STROKED (The Stroked Series Book 1)

  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-bag-looking 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 f
or 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 sun-kissed 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.”