STROKED (The Stroked Series Book 1) (6 page)

“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.

**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, seven-cubed, 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 glitter-threaded 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.”