Beautiful PRICK

by Kenzie, Sophia

  By Sophia Kenzie

  Copyright © 2015 Hearts Collective

  All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.

  Also From Sophia Kenzie:

  Blood of Cupids (The Blood of Cupids MC 1) by Sophia Kenzie

  Betrayal of Cupids (The Blood of Cupids MC 2) by Sophia Kenzie

  Death of Cupids (The Blood of Cupids MC 3) by Sophia Kenzie

  Billionaire Badboy by Sophia Kenzie

  Unimaginable by Sophia Kenzie

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  BEAUTIFUL PRICK

  by Sophia Kenzie

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  PROLOGUE

  What’s to come…

  I’ve never been a violent person, and yet, in this moment, I can’t stop swinging my fists. The adrenaline rushing through my body is more than I truly think I can handle, but still, I crave more. I push her back a few steps as my knee comes up and strikes her right under her ribs.

  But she doesn’t back down; she doesn’t even take a breath. She comes at me, pushing her full body weight into my torso, and lifting my feet from the ground. I must have blacked out for a brief second, because now I am on the floor, looking to the ceiling, and the girl in a white sports bra and tiny black shorts is on top of me. I hear cries and screams circling from all around me, telling me, and shrieking at me to flip her over. I have to find a way to get on top.

  I tell my body what needs to happen, but it refuses to respond to my demands. It’s the third and final round: I am spent. I wrap my legs around her waist, and my arms swing around her neck. She tries to shake me off, but this hold, I can do. She’s strong, and definitely bigger than I am, but if I’ve learned anything up until this moment, it’s that size doesn’t matter when it comes to this type of fighting. She pushes back, rolling onto her feet. I’m sure she believes that if she stands, I will lose my grip and fall from her height.

  But I don’t.

  Instead, I tighten my hold around her shoulders, and use every ounce of power I can muster to twist her. I see the shock in her eyes as her body contorts to my commands. I use that very shock to quickly lower my feet to the ground, and I wrap my leg around the back of her knee, destabilizing her stance. Then, I jump in the air, bringing my weight back down directly onto her shoulders.

  She’s now the one on the ground, and I swiftly land on top of her. I throw my fists at her face, praying desperately that she loses consciousness, but she holds on for dear life. I feel her trying to buck beneath me, attempting to kick me from my hold on her hips, but I wrap my calves around her thighs for added support. My swings quicken as her blood splashes across my cheek.

  I’m not at all fazed; I just keep on fighting. I battle my urge to wrap my gloved hands around her throat. I see her waning, and it would be just too easy to finish her off, as a loss of consciousness would surely secure me the win, but strangling is one of the few things in this match that is against the rules. So I decide against it.

  Plus, if I were to break the rules, I would surely get an earful from him.

  Him: the two hundred pound, Welsh God standing in my corner holding a water bottle and a white towel-not because I asked him to-because he can’t mind his own business. Either way, he’s there. I fight the urge not to glance up at him, for real fear that I would not be able to look away.

  The man drives me absolutely, positively nuts. I hate him. It’s quite possible that I hate him more than I’ve hated anyone in my entire life. I hate him twenty-three hours of the day.

  It’s that freaking twenty-fourth hour that gets me every time. Why the hell is he so beautiful? And why the hell do I keep coming back?

  And now, because of him, I am no longer concentrating on the girl who has been consecutively receiving blows from my fists. Within an instant, I’ve returned to my back, staring up at the ceiling. I feel the wind get knocked from my body as she slams her shin into my stomach, and steadfastly keeps it there, while I wriggle in pain. I see what she’s about to do as her hand slides under my shoulder, and I quickly devise a plan to escape from her joint lock. I twist into her palm, pushing against the way she needs me to go to complete her hold. It is now my blood smeared across my own face as I violently swing from side to side, grasping for the momentum to break free. I clench my core and roll on top of her outstretched arm, forcing her elbow to bend the way it’s not meant to bend.

  I’m up. I hear him yell, telling me to get back into the fight, but I just need a minute.

  He’s still yelling.

  My body feels numb and the metallic taste of blood in my mouth is getting old.

  He’s still yelling.

  I need a minute. I need to not be dizzy. I need to not taste blood. I need to…

  It feels like everything is happening in slow motion as I watch the girl with the white sports bra and tiny black shorts run toward me, pull back her fist, and then extend it straight at my face. My cheek takes the brunt of her knuckles, and I fall to the ground.

  The bell rings.

  My first MMA match is over.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The set up

  Sometimes I wish I were an architect. That way, when people asked me what I did for work, and I replied, “I’m an architect,” they would nod their heads and give me back something along the lines of “awesome” or “cool” or “good for you”.

  Now, I know one could argue that you’ll always get the random person who tries to dig deeper, who subconsciously tries to remind you that you aren’t as successful as you think you are, (really, what is up with those people?) but when you’re an architect, that overly rude person doesn’t come around too often. Let’s be honest, when was the last time you met an architect and the first thing you asked him or her was if they happened to design any buildings that you might have seen?

  I’m going to go ahead and make a wild guess: you’ve never done that. I know I’ve certainly never done that.

  So now I’m going to tell you what I actually do, and you will realize fairly quickly why I wish I were an architect.

  I, Caroline Carver, am a writer. Now, get ready, because I’m about to tell you the exact conversation we’re about to have. I know this is ab
out to be our conversation, because it’s the same conversation I have with everyone…

  This is you: “You’re a writer?”

  This is me: “I am.”

  This is you again (Do you see how this back and forth works?): “What kind of writer?

  “Well…” And this is where I stall, because I really have no idea what kind of writer I am. “I write this and that, but mostly comedy.”

  “Comedy? Like stand-up?”

  Then I roll my eyes at you, because no, I don’t write stand up, and the only reason I said ‘comedy’ was because I meant that my writing style is funny rather than grab a box of tissues because someone is about to die a long hard death. But I don’t say any of that, because I am trying desperately to be civil. All I actually say is, “No, not stand-up. Think more like sitcoms.”

  Well, that was a giant mistake on my part, because now you’re excited. You have just met someone who writes sitcoms. “Sitcoms? You write sitcoms? What show do you write for?”

  And that, right there, is my favorite question of all the questions. What show do you write for?

  Now this is the part where I tell you that I don’t write for an actual television show, because I have yet to get a job writing for television. It is a dream, a goal, a fantasy, but in no way, shape, or form is it a reality. Then, because the tension in the room is so absolutely unbearable, I have to pad my crushing let down with the fact that I’ve gotten good feedback on things I’ve written, I’m taking classes, and I’m currently working on my very own pilot.

  But it doesn’t matter; none of it matters. I got you excited, and then I dropped you to the ground. Things are awkward between us, and from now on, every time we meet, you feel as though you absolutely cannot ask me how my career is going, because if statistics have shown us anything, it is that not too many people make it in show business. Yes, not too many is the exact amount of people that I’m going with for this conversation. I’m sure there’s a percentage, a number floating out there, but I don’t want to know it; it’ll just depress me.

  Point is, you’ll never bring it up again, because, and be honest here; do you really want to be the person who keeps reminding me of my failures? No? Well, that’s nice of you.

  Do you see now why I wish I were an architect?

  This would be you: “You’re an architect?”

  This would be me: “I am.”

  You again: “Good for you.”

  Me again: “Thank you.”

  That’s the end of our conversation. Everyone walks away happy.

  But I, Caroline Carver, do not get to enjoy the simple, non-evasive conversation, because I am not an architect.

  I am a writer.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The story

  Three months earlier

  “It’s five in the morning, Melissa. Why are you on the other end of my phone?” I love my best friend with all my heart. I really do. But she’s really testing that love by calling me before the sun even thinks about coming up.

  “Your call is at seven, Caroline. Seven. And L.A. traffic is terrible.”

  “Right, but I live twelve miles from the set. Even if I only go ten miles an hour the entire way…” This is silly. It’s too early for car math. What am I doing to myself? I’m just going to round to the nearest big number. “It will take barely over an hour.”

  “Yes, but you’re still in bed.” Melissa clears her throat, knowing that she’s right, and that I’m unable to fight her.

  “Fine, I’m up.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  I decide to bang my hand against the headboard. “I’m walking down my stairs.”

  “You’re not doing that either. You’re banging your hand against your headboard.”

  Ugh. That’s just the thing about best friends; you can’t get away with anything when they’re around…or on the phone.

  “Fine. Fine. Fine. You win. I’m getting up. Love you.” I hang up on her and roll back over, but my phone starts screaming as soon as I do.

  I lift it from my nightstand; slide it over to answer, and simply yell into the phone. “Ahhh!”

  But I get up. Hell, she went through all that trouble; the least I can do is get out of bed.

  I pop open my laptop and pull up the New York Times. I know I live in Los Angeles, but I’m a New York girl at heart. The only reason I even moved to L.A. was because no one seems to want to produce a sitcom in The Big Apple. Even the shows that pretend to be in The Big Apple, spoiler alert, are not shot in The Big Apple. I’m sure some are… I’m not ruling out all of them… but for the most part, L.A. is where you need to be.

  So I up and moved to L.A. It’s fine. I’m fine with it. I am. I know I don’t sound like I am, but really… I’m fine.

  Luckily, my best friend had already made the move three years earlier, so I’m not alone.

  Let’s talk about Melissa for a second. I love Melissa, as I believe I have already mentioned. She’s great. I’ve known her practically my entire life. We met when we were five. It’s a funny story actually. We were in kindergarten and the teacher had us fill out these papers about ourselves. Well, as we were in kindergarten, writing really wasn’t a thing, but the teacher was walking around the room helping us.

  I was sitting next to my very best friend in the whole wide world: Annie. I have no idea what her last name was, but at the time, she was my very best friend in the whole wide world. I thought that would last until the end of eternity.

  The next question on the paper in front of us asked for the name of our best friend. I was so ready; I didn’t even need the teacher’s help.

  A-N-N-I-E

  Got it! I sat there, pencil down and hands folded in my lap. The teacher made her way over to us, leaned over next to Annie, and quietly asked, “Annie, who is your best friend?”

  And Annie turned to the teacher and said, “Keri.”

  That bitch.

  Since my name is Caroline, and not Keri, I quickly erased Annie’s name from my sheet. There was no way she was going to be my best friend if I wasn’t her best friend.

  The teacher helped Annie write “Keri”, even though it was even easier to write than “Annie”, and then leaned over my shoulder. “Caroline, who is your best friend?”

  I panicked. I didn’t have a back up. Annie was all I knew. So I did what any five year old would do in that situation: I quickly scanned the room and came upon the first girl I saw. “Melissa.”

  “Melissa?” She cocked her head at me.

  “Yeah, Melissa.” I stated with confidence.

  M-E-L-I-S-S-A

  Much harder to spell than Annie, but worth it for the satisfaction of knowing that I wasn’t the chump who put down Annie’s name without reciprocation.

  I found Melissa at recess later and told her we were now to be best friends. The rest is history.

  She knows that story. She’s not hurt by it. If anything, it worked in both of our favors.

  Fast-forward a few years, and you come upon two young adults who had every intention of ruling New York City. We had a neighborhood picked out, our local deli, our local sushi restaurant, our local coffee shop, our spot in the park…

  And then she went and fell in love. Again, I’m fine. I’m not bitter at all. Though, I actually might be bitter if her husband wasn’t so absolutely wonderful. He’s a line producer and Melissa is a costume designer. They met on set one day, got married, had babies…well, one baby. His name is Austin. I actually helped name him; long story, not important… but what is important is that Melissa wanted a car and a yard and that meant they had to leave New York.

  So my dreams were crushed.

  Fast-forward again, three years this time, and now I’m in L.A. I’m trying desperately to make it as a writer, which means I’m doing odd jobs like catering and transcribing weird medical research conversations. It’s thrilling, I swear.

  But starting today, my wonderful best friend got me a job as a production assistant on the movie she’s doing. I
t’s some action movie. I think it has to do with mixed martial arts, so it’ll probably be a bunch of people beating each other up. I could get into that. All she told me was that I’d be getting people coffee, signing in the extras, and pretty much doing whatever the higher ups ask of me. It’s more money than listening to medical terms all day, so I said I’d be game.

  Plus, I get to be on a movie set. That’s super fun, right?

  It’s 5:30, the sun is beginning to rise, and I’m debating whether it is more important to shower or eat breakfast.

  Let’s be honest. I’m going to eat breakfast. I’ll just splash on some body splash and call it a morning.

  I like cereal. Does that make me a child? I mean, I don’t eat chocolate cereal… for breakfast at least. But good, old-fashioned cereal just makes me happy in the morning.

  Yet, I’m thirty.

  Am I too old to eat cereal? Is there a point when you are too old for cereal? Should I be making eggs? Omelets? Frittatas?