“Well, I guess I didn’t fuck it up too bad,” I said when he answered, “She agreed to meet for dinner this weekend.”
“Really?” There was more surprise in the single word than there should have been and I knew something wasn’t quite right.
“What do you mean, really? Why are you so surprised by that?”
“It’s just, I dunno, I figured she’d forgive you, not set up a dinner date.”
“Preston, it’s me. I could go through the phone book and call every number in alphabetical order and a good ninety percent of the people I talked to, male or female, would agree to a dinner date with me.”
“Trust me, I know, Porter. I was just sure she was in the other ten percent is all. She hates the porn industry. She was ready to bolt the moment I opened the door for her at the party last night. It’s not her scene and she’s kinda grossed out by it all.”
Not her scene? Everyone likes porn. What the hell did he mean ‘not her scene’?
“Porter, I gotta go,” a loud slap interrupted Preston’s goodbye, “You son of a bitch! You’re not even inside me! There was no need for that!”
“Are you on set?” I asked, choking on the laugh that threatened to rumble out of my throat.
“Yeah, but this dumb son of a bitch can’t manage to keep it up, so we’re all just kinda sitting around while he grinds his hips into my ass. It’s not like I have anything better to do with my day! Anyway, I think I’m gonna have to teach this straight boy to bottom so we can get the hell out of here before I’m too old to enjoy my good looks. I’ll talk to you when we wrap.”
“Go easy on the poor guy.”
“One more slap on my ass cheek and I’ll split the bastard in two.”
The sharp crack of hand on flesh came over the line just before it went dead. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the guy. If he really was straight, he had just crossed a line he probably hadn’t intended on crossing when he showed up for work that morning. Preston’s dick is almost as big as mine and he had a reputation for getting a little bit rough with his bottoms. The potential for stitches was high.
I cringed as I tossed my phone into my gym bag.
The familiar sounds of clanking weights, grunting meatheads, and the over-caffeinated Jazzercise instructor welcomed me to the second best place on Earth.
I’ll be the first to admit I’m a gym bunny. My body pays my bills and keeping it tuned up is part of my routine seven days a week.
I hit the locker room and changed into my loose pair of basketball shorts and a demolished t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off. I’m all about cardio, so I had to be able to move.
“Porter!”
I cringed before turning around to face Vanessa, the over-caffeinated Jazzercise instructor.
“Hey, V. How was class today?”
“It was great! Really invigorating! We miss seeing you in there!”
I’d had a momentary lapse in judgment a few months prior and found myself in her class a few times. All the bouncing tits and ass had been like a siren call to my over-imaginative loins.
I ended up hooking up with her once and never set foot in her class again.
“Yeah, it just turned out to be more of a hindrance for my training. It’s good to see you though!”
I turned to walk away and she grabbed my forearm in a vice-like grip, “How about a spot?”
She walked to a nearby flat bench and loaded up the bar with a hundred pounds of iron.
Not wanting to offend her, I took my position over her head and gripped the steel bar on either side of her hands.
“Now this takes me back,” she winked up at me.
The tip of my dick was dangling inches from her face and it took every ounce of my willpower not to roll my eyes and walk away as she stared at it absently licking her lips.
I hefted the weights out of the bar catchers, drawing her focus back to the task at hand, and let the bar settle into her palms.
Her form and breathing were flawless and her endurance admirable. I spotted her through four sets of twenty before she called it quits and allowed my to guide the bar back into its cradle.
“Thanks, Porter. If you ever need to add a little extra cardio to your day, you know where to find my bed.”
She leaned up on her toes and kissed my cheek before drifting off to the women’s locker room.
I absently wiped the spot with my shoulder and headed for the nearest treadmill. The need to run was reaching a critical point.
I programmed in a two mile run at six miles an hour and hit start.
My body took over and quickly settled into the familiar rhythm. My pulse, breathing, and footfalls synched up perfectly and all thoughts of Vanessa were quickly pushed from my head.
As I pushed myself through the quick two miles, the stresses of the day sloughed off like dirty clothes. The booze from the night before poured through my pores in steady streams of sweat and left me feeling invigorated and pure.
When my warm-up run was over, I moved on to lunges, then weighted lunges, twenty-yard sled pulls, and leg presses. With twenty minutes to go, I headed back to the treadmill and hit the hill. Six miles an hour with a five percent incline would push me just enough that I’d be exhausted, but still be able to walk the next day.
That last twenty minutes, I found myself with only one thing on my mind: Holly Nash.
I could still see her slender, incredibly long legs perched on top of those sky-high fuck me heels. The way her dress clung to her hips and showed off her tiny waist and powerful thighs was emblazoned in the forefront of my memory. I had spent most of the night thinking about them wrapped around my hips. Her perfect breasts with their deep cleavage and long slender arms tipped with delicate unpolished fingers had ravaged my dreams. Her plump, rosy lips and soft, supple tongue had worked my shaft with expert precision as she stared up at me with her incredible hazel eyes. My hands had been fisted in her impossibly soft auburn hair and I was moments from watching her swallow my load when Preston had shaken me awake.
Running became increasingly difficult as more of my blood found its way from the brain in my head to the one between my legs.
Cold shower. I need a cold shower.
The treadmill leveled out and I slowed to a clipped walk for the cool down portion of my final run. It was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other as I prayed my dick didn’t get any harder.
When the belt beneath my feet finally came to a stop, I all but sprinted across the gym to the locker room and slipped into the first available shower stall.
The spray of cold water slammed into me like a truck and stole my breath away as it soaked into my gym clothes and filled my shoes.
“Get your shit together, Porter,” I chastised myself as I kicked off my sopping shoes and tossed my soggy clothes into the corner.
Completely ignorant of the frigid stream dousing the rest of my body, my dick stayed stiff as steel and pointed accusingly at the shower handle.
Flashes of Holly’s creamy skin sliding over every inch of my body played through my mind and I realized there was only one way to resolve the problem of my arousal.
I gripped my disobedient shaft and quickly worked my strokes into a brutal pace. The muscles in my exhausted thighs tightened more with every thrust of my bucking hips.
I felt the deep tightening in the pit of my stomach as my balls drew up against my body. I lost all control when my thighs finally cramped and my abs seized up to force my orgasm out of me like a gunshot.
“Fuck!” I yelled as my legs gave out and I dropped to my knees.
The tiles at eye level were covered in jets of my semen. My vision went fuzzy as my softening cock unloaded the rest of its payload into the drain at my knees.
My head spun around at the sound of the shower curtain behind me being ripped open. One of the personal trainers I had worked with on more than one occasion stood there in his gym shorts and company polo. He looked from me to the wall and then back to me before his eyes drop
ped to my ass and a grin flashed across his face.
“I thought someone was dying,” he explained before turning away and closing the shower curtain behind him, “Clean up your mess before you leave, Ryder.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I asked the smug piece of flesh, now napping between my burning thighs.
I reached up and increased the temperature of the water before halfheartedly tossing water at the wall in a sad attempt to rid the shower of any evidence left behind.
How the hell was I supposed to sit through an entire meal with her across the table from me? I couldn’t even make it through an hour at the gym with her halfway across the county.
“This isn’t going to end well,” I muttered as the last of my ejaculation swirled down the drain.
“So this is what a Monday is supposed to feel like.”
I had managed to make it to my office without turning around and climbing back under my blankets, but hadn’t actually done any work yet. I sat there staring at my computer screen waiting for it to give me instructions on how to do my job.
“Serves you right for actually enjoying your weekend.”
My eyes went to the doorway where my favorite member of my support staff was leaning casually.
“Shut it, Mitch. I liked it better when I didn’t bother with silly things like days off.”
Mitchel Michaelson, gay secretary extraordinaire, pushed himself away from the doorframe and strode into my office like he owned the place. He was one of the three people on the planet who could do so without losing life or limb. The other two were Becks and the man who wrote my paychecks.
“As your executive assistant, I have to agree with you. More shit gets done that way. As a gay man who loves to party on the weekends, I feel like I need to organize a festival to celebrate the fact that Holly Nash does indeed have a life outside of work.”
“You’re a bitch,” I turned away from him and pretended to work on my computer.
“A bitch who’s right. Now give me all the dirty details! How was the party? Did you get gang-banged while dozens of creepers stood around the room jerking off and filming it with their phones?”
I deadpanned him. He knew how ridiculous his question was and I wasn’t going to warrant it with a response. Instead of balking as I had hoped, he waved a perfectly manicured hand at me and continued.
“Did you at least get to see one of the Princes of Porn get his freak on? I mean, those parties are pretty legendary. I have this friend whose cousin knew this guy that went to one of them and totally got banged by Roman in the middle of the kitchen. Not a single appetizer was spared from their bout of pornographic passion. Rumor has it there’s a tape of it out there somewhere.”
“You’re disgusting,” it took everything I had not to smile at him, “I imagine there’s a reason you came in here beyond just grilling me about the Hale brothers and their sexual practices.”
“Nope,” he rose from the chair he had draped himself across and made his way back into the hallway, “You should really work on your storytelling, Holly. It’d make my life much more interesting.”
The soles of his steel gray Cole Haans snapped sharply on the marble hallway as he sashayed his way back to his desk. Moments later, the phone on my desk lit up and his voice boomed from the speaker, “Your two o’clock is cancelled, your two-thirty has rescheduled to three, and the producer for the new Michael Bay flick wants you to call him as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, darling. I’d be lost without you.”
“Don’t you forget it!” The line went dead.
I absently scrolled through my emails and compulsively rearranged everything on my desk in an effort to convince myself that I was too busy to call the producer. Talking to the people behind the cameras is my least favorite part of the job. I get the scripts, I attend the meetings, I find the faces. That’s my job and I’m damn good at it. I don’t need some overbearing, half-psychotic perfectionist flaunting his budget in my face and telling me how to do the one thing I’m really good at.
When I had organized the crumpled up headshots in the garbage can under my desk, I finally admitted to myself that I couldn’t justify putting the call off any longer. If I was going to get to my lunch break at a decent hour, I’d have to get it over with sooner rather than later.
I should’ve called sooner.
After three hours of being lectured on the importance of the eye and hair color for the leading man and how it was imperative for the leading lady to have an impossibly tiny waist, it was a quarter after two. I had thirty minutes to find food, devour said food, and get my ass back to the office to prepare for the meeting I had at three.
I was nudging my way toward hangry and knew better than to go into a meeting with a potential client in that state of mind.
I had just bent to grab my purse and sprint for the parking garage when Mitch came strolling back into my office with a Styrofoam container in his hands.
He set it on my desk and walked away without a word.
I opened the container to find a BLT on whole wheat bread with a grilled chicken salad on the side.
I mashed the intercom button on my phone, “Remind me to give you a raise.”
If he responded, I couldn’t hear him over the sound of the perfectly cooked bacon being crunched between my teeth.
After devouring the entire sandwich and half the salad, I started to feel human again. I stopped shoveling food into my mouth like I hadn’t eaten in days and took a more civilized approach to the last half of my lettuce and chicken. I picked up my fork and used that as a shovel instead of my fingers.
I sat back, sated and borderline comatose, as the urge to drink the last of the dressing out of the container dissipated.
“Your three o’clock just called to confirm his appointment.” Mitch announced from the doorway, “He’s about ten minutes out. Get your life together, wipe the ranch off your face, and for the love of Gaga, buy some granola bars to keep in your purse. You’re a scary woman on a good day, but you turn into some kind of angry black hole for food when you’re hungry and God help anyone who gets too close.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Can you grab me the script for this project? I want to glance through it one more time before I listen to this guy drone on for the next two hours about his ‘artistic vision’ and how his movie just has to star Angelina.”
“And that bullshit is exactly why I just guard the door,” Mitch spun on his heel, snapped his fingers out to the side, and shook his head. His inner diva always did a hell of a job expressing his distaste.
My phone vibrated on my desk as Mitch dropped the miniature manuscript on my desk.
“Thanks, Snookums.”
“Mmmmhmmm,” was the only response I got as he flitted back to his desk.
I decided the text message would be more fun than a read through of a script that was doomed to be completely rewritten at least three times during production.
I’m bringing The Kit to your office on Friday. No time to change at home before your date with Ryder.
I groaned and shoved the phone off the edge of my desk. The three hour phone call and light-speed ingestion of my lunch had driven all thoughts of my impending ‘date’ with Porter Hale to the darkest corners of my mind. I might have actually gotten lucky enough to forget about it entirely. Then I could have just texted him the day after with a lame excuse about work being too busy and we would have been even. He spills my drink, I let him sit alone in a restaurant for an hour, and we never have to speak again. It seemed like a pretty good pipedream at the time.
Then Becks happened.
Her and that damn kit.
She always ruins my fun.
The Kit had made its first appearance at our senior prom. I hadn’t intended on going at all. I’d bought a few pints of ice cream and a stack of the latest chick flicks. Then a crazy ginger girl dressed to the nines showed up on my doorstep with a dress and corsage in one hand, and an ominous duffle bag in the other.
“Please tell me we’re not burying your date’s body already,” I had said with a suspicious glance at the massive black bag.
“No. He’s still alive and well. He took off with your date to do God-only-knows-what while I try to salvage what’s left of your dignity.” The duffle hit the floor with a thump and several rattles. I remember feeling like prey caught in the crushing embrace of a human-sized snake as she pushed me down onto the couch and went to work.
A flat iron, round brushes, a blow dryer, dozens of shades of nail polish, eye shadow, lipstick, foundation (both liquid and powder), blush, files, buffers, tweezers, and something in a box that said Summer’s Eve tumbled onto my parents’ living room floor. Thankfully, the last one went back into the bag almost immediately.
It had taken just over an hour and a half for her to squeeze, tweeze, brush, blow, paint, and primp me into what she still calls ‘The Prom Night Miracle’.
It was only the first of many run-ins with The Kit and I wasn’t looking forward to another.
I glanced at the clock in the bottom corner of my computer monitor and squared my shoulders. I had five minutes to make myself look presentable and get to the conference room where the meeting was to be held.
Lucky for me, it was right across the hall from the executive restroom I shared with one other casting director.
I slid the deadbolt into place behind me and turned to study myself in the mirror over the sink. I blanched as I realized it looked as if I had decided to drink the ranch out of the container. I’d start there and work my way up.
I quickly wetted a paper towel and wiped the creamy mess away from my lips before digging into my purse for the spare tube of lipstick that years of being around Becks had taught me to carry. I recolored my lips and ran a brush through my slightly disheveled hair.
I had learned a long time ago that, in my line of business at least, less is more. I have good skin, dark, thick lashes, and natural volume to my hair that made blow dryers an unnecessary appliance in my house. If I put the extra effort into being girly, it never failed that the Good Ol’ Boys mentality would take over and even the most liberal thinking man would treat me like a coffee fetcher.
Porter (Dick Dynasty #1) Page 5
