Stroked Hard Page 8

  “Was that necessary?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “I thought so.” We walk in silence toward the elevator, both trying to figure out why we were exposed to Pocket’s mini pouch. Seconds tick by until I say, “Were her nipples weird?”

  “I’m trying to figure out what I saw. I’m so confused. I think her pussy waved at me and her nipples . . . was that hair?”

  “Is that what that was?” I ask, trying to erase the image from my eyes but can’t quite seem to picture anything else. “Thanks to her red hair, it almost seemed like she had two mini red clown wigs decorating her nipples. I didn’t know they could be so hairy.”

  “They were unusually hairy,” Paisley agrees.

  “Like, ungodly hairy.”

  “Like, I kind of want to go back and cornrow the nipple hair encasing her nipple.

  “Did you even see a nipple? I don’t recall a nub.”

  Paisley laughs. “I honestly couldn’t even focus on anything else besides her waving flaps. I swear a light breeze could make those damn things wave around. I’ve never seen such an awkward body before.”

  I agree completely. Pocket had a very strange body. I guess the body fits the personality.

  “I kind of feel bad, like maybe I should help her.”

  Paisley grabs my arm. “If she wanted help, she would ask for it. She’s not opposed to asking for things. She had me take a picture of her with Bellini in the background. It was so strange.”

  “God, I bet she has a million of those pictures hanging on the walls in her house.” I shiver from just the thought.

  “I’m just glad we left when we did. Who knows what she would ask us to do?”

  “Probably video her so she can send it to Bellini.”

  “Five bucks says she has a secret blog about herself,” Paisley says.

  I shake my head. “No use in taking that bet, we both know she does.”

  And why do I actually want to subscribe to it? Now I’m the freaking weirdo.

  ***

  Coffee, three cups, it’s the only reason why I’m still awake. Within twenty-four hours, I find myself once again in the airport waiting for my plane to board. I’ve spent the last hour going over the packaging for my lip-stain line. Packaging in my opinion can make or break a product. It’s like the cover of a book: people like to say they don’t judge a book by its cover but they are liars. The cover is what draws you in first, just like packaging.

  For instance, Benefit makeup has the vintage pop-art feel. Every time I go by one of their booths or counters, I’m instantly drawn to their products because the packaging is so attention grabbing. That’s what I want. I want people to see my packaging from across the store and just have to see it up close.

  But after staring at multiple boxes and mock-ups, my eyes feel crossed and my brain is fuzzier than ever. I can’t look at them anymore.

  The time on my phone says we still have another two hours before we board which is so damn depressing. I just want to be home. Why couldn’t I have a boss kind enough to share her private jet with her trusted employees? Instead I’m stuck with Regina George, who forces her employees to take tomato-juice baths because they couldn’t help but sweat in front of her.

  She pays my bills; her signature on my paycheck is making my dreams come true. That’s what I keep telling myself. Plus, thanks to all the celebrities I come across at shows, I’ve made a great deal of connections so when I finally decide to launch my lip-stain line, I have some connections I can call upon. At least I hope I do.

  God, I’m bored.

  Usually I would have heard from Hollis already. He texts me every day. This is the first day he has yet to text me. I hate to admit it, but I’ve grown to expect his ridiculous texts. What does that say about me?

  Ugh, I don’t even want to answer that question because I know I won’t like what I find out.

  Needing to talk to someone, I dial the one phone number I can always count on.

  Two rings, that’s all it takes.

  “My bella, how are you tonight?” Luckily California is two hours earlier than Omaha time so my mom is still awake.

  “Hey Mom, I’m doing well, what about you?”

  “Good, but I had a bit of a tumble today at work.”

  I sit up straight in my chair, concern edging my nerves. “What do you mean a tumble?”

  “I’m all right. I can tell by your voice that you’re ready to drive down to Temecula to make sure I’m all in one piece.” Damn straight I’m ready to drive down there. “I just slipped at work, luckily I slipped right into Mehi’s arms.”

  Now I’m sitting even more tall from the mention of a man’s name. “Who’s Mehi?”

  “Oh, just the gardener. He is a wonderful man actually.” Why is my mom gushing? Is she gushing? I pause. She’s totally gushing.

  “Uh, a wonderful man? What was he doing around you if he’s the gardener and you’re the housemaid? Those are two professions that don’t work in the same area.”

  “Oh, put your boobs on a rack and cool them.” Yes, you heard that right. My mom told me to calm my tits. “He was in the kitchen getting a drink when I slipped over a spot on the floor I just mopped. Right place at the right time. To thank him, I said I would make him dinner. He’s coming over tomorrow night.”

  “Wait, what?” I ask, astonished. “He’s coming to your place? As in your apartment?”

  “Yes.” There is no waver, no uncertainty in her voice whatsoever.

  “So, you’re telling me a man you barely know is going to come over to your place and you’re going to make him dinner? Mom, don’t you see how that could be dangerous? He could take advantage of you?”

  “Oh, stop it. He’s nothing like that. I’ve known him for quite some time now actually. It’s more like two friends getting together.”

  My chest eases just slightly. “So you’re just friends?”

  “For now, who knows where the night might take us?”

  Annnnd my chest seizes on me again.

  “Mom, do you think that’s a good idea?”

  There is silence on the other end of the phone. My mom had tried going out with other men before, but they always seem to hurt her more. When is she going to learn? Men hurt more than love.

  “Not all men are bad,” my mom finally says. “There are good ones out there, Melony.”

  Thankfully my mom isn’t sitting next me to witness my major eye-roll. “Name one good one.”

  Without skipping a beat, she says, “Your grandfather.”

  Ugh, okay, she has me there. My grandfather is the best man I’ve ever known, but he died when I was six, so my opinion might be slightly jaded.

  “Besides my grandfather since he’s your dad. Name one man you’ve been romantically involved with who hasn’t totally destroyed you.” My mom is silent because I know she can’t answer that question. “There hasn’t been one, Mom.”

  I learned at the bitter age of six, right after my grandfather died, that you can’t rely on men. They make you think they love you and then they leave without a word as to why. Without a simple goodbye. Without a parting note to let you know that it isn’t you, it’s them.

  Any man that’s ever been in my life has been a huge disappointment, and I don’t ever see that changing.

  Finally clearing her throat, my mom says, “Melony, I love you dearly, but you can’t live your life not believing in love.”

  “I believe in love, Mom. I believe you love me.”

  “What about love between two individuals, romantically? You have such a negative attitude toward marriage, to sharing your life with another person that it hurts my heart. I want you to find someone special to spend your life with.”

  I sigh, as it’s the conversation I get at least once a year from my mom. What she doesn’t know is that I have no intention of ever entering that institution. It is not for me. Ever.

  Even if I do feel lonely at times.

  “I would love to continue this co
nversation, but we are going to board soon.”

  My mom chuckles. “You’re a liar. You told me you still have two hours.” Damn it, why did she have to pay attention?

  “Uh . . . I think I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Fine, but I’m not going to drop this conversation. You deserve someone to take care of you.”

  “Just like Dad did?” I shoot back, knowing I’m opening a can of worms I’m not ready to talk about in the airport.

  “Your father did the best—”

  “Don’t. Do not defend him, Mom. I love you, but I will hang up this phone if you start defending what he did.”

  “Honey.”

  I can’t hold back. “He left us, Mom. He left you with a six-year-old girl, just after your father died, and started a new life of his own. He started a new family because we weren’t good enough for him. He re-married within months, had the son he always wanted a year later, and forgot about us. He did not do his best, he fucked us over.”

  There’s silence on the phone, and I know I’ve gone too far. We don’t talk about him—the man I refer to as a sperm donor. There is no reason to. He left and we moved on, but not before burning a hole into my very fragile and very young heart. As a little girl, you don’t recover from the abandonment of your father. It makes you jaded, insecure, and romantically unstable.

  He’s why I’m alone, why I only have sex for pleasure, and why I can’t commit myself to Hollis like he believes I will.

  Feeling guilty now, I somberly say, “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “It’s fine. I better get going.”

  “Wait.” My heart breaks because I know I’ve upset her and that’s the last thing I wanted to do. My mom is the only person I love on this earth, and I wouldn’t be able to bear it if I upset her. “Please don’t be mad. I’m sorry.”

  “Melony, it’s fine. I know what kind of mood you get in when we talk about him. Let’s just drop it. Let’s plan a lunch soon.”

  “Okay.” Tears well in my eyes because even though my mom said she’s dropping it, I still know the tone of her voice isn’t the one I’m used to. She’s still upset.

  “Call you later, bella. Love you.”

  I swallow my tears so I can get off the phone. “Love you, Mom.” The call ends and I stare down at my phone, chastising myself for letting my emotions get the better of me.

  But why the hell was she defending him? He ruined her life, left me without a father, and put us through financial trouble for years. That’s why my mom still has to work every day on her hands and knees cleaning floors.

  The cool feeling of my water hits my throat as I sip from my water bottle, trying to control my emotions.

  “Ugh.” I shake my hands, trying to rid the stupid feelings running through me. I don’t do emotions and this is why, because once you face them, all they do is cause you pain.

  You got this under control, Mel.

  Taking another sip, my phone vibrates in my hand. I glance down at the caller ID, hoping it’s my mom but I’m surprised to see someone else’s name.

  “Why could you possibly be calling me?”

  A deep chuckle vibrates through the phone. Shit, why does it make me feel relaxed? I don’t like that at all.

  “That’s not the kind of greeting I was hoping for,” Hollis says.

  “And what were you looking for instead?”

  “Just your typical, ‘Hey beefcake, I’ve missed you so much. Can I come over and dry hump your cock?’”

  Smiling, I relax in my seat and focus on Hollis’s voice, distracting myself from the emotional shit I just went through. “I would never say that.”

  “Well, you do in my dreams all the time. You say it a lot in my dreams actually, which makes me think you’re some kind of harlot.”

  “Is there a reason for this phone call?”

  “Other than getting to hear your voice?”

  Damn, he’s smoother than I expected.

  “Yes, other than you trying to lay it down smooth for me.”

  “So you’ve noticed I’ve been flirting? Well, that’s good to know.” There is so much cocky laughter in his mesmerizing voice that I can’t contain the smile that’s spread across my face.

  “Flirting? Oh, sounds more like begging to me.”

  “Baby, you have no idea.”

  Just like that, my once sour mood has been lifted with this simple and meaningless conversation. How does he do that to me? How does he make things seem so . . . simple? Why do his small, senseless conversations make me feel less alone in this giant world?

  I can’t even begin to think about it because it terrifies me. Those are feelings I never want to encounter, feelings I won’t allow myself to encounter.

  “Were you going to tell me why you called?”

  “Man, you act like you have somewhere to be.”

  “I’m actually about to board my plane,” I lie.

  “That is a lie, but nice try. Talked to Reese earlier, and he told me you two were on a red-eye.”

  “Uh, stalk much?” I ask with humor.

  “When it comes to the object of my affection, I need to know where she is at all times.”

  “That’s not creepy at all,” I say full of sarcasm.

  “Thank you.”

  “That wasn’t a compliment.”

  “I know.” He’s so sure of himself. It’s borderline irritating. “But back to the topic at hand. Why I called. Basically it’s because I heard through Reese who heard through Paisley that while you slept you were moaning and saying my name, so I wanted to dissect that and see what we come up with. Maybe a date, maybe a late-night fuck followed by a date, and don’t forget . . . holding hands.”

  He just said so many things that I can’t focus. I was not moaning at night.

  Was I?

  No! I wasn’t. I don’t moan in my sleep.

  Hand holding? What’s with him and his hand holding?

  “I was not moaning in my sleep.”

  “I have sources that say otherwise.” He’s so sure, now I have to fact check because the thought of me moaning his name in the middle of the night makes my cheeks heat so damn bad, I feel like they are going to melt off. Paisley wouldn’t say anything to Reese, would she?

  Wait . . .

  “You said Paisley told Reese since she heard me moaning?”

  “That’s correct,” he answers. “Looks like they tell each other everything. I would be careful what you say around Paisley; you wouldn’t want the fact that you’re madly in love with me getting out in the open. Might blow up your spot.”

  “It’s funny that you said Paisley heard me.”

  “Why’s that?” he asks.

  “Only because she spent the night with Reese.” Ha! Take that, you cocky bastard.

  He doesn’t even pause in his response. “Wow, she told me you were a loud moaner but I didn’t think it was loud enough to hear over multiple floors in a hotel. Damn, Melony. Look at you being a little Vocal Victoria. I need to see this in person. Come to my place so I can bury my head between your legs and hear that moan of yours.”

  “You’re stupid.” It’s the only response I can come up with. But if only my girly parts would get that memo. Do not think about Hollis between your legs. Do. Not.

  A deep laugh roars out of him. “Your response makes me actually think you were moaning my name.”

  “Never going to happen.”

  “Aw, baby, you’re still delusional. That’s okay. We will get you to face reality soon.”

  “Is that your only reason for calling?”

  “Do I have to have a reason for calling? Sometimes it’s just nice to chat, you know, hold a conversation with someone you’re interested in.”

  “Are you saying you’re trying to be friends?”

  “No,” he says exasperated. “I want to be way more than friends. I want to be best friends, the kind that tell each other everything, the kind that fuck each other on the couch, in the shower, up against the wall. The kind of
best friends who think of each other every minute of every day.”

  There it goes again, my freaking heart is pounding in my chest. This is why I shouldn’t talk to this man. He’s dangerous.

  “I don’t have those kind of best friends,” I answer honestly.

  “You don’t have them yet, but just wait, honey hole, you will have one of those best friends before you know it.”

  I cringe from his nickname. “Calling me honey hole is not going to get you any closer to owning that title.”

  “Hey, at least there’s hope.”

  If only he knew.

  “But seriously,” he continues, “Reese is having a barbeque when he gets back from trials, and he said you were invited. It’s just us, him, and Paisley; you know a little celebration for making the team.”

  “Congratulations. Sounds fun.” Reese texted me a little bit ago about the barbeque and I told him I would love to attend. I like Reese; he’s a good guy. I just feel bad he has to be roped in with Bellini. I don’t have many friends at all in the area so I will take any chance I can get to make some more.

  “Fun fact, did you know I’m a conservationist?”

  “No, I did not know that.”

  “Well, I am. I’m cool as shit like Leonardo DiCaprio and Orlando Bloom and drive a Prius.”

  Why does that not surprise me?

  “Orlando Bloom has an impressive penis.”

  “His dick is okay. I guess I’m just used to looking at the third leg sitting in my pants on a daily basis.” Nothing I say to him will ever trip him up . . . nothing.

  “Third leg? Huh, interesting because when you’re diving it looks more like a little cocktail wiener,” I say with a smirk. I’ve seen his wet Speedo before, and I’ve seen bulge, but to hell if I’ll ever admit that.

  “Observing my cock while I’m diving, nice. Don’t worry, sugar tits, what you see isn’t at all what you get. That’s just a third of the prize. This dude has cock.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. “Oh my God, who even says that?”

  “Someone who doesn’t mind talking about his dick. Want a picture? I don’t mind, you know in case you feel like comparing it to the Rolodex of dicks in your head.”

  “Rolodex of dicks. How many men do you think I’ve been with?”