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.
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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.”