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Authors: Sophia Kenzie

Beautiful PRICK

BOOK: Beautiful PRICK
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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.

 

 

 

 

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Billionaire
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BEAUTIFUL PRICK

 

 

by Sophia Kenzie

 

 

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
about 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.

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