by Meghan Quinn
When I returned home that night, I vowed never to have dinner with her again, but after the media caught wind of our night out, all hell broke loose, and we were the new celebrity couple. Since I needed a future after swimming, Ashely thought it would be a good idea to leverage her popularity for my own good, to help with my image, and expose me in a light the general public hasn’t seen.
Looking at the leopard-print Speedo—which before today, I would never be caught dead in—I know I’ve made a mistake, but there is no going back now. I’ve already signed a contract to have my life recorded by a production crew and followed around, allowing the world into my life, a complete contrast to the private life I’ve strived for.
“Mr. King, we are ready for you.”
I nod at the production assistant and stand. Reluctantly, I grab my beach ball and head out to the set.
Before I am out of my dressing room, Ashely calls out, “This will be good for you, Reese. Suck it up for these next couple of months. I promise this decision will pay off.”
“I hope you’re right,” I mumble.
I am not a fame-whore, always seeking attention. It isn’t my cup of tea. I do magazine shoots, underwear campaigns, talk shows, and occasional announcing because it’s part of being a swimmer, not because I enjoy it. I don’t mind taking part in my duties, what I do mind is the invasion of privacy I deal with on a day-to-day basis with paparazzi and fans always taking pictures of me. Can’t a guy eat a burger without seeing his picture on Perez Hilton the next day with a half a strip of bacon hanging out of his mouth?
This reality show is against everything I want to be a part of, but after a long conversation with Ashley, I know my career is coming to an end and I need something as a backup. Without a gold, I am just a rugged face, with a reputation as the bad boy of the swimming pool, the legendary Silver Stroke, who never reached the apex of his career, instead failed miserably . . . three fucking times.
As I approach the set, Bellini is hyperventilating and waving her hands in front of her eyes, fending off tears. I resist the eye-rolling that forms from her ridiculousness and walk over to where she stands.
Mr. Chambers is holding Pope Francis, the only legit being in the family, wearing his same Burberry plaid pants, white polo, and gold sunglasses. He looks like an absolute mockery.
“Oh Reese,” she coos in relief, “thank God you’re here.” She grabs hold of my arm and hangs on to me dramatically. “They got the bench all wrong. It was supposed to be African blackwood, but it’s oak. I thought I could act like a peasant and sit on it but now I see it up close, I don’t think I can.”
I look at the bench, confused. “It’s a bench. Just sit on it. Who cares what kind of wood it is?”
The crew around me snickers from my clear logic.
“Just sit on it?” Bellini scowls at me. “Just sit, as if it was a regular old bench?”
“Uh yeah. Bend your knees and place your ass on the bench.” I mimic the movement. “Despite what you might think, you’re not going to die. The wood isn’t going to swallow you whole, and it sure as hell won’t ruin your makeup or hair if that’s what you’re worried about.”
She studies me; there is a little twitch in her neck, a small pulse of indifference. I can tell she wants to lecture me on the “decency of talking to her”—believe me, I’ve heard her tirade a couple times—but I know she won’t do it in front of all the people staring at us.
If anything, the fake wannabe CUNTry-club snob puts on a good face when she needs to, and right about now, with a few dozen people waiting on her, and money being spent, she will do what she’s told.
Instead of yelling at me, she smooths the skirt of her dress and asks, “Will you hold my hand while I attempt to sit down?”
I grind my teeth, refraining from head butting her back to her feeble roots.
“Miss Chambers, I have your Fiji water you asked for.”
Bellini reaches for the water as if it’s her lifeline. I glance up for a second to see the back of a woman’s head, long black hair falling past her shoulder blades. Soft tendrils of ebony capture me, and I wonder what it would feel like to have that hair wrapped around my hand. Her backside is covered in short denim shorts, cut off at just the right length that has me begging for her to bend over, just an inch so I can see more of her beautifully tan skin. Her feet are encased in black boots that have seen better days. From certain angles, I can see words written on her body—her extremely athletic body. I observe the way the muscles in her legs flex with her small movements, the way her toned arms fall to the side. From her build, she must do CrossFit.
“Uh, Mauve, are you just going to stand there? Offer Reese something to drink, for Christ’s sake.”
Mauve?
“My name is Paisley,” she corrects, and I cringe, wishing the girl had more common sense than to talk back to the she-beast herself.
Bellini sets down her water and walks right up to Paisley, standing toe to toe. Bellini is a decent five nine in height, and this girl must at least be five five. Bellini towers over her.
Getting in her face, she says, “You work for me, you assist ME! Therefore, if I refer to you as Mauve, the color of your stupid Persian-pattern name, then you will answer to it. Don’t think I don’t know you need this job. I can see it in your eyes. Now, we can either have a nice working relationship, or I can make your life a living hell. It’s up to you . . . Mauve.”
Paisley’s jaw ticks and I can see the minute muscles of her neck flex in frustration. Talking back is on the tip of her tongue, everyone can see it, but instead of slapping Bellini like she deserves with a verbal onslaught of profanity, Paisley turns to me.
Heart-stopping grey eyes and luscious lips.
Fucking. Gorgeous.
So gorgeous my heart rate picks up, and the palms of my hands begin to sweat. I’m a relatively slick man, but my anxiety kicks up a notch from the way her steely eyes are piercing me.
There is no denying her beauty. The heart shape of her face frames her in an angelic light, the pink of her pouty lips beg to be kissed, and the length of her eyelashes speaks trouble. From the scroll of words that dance underneath her right collarbone, to the soft wave of her jet-black hair, she’s no doubt in my mind the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
“Mr. King.” Her voice shakes as she speaks to me. A part of me wants to think her voice is wavering because she’s nervous around me, but I realize I’m wearing a leopard-print Speedo and holding a beach ball. There is no way she finds this attractive. “Would you like anything to drink?”
I clear my throat, surprised at how nervous she actually makes me. “Uh, I’m good. Thanks.”
She nods and walks away without another word.
Wow, real smooth, fuck-stick. No introduction, no “how are you”, just an “I’m good.” I mentally kick myself in the crotch for my lack of finesse.
First impressions are a real thing, and by the way I’m dressed, and my smooth-operator introduction, I’m striking out.
“Shall we get started?” the photographer asks.
Irritated, I grab Bellini’s hand and force her to sit on the bench. She squeals, flops around for a good minute, sliding around on my slicked up skin while bitching about it, and finally settles on my lap, holding the beach ball in her hand and smiling for the camera. No doubt the tense set of my jaw is evident, but I can’t help but hate every minute of this.
From behind the photographer, I glance at Paisley, trying to gauge her reaction to the photo shoot. What does she think of this sham of a relationship? Is it believable to her like everyone else? I sure as hell hope not, because I know one thing is for sure: I need to get to know Paisley. There is something mysterious in her eyes, something vulnerable. I want to know her story, where she came from, and who the hell she wants to be.
“Look at me and smile,” Bellini hisses in my ear.
Not wanting a meltdown, I do as she says and stare into her blue eyes, picturing them as murky, rodent-infested poo
ls of blue.
In all honesty, she is a pretty woman, so it’s too bad her beauty is only skin-deep. Her heart and soul are the ugliest I’ve ever met, no contest. I have no clue why she is such a heinous human being though.
Because she’s rich? Because she’s able to afford expensive things and brag about it? How does that make her better? It really doesn’t.
I’ve made some money from my swimming career and have invested it into one elaborate thing: my Malibu beach house. All other income has been invested into funds that accrue fantastic interest—thank you, Sal, my CPA. But like I said, my house is my one luxury. Almost every morning, I rush to the ocean for an open-water swim and then dry off naked on my deck. I have privacy. I am secluded. It’s my welcomed escape from this crazy world. It’s the one place I told the camera crews they’re not allowed to go. I wouldn’t sign unless that was in the contract. To my surprise, they agreed to my terms.
Other than my house, I am a normal man. I drive a Jeep Wrangler, I wear normal clothes you can pick up at any mall, and eat normal food like every other American, only in large, calorie-packed quantities.
I don’t understand Bellini and her need for luxury. To me, it is a waste of money and only drives someone to be completely obsessed with possessions.
“That’s it. Reese, slide your hand up her thigh just a little.”
I do as I’m told and Bellini giggles in my ear. “Oh Reese, be careful, you know I don’t believe in sex before marriage.”
I would rather cut off my own dick.
Another reason why I would never be with Bellini. Not because I’m some sort of sex fiend and need someone on my cock all the time, but I believe in knowing your partner completely before going forward with the next step in life. Love isn’t just about connecting spiritually, it’s about connecting physically as well, making sure you’re compatible.
“Don’t worry, dear, you won’t see me knocking at the flaps of your underwear.”
She pinches my skin on my back, causing me to yelp and flinch.
“Oh, did you get a splinter from the bench?” she asks, feigning innocence.
“Fuck you,” I mutter under my breath, snapping her attention.
She grips my chin and forces me to stare at her. Flames dance in her eyes, and for a second I’m almost terrified the exorcist is going to pop out of her mouth and choke me to death. She leans my head forward so it looks like she’s telling me a secret but what she whispers is anything but innocent.
“Say that to me one more time and I promise you, Reese King, you will never see the deep end of a pool again, got it? Stroke me with your thumb letting me know you understand.”
I don’t move. This bitch needs me just as much as I need her, so I turn her head so she can hear me this time.
“Try me, Bellini. You and I both know you need me in this show just as much as I need you, but where we differ is, I’m willing to give it all up just to distance myself from your self-centered ass. You, on the other hand, thrive and survive off your ill-gotten fame, so it looks like I’m calling the shots here. So turn your pretty little head toward the camera, smile and get this over with, because I’m two seconds away from calling it a day.”
She pulls away from me and gives me a disgusted look before considering every word I said. Right then and there, I learn that, in fact, I do have the upper hand. I will use that to my greatest advantage.
Ten minutes later, the photographer is calling it, happy with the pictures he was able to capture. The crew starts to pack up, and I’m able to get Bellini off my lap. Thank God she was covering up the leopard-print Speedo.
“Here you go,” comes a soft voice from the side. I turn to see Paisley handing me a robe with a gentle smile. “Figured you might want to cover up after being exposed for so long.”
“Thank you.” I smile sincerely at her. I hold out my hand and properly introduce myself. “I’m Reese King.”
“Paisley Maccaro. I’m Miss Chamber’s and your new assistant. If you two need anything, just let me know, I would be happy to help.”
Assistant, so she was going to be around . . . a lot. I liked that idea.
“I’m good for now, but I will be sure to let you know.” Ashley walks by, and I flag her down. “Ashley, please grab Paisley’s number for me. Just in case I need to contact her.”
“Sure thing,” Ashely replies, not pulling her gaze away from her electronic lifeline.
“All right, well, I better see if Miss Chambers needs anything,” Paisley says shyly.
Before she can leave, I say, “We’re going to brunch tomorrow, you should join us.” She gives me an odd look, and I check my eagerness to be near her at the door. “I mean, so we can talk about what we are going to need in the coming weeks, with the Olympics closing in.”
A small smile escapes her. “Not a problem, I will be there.”
“Great,” I say, a little too excitedly. “I’ll be sure to text you the details.”
“MAUVE,” Bellini screams, startling Paisley.
Before I can say bye, she takes off quickly to provide whatever asinine thing Bellini needs help with.
I tie my robe tight across my waist and turn toward Ashley; she is not to leave the studio without getting Paisley’s information. That’s for damn sure.
Chapter Four
**PAISLEY**
Holy shit I’m tired.
I finally get the chance to sit down on my couch after a long day of running around for Bellini, cleaning the soles of her shoes, waving incense over Pope Francis—who is the cutest and sweetest dog I’ve ever met—and politely removing Buddy Chambers’s hands from my hip every two seconds. The man is foul. Despite the size of his bank account, he apparently doesn’t know what it means to brush your teeth, because gingivitis was prevalent in every up-close-and-personal word he spoke into my ear.
I shiver just thinking about it.
Now that I’m finally home, a burrito from Alberto’s in hand and a large iced tea ready to be consumed, I can sit back and think about how I completely forgot Bellini Chambers was dating Reese King.
The moment I saw him, my stomach bottomed out, a light sheen of sweat took over my skin, and I felt physically nauseated from nerves.
Reese King: Greek god in a Speedo, Bad Boy of the pool, known for his unruly temper when interviewed, his inability to earn a gold medal despite his other accomplishments, and also named Sexiest Man Alive last year.
Yes, you read that correctly, Sexiest Man Alive.
Everything about him captivated me. From the way his body moved with confidence and power, to the deep husky tone of his voice, to the slight crinkle by his eyes that shows his age. From the way he spoke to me, a side of gentle in his voice, I felt myself melting all over the floor, willing myself not to turn into a ball of mush.
He’s dream worthy.
But then, he isn’t your typical swimmer: smooth skin, short hair, and preppy polo made by Ralph Lauren decorating his chest. He is different. He’s dark, mysterious, sports a beard right up until competition where he shaves it before getting in the pool. His wavy hair doesn’t get trimmed very often, only on the sides, and he leaves the top heavy so he can push it to the left, forming a thick faux hawk. His eyes are so soulfully penetrating it’s next to impossible not to get lost in them.
Then there’s his tattoo.
Oh, sweet God, his tattoo.
Most swimmers, or Olympians for that matter, have a tattoo of the Olympic rings somewhere on their body. Not Reese. He has a sleeve tattoo on his left arm that extends around his left pectoral, down his shoulder blade and wraps around his entire arm straight to his wrist. It’s intricate in design, as if someone tore off his skin and revealed a mechanical engine for his arm rather than the fine-tuned muscles he’s created.
It is hot.
Sexy.
He is hard not to stare at.
Pretty much impossible not to drool over.
And that’s exactly what happened to me today.
Throu
ghout the entire photo shoot my eyes found their way to Reese, taking in his smirk, the flex of his muscles, the way his body moved in each frame, or the strong hold he had on Bellini. There was no denying the immediate attraction I felt for the man, or the way I started to throb with each pass of his eyes over me. It almost felt like he was tracking me, seeking me out. Erotic images flashed through my head the entire time, igniting a burning need deep within my soul.
But, that’s all imagination because . . .
He’s dating the devil. How can he possibly consider being in a relationship with someone like her? I’m not much of a swimming fan, but I’ve watched the Olympics because I enjoy seeing him with his shirt off, streaming through the water. So I know a little about him. He is quiet with his personal life—which is confusing since he is doing this TV show now—he has charities he works with, mainly helping inner-city kids learn how to swim, and he has a reputation of having no friends on the pool deck, only enemies. Especially Bodi Banks, the man who stole the gold from him the past two Olympics. In addition to apparently not getting along with Bodi, he’s not very friendly with reporters either. He often refuses interviews and has been known to slam photographers up against cars and brick walls if they get too close to him. If I didn’t just meet him and see a softer side, I would have gone with the media’s portrayal of him: an unruly bad boy who strokes for silver.
The front door opens then slams shut. Jonathan stands in the entryway, leaning against the front door and blows out a long breath. With a sideways smile, he looks over at me and eyes my burrito. “Get one for me?”
“Of course.” I hold up his burrito.
