Yours Forever

by Bella Winters

  I’ll never forget the first time I saw her. I was waiting in the checkout line at the 7/11 with a case of beer and five bags of chips for a frat party. I turned around to find her standing behind me, her big tits in a tight t-shirt, her long tanned legs sticking out of a pair of cut-off jeans. She was barefoot, no makeup, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. And she was buying tampons, of all things. I pretended I didn’t see the light blue box, but I envied those tampons for where they were destined to go.

  I struck up a conversation about the weather or some random shit just to talk to her. I smiled. She smiled. Our eyes met. We shook hands. Sparks fucking flew. And that was it. I pretty much knew I’d be fucking her by the next day. And I was. Because I had no choice. If I didn’t fuck her, I’d just die.

  I turned on the charm and went full-court press on her ass. At first, it was just a game to me, as all women were. I would woo her with my ways, wear down her resistance, fuck the shit out of her and move on, like I always did.

  Then, the more I got to know her, the more I wanted to be with her, and only her. She drove me fucking wild, man. A typical woman would get jealous as fuck if their man was flirting or getting hit on by other women. Not Zoe. She was not the jealous type. In fact, many times she’d joke about going home with other dudes, or bringing another man into the bedroom with us. I was like WHAT??? No fucking way! Homey don’t play that shit!

  She was doing it just to fuck with me, but sometimes I thought she was serious. Maybe she was. Maybe she wasn’t. I just didn’t want to find out. I’d go fucking crazy just to think of another man fucking my Zoe.

  So, I calmed down with the macho-male bullshit and made sure she knew I just wanted her. And things went great for a while, then slowly started to go to shit. She said I was too controlling (which I was), too demanding (guilty), too much of an asshole (uh yeah), and that I didn’t appreciate her. That one hurt because it wasn’t true. Granted, I had a hard time showing my feelings (I’m a guy, duh), but I appreciated the fuck out of her. Hell, I probably even loved her.

  Then one day she just breezes in and tells me she’s moving to fucking New York after graduation to work in some publishing house as a copy editor. I was like, why the fuck do you want to do that?

  She just shook her head and walked out the door. That was seven years ago. We talked a few times over the phone after she moved away, but finally I just let it go. Was I pissed? You bet your ass I was pissed. She just up and left, ripped my fucking heart out like it was a fucking Band-Aid on a scraped knee. The sad part about our time together and her leaving was the residual effect it had on my love life. Call it carrying a torch or whatever, but I haven’t been able to feel complete with another woman since Zoe walked out of my life. I keep finding myself comparing them to her. And no woman has ever come close to curling my toes—or breaking my heart—like Zoe Maxwell.

  * * *

  “Oh, Chad …” Bree’s moans jarred me back to reality. “I’m cumming…god… your cock... cum with me… cum…”

  “Cum for me, baby,” I said, digging my fingers into her hips and arching my back to fuck her deeper and harder, as if I could push the memory of Zoe out of my body by shooting a hot load inside Bree. But it seemed the harder I fucked Bree, the more I thought about Zoe. It was a never-ending battle between my heart and my mind and my cock. It was a painful battle.

  It was a pain that I wanted to heal, but wanted to keep as a reminder of a time in my life when everything felt simply perfect.

  It was a time I never wanted to forget, couldn’t if I tried.

  Maybe I was afraid that someday I’d wake up and no longer think of Zoe. I didn’t want that day to ever come. Even though she had moved on and was living her life without so much as a thought of me, I was not ready to let go of what we had, even after all these years.

  The pain was all I had left of Zoe.

  I would never let it go.

  Never.

  I’d never tell a soul because it was a very unmacho thing to say, but I missed Zoe every fucking day and every fucking night, even after all these years. Zoe Maxwell was mine for just a short time and I let her slip away. Fuck, who am I kidding… I pushed her way. She left because I was a controlling asshole with too much pride to swallow. If I had it to do over again, I would have dropped to my knees and begged her to say.

  Right then, at that moment, with Bree moaning and groaning on top of me, I would have given anything to go back to that time with Zoe.

  Even if it was just for an hour, just to feel the old feelings again. Maybe I just needed to say goodbye to her once and for all; have one last conversation that would help me close the Zoe chapter of my life.

  Maybe then my heart wouldn’t feel so numb.

  Maybe that was exactly what I needed to forget Zoe Maxwell once and for all.

  I curled my toes and filled Bree with the hot load that erupted from my cock and balls with the force of a firehose. I closed my eyes tight and tried not to scream Zoe’s name.

  * * *

  I rolled Bree off my cock and rolled myself off the bed, going into the bathroom without saying a word. I took a good long piss, then washed off my cock with a warm rag at the sink, then went back to the bedroom door and tossed the towel at Bree.

  “What the fuck Chad!” Bree said with a disgusted look on her face. She plucked the rag out of the air and shoved it to her cooch to stop the flow of my cum and her juices. “Where the fuck are you going?”

  “I have something I forgot to do,” I said, jabbing a thumb over my shoulder toward the shower behind me. “Gotta grab a quick shower and run. Let yourself out. I’ll call you later.”

  “Seriously?” Her mouth hung open and her eyes went wide. Her big tits bounced on her chest. “You just remembered right now in the middle of having sex with me that you had something you forgot to do?”

  “I know, my brain turns to mush when you’re around, baby. Okay. Later.” I closed and locked the bathroom door, ignoring her protests that she needed to pee and shower, too.

  After a minute, I heard her yell, “FUCK YOU!” and then the bedroom door slammed and then, thankfully, silence.

  I hated to be rude, seriously, but I knew that if I didn’t give Bree the bum’s rush she would have hung around all day long. Bree was a great fuck, but she’d never win a contest at being a conversationalist. She was too young for me. I could never see myself getting serious with her even though she was drop dead gorgeous.

  Tall, brunette, the aforementioned big tits, and an ass that would make the Kardashians jealous. But that’s where it ended. I’d known Bree for a few months now, and had yet to hold a serious conversation with her about anything. Just having a casual conversation was like trying to explain quantum physics to a first grader.

  I was reaching for the shower faucet when I heard my cellphone ringing in the bedroom. I cracked open the door just to make sure Bree was gone, then found my phone on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed to answer it.

  “Go for Chad,” I said.

  “Hey, Chad. It’s Martin. How’s it hanging, buddy?”

  “A little low and to the right at the moment,” I said, glancing down at my flaccid cock with a smile. “How’s it hanging for you?”

  Martin Friese was my business manager and publicist. I had hired him five years ago when my fitness company, Body By Chad, first started to take off. I had worked forever to build my brand as a personal trainer and fitness coach and now, after years of busting my hump twenty-hours a day, seven days a week, the business was taking off with celebrity clients swarming around like hungry bees in a field of wild flowers.

  Martin was responsible for much of that success. Body by Chad wouldn’t be where it was today if it wasn’t for his expert public relations skills and celebrity connections—connections that landed me in front of the most prestigious clients thanks to the likes of TMZ, People Magazine, and Radar Online. I was constantly amazed what one photo standing behind Katy Perry at Starbuck’s will do for your bra
nd, even though Katy didn’t know me from Adam back then. I even landed a contract to train the blonde bombshells at the Playboy Mansion. And things didn’t stop there.

  As the opportunities and income grew, I knew my brand had to grow with it. Martin told me time and time again, “It’s all smoke and mirrors… You are only as successful as the public deems you to be… Live large… Always be seen… Do whatever it takes to stay in the public’s eye… There is no such thing as bad PR… Fake it till you make it, brother… Fucking fake it till you make it.”

  As soon as I could swing it financially (thanks to good credit and Martin’s co-signature), I bought a Brentwood Estate just outside of Hollywood. $6.5 million bucks, baby… A luxury mansion in a gated community, with 10 bedrooms and more bathrooms than one person could ever use. Six-car garage, tennis court, Olympic size pool, theater room, gourmet kitchen, master bedroom larger than my first apartment, and a toilet that shoots water up your ass.

  The basement was a perfect set-up for my own fitness studio, where I privately trained celebrity clients and recorded my DVDs and the workout videos for my private website. I put four-hundred-grand into the place after I bought it, pimping it out to my standards.

  Life was good. I had my main business in my basement (I owned three gyms in the city), my own line of fitness apparel and exercise DVD’s, along with a dozen books that had been ghostwritten for me (like I have the fucking time to write). The best part about being me were the private sessions I give to certain female celebrities who shall remain nameless. Let’s just say that more often than not, those sessions come with a happy ending, if you know what I mean.

  “The reason I’m calling,” Martin continued, “I need you to fly out to New York in a couple of days. Good Morning Manhattan would like to do a segment on you. It would be great exposure and you could pimp the new DVD’s that are dropping later this month.”

  I whined into the phone like a spoiled bitch. “Two days? Fuck, Martin you know I can’t just up and leave on a moment’s notice like that…”

  “Chad, dude, this is the show we’ve been trying to get you on for the last six months. New York City’s number one morning show. And now they want you on the show, but it’s gotta be this week. You cannot pass this up. Whatever you have going on, have your assistant reschedule and get your ass on a plane. Capiche?”

  I sighed until my lungs were out of air. I fell back on the bed and gave my balls a little scratch. “Fine. Book it and send me the flight and hotel info.”

  “Awesome!” Martin said. I could feel him smiling over the phone. More money in my pocket meant more money in his. “Don’t forget, rock star, you are the number one guru in the fitness industry right now and we’re going to keep it that way, my man. You got this!”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said, wondering if he really believed half of the shit that came out of his mouth. “I’ll see you in New York on Monday.”

  I tossed the phone on the bed and went off to take a shower. For some reason, I felt especially dirty at that moment, and it wasn’t the stink of my jizz and Bree’s cunt coming off my cock and balls.

  It was just the smell of my life, a smell I knew I could never wash away, at least not on my own.

  Chapter Three: Zoe

  “Hello, Mr. Elliot,” I said playfully. Whenever I saw Graham’s face popup on my cellphone I always forced myself to sound happier than I usually was. Graham worried about me like an older brother, so I mustered a smile and put a happy tone to my voice before I slid the screen to answer the call.

  “Miss Maxwell,” Graham said, his voice soothing in my ear. “How are you today? Did you make it home safely last night?”

  “If I hadn’t you would have been my first call,” I said with a grin. I pushed myself back from the laptop and turned to put my bare feet up on the little writing desk I kept in front of my bedroom window. “What’s up?”

  “I was calling to invite your over for dinner tonight?” he said.

  “Oh, Graham, I’ve had enough of dinner parties for a while.”

  “Not a dinner party, my dear. Nothing fancy, very low key, just you and me. I have something I’d like to run by you.”

  “Low key sounds great,” I said, stretching my arms toward the ceiling. I had been writing for several hours and needed a break. “Anything out of the public eye is good for me these days.”

  “I kind of figured you’d done your time in the public eye for a while,” he said, chuckling. “Need me to send a car for you?”

  “I can get a cab,” I said. “I’m not that much of a celebrity.”

  “The hell you’re not,” he snorted. “If your next book sells like we think it will your lovely face will be plastered on posters and billboards across the country. You might as well face it, my dear, you are a bona fide celebrity whether you like it or not.”

  “Whatever!” I said, cutting him off. I wasn’t comfortable with my celebrity and Graham knew it, as meager as that celebrity might be. “Need me to bring anything?”

  “Just yourself,” Graham said. “See you around eight.”

  I stared at the phone for a moment after he hung up, wondering what Graham wanted to talk to me about. I prayed it wasn’t about Mark. That was a topic I had no desire to discuss with Graham or anyone else.

  * * *

  “Glad you could make it,” Graham said, hugging me as I walked through the door of his uptown apartment. Graham did very well as an executive for Roland House. His place was larger than mine and much nicer. Graham had hit the daily double: he came from old money and banked one hell of a paycheck from Roland. His good fortune was well-deserved. Graham Elliot was a good guy in what could be a very shitty business. He’d saved my bacon on more than one occasion. He was the best friend this writer would ever have.

  “Did you enjoy the dinner last night? Roland House certainly knows how to blow money on large parties that no one wants to attend,” he said as he handed me a glass of wine. He nodded at the glass. “That’s an ‘84 Chateau Laffite Rothschild. Don’t waste a drop.”

  “I’ll certainly try not to,” I said, smiling as I took a sip. The wine was smooth going down and left a delicious plum and blackberry taste lingering on my tongue. Graham always had the best wines. He was a wine enthusiast who loved to travel and collect wines from every corner of the world. Some of them were too exotic for my taste, but the Rothschild was like drinking nectar.

  “I couldn’t wait to get out of there last night, I can tell you that,” I confessed as I took another sip. “And Carla… ugh! I can’t stand that woman! I tell her no and she keeps coming back like a rabid dog.”

  “Most people can’t stand Carla,” Graham said with a smile. “But she is very good at her job, one of the best PR reps in the business.” He stared at me for a moment, then brought his glass to his lips. “I could tell you were ready to get the hell out of there. Too long away from our cave, little hermit?”

  “Something like that,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Although I’d like to think of myself more as Cinderella in the tower than a hermit living in a cave.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, extending his arm. “Follow me, princess.”

  I looped my arm through his and followed him into the spacious living room, which was all glass along the exterior wall, offering a breathtaking view of the city at night. I settled in on the sofa and let my eyebrows go up behind the wine glass. “So, why am I here?”

  He smiled like the Cheshire Cat. Little alarms started ringing in my head. He said, “Good Morning Manhattan is looking for someone to fill a guest spot on an upcoming segment on young entrepreneurs. Mainly a fluff segment focusing on people who started with nothing and made it to the top of their game. Their goal is to get your basic insider tips for other entrepreneurs taking the same path, you know, something along those lines.”

  “And how does this have anything to do with me?” I asked the question even though I already knew what Graham was thinking.

  “They were thinking—and I was re
ally hoping since the publicity would be incredible for the new book—that you might be interested in being one of their young entrepreneurs.”

  I shot him a panicked look. I hated speaking in public and Graham knew it. It was my biggest fear because I literally melted down when speaking to more than a few people at a time. My hands shook, my voice quivered, my knees went weak. I could barely make it through a book reading and had to force my hand not to tremble during book signings. And now he wanted me to go on live TV and talk about what a big success I was? Holy crap...

  “I don’t know, Graham,” I said quickly as I felt my mouth going dry despite the wine. “I mean, I don’t really consider myself an entrepreneur. I write books for a living…”

  “Right. You write books and you travel and live a lifestyle most people only dream of living, but at the end of the day you run a very successful business. Think about it,” he said, narrowing his dark eyes at me. “You could share your tips about building a successful publishing business, marketing, blogging, even discuss some of your failures, not that you’ve had many, and… well… I kind of already told them you’d do it.”

  “You what?” I stammered, nearly dropping the wine glass. “Graham! You cannot be serious!”

  He frowned to let me know that he was. “Before you freak out, let me add that I also convinced them to give you time to plug the new book, Pleasing Him. The show’s producer has read an advance copy and loved it. Not only that, she told me that she read it in one sitting and it got her so steamed up she attacked her poor husband in the middle of the night.”

  “Wow, my book as foreplay… who knew…”

  “The point is, my dear teller of dirty tales,” he said, scolding me with his eyes. “The exposure for Pleasing Him on GMM will help propel it to the top of the bestseller lists. They have a huge audience. And I’m sure their viewers—and all the struggling writers who watch—would love to hear how you come up with the ideas for your stories, especially the story in Pleasing Him. That story is... well… pardon my French… fucking hot.”