Stroked hard, p.1
Stroked Hard, p.1Meghan Quinn
Table of Contents
Epilogue Part Two
Other books By Meghan Quinn
Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing
Cover design by Indie Solutions by Murphy Rae
Cover model: Andrew Leighty
Photo credit: Travis H. Lane Photography
Formatting: CP Smith
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected]
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.
Copyright © 2016 Meghan Quinn
All rights reserved.
“There was definite cuppage. I saw it, man.”
Reese shakes his head. “There was no cuppage. I would have felt cuppage. His hand was nowhere near my crotch.”
I raise an eyebrow at him and lean up against the wall, an ice cream cone in my hand. Fuck my diet; when there is a soft serve machine, I take advantage of it. “Listen, I’m not here to tell you how you get tailored but when I’m sitting there, watching an old man, wrinkles as deep as the Grand Canyon on his forehead, move his hand up your inner thigh, graze your dick, and then back down, I’m calling cuppage.”
“Why is this something we are even discussing?”
I take a bite of my ice cream. Licking is for pussies . . . literally. “Because, I want to know . . . did you chub out?”
“For fuck’s sake.” Reese walks away, not answering my question so I chase after him.
“Is that a yes? Dude, talk to me. Is this something you’re worried about? You know I would love you either way, right? Greg Lougains is my hero and he’s gay. I’m for whatever puts jollies in your pants because let’s be honest, everyone deserves to get off, no matter what private parts are touching.”
“Why can’t you just say love is love?”
“Because the way I said it is more fun.” Reese opens a bottle of water and chugs it, avoiding my question. “Seriously though, is that why you’re doing this reality show? Because you need a beard?”
“What? I have a beard,” Reese says, looking confused and rubbing his actual beard. The stupid fuck.
“Not an actual beard, you dumb shit. I’m talking about a fake girlfriend to cover up for the fact that you’re gay and you’re not quite ready to come out yet. They call those beards. So, is that why you’re doing this reality show? Because you need a beard because you’re gay and you really enjoyed the cuppage from the old man with a fucking shrub coming out his head? Dude had crazy fucking ear and nose hair.” I twiddle my fingers near my ear, pretending to be that unsightly shit.
“I’m not gay, dumbass.”
I throw my hands up in the air, exasperated. “Then why the fuck are you linking yourself with the biggest bitch on this planet since Hitler?” Let’s be honest, Hitler was a little bitch. I bet you anything, that dude had a massive bush bigger than his little peanut dick. It’s the only reason I can come up with for someone being that ornery and volatile.
Mein heir, zi can’t find your schnitzel.
“I told you.” Reese runs his hand over his face, clearly irritated with me but that doesn’t stop me. It just pushes me to dig more.
“Refresh my memory.”
“Because, this is my last go around. After this year, I’m retiring. I need to curb my image, cash in on endorsements. Ashley, my publicist, is convinced this will do that.”
“Curb your image? What, do you want people to think? That you’re the biggest douche in the entire world?” I start slow clapping. “Because if that’s the case, you’re right on track to claiming your trophy.”
This will be Reese’s fourth Olympics, my third. He’s getting old for swim years, and I get his need to retire and secure a future when he hangs up his goggles, but attaching himself to Bellini Chambers on a reality show? Uh, not a fucking good idea. The only reason Bellini Chambers is so popular is because Americans are masochists when it comes to reality television and love to hate the evil twat.
Hell, my twin sister, Holly—yes, Holly and Hollis, my parents are fucking precious—loves tuning in to Rollin’ in the Bacon just to watch what kind of self-absorbed bullshit Bellini will get into only to bitch about it to me later.
The worst part, she will call me up after the show airs to talk to me about it. You would think I would stop answering my phone, but for some reason, I enjoy hearing her voice, even if it’s to bitch about something.
That happens when you almost lose your better half in a car accident.
“Is that why you came here? To harass me?” Reese asks.
I chomp on my cone and talk with my mouth full. “No, the free food, always the free food.”
“You know that’s going to catch up to you, right?”
Get fucking real. I lift my shirt and pat my abs; the same abs voted—more than once—the best in the country during several Olympic seasons. Yeah, I fucking read Buzzfeed, especially when they do the “toilet” pics with divers. You try doing four tuck flips off a ten-meter platform and not have a look on your face just screams “I’m shitting out a gerbil.” Thank you, Buzzfeed, thank you for making us look like we have chronic diarrhea. Slow clap for your employees.
“Metabolism of the gods.” I smirk. It’s true, but I also bust my ass in the gym.
“Just wait until you get to thirty.”
“Nah, I’m like a fucking tube of salami, man, I get better with age.”
“Isn’t that wine?”
“Whiskey?” I ask. “Gouda perhaps?”
“Gouda? Get fucking real. If you’re a cheese, you’re a Kraft single: cheap and floppy.”
I stick the rest of my cone in my mouth and wipe my hands on my pants. Eh, my mom taught me better but she’s not here. “There you go again, poking at my dick. I might be cheap, but to hell if I’m floppy. Go ahead, touch my dick, I will get hard right now.” I step in front of him, hands on my hips and thrust my crotch at him.
Pushing my chest, he laughs. “Get the fuck away from me.”
I scan the room of production people milling about, setting up Reese’s photo shoot. “Dude, that was good.”
“What was good?”
“You covering up your g
“Pardon me, Mr. King, but can I get you to come over to hair and makeup?”
A joke about Reese getting his makeup done is on the tip of my tongue when I turn to see a little brunette with sun-kissed hair, beautifully bronzed skin, and the biggest fucking green eyes I’ve ever seen standing behind Reese.
The hottest fucking woman I’ve ever seen is standing behind him wearing ripped jean shorts, a tight-as-hell white tank top, and teal Converse. Her hair is shoulder length, wavy, and looks so fucking soft that all I want to do is bury my head in it. But what’s really causing my pants to grow tighter by the minute are her pink-glossed plump lips. I’m mesmerized by the way the lights bounce off them and I can’t fucking help the way my mind wanders, wondering all the ways I can have fun with those lips.
“Are you coming, man?” Reese asks as he walks away.
What? Oh shit.
“Sure. You need me to hold your hand like last time?” I ask, chasing after them. “I don’t mind, but when the scary blow dryer comes at you again, I won’t be cleaning your inner thighs again from pee dribble. I did it once and it was fucking creepy. Never again.”
I don’t get a response besides the middle finger directed at me from behind his back.
Reese sits in a black chair, his large body making the poor seat look like a toothpick. He exhales and slouches as Miss Pouty Lips starts to play around with his hair.
Jealousy instantly consumes me. I want to blast my best friend from his seat and take his place just to experience the feel of her pink painted nails running through my hair.
Are her toes painted pink as well? Or does she have them painted a different shade? Fuck, I don’t care, either way I’m hell-bent on figuring it out.
“Do you have dryland later today or do you want to grab dinner?” Reese asks, pulling my eyes off her fingers for a second.
“Are you paying?”
I shrug. “I save my money for more important things, like dates.” The girl looks up at me and gives me a courtesy smile. Eh, I’ll take it. “Dude, you’re so fucking rude.”
“What did I do?” Reese asks.
“Uh, you didn’t introduce me to your friend.” I nod at the girl.
“Because I don’t even know her name.” Reese looks a little ashamed as he admits his fault.
I come closer and say, “Then you are fucking rude.” I hold my hand out. “Hi, I’m Hollis and this is my rude-as-fuck friend, Reese.”
The girl shakes my hand quickly, giving me a brief taste of how her palm would match up with mine. “Melony. Nice to meet you.”
“Melony, what a beautiful name.”
Reese snorts, right between us. Not in an awkward kind of way, more in a dude’s blowing up my game kind of way.
He sits back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “Oh shit, this is going to be good.”
Ignoring him, I keep my attention focused on Melony. “Do you frequent these shoots often?”
Another snort. “That’s the best you got?” Reese asks. “Come on, man. You’re better than the old ‘you come around here often’ pick-up line.”
He’s right, but fuck, I’m kind of thrown off my game a little. It’s the glossiness of her lips; they’re distracting me. Would that gloss help her slide right along my dick?
Melony ignores Reese’s barb and says, “I do all hair and makeup for the show, mostly for Bellini.”
Conversation door open.
“Oh shit, and you haven’t been burnt by dragon lady’s spitting fire yet?”
She flips her hair to the side and grins at me. “Why do you think my hair is short?”
Fuck. I like her. Just like that. The sexy grin, the flip of her soft hair, the mischief in her eyes. Yup, I’m a fucking goner.
But just as soon as the words slip from her mouth, she straightens up and looks at Reese. “Oh crap. I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry, Mr. King. Bellini is . . .” she swallows hard and continues, “a nice lady.”
Reese waves it off. “She can be a bitch.”
It’s all he says but I know what he really means. Bellini is the epitome of the devil reincarnated. Unfortunately, given his situation, he has to be politically correct. Frankly I don’t know why he’s putting himself through this kind of torture. Trials aren’t for six months; you would think his publicist could come up with something else for him to do after his last stint at the Olympics. If I were him, I would fire my publicist’s ass.
“Reese, can you spare a moment over here for a second?” a squirrely man I know by the name of Jasper asks. Reese excuses himself, giving me the perfect opportunity to talk with Melony.
She’s washing some makeup brushes, busying herself and staying as far away from me as possible. Too bad for her, I have other plans.
“Where are you from, Melony?” She glances in my direction but turns back to her brushes.
“Here,” she says curtly.
“Born and raised a Cali girl, huh? That’s—”
“I’m going to stop you right there.” She holds her hand up. “I see where this is going.”
“And where is this going?” I ask, stepping closer to her.
She gives me the once-over and puts her hand on her hip. “You say some cheesy stuff trying to get to know me. To be polite, I’ll entertain you and then you’ll ask me out. I’ll say no and then you’ll take that as a challenge.”
I scrunch my nose. “You would say no?” That’s kind of a first for me, so I’m interested to hear her answer.
“Not used to the word? Does the Olympic diver always get what he wants?”
“Ah, so you know who I am.” I knowingly point at her. “I knew you did from the way you tried to see through my shirt. Don’t worry, sweetheart, the abs everyone talks about are real.”
She scoffs. “You’re pathetic.”
Well, that’s a first as well.
“Are you trying to make me cry?” I tease.
Rolling her eyes, she steps away, putting unwanted distance between us. “Seriously, not going to happen, Hollis, so pack up your pick-up lines and take them somewhere else.”
“Wow.” I rest my hip against one of the tables full of beauty shit and cross my arms over my chest. “Flatter yourself much? Who says I was even trying to pick you up? What if I was just trying to be nice? That’s kind of embarrassing for you, assuming such a thing.”
“Please, Hollis. Nice try. It’s not going to happen.”
Growing irritated, I ask, “And why not?”
“Because.” She points a makeup brush at me. “You’re not my type, and I have zero interest in pursuing a relationship with you.” With that, she fucking wags her pert little ass away from me.
Well, fuck me. That didn’t go as planned.
Determined more than ever, once Reese finishes his conversation, I approach him with one purpose. “I need you to do something for me.”
“Why the fuck should I after all the shit you said earlier?”
“Because . . .” I wrack my brain for an answer. When it hits me, I smile devilishly at him.
“Oh fuck . . .” He knows I have him.
“If you don’t help me, I’m going to let your little production manager know of your love for dancing in your underwear to teen bop.”
Reese runs his hand slowly over his face out of frustration. “I was drunk, and it was one fucking time.”
“And yet, I caught you. Best day of my life.”
“That’s sad.” I shrug, not giving a shit. “Fine, what the hell do you want?”
“Melony’s number. Get it for me.”
Running his hand over his jaw, he asks, “That’s what you want to use your drunk dancing in underpants card on? Because you know once you cash in, you’ll never be able to use it again.”<
“Couldn’t think of a better reason to use it.”
Later that day, Reese texted me her number and I spared no time sending her a message.
Hollis: I can’t stop thinking about you.
I brush my teeth and wait for her response. It comes in no less than a minute.
Melony: Who is this?
I smile to myself. This is going to be so much fucking fun.
Hollis: Your future husband.
Six months later . . .
“Yes, Mom. I got you tickets.”
“I don’t see them in my inbox. Did you snail mail them? Your dad already made T-shirts, so he’ll be devastated if he doesn’t get a chance to show them off in public. You know how those announcers look forward to panning in on his creations.”
Don’t I fucking know it? My parents are almost more popular than I am. Ever since my first Olympic trials, they’ve been pegged as the most supportive yet entertaining parents to watch during competition, even more entertaining than the actual divers.
It isn’t just the shirts my dad creates, that I will get to in a second, it’s their theatrics. They are those parents standing in the crowd, tucking and twisting with every one of my moves while holding hands. And when I hit the water, they squat down and then leap into the air, hands still clasped. It’s the most absurd thing you’ll ever witness. They have their own memes for fuck’s sake.
And then their outfits. Christ. Want to talk about the love for America and a child, just look at my dad’s shirts. They are usually decked out in red, white, and blue stars and stripes across the chest as well as a blow-up of my face. Underneath: Hollis Howlers. It’s obnoxious, but for some insane reason, I secretly like it. Seeing my parents in the stands, flags in their hands, my face plastered across their chest, and smiles on their faces, it makes all the countless hours in the gym and on the platform worth it. To make them proud makes it all worth it.
“The tickets will be at Will Call, Mom. Don’t worry, Dad will be able to show off his shirts.”
“Thank Jesus.” She pauses and then whispers into the phone, “He asked to borrow my bedazzler. I’m not sure where he’s going with those expensive jewels he got at the craft store the other day but I’m a little thrilled to know I have a chance of sparkling under the lights this year. Your father is really stepping up his game.”
Stroked Hard by Meghan Quinn / History & Fiction have rating 4 out of 5 / Based on32 votes