Stroked Hard Page 2

  The bedazzler? Shit, all I can think of is that one Capital One baseball commercial where the mom bedazzles everything her son is wearing. I wouldn’t put it past my dad to do the same thing.

  Bedazzled Speedo, sparkle crotch, jewel dick . . . sends a fucking chill down my spine just thinking about it.

  “He didn’t make me anything, did he?”

  “I don’t think so.” I hear the distinct sound of her covering the phone but she doesn’t do a very good job because I can still hear everything. “Al, did you make Hollis something with the bedazzler?” she shouts.

  I can’t hear my dad but I hold my breath, praying he didn’t have enough “jewels” for me.

  My mom comes back on the line. “He didn’t have enough jewels.” Thank fuck. “He can go grab some more if you want something.”

  “That’s okay,” I say quickly. “I won’t have time to wear it. I will just take pictures with you guys in your shirts.”

  “What a wonderful idea. You make sure to wear your USA gear.”

  “I didn’t make the team yet, Mom.”

  “Oh pish. You’re the number-one diver in the world, so there is no doubt you won’t make the team.”

  “I can be the number-one in every event, but one bad day could keep me from making the team.”

  “What’s with the negativity? Do you need to talk to your father?”

  Talking to my father on the phone would add another half hour to this already long conversation, so I avoid that scenario with a quick distraction. “Did you hear from Holly?”

  “Yes, she’s doing quite well on her travels. Paris has revived her, I can hear the joy in her voice. Her break-up with Jimmy was hard. I’m glad she’s taking the time to find herself again.”

  “Me too,” I respond, thinking of my twin. “Do you think if I make it to Rio, she’ll attend?”

  “Not if, but when you make it to Rio. I bought non-refundable tickets, so either way your father and I are going to Brazil this summer, and yes, she’ll be there. She said she’d never miss it.”

  The tension in my shoulders eases. Holly will be there. I hadn’t even realized I was carrying that tension, but it was there. All I really want is for Holly to be there. Deep breath, Hollis.

  Ever since the accident, I’ve felt as though she doesn’t want to be a part of my diving career, like she resents me. I need her. Fuck, having her present—watching me, cheering me on—it’s what propels me to be better.

  Voices start to travel down the hallway just outside the dressing room, indicating I’ll no longer be alone.

  “Hey, I have to go, Mom. Tell Dad I can’t wait to see the shirts he comes up with this year and please make sure he doesn’t bedazzle the things too much. I don’t need light reflecting off your shirts and distracting me.”

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll handle your father. I’ll talk to you later. I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I hang up just as the door to the dressing room opens. Reese steps in wearing nothing but a leopard-print Speedo and holding a beach ball. His chest is oiled up to the point that I’m pretty sure if I opened up a Slip ’N Slide across his abdomen and charged women five bucks a slide, I’d be a millionaire in an hour. He looks like a total douche and being his dutiful best friend, I make it my business to point it out to him.

  “Swimming not going so well? Decided to audition for the drag show It’s Raining Men? Because let me tell you, you’re nailing the part.” I give him a thumbs up as he retaliates with his middle finger.

  Exhaling, he slouches in the seat next to me and takes a long sip from his water bottle. “Fuck, that was torture. Did you hear what she was complaining about today?”

  “Who? Satan?” I ask, shooting a text off to the girl who keeps ignoring me.

  Hollis: I’ve scoured the photo shoot for you. All I see is Reese in a leopard-print Speedo. Please come find me to wash that image out of my mind with your gorgeous lips.

  “Yeah.” Reese doesn’t even correct my name-calling of Bellini; he knows the kind of person she is.

  “No, fortunately I got here only a few minutes ago and was just talking to my mom on the phone. What did Princess Shithead want this time?”

  “An African blackwood bench.”

  “What the fuck is that?”

  “Hell if I know.” Reese runs his hand through his hair. “Seriously, the last few months have been an absolute nightmare. Why did I think this was going to be a good idea?”

  “Because who doesn’t want to be attached at the hip to a placebo-pill-popping narcissist with a holy dog?” Leaning forward, I say, “I’m not kidding, I had a headache when I got here. I ran into the dog briefly in the hallway, it licked my shoe, and now my headache is gone. I know you’re going to call bullshit, but I might believe in that dog’s powers.”

  My phone dings. Ignoring Reese for a second, I take a look at it.

  Melony: Called in sick.

  Hollis: That sucks. Are you all right? I heard my penis cures some of the worst diseases. Want me to stick it in you to make you feel better? At the least, to feel your temperature? I don’t mind taking one for the team.

  “You’re a fucking idiot,” Reese says, referring to my belief in Pope Francis actually having healing powers.

  Turning back to Reese, I look him up and down. “Coming from the douche romantically involved with an ass wart and wearing a leopard-print Speedo.”

  “Why can I picture an ass wart with perfect clarity?”

  “Because you’re all kinds of fucked up.” I clench my stomach and ask, “Are you going to get changed? Christ, dude, I’m starving.”

  “You’re starving?” He stares at the table next to me. “And that Pop-Tart wrapper. That’s not yours?”

  The silver foil shines in the lights and I know I’ve been caught but I still try to deny it. “Nope, not mine.”

  “Really? Because it’s not fucking mine and you’re the only person I know who has at least two boxes of Pop-Tarts in their car at all times.”

  “They’re a great post-workout snack. Simple carbs to replenish the loss of my glycogen stores so I can repair my muscles. It’s bro-science, dude.”

  “Keep telling yourself that. Want to grab a burrito?”

  “Sounds good, but hurry the fuck up. I just got done with three hours of dryland training, my fucking metabolism is eating my stomach lining.”

  Turning back to my phone, I smile. Yes.

  Melony: Pretty sure if you stuck your penis in me, I would receive more diseases.

  Ha, little does she know I’ve been fucking celibate for too damn long. I’m not a one-and-done man. I like being in a relationship.

  Hollis: Fun fact, I don’t sleep around.

  Melony: That seems hard to believe.

  Hollis: Because of the abs, right? Or is it my giant dick? Or my infamous charm?

  Melony: Definitely not the charm.

  Hollis: Ask me to come over.

  Melony: Goodbye, Hollis.

  Damn, and here I thought I was making progress.

  ***

  “It’s a few weeks before trials, does your dad have his shirts made yet?” Reese asks, mouthful of Burrito.

  I take a sip of my drink and nod my head. “Yeah, apparently he got his hands on a fucking bedazzler.”

  Choking back a laugh, Reese smiles. “That’s fucking awesome. Please tell me he bedazzled earrings on the giant head of you he plasters to every one of his shirts.”

  “I sure as fuck hope not.” But that is something my dad would actually do, which makes me nervous as hell.

  “They are some of my favorite people,” Reese admits.

  “Mine too.” Changing the subject, I say, “They were asking about you the other day, wondering if you’re still dating Bellini.”

  Reese rolls his eyes. “Can we not talk about her? Christ. I had to deal with her shit all day; I would prefer not to have to rehash it.”

  “You can still back out.”

 
“Not really.” He takes another big bite of his burrito. “It’s a solidified deal. She needs me just as much as I need her. How fucked up is that?”

  “Pretty fucked up. Seems like you got yourself into a little pickle.”

  Reese gives me a knowing look. I can already tell what’s going to come out of his mouth. It happens every time I harp on him about Bellini. “How’s your pursuit of Melony coming along?” His smirk reads jackass. I wouldn’t expect anything less from my best friend.

  Lying, I answer, “On the edge of mounting my dick any day.”

  Apparently I’m not a good liar from the way Reese throws his head back and laughs, drawing attention from people around us. “Oh, you’re such a shitty liar. That girl wants nothing to do with you.”

  Yeah, didn’t I fucking know it? It’s been six months since I first met her and never in my life have I met anyone as persistent at saying no as she is. Granted, I don’t hang out with her a lot, never actually. I only see her when I meet Reese at one of his many production obligations, and of course my text messages, but those little stolen moments with her have turned into absolutely nothing. Yup . . . nothing.

  I tell jokes. Nothing.

  I dirty talk. Nothing.

  I talk in general. Nothing.

  Reese isn’t kidding when he says she wants nothing to do with me. And what’s a real twist of the head on my dick is how every time I see her, I grow more attached, despite the repulsed look she gives me. Every. Time.

  Yeah, repulsed.

  Kind of stabs a man’s ego. But apparently I’m a masochist because hell if I can stop hitting on her.

  “She just doesn’t know what she wants yet. She doesn’t know that one day I’ll fucking marry her.”

  Reese’s eyebrows rise to his hairline. “That’s fucking bold.”

  Bold. I don’t think it’s bold, because for some reason I think it’s fact. I barely know the girl. I’ve barely spoken to the girl. I’ve only seen her smile in the distance and never at me. But I’m so incredibly drawn to her. Only to her. I want her. Just her. I want her in my future.

  I bite into my burrito and lean back in my chair. “It’s fucking true.”

  Chapter Two

  MELONY

  Hollis: I ate a bowl of strawberries today. They reminded me of the lipstick you wore the other day. You know, the day you shoved my salad bowl into my chest, destroying my high-fiber, high-protein meal.

  I roll my eyes inwardly.

  Melony: You tripped, ran into me, and spilled your own damn salad. Don’t blame me. P.S. that salad smelled like ass.

  Hollis: That salad was a delicacy!

  Hollis is probably the most ridiculous man I’ve ever met. No, not probably. He is the most ridiculous man I’ve ever met.

  “Oh sweetie, this is a beautiful space,” my mom coos, thankfully pulling me away from my phone.

  I smile brightly at her. This is a big day for me. “It’s a huge step up from my studio in Crapsville. I can actually smell the beach from here.”

  My mom looks out the window, her arms crossed over her chest. “How far is the beach?”

  “A few blocks. Probably a ten-minute walk. So worth it.”

  Continuing to look out the window, my mom observes the view—which admittedly consists mainly of surrounding apartment buildings and a tiny spot of the ocean—while I turn back to my new living space. A one-bedroom apartment. It might not seem like a lot to some people, but it’s a lot to me. I’ve worked my ass off to get to where I am today, to be able to afford a one-bedroom apartment right outside Los Angeles, so close to the beach I can walk to it. It’s an utter dream.

  And I have one person to thank . . . Bellini Chambers.

  Go figure.

  I’ve put up with the evil tuna-ditch for the past few years and because of my dedication to beautifying her for the camera, I’ve not only secured a well-paying job, but because of my loyalty and ability to keep my mouth shut and away from gossip magazine vying for any kind of dirt on America’s Most Hated Celebrity, I’ve earned myself a lovely little raise.

  A raise that has moved me from a studio to this open-concept, one-bedroom apartment.

  Do I feel a little dirty over the fact that I’m here because of saddling up next to Bellini? Not one bit. I’ve earned this apartment. From the countless times she’s called me Melon or Cantaloupe, to the many hours I’ve spent watching her look at herself in the mirror, waiting for her to make a change in her lip stain or hairdo. No, I earned this apartment.

  Growing up, all I ever wanted was to live near the beach, to smell the ocean, to bury my feet in the sand whenever I wanted to. I might not have an apartment looking over the calming ocean waves, but I have the next best thing—a short walk.

  It will do for now.

  “I’m so proud of you.” From behind, my mom wraps her arms around my waist and hugs me. I melt into her embrace, loving the familiar warmth of her comfort.

  Since I was six, it’s been her and me, taking on the world, fighting to make it in this city of opportunity. She’s taught me hard work and loyalty pays off, two lessons of life I’ve been able to apply and reap the benefits from.

  Now if only I could make enough money to help my mom retire from her job. She lives a very modest life as a maid. When I graduated from high school, she made the move south to Temecula where she rents a small apartment and cleans houses with my aunt. From the few hours she’s helped me move into and clean my new apartment today, I can tell she’s slowing down. It takes her a little longer to get up from her knees, longer to walk upstairs. All around she’s slower.

  It’s going to happen though. I’m working on using my makeup skills and knowledge to create my own lip-stain line. I know what you’re thinking: there are so many companies out there with lip stains. How would mine differ? Mine is different because I’ve geared all my colors to accentuate every woman’s complexion. Yes, every woman. Not just a generalized blonde, blue-eyed girl. I’ve spent countless hours researching what hues best accentuate all complexions, hair, and eye-color combinations. Each kit will be specified to every woman. It’s a lot, but it’s going to be a change in the market, a positive one. If I can make this happen, I can help my mom. She deserves it. It will be my way of saying thank you.

  “Thanks, Mom, and thank you for coming up for the day to help me move. Are you sure you can’t stay the night?”

  She shakes her head. “I wish I could, my bella, but I have to work early tomorrow morning. I’m sorry.”

  My heart falls at the hope of not spending the night in my new place with my mom. “That’s okay. I understand. We have to plan a girls’ weekend soon though. Maybe you can make me some of your homemade tamales?” I clasp my hands together in hope and bat my eyelashes at her.

  Gripping my cheek, she pats it and smiles. “Anything for you. Now, let’s get you unpacked as much as possible before I have to take off. And maybe put your new cell phone to use and order us some Chinese food. I’m starving.”

  “Sure thing.”

  New cell phone. Not really, I’ve had it for a bit but my mom still believes in flip phones. I have no clue where she gets them, but it’s her go-to option when it comes to communication.

  We spend the rest of the time unpacking my kitchen because that’s the biggest task. When we eat our Chinese food, we reminisce about how we used to have slumber parties in the living room. My mom is my best friend, no doubt. She’s the one strong pillar in my life I know I can count on. The only person I can count on.

  “Text me when you get home,” I say to my mom as I hug her goodbye.

  “You’re starting to sound like me.” The corners of her eyes crinkle when she smiles at me.

  “You’re getting old, I don’t want you driving off into a ditch,” I tease.

  Pointing her finger at me, she says, “Watch it, young lady. I can still try to ground you.”

  “Try being the key word.” I wink.

  I say one last goodbye to my mom and once she’s out of s
ight, I turn to my apartment and take a deep breath. Here’s to new beginnings.

  I collect the empty boxes I’ve accumulated, break them down, and prepare to take them to the recycling bin. I want to be done unpacking, not wake up feeling crowded by empty boxes. I need order. The quiet, the order, the simplicity . . . that is who I am and all that I want. My mom has survived so many years like this, and so can I. I might be alone, but not really . . . alone.

  Fumbling slightly with the oversized boxes, I make my way down the stairs and out to the community recycling bin two buildings over. My apartment complex is a combination of things: townhomes, condos, and apartments. Luxuries such as recycling bins are closer to the condos and townhomes. I’m not mad about it, I get it, the property manager is making more money off those residences, but maybe they could have put something a little closer to my building.

  I’m chucking the boxes in the bin, sweat dripping off my forehead even though the sun is falling, and wishing I’d asked my mom to help me since the heavy lid of the recycling bin keeps shutting on me. Not being tall enough to flip it all the way over, I’m really feeling the challenge of being kind to Mother Nature.

  Recycle and save the earth for future generations, not that I have any plans on contributing to the future generations with my own kin, but it’s nice to be nice.

  I have four boxes left and the struggle is real. I bend over, hand on my knees and catch my breath. Yeah, I work out, but I haven’t in a little bit, and it’s blatantly obvious from my inability to recycle without having to catch my breath.

  “Need help with that?”

  I still. Chills run up my arms, my stomach starts fluttering with nerves, and my palms instantly start to sweat.

  That voice. I know that deep, raspy voice.

  Turning my head to the side, the sun shines behind the figure standing in front of me, casting a shadow on his form. A very delicious shadow.