STROKED (The Stroked Series Book 1) (9 page)

“Yes, Miss Chambers. I’m very excited to assist you both with the show and Mr. King’s upcoming events.”

“Good.” She examines her nails and then stares daggers at me. “Then you realize the way you look at my boyfriend is completely inappropriate and if I catch you ever looking at him with longing in your eyes again, be assured that your hole in your sneaker-wearing ass won’t find another job in this town.”

Hole in the sneaker? I think back to my shoes and can’t think of one pair that have a hole in the shoe.

Then what she said clicks in my head, not about the shoe, but before that.

I look at Reese with longing in my eyes? How is that possible when I tried to avoid eye contact with him during breakfast when Bellini was there? Did she spy on us afterward?

“I’m sorry, Miss Chambers, but I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t understand? Let me say it in words you might.” Bellini’s face contorts into something entirely too menacing to see on a frail blonde. “There are two types of girls in this world. Girls like me, who have men draped across their feet, wishing and hoping for one sniff from their very sought-after lady garden. And then there are girls like you.” She sneers, looking me up and down. “Girls who flap their dilapidated garden gate open for any kind of attention, doesn’t matter, man, woman, child, or dog. Bestiality isn’t beneath girls like you, nor is acting like a complete whore to other women’s men. You have no morals, and no ethical guidelines when it comes to your dank taco. Newsflash, not everyone enjoys Taco Tuesday, so close it up, shut it down, and don’t look at my man like you want to dangle between his legs, dick in your mouth, with one task at hand . . . swallowing. Lord knows you are one of those dick guzzlers I pray for every night.”

Flabbergasted. It’s the only reaction I will allow myself to show because I need to keep this job. So I tame down the inner lioness who wants to get all stabby with my pen in Bellini’s eye, mutilating it until it looks like ground lamb, ready to be balled up together with breadcrumbs and fried as a tasty treat.

Lamb eyeball—I would eat it just out of sick pleasure.

That’s how stabby I feel. I’m talking about grinding up someone’s eye into an Italian delicacy.

Without showing my anger, I take a deep breath and nod my head. “Understood, Miss Chambers. I’m sorry if I gave the impression of a . . .” I pause for a second and swallow hard. “If I gave the impression of a loose . . . taco.”

“Just don’t let it happen again.” She flips her hair to the side. And then puts on a bright smile. “So, tell me, what did Reese say about me when I left? Was he desperate to make up with me? I can only imagine how heartbroken he must have felt, knowing I left on bad terms.”

If only she knew.

“He seemed pretty upset,” I lie. The truth will not go over well right now. This is exactly why people lie to uptight, dramatic celebrities all the time, to avoid the lashing of a lifetime. Hell, I apparently looked at Reese a certain way and was deemed a taco-flaunting whore. Who knows what she would call me if I actually told her the truth about breakfast?

Which would be what? That we touched hands, shared food, and then I flicked him in the brow. Now that I think about it, maybe she wouldn’t care.

“I knew he would be.” She picks up her champagne glass and swirls the liquid in the narrow flute while she speaks to me. “I can tell you’re single, Mauve. It’s written all over you in a Crayola Crayon-labeled desperation. Naturally it’s a puke color, because well,” she looks me up and down and shivers, “you’re slightly repulsive.”

What a freaking sweetheart.

“What you need to know about men, is that you can’t just throw yourself at them.” She stares at my dress and says, “That means the see-through cheap cotton blend of a dress you’re wearing has to be shredded the minute you get home. It reads impetuous, needy, like you’re meeting a gang of street youths down at the 7-Eleven to share a blue raspberry slurpee Big Gulp. If you want a man in your life, you’re going to have to—”

“I’m a lesbian.” I cut her off, before she starts getting too deep into relationship advice. It is so not needed from her.

And no, I’m not a lesbian, but I would say just about anything right about now to shut her up.

She leans forward, her eyes big, and her lips parted just slightly in shock, like I told her I gave birth to a killer whale last week.

“You’re . . . a lesbian?” She whispers the word and looks around to see if anyone heard her.

Note to everyone out there: you don’t have to whisper the word gay or lesbian when saying it out loud. It’s not a swear word, you’re not going to be banned from the universe for speaking of those who are same-sex oriented. It should be a word spoken in regular tongue, a word that is a part of everyone’s vernacular . . . and not in a derogatory way.

I nod my head in confirmation, thinking of my friend Carrie back home, and how she would be proud of me for joining her side. She is one of those girls who you envy and realize that one saying is true. “All the cool girls are lesbians.” She’s chill, laid-back, and STUNNING with her long blonde hair and full eyelashes. She’s made men cry before, breaking their hearts when they realize she’s batting for the other team.

Taking a moment to mull over what I confirmed, Bellini not so casually covers her bathing-suit exposed body, making it known she doesn’t want to be ogled. I roll my eyes.

Another note to everyone out there; not all gay men and lesbians are checking you out. They have better things to do with their lives than prey on the heterosexuals of the world.

“So . . . you like women?”

“Yes, that’s what lesbian means.” Maybe she will get off my back about Reese, realize I’m not after her man . . . at least give it the illusion I’m not. I can’t help the way I look at him. He’s all muscular and smooth skin. Hump-worthy for sure.

Perusing me once more, her lips turn thin. “I can see it. Your arms are too toned, your style is rather boyish, and I thought you smelled of musk and wood.” Well that’s a ridiculous stereotype if I’ve ever heard one.

“Is that how you think lesbians smell? Like a lumberjack?”

“Well, that’s what you are, aren’t you?”

I bite my tongue, literally bite down on the motherfucker because if I don’t I will be telling this woman off so fast, blowing my career up quicker than I could tweak her nipple. She’s such an ignorant wench.

I need this job. I need this job.

I take calming breaths and smooth my hands over my dress. “The media portrays lesbians to be flannel-wearing, lumberjacks when in fact—”

“Jasper, you’re here!” Bellini claps her hands together, interrupting my verbal onslaught.

A wiry man with glasses leans over Bellini’s lounge and kisses her on the cheek before nodding at me.

“We were just discussing lesbians. Look at me, Miss 2016 with an open mind.”

“You’re so progressive,” he compliments, sarcasm and annoyance clear in his voice. “Who is this?” He nods at me.

Waving her hand in my direction, she says, “Oh, that’s Mauve.” Whispering once again with her hand next to her mouth, like she is about to tell a secret, she answers, “She’s a lesbian. She’s my assistant, and she’s a lesbian.”

“Oh, your new assistant.” He reaches his hand out to me to shake. “I’m Jasper. Nice to meet you, Mauve.” He cuts to Bellini quickly and says, “Bellini, don’t out your employees, it’s very disrespectful and condescending.”

I refrain from correcting him when it comes to my name and shake his hand instead. He’s one of the producers of Bellini’s show,
Rollin’ in The Bacon
, if I need to impress anyone right now, it would be him.

“Nice to meet you, Jasper. I’m excited to be a part of the show and will be happy to help wherever. I actually have a background in—”

“You can be quiet now. Jasper doesn’t want to know about your background in knowing your way around female organs. It’s irrelevant to the show but good to know since I won’t have to worry about you drooling over Reese again.”

A part of me, a very small part of me wants to call up Reese and invite him over just so I can hump his face tonight out of spite, but knowing I have a good opportunity with my career, I hold back my finger that itches to place the call.

“Good to know,” Jasper says, sitting across from Bellini. “Let’s get down to business. Reese’s publicist sent me his schedule for the upcoming swim season. Production plans on following him every step of the way.”

“And what about me?” Bellini asks, insult evident in her voice. “The show is about me, you know.”

“We are aware,” Jasper deadpans. “But ratings have been down. We have to add another element to the show, more than just you talking on the phone to your dad about the newest shoe he needs to buy you.” Bellini crosses her arms in defiance. “Reese is an American treasure with an interesting image that will bring in a new set of viewers.”

Spitting venom, Bellini says, “He hasn’t even won a gold medal. He’s spent more time on a Wheaties box for accomplishing absolutely nothing than any other athlete on this planet. He’s the male version of Anna Kournikova, famous for his looks and ability to wear a triangle of underwear in front of a camera.”

“Now that you got that out of your system, let’s remember not to say something like that in front of the camera or during interviews.” Jasper’s patience with her is wearing thin. I’m surprised he hasn’t already snapped her femur in half.

“I’m just pointing out the obvious. There is no need to tiptoe around it. He’s a professional choke artist.”

“Do you even like him?” I say, letting the words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.

Very slowly, Bellini’s sunhatted head turns in my direction, a sneer to her lips. “Excuse me?”

I cough and pat my chest, clearing my throat and giving myself a second to respond properly. “I’m sorry, I had an itch in my throat. I asked do you like the gym?”

She eyes me skeptically before saying, “What does that have to do with what we are talking about?”

Think Paisley.

What does that have to do with the present conversation?

Jasper and Bellini both wait for me to answer, their eyes blazing holes through my thin clothing. From the distance, I can see Pocket standing in the doorway, the vase of flowers to her nose and an evil glint in her eye.

For the record, Pocket is creepy. Like she watches people while they sleep, breathing heavily, without their knowledge kind of creepy.

“Um, well, I thought I would ask because . . .” I pause, not sure what the hell I want to say.

“Ugh, assistants are so annoying, just get on with it already.”

My creative mind picks up and I think of a fantastic way to not only torture Bellini, but embarrass her while advancing my career . . . hopefully.

“I think it would be a great idea to see Bellini immerse herself into Reese’s world. You know, try to do a few swims with him, maybe join him in the gym. It would show their relationship and how close they are, plus give the audience an inside look into Reese’s life and Bellini’s undying support for him.”

Before Bellini can respond, Jasper slaps his knee and points at me. “Mauve, that is a fantastic idea. What a great angle.”

“Wait.” Bellini sits up, worry in her eyes.

“We can deck her out in Team USA gear, get her those star-spangled-banner swim goggles.”

“Ew, I don’t wear star-bangled anything,” she adds, panic setting in.

“Reese can teach her to swim, and then they can have a competition in the pool,” I add.

Jasper nods his head. “Maybe we can get Pope Francis involved as well, get him to doggy paddle in the pool.”

“No!” Bellini stands, stomping her foot on the ground. “There is no way I will subject my precious angel to the deterioration of chlorine that man-dolphin smells like every day. And I don’t swim. I sit by pools and stare at the water, but if you expect me to dip my freshly manicured toes into that pee-and-snot infested water, you can think again.”

“Check your contract, sweetheart,” Jasper says while making notes. “You have to do what we say. So if I say jump in the pool with your boyfriend, then get your one-piece on, because you’re learning to swim from an Olympic medalist. Great idea, Mauve.”

“Thanks.” I smile brightly, even though Bellini is scowling. “Like I was saying earlier, I have a master’s in film and production, so any help I can assist you with on top of helping our two starlets, let me know.”

Like a three-year-old child, Bellini stomps off into the house, Pocket tagging closely behind her.

The next two hours are spent with Jasper, going over storyboards for the season and upcoming schedules. I take copious notes, sync my schedule with his, and plan on doing the same with Reese and Bellini. By the end of our meeting, Bellini is in her room, cucumbers on her eyes and music from the Baroque period streaming through her surround sound while Pocket is massaging her feet, and I am one step closer to working my way back into the film industry.

Despite my flicking to the forehead earlier, my day is ending on a good note.

**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.