to our apartment slams shut, Jonathan spins on his heels, his hands on his hips and a look of pure fury on his face. “What the fuck are you thinking?” he shouts at me, not even letting me walk into the living room. I go to answer him but he cuts me off. “You lied to me, Paisley. You promised you wouldn’t fuck this up and then I see you coming out of the bathroom with none other than Reese King, the one person I told you to stay away from.” “I’m not fucking this up,” I reply, knowing fully well that’s not the case. The minute I pressed my lips against Reese’s, I fucked this up big time. Jonathan starts to pace the apartment, allowing me to get past the entryway. I set my purse on the couch and wait for the expected verbal lashing. “So, in your mind, you think this is okay?” “I don’t know,” I answer weakly, understanding I have no ground to stand on. “If it was okay, then why didn’t you tell me? Why did you lie to me about him? Making me think it was some other man you were with? If it was an okay situation to be in, you would have told me.” “Maybe I was afraid you were going to be judgmental,” I answer back, finding a little backbone.
He throws his hands in the air presumably out of frustration. “Of course I was going to be judgmental. You’re doing who knows what with your boss’s boyfriend, one of the most sought-after celebrities right now. Have you lost your fucking mind?” “They’re not really dating,” I point out, pulling on the hem of my shirt. “I don’t care if they meet up every week just to play pick-up sticks, they are perceived to be romantically involved in the public eye which means you should stay as far away from that shitstorm as possible. Jesus, Paisley, were you even thinking?” He grabs his hair, pulling on the ends tightly. “Does anyone know?” I didn’t want to answer that, but I know he can tell when I’m lying. Thank you, nipple, for giving me away. “Just two people.” “What?” he shouts. “Who the hell knows? Christ, you can’t even keep it to yourself? Does Bellini know?” “No,” I say quickly. “She has no idea.” “Oh good, so when this blows up, I’m sure she’ll take it very well.” Sarcasm drips from his lips. “Who knows?” I toe the carpet, hating every minute of this conversation. “Hollis—” “Hollis Knightly? As in Reese’s best friend? The Olympic diver?” “Yeah, he’s very trustworthy, he won’t say anything to anyone.” I try to soothe the explosion waiting to come out of Jonathan. With flattened lips, Jonathan nods; clearly I’m not doing a good job easing his mind. His voice is terse when he asks, “Who is the other person?” “Umm, Melony.” “As in Bellini’s hair and makeup stylist? Wow, that’s intelligent, Paisley.” He walks to the kitchen, and I chase after him. “She hates her just as much as I do. We had dinner with her and Hollis the other night, they are totally cool about it.” Pulling a beer from the fridge, he pops the top off and drinks immediately. He leans against the lower kitchen cabinets and rests his hands on the counter behind him, his beer gripped by his index finger and thumb. “Awesome. So glad you’ve been having dinner dates and a grand old time while you’ve been lying to me this whole time. Hope it was worth it, Paisley.” He takes off toward his bedroom but I stop him. “Jonathan, I didn’t have a choice.” “What do you mean you didn’t have a choice?” he shoots back. “Everything you do in life comes down to you making a choice, Paisley. From answering your phone during a show, to sleeping with someone you’re working for. Those are your choices, no one else’s, so don’t give me that bullshit.” It’s hard to explain my feelings about Reese to someone who doesn’t get relationships, to someone who has never been in a monogamous relationship before. “You don’t get it.” I shake my head and walk away from him, but not for long because I can feel his heavy footsteps behind me. “You’re right, I don’t get it. I don’t get why you would willingly put your career on the line, not to mention mine, since I’m the one who stuck my neck out for you. You’re young and stupid, a year out of college, I get that, but to make such immature decisions like sleeping with Reese King baffles me.
You go and tell me that you know how to be professional but I guess that was another lie.” “I tried,” I cried, my emotions getting the best of me. “You tried?” He mocks me. “Oh yeah, looks like you really tried, Paisley. How long did you keep his dick out of you? A day?” Before I can stop myself, I extend my hand out and slap Jonathan across the face. Shock registers between both of us as someone knocks on the door. Holding his cheek, Jonathan goes to open it. On the other side, wearing a hood over his head is Reese, looking slightly distraught. I don’t blame him. I booked it out of Bellini’s house faster than I ever have before without even a word of goodbye. When I didn’t answer my phone every time he called me, I expected him to show up. It was obvious Jonathan knew during the meeting. He was rude and short with me; there is no doubt in my mind that Reese put two and two together. “What the fuck do you want?” Jonathan asks. “Where’s Paisley?” He peers over Jonathan’s shoulder and sees me standing in the living room. Not waiting for an invitation, he pushes through, but Jonathan stops him in the entryway. “You weren’t invited in here.” “Jonathan,” I warn. Reese sizes up Jonathan. They are the same height and almost the same build but Reese probably has about thirty more pounds of muscle on him. “I wasn’t looking for an invitation.” Reese’s voice is unlike anything I’ve ever heard come from him before. It’s menacing with a hint of “don’t fuck with me.” Stepping forward again, Jonathan stops him, this time, letting go of the door, closing it so he can push Reese backward, his hands connecting with his chest. “What the fuck is your problem?” Reese asks, pushing Jonathan back. Oh shit, oh shit! “Stop,” I say, working my way between the two alpha males staring each other down, but I have no success. “You’re my fucking problem. You think you can just dick around with anyone because you’re a celebrity? You’re fucking with people’s lives,” Jonathan yells. They are toe to toe now, their noses practically touching as venom shoots out of their mouths. “I’m not fucking around with her. Paisley means something to me,” Reese answers. A tingle of excitement runs up my spine from his honesty. “Until you get bored and move on to someone else.” “Fuck you,” Reese growls. “You know nothing about me, so don’t make any half-ass snap judgments.” “I know that you’re supposed to be in a relationship with Bellini but instead you’re fucking Paisley on the side.” “Jonathan,” I scold. “Stop it.” “What did you say?” Reese asks, his fists clenching. Not wanting them to get into an altercation, I put my arms between them and try to separate the small space between them. I’m barely able to squeeze my arms in the crevice that separates the two testosterone-filled men.
“You heard me. You’re just fucking Paisley on the side.” “That’s what I thought you said,” Reese seethes just as he cocks his fist back and plows Jonathan across the jaw, shooting him backward into the couch. Like the girl I am, I scream and cover my mouth in shock. Momentarily stunned, Jonathan grips his jaw and studies Reese before shooting off the couch and ramming into him like a bull out of a gate. Both men crash into the closed front door, causing the walls to shake. “Stop,” I yell. Not knowing what to do or how to stop two very large and muscular men from fighting without getting hurt, I scream, “Jonathan, get off him.” Wrestling upright, they both fight for the upper hand. Grunts escape them as they slam into each other, taking cheap shots, and pulling on each other ’s clothing. Fabric rips, fists connect, and straightup terror courses through me as I wonder how the hell this is going to stop. Knowing Reese can’t get injured weeks from the Olympics, I step in, praying that a random elbow doesn’t blast through my eye socket. “Stop, please stop,” I cry, pulling on Jonathan from behind, using all my weight to fall backward so his balance is thrown off. I’m not ready for him to give in to my tug so when he falls back with me, we both slam into the ground, the two-hundred-pound-plus man of muscles falling directly on top of me. The wind is knocked out of me before Jonathan is lifted up by the shirt and pushed to the other side of the living room by a very angry Reese King. From below, I stare at his ripped hoodie, exposing his tan skin, and the veins popping out of his neck. Pure violence is radiating through him. His hair is wild and his five o’clock shadow that is growing in makes him look menacing. Glaring at Jonathan, he says, “Stay the fuck off her.” Turning to me, Reese squats down and pushes a lock of hair out of my face and that’s when I notice his cheek is bruised and his chin is bleeding. I reach up and run my thumb across his face. He winces in pain, making me want to punch Jonathan myself. I allow Reese to help me stand so I can face Jonathan who has a bloody lip and nose as well as a swelling eye. His shirt is torn and he looks haggard, and maybe a little regretful. “Are you happy now?” I ask him. “Is this what you wanted?” “He’s the one who fucking punched me,” Jonathan says, pointing to Reese who is standing behind me. “Because you practically called her a whore,” Reese shoots back. I hold my arms to stop them both. “It doesn’t matter who started what. This is idiotic. You’re both grown-ass men and don’t need to be punching each other in the face.” “I refuse to stand here and let him insult you like that,” Reese says, wrapping his arms around my waist and conveying his words through his eyes. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Jonathan spits. “Paisley, have you seriously lost your mind? The dickhead is just playing you.” The hold Reese has on me tightens. Knowing I need to stand up to my best friend, I turn in Reese’s arms and say, “That’s where you’re wrong, Jonathan. This is more than just some pleasure fuck. Why can’t you see that?”
“Maybe because you’ve never had a serious relationship in your life. Maybe because the guy holding you is supposed to be connected to another person. Maybe because this scenario is so farfucking-fetched that it’s impossible to believe. Earth to Paisley: you’re screwing yourself over, your career. This is bound to catch up to you.” “Why can’t you just be supportive?” “That’s all I’ve been! But you keep doing the same thing over and over again, Paisley. You keep making wrong decisions.” Jonathan stands, a look of defeat in his stance. “It’s your life, Paisley, fuck it up all you want. But from now on, I’m out.” “What?” I ask, watching him grab his jacket. “I said I’m out. I’m done with your bullshit and trying to dig you out of trouble. You made your choice, you chose him over me, now live with it.” “It’s not a choice between you and Reese.” “Isn’t it?” He steps up to me, his eyes blazing. I can feel the anger radiating off Reese, ready to strike again. “It’s your job, your well-being over a fuck. I’ve worked my ass off to support you, and this is how you repay me? Well, I’m fucking done.” I quickly swipe away the tear that falls down my face. Reese holds me even tighter, looping his arms around my chest from behind. I grip his forearms and speak directly to Jonathan. “Maybe you weren’t the friend I thought you were, because to me, if the roles were reversed, you would never have to ‘pay me back’, Jonathan. I would help you because you’re my friend, and I’d expect nothing in return.” “Whatever.” He rolls his eyes and steps away. “I told you this was going to be a problem, that you needed to stay away from him for your career, but you didn’t listen to me.” Pointing at Reese, Jonathan says, “When she’s out on her ass without a job because you’re a selfish dick, just know, you could have walked away and spared her.” Swinging the door open, Jonathan walks out of the apartment, leaving a tumultuous wake behind him. *** “Hold still, Reese.” “Paisley, stop. I don’t need to ice anything, dammit. I want to make sure you’re okay. Please just let me hold you.” We’re lying in bed, I’ve patched up some of the cuts, and now I’m trying to get him to ice the welt under his eye, but he won’t stop trying to tend to me. In all honestly, the only thing that feels bruised right about now is my heart. I knew what I was getting into when I decided to give in to the temptation of being with Reese, but I never in my wildest dreams expected Jonathan to lash out so harshly. Yes, I thought we would get in a fight, but for him to say such hurtful things and get in a brawl with Reese, that was a reaction I wasn’t expecting. I’ve known Jonathan for years now and there has never been a situation in our relationship where we’ve yelled at each other, nothing like today. It scares me, but it also makes me mad. We are supposed to be best friends, but the words he said stung, stung in a place I never expected him to
touch. I never thought dating Reese was going to be easy but then again, I never thought it would break up my relationship with my best friend either. A part of me thinks that Jonathan needs to cool down and then we’ll talk it out. But there is a darker part of my heart that believes what I’ve done—what I put between us—is unfixable. “Just lie down, I’m fine. He just fell on top of me, I didn’t get injured.” Grabbing the curly strands of his hair, he sits up and slides his legs off the side of the bed. “I’m not talking about getting hurt physically, Paisley. Fuck!” He’s upset, like really upset. He’s only wearing a pair of shorts, his back is tense, the tattoo gracing his shoulder blade flexes with each movement he makes, and I wonder why he is so angry. “That shit scared me, Paisley. I don’t want you thinking we can’t handle this relationship. I need to know you’re not going to go running. I need to know you’re in this for the long run.” He pauses and shakes his head. “I need a drink.” He gets up off the couch and heads toward the kitchen. I pray Jonathan is gone for the night, hopefully working our fight off with some random girl he met at a bar. But when I hear Jonathan’s voice ring out from the kitchen, I realize I’m not that lucky. “Can’t leave when you’re unwanted, can you?” “Pretty sure the only one who has a problem with me being here is you, and for the record, I let her go when I found out about her job and how important it was to her. She was the one who came to me.” “Am I supposed to be happy about that?” Jonathan’s voice spits like venom, and I wonder if I should go out to the kitchen to diffuse yet another brawl that seems to be brewing. “It wasn’t an easy choice on her part.” Jonathan scoffs. “Please, I saw how she reacted the first day you texted her. She was fucking giddy from head to toe. She knew the consequences, and now she has to face them.” “Why are you being such a dick to her? She calls you her best friend? I don’t see one ounce of a best friend in you, all I see is a judgmental asshole. Do you really think she would be ruining her career over some school girl crush? I’ve known her for just a short period of time, and I already know she’s more intelligent than that. She doesn’t make decisions on a whim, she thinks about them and acts with her heart. Being with me hasn’t been easy for her, but she’s handled it professionally, to the point that Jasper has been so impressed with her that he’s asked her many times for production help. Is being with me the best decision she’s ever made? Probably not. But not because of her career. Because she deserves someone better than both you and me. I was just the lucky fuck she fell for.” He takes a breath as my heart hammers in my chest. “If I don’t get to be a part of her life anymore, it will be a loss I will feel for a lifetime. If I were you, I would get your shit together and let the petty stuff go. Paisley’s worth so much more than losing her over some stubborn attitude. Grow the fuck up and be the best friend she deserves, you self-centered prick.” The fridge door slams and the padding of Reese’s feet across the apartment’s hardwood floor resonates through the otherwise silent space. I’m tucked behind the door so I can hear the conversation better but quickly run to the bed where I jump on it and casually try to lie across the comforter before Reese returns. I twirl my hair around my finger and act casually, refraining from whistling because that would be too obvious.
Furious, Reese slams my bedroom door and then takes a sip of the water bottle in his hand. In fascination I watch as his throat contracts with each swallow, the fine sinew flexing under his control. When did swallowing water become so damn erotic? Everything inside of me heats up—not just from watching him drink water, but from the words he spoke to Jonathan. Ever since I can remember, my parents have told me to stop dreaming, to not waste my time on petty infatuations of breaking out of the shell they tried to hold me in. My grandpa was the only one who told me to think big, and then I met Jonathan. He captured the same kind of spirit I had for film and TV production. We were inseparable during college and when he graduated before me, he offered to be roommates. He watched me struggle through my last year with my internship and held me when I cried over The Incident. I never thought he would get angry at me, and say the things he said to me with such malice and hatred in his voice. But to hear Reese stick up for me, to put Jonathan in his place, it warms me so much it scares me. This man, in the matter of a few weeks, has swept me off my feet, bonded with me, made me laugh, made me realize it’s possible to share an incredibly deep connection with another human being—one so vibrant, so real—that I wonder if it’s all a dream. He’s made me feel protected, cherished . . . loved. “Paisley . . .” He walks toward me, flashes of remorse still in his eyes. Before he can continue with what he’s going to say, I press my fingers against his lips to still him. “I heard what you said to Jonathan.” My voice is just above a whisper. “Thank you, Reese. Thank you for sticking up for me and believing in me. There haven’t been many people in my life who’ve believed in me, including my own family. It means a lot to me.” Surprise registers across his face before his eyes lighten with understanding. “Of course I would believe in you, baby. You do the same for me. You cheer me on every day, why wouldn’t I do the same for you?” I sigh heavily, the weight of my job and our relationship resting on my shoulders. “I want this, Reese, more than anything, but I also don’t want to screw up this opportunity Jonathan set up for me. He really did stick his neck out for me to get me this job.” I can tell he hates that I care so much about Jonathan, even though the last hour hasn’t been the most pleasant of our friendship. “So what does that mean?” he asks, searching my eyes for answers. “If you want your space, I can do that, I can give you space, Paisley. It will hurt like a motherfucker, but I will give you anything you want. You just have to tell me what it is.” A smile tugs at my lips that morphs into a laugh. From the crease in his brow, I can tell that’s the last thing he expected for me to do. “What’s going on?” He looks confused as hell. “You.” I chuckle. “You have the reputation as the bad boy of the pool, you’re manly and rugged, and have this tattoo that makes women weak in the knees, but in actuality, you are the furthest thing from the image you portray. You are one giant softy.” He captures me and kisses the tip of my nose. “I’m only a softy with you, baby. No one else.” With a thoughtful expression, I reply, “You’re right. You’re kind of an ass to Bellini.” “She deserves it. She has too many people vying to stick their heads up her ass, figured it would be better to ground her. That and she annoys the shit out of me.”
“Stay here tonight and hold me.” “Does that mean you don’t want to kick me out of your life just yet?” “Why the hell would I want to kick you out of my life? Because you got in a fight with Jonathan? You were only trying to protect me, Reese.” “Yeah, but you kind of chose me over him. I wasn’t sure if you were regretting that decision. You two have a history, he means a lot to you, and I don’t want to get in the way of that.” “Too late,” I joke. “Jonathan and I will figure things out. We’ve had our ups and downs. He may have said some things he’ll regret later on, but we’ll get through it once the shock of it all wears down. I also owe him an apology for putting him in a position he doesn’t deserve.” I sigh and press my hand to my forehead. “Ugh, this is so stressful. Why can’t you just be ‘available’ and not a part of my job? It would be so much easier.” “Finding your soulmate is never easy, Paisley. The luckiest people have to work at it, because once you find that true match, you will be that much more grateful for the journey you took to find them.” All I want to do is go all school girl on his ass, melt into his arms, and sing melodies of love and promises I intend on keeping, but I refrain. Let’s not scare the ruggedly charming man just yet with crazy, psychotic girl tendencies. Instead, I kiss his lips softly, loving how he can be so soft, so sweet, and so thoughtful in choosing his words. “You really know how to lay on the charm. Did you go to finishing school for hot guys to learn that?” “Three years, graduated with honors,” he jokes, not missing a beat. “You’re telling me my hard work is paying off?” “If your goal is to make me feel all giddy inside then mission accomplished.” He kisses the top of my head. “My goal in life is to bury my cock as hard and deep as possible into that sweet pussy of yours as much as I possibly can. Want to help me accomplish it?” Hope runs through his hazel eyes. That’s one goal I will let him try to accomplish every day, no qualms here.
Chapter Twenty-Three **Reese** “Despite the bruised face you still won’t tell me how you got a few days ago, I’m impressed. You’re hitting splits I haven’t seen you swim since you were twenty. Given your age and this being your last Olympics, I’m kind of flabbergasted you’re stronger than ever.” My coach is right. Ever since I met Paisley, it’s like she’s injected me with some kind of superhuman strength. I feel stronger, lighter, faster, and it almost seems like I’m preparing for my first Olympics. My body feels fantastic, like it can swim another two hours, but it’s my mind that’s starting to crack, bringing fear to the forefront of my mind, playing with the mental game I’ve worked tirelessly to establish. I keep telling myself, not this Olympics, not this go around. Everything is going to pan out. I’m not going to let outside factors come into my game day prep. But that’s easier said than done. I’m trying hard to keep things steady in my personal life but it’s more difficult than I expected, given I’m being forced into a fake relationship with a self-obsessed asshat and hiding a relationship I want to shout to the rooftops about. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about Paisley. She tries to pass off her fight with Jonathan as something that will iron out over time, but I can tell she’s upset, that their little scuffle has put a damper on her usually bright outlook. Last night, although loving and sweet, there was a lack of spark in those steely eyes of hers, which puts a huge amount of worry on my shoulders. I’ve just found this woman; I want the chance to continue to get to know all the idiosyncrasies that make her Paisley. And then there is Bellini to worry about. “Two more days until you leave for San Antonio. Are you feeling good?” “I am.” I continue to towel off, letting the sun dry my skin as well. “I’m feeling healthy, strong, and calm.” “Good. The next two days we’re going to push you harder than before. Make sure to hit the chamber after each practice and refuel. It’s more important than ever right about now.” I smile at my coach and grip his shoulder. “I know, Coach. This isn’t my first time.” “But it’s your last,” he says sadly. “I want it to be your best.” Isn’t that the fucking truth? “Me too.” “How’s your mental game?” Of course Coach Fern would ask about that. He knows it’s my biggest weakness; it’s the sole reason why I don’t have a gold medal sitting in my trophy case back home; it’s the reason I’m known as the biggest choke artist in Olympic history, and the reason why I’m breaking my neck this last go around in the pool. “Solid,” I answer, knowing damn well he can tell when I’m lying.
Eyeing me skeptically, he says, “What is it? Don’t tell me it’s a girl.” I wince, knowing the number-one rule with Coach: do not let the female race affect my swim. From day one, he’s been adamant about it. “Shit.” He chuckles and guides me over to the bleachers where we both take a seat. His reaction is light-hearted, something I wasn’t expecting. “I was wondering when this day was going to come. You’ve finally broken my number-one rule. Hell, I’m proud of you for making it this far. Is it that Bellini girl?” I shake my head, feeling like I’m about to let down my coach. He’s been like a second father to me growing up. I don’t want him to make him think less of me. “Can you keep this between us?” “Who the hell am I going to tell? You’re my number-one project, Reese. Do you really think I’m going to ruin that for a little gossip?” “True.” I laugh. I clear my throat and continue. “Uh, everything between Bellini and me is fake.” Silence sits between us for a few seconds. “Oh, thank God.” Coach Fern let’s out a long breath, causing me to chuckle next to him. “I knew you had more sense than to hitch yourself to that haggard witch.” “Don’t give me too much credit. Pretty sure I’m falling for her assistant, my assistant.” “Paisley?” Coach asks, and I nod with confirmation. “Well, I can see that. She’s quite the looker and seems to have a good head on her shoulders. I’ve seen the way she looks at you, but then again, I’ve seen how almost every girl looks at you. That damn tattoo you got on the off-season has been my worst enemy.” I laugh some more. “But you’ve lasted a long time, never bringing girls into the mix. What’s changed?” “Everything,” I reply, leaning back on the bleachers, letting the sun caress my body with its rays. “I’ve never felt like this before with a woman. I want to protect her, take care of her, be with her every fucking second of the day.” “Sounds like love,” Coach says with a twinkle in his eye. “I have a feeling it’s getting there, and I haven’t even known her that long.” “Sometimes you just know. So what’s the problem? She’s your assistant? Just fire her, problem solved. Let’s get you back into training with a clear mind.” “It’s not that easy.” I chuckle. Coach always tries to find the easiest solution to every problem. “She’s had a rough go of it trying to get a job in TV production. This is her one in with Wally Rose Productions and she’s doing great at it, so she doesn’t want to burn the bridge. Plus, there is Bellini to consider.” Coach purses his lips together and stares out at the pool, pondering my current predicament. Sighing, he pats my shoulder and says, “Well, you’re in a bit of a clusterfuck.” Laughing, I reply, “As if I didn’t know that already.” “You can’t make it easy on us, can you? You always have to have something up your sleeve to throw a wrench into our plans.” “What’s life if it’s not a roller coaster?” I ask. “A pleasant merry-go-round with no drama.” Isn’t that the fucking truth? ***
“Ten more, come on, man,” Hollis calls out, pushing me to my limits in the weight room. I’m dragging ass today, especially after my morning workout. My training regimen has picked up drastically and even though I was feeling great this morning, I’m starting to feel my age. Two-a-days aren’t as easy as they used to me. “Fuck,” I breathe out on my last rep of pull-ups, lowering myself down to the training room floor. Hollis pats me on the back as I’m bent over, trying to let my beating heart even out. “Dude, you’re looking old today.” “I’m feeling old,” I reply. “Thirty-two is no joke.” Hopping up on the bar, Hollis starts counting out reps with ease. “I wonder what it will be like to live in my thirties. Maybe I will grow a goatee, maybe go Tom Sellack on people’s asses and sport the mustache.” Mind you, he will be thirty next year. He talks about it as if it’s some far-off concept. “You would look like a giant dickhead,” I answer honestly, working my way to the ground for some plank work. I lower to my elbows and balance on my toes, stretching out along a mat, hovering inches above it. Wasting no time, I press the start button on the stopwatch on my wrist so I can time myself properly. Huffing out his pull-ups, he says, “Maybe, but a dignified dickhead at that.” Finishing up his reps, he hops off the bar and comes next to me to start his planks. Sweat pours off my brow as I exert my body at the end of my workout. I balance on one arm and pull the hem of my shirt up to wipe my forehead, welcoming the cool air that hits my burning abs. “What are you doing the rest of the day?” Hollis asks, trying to distract us both from the plank work we’re doing. “My girl is coming over later. We’re going to hang out. I want to soak up as much of her as possible before I leave for camp. I also have a production meeting to discuss more Rio shit.” “Is her roommate still being a dick?” I told Hollis all about Jonathan’s asshole ways the day after the fight, going into great detail about him being a massive dick to Paisley. We both agreed that’s not how a friend treats another friend, despite how frustrated or annoyed you are. Hollis then started going into a theory that didn’t settle well with me. He’s convinced Jonathan has feelings for Paisley and that’s why he’s being such a dick. Not wanting to even think about that possibility, I ignored his theory, but of course, being the jealous prick I am, I kept harping on it, letting it ferment in my mind until I couldn’t take it anymore and asked Paisley if she thought he was in love with her. Not my best moment. I looked like an ass but I had to know. She told me there was no way that was even possible given their past history, but I still have my doubts. Why else would a guy blow up like that? Was it really over her job, or was he jealous? Either way, he didn’t have a chance in hell of stealing Paisley from me. I would make it my mission to make sure that never happened in case he did have feelings for her. To hell if I would be the loser at the end of the romantic comedy who lost to the “best friend.” Fuck. No. “Yeah, he’s still being a dick. That’s why she’s been spending so much time at my place. Not that I’m complaining. I prefer it that way, actually. I just feel like she’s holding back from me a little. Despite how much I hate it, I know her relationship with Jonathan is important, and ever since their
fight something’s been missing.” “Do you think she has feelings for him?” Hollis chuckles, knowing damn well I don’t care for his stupid jokes that jab at me. Shifting my weight to one arm, I lift my opposite hand and punch Hollis in the shoulder causing him to topple over and laugh out loud. “You’re such an asshole,” I grumble as my time is up. Falling to the mat, I turn over on my back and look up at the ceiling. “She doesn’t have feelings for him. They’re just friends.” Still laughing, Hollis says, “I know, but fuck it’s fun messing with you.” “Hey,” the distinct deep voice of Bodi Banks says from above us. Looking skyward, Bodi stands in front of us, clutching his water bottle, a towel slung over his shoulder. He looks like he just got done with a workout himself. “What’s up, Bodi?” I ask, standing to my feet. “I have a question for you,” Bodi says, getting straight to the point. He’s never been much of a talker, at all actually. He’s a nice guy but very quiet. When he’s in the pool, he listens to his coach, does his workout and leaves. There is not much socializing on his end. But I’m the one with the poor image, probably because Bodi’s work at the local Boys and Girls Club is more known than my charity work. Pretty sure he volunteers every Thursday. “Are you asking him out?” Hollis asks, standing up as well. “I tried already today and struck out, but you’re thicker than me, maybe he will give you a chance.” Hollis and Bodi, now there’s a couple of men that never got along and not because Hollis hasn’t tried. Bodi just doesn’t get Hollis’s sense of humor. There is something dark and twisted about Bodi, you can see it in his eyes. He’s . . . jaded. I know he lives in the area, lost his parents when he was young, and he’s very, very private about his personal life. Oh, and his sister is an artist. Paisley informed me of that little tidbit, that and his sister is in a committed relationship with Paisley’s new friend, Lauren. But that’s all I know about the man, as he’s fairly mute. Bodi just glances at Hollis without acknowledging his question and then turns back to me. Getting down to business, he says, “I know someone who is interested in Bellini’s seamstress position. She could really use the work, and she’s good. Do you think you could put in a good word for her?” Confused, I ask, “What seamstress position?” “Something about religious wear.” Bodi looks extremely uncomfortable, you can tell he’s stepping out of his comfort zone. “Oh, her dog clothes.” I refrain from rolling my eyes. “Sure, not a problem, man. What’s her name? I will text her right now.” I walk over to the cubby where I stored my phone and water bottle and pull up a text message to Bellini. Bodi follows me and clears his throat. “Um, it’s Ruby Hearts. She applied this morning. She actually knows my sister through the Boys and Girls Club.” “Nice, let me send this over to her real quick.” Typing in my phone, Bodi and Hollis both wait for me to finish, clearly unable to hold a conversation between the two of them. Reese: Bellini, someone applied to your seamstress position this morning, Ruby Hearts. She
comes highly recommended. Think you can give her a good look? Maybe offer her the job? I don’t ask much from Bellini, so I’m hoping she can follow through on this. I don’t know why, but Bodi stepped out of his comfort zone by asking this favor, and I want to be able to help him out as much as possible. “Do you know Ruby well?” I ask. He pulls on the back of his neck and nods casually. “Yeah.” See, not much of a talker. “Oooo, do you like her?” Hollis asks like an asshat, giddy with a smile from ear to ear. Bodi glances up at Hollis, not even breaking a smile. “She’s a friend,” he bites out and then turns to me. “Thanks for putting in a good word. I appreciate it.” “Not a problem at all. Are you ready for camp?” “Yeah, my coach had me doing repeats all morning. Pretty sure I’m ready to taper just about now. What about you?” “Same here. I’ll be happy when these two-a-days are over. I’m starting to feel my age.” Bodi is four years younger than me, and I’m fairly certain he’ll give the games one more go before he retires. No doubt in my mind he will be able to kill it during his swim off-season as well. He’s one of the greats; his medal count proves it. I might have medaled in every race I’ve ever swum but I don’t have a gold like he does. Bodi nods and looks at the ground while he speaks. “I’ll be sad to see you go. You’ve always pushed me to do better.” “Same here, man.” I tap his shoulder just as my phone beeps with a message. Taking a glance, I see it’s from Bellini. Bellini: The only reason I will even consider her is because she has a decent amount of experience, not because you suggested her. I roll my eyes. Reese: Thank you, Bellini. She’s a good girl and will work hard for you. I have no clue if that’s true, but what I do know is, if Bodi is willing enough to put his stamp of approval on her then she’s good enough for Bellini. Bellini: Ugh, it’s so hard to say no to you. I will get her started right away. She better work out. Reese: Give her a chance. Bellini: I will. Want to get dinner tonight? Maybe we can talk about our future together. Christ, she is so beyond delusional.
Reese: I have plans with Hollis, but thanks for the offer. Talk to you later. Yeah, I’m being nice to her only because the nicer I am to her, the nicer she is to Paisley and right about now, I would do anything to make Paisley’s life easier. She’s putting a lot on the line to be with me, so if I can soothe her situation by being nicer to Bellini, then I will. Facing Bodi, I say, “Looks like your girl is getting a chance.” “Really?” he asks, his face brightening for a second before it turns back to neutral. “Yeah, I’m assuming Bellini will be calling her in the next few days. Just warn Ruby that if she’s working for Bellini, then she’s going to have to have thick skin and if anything, Bellini expects perfection. I hope Ruby is up for it.” “She is.” Bodi smiles wistfully for a second while he thinks about Ruby, and I wonder if there is more to their relationship than just friendship. “Thanks.” Bodi holds out his hand, and I shake it. “Seriously, no big deal. I’m going to head off to the showers. I will see you at camp.” “Yeah, take care.” Hollis and I both take off toward the locker room, leaving Bodi to train some more; the man is a machine. I remember when I used to spend hours in the weight room, strengthening every muscle with precision. But that was years ago. Now, I do what I need to do and then get out of there. I have a girl to cuddle and a mental game to perfect. “He’s strange. Can’t trust a guy who doesn’t laugh at my jokes,” Hollis whispers while looking behind us toward the gym we just left. “Maybe because your jokes aren’t funny.” Stopping his forward progression, Hollis stands in the hallway, not happy with my jab. “That’s not funny, man. Take that back. You know I say funny shit.” I just shrug my shoulders, fucking around with him. “You take that shrug back.” He points his finger at me. “You take it back right now.” “How is someone supposed to take a shrug back?” I’m completely amused right now. “By shrugging in the opposite direction, now take it back.” “Shrugging in the opposite direction? Seriously? You know that would just be making the same motion. It’s all just up and down. I’m not taking it back. Now stop acting like a little bitch and let’s go.” “Oh no,” Hollis holds up his hand. “You can shower by yourself today.” He says this just as someone walks by us, procuring a weird look in our direction. Shaking my head, I hiss at Hollis, “Don’t make us look like fucking creeps. Christ, man.” “Don’t blame me for what’s happening right now. You’re the one who didn’t agree with my ability to be funny. I’m the funniest fuck this side of the Mississippi.” Hollis walks by me, brushing my shoulder in the process. Following behind him, I say, “If you were funny, then you wouldn’t have to point it out to everyone. Do you really think Jimmy Fallon goes around telling people how funny he is? No, he just shows it, he doesn’t say it.” “Fuck Jimmy Fallon,” Hollis calls out and then stops. Turning to me, he shakes his head. “I take that
back. I love Jimmy. You know,” he looks up at the ceiling in thought, “I’m actually jealous of Justin Timberlake and not because he has a voice of an angel, or the dance moves of a male escort, or how good he looks in a chapeau—” “Don’t say chapeau, you dickhead.” Hollis ignores me and continues, “I’m jealous because he can call up Jimmy anytime he wants. Or he can rap with him, putting Eminem to shame. Does Jimmy even know how good I can rap? I should make a video, maybe he would give me a chance at a bro-mance.” There is something seriously wrong with this man. “Maybe win another gold and then get on his show, I’m sure you can tell him then.” Hollis snaps his fingers at me. “God, you’re brilliant. I will have my publicist get on that. Look out, J Tizzle. I’m coming for you.” Taking off toward the locker, Hollis walks away with more pep in his step. Following behind him, I get another text. God, I hope it’s not Bellini. Paisley: Won’t be over until really late. Bellini has me organizing her sewing room for a new seamstress that’s starting tomorrow. She wants her working in her house so she can keep an eye on her. I will have to take a rain check on dinner. Fuck. I do something good for someone else and look what happens. My plans are ruined. Reese: Get to my place as soon as you can. I need to cuddle the hell out of you tonight. Paisley: Looking forward to it, handsome. Christ, I have it bad for this woman.
Chapter Twenty-Four **PAISLEY** “Can you stop with those dishes and get your ass out here?” Reese calls from the pool area. The last week has been a whirlwind of sleeping over at Reese’s primarily to avoid Jonathan at all costs, helping production prepare for Rio, and keeping Bellini in line. After the whole Lauren incident, Jasper had a conversation with me about Bellini’s actions. He asked me to be on top of everything she was doing and to report back. He wasn’t thrilled at all with the way she treated Lauren and me. He was just waiting for Lauren to file some kind of lawsuit but I knew Lauren wouldn’t. She is pretty chill. We grabbed coffee the other day, and she told me all about Ruby, Bellini’s new seamstress for her doggy wear. According to Eva, she is pretty sure something is going on between Ruby and Bodi, but she can’t be quite positive since Bodi is so closed off. I met Ruby yesterday and all I have to say is that I’m absolutely in love with her. She is a breath of fresh air. Extremely quirky, positive, and loves crafts. She actually works down at the Boys and Girls Club by holding art classes with the kids. That’s where she and Bodi met. I didn’t dig too deep into her relationship with Bodi because I just met her, but I plan on finding out more about what’s been going on. I’m nosey, and I’m proud of it. It’s nice to add to my friends list. I’ve always had Jonathan and that’s pretty much it, so it’s been nice to meet some new people, some people I know I can trust. I’m slowly becoming very close to Melony. She covers for me when I’m on the phone with Reese, and she’s always calming my racing heart when I feel I can’t handle the pressure anymore. Plus, she’s been a great outlet to talk to when it comes to Jonathan. I don’t talk to Reese about it much because I don’t want to worry him. He has so much on his plate already, the last thing I need is for him to worry about Jonathan. But it’s an issue in my life. This is the longest I’ve gone without talking to him. At first, I thought we would get over what we said to each other. I gave it a few mornings but when he stopped walking around naked, I knew there was something seriously wrong. I tried talking to him about it and all he asked was if I was still with Reese. I told him yes and then he walked away, end of discussion. Both Melony and Reese mentioned Jonathan having feelings for me, but I know that’s not the truth, because if it were, he would have been upset over the fake boyfriend I pretended to have when Jonathan saw Reese’s red sweatshirt on the floor of my bedroom. It’s hard to understand our relationship. I truly think Jonathan was hurt that I defended Reese over him, given our history. But honestly, Jonathan didn’t really give me a choice because of the nasty things he said about me. Reese stood up for me and wouldn’t let Jonathan drag me through the mud, how can I not take his side? Even though Jonathan did say things borderline unforgivabe, I still feel sad it got to that point. It’s my fault he became so mad by doing exactly what he told me not to do. I can understand his frustration and deep down, I really feel terrible for lying to him, and I know it’s been affecting me. Reese has noticed, he will ask me occasionally how I’m doing, if I’m okay, and every time I tell him
I’m fine, even though a little piece of me is mourning the loss of Jonathan. It’s hard to see someone every day of your life and then just stop cold turkey. I knew he was going to be mad, but I didn’t think he would be this mad. “Babes, I’m serious. This is my last night, come sit with me.” Reese’s voice rings impatience so I turn off the sink water, dry my hands off, and then join him out back. Surrounding the pool area, there are little lights in the planters, casting a light glow in the dark night. Reese is sitting in a lounge chair that overlooks the ocean. It’s our favorite way to spend our nights before we go to bed, cuddled together and listening to the ocean waves, tonight is no exception. “Hey, sorry about that. I just wanted to make sure everything was clean for you.” “I could have someone else do that,” he replies, pulling me down on his lap. I snuggle close to his chest and rest my head on his shoulder while he wraps one arm around my back and rests the other on my thigh. “So much better.” He kisses the top of my head, and I melt into his touch. “You’re all packed, and I placed your passport in your backpack.” “Paisley,” he stops me. “I don’t want to talk about work shit.” “Sorry.” I chuckle. “What do you want to talk about?” “Let’s play a little game of truth or dare.” Knowing exactly where this is going, I say, “Let me guess, your dare is going to be have sex with me?” His chest vibrates with laughter under me; it’s like music to my ears, deep and rugged, everything about it is sexy. “Well, not right off the bat, but that’s my end goal, always with you, baby.” He tickles my side. “Come on, have a little fun with me.” Sitting up and straddling his lap, I place my hands on his chest and say, “Okay, I’m in.” Staring down at him, his eyes flame with desire from my position, my pussy placed right over his growing erection. Just to play, I grind my hips on him a little, causing a hiss of pleasure from him. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, Paisley.” His voice heeds warning. Ignoring the erection pressing up against me, I say, “You go first.” Adjusting his body, he grips my hips and stares up at me, his hazel eyes shining in the moonlight and the scruff of his beard enticing me. I love the way it feels against my skin, scraping, igniting my nerves with a sensual pleasure. A grin spreads across his handsome face as he asks, “Truth or dare?” I don’t want to give him the pleasure of a dare right away so I say, “Truth.” “Figured.” He chuckles. “All right, what is your most embarrassing sexual experience?” “You really want to know?” I raise an eyebrow at him in question. “Of course,” he responds casually. “All right.” I shrug. “Back in college, I was giving a guy a blow job—” “Maybe I don’t want to know,” he practically growls, interrupting me. I shake my finger at him. “Uh-uh, you asked, so I have to answer.” “I’m good.” He waves me off. “You sucked some guy off, good enough for me. I really don’t need to hear about your perfect lips on some other guy’s dick. They belong to me and me alone.” Rolling my eyes, I cross my arms over my chest and say, “You asked, so I’m going to tell. I snorted
out his cum.” Reese’s eyes bug out. “What? How the fuck does that happen?” “I thought you didn’t want to know,” I tease. “Well, now you have me intrigued with how the hell cum comes out of your nose.” “It wasn’t pleasant. But I’m pretty sure I was mid sneeze when it happened, sucked some shit up the back of my nose and then squirted it out of my nose. Not my finest moment. The guy didn’t want to see me after that. I mean, who really wants to date a girl who sneezes out his semen?” “Fuck.” Reese chuckles and rubs his face. “I would keep you around just as a party trick.” “Wow, thanks.” I laugh with him. “Truth or dare?” “Dare, of course.” He smirks, causing my breath to hitch just from how gorgeous he looks with his grin spread across his face. “I dare you to take my bra off—” “Shit, that’s easy.” He goes to take my bra off but I stop him. “I dare you to take my bra off and stare at my tits during this game without touching them.” “Are you fucking crazy, woman?” Distress rings through his features and his voice. “You have to do it, you chose dare.” Without pausing, I grab the hem of my dress and yank it off, leaving me in my bra and matching thong. Biting on his bottom lip he stares at me in frustration. “You’re not playing fair.” “There were no rules laid out, not my fault. Now strip me.” Reluctantly, his fingers find the front clasp of my bra and undo it quickly, letting my breasts pop free. Taking off the straps, he frees me of my bra and tosses it into a pile with my dress. He runs his hand over his face as he stares at my chest. Thanks to the light breeze coming off the ocean, my nipples are incredibly hard, making my piercings stand out that much more. “I really hate you right now.” Sighing, he says, “Truth or dare.” “Truth,” I respond, not skipping a beat. His jaw is tight. He so badly wants me to say dare, but I refuse to give in. “Have you ever masturbated to my picture?” I roll my eyes. “No.” “And why not?” “You get one question, buster.” Her stares at my chest, and I can see him weakening. “Come on, baby, you’re already torturing me with your tits. Give me a follow-up question, and I swear to God, if you say something like you’ve twiddled yourself crazy to a picture of Bodi Banks, I will refuse to ever fuck you again.” That causes me to throw my head back and laugh. Reese just groans as my hips move on his rapidly stiffening erection. Mumbling, he says, “You’re killing me. Just answer the damn question.” “I haven’t masturbated to a picture of you because I’m either at your place having sex, or we are doing FaceTime. But if you want me to, while you’re gone, I will stroke myself while staring at a picture of you. Would you like that?” “No,” he huffs. “You’re not allowed to touch yourself unless I’m around.” “I make no guarantees.” I grin, then ask, “Truth or dare.”
“Dare.” “Hmm.” I tap my finger to my chin, already aware of what I’m going to do but I like to prolong his wait. “What to do, what to do—” “Paisley . . .” he warns. “Oh, I got it.” I shift on his lap, getting more comfortable. “I dare you to hold the back of the chair and let me grind on you for one minute.” He shakes his head. “Fuck, no. Not happening.” “What do you mean not happening?” His eyes harden as he says, “Do you really think I’m going to let you hump my hard-as-fuck dick right now, topless, while I do nothing but just sit here, with no chance of touching you?” “Uh yeah,” I answer nonsensically. “It’s called truth or dare, you have to follow through.” “I choose truth then.” “You can’t do that.” I chuckle from how adamant he is. “Once you choose you have to follow through. So you can either let me grind up against you, or I can go home.” “You wouldn’t,” he dares. “I so fucking would, handsome.” Grinding his teeth together, he reaches behind him and locks his hands over the back of the chair. Feminine pride surges through me from being able to tame an alpha male who makes my insides quiver. “Good boy.” I wink at him and then pull up the stopwatch on my phone. Pressing start, I start my torturous dare. Running my hands up to the back of my head where I pull my hair together, I move my hips on top of his and prop my chest out just to torture him some more. It doesn’t take him long to become fully erect. In a matter of seconds I can feel his cock pressing through his thin athletic shorts up into my pussy, begging to be freed of the confines of fabric blocking him. Even though this was meant to torture him, I know I’m wet and pleasure starts to move through my bones just from the friction I’m creating between us. Glancing down at Reese, his eyes are fixated on my breasts—heady with lust—his chest muscles pulsing with desire, holding back the thin layer of control he has left. “Mmm,” I quietly moan, closing my eyes for a second and rolling my head back, loving the way his dick is providing pressure against my soaking clit. I know if I pull away, I would see how wet I am on his shorts, my arousal marking him. “Fuck,” he says out of breath. “Hell, Paisley.” The tension in his muscles grows tighter, the tick in his jaw is moving at a more rapid pace, and I can feel a pulse in his cock with every single grind of my hips. Moving my hips over his crotch has me panting; it has me throbbing to the depths of my center, causing every synapsis to fire up with need. My body starts to tingle; my limbs start to turn into rubber, and my grinding picks up at a rapid pace as I feel like I can’t catch my breath. Every move, every swipe of his thick length against my folds, is a blast of pleasure through my body. Falling forward, I grip his hips and thrust harder, spurring on the inner orgasm building rapidly.
I’m dry humping the shit out of Reese and loving every second of it. My toes start to curl, my stomach bottoms out, and the only true feeling I have is between my legs, soaking up all the erotic pleasure flowing between us. I’m on the verge of tipping over, ready to fall when my phone goes off, indicating one minute is up. Before I can finish, Reese scoots me off him and puts a little distance between us. “What are you doing?” I ask, short of breath and a throbbing clit practically screaming at me to finish. Between us, in his navy blue shorts, his cock stands at attention, and even in the dark night you can see our arousal. It’s sexy, it’s hot, it only spurs me on more. “One minute, that’s all you got. Now what do you want, truth or dare?” he asks me, turning the tables in a way I didn’t expect. I sit on the lounge, my pussy begging me to stick my fingers between my legs and finish what I started, but I don’t want to show him how desperate I am. So to please him, because I know he wants to be pleased, I say, “Dare.” A grin spreads across his face and I get ready to finish what I started. I know he can’t hold out that long—his dick is screaming to be freed of his shorts. “Good choice.” He winks. I scoot closer to him, ready to hop back up on his lap. “Paisley, baby . . .” he pauses for effect, “I dare you to howl like a wolf.” I’m halfway moving to his lap when I stop myself and look up at him. “What?” “You heard me, howl like a wolf.” “You’re kidding.” “I’m really not.” He presses his finger to my nose like it’s a button and then leans back in the lounge chair casually, fucking dick poking through his shorts. It’s quite the vision. “Howl, baby.” Nostrils flared in annoyance, I sit back on the lounge and hate every second of this. But I know if I howl really quickly, I can dare him to let me finish, so sucking up my pride and self-respect, I tilt my head back and howl. “Aaarrrrrooooooo!” Heat washes over me from embarrassment as Reese claps his hands together and laughs . . . erection still present. I really dislike him right now. Poking him in the chest, I say, “Stop it. My turn.” He quiets down and I say, “I dare you—” “Excuse me, I believe I get to pick truth or dare.” “We both know you’re going to pick dare, Reese.” “Incorrect, baby. I chose truth.” The smarmy look on his face is smack worthy right about now. Huffing out my frustration, I say, “Fine, have you ever jacked off over visions of me?” “Yes,” he says with heat in his eyes. “The day we saw each other at the beach, when I went to clean myself off, I jacked off so fucking hard because there was no way I would make it through lunch with you in that bikini if I didn’t.” I’m breathless, stunned, electrically charged, so fucking horny for the man sitting in front of me that I can’t hold it back anymore. The words pop out of me before I can stop them. “Fuck me, Reese.” Tsking at me, he says, “I don’t think we’re done with our game. Give me one more truth or dare, Paisley.” So beyond done with this game, I say, “Dare and make it quick.”
He nods and looks around his backyard, contemplating what he wants me to do. Turning back to me, his eyes light up and he says, “Strip down and go skinny-dipping with me.” I don’t need to say anything, he already knows my answer. Hell, anyone within a two-mile radius can probably feel my answer, from the horny and needy vibe vibrating off me. Standing, I pull down my thong and toe it to the side. I turn toward the pool, glance over my shoulder at Reese—who’s perusing my body, his hand rubbing his jaw—and dive into the pool, letting the cold water hit me hard, cooling off some of the fire lighting up in my body. Reese makes quick work of his shorts and stands at the edge of the pool, naked and in all his glory. His body reeks of power, every muscle in his body flexes as he gets ready to enter the pool. Diving in head first, I wait for him to rise to the surface, which he does by swimming to me underwater and surfacing in front of my face. Not taking a second to let him catch his breath, I wrap my legs around his waist and connect our mouths, pulling on the back of his head so harshly that our teeth clash at first. I don’t care. I welcome the pain. “Damn, baby. You’re going to knock a tooth out,” he says in between kisses. “I don’t care. I need your cock, Reese.” He chuckles and says, “You know you did this to yourself, right? You’re the one who decided on grinding on my dick.” “But you’re the one who broke the contact. I was seconds from having an amazing orgasm. You stole that from me, and I want it back.” “My poor baby,” he coos in my ear right before he grips the lobe with his teeth and pulls down. “Do you want me to fix the ache between your legs, Paisley? Do you want me to end the burning sensation building up inside you?” Biting again, he says in a low hum, “Do you want me to fuck you?” “Yes,” I respond, letting his lips glide down my neck to my collarbone. I’m getting ready for him to attack my other ear when he lifts me out of the pool and places me on a pretzel-shaped floaty that is in his pool. “What are you doing?” I ask, trying not to flop around too much. “Hold still,” he demands, stopping me from moving. With both his hands on my legs, he slides me down on the pretzel and then spreads my legs to either side, exposing my burning sex to the cool night air. Gliding me to the shallow end, he stands before me, winks, and then lowers his head to my inner thigh. “Ohhhh,” I moan as his beard rubs against my sensitive skin and his lips ride up to my bikini line. Despite the cold water I’m resting in, I start to break out in a sweat as his breath hovers over my aching pussy. With his fingers, he spreads my lips and very slowly places his tongue over my clit. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t even flinch, he just rests there, his tongue against my bundle of nerves. “Reese,” I moan, trying to move in the water but he holds me still. “For fuck’s sake, just get it over with.” Never in my life has my clit throbbed so hard to the point I want to cry. I need release. I’m begging for release with my body. Reese moves his tongue along my clit with his tongue flat, not applying too much pressure, just enough to let me know he’s down there. Noted, I get it. You’re between my legs, buddy, stop torturing
me. Licking upward, he runs the length of my slit and then pulls away, his beard scratching my thighs. I’m about to scream when he performs the same movement, placing the flat of his tongue on my clit and not moving. “Oh fuck,” I say in distress, trying to encourage him to keep moving by threading my fingers in the curl of his hair, but he refuses to let up. At the same pace, he runs his tongue up my slit and repeats the process, over and over again. His tongue never pressing hard enough, his mouth never working fast enough, only providing me a long, arduous torture where I can’t feel anything in my body anymore. Every last inch of my body is vexed, my limbs aren’t able to move, and if it weren’t for the float providing me buoyancy, I would be drowning right about now. I cry out in frustration, my head moving back and forth, my hips begging for more, my pussy desperate for more. “Please,” I beg softly, trying to convey the pure torture with one syllable. I must finally get through to him because right when I think he’s about to do one more round of misery, he forms a point with his tongue and flicks my clit rapidly at a rate that is incomprehensible. “Oh fuck, oh fuck!” I cry out, my head lifting off the float, shooting my gaze to where he’s looking up at me, his tongue running a mile a minute. His eyes blaze up at me and his fingers grip into my ass, keeping me in place. I don’t have time to even breathe as white-hot pleasure rips through my entire body, splitting me in half and sending me into a downward spiral of erotic bliss. He pounds into my clit with his tongue. I roar in euphoria, letting everyone in the area know that Reese King is fucking me with his tongue to the point that I’m pretty sure my clit it about to fly off. “Yes! Fuck, yes!” I scream as shots of bliss run through me. Twitch after twitch rocks my body until my pussy is so sensitive, I can’t take anymore. “You have to stop,” I say, as my orgasm still rocks through me. “Oh God, you have to stop.” He smiles and slows down his tongue, going back to leisurely long licks as my body quivers under his mouth, my orgasm still raging inside me, slowing down with each pass of his tongue until there is nothing left. Gently, he kisses my inner thighs where his beard rubs against them and then pulls away. I must be a real treat to look at, sprawled across the float, legs wide, arms like noodles. I wouldn’t be surprised to see my tongue hanging out of my mouth. “How was that, baby?” Reese asks, pulling me off the float and encasing me in his arms. He floats us around the pool, his erection pressing against me with need. “I think you know,” I answer, completely unable to support myself. “Sounded like it was good. Watching you come apart on my tongue like that, sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, Paisley. I almost came watching you.” “Mmm . . .” is all I say. He nudges my cheek with his. “Hey, you can’t sleep.” “Why not? It’s not my fault you literally fucked my bones to boil. I have nothing in me right now.” Pushing us to the edge of the pool, he presses my back against the side and lines up our bodies. “If that’s the case, I’ll just have to fuck you against the cool tile of the pool.” Before I know what’s
happening, his erection shoots forward as he spreads my legs, filling me whole. “Yesssssss,” I sigh, holding on to his neck for support. I don’t move, I just let him do all the work as he plows into me, his hips never once giving in until he grunts out my name and buries his head in my neck, falling over quickly. As the moon lights up our erotic bubble, I think about how far we’ve come in such a short amount of time. I never thought I would be this addicted to another human being but Reese King has proven me wrong. Every moment with him is like a new one, every time he enters me with his long, throbbing cock, it feels like the first time, and every time he calls me baby, it sends a shiver down my spine. Our relationship might not be conventional, and we might have to hide it, but all the worry is worth it for moments like this. Moments where I feel so completely and utterly loved by this man that I don’t ever want to give it up, despite the challenges in our way. *** “What are you thinking about?” I ask Reese as I lay in his arms on his bed. His hand methodically strokes my hair, the only reason I know he’s awake at such an early hour. “Just the games,” he responds, his voice soft. “Are you nervous?” He takes a second to answer. “I don’t know if nervous is the right word. I think I’m anxious and also sad.” “Sad? Because this is your last go at it?” “Yeah.” He sighs. “It’s funny, you spend your whole life trying to obtain a goal, something you’ve always wanted, and you never think about losing that chance to go for it anymore. But this is it for me. If I don’t win gold, then I will never know what it feels like to hold one in my hand, to hear the national anthem play over the speakers while I stand on the center podium. I will never experience that feeling unless I accomplish it this games. Plus, I have a public image to resurrect after the games, the main reason I’m doing this stupid show.” “You will,” I say, squeezing him tightly. “You’ve worked so hard.” “Yes, and I’ve worked hard every other time prior. There is always just something that fucks with me.” “What do you mean?” I stroke his chest lightly with my fingers, trying to make him feel comfortable. “It’s not just about swimming, Paisley. It’s not about my stroke or the position of my hand when it enters the water, or the way I dive off the block. What separates a gold medalist and a silver medalist is the mental game, and every single fucking game I’ve let my mental game crack and crumble right before a race.” There is anger in his voice, anger I’ve never heard him use before. It’s a little startling. But along with the anger, there is a hint of anxiety, a hint of self-doubt that hurts my heart in a way I never expected. Yes, I care for Reese, and I have deep feelings for him, but I didn’t realize the extreme connection I have with him until this moment. It’s as if our bodies are one and every pleasure and pain he’s experiencing, I’m experiencing.
Before I can respond, he says, “I can’t let anything fuck with me this time. No matter what happens, I need to keep my head in the pool and my sight set on gold.” The way he says that, it’s not like he’s telling me, it’s like he’s trying to convince himself of what he needs to do. “Do you foresee anything going wrong?” I ask. He shrugs. “You never know. Every other situation has been unexpected. You can never really tell what might happen, that’s why I have to be on top of my mental game and make sure I flush real life out of my mind and zero in on what I need to accomplish in the pool.” He shakes his head as his fingers twirl my hair. “And knowing Bellini, something will come up. She is bound to throw some kind of tantrum, which is something I wish I didn’t have to be ready for.” He takes a deep breath and then turns to me, he cups my face with his large hand and says, “Want to know something?” I smile at him, loving how I so easily get lost in the intensity of his eyes. “Always.” The pad of his thumb runs across my cheekbone as he speaks. He’s so loving, so caring, so gentle, that it rips me to shreds. I’ve never been treated with so much adoration before. “Ever since I’ve met you, I’ve felt at ease. For the first time in a long time, I feel I can go into the games with a positive outlook. I can feel the victory in my bones, Paisley, and it’s from the confidence you’ve instilled in me. I want to impress you so fucking bad.” And there it is. The last thread I was hanging on to keep me from falling head over heels in love with this man has snapped. How could I not with that kind of confession? It breaks down every wall I’ve ever erected around my heart and allows him to bury his soul deep inside mine. “Reese, you’ve already impressed me, not just by your ability to stroke through water with a sexy finesse that turns me on every time I watch you, but with your kind and caring heart.” I press my hand to his chest and speak genuinely. “I don’t have to watch you earn a gold to be won over by you, because with or without that gold medal in your hand, you’re still the man who makes my heart beat faster with every smile caressing your ruggedly handsome face.” Reese’s eyes soften and when I think he’s going to kiss me gently on the lips, he instead just rests his forehead against mine, conveying the need for my comfort. “I want this so fucking bad, Paisley.” His voice is distraught, crackling, breaking apart with each syllable. It slays me. I’ve set goals in my life before: I want to make something of my career, I want to be successful, but I don’t think I’ve ever shown the kind of passion and need to accomplish something like Reese has. I can feel it in the marrow of my bones how much Reese wants this, how much he wants to prove, not only to his country, but to himself, that he deserves to stand on the center podium. It’s evident in the way he’s practically shaking in my arm. Instead of telling him he’s going to win and be the most amazing swimmer in the world, I hold my tongue because those are empty words. I can talk to him until I’m blue in the face but it won’t mean anything until he goes to Rio and proves himself right. He doesn’t need words of encouragement; he needs comfort, so that’s what I give him. Moving even closer, I lightly press his lips against mine. I clamp my hand around the base of his neck and rub my thumb over the column, gently and sweetly, letting him know I’m here for him, that I believe in him, and that I know he can do this. Our lips mate, ever so slightly pressing against each other, but never diving too deep. We keep it
simple; we keep it gentle. This isn’t about ripping each other ’s clothes off and fucking up against this headboard; this is something different, something deeper, something incredibly more intimate. Reese falls into my touch, letting me take charge. It’s intoxicating that this alpha male—this tough man who always seems like he has things together—needs me. It’s astonishing how he treats me like a damn lifeline as if without me, he would easily drown. If anything, I’ve realized that despite what happens with my job, I can bounce back from the repercussions. However, with Reese, if I ever lose him, there is no hope in filling the holes he’s punctured into my soul.
Chapter Twenty-Five **REESE** This will never get old. Ever. Standing in my country’s colors, holding up my country’s flag, and parading around a stadium with my fellow athletes while my country cheers me on. It will never ever fucking get old, and it’s something I will never take for granted. Since countries are called in alphabetical order for the opening ceremony, we’ve been huddled in a tunnel for longer than I would like, but the minute we’re called out, it’s all worth it. The stadium erupts, despite not being in our home country, and flashes of lights sporadically shoot off from around the stands. Our flag leads the way, held by one of the women soccer players, and I hold my phone up to the crowd, recording everything from my view. It’s something to watch on TV, but to be in the thick of it, in the trenches, it’s a whole other world. This being my last time, I want to remember every last moment of it: from the smiles on my teammates faces, to the sounds and pyrotechnics within the stadium. My very last opening ceremony; it’s surreal, almost impossible to comprehend. This is the last time I will don my country’s uniform, the last time I will stand together with Team USA, holding flags, and for one jovial moment, I take it all in. Countries from around the world put together the best of the best athletes. Athletes who have trained relentlessly for years for their one and only shot at proving their talent on the big stage, of representing their colors, their blood, the land they grew up in. It’s the epitome of athletic prowess and for the last time in my life, I am experiencing it. Nostalgia encompasses me as my throat chokes up from it all coming to an end. “Dude, this is insane,” Hollis calls out, wrapping his arms around my neck and pulling me in. “Shit, I’m going to miss doing this with you.” It’s never easy saying goodbye, but to say goodbye to your sport, the one thing that’s made you eat, sleep, and breathe ever since you can remember, it’s like a little piece of your soul dying. Not wanting to show my emotions, I push Hollis to the side. “Don’t get all watery on me now.” “It’s the end of an era,” he calls out to the crowd, no one being able to hear him besides the few people around us. “You can’t tell me you’re not going to miss this. And hell, the free clothes are so worth the five-in-the-morning conditioning practices.” He pulls on the lapels of his dress jacket custom-made by Ralph Lauren. “Yes, I swim in the Olympics for the free clothes.” “Don’t we all.” He brushes the sleeve of his right arm. “I’m telling you, Ralph has his shit together. He really knows how to dress a body. I looked in the mirror before I left and thought, hell, If Melony caught me in this outfit, she would finally give in to the feelings I know she has for me.” “You’re still on that?” I ask. “Hollis, she is never going to give you the time of day.”
He smirks. “We will see about that.” Clearing his throat, he looks around and then shouts, “Bodi! Looking sharp, man.” From the right, I see Bodi walking by himself, his phone in his hand and a flag in the other. No one is talking to him, and he barely has a smile on his face. I’m actually surprised to even see him walking. We have early morning races tomorrow and it’s been known that swimmers take the night off from opening ceremonies so they get enough rest before the big day. I’m not one of those swimmers; I’m going to perform the same if I get two hours of sleep or eight hours. My fellow Americans want to see their athletes parade, so I go to represent. Not really saying anything, Bodi just nods his head in our direction. “Hey, get over here,” I call out to Bodi, who looks very uncomfortable. Moving past a few female swimmers who he doesn’t even take a second glance at, he walks next to me and gives me a half-pat on the shoulder, half-hug when I reach out to him. “You have to walk with us, it’s my last opening ceremony.” He sadly smiles and nods. “Yeah, I’m going to miss having you in the lane next to me.” “Same here, man.” We smirk at each other just as Hollis jumps up behind us and wraps his arms around both our necks. “You know the cameras are eating this up right now. I can hear Bob Costas.” In a very good Bob Costas kind of voice, Hollis says, “Olympic royalty walking together, joining forces to represent this country, it doesn’t get more memorable than that.” A deep laugh pushes through Bodi, and I swear both Hollis and I stare at him a little dumbfounded. I don’t acknowledge the foreign sound but Hollis doesn’t have as much class or candor as I do. “Holy shit, Bodi Banks just laughed at one of my jokes.” Fist pumping the air, he screams, “Best night ever!” I shake my head at my friend as he starts skipping through the crowd of athletes, informing them of Bodi’s laugh. He’s a complete and total fart. I don’t know why I’m friends with him. “You can say it, he’s an asshat,” I say to Bodi who is watching Hollis with curiosity. “He’s definitely strange.” Clearing his throat, he looks down at his phone, a text message appearing on his screen. I shove my shoulder against his and say, “Who’s the girl?” “What?” His head snaps up at me and the smile that was once on his face disappears. “There’s no girl.” I don’t buy it, and I let him know that with one lift of my brow. Sighing, his shoulder deflates and he rubs the front of his face with his hands. “Remember that girl I told you about, the seamstress?” “Yeah, uh what was her name? Ruth?” “Ruby.” “Yes, Ruby. What about her? Do you like her?” He just nods his head. “I shouldn’t though.” So not the time to have a deep conversation about our feelings but I’ve never been able to talk to Bodi about anything other than swimming, so the fact that he’s opening up right now is not going to stop me from prying. Sorry opening ceremony, this is more important.
“Why not? Does she have a boyfriend?” “No,” he snaps at me rather quickly. “She’s, uh,” he pauses and rubs the back of his neck, “she’s way too good for me. I have demons and she’s so fucking joyful and happy that I feel like I’m bringing her down.” Seriously, weirdest conversation ever to have with Bodi right now. Not the best timing or venue but then again, I wonder if he’s saying this because the feeling is eating him alive. Maybe he needs to get it off his chest so it doesn’t consume him during his races. Normally, I would love nothing more than to see Bodi trailing behind me in the pool, but I’m not one to be handed anything. If I win gold, I want to win it fair and square, and that means making sure my competition is primed and ready to go. “Are you in a relationship with her?” “Sort of,” he says, cringing. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, it just did.” I nod and then say, “You know what, Bodi? Sometimes we have to take what’s given to us, no matter how much we don’t think we deserve it. This is my last Olympics. I want a gold more than fucking anything, you and I both know that, but I also want to earn it. Ruby must think she deserves you if she wants to be a part of your life. I say, accept it and focus on your races. You’ll regret it if you don’t, not just for a solid competition, but because, from the looks of it, the girl makes you happy, and isn’t that what matters?” Bodi goes to answer when Hollis jumps in front of us, two flags clutched in his hand. “America!” he screams at the top of his lungs and once again, wraps his arm around my neck, prancing around like a flamboyant elf. I look back at Bodi whose brow is scrunched. He’s studying his phone. Right when I’m about to beat Hollis off me, Bodi’s face softens and a smile takes place as he types on his phone. We’re not the best of friends, Bodi and I, but after these games, I plan on fixing that. He’s good people, and from the looks of it, he needs more friends. *** “I hate this,” Paisley says in our FaceTime chat, her head resting on her hotel pillow and her black fair framing her beautiful face. “Why can’t you stay in a hotel with me? Or why can’t I stay in your dorm with you?” “Rules, baby.” “But they have condoms everywhere there.” “I told you athletes have a driving libido.” Mistake number one: forgetting to tell Paisley I couldn’t stay with her while in Rio. Mistake number two: telling her about the bowls of condoms all over the dorms. “What if some girl comes waltzing into your dorm and just throws condoms at you and takes her shirt off.” I can’t help but laugh, despite the worry in her voice. “Reese, I’m serious.” In between chuckles, I say, “If for some reason, a woman comes up to my secure dorm room, throws condoms at me, and then takes off her shirt, I will be sure to give her a high five, maybe take my shirt off too and celebrate, nipple to nipple style.” “Oh my God,” she says, sitting up on the bed. “Christ, he’s playing with you,” I hear in the background, Melony calling out to her. Lucky for
Paisley, she gets to share a room with Melony. Ruby unfortunately has to share a room with Pocket. Yes, Ruby is in attendance because heaven forbid production on Bellini’s doggy clothing line should stop, or Bellini should trust someone to do the job without hovering for one second. Bellini is so obsessed with Ruby’s work, that she refuses to leave her alone with the clothing. Therefore, she will be in attendance during the races as well, which I’m sure she is more than pleased about, given the information I found out at the opening ceremony. “You don’t know that,” Paisley says to Melony. “Maybe the condom thrower herself is hiding in his closet.” “Do I need to give you a tour again? You won’t find one condom thrower in here. Now, are we going to talk, or are we going to have a hysterical conversation about people who take their shirts off and touch nipples?” “I like the nipple-touching conversation, personally,” Melony calls out. Paisley turns to her friend. “Oh really? Maybe I should tell Reese about the little conversation we had on the airplane.” “Don’t you dare,” Melony says sharply, warning in her voice. “Oh, what conversation?” “Nothing,” Melony calls out. “Paisley . . .” A huge grin spreads across Paisley’s face right before she says, “She had a sex dream about Hollis.” “I hate you,” Melony yells. “Jesus, Paisley, you couldn’t keep that to yourself?” Leaning into the phone, Paisley whispers, “She straight-up had a wet dream.” Coming up from behind, Melony is preparing for war by the way her hand rests on her hip and her lips quirk to the side. “You know, Reese, it was a really long flight. We talked about a lot of things, isn’t that right, Paisley?” Right then and there, my girl perks up and her face sobers. “Don’t you dare—” “Paisley sprays your cologne all over her body before she leaves your house so she can smell you all day.” “How dare you,” Paisley says, causing me to laugh. “Baby, that’s hot. Nothing to be ashamed of.” “She sprays it on her underwear,” Melony adds with a smirk. “No, I fucking don’t,” Paisley practically screams. “That was made up, Reese. I don’t spray my underwear with your cologne.” The phone is dropped and my view is of the ceiling now as I hear Paisley and Melony wrestling and laughing. From a distance, Paisley calls out, “Melony actually really likes Hollis.” “Fuck . . . you.” Melony grunts just before she calls out, “Paisley used to have a poster of you on her wall in college. You were the first person she ever masturbated to.” “MELONY,” Paisley screams in horror. “Oh my God.” That really gets my attention. “Hey,” I call out over their wrestling, “Paisley,” I say a little louder but get nothing. “I can’t believe you told him that.” Paisley’s voice sounds strained and I really wish I could see
what the hell is going on. “Yeah, who cares? Now Reese is going to run off and tell Hollis what you said.” “Paisley,” I call out louder. “I’m going to fucking hang up if you don’t pick up this phone.” That gets her attention. I hear a thud and then a scramble to the phone. The camera focuses on my girl, her hair askew as well as her shirt. From behind, I see Melony stalking her prey and before she can pounce, I say, “Melony, give me twenty minutes alone with Paisley, and I swear on everything I won’t tell Hollis what you said. But you have to give me some time.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Why should I believe you?” “Because getting my girl off over FaceTime is a hell of a lot more important to me than my loyalty to Hollis, so go hang out in the lobby so I can have some privacy.” Stomping off, I hear her say, “God, you two are gross.” The door to their room shuts and from the blush on Paisley’s face, I can tell we are truly alone now. “I’m embarrassed . . .” Why do I have to be in a different room than her? Why, at this moment, do we have to be so close, yet so far apart? All I want to do is wrap her in my arms and kiss the blush right out of those cheeks of hers. “Why are you embarrassed?” I ask. “You should be ashamed.” “Ashamed?” she asks, a little taken aback. “Yeah, I blatantly asked you if you ever masturbated to a picture of mine and do you remember what you said?” She bites her bottom lip, not saying a word. “Pretty sure you said, no. So, you can understand my confusion when Melony says you had a poster of me on your wall and you stared at me when touching yourself for the first time. So which is it, Paisley? And don’t lie to me again, you won’t like the consequences.” She continues to nibble on that lip of hers, making me grow hard as hell in seconds. “Um, what Melony said is true.” “Fuck . . . that’s hot,” I mutter. She flops her body on the cushions of her bed and from my viewpoint, I can see she’s not wearing a bra. Her shirt clings to her, showing how round and full they are. Her nipples are hard and I wonder if they are aching for my mouth, for my touch. “Take your shirt off, Paisley.” “Reese—” “No, you don’t get a say in this. I need to see you naked and stretched out on that bed, baby. I’m hard as a fucking rock right now just thinking about what Melony said. Give me some release.” Putting the phone down on the bed, I hear her shuffle around as I wait with anticipation, my cock growing with each passing moment. I grab hold of it and leisurely stroke up and down, waiting for Paisley to return. Some more shuffling occurs and then her beautiful face comes into view. She is holding the phone close so I can’t really see if she listened to what I demanded, but before I can ask, she’s smiling and moving the camera down her body. I see her perfect breasts, nipples hard and piercings on display.
From there, she continues to move the camera farther down her tight stomach to her hand that is cradling her pussy. From the angle she’s giving me, I can see her legs are spread and she’s already started to warm herself up. “Fuck, Paisley, you’re so hot.” “Only for you,” she says with a whisper. I spend the next ten minutes, telling her exactly how I want her to touch her body, bringing us both to climax at the same time. It’s the release I need for tomorrow. I’ve been tense and this little FaceTime session was perfectly timed. Before we get off the phone, I speak softly when I say, “Thank you, Paisley, for being at the games, for supporting me.” Her eyes go soft and a small smile caresses her face. So beautiful. “You don’t have to thank me, Reese. I would be here for you no matter what. I’m just glad I get to be here in person. It’s kind of a dream come true.” “It is for me too.” We’re quiet for a second when she says, “You’re going to do great tomorrow.” I have my first race tomorrow. The 400 Individual Medley. We have heats and finals, I feel prepared. “Thanks, baby.” I sigh and say, “I wish I could walk around the village with you tomorrow. Hold your hand and be total tourists.” “Me too,” she says quietly. “But hey, you have a big race tomorrow, your first. I will be there early in the morning to cheer you on.” “Can’t wait. I’m feeling really good, baby.” “You’re going to do amazing, Reese. I can feel it in my bones.” “Thanks. I will see you tomorrow.” “Night.”
Chapter Twenty-Six **PAISLEY** “Heaven forbid they hold these things at a decent hour. What is so important that we have to get up at the ass-crack of dawn only to have to sit in uncomfortable seats made to torture people like Rosie O’Donnell and Robocop, while men prance around a disease-infested vat of water? I feel like we are back in Salem during the witch trials where we are trying to decide who to sacrifice next. My vote is on the clam-looking gentleman with the tattoo on his right hip that is in the shape of a fella’s semen.” “I think that is a tattoo of a swim icon,” Melony points out. “Oh, what do you know, you stupid cantaloupe,” Bellini mutters while moving in her seat, her arms crossed over her chest. Getting her to Barra Olympic Park was a feat on its own. Not because she had to wake up early and be primped by Melony and briefed by Jasper and me, but because she wasn’t permitted to bring Pope Francis. The tears were nearly Melony’s undoing. Pretty sure she was on the verge of stabbing Bellini with an eyeliner pencil today. Luckily, we were able to calm her down just enough for Melony to get her job done. How did we calm her down you might ask? Oh, just an entire pack of Tic Tacs, videos of Pope Francis during the trip from the hotel to the venue, and reassurance from Pocket that Pope Francis was going to be just fine. She stayed behind with the dog while Melony, Ruby, and I traveled to the stadium with Bellini. Currently, Ruby is attached to Bellini’s hip at all times. I feel bad for her. Because Granny’s Garments apparently messed up Bellini’s religious wear for dogs, Ruby had to suffer the consequences. She wasn’t allowed to sew unless Bellini was in her presence. It is all so ridiculous, only someone with an obscene amount of money would do. At least Ruby is being paid well, and her sewing ability seems to be impressing Bellini. She’s already made a few outfits that have pleased the devil herself. “Boring!” Bellini shouts from the side of her mouth, cupping her hand near her lips to further project her rudeness. “Bellini,” I chastise. “That’s rude.” Looking me up and down, Bellini snaps back. “Well, it’s rude that you refuse to brush your hair when you’re around but you don’t see me chastising you, now do you?” Is she kidding? Every single day I’m with her she talks about how I don’t brush my hair. At first, I took extra time in the morning to make sure it was brushed more than normal. I even bought some anti-friz serum to calm any flyaway hair, make it look more silky. However, when she continued her little digs, I gave up. There was no use. I brush my hair. I know it, Reese knows it, and Melony knows it, that’s all that really matters to me at this point. “Ugh,” she moans, draping herself over the chair, her legs dangling over the stranger next to her and leaning on Ruby. “This is torture. I’ve done some abhorrent things for this show, for a good
laugh, but this is an entirely new level of desperation on production’s part. Do they really think viewers will be interested in Reese jerking off in the water? We all know he’s going to get silver. Let’s cut to four years ago and be done with it.” “Bellini,” I hiss. “Stop, people can hear you.” Straightening up, she looks me in the eye. “Do you really think I care what these foreigners think? They don’t even know who I am, which is insulting in itself, nor do they understand English, which is barbaric. I want to go back home where silly pedestrians stop me on the street to ask me to have Pope Francis bless their children.” Thankfully, the announcer, speaking in English and then Portuguese, drowns out Bellini’s voice. The next race, according to my schedule, is Reese’s first heat. Some races have prelims, semi-finals, and then finals, but for the 400M Individual Medley, they just have a round of heats and then the finals, which take place this evening. It’s a grueling schedule for those swimming in multiple events. I can’t imagine Reese doing more than the races he already has, which is three. His other two races are later in the week. Cheers erupt through the stadium as some of the first swimmers from Australia and Great Britain are announced. There is something to be said about the atmosphere of the Games: the best athletes from around the world coming together to compete, you can’t help but get chills from it. “And in lane four, from the United States of America, Reese King.” An uproarious chant for Reese starts all around us, and I’m that girl who joins in, clapping my hands and screaming at the top of my lungs. Melony stands next to me, doing the same, and it isn’t until my side starts to hurt that I realize Bellini is poking me in the rib with her nail file.” “Yes?” I ask her, losing my patience. “Did you realize you look like a two-ton out-of-work Komodo dragon when you scream and bounce around like that? It’s very unflattering.” “Noted,” I grit out, so not in the mood to listen to Bellini’s shit. “No wonder you have to lie about being a lesbian and hide the fact you’re dating a man by the name of Clyde. I would be ashamed of myself too if I had your pores. Do you even exfoliate?” I’m two seconds from blasting my fist through Bellini’s throat only to strangle her with her own esophagus when Jasper turns in his chair and looks up at us, camera crew in tow. “Bellini, I suggest you hold your tongue for the next few minutes while the camera is on you. We need film of you watching this race.” She rolls her eyes and picks at a piece of lint on her skirt. “I’m not some marionette puppet that you get to pull around. I am a real human being.” “Are you? Seems more like you’re a disciple of Satan,” Jasper mutters just loud enough to hear over the announcer. “How dare you,” Bellini roars, drawing attention from our surrounding seatmates. “I will have you fired for that.” Straightening in her chair, she puffs out her chest and fixes her cardigan that is starting to fall off her shoulders. “This entire production is forming a mutiny against me. I will remind all of you, including you, Melon, that I am the one in charge. I am the talent, and the lies, the comments, the nasty retorts are going to stop now or you’re not going to like what happens. My dad knows people in the mafia. I can have you all slaughtered in seconds and then put through a wood chipper. I would
watch what you say.” Jasper doesn’t even blink an eye. “Bellini, you need us more than we need you, simple as that. So you can either drop the threats and start acting like a professional, or you can walk away. I will release you from your contract right now.” “Fine, release me,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m sure I can find another network—” “You can’t,” say Jasper. “No one will want to work with you. You have a bad reputation. So, put a smile on your face, look at the camera, and cheer for Reese, because the race is about to start.” “Barbarian,” she screams, but then like a demonic human being, plasters a fake smile on her face, waves a mini American flag, and looks down at the pool with all the intention of cheering for Reese. I’ve never seen someone morph that quickly; it’s quite frightening. Shaking my head, I turn toward the pool as the swimmers prepare to stand on the blocks. My eyes are fixed on Reese as he starts whacking his arms and legs, warming up his muscles. Everything in his body flexes and shakes as he focuses on the lane in front of him. His jammers hang low on his waist, showing off his deep V and the stomach muscles I ran my tongue over a few weeks ago. I miss his body, the warm heat of his skin, the way his lips run across my ear as he whispers into it. It’s been too long since I’ve been with him and even though FaceTime has been helpful, it’s not the same. I want his touch. I need it. After this race. Before the finals tonight. Together, the swimmers take their places on the diving blocks. Some of them fidget with their goggles, others check their hair in their swim cap, and then there is Reese. He stands tall on his block, his tattoo making him easily identifiable from the rest of the swimmers. His stature screams power, confidence, and in this moment, I know he’s going to accomplish everything he’s dreamed of. This Olympics is his. Bending over, the swimmers grip the edge of the block and plant their feet askew. Back muscles and toned arms vibrate down the line, waiting to be released. I wait in anticipation for the beep to sound. “Take your mark.” The crowd dies down, and the venue is almost completely silent. Then, a simple beep and the race begins. Reese jumps off the block, flying through the air and straight into the water. Like a fish, he propels himself underwater only to surface into the butterfly stroke. His commanding arms rotate in and out of the water, shooting him forward ahead of the pack. Just from talking to Reese, I know his best strokes are the butterfly and free, backstroke being his worst, so he needs to a good lead going into the backstroke which is next. Cheers echo around me. The announcers call out who is in the lead through the speakers, and right next to me, Bellini cheers, calling out to Reese, “You got this, baby.” Yeah, I can’t help the sneer that appears on my face as I look her up and down. It’s a territorial thing that takes over me. I can deal with the occasional touches here and there, and the fake smile Reese has to put on when he’s around the evil wench, but her calling him baby, that doesn’t sit well. It doesn’t sit so well that I fake a yawn and knock her in the ribs. I’m not proud of it, but I do feel a little better.
She buckles over and then snaps her head in my direction. Her eyes speak murder. I cover my mouth. “Oops, I’m sorry Bellini, did I hit you?” She doesn’t acknowledge me, instead she turns to Jasper and says, “Did you get that on tape? I’m suing for battery.” Jasper rolls his eyes. “It was an accident, now start cheering again.” Relieved Jasper doesn’t take any of her shit, I turn back to the race where Reese is swimming his last lap of butterfly. As desired, he has a significant lead going into the next stroke. Clasping my hands together, I focus in on the one man who’s stolen my heart in the past month. From the moment he entered the photo shoot in a leopard-print Speedo, when he bumped my shoulder at the beach, to when he took me up against my bedroom wall and showed me how a real man takes care of his woman, he’s captivated me. I’ve fallen for him so incredibly hard. The 400m Individual Medley is the longest race Reese will compete in, and I’m feeling its length now as I wait on bated breath for him to finish each stroke. It’s thrilling, nerve-racking, and heart stopping as the swimmers battle for the lead. I know it’s just the first heat, but I still have my entire heart out on the line, begging him to be first, hoping and praying he makes it to the finals. I’m invested, wholeheartedly invested in his dreams. Rounding out the last stretch, Reese plows through the water with his freestyle stroke, his legs kicking rapidly behind him, and his tattoo peeking out of the water with every rotation. He’s closing in just as Melony grabs my hand. The minute his fingers touch the wall before everyone else, we both cheer while raising our clasped hands together. Bellini joins in for about five seconds and then sits down in her chair, her arms crossed over her chest. I don’t even bother to listen to her complains about how her feet already hurt from standing or how she can feel the chlorine from the pool start to eat away at her porcelain skin. No, my attention is on the man whose swim cap is now in his hand and his hair is an unruly mess of black curls. Looking up in my direction he points and I nearly faint from the smile plastered across his face. Oh, fuck. I have it so bad for him. *** This isn’t a good idea. I know it’s not a good idea—I can feel it in my bones—but I don’t care at this point. I need to see him. I need to feel him. I need to run my hands up under his shirt and caress his soft and smooth skin. I twist my hands in front of me while I wait in the Olympic Aquatics Stadium corridor. He sent me a text when he got back to the locker room to meet him in this spot because according to him, he needed to “be deep inside me.” He is right, athletes do have a high libido, and hell, I think it’s rubbed off on me, because every chance I can get, I’m pulling my panties down for him, even if it is over the phone. And every time, I climaxed with pure pleasure running through me. Doesn’t matter if he is touching me or if it is the deep tone of his melodic voice floating over my body. It doesn’t take much when he’s involved. Melony and Ruby are sent back to the hotel while I come up with an excuse about scouting all the local venues in the area for Fiji water. I don’t know if Bellini buys it but I really don’t care. “Great race, Reese,” I hear someone call out. “Good luck tonight.”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate that.” Reese’s voice booms through my body. He’s close. I’m jumping out of my skin with anticipation. I can feel him close in and just when I don’t think I can take it anymore, Reese opens the door to the room I’m in and shuts it behind him quickly, his eyes searing me in half. With a smile, he grabs the back of his neck and says, “Hey, baby.” Not even answering him, I leap into his arms and wrap my legs around his waist. He catches me easily, holds the back of my head with his palm, and presses his lips against mine. There is no finesse in our kiss, just urgency as our tongues mate and our hands explore. Just like I wanted, I run my hands up his shirt and play with the contours and divots of his stomach, loving the way his freshly showered skin feels under my touch. Moaning into his mouth, I press deeper, feeling his arousal against my center. Like the horny little woman I am, I rub my pussy against his length, creating an unbelievable friction that has my gut clenching in seconds and my toes curling. “Oh God, I’ve missed you,” I whisper along his lips, right before his hand digs into my hair, holding me still so he can make small nips along my neck, causing goosebumps up and down my arms. “I’ve missed you so damn much,” he mutters in between kisses, working his way down to my collarbone. “I need this shirt off.” “Reese, this is not the best place—” “Now, Paisley.” Not one to argue when Reese wants me to take my clothes off, I reach between us, grab the hem of my shirt and take it off, tossing it to the floor. Spinning us so my back is up against a wall, he takes the cups of my bra and pulls them down, exposing my breasts to his feasting mouth. Without taking a second to breathe, his mouth pulls on my right nipple, sucking it in fast and hard. What once used to be his smooth beard rubbing against my sensitive skin is now a smooth, freshly shaven cheek. It’s a different sensation but still erotic. Nipping lightly, his teeth bite down on my hardened peak as his tongue plays with my barbell. The combination of his hot breath on my prickling skin and his hand and mouth working in tandem, makes the dull ache in my pussy become an electric throb in my clit. A pounding sensation encompasses me and all I can think about is getting him inside me. “More, Reese. I need more,” I say breathlessly. He doesn’t hesitate. Setting me gently down, he pulls his pants down and frees his cock. I make quick work with my shorts and panties only to be bent over a chair by Reese. His cock runs the length of my arousal, casually slipping inside me until I cry out to him. From my cue, he plunges forward. With no hesitation, he holds on to my hips and pounds into me endlessly, hitting me hard and deep. Releasing my hip with one hand, he snakes it around the front of me and pinches my nipple with his forefinger and thumb. Like a bolt of lightning hitting me dead center, my body erupts in orgasm, tightening around Reese’s cock as he pounds away, releasing his own orgasm at the same time. Sated, his chest slumps over me, and he kisses my shoulder tenderly, every now and again moving his hips forward, trying to soak up every last twitch and spasm.
“Not the smartest idea we ever had,” I say. “Someone could walk in.” “It would be worth it,” he says right before kissing my cheek and pulling out. “Hold right there, baby. There are some paper towels over here.” After-sex stuff is so not sexy but Reese handles it with a gentle and nurturing hand. I don’t feel embarrassed at all and am extremely grateful for having him in my life. He might be rough and talk dirty and need to take me in the moment, but he’s always a cuddly teddy bear after, such a stark and extraordinary contrast. Once everything is taken care of and we’re dressed again, I cup both of his cheeks and stare him in the eyes. “I’m so proud of you. You looked amazing out there.” “Is that right?” he asks, a little wiggle to his brow. “Yes.” I refrain from rolling my eyes at him. “I would even say sexier than Bodi Banks.” His jaw tenses and even though he knows I’m joking, he still gets pissed. It’s hard not to make fun of him. “So not funny,” he grits out, making me chuckle. “You’re ridiculous.” Moving my hands to his chest, I pat his pecs and say, “Do you have time for lunch?” He shakes his head, sending disappointment through me. “No, I have a lot of press and interviews to do plus I have to keep my body warm and ready for the race tonight. But after, how about I come to your place for some room service? I’m sure Hollis wouldn’t mind distracting Melony for me.” “Sounds good to me.” I chastely kiss his lips. Catching me off guard, he leans down, squeezes my ass and then gives me a deep kiss, causing a groan from him. Pulling away, he rests his forehead on mine. “You’re so fucking hot.” With a smirk, he pulls away, entwines our fingers, and walks us to the door. He steps out and pulls me with him. One quick kiss and a wink, he lets go and says, “See you tonight.” “Good luck,” I call out. Glancing behind him, he smiles at me and then turns back around. I watch his backside retreat, wondering if there will ever be a time I’ll get tired of having him around. Probably not. Sighing from infatuation, I gather myself and turn to go back to the hotel, only to come face to face with a pissed-off Bellini. “You lying-face whore bag. There is no Clyde.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven **BELLINI** I knew I couldn’t trust that garbage can of a woman with her dreadlock hair, nasty tattoos, and lying dick-sucking mouth. From the moment she walked up to me and introduced herself as some ninety-year-old women’s throw blanket, I knew she wasn’t trustworthy. Not just because she paid “professionals” to scribble all over her body, and not just because she has eyes the color of Satan’s asshole—yes, Satan’s asshole is silver—but because she wears tank tops. You can never trust someone who wears tank tops as everyday outfits. Who shows off that much skin, that many times in a week? I will give you three guesses: strippers, whores, and prostitutes. You might think I’m a priss for wanting Fiji water only. A lot of people say all water tastes the same. Those people are the ones who suck on Sour Patch Kids day in, day out while scratching their crotches in front of the elderly. They have no taste buds for the finer things in life. I know the difference between Pellegrino, Aquafina, Arrowhead, and Fiji water. There is a distinct taste. Fiji water doesn’t taste like skank breath. So, when I started realizing the water crap-face was giving me wasn’t Fiji, I did my very own research. While she was staring down at the pool, watching man-fish flop around, I kicked her purse, opening it up to my view. I didn’t burglarize, so don’t think I took anything out of her satchel, as if I would want to stick my hand in it anyway. But I did notice she had an empty Fiji bottle in there and it hit me. She’s been scamming me out of the purified glory of refreshing water from the South Pacific where blue lagoons and palm trees kiss you in the morning with their beauty. The tramp! So when she said she was going to scout venues that sold my water, you can see why I grew skeptical of her intentions. Lucky for me, I’m vastly intelligent, so I put on my sunglasses and followed her around, Mission Impossible-style. Tom Cruise has nothing on my skills. The minute I saw her go into a corridor of some sort, I knew she was up to something. What I didn’t expect was for Reese to walk in after her. I thought maybe, just maybe they were planning a secret surprise party to honor my beauty, but when I heard grunting, I knew they were both shaking hands with the devil. Sex! They were having sex. It was unmistakable. Even though I burned with fury, I couldn’t help but feel sad for poor Clyde. Here he is, taking one for the team and dating this atrocious woman who refuses to brush her hair, and what does she do? Cheats on him. Makes me want to start a Kickstarter campaign for him to raise money for the obvious therapy he’ll need. Now, I could be the woman who slinks away and lets the trout-face woman get away with it, or I can be the person my daddy raised me to be and confront that nasty trench-mouth.
That’s why I have the pleasure of standing in front of Mauve, staring her down as fear rolls on repeat through her eyes. “Bellini, it’s not—” “What I think?” I finish for her. She swallows hard and I take that as indication she is terrified of me, rightfully so. “So not only do you cheat on your boyfriend, Clyde, but you are a compulsive liar as well.” She sighs and lowers her head, so I continue. “I heard you two in there, flapping your bodies together like animals in heat. Have you no respect for yourself? That you not only have to have coitus outside of the sanctity of marriage with someone else’s man, but you have to do it in what I can only assume is a broom closet?” “It’s not a broom closet,” she says foolishly. “That is irrelevant. What about Clyde? What about me?” She looks to the side and then speaks up. “Both are fake relationships, Bellini. I know what you and Reese have is all for show, and I made up Clyde.” “What?” I snap. “So you’re not a lesbian, and there is no Clyde?” “No.” She shakes her head. “Unbelievable!” I raise my hands in frustration. “What kind of monster are you? Did you go to the College of Lying, Manipulative Shrews and major in being a whore bag? By the looks of it, you graduated with honors.” “Bellini—” I hold up my hand to stop her. “I suggest you keep that double-dealing, dick-sucking mouth of yours shut. Got it?” She nods, her hands twisting in front of her. “I’m going to give you two options here. Both benefit me and both shank you in the ass with a shiv.” I don’t give her a chance to respond and continue on. “First option: you can leave right now, pack your pathetic, ratty-old bags and sit in the airport for a flight back home, quit your job and never lay eyes on Reese or me again. Second option: you can try to stay, sit around with production, sucking on Jasper ’s butt like you’ve been doing for the past month or so while I go to the press and tell everyone how Reese is a lying, cheating sack of scum, destroying that precious little image he’s been trying to build up by doing this show.” Her eyes immediately water up, trying to gather some kind of sympathy from me, but little does she know I have zero empathy for people who lie, cheat, and make a mockery of themselves. Plus, it’s fun messing with her. I know Pope Francis would be okay with it . . . I hope. “So what’s it going to be?” She wavers on what to do but then asks, “If I leave you won’t do anything to Reese?” “Nope.” I smile at her. “Why would I want to spoil his chance at gold? Plus, I do have a show to worry about. However, I’m willing to give that all up if you try to stick around. Honestly, you’ve been a flesh-eating virus since you arrived, and I’m done.” “Okay,” she says on a heavy breath. “I’ll leave.” “Smart choice, now hand me your phone.” “Why?” she asks, pulling her purse to the side. “Because, why would I want you texting or calling Reese to tell him what’s going on? Give me
your phone. It’s time to delete everything and block his number.” “You can’t do that.” She pulls away some more. “Fine.” I shrug my shoulders. “I will just go talk to NBC right now; you know Matt Lauer will salivate over this story. The underdog is really just a stupid piece of crap who doesn’t deserve a gold. Knowing me, I can cause enough of a mess to have Reese disqualified. I know people.” Her eyes water some more, causing me to roll mine. Enough with the dramatics already. Reluctantly, she hands me her phone and I go through it, sneering at the disgusting texts they’ve sent each other, deleting everything and blocking his number. My work here is done. Handing her the phone back, I look her up and down and say, “Now beat it, you garbage can. I don’t want to see you again.” With her head down, a slump in her shoulders, as if she’s an ape—gross—she walks away and out of my life. This day just got a whole hell of a lot better.
Chapter Twenty-Eight **REESE** “Open this fucking door, Reese.” Hollis’s voice echoes through the hallway of the athlete dorms, his fist pounding an incessant storm of rage. “I swear to God, if you don’t open up, I’m going to,” he pauses as if he’s trying to think about what he’s going to do, “I’m going to call the hall monitor person.” Clever. It’s been a good five minutes of Hollis pounding on my door, and you would think he would get the idea I don’t want to talk to him, but the little punk is insistent. “Reese, if I break my hand and can’t compete, I’m blaming you. America will hate you. I will go around to every news station to let them know them what kind of pussy—” He’s cut off before he can even finish as I whip the door open. We are about the same height, but the rage boiling inside me puts me at a greater advantage. Seething, I spit out, “What the fuck do you want?” Inviting himself in, not even bothering for me to step aside, he pushes past my strong build and sits on my bed, crossing his leg over his knee and striking a casual pose. “You plan on coming down to the pool this evening? You know, for your final race of your career?” Shutting the door so no one can hear my business, I say, “What’s the fucking point? We all know how it’s going to end. I might as well just go stand on the second podium and hold my hand out for the silver.” The past few days have been hell, not just because I’ve been living up to every announcer and media outlet’s expectations of securing the silver for my past two races, but because Paisley has disappeared off the face of this earth. Melony informed me that Paisley checked out of their room without a word. Of course I went straight to my phone to contact her, but for some reason I haven’t been able to get through. Melony has tried calling her, but no one can reach her. Not only am I terrified something has happened to her, but I’m also terrified she’s cutting me out of her life, which of course has destroyed my mental game, pretty much crumbled it right on the spot. Leaving me with two silvers, one I was barely able to snag, literally by a fingernail’s length. “I’m kind of over this woe is me shit,” Hollis says. “Dude, you have one race left in your career and all you can think about is Paisley.” My phone rings, halting me from answering Hollis. Frantically, I take a look at my phone and see it’s Bellini, calling me for the twelfth time in the last half hour. I rub my hand over my face, exhausted already from the conversation I’m about to have. Hitting the green button, I answer, “What do you need?” “It’s about time you popped your head out of that muddled, disease-ridden vat of water to answer my call. Don’t you realize I’m important people and when I call, you expunge yourself from whatever nonsensical shit you’re doing and you speak to me?” Exhaling, I reply, “Just get to the point.”
“I’m going to need your publicist to bring me a package of Fiji water. I’m out.” Pausing my hand running over my face, I grit out, “You called me because you want my publicist to run some asinine errand for you? Isn’t that why you have an assistant?” “That’s beside the point. I need the water.” “Well, get it yourself. Ashley doesn’t run errands.” Whining, she says, “Reese, I’m thirsty and Mauve isn’t . . .” She pauses and clears her throat, “I mean, I have no one to fetch my things.” My hackles rise from Bellini’s misstep. Without even thinking, I ask, “Where’s Paisley?” “Probably not brushing her hair somewhere.” “Bellini,” I snap. “Where is she?” “Why do you even care?” “I’m not in the mood for your games, Bellini, just tell me where Paisley is.” “Why? Because you want to screw her in another broom closet?” she asks, a mixture of menace and sadness in her voice. Shit. Sighing, I sit down on my bed next to Hollis and cradle my forehead in my hand. “Bellini—” “Yeah, I know, Reese. I know you’re been sticking your dick in that dumpster of a vagina. Not only is it completely and utterly revolting for me to think of you stooping so low as to have sex with the hired help, who frankly looks like they just crawled off the body of one of those tattoo freaks from Sons of Anarchy, but it’s despicable you would even consider having sex before marriage. Have you no respect for yourself?” “You know what, Bellini? I could really give zero fucks about your opinion, so you can either tell me where the hell Paisley is, or I can take this sham of a relationship to the media and out us. I have no problem handling the repercussions. At this point, I have nothing to lose.” “You wouldn’t.” A high-pitched squeal breaks through the phone, causing me to temporarily pull the phone away from my ear. I turn to Hollis who mouths, “Holy fuck.” A small laugh comes out of me from the terrified look on his face. He hasn’t had much interaction with Bellini, so this temper tantrum is startling to him. To me, it’s an everyday occurrence. “Bellini, there is nothing I wouldn’t do right about now, so don’t fucking test me. What happened to Paisley?” Screeching some more and pounding on something on the other end of the phone, she finally says, “You’re infuriating.” “Answer the goddamn question, Bellini.” Huffing she says, “I gave her an ultimatum, both resulting in her disappearance. You should know you brainwashed her sufficiently that she chose the one that helped you out, the one that didn’t make you look like a fool. But, that meant I blocked your number in her phone. Genius on my end, really.” “We’re done,” I snap, enraged. “We are so fucking done, Bellini. You’ve gone too far.” “I’ve gone too far? You’re the one poking people with your penis behind my back. I was just saving the sanctity of our relationship.” “There is no relationship,” I yell. “We have nothing, Bellini. I can barely stand to look at you, let alone be in the same room. I’m not kidding when I say we’re done. Better prepare for a shitstorm,
because by the time I’m done with you, you’re going to be begging you picked someone else to fuck around with.” Without even waiting for a response, I hang up the phone and toss it, only to grab the ends of my hair and pull. “That seemed like a fun conversation,” Hollis says after a bout of silence. “Fuck!” I yell, pulling hard on my hair. “I need to go find her.” “Find who?” Hollis asks as I get up from the bed and start packing a bag. “Paisley.” Immediately, my arms are halted and I’m pushed away from the bag. “Are you fucking insane?” Hollis asks. “Reese, you have a race tonight.” “I know that, dipshit, but do you really think I’ll be able to concentrate on it with Paisley on my mind? I mean . . . shit, what the hell is going through her mind right now? Is she in her apartment by herself, without a job?” The mere thought makes me sick to my stomach. “Probably,” Hollis says, not sugarcoating it for me. “She’s most definitely at home, by herself, most likely crying, and jobless, but that doesn’t change anything. You still have a race tonight, and you would be one fucking selfish bastard if you didn’t compete.” “Selfish? How the hell would I be selfish?” Hollis comes up to me, toe to toe, and gets in my face, not letting up on his speech. “You’re not the only one invested in your career, Reese. Coach Fern has been with you from the very beginning. It would be a slap in the face to not let him watch you swim one last race. It would be a slap in the face to your family, your fans, the people who’ve stuck by you through thick and thin.” Hollis swallows hard. “It would fucking kill me not to watch you compete one last time. There is nothing you can do about Paisley right now. You’d probably wait at the airport until a flight became available. You owe it to yourself, to your competition, to everyone in the fucking arena, to show up and do one last swim. It’s one hundred meters, Reese. One last time, prove to everyone that you are the Olympic gold-medal swimmer you were trained to be. Don’t cop out now because you’re scared of the end result.” “I’m not copping out,” I answer, not even believing myself. “You are.” Hollis grips my shoulder, squeezing it tight. “You’re scared of being disappointed one last time, and yes, you’re worried about Paisley, but you are using her as an excuse. Don’t do that. You’ve worked so fucking hard to get to where you are now. Go out there, cover your eyes with your goggles, and swim the fuck out of your freestyle one last time. You’re meant to be a gold medalist, Reese, and this is it.” My stomach is tied in knots as I think through what Hollis is saying. Do I have one more race left in me? Hollis must notice the indecision on my face, because he says, “This is it, old man. You have nothing to lose. Go out there, balls to the wall, and swim like the motherfucking gold medalist I know you are.” Fuck, I hate that he’s right. “Afterward, I will help get you back to the States to figure out the Paisley thing, but right now, do this for me, for your fans, for your coach, for your family, but most importantly for yourself. You deserve this, Reese, now go collect your medal.”
*** “Kill it, man,” Bodi says right before I walk out of the locker room. The 100-meter freestyle is the only race Bodi isn’t racing with me during the Olympics; it’s not his best race so he doesn’t compete. I nod at him in acknowledgement and follow the other swimmers to the pool deck where the cheering crowd waits for us. The venue is packed to the brim. It’s so loud I can barely hear the negative talk inside my head, trying to bring me down. Despite the pep talk Hollis gave me in my dorm, I still can’t seem to shake the thought of this race being pointless. Throughout the last sixteen years, I’ve spent countless hours in the pool and the gym, and this is it. One race. For the life of me, I can’t overcome the feeling that I’m once again going to pull silver. Maybe that’s who I really am. I’m The Silver Stroke. If anything, I will go down in history as the biggest choke artist in Olympic history. Any other race, whether it’s a national championship or a collegiate race, I’ve won gold. I have countless medals in my house boasting the talent I was blessed with, letting the world know I’m not just a B-swimmer, I’m a motherfucking A-swimmer, one to reckon with. But when it counts, when it comes down to the biggest race of my life, I’ve never been able to cash in. And I’m feeling it’s going to be the same thing now. Lights flash around the stadium as I come into view. I’m not wearing my usual swim parka, and I’ve chosen to nix the earphones this go around. There is not one single song that will do my last race justice, so instead, I choose to listen to the crowd, to soak in this last moment, despite the war raging inside me. As the other swimmers get ready by shaking their arms, moving their heads side to side, listening to their music, I rest my hands on my hips and look around the venue. There is not a single empty seat in the stadium, and viewers from around the world are watching with anticipation. Every pre-race ritual I’ve ever had vanishes as I continue to absorb every last feeling, every last noise, every last smell. In the distance, I can hear the announcer call out the swimmers and their lanes, which has the crowd roaring with appreciation for their favorite to win. “In lane four, from the United States of America, Reese King.” The announcers voice echoes through my ears but is quickly washed away by the overwhelming roar of the crowd. It’s deafening. A camera is spotlighted on me from below, trying to capture my reaction for folks watching at home. Normally it wouldn’t bother me but the minute the entire venue starts chanting my name, covering up the voice of the announcer, emotions hit. My throat clogs and my eyes star to water. In the stands, there are American flags waving frantically, signs with my name on them, and loyal fans screaming “Reese” at the top of their lungs. This race isn’t for me anymore. This race is for them. This race is for the man who’s stood by my side from the very beginning, for my family who toted me around to various pools for meets and practices, for my teammates who’ve always had faith in for me . . . for Paisley who captured my heart the moment she stepped foot on set. Fuck Bellini, fuck the drama, and fuck everything else. This is my last race—my last chance—and
to hell if I’m going to let anything get in the way of me enjoying it. The feeling of being twelve once again, barely filling my Speedo, overcomes me as I step up on the diving block. Who cares about form, about stroke count, about time? I’m going to swim this race as if a sea monster is chasing me, like I used to . . . one last fucking time. Snapping my goggles in place, I adjust my swim cap and get into position. Excitement courses through me as I close my eyes and envision the sea creature that used to chase me so many years ago. One last go. One last chase. One last race. “Take your mark.” I lift my backside, applying my weight to my legs and while the venue quiets down, I listen carefully. Beep. The instant the sound flows through me, the crowd erupts as my body goes under water. Like a fucking bat out of hell, I kick my way through my dive and surface, not bothering to even notice the men swimming next to me. I’m completely focused on the monster behind me, nipping at my toes and trying to get as far away from him as possible. Before I know it, I’m at the turn, working my away back on the home stretch. It’s a fast race, one that only lasts a few seconds, but while you’re in it, trudging through the water, it seems like hours. My feet kick rapidly, my heart pounds quickly in my chest, and my arms fly over me, stroke after stroke. Below me is the pool’s black line, letting me know how straight I’m swimming and if I’m staying on course. As the “T” of the pool comes closer, I give one last surge—everything left inside me—as I kick and stroke right into the wall, my fingertips slamming into the wall, nearly snapping them in half. In what feels like slow motion, I turn around to look up at the scoreboard as the venue nearly crumbles from cheers. Through my goggles, I look at second place on the scoreboard and I’m disappointed when King doesn’t come up. My heart falls and my stomach bottoms out as I realize I didn’t even fucking place second. Lifting my goggles in disappointment, I lean my head against the side of the pool and look at the rankings. That’s when I fucking see it. Plain as fucking day, my name in the number-one spot with an American flag proudly displayed next to it. “Holy fuck,” I whisper to myself as my hands go to my head in disbelief. Once again, the crowd starts chanting my name as my competitors swim to my lane to congratulate me. They clasp my hand and hug me, but all I can do is stare at the screen in disbelief. Utter shock runs through me. I finally did it. I fucking did it! Tearing my cap and goggles off my head, I toss them up on the deck, and use the buoy line to keep me afloat as I grip my eyes while tears fall down my cheeks. Emotions clog my throat as the crowd continues to chant for me. Pulling my hand away, I look up at the stands and take in this moment,
committing it to memory, letting the noise drown out everything else around me. With one lift of my arm, I address the fans as a thank you, causing them to cheer even louder. Shaking my head, I lower it to the water and rest my forehead on the buoy line, astonished and amazed over my very last race. This is a moment I will never forget.
Chapter Twenty-Nine **PAISLEY** “Reese, Reese, Reese!” Tears cloud my vision as I watch fans from around the world cheer on the man who rests in my heart. He did it. He finally did it. More tears fall down my cheeks out of relief, out of joy, out of pure happiness for the man who has spent almost his entire life trying to accomplish this one goal. Multiple silvers and one gold. No longer will he be The Silver Stroke; no longer will he have to look back at his career and regret what he’s done. This one single win will validate everything he’s ever worked for, every five a.m. practice, every lift in the weight room, and every pass he’s made on something sweet. It’s all paid off for this moment. The cheers get louder once Reese is called to the podium as gold medalist. Leaning forward, I steeple my hands at my chin and cry as pure joy and the most gorgeous smile in this world crosses his face. Wearing his Team USA warm-ups, he stands tall on the podium and ducks his head as someone of high importance places the gold medal around his neck. With a quick handshake, the man steps away, giving Reese all the glory. Holding the medal up to his face, he kisses it while his other hand raises a bouquet of flowers over his head. Quickly, I grab my phone and take a picture of him. I know there will be pictures all over the Internet later of this exact moment, but I want to have this for myself, to remember that even though we were miles apart and out of each other ’s lives, I was still there in spirit. I still was there to witness the greatest moment of Reese’s life. The announcers note the flags ready to be raised as Reese lowers his arm and places it over his heart. The deep bass of drums ring through the stadium as the national anthem starts to play. The camera pans on the flags, being raised, the American Flag waving strong in the middle. A close-up of Reese comes on screen and my breath escapes me as I take him in. His eyes are watering as he mouths the lyrics to our national anthem, not being shy about the emotional journey he’s taken to get to where he is. “So he finally did it,” Jonathan says from behind me, talking to me for the first time since I’ve been back. When he saw me walk through the door with my bags at my side a few days ago, my eyes puffy and red, he didn’t say anything to me, he just let me cry in my room by myself. In the mornings, there would be breakfast waiting for me at my door, and at night, dinner was brought to me but never a word was spoken until now. “Yeah,” I choke out, unable to say anything else, my eyes glued on the TV. “Good for him,” Jonathan says sincerely.
Carefully, he sits next to me and wraps his arm around my shoulder. I don’t even put up a fight. I lean into his warmth and let him comfort me as more tears fall down my face. What were once happy tears have now turned into tears of grief from the loss of our relationship. “You love him, don’t you?” Jonathan asks. I nod and say weakly, “So much.” “Did he end it?” Jonathan’s voice has a harsh tone to it, but I quickly shake my head because I don’t want him to get mad at Reese once again. “No, I did.” I catch my breath and say, “Bellini caught us and gave me an ultimatum. Either destroy Reese or destroy myself.” “You chose yourself.” I nod again. This time, Jonathan brings me in even closer and kisses the top of my head. “We will get through this, Pay.” “You’re not mad at me?” “No.” He kisses my head again. “I can’t stay mad at you, sweetheart. These last few weeks have been the worst of my life. I’m sorry I was such a tool to you. No matter what you did to piss me off, I should never have treated you with the disrespect I did. You didn’t deserve that.” “You were right though. Here I am, without Reese and without a job. I should have listened to you.” He pulls me on his lap and leans back on the sofa where he cradles me and rubs my back. “Love wins out every time, Paisley. It’s a force you can never stop. You would have found a way to be with him. The attraction and bond between you was too strong.” “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry, too, Pay.” My head nuzzles into the crook of his neck as he grips me tighter. “We will figure everything out.” “I’m going to get a job as a waitress while I look for another job in the industry. I don’t want you to have to pay my bills again. It’s not fair to you.” He chuckles, the vibration running through his chest shakes me slightly. “Paisley, don’t you know? I would do anything for you. I will take care of you, sweetheart. We will figure this all out.” We sit in silence as the rest of the national anthem plays. I can’t help but get caught up in Reese’s smile, in the way his eyes are lit with the little crinkles in the corner. His face isn’t freshly shaven and as I think back over the race, I realize his entire routine was off. I wonder if he did this on purpose, if what I did affected him . . . Of course it did. I received each and every text message from Melony begging me to call her, to let her know I was okay, and that Reese was losing his mind. But I couldn’t risk it. I didn’t want Bellini catching wind I was in communication with him, so I ignored everything, even though it was killing me inside, to see how much I was jeopardizing Reese’s Olympics. I could see it in his other races. He barely qualified and when he did, he wasn’t happy. It was like he was on autopilot, not really living in the moment. That was until the crowd started to cheer for him tonight. Something lit up inside his body and put that one last spark in his stroke that he needed. Watching it from my end, I know I’ve never seen him swim so fast. He almost looked jerky in the water, like it was his first time, but with determination he continued to propel himself forward and at the turn, he had a good half-body length ahead of everyone. It was an easy win for him; one he didn’t think he actually won.
His interview after was endearing. He told the reporter his eyes went straight to silver and when he didn’t see his name, he was deflated, thinking he didn’t even medal. It wasn’t until people started chanting that he’d realized he won. When he spoke into the camera, I wanted to think he was speaking to me, that he was trying to tell me he wished I were there. Believe me, I wished I were there too. I would probably blow our cover anyway over the excitement ripping through me. You never know how much someone else’s goals matter to you until they’re accomplished. “Want to order some pizza?” Jonathan asks, his lips close to my ear. I pull away and look him in the eyes, trying to read him. His grip stays tight on me and his face is full of . . . lust. “What?” He shakes his head. “Don’t say anything, Paisley. Just know, if that dick ever hurts you, I will be sure he can never pose in front of a camera again.” Leaning forward, he kisses the top of my forehead and sighs. “If things were different, we wouldn’t be sleeping in separate bedrooms.” My brain literally can’t process what Jonathan is saying. Does he like me? What an elementary school thing to think . . . but does he? Well, it’s kind of obvious now, especially with his bedroom comment. “Jonathan, where is this coming from?” On a separate note, I hate that Reese was right, and that every conversation from When Harry Met Sally is coming full circle. He shrugs. “No clue. But don’t worry about it, sweetheart. You are in love with someone else, it’s evident in the way you’ve been mourning the loss of him. Let’s get some pizza, watch some more men dance around in tight spandex, and maybe make out a little.” He laughs, lightening the mood. Playfully, I slap his chest and get off his lap. “We are not making out.” “Fair enough.” He nods with a smile. “We will just have to heavily pet each other then. Believe me, I’m not opposed to the idea. I’ve been lotioning.” Going to the drawer of menus, I pull out the pizza one and say, “No heavy petting either.” “A little leg humping?” “No.” “How about a quick flash of the boobs?” “You can flash me your boobs.” I giggle. He thinks about it for a second and says, “All right, final offer. I flash you my boobs and you walk around in nothing but a thong and heels. Seems like a pretty fair trade to me.” “No!” I laugh. “How is that a fair trade?” “I’ve been giving you free shows for years, sweetheart. It’s about time I cash in on my roommate privileges. Strip down.” “First of all,” I walk toward him looking down at the menu, “I didn’t ask for your free shows. I’m pretty sure I told you to put clothes on every time, and second, getting naked is not in the roommate privileges.” “Is it in mine.” He wiggles his eyebrows.
“You’re ridiculous, because of that, we are getting pineapple and ham pizza.” I wince and say, “Want to pay?” His lips thin. “I will pay if you let me grab your boob just once.” “Isn’t that prostitution?” “Not if we don’t let the cops know.” Rolling my eyes, I grab his hand, place it on my boob and then shoo him away. Like a spry young man, he hops off the sofa and does a little jig. “Hell yeah! One step closer to naked Tuesdays.” He takes off to grab his wallet as I call out to him, “Never going to happen.” When he’s in his bedroom, I turn back to the screen where another race is about to begin, Reese out of sight. I sigh to myself and look down at my phone. If only I could get in contact with him. Would he want to see me again? Or is so mad at me that there is no reconciling our relationship? There mere thought of never seeing him again . . . ever, hits me hard and once again, tears start to flood my eyes just in time for Jonathan to see. “Shit,” he mutters, sitting next to me, and pulling me close again. “I love him, Jonathan, and I may never see him again.” “I know, sweetheart, I know.” Pizza is never ordered, but instead, Jonathan holds me while I cry myself to sleep. *** “Give me the grandslam with sausage, scrambled eggs, and pancakes,” an elderly gentlemen says as I grab his menu and stuff it under my arm. I turn to his breakfast companion, an elderly woman, whose wrinkles are dropping over her eyes. “And what can I get you, ma’am?” “I will take the steak skewer and egg skillet, extra meat,” she says in her very shaky old-lady voice. As I take her menu, I wonder if her dentures will be able to hold up with her meal. “I love my meat, isn’t that right, Carl?” “She sure does.” Carl winks at me as I throw up in my mouth. Old people really need their own island. I smile politely, avoiding a sarcastic thumbs up, and walk over to the register where I plug in their meals. It’s been three weeks, yes, three weeks since I left Rio. I quickly found a job at Denny’s, serving early bird specials to the elderly and scraping the grease off my body every day when I get home. There are zero prospects for me in the production field, and I haven’t heard one word from Reese since his return. How do I know he’s home? Well, that’s easy, he’s been all over the media. It’s hard not to know what he’s doing on a daily basis. I’ve now avoided all Internet use and refuse to watch TV. When I’m home, I’m either allowing Jonathan search for jobs for me, hence the no-Internet use on my end, or I’m watching sappy movies in my room while I cry silently so Jonathan doesn’t have to once again coddle me. Bellini has surprisingly been out of the limelight, given her pension for needing a camera on her at all times. After Reese won gold, I haven’t heard from Melony, and the only one who really talks to me
is Lauren, but that’s been infrequent. Jonathan has been kind and caring, but I can’t help think he has ulterior motives. Ever since he confessed his feelings for me, he’s been overly touchy and has made it quite clear he doesn’t mind being naked in front of me. One night, I actually caught him jacking off in his bedroom, and to my surprise, I watched him for a few seconds before he winked at me. I squealed, running out of his room. I’m not going to lie, I was a little turned on, but I think it’s because I miss Reese and everything about him. Yes, Jonathan has a nice penis but it’s not one I’m interested in. “Why is it you always get the interesting couples?” Tammy, a veteran of Denny’s, asks as she saddles up next to me. “Look at them, they’re Frenching over the jellies and jams on their table.” I turn to the elderly couple and cringe when I confirm what Tammy pointed out. Yes, they are indeed Frenching, but instead of their mouths being pressed up against each other, their tongues are barely flicking each other. “That’s so revolting.” I shake my head and continue to put in the steak skewer meal, which I will never look at the same again. “Looks like Dottie sat another person down for you over at five. Want me to bring him some water?” “No, I’ve got it.” I quickly finish up, grab a water and head over. The person’s menu is covering their face so I don’ see them until I say, “Hello, can I get you anything else but water?” Slowly, the menu folds down and I gasp. “Why hello, Paisley,” Jasper says. “It’s good to see you.” Looking around quickly for my manager, I say, “Jasper, wow, what brings you in here?” “Peanut butter pancakes. Saw a commercial, had to try them.” “I’ve heard they’re good,” I say, putting on a professional front, even though I’m mortified and slowly dying inside. He nods and says, “You like working here? Seems like tips wouldn’t be the best, given the crowd of senior citizens.” “It pays the bills.” I shrug. “Umm, so would you like the peanut butter pancakes? Or would you like more time to peruse the menu?” “Neither, I would like for you to come work for me.” “What?” I ask, shocked from his honesty. “I want you to work for me, Paisley. Rollin’ in The Bacon needs a production assistant and after watching you handle Bellini, I don’t want anyone else.” I bite my bottom lip as I think about what he’s asking. He wants me to be a production assistant? That’s huge. But he wants me to do it for a show I don’t think I could watch. It killed me seeing Reese with his hands on Bellini when we were together, but now we’re apart, I don’t think I could stomach it, let alone give them direction. I waver with my answer but finally say, “I don’t think I can.” Not even blinking, Jasper says, “You know, funny thing, we took a poll with some viewers over the upcoming season and the relationship between Reese and Bellini. Do you know what they said?” “No.” I shake my head.
“They hated it. They hated everything about the two of them together and said they wouldn’t continue watching the show.” “Really?” I asked, a little surprised. “I would think Reese would bring in more viewers.” “Testers said they would watch a show about Reese, but not them together, and do you know why?” I shook my head, a little too interested in his answer and completely forgetting about everyone else around me and my tables that need serving. “They tune in to the show because they love to hate Bellini. She’s a type of talent that people can’t look away from because she’s so asinine. But Reese, he’s an all-American. Viewers respect him and can’t possibly understand why he would attach himself to someone like her.” “That makes sense.” I nod in agreement. “Plus, it would be hard to pass off their relationship when you two are clearly in love.” A smile spreads across his face as I nearly choke on my own saliva. “What? Didn’t think I noticed? I’m much more observant than you think I am.” “I didn’t . . . I mean . . . we were careful.” “Well, I didn’t quite know, Jonathan told me.” “He what?” I whisper shout. “When did he tell you?” “A couple of days ago when I was asking about you. He told me the whole story and said despite your mingling with the talent, you’re good at your job and deserve a second chance. I couldn’t agree more. So, will you do it? Will you take Bellini off my hands and put her in her place? I need someone strong who can take her crap.” “I don’t know.” I bite my bottom lip as I think about throwing my apron on the floor and walking out the door with no regrets, but then, the fact that I would have to work for Bellini again hits me. “She is a demon, sent from hell.” “That’s quite true,” Jasper nods. “But, this go around, you will be in charge of her and will have the upper hand. See how that little switcharoo works?” He plays with his napkin and says, “Plus, we’ll pay you well to deal with her.” “You’re serious? You really want me back?” “I do. You’re a good worker, Paisley. Let’s just not have any more lies about being a lesbian or falling in love with the talent.” I cringe and nod. “Yeah, pretty sure there is no way in hell I’ll ever fall in love with Bellini, or Buddy Chambers for that matter.” “Heart set on a gold medalist?” My stomach flips from the mention of Reese being a gold medalist and then I remember, he hasn’t spoken to me since he’s been home. That last little ray of hope I had for when he returned vanished the minute he didn’t come see me. And still hasn’t. But what did I really expect? I left him during the most important time of his life, probably mindfucked him pretty good, and didn’t even give him an explanation. Hell, I would stop talking to me as well. I shrug. “It’s all could have beens by now. But I’m happy for him, so beyond happy for him.” Jasper doesn’t say anything, just thins his lips as he seems to ponder what I said. Breaking the silence, he asks, “So, are you in?”
“Absolutely,” I respond, loving that at least one piece of my life is back in the game. “Good, because you’re the only one I want. You start tomorrow. Now, I will take the peanut butter pancakes, a side of bacon, and some orange juice.” “You got it.” I smile, feeling a little renewed. Looks like Jonathan is still looking out for me. I owe him a lot, just not a flash of my boobs. Those are saved for one man . . . well, at least they used to be. I walk back to the register and key in Jonathan’s order while my hearts sags in my chest. Yes, I might have a job, but I’ve realized it’s not what is going to make me happy on this roller coaster of life. I once thought I was the type of person who was career-driven and wanted nothing but to climb the professional ladder. There might be a little bit of that spirit inside me, but what makes me truly happy, where nothing can probe through my joy, is being in Reese’s arms, listening to his husky voice speak closely in my ear while his hand twirls my hair. He makes me happy. He is the reason there was a smile on my face when I woke up in the morning. Without him, I feel empty, lost, and broken. He’s changed my entire perspective on life and made me see that a strong bond between two souls provides more happiness than any job or raise ever will. If only I could keep him. But a girl can’t be that lucky. She can’t have everything. If I had the choice, I would keep him over any job, too bad that wasn’t the ultimatum Bellini gave me.
Chapter Thirty **REESE** Being an Olympic athlete, I’m used to pressure, I’m used to feeling the heat of a situation, so you would think I would be mentally prepared for what I’m about to face. However, by no means am I ready. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen Paisley, since she was forced out of Brazil and away from me. I had wanted to fly back immediately to find her, but unfortunately, I had interview obligations and couldn’t catch the next flight like I wanted. Apparently being an athlete who’s won one single gold puts you on the top of the list of most important people. I’ve answered the question, “How does it feel to FINALLY have a gold?” so many damn times I’m about ready to punch the next person who asks. When I got back to the States, I didn’t rush to Paisley either, not because I didn’t want her, not because she wasn’t on my mind every second of the day, but because I wanted her in all the right ways, on good terms. That’s why I had to get out of my contract with Rollin’ in The Bacon, which was surprisingly pretty easy. Thank you, test viewers. In addition to contractually separating myself from Bellini, I had to verbally tell her as well. If you can believe it, it wasn’t the best conversation I’ve ever had. I was called every insult in the Bellini handbook ranging from an open-mouth carp face, to barnacle breath, to pre-pubescent mer-man. I then had to listen to her pray with Pope Francis about my sins who looked at me with the least judgmental eyes, silently giving me his blessing. You think it’s stupid that I can tell if a dog is judging me or not, don’t you? Well, have you ever had a dog give you side-eyes? If you have, you know what I’m talking about. Any dog who side-eyes you straight up is judging the fuck out of you. But not Pope Francis, he exudes kindness. Pretty sure he was begging me to free him from the purgatory he is living in. Poor fella. After I dealt with Satan’s Mistress, I got my affairs in order, talked to my lawyer and started the Children’s Swim camp I’d always wanted to establish. I have little camps here and there, but this was something I wanted to do year around. And thanks to my epic last race, Ashley was able to score me multiple endorsements to help my camp become a reality. I finally felt like I was in the right frame of mind to devote myself to Paisley. There was only one thing standing in my way. The door in front of me opens and I’m greeted with a frown. “She’s not here, dickhead,” Jonathan says as he goes to shut the door. I palm the wood and stop him from closing it all the way. “I’m here to talk to you.” A little shocked, he opens the door and says, “Me? What the hell do you want to talk to me about?” I nod at the living room. “Let me in and then we can discuss it. I would rather not do this in the hallway of your apartment.” Rolling his eyes, he leaves the door open and goes back to his cold beer on the coffee table in front of his couch. Loving the warm welcome, I step inside, shut his door, and help myself to a beer only to
sit on the couch next to him. Baseball highlights play on the television as we both stare in that direction, not saying a word. Thankfully, my training days are over so I can enjoy the full-strength beer I’m drinking. It feels good not to have to watch every single thing I put in my body, refreshing actually. But don’t get me wrong, I won’t be one of those athletes who “let’s themselves go.” Fuck, no. I plan on keeping a good body for my girl. “You going to talk?” Jonathan asks after a bout of silence. “You going to be an ass during this entire conversation?” “Pretty much.” He sips his beer and keeps his eyes fixed on the TV. “Fair enough.” I clear my throat. “I came over here because I wanted to tell you that I love Paisley and plan on being in her life as long as she will have me. That being said, I need to patch things up with you because despite how much I hate it, you matter to her, and I don’t ever want her to feel uncomfortable when we’re in the same room. That’s not fair to her.” “Awfully mighty of you,” Jonathan mutters before drinking from his beer again. “Just trying to make this situation harmonious.” Jonathan turns on the couch. His leg is propped up on the cushion and his back rests against the arm of the couch. His stance is relaxed but I can see the tension in his jaw; I can tell this conversation is just as hard on him as it is on me. “I love her,” Jonathan says, point-blank. “I love that girl and would do just about anything to have her as mine.” And there it is. The fear I’ve been harboring the minute I found out Jonathan the roommate wasn’t gay. The non-roommate, the schmuck dragged along for the ride, the guy that always loses in the end, that’s the kind of guy I’m feeling right about now with Jonathan staring daggers at me. Fuck, this better not be one of those endings. Before I can lay out my cards, he exhales and shakes his head from side to side in defeat. “It’s a shame though that she doesn’t feel the same way.” That perks up my ears. “For some godforsaken reason, she likes you. Imagine that.” The term “like” doesn’t settle well with me, but I have time to change that, hopefully I have time to do so. I hold back the brewing sarcastic comment. “I’m sorry to hear that.” I take a sip of beer to hide the smile that crosses my face. “No, you’re not.” He chuckles. “Fuck, I hate you.” “Feeling is mutual.” I nod in agreement. “At least we have one thing in common.” “That and our love for Paisley.” Understanding passes over Jonathan as he takes in my words, acknowledging them with a nod. “Too bad for her she’s picking the lesser man. Can’t be mad at a girl forever over her bad taste.” “Fuck off.” We both laugh but then Jonathan grows serious. “One wrong move, and she’s mine.” He makes his stance known, and I read it loud and clear. The minute I slip up, he’s swooping in. I can get that. Hell, if I were in his position, I would do the same thing.
“Understood.” Sticking my hand out, I shake his and add, “I respect you for not moving in on her while I was gone.” “Ha!” He laughs. “Yeah, I’m not that good of a guy. Just got turned down, that’s all.” He gets up from the couch and goes to the fridge. “Another beer?” I grit my teeth from his confession. “No, but I will take a fucking fist to your face if you’re handing those out.” “Not so much.”He rounds the couch and looks down at me. “Never claimed to be perfect.” “Yeah, well, when she comes back in my life, I suggest you learn to stuff your dick in your pants when she’s around, none of this naked shit anymore.” “Intimidated?” He raises an eyebrow. I stand up, toe to toe with him. “Not in the slightest.” We stare each other down, our chests puffed, pure testosterone filling the apartment air just as the front door opens. A gasp comes from the entryway. Keys fly to the floor and Paisley comes running up between us, pushing us apart. “What are you doing?” she asks me, shielding Jonathan. From behind, he’s grinning, his eyebrows wiggling at me, a smarmy look on his face from Paisley reprimanding me. Fuck, I hate him so damn much. “Paisley, it’s not what you think.” Why does that sound so incredibly wrong? When you hear that phrase, it’s usually attached to someone being caught in the act of cheating with another person. That is far from the truth in this situation. She shakes her head. “Whatever, fight if you want. I will be in my room.” This was not how I wanted my first interaction with her to be. I was kind of hoping more of a passionate embrace, maybe a leap in the air where I would catch her only to have her legs wrap around my waist. I’d carry her off to her bedroom and make love to her until the sun comes up. But instead, I see her retreating backside in black pants and a black Denny’s shirt. Hell. “Looks like you have some explaining to do.” Jonathan chuckles under his breath. “You’re a dick.” I start to walk past him, but he pauses my pursuit with a hand to my chest. Looking me square in the eyes, he says, “I don’t like you, but I respect you. You’re a man of your word, and I can tell you care about her. For her, I will get along with you, but do not hurt her. Got it?” “You don’t have to keep reminding me. I have no intention of breaking her heart.” I look past his shoulder and then meet his eyes again. “But I will chop your dick off if I ever see it naked when I’m around. Pack it up, dude, your naked shows are over.” A smile caresses his lips as he lets me by, giving me my much-needed time with Paisley. When I walk into her room and shut her door silently, she’s on her bed, her hands wringing on her lap in a nervous twitch. Her silver-colored eyes look up at me, and I’m slayed in half from the vulnerability resting in them. “Hey,” she says weakly. “What are you doing here?” “I came to talk to you,” I say, feeling a little nervous myself. It’s almost awkward, the tension
between us. Only a few weeks ago, we couldn’t get enough of each other but the distance between us now is noticeable. Do I go up to her and hug her? Am I allowed to kiss her? Does she even want me to kiss her? After all this time, does she still have feelings for me? “Listen, Reese . . .” She starts but then pauses, so I continue for her. “Is there something between you and Jonathan?” Not the way I wanted to start this conversation, but before I lay my heart out on the line, I need to make sure she doesn’t harbor feelings for the man. Before she can answer, I add, “I ask because he told me about the conversation you two had. He told me about his feelings and even though it pains me, if there is any inkling you might want to be with him, I need to know now.” She stands from the bed and walks over to me, tentatively. Shaking her head, she says, “I don’t have feelings for him, Reese.” “You sure about that?” Nodding, she takes one step closer. I can tell she’s nervous. Tears fill her eyes and my heart breaks. Without even a second thought, I pull her into my chest and wrap my arms around her, shielding her from the outside world. “I’m so sorry,” she cries. “I’m so sorry I left you and messed with your head during your last Olympics. I didn’t have a choice, and I didn’t want your name dragged through the mud. I did what I thought was best, but I feel like I messed everything up.” “Shh,” I coo in her ear. “You didn’t mess everything up.” “Yes, I did.” She pulls away so I can see her tear-streaked face. “We haven’t talked in weeks, and you’ve been home for at least two. I get it, Reese, I ruined everything.” I chuckle. I can’t help it, which causes her cute little nose to scrunch up. “Paisley, if you messed everything up, would I be here in your room, holding you, on the verge of losing my damn mind if my lips aren’t on yours in the next few seconds?” “What?” Her brow creases, but I don’t answer her. I capture her face with my hands and bring her lips to mine, soaking in the little confused mews coming out of her as my tongue searches for hers. She opens her mouth as her arms wrap around my waist, pulling me in close, letting our bodies melt together. Do I want to fuck this woman? Yes. Do I want to make love to this woman? More than anything. But right now, kissing her intimately, not aggressively, just enough pressure to let her know how much I’ve missed her is enough for me. There is something to be said about making out with someone you’re in love with. It isn’t some frantic need that leads to tearing each other ’s clothes off. No, this is something different, a connection that goes deeper than any frantic fuck up against a wall. Wanting to be closer, I move us to her bed where I lay her down gently and then straddle her body, my arms framing her face. I pull away for a second and look down at her, at the contrast of her dark hair to her light eyes and the way her beautiful skin helps them pop in color. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.” From my compliment her cheeks blush and in that moment, I can’t contain myself. “I love you, Paisley.” Her mouth falls open and then turns into a smile. Her hand rubs the scruff on my jaw and she says, “I love you so much, Reese.” Everything in me bursts with pure joy from those first six little words. Slowly, I lean down and
place a soft kiss on her lips, barely a whisper of a connection, but just enough that she knows the kind of emotion I’m feeling. This woman is everything to me. Needing to get the elephant out of the room so we can move on, I say, “I’m sorry Bellini treated you so terribly. You didn’t deserve that, and you didn’t deserve to be exiled either.” “I should have talked to Melony. I was just so scared of what Bellini would have done if she found out. She’s kind of stealth.” I chuckle. “She’s a psychopath. That’s why I got out of my contract with the production company. I couldn’t go on pretend dating her, not when she hurt you like that.” “I know.” She smiles up at me. “You know?” She nods. “Jasper talked to me today. He asked me to be an assistant producer for the show. Plans on paying me well, because apparently, I’m the only one who can handle Bellini and put her in her place. He told me all about your contract.” “Did he now?” “He did.” “And how do you feel about that?” “I feel like I want to be your girlfriend again.” That damn smile will be the death of me. “Baby, you never stopped.” Leaning down, I kiss her again and then pull away quickly. “What’s wrong?” Confusion is clear in her eyes. “I love you and I’m so proud of you right now, but baby, you have to go take a shower. You smell like one giant slab of bacon and it’s freaking me out when I kiss you.” “Don’t want to make out with a grease pan?” “No so much.” I laugh. “Shower with me?” The way her eyes light up with lust . . . with love, how can I say no? “Gladly.” Without even skipping a beat, she pulls me toward the bathroom, her hand in mine and starts to undress me when we get inside, wasting no time in getting me naked. She does the same, and before I know it, we are waiting for the shower to heat up while she has my back pressed against the cold bathroom door. “I missed you.” Her voice is quiet, sad almost. “I missed you too, Paisley.” Her fingers play with the short hairs of my beard. “I wanted so badly to be there for you when you won gold. It killed me that I wasn’t able to shout for you in the stands, but I watched every moment of it here. I cried . . . a lot.” Lifting her chin so she’s forced to look me in the eyes, I say, “Knowing you were here, watching me, means everything to me, baby.” “I’m so proud of you, Reese.” My hands caress the curve of her hip as I say, “Thank you. It was one hell of a way to end my career.” “Save the best for last, right?”
“Right.” I wink. “Now onto the next chapter of my life.” “Which is what?” Steam starts to fill the bathroom so I walk her over to the tub and help her in and follow behind. Watching water fall over her curvaceous body, I say, “Finally starting that swim camp for children, and I plan on spending a lot of time lounging out on my deck with you right next to me.” “Are you going to turn flabby on me?” she asks, running her fingers along my abs. “Never. Got to keep up the good looks so you don’t leave me.” Smiling softly, she stands on her toes and kisses my cheek. “Your looks might have gotten me interested, but it’s your heart that will keep me around.” Well, fuck me. I’m the luckiest son of a bitch ever. “I love you, Paisley.” Not letting her respond, I move us both under the water and let my lips work her body, from her mouth, to her neck, and to her breasts. I might have finally won a gold medal but it would mean nothing without this girl in my life, without her intuitive eyes splitting me in half and her beautiful heart sewing me back together.
Epilogue **PAISLEY** “Wheat Thins? Wheat Thins??” Bellini shouts through the phone as Reese pulls on my hand, dragging me to the back of his pool . . . oh I mean, our pool. He moved me into his house a week after we said, “I love you.” He wasn’t liking Jonathan’s inability to put pants on. “Do you think I’m some kind of parrot who sits on an evil sorcerer ’s shoulder? I don’t eat Wheat Thins!” It’s the daily call from Bellini. Actually, daily is an understatement. She likes to call multiple times a day to complain about something. Today it’s the food her new assistant has put in her cabinet. “I don’t eat food, Mauve.” Yeah, she refuses to call me Paisley. It’s fine. Mauve has kind of grown on me. “I demand two things, Tic Tacs and my venti iced skinny hazelnut macchiato, sugar-free syrup, extra shot with only seven cubes of ice. Is that too hard to fulfill?” I sigh while Reese looks at me with those big hazel eyes of his, begging me to hang up the phone. “Bellini, there is a giant box in your hall closet full of orange Tic Tacs and, Biscuit,” yes, her assistant’s new name is Biscuit, aka, Beatrice, “she’s been given a Starbucks card and knows of all locations around her. You will have your preferred food. The Wheat Thins are for those who have to be at your house for long production hours.” “They can starve,” she shoots back. Knowing exactly how to handle the situation, I say, “Now, Bellini, what would Pope Francis think of a comment like that?” Yup, that’s the kind of action I’ve taken with her. She thinks her dog it the epitome of humankind, then I will use that to my advantage. “He would agree,” she answers quietly. “Are you lying right in front of Pope Francis?” I chastise. Dramatically sighing, she says, “Fine, he would not agree with making people starve.” “Good, so let’s forget about the Wheat Thins and get a good night’s rest. You have a big day of filming tomorrow. Melon will be at your place early in the morning for hair and makeup.” “And my drink?” she almost asks frantically. “Biscuit will be sure to be there when you wake up. Please be sure to have Pocket stay away from her, the heavy breathing has gotten a little out of control.” “She’s seeing a specialist about it. I think I’m going to stick her in rehab.” I don’t even want to get into the weird relationship between Bellini and Pocket. I just have to warn Bellini about Pocket and her heavy breathing while around everyone else . . . it’s freaking them out. “Do what you have to do. I will see you tomorrow.” “Are you hurrying me off the phone?” “Yes, I am,” I say without skipping a beat. “Have a good night.” I click “end” and then turn off my phone. Tossing it to the side, I turn toward Reese, who has a picnic laid out under the stars for us. His smile is devastating as I walk toward him, my thin white cover-up blowing in the breeze.
Underneath, I’m wearing a very miniscule bikini that barely covers anything. I know it’s doing the trick when Reese’s eyes scan my body and heat with fire. “You’re trying to kill me before we even have dinner, aren’t you?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I smile and then toss my cover-up to the side, revealing my swimsuit . . . if that’s what you want to call it. His hand rubs his jaw as he takes me in. His beard is a little fuller than normal and his hair is a little longer, curling at the ends and framing his face. He said he wouldn’t let himself go, which he hasn’t. We actually go to CrossFit together where he shows off and I try to keep up with him. But his hair is a different story. There is even a light splattering of hair caressing his chest. It’s minimal and short . . . and sexy as hell. Thirty-two looks seriously good on him. “Sit,” he demands as he takes off his shirt, revealing that perfectly defined chest and . . . I start laughing hysterically and roll my eyes. “Are you ever going to take that thing off?” Around his neck is his gold medal. Whenever we are in the house, he wears it, showing it off to me every chance he gets. “I have sixteen years to make up for, I’m going to wear it a long time.” “You’re so ridiculous.” “Oh yeah?” He quirks an eyebrow at me. “Then I guess you don’t want this present?” He pulls a little box out from under a blanket that is lying next to the food. Like a giddy little girl, I reach out my hands to him. “You’re not ridiculous. You’re perfect in every way.” “And . . .” “And the most attractive man I’ve ever met.” “And . . .” I roll my eyes. “And your dick is the best dick I’ve ever had inside me.” “And . . .” I think about it. “And I love you.” He smiles and pecks me on the cheek. “Good answer.” Handing me the gift, he nods at the little folded card on top. “Read it.” I open it and read the card out loud. “To my baby. Love, Clyde.” A snort comes out of me from reading my fake boyfriend’s name written in Reese’s chicken scratch. “I miss being Clyde,” he says in remembrance. Not even engaging in the conversation, I tear open the box and pull out a small recorder. “What’s this?” I ask, confused. Wanting to be closer, he pulls me onto his lap, wraps his arms around my body, and rests his chin on my shoulder while he presses play. “Hi, baby girl. It’s Mom and Dad. We had a special visitor stop by a little bit ago who told us all about your life in Hollywood.” Tears immediately start to fall from my cheeks from hearing my parents’ voices. “We, uh . . . we’re sorry we’ve been so pig-headed over your life adventures. We just didn’t want to lose you, but we lost you anyway from not supporting you. We want to tell you how proud of you we are and how we can’t wait to see you.” My dad’s voice comes through. “We love
you.” And then in the background you can hear Gramps say, “I told them they were being idiots.” I laugh at that and then the recording is done. Reese kisses my cheek and says into my ear, “They are coming up next weekend. I hope that’s okay.” I turn on his lap and face him. I kiss him feverishly, pushing him down on his back. “Is more than okay,” I say, in between moving my mouth over his. “I can’t believe you did that.” “Anything for my baby,” he replies. When I walked on set to be the assistant to the biggest reality star bitch on the planet, I never thought I would be leaving with the most gorgeous, kind, and caring man I’ve ever met. It’s funny how things work out. When one door is closed, there is actually an entire other side of the house waiting for you to explore. Lucky for me, Reese King was on the other side.
**THE END** Thank you for reading STROKED. I hope you enjoyed it! Keep flipping the pages for a SNEAK PEEK of the first chapter of my ROMANTIC COMEDY, The Mother Road. · Would you like to know when my next book is available? You can sign up for my new release email list at http://www.authormeghanquinn.com/newsletter.html and receive ONE FREE KINDLE EBOOK per person. · You can also follow me on twitter at @authormegquinn, or like my Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/meghanquinnauthor/ · Reviews help other readers find books. I appreciate all of my readers’ reviews. · This book is lendable through Amazon’s lending program. Feel free to share it with a friend! If you enjoyed STROKED, don’t worry it isna’t quite over, there will be two more books in the series. STROKED LONG will release August 2016 and STROKED HARD will release November 2016. In the meantime, here is a list of my other books available. The Romance Novelist Series (Hilarious, laugh out loud romantic comedies) The Virgin Romance Novelist The Randy Romance Novelist
Romantic Comedy Standalones (Full of heart, humor, and heat. Both heroes are sweet, yet demanding) The Mother Road Newly Exposed The Bourbon Series (Sassy, erotic romance with a gorgeous, protective alpha male) Becoming a Jett Girl Being a Jett Girl Forever a Jett Girl Repentance The Love and Sports Series (New Adult, college football forms into professional football careers. Love triangles.) Fair Catch Double Coverage Three and Out The Hot-Lanta Series (My first series ever. Baseball sports romance with lots of drama!) Caught Looking Playing the Field Warning Track Hit and Run The Addiction Series (Rock star romance, minor cheating and love triangles. Book three still to come, Rehab.) Toxic Fame The Warblers Point Series (Three Irish brothers, their younger sister, and the drama they get into. Love triangles. Book three still to come.) Beers, Hens and Irishmen Beers, Lies and Alibis
The Mother Road Prologue “Marley, put the axe down and step away from the flannels,” Porter says, hands extended, as if he wants to help. “You’re not in a good frame of mind. This is not who you are. You’re not an axe wielding psychopath looking to make a pile of long sleeved cotton into your very own plaid colored mulch,” Paul tries to convince me. “Buttons, please put the axe down. We can talk about whatever is bothering you. Please don’t chop up Daddy’s Americana flannel shirt.” Let’s pause for a second; do you see those three men standing to the side, fear in their eyes, sweat at their temples, with their hands clutched at their waists and their asses tight enough to pop open a bottle of beer? Yeah, those three, they’re the reason why I’m foaming at the mouth, gripping an axe three sizes too big for my body with my heels dug deep into the wet and muddy ground. That’s me, Marley McMann, the brunette in the “rustic” orange bridesmaid dress with a bouquet sticking out of my hair and a pile of multi-colored poly-blend barf rags resting in front of me, waiting to be minced into my very own personal hamster shit shavings. I’m not usually threatening to slice the buttons off of men’s clothing with a lead shiv big enough to cut down a knotty vagina-looking sycamore tree. But I’ve had my limit. There comes a time in a girl’s life when she has to reach deep down into her soul, clear the pathways of her inner goddess, and let out her nuclear Satan. You know what I’m talking about. The crazy. Don’t try to act like you don’t have it; every woman does. Let me paint you a picture. It’s that time of the month; its shark week, as some may say. The civil war is being reenacted by your ovaries and death is scatted over your fallopian tubes. You’re crippled over in pain on your couch, half a Snickers bar hanging out of your mouth, a heating pad pressed against your innards, and a blanket wrapped around you as if you’re a cocktail wiener in a Pillsbury croissant. The Hallmark Channel is airing that Mario Lopez movie you’ve been dying to see and not because the plot looks good, but because you want to reminisce on your Saved by the Bell days. Mario is the only thing getting you through this time of need, that and the chocolate drool slowly dripping into the back of your throat. You’re content, minus the battlefield in your uterus, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, the mister in your life flops on the couch, causing a ripple within your cocoon. Your heating pad shifts and your Snickers bar falls to the ground, a travesty in itself. The swoon-worthy shot of Mario with his shirt off gets rudely switched to some stupid sporting game just as the mister lifts his ass in your direction and blasts two large farts. Can you feel the monster start to awaken? You try to remain calm; you tell yourself it’s going to be alright, you’re life isn’t spiraling out of
control into the depths of hell…until one simple crack of his knuckles rings through the room. One single pop. You lose it. Your eyelids flip inside out, fire shoots out of your vagina, and your toenails grow to exponential pterodactyl lengths. You’re at his throat, scratching his jugular with your toes until you’re satisfied enough with the human carnage you’ve turned him into. That moment right there, that’s where I’m at. In all honesty, I’m a pleasant human. I have my own beauty blog and live in sunny Los Angeles, where I pay an ass ton of money to live in a two-bedroom apartment the size of a walk-in closet, but I make it work. You know those hidden Murphy beds? I have one; be jealous. I get to work from home, test out different cosmetics, and write about them. I’ve got a pretty easygoing life, or at least I did. It all started when Paul, my older brother, decided to get married. No, this isn’t one of those stories where I talk about the evil soon to be sister-in-law and how she’s ruined my life. I actually adore Savannah; she’s perfect for my brother, minus the big eyes. I swear she blinks three times less than the average human. This is about the week leading up to my brother ’s wedding…the week that I now refer to on my blog as the journey of three beards and a mascara brush. Confused? Don’t be; you will understand very quickly where I’m coming from.
Chapter One **MARLEY** “Your foot is your root and your arms are your limbs. With conviction in your hearts and purpose in your spirit, plant your root, sink it into the soil of your life, and let your limbs blossom to the sky, where your spirit will soak them in tranquility. That’s right…breathe in two three and out two three. Feel the rhythm of your heart beat with the rhythm of Mother Nature.” “Why do I let you drag me to these things?” Marisa grunts from the side of her mouth. My roots are planted and my limbs are blowing in the breeze, and I’m paying no attention to Marisa grumbling next to me. “And how am I supposed to let my heart beat with Mother Nature when that bitch ruined my new suede pumps during her pissing match yesterday? When does she ever let it rain here?” “It’s called the Weather Channel,” I breathe, letting the negative vibes Marisa is shooting in my direction to roll off my body. “Try watching it.” In a calming voice, the instructor says, “In two breaths, I want you to swan dive into a front fold. On your count.” I take in two deep breaths, extend my arms out, and then dive forward until my chest is pressing against my knees. I grab the backs of my calves and feel the stretch deep within my hamstrings. I try to channel Mother Nature, speak to her mossy-like soul, but can’t seem to get on the same wave length as her. “The people in here are weird,” Marisa shout whispers, drawing attention to us. The instructor hovers near us, her magenta leggings coming into view. “Ladies, let us clear our minds. We are here to feel our auras open like a lotus flower to the power of breathing.” “The only lotus flower opening that will be happening for me is if Johnny stops by tonight. Did you see his latest Instagram picture? The boy is trying to kill me.” Every Tuesday I bring Marisa to my yoga class with me, and every Tuesday she complains about the instructor, the LuLu Lemon wrapped attendees, and then spends the rest of the class talking about Johnny, her pleasure pal. Johnny has a six pack, did you know that? Johnny is an underwear model and doesn’t stuff his briefs—believe me, I know. Johnny can munch you out like he’s a ravenous pot head seeing a box of SnackWells for the first time. Every freaking Tuesday, I am forced to hear the homage to Johnny. I get to listen about his curly cat-like tongue – sandpaper and all – his veiny penis and giant nut sac, and I mean giant, I saw a picture. Think of a three week old cantaloupe, shriveled up with a carrot poking out the top, that would be Johnny’s nut sac. He has some giant baby making balls, waiting to squirt on any lady egg that floats in his direction. “On your next breath, step your right foot back and then your left, positioning yourself into downward dog.”
Like clockwork, my body does what the instructor asks on demand. Soft dripping water and birds chime over the speakers while my mind tries to drift off, compartmentalizing Marisa’s comments to the back of my brain. “What’s that smell?” It almost feels like Marisa is sharing my mat with me, she’s so close. I peek over to see her inching closer to me, finger walking inch by inch. “Get back to your mat,” I chastise. “It smells over there, like someone ate a year old burrito and secreted it out their lady business.” “Marisa…,” my lecture is cut off by the low rumble of someone’s loins. Hanging upside down, Marisa’s eyes bug out. “See.” Lifting my head, I look around to see which yoga pant clad ass is offering the offensive odor. Being the girl that I am, I want to blame it on the petite blonde whose downward dog is so on point I want to drop kick her in the tail bone, but I know it’s not her; life isn’t that lucky. Pffffttttt… Marisa inches closer to me, making it seem like we are in the midst of a couple’s yoga session. “Marisa, you’re going to get us in trouble.” Pfffftttt… “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble, looking up again to see the lady who is directly in front of Marisa’s mat adjust her legs, shaking her butt in the air, as if she’s trying to air out a bubble that’s been trapped in her spandex for days. Marisa bumps my elbow with hers and gives me the stink eye. “I told you. Lady’s got the toots.” “Be cool,” I say under my breath, not wanting to make the poor elderly woman with the saggy spandies and large panty line self-conscious. Yoga is a place to relax, not judge. Pffffffftttt. “Hey,” Marisa walks closer to the farter and whacks her ankle. “Lady, can you stop with the toots? I’m trying to breathe back here.” “Marisa,” I hiss. “Is there a problem, ladies?” The instructor comes up next to us, clearly unhappy with our disturbance. Being the obnoxious person she is, Marisa releases from downward dog and sits on her butt, legs crossed. “This one right here, she keeps farting, and frankly it’s ruining my aura.” Marisa tosses her thumb at the poor elderly lady, calling her out. “You have no aura,” I chastise her, humiliated for myself and Tooting Tanya. “Edith, are you having some gastral issues today?” the instructor asks. I prefer to call the lady Tooting Tanya. Alliterations make my tongue feel sparkly, but I accept the name Edith. With a thump, Edith falls to the ground and looks up at the instructor, an impish look on her face. “I had the California Burrito from Alberto’s last night. Carne Asada never sits well with me.” “I knew it was unprocessed meat I was smelling,” Marisa accuses, making me throw up a little in my mouth. Edith shoots a death glare at Marisa. “It would be best if you mind your manners, young lady. When you get old, you will find it much harder to hold things in. Let this be a lesson to you.”
“I’m not worried,” Marisa leans back on her hands. “I’ve already started my Kegel exercises.” Edith sits on her knees, inching closer to Marisa. “Flatulence gas comes from your butt, not your vagina.” The threatening stance Edith displays doesn’t scare Marisa at all; it only encourages her. Getting up on her hands and knees, she positions herself in front of Edith’s face. “No worries there either, Memaw. Unlike you, I don’t plan on partaking in anal orgies in my twenties like I’m sure you did. Things will keep tight, which is more than I can say for the wild roast beef that sits between your wrinkly thighs.” The horrified look on Edith’s face matches mine as I break my pose out of pure shock. “How dare you!” Edith roars, her hand rises to slap Marisa. Being the ninja she is, Marisa rolls to the side, out of slapping range, and rips the yoga mat out from under Edith, causing the elderly woman to flip to her back with her legs in the air and camel toe of epic proportions on display. Marisa tosses the mat to the side, brushes off her hands, and says, “You’ve completely destroyed the ambiance in this class for me, mammy. I can’t even feel my bean sprouts or whatever the hell you call them.” “Roots,” I subconsciously help her. “Yeah, I can’t feel my roots, and you know what, Edith?” Marisa sneers her name. “I was feeling rather tree-like today. Thanks for wilting my branches with your sour carne asada puckered prune of an asshole. I hope you have diarrhea…” “Okay,” I stop Marisa and grab my yoga mat as I stand, not even bothering to roll it, but instead wearing it like a veil to avoid eye contact with my classmates. “I think it’s time we leave.” “And we would appreciate it if you don’t come back,” the instructor says, standing next to Edith, clearly choosing a side. Mortification sets in as I dodge raised tailbone after raised tailbone and seek the exit while hiding my face from any onlookers. In the background, I can hear the instructor tell everyone to clear their minds and seek understanding for Edith. Once we’re out of the class, Marisa goes off. “This is bullshit. We’re not the ones who were disturbing the class.” She can be so dense sometimes. I give her a pointed look and grab my keys from the locker that sits just outside the room. “You were talking the entire time, you never once tried to communicate with Mother Nature and you called an elderly lady’s butt a puckered prune, she should have kicked us out sooner.” “What? Are we not allowed to talk? What’s a gym if you can’t socialize?” We walk out the front of the gym and head toward our favorite smoothie bar. Marisa grabs my arm and says, “The only reason she wanted us to leave was because she is so obsessed with people listening to her perverted porn voice that she was threatened by our conversation.” I check my phone while Marisa continues with her rant. A picture from Paul, my brother, pops up on my screen. He’s wearing a neon trucker hat that says McMann Clan across the top. I laugh to myself as I remember the days we used to wear such hats while traveling around the country with our mom and dad. I text him back.
Marley: Neon might be in, but that hat is just asking to be crucified by all fashion gods. “I’m going back there. I’m going to secretly put a recorder in that classroom and record the instructor ’s voice and then sell it to the internet. Horny bastards around the world will get off on her voice. It’s the perfect scheme. Money will be rolling into my bank account in no time.” We turn into the smoothie shop and I hold the door open for Marisa. The smells of blended juices, frozen fruit, and wheatgrass greet us. “You know ‘the internet’ doesn’t make purchases. You have to actually sell the porn voice to a buyer or actual porn site.” “We’ll see,” Marisa mutters with a devious smile. She steps up to the counter and orders for us. “Two wheatgrass shots and two small kale smoothies, extra kale. We like it thick.” Correction, she likes it thick. I drink the grassy crap because it’s the thing to do in California. My diet has changed drastically since I’ve moved to Los Angeles and my body has finally become accustomed to the overconsumption of chewy greens. Now, everything is organic that goes into my body. I stay away from red meat as much as I can, as well as gluten, soy, and a lot of chicken products. I still eat things with faces, but try hard not to, given the guilt trips I get from my vegan friend, Marisa. “Here’s to Edith!” Marisa hands me my wheatgrass shot, which I have to plug my nose to drain down my throat. “May her farts propel her home and straight to the toilet.” I shake my head and clink my plastic cup with Marisa’s, secretly hoping Edith is not utterly humiliated. She seemed like a nice lady. *** “I swear to you, it was as if angels were singing the minute his mouth touched me…” I hold my hand up before Marisa can finish her sentence. “Seriously, Marisa, I don’t need to hear about every orgasm Johnny gives you with his tongue.” “But I have to tell someone about them. It’s an out of body experience.” It’s not that I’m not into sharing, because I am, it’s just that every time Marisa talks about her sex life, it reminds me of just how nonexistent mine is. It’s so nonexistent that when I was at the grocery store on Monday, I found myself stroking the cardboard cut-out of the 49ers quarterback, Colin Kapernick next to the display of soda packs. I only stopped cuddling the cardboard because a store clerk asked me kindly to stop fondling Colin’s crotch in front of the children. In my defense, the ribbed cardboard felt nice against my fingers. Moving to Las Angeles was a great move for my career because it exposes me to the core of the beauty and fashion mecca, but when it comes to men, I’m living right in the pinnacle of all egotistical, blond-tipped, douche bags. Don’t get me wrong, there are some fine specimens out here, sometimes too fine. I have a problem dating a man who’s prettier than me, or takes longer to get ready for a date, or asks to borrow my bronzer—it happened. My dating repertoire revolves around rugged, more earthy men—please don’t mistake the word earthy for smelly; all men I date must delight my uterus with an attractive scent.
I grew up on a farm in Upstate New York, where I used to have hay bale throwing contests with my brother and dad. I used to walk pigs around at the country fair, showing off their size and girth, and then I would barrel race on my horse, Polly, working the crowd with our theatrics. If you haven’t guessed it, I’m a born and raised country girl who turned into an eyelash curler wielding fashionista. That being said, I need a man who is rough around the edges, has a license to grow a beard, and doesn’t ask me to go in on a monthly tanning package with him. In all honesty, the men out here are decent. Maybe I’m being too picky…or maybe I’m just hung up on one particular man who broke my heart four years ago, but we won’t go there. “I told you I would hook you up with Johnny’s friend, Manny,” Marisa breaks through my thoughts. “He has a Lamborghini.” “You also told me he has a thick nest of neck hair that makes it seem like he’s constantly wearing a turtleneck in sunny California,” I point out. “But he has a nice car…” Sarcasm drips from my mouth. “Oh, then by all means, let me meet this man and his nice car.” “You don’t have to be snide with me.” Marisa tosses her empty smoothie cup in a trash can on our walk back to our apartment. “You really need to get laid. When was the last time you had an orgasm? And twiddling yourself doesn’t count.” “I don’t twiddle myself.” “Okay,” Marisa laughs. “Drop the nun act, sweetheart. I know you try to give yourself carpel tunnel on a daily basis.” She is so off, more like an every other day basis. Daily would just be obscene. “Fine, it’s been a while, but it’s kind of refreshing not having to deal with the drama of a relationship.” We turn the corner to our street and I halt in my tracks, horrified by the sight that stands before me. “Who cares about a relationship? I’m just trying to get you fucked…” Marisa trails off on her last word as she looks up to see both my dad and Paul standing outside of our apartment with Tacy. Who’s Tacy? The question is more like, what’s Tacy? You see, back in 1987 my parents made the investment of their lives—according to them. They purchased a 1987 Signature TravelMaster, equipped with a kitchen, bathroom, dining area, and three beds. Decorated with a mauve interior and fake wood paneling, it was the glory of RVs in its day. Being from Jamestown, New York and a huge fan of Lucille Ball and the movie, The Long, Long Trailer, my parents named the RV after the lead female character, Tacy. Back in the day, Tacy was in the prime of her life, all shiny with her built in overhang adding an extra bed into the mix and her spare tire hanging off the back, she could do no wrong. But now, in her twenty-eighth year of age, she is rusting; she’s lacking in her luster and it almost seems like her back end is drooping from having to hold up that damn tire for so long. Tearing my eyes off Tacy, I turn to see my dad with his arms crossed over his burly chest, a bushy beard sprinkled with grey gracing his face, and a look of hostility in his eyes. Paul is the complete opposite; his hands are in his pockets, he’s relaxed, and laughing over Marisa’s comment. “Uh, Dad, Paul, what are you doing here?” It’s a surprise to see them in California, since they both live in New York. My dad still lives on the
farm we grew up on, raising goats and milking them every morning, nothing’s changed with him besides the grey in his hair. When I was still back home, we used to raise pigs and goats, and we grew some vegetables as well, but now my dad can only take care of the goats on his own and some corn. Paul lives up in Watertown, New York with his fiancé Savannah. He’s been in the Army for the past four years, but has been hired by the government to do some kind of computer coding crap that I never pay attention to. Paul is a certifiable know-it-all and loves to bore people with his computer knowledge and random facts about mindless things no one cares about. He can be annoying at times, but he’s still one of my best friends. “Good to see you too, Marley.” Paul pulls me into a hug. I press my cheek against his chest and smile to myself when his Old Spice deodorant fills my senses. If Paul is anything, he’s consistent. Both my father and Paul are over six feet tall, ruining me for any short man that might want to date me. I’ve spent my entire life hugging men who tower over me and I can’t imagine dating someone I can dance cheek to cheek with. No, I prefer cheek to nipple; it’s more comforting. “Sorry, I’m just surprised.” I turn to my dad and he opens his arms to me. “Hey, Dad.” “Come here, Buttons.” He pulls me into a hug and kisses the top of my head five times, like he always does, his wiry beard messing up my hair. Sometimes he switches up the count of kisses, depending on his mood. If he has to say goodbye to me for a long period of time, he’ll kiss me on the head eight times, my lucky number. When I pull away, I see Marisa clasping her hands to her chest, happy for the family reunion. “Oh, you McManns, you’re so loving.” “Marisa, nice to see you,” my father says with a clipped voice, clearly still not happy with her earlier comment about my untapped libido. Picking up on my dad’s temper, she says, “Yeah…um, I’m going to take off. I have some…uh, walking to do.” Marisa gives me a quick hug. “I’ll catch you later, Marley. Paul, congrats on the wedding.” Quickly, without skipping a stride, Marisa walks her little Asian-self past our apartment building and around the corner, her phone pressed against her ear, probably trying to call Johnny. I turn to the two men in my life and ask, “Alright, what’s going on?” Paul, the blond-haired, blue-eyed heartthrob of Jamestown—that’s at least what my friends called him—smiles brightly at me, mischief in his eyes. “Aren’t you going to say hi to Tacy?” There is a sick obsession in my family where we treat inanimate objects like they are humans. They have feelings just like us and we must pay them the same attention someone in the family would earn. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t drink out of the same water glass twice unless I’ve used all water glasses in my cabinet, or else I feel guilty for not spreading the love. Thanks to my dad’s encouragement, almost every large object on the farm has a name and is treated as a family member. If the tractor ’s acting up, we don’t yell at it, we talk to it calmly, trying to solve the issue. That is until Dad loses his short-fused temper and starts swearing like a banshee, kicking and screaming. Picture Ralphie’s dad from The Christmas Story times five. That’s the Bern-Man. The only time he will swear is when he’s in an epic battle with the tractor. “What up, Tace?” I nod at the pile of junk and then turn back to the two most important men in my
life. “So, why are you two here, and please don’t tell me you drove out here in that.” I point at Tacy and take in her bumper that’s hanging on by a screw, strike that, hanging on by duct tape, my dad’s cure for everything. “Of course we did.” Paul wraps his hand around my shoulder and we all turn to face the Signature TravelMaster. “Marley, it’s time to finally conquer The Mother Road.” “What?” I pull away. “But, I thought we weren’t doing road trips anymore.” Before my mom got sick, Dad would sign up a couple of friends to take care of the farm for a two week stint and we would go on a family road trip during the summer. We spent countless hours in Tacy, mindless miles on the road, and unforgettable memories making each other laugh so boredom never got the best of us. But those days were brought to a halt the moment my mom received a devastating call from the doctor. The day my mom got cancer was the day we hung up Tacy’s keys. I was in middle school, Paul was a junior in high school, and my dad was just scraping by on the farm, trying to pay off Mom’s medical bills. The cancer was quick and it took us all by surprise. Life was never the same after that. Instantaneously, I became the lady of the household, a responsibility I wasn’t ready to carry. I was forced to grow up quickly, learn how to cook, clean, and take care of my dad and brother. We traded in our family traditions for survival tactics, spending our time on the farm and making sure we didn’t lose our home as well. Our once goal of eating a hot dog in every state together and taking Polaroids at odd landmarks became a distant memory, and in its place, we pushed through the loss of our beloved mother and worked night and day until our hands were raw. Dad downsized the farm once Paul went to the Army, and when I left for school, he sold even more land, giving him a solid savings he could put toward retirement. We all went our separate ways, forgetting about the childish goals we strived for, so we could obtain new ones that focused more on our future. Since Mom’s death, I haven’t thought about our final road trip we’d been planning to take before she got sick. “Marley, I’m getting married in a week and a half. My life will be changing soon. I’m going to be responsible for a wife, for a family, and I have some unfinished business.” Paul pulls a folded up piece of paper from the back of his pocket and hands it to me. “Mom planned this trip for us. It’s about time we take it. Let’s finish what we started.” Tears well in my eyes as I look down at the map Mom drew years ago. The map has yellowed with age, but her pen markings are still clear to this day. Starting from Santa Monica, California, she mapped our trip across Route 66, traveling through Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Missouri, and then Illinois, where she circled in red the city of Chicago. “The mother of all hot dogs,” I say softly, remembering my mom’s dream to eat a Chicago dog along Lake Michigan. I run my hand over the map, wishing she was still with us. We were the perfect little family of four, with Paul looking like our mom and me looking like my dad. We wore matching sweaters at Christmas and posed for my mom’s incessant Polaroid taking. The memories rock me harder than I expect as a tear falls down my cheek. My dad pulls me into his brawny chest and kisses my head once again. “It’s time, Buttons. Let’s finish your mom’s dreams.” My dad pulls out a picture from his shirt pocket and hands it to me.
“We’re bringing her with us, one more final trip as a family of four. What do ya say, kiddo?” Uncertainty washes over me. “I don’t know,” I shake my head. “I have my blog and products I have to test.” “You can do that on the road,” Paul encourages me. “Come on, sis. If anything, do it for Mom and do it for Tacy. The old girl has one more trip in her.” I laugh-snort, snot bubbling out of my nose. I wipe it away and grab my boys by their waists. “I guess we’re going to Chicago.” Keep Reading Here: The Mother Road