STROKED (The Stroked Series Book 1)

by Meghan Quinn

  Every generation has their Audrey Hepburn, but I belong to the Millennials. Instead of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, my minions follow me to the Hamptons where they sit outside the house, scratching their lice-infested heads, watching me have brunch with Harry Winston while we talk about how there is no piece of jewelry in this world that could ever be prettier than me.

  Tiffany’s, ha! Pathetic, Audrey.

  Girls want to be me, there’s no question about that. Just ask my main follower, Pocket. No, her parents didn’t pull a Michael Jackson on her and name her after the inner lining of a jean sack, I just can’t remember her name. I think it’s something like Polly, but I’m too bored of her to figure it out, so I call her Pocket. It’s much easier this way.

  Pocket is the perfect little minion. On a daily basis she pulls my pants down and blows compliments up my little white ass. Not literally, God, we’re not an episode of The L Word.

  She is entirely too ugly to upstage me, therefore she never steals the attention. I do dress her because I can’t be seen walking the streets with a Macklemore thrift shop monstrosity. I give her my hand-me-downs, even the underwear I only wear once. No use in throwing it away. I’m sponsored by Bordelle—kind of like Justin Bieber being sponsored by Calvin Klein—but instead of walking around like a bleached-blond douche, I strut my Bordelle as if I am Marilyn Monroe, occasionally letting the wind send a sexy uplift to my flouncy dress, showing off my perfectly waxed Brittney.

  No publicity is bad publicity if you ask me.

  Girls want to be me . . . but more importantly, boys want to get with me.

  Ugh, men. Their brains are in their dicks, thinking only with their lightning rod and coin purses. The amount of men who’ve panted over my mere appearance is overwhelming. I’ve had to increase my security detail because a nude shot of me has now escalated to a half million dollars. I’ve seen pictures on the Internet of naked women with my head photoshopped onto their bodies, and it’s disgraceful. Newsflash to everyone out there, including the Tumblr freaks dying to post a picture of me in my true essence: anyone who thinks those bodies belong to me are sorely mistaken. If you haven’t noticed already, there isn’t one ounce of fat on my body, and secondly, if you were to see my nipples, you would notice they are pretty little jelly beans rather than the pancakes some bored computer nerd thinks I have.

  Thankfully, I’m taken, and don’t have to worry about sifting through the trough of America’s finest.

  Who is the lucky man you ask?

  Only Olympic royalty, Reese King.

  I’ll wait while you fan your face.

  Done salivating? Such horny bitches.

  He’s everything a girl like me could ask for. He looks good standing next to me. He’s just sexy enough to be able to hold his own, but doesn’t overshadow me, and he’s rich as well, thanks to his underwear modeling and popularity. Anyone would want to have a threesome with us, but too bad for them, I’m a puritan and believe in abstinence before marriage. By no means are we engaged, but he isn’t sticking anything near me anytime soon.

  “Did my little angel puss call for me?” my dad asks. “I was walking Pope Francis, making sure he dookied outside.”

  “Popey!” I squeal, reaching out with my needy hands, wanting to feel his hair run through my fingers.

  The minute Pope Francis is handed over to me, I bury my face in his hair and take in the smell of frankincense and myrrh. He wears it as cologne, and it suits him well.

  I know what you’re thinking, why is the ex-officio of the Roman Catholic Church letting you bury your face in his hair? Shouldn’t he be hanging out at the Vatican, breaking bread for the homeless like Jesus did?

  He is, you ignorant shoehorns.

  The Pope Francis I’m talking about is my mini white schnauzer, the love of my life, and the only good in this world. Gandhi, the real Pope Francis, Oprah, and the Olsen twins come in a close second.

  Popey is the perfect little companion and religious outlet I need. He is kind, has a deep concern for the poor—mainly homeless dogs—and is extremely humble. Despite my attempts to pamper him with mink fur coats and gold-threaded dog beds, he continues to sleep on the cold, hard floor of my bedroom like a saint and will only wear collars from . . . PetSmart. I cringe just thinking about it.

  Most importantly, Popey is the inspiration for my up-and-coming clothing line of religious wear for dogs. Where did I get such a fantastic idea you ask? After realizing my dog is a religious humanitarian, I wanted to make sure he was dressed properly for the part. After hours upon hours of research, I concluded there was a hole in the dog clothing market. I couldn’t find one Angelican surplice, Roman Southport cassock, or a simple short-sleeve, polyblend clergy shirt for a dog. What is the world coming to if I can’t buy a cassock for my own dog?

  Therefore, I took matters into my own hands and began creating my own line of religious wear to satisfy my dog’s needs.

  “What’s wrong, angel puss?” my dad asks as I’m nuzzling Pope Francis’s nose. “I heard you were upset about a bench.”

  The rage I was feeling instantly vanishes, and I know it’s because God rests in my dog, and he can calm the inner Lucifer that wants to pop out of me from time to time. “The bench is oak, Daddy. I asked for African blackwood.”

  “The nerve.” He slams his fist on the armrest of his chair. “Who do I need to fire?”

  I want to say the carpenter, but I know Pope Francis wouldn’t be pleased with me. He’s so thoughtful and respectful of others, and I don’t want to disappoint him. Instead, I put on a brave face.

  “No one, Daddy. I can tough it out. I only have to sit on it for a short time while they take pictures of me.”

  “I don’t want my angel puss unhappy and uncomfortable. Are you sure you can go on with the shoot? I will demand we reschedule.”

  I pat my dad’s arm. “Thank you, Daddy, but I feel like slumming it for a short amount of time won’t harm me. Might be nice to see how the people below us live. Let’s see what it feels like to be a blue-collar worker.”

  “You’re so brave.” My dad grips my face, tears of pride in his eyes.

  “Thanks, Daddy. It can be a blog post I make later and a moment to add to my scrapbooks. I can entitle it, ‘How people on the other side of the tracks live.’”

  My dad claps for me. “What a wonderful and inspiring title. You’re changing the world, angel puss. I couldn’t be more proud of you.”

  I grip my dad’s hand that still rests against my cheek, and I’m about to tell him I love him when someone from behind me clears their throat, interrupting the father-daughter dance of emotions I’m experiencing.

  “Miss Chambers, I have someone I would like to introduce to you.”

  “Who the hell has the audacity to interrupt—?” My words are cut short when I see Jonathan Byers standing behind me. Normally, I wouldn’t know someone’s name so well, especially when I don’t tend to care about the humans around me, but Jonathan is important. He’s good friends with Wally Rose, my producer. So I try to give him a miniscule of my respect, despite the fact he dresses like a hipster straight from an Anthropology ad. No matter what anyone ever says, sock hats and plaid should never be worn together with leather bracelets. Ill-fashioned illiterates. “Jonathan, I’m sorry. I thought you were that pestering coffee mule again.”

  He straightens his skinny tie and shoots a fake smile in my direction. I’m not stupid. I know the irritable gingham-clad man-version of Blossom hates me, and well, the feeling is mutual.

  “I apologize for interrupting you and your dad but I would like to introduce you to your new assistant. Her name is Paisley Macarro. She is a graduate from UCLA and has a degree in film production.”

  From behind Jonathan, an extremely fit woman with tan skin, long black wavy hair, and grey eyes appears, looking a little gun-shy. She’s wearing a pair of cut-off jean shorts, combat boots, and a black tank top—what a monstrosity. Her skin is decorated with random tattoos of scribbled sayings, provi
ding no rhyme or reason. It looks like Jonathan just opened a trash bag and she crawled out of it.

  “Hello, Miss Chambers, it’s a pleasure—”

  I hold up my hand, pleading with her to shut her mouth before a raccoon munching on an ear of corn pops out. “Did you say your name is Paisley?”

  The girl quickly glances at Jonathan and then directs her attention back to me, where it belongs.

  “Yes, it’s Paisley.”

  “As in the Persian pattern that decorates most elderly women’s living rooms? Mainly in mauve or dusty blue tones?”

  “Some people might say like Brad Paisley,” she says, in an attempt to correct me. I look at her, clueless. “You know, the country star?”

  “Fortunately his name is irrelevant to me. I don’t listen to that cheap southern twang you beer guzzlers call music. I only let my virgin ears listen to the harmonic composers of the Baroque period. For you imbeciles, that would be Bach, Purcell, Scarlatti, and Hendel, to name a few, but I’m sure you knew that.” I give her a knowing look as I pet Pope Francis, fully satisfied with putting her in her place.

  The uneducated, no-class twit standing in front of me surely doesn’t know the difference between an opera and a cantata. And by the look of her appearance, she wouldn’t be able to spot the difference between the lustrous and proportionally spherical pearls that caress the peak of my collarbone from ones bought from a menstruating tween with a coupon from Claire’s. She’s radiating the “no-class” vibe. How could she know when she’s wearing . . . combat boots? For heaven’s sake, I’m physically offended by her choice of footwear.

  “Personally, I enjoy the French-inspired basso continuo Jean-Baptiste Lully used as a backdrop for his ballads, so lively and radical for his time, wouldn’t you agree?” she replies, a smile on her face, as if she just topped me.

  Flabbergasted and outraged, I do the one thing I do best. I beckon someone.

  “POCKET!” I scream, looking for someone to attack the Ronda Rousey build of a woman standing in front of me who has the audacity to shove my snark right back in my face.

  “I sent Polly home,” Jonathan informs me. “She was looking ill after taste testing all the Mexican food you had sent to the studio. We have an hour to get these shots done or else we will be charged extra. According to your contract, any overtime caused by your delay will be charged directly to you. And just so you know, this entire operation is costing thousands upon thousands of dollars an hour.”

  Don’t ever threaten me with money. My daddy worked hard to get us to where we are today, we value our money and spend it on necessities, like gold-lined waistbands and luxury Calacatta marble imported from Italy for the cutting board of our cheese slicer. We don’t spend money on people like petty staff. If they stay overtime, that is their own damn fault for not settling my needs sooner.

  Too bad I’m the only one who sees it that way. I’ve already been fined multiple times, and I will be damned if I get fined again.

  I can feel my temper start to flare; a fermented explosion of rage is about to boil over and spew high-class venom on everyone around me.

  Through clenched teeth, I say, “I’m not the only one in this photo shoot. Where the hell is Reese?”

  “He’s been here, Miss Chambers, in the back. We’ve been waiting to see if your highness will be willing to sit on a regular oak bench as opposed to African blackwood.”

  How dare he!

  Handing Pope Francis to my dad, making sure not to ruffle the rosary he wears around his neck—the blessed saint—I hold my hand to my chest and push back the tears that threaten to destroy my perfectly applied makeup. “I will have to suffer . . . for the people.”

  The Persian pattern standing next to Jonathan chuckles and my defenses immediately rise. Pointing at her, I say, “She is fired. Her attitude and barbaric appearance are not welcome here.”

  That shocks the twisted fig and erases the smile that recently resided on her face. Desperation laces her eyes, and I can’t help but enjoy the way her entire aura begs me to reconsider.

  “Unfortunately, Miss Chambers, you can’t just fire Paisley. That is not your decision, and unless you have a reasonable reason for her to be let go, you will have to learn to get along with her. She is here to help you.”

  “Fine,” I huff, turning away from him. “Daddy, escort me to the set. I need Pope Francis near me. You know how nervous I get when everyone is trying to soak in my beauty.”

  “Anything for you, angel puss.”

  I walk arm in arm with my dad over to the rink-a-dink photo-shoot set the network put together for me, all the while thinking about ways I can make the pattern loathe working with me until she quits. I don’t think it would be too hard. She seems pretty shakable.

  She will soon find out that she is going to wish I could fire her. Her life has now become a living hell.

  I can only hope Pope Francis will pray for her.

  Chapter Three

  **REESE**

  Was this really what my life is spiraling down to? Me in a Speedo, my hair styled to Bellini’s standards, oil glistening on my chest, and a beach ball as a prop?

  I stare at myself in the mirror. Loathing, self-hatred, depression. Yup, they’re all there.

  “Is this necessary?” I ask Ashley, my publicist. “I look like a total douchebag.”

  Ashley looks up from her phone, her lifeline, and smiles wide, letting me know in fact, I do look like a douchebag. “It’s not that bad, the beach ball is a little much but the Speedo looks good.”

  “It’s leopard print,” I deadpan.

  A snort escapes her before she covers her nose. “It’s very becoming of you,” she lies and then looks closer at me. “Jesus, how much oil did they put on you? I’m pretty sure I can see my reflection in your abs.”

  I take a look at my stomach, flexing it as my head falls forward. I might be older than my peers, but I still have one hell of a body . . . one that is slathered in oil currently.

  “The girl who put it on was rather handsy. Pretty sure she spent extra time lathering me up.” I wipe my face with my hand in frustration and ask, “Ashley, is this really necessary?”

  “The photo shoot?” she asks, her attention back on her phone. “Of course. They need pictures for the next season of Rollin’ In The Bacon. You know how production companies are, they always want promotional material.”

  “I’m not talking about the show. I’m talking about the fake relationship you set me up with. In case you haven’t noticed, the woman is insane. She believes her dog is a disciple sent from God, she shames anyone who comes near her, and she seriously thinks this little publicity stunt you set up with her publicist is real.” I lean forward just to make sure Ashley is the only one to hear me. “She tried to kiss me the other day. She knows this isn’t real, right?”

  Ashley nonchalantly shrugs her shoulders. “I can neither confirm nor deny what she knows.”

  “Ashley,” I snap. “I’m a highly regarded Olympian—”

  “Who is on his way out. Don’t forget this is your last Olympics, Reese. The media is already over the top with this being your send-off swim. We need to leverage this as much as possible for sponsors and partnerships once you hang up your little Speedo, especially since you don’t have the best reputation on the pool deck. Your temper with interviewers and paparazzi has painted you with quite the bad image. Oh, and don’t forget, you’re still striving for that untouchable gold medal you haven’t been able to snag.”

  Didn’t I fucking know it.

  I sit down and bring my hands to my head where I grip my hair, not caring that I’m messing with my “look.”

  Three Olympics under my belt since I was sixteen and not one single fucking gold. I’m more popular for choking when it matters than my actual accomplishments. Rudely named The Silver Stroke by announcers, newspapers, and every media outlet there is, I’ve accomplished everything a swimmer could possibly ask for, besides the epitome of athletic success. I don’t have a
gold medal. Not from lack of trying; my mental game has been fucked with too many times, all at the wrong moments.

  I can be the fastest swimmer in the world but without a steady mental game, I can throw it all away. Every Olympics, I’ve come to a point where my mental game splintered right before it mattered and was unable to recover. Whether it was my dad having a heart attack, my grandpa dying, or private pictures being leaked to the media right before the big race, there has always been something that’s affected me that ultimately affected the outcome of every Olympic final I’ve participated in, christening me The Silver Stroke.

  It’s not like being known as second best in my career isn’t devastating enough, but I think about it every fucking day while training, that and all the stories running rampant in the media about 2016 being my last Olympics. My face is plastered across almost every magazine right now, going into the games, claiming me as The Silver Stroke, only able to win silver at the Olympics and nothing more.

  Ever hear about sports being eighty percent mental and twenty percent physical? It’s so fucking true. I’ve won championships, nationals, set records, established myself as one of the top male athletes in the world, but that one accomplishment—winning a gold—has eluded my grasp too many fucking times.

  This is it for me.

  I have one more chance, and instead of focusing on my training, I’m stuck doing promotional crap with a self-absorbed reality star.

  At the time, when Ashley first spoke to me about having dinner with Bellini Chambers, it made sense, since her popularity was on the rise—Lord knows why—and I had just announced 2016 would be my last Olympics. It wasn’t a surprise to see the media waiting for us outside of the restaurant, taking our picture.

  I couldn’t eat my food fast enough that night. Conversation was repulsive, given she talked about herself the entire time: how beautiful she is, how she has the best legs—ones that even rival Carrie Underwood’s—and how she is so rich, she doesn’t know how to spend the money. She giggled like an imbecile, had a piece of lettuce stuck in her teeth for at least three conversations, and of course, I never told her, because why would I? The girl needs to learn humility. Too bad for me the wine she had—served with ice—washed it down.