Porter (Dick Dynasty #1)

Porter. Copyright © 2015 by David Michael Hamilton. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in critical review and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Printed in the United States of America.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The usual suspects always come first where these things are concerned: My grandmother, my mom, and Lola. Without these three women, I wouldn’t be where I am today. Thank you from the very bottom of my heart of hearts.

My street team: You ladies (and Nathan) seriously rock my world. The naked men threads in the middle of the night are an inspiration and your not-always-kind words are the kick in the ass that I need more often than not. Not to mention all the crazy wild pimping you do for me.

To the book bloggers: You guys are
seriously
the life-blood of the Indie community. None of us would be able to do this without you!

And to my fans; both new and old: Thank you. Thank you for taking a risk on a new author. Thank you for standing by the tried-and-true authors you love. Thank you for the late night messages in my inbox berating me for making you cry. Thank you for taking time out of your day to review my work and tell the rest of the world how much you loved (or didn’t) it! From every author on the planet to every reader that ever has been, is, or will be: We love you.

For Amy

I’m singin’ don’t worry…

I’ve been called a lot of things, starting with Porter Hale and going downhill from there.

I’ve spent my whole life trying to live up to the legendary reputation of my father—the man was a god amongst men when it came to his work. My mother did her best to make sure that our home life stayed out of the spotlight that constantly shone on him but sometimes there was just no helping it. Call it a hazard of the trade.

As the oldest of three brothers, it falls on my shoulders to set a good example and make sure my younger brothers, Parker and Preston, stay on the straight and narrow, right?

Well I suck at it.

Instead of sticking around to do the college thing like our mom had always wanted, I set off in Dad’s footsteps. I wanted the fame and the glory and the parties with all the rock stars.

Not to mention the pussy.

So I ditched college after a few semesters, hopped on the old man’s coattails, and started going by the name of Ryder. Ryder Ruff.

I know, I know: It’s awful, but I can’t change it now.

My brothers followed suit.

Turns out I filled my father’s shoes and then some.

Industry headlines have dubbed us “The Princes of Porn.”

We call ourselves the Dick Dynasty.

As my finger pressed down on the glowing yellow light of the doorbell, I adjusted the heavy leather utility belt around my waist and waited as the chimes inside the house finished their generic melody. Why they made me wear the stupid hardhat is beyond me, but it sat heavily on my head as the poorly sized plastic supports dug into my skull.

Honestly, a cable installer doesn’t need a fucking hardhat.

The door swung open at last and a busty blond thirty-something woman in a nightgown ran a finger down the doorframe like it was made of the kind of wood that would harden at her touch.

It was all I could do not to roll my eyes at her.

“I hear you’re in need of servicing.”

“Please,” she swept her arm to the side, “come inside.”

I stepped over the threshold into the tiled entryway and choked back the scoff of disgust that threatened to escape from my throat. There are few things in this world that make me want to break shit: tacky décor is one of them.

The place was like something out of a nightmare: cream, gold, and honey-colored oak. The carpet was cream, the couches were cream with gold paisleys, and the god-awful wallpaper matched it. The entertainment center was the same colored oak as the baseboards and coffee tables.

The ceiling was textured like popcorn and had gold flecks of glitter in the white paint that hadn’t been used since the seventies. A massive chandelier hung from the middle of the twenty-foot vaulted ceilings. The soft yellow lights burning in the sockets just made the entire space look dingy.

“My box is in the bedroom,” she purred.

I followed the swish of her curvy hips down the hallway and bit down on my tongue. I was sickened by how over-the-top the silk and lace camisole was as it flowed behind her, rippling in the air with every step.

“I think it’s back here,” she leaned over a small computer desk that had been set up in the master suite, causing the silk to ride up her thighs and over the firm globes of her ass.

She wasn’t wearing any panties and she was bent at the perfect angle to allow me access to her hungry slit.

“You didn’t call me here to work on your cable box, ma’am.” I pulled at the buckle of the tool belt and let it fall to the floor with a clatter that probably could’ve woken the dead.

She straightened and turned slowly, feigning ignorance as I slowly stepped toward her, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean!”

“I think you know exactly what I mean, Miss,” I reached down and undid the first of the buttons on my low-slung denim jeans, “I don’t doubt that you called me here to work your box—just not the one that plugs into the wall.”

Her hand went to her throat as her eyes bugged out of her head and her mouth popped open. “Sir!” she shouted, “I am a married woman!”

“I don’t see your husband around to service your box for you,” another button undone, “you must be lonely here all by yourself.”

Her hand dropped a little lower, pushing open the top of her nightie and revealing the swell of her obviously man-made breasts.

I closed the distance between us as I undid the last button on my jeans and used my hips to slam her into the desk she’d been leaning over. She gasped and pressed against my chest in a half-assed attempt to fight me off.

I could tell she wanted me though. They all did.

In a room full of women, all I had to do was snap my fingers and every single one of them would drop to their knees and pop their mouths open like miniature champagne bottles.

It was too easy. There was nothing real about it. I could feel myself going limp.

“Cut!”

The director, Richard Dixon (I know), stepped out from behind his camera, “What the fuck, Ryder?”

I blew out a frustrated breath as the blonde draped herself on my shoulder, “I told you, Dick, you’ve gotta stop casting me with these dumb bitches that would love nothing more than to have me balls deep inside of them if you want the helpless damsel bit to feel real.”

I peeled my mostly-naked co-star off me and made my way into the dining room we were using as a prep-room. Dick was hot on my heels.

“We don’t pay them, or you for that matter, to act, Ryder. We pay you to fuck. That’s it. So what’s the problem?”

“What’s the problem?” I pushed down the front of my still-unbuttoned jeans and grabbed my seven inches of limp dick, waving it at him like a Styrofoam pool noodle, “The problem is that even my pecker knows this is shit, Dick. You’ve got the biggest name in the porn industry on your project and you can’t even bother to give me something half-decent to work with!”

“Actors!” Dick yelled, throwing his hands in the air, “Get me a fluffer in here! I need King Ruff ready in five minutes! No fucking excuses!”

I popped a few cashews into my mouth and watched him storm out of the room as a petite little brunette dropped to her knees and started working my piece with her mouth. She wasn’t half bad. Assuming she could cope with the demands of the industry, she’d probably work her way from fluffer to female lead in good time.

My mind wandered as she went about her business and I went over my to-do list for the day. After the shoot, I needed to hit the gym and make sure I got some shopping in before hitting a premier party for Preston’s latest flick.