Stroked Hard

  “He can’t do that! I’m the most influential person in this industry!” I pound my fist on the arm of my chair. “He’s going to lose money by cancelling my show.”

  “No, he’s going to gain money. Remember, he’s suing you.” A smirk spreads across her hideous face, making me cringe.

  “You’re a man beast,” I shout, clearly upset.

  “And I will add that to the list of harassing things you’ve said. Wally and Jasper will be here shortly, along with your lawyer, to go over the violations of your contract. I would like to say it was a pleasure working with you, but it’s been an absolute nightmare. I’m not one to wish horrible things upon people, but I truly hope you end up being someone’s bitch in jail.” She tacks on a smarmy smirk, flips her offensive hair, and walks away.

  Vial woman.

  But . . .

  Is she right? Am I really going to lose everything? This can’t be. I’m too valuable for them to do that to me. I’m TV royalty, right?

  Feeling unsure, I call out to the one person I know will blow steam up my ass. “Pocket!” I scream, clutching Pope Francis into my chest. “This can’t be, Popey. I’m a good person, you’ve said if yourself. You chose me. Why else would God’s creature choose me? If I was so horrible, you wouldn’t be mine.” Frustrated, I scream again, “POCKET!”

  Scurrying from the hallway, Pocket stands before me, holding bottles of Fiji water.

  “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Getting ready for company. I heard Jasper and Wally Rose are coming over to discuss your contract.”

  A little perturbed that she knows this information, I ask, “How do you know that? Have you been listening to my conversation?”

  She nods enthusiastically. “I listen to everything. It’s for your benefit.”

  “How is your gigantic, blackhead-filled nose being in my business benefiting me?”

  “So I can protect you,” she says without skipping a beat.

  “So you can protect me?” I deadpan. She nods again and for a second, I wait for her to say something else, like she’s joking, but she’s not. I scoff. “How on earth would you be able to protect me? You barely know how to insert a tampon, what makes you think you can be a bodyguard?”

  Leaning forward, she looks around before looking around and saying, “I know how to use a knife.”

  Sitting back in my chair, Popey on my lap, I start to slow clap for her. “Well done, Pocket. You know how to hold out a pointy object. A baby could wield a knife if you gave it one. Do you really think you could defend me with a knife? You imbecile, why do I even keep you around?”

  “For knife protection?” she asks, a question in her voice.

  Throwing my hands up in exasperation, I say, “Get out of my sight. You are completely useless. Actually, just leave, forever. I don’t need you anymore. You’ve been nothing but a nuisance since I’ve met you, and I don’t need your annoying fire-crotch self around me right now when I’m going through such devastation.”

  “You don’t mean that,” Pocket says jokingly.

  I clench her jaw in my hand and force her to look at me. “Listen to what I’m saying. You’re a waste of human life, and I want you gone in five minutes. Do you hear me?”

  “I’m confused. You want me to leave?”

  “How is what I’m saying confusing? Yes, leave!”

  “Bellini,” Jasper’s voice calls out. Letting go of Pocket, I see Jasper, Mauve, Wally Rose, and their lawyer walking down the hall.

  I immediately put up my walls. Was Mauve serious about me losing everything? Over some stupid carpenter who couldn’t decipher between oak and African blackwood? How is that my godforsaken fault? Why should I be punished? If anything I was looking for a certain service to be delivered and when it wasn’t, I made it known. There is nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with getting what you want.

  “Bellini, you know Craig, our attorney,” Jasper says, waving his hand toward Craig.

  “He’s the man with the giant mole you couldn’t stop talking about,” Pocket cuts in. For heaven’s sake what is she still doing here?

  “Pocket, I told you to leave. You can either vacate the premises yourself or I can have security remove you.”

  “But . . .” she pauses, “who’s going to brush your hair?”

  Exasperated and not in the mood, I flair my arms and say, “Anyone. Any other person can brush my hair. It’s not your privilege anymore. Get that through your pea-sized brain.”

  “But, I brush your hair.” Her voice is meek as she backs away. I think it’s finally starting to hit her, thankfully. “I’m supposed to help you.”

  “Help me by removing your dilapidated body from my home.” She starts to walk away as I realize I’m being a terrible person. “Hold on.” Hope beams in her eyes as I turn to my unwelcomed guests. “Would you like some water?” They nod their heads so I direct my attention back to Pocket. “Pocket, get us all some Fiji water and then leave this house. If I hear from you again I will be pressing charges. Do you understand?”

  With a resounding nod, she goes off to get us water.

  “Now, where were we?” I ask, trying to put on a brave face.

  “You’re being sued for over fifty million dollars in damages,” Jasper says, cutting straight to the chase.

  Did I hear him right? Fifty million dollars? Do I even have that much money?

  “Fifty dollars?” I ask, thinking I heard him wrong.

  “No, Bellini,” Jasper says with a serious tone. “Fifty million dollars.”

  How can that be? Over a carpenter? My mind starts to whirl turning into mush, my body feels faint, and the urge to start praying with Pope Francis is overwhelming.

  Fifty Million dollars.

  No.

  Noooooo!

  “Water anyone?” Pocket asks with a cheery look on her face.

  “Daddy!” I scream.

  Fifty million dollars . . .

  POCKET

  I stare down at her while I prepare the plastic bristles of my brush. I’ve saved this hair brush for this exact moment, when I finally was able to take her in, when I was able to make her my very own life-size Barbie doll.

  Fitting her into the dress I made was rather difficult, but I made it work after taping her breasts down with duct tape. If I were to be honest, her boobs were weird looking. Where was all the hair around her nipples? I don’t understand why she didn’t have any. And they were more round, no flat against her chest like mine. It was off all around.

  Getting her here was easy. I was able to taint the Fiji water with laxative, giving me plenty of time to remove Bellini while everyone else was in the bathroom. Naturally, I roofied her, because otherwise she would have argued with me.

  What she doesn’t know is that I am doing this for her own good. I saw those lawyer’s papers, I knew they were going to suck her dry, so I commenced my emergency action plan I’ve always dreamed of engaging.

  For one, I got to ditch that damn dog of hers, Pope Francis. I don’t care how godly he is, he was hurting my ability to get close to Bellini. But not anymore, I made sure to drop him off at a nunnery before I brought Bellini back to my home. The nuns were quite excited about receiving a dog in a roman cassock and rosary. I’m sure he will have a nice life. Thankfully it’s not with me.

  Then I took Bellini to my studio apartment in Harlem. I know she’ll love it. It’s six-hundred square feet, fully decorated in pink and Bellini-head wallpaper, along with my vast collection of Barbies that take up all my living space. It’s why I sleep like a curled ball in the corner of my apartment.

  But I made room for Bellini. I duct-taped a chair to my kitchen counter, it took some precision, but I made it work. It looks like a beautiful silvery throne. And then I propped Bellini up in the chair and secured her with zip ties. It’s for her own benefit so she doesn’t slide out of the chair.

  As for me, I have a little beanbag chair on the counter as well so I can sit next to her and watch her whenever
I want. I get to change her and feed her and brush her hair. It’s a dream come true.

  She starts to stir, her head moving from side to side. Oh goody, she will finally get to see her new home.

  “Where am I?” she says in a groggily voice.

  I brush her hair with my oversized Barbie doll brush and coo in her ear. “Don’t worry, you’re safe with me, poppet.”

  She jerks to the side and looks me up and down, then she proceeds to take in the entire apartment. My chest is held high as I beam with pride over the sanctuary I’ve provided for both of us.

  “What the hell is going on?” Bellini demands. “Why the hell am I in a ten-year-old’s dream land?”

  “I saved you,” I say. “They were going to take everything from you. So I did what I had to do. I drugged them, drugged you, and brought you to my place where you will stay forever.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” She looks down at her body and gasps. “What is this preposterous outfit I’m wearing? Is it polyester? I can’t possibly be wearing polyester.”

  “It’s a replica of Birthday Barbie’s dress, because being with you every day is like my birthday. It looks beautiful on you.”

  “What kind of drugs are you on?”

  “None. This has been my dream for a long time, being able to take care of you like one of my dolls.”

  “What do you mean take care of me? Unhand me at once.”

  I shake my head. “Can’t do that. By the time the lawyer and everyone else is finished in their respected bathrooms, they will see that you’re gone. Of course they will think you fled the country and probably transferred some of your money into an offshore bank account never to be seen. When in fact, you’re with me, in my small apartment in Harlem, where we will talk Barbies and stare at pictures of you on my wall. It’s a dream come true.” I comb her hair thoughtfully as I say, “Don’t worry, Bellini, I will take great care of you. Just as you took care of me.”

  Other Books By Meghan Quinn

  Thank you for reading Stroked Hard. I hope you enjoyed it! Make sure you checked out other two standalone books in this series: Stroked and Stroked Long

  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 e-mail list at http://www.authormeghanquinn.com/newsletter.html and receive ONE FREE 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.

  If you enjoyed Stroked Hard, here are the other books I currently have available:

  The Stroked Series

  (Steamy, sports romance with humor)

  Stroked

  Stroked Long

  Stroked Hard

  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 h
ome, 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.”