STROKED (The Stroked Series Book 1) (3 page)

The uneducated, no-class twit standing in front of me surely doesn’t know the difference between an opera and a cantata. And by the look of her appearance, she wouldn’t be able to spot the difference between the lustrous and proportionally spherical pearls that caress the peak of my collarbone from ones bought from a menstruating tween with a coupon from Claire’s. She’s radiating the “no-class” vibe. How could she know when she’s wearing . . . combat boots? For heaven’s sake, I’m physically offended by her choice of footwear.

“Personally, I enjoy the French-inspired basso continuo Jean-Baptiste Lully used as a backdrop for his ballads, so lively and radical for his time, wouldn’t you agree?” she replies, a smile on her face, as if she just topped me.

Flabbergasted and outraged, I do the one thing I do best. I beckon someone.

“POCKET!” I scream, looking for someone to attack the Ronda Rousey build of a woman standing in front of me who has the audacity to shove my snark right back in my face.

“I sent Polly home,” Jonathan informs me. “She was looking ill after taste testing all the Mexican food you had sent to the studio. We have an hour to get these shots done or else we will be charged extra. According to your contract, any overtime caused by your delay will be charged directly to you. And just so you know, this entire operation is costing thousands upon thousands of dollars an hour.”

Don’t ever threaten me with money. My daddy worked hard to get us to where we are today, we value our money and spend it on necessities, like gold-lined waistbands and luxury Calacatta marble imported from Italy for the cutting board of our cheese slicer. We don’t spend money on people like petty staff. If they stay overtime, that is their own damn fault for not settling my needs sooner.

Too bad I’m the only one who sees it that way. I’ve already been fined multiple times, and I will be damned if I get fined again.

I can feel my temper start to flare; a fermented explosion of rage is about to boil over and spew high-class venom on everyone around me.

Through clenched teeth, I say, “I’m not the only one in this photo shoot. Where the hell is Reese?”

“He’s been here, Miss Chambers, in the back. We’ve been waiting to see if your highness will be willing to sit on a regular oak bench as opposed to African blackwood.”

How dare he!

Handing Pope Francis to my dad, making sure not to ruffle the rosary he wears around his neck—the blessed saint—I hold my hand to my chest and push back the tears that threaten to destroy my perfectly applied makeup. “I will have to suffer . . . for the people.”

The Persian pattern standing next to Jonathan chuckles and my defenses immediately rise. Pointing at her, I say, “She is fired. Her attitude and barbaric appearance are not welcome here.”

That shocks the twisted fig and erases the smile that recently resided on her face. Desperation laces her eyes, and I can’t help but enjoy the way her entire aura begs me to reconsider.

“Unfortunately, Miss Chambers, you can’t just fire Paisley. That is not your decision, and unless you have a reasonable reason for her to be let go, you will have to learn to get along with her. She is here to help you.”

“Fine,” I huff, turning away from him. “Daddy, escort me to the set. I need Pope Francis near me. You know how nervous I get when everyone is trying to soak in my beauty.”

“Anything for you, angel puss.”

I walk arm in arm with my dad over to the rink-a-dink photo-shoot set the network put together for me, all the while thinking about ways I can make the pattern loathe working with me until she quits. I don’t think it would be too hard. She seems pretty shakable.

She will soon find out that she is going to wish I
could
fire her. Her life has now become a living hell.

I can only hope Pope Francis will pray for her.

**REESE**

Was this really what my life is spiraling down to? Me in a Speedo, my hair styled to Bellini’s standards, oil glistening on my chest, and a beach ball as a prop?

I stare at myself in the mirror. Loathing, self-hatred, depression. Yup, they’re all there.

“Is this necessary?” I ask Ashley, my publicist. “I look like a total douchebag.”

Ashley looks up from her phone, her lifeline, and smiles wide, letting me know in fact, I do look like a douchebag. “It’s not that bad, the beach ball is a little much but the Speedo looks good.”

“It’s leopard print,” I deadpan.

A snort escapes her before she covers her nose. “It’s very becoming of you,” she lies and then looks closer at me. “Jesus, how much oil did they put on you? I’m pretty sure I can see my reflection in your abs.”

I take a look at my stomach, flexing it as my head falls forward. I might be older than my peers, but I still have one hell of a body . . . one that is slathered in oil currently.

“The girl who put it on was rather handsy. Pretty sure she spent extra time lathering me up.” I wipe my face with my hand in frustration and ask, “Ashley, is this really necessary?”

“The photo shoot?” she asks, her attention back on her phone. “Of course. They need pictures for the next season of
Rollin’ In The Bacon
. You know how production companies are, they always want promotional material.”

“I’m not talking about the show. I’m talking about the fake relationship you set me up with. In case you haven’t noticed, the woman is insane. She believes her dog is a disciple sent from God, she shames anyone who comes near her, and she seriously thinks this little publicity stunt you set up with her publicist is real.” I lean forward just to make sure Ashley is the only one to hear me. “She tried to kiss me the other day. She knows this isn’t real, right?”

Ashley nonchalantly shrugs her shoulders. “I can neither confirm nor deny what she knows.”

“Ashley,” I snap. “I’m a highly regarded Olympian—”

“Who is on his way out. Don’t forget this is your last Olympics, Reese. The media is already over the top with this being your send-off swim. We need to leverage this as much as possible for sponsors and partnerships once you hang up your little Speedo, especially since you don’t have the best reputation on the pool deck. Your temper with interviewers and paparazzi has painted you with quite the bad image. Oh, and don’t forget, you’re still striving for that untouchable gold medal you haven’t been able to snag.”

Didn’t I fucking know it.

I sit down and bring my hands to my head where I grip my hair, not caring that I’m messing with my “look.”

Three Olympics under my belt since I was sixteen and not one single fucking gold. I’m more popular for choking when it matters than my actual accomplishments. Rudely named The Silver Stroke by announcers, newspapers, and every media outlet there is, I’ve accomplished everything a swimmer could possibly ask for, besides the epitome of athletic success. I don’t have a gold medal. Not from lack of trying; my mental game has been fucked with too many times, all at the wrong moments.

I can be the fastest swimmer in the world but without a steady mental game, I can throw it all away. Every Olympics, I’ve come to a point where my mental game splintered right before it mattered and was unable to recover. Whether it was my dad having a heart attack, my grandpa dying, or private pictures being leaked to the media right before the big race, there has always been something that’s affected me that ultimately affected the outcome of every Olympic final I’ve participated in, christening me The Silver Stroke.

It’s not like being known as second best in my career isn’t devastating enough, but I think about it every fucking day while training, that and all the stories running rampant in the media about 2016 being my last Olympics. My face is plastered across almost every magazine right now, going into the games, claiming me as The Silver Stroke, only able to win silver at the Olympics and nothing more.

Ever hear about sports being eighty percent mental and twenty percent physical? It’s so fucking true. I’ve won championships, nationals, set records, established myself as one of the top male athletes in the world, but that one accomplishment—winning a gold—has eluded my grasp too many fucking times.

This is it for me.

I have one more chance, and instead of focusing on my training, I’m stuck doing promotional crap with a self-absorbed reality star.

At the time, when Ashley first spoke to me about having dinner with Bellini Chambers, it made sense, since her popularity was on the rise—Lord knows why—and I had just announced 2016 would be my last Olympics. It wasn’t a surprise to see the media waiting for us outside of the restaurant, taking our picture.

I couldn’t eat my food fast enough that night. Conversation was repulsive, given she talked about herself the entire time: how beautiful she is, how she has the best legs—ones that even rival Carrie Underwood’s—and how she is so rich, she doesn’t know how to spend the money. She giggled like an imbecile, had a piece of lettuce stuck in her teeth for at least three conversations, and of course, I never told her, because why would I? The girl needs to learn humility. Too bad for me the wine she had—served with ice—washed it down.

When I returned home that night, I vowed never to have dinner with her again, but after the media caught wind of our night out, all hell broke loose, and we were the new celebrity couple. Since I needed a future after swimming, Ashely thought it would be a good idea to leverage her popularity for my own good, to help with my image, and expose me in a light the general public hasn’t seen.

Looking at the leopard-print Speedo—which before today, I would never be caught dead in—I know I’ve made a mistake, but there is no going back now. I’ve already signed a contract to have my life recorded by a production crew and followed around, allowing the world into my life, a complete contrast to the private life I’ve strived for.

“Mr. King, we are ready for you.”

I nod at the production assistant and stand. Reluctantly, I grab my beach ball and head out to the set.

Before I am out of my dressing room, Ashely calls out, “This will be good for you, Reese. Suck it up for these next couple of months. I promise this decision will pay off.”

“I hope you’re right,” I mumble.

I am not a fame-whore, always seeking attention. It isn’t my cup of tea. I do magazine shoots, underwear campaigns, talk shows, and occasional announcing because it’s part of being a swimmer, not because I enjoy it. I don’t mind taking part in my duties, what I do mind is the invasion of privacy I deal with on a day-to-day basis with paparazzi and fans always taking pictures of me. Can’t a guy eat a burger without seeing his picture on Perez Hilton the next day with a half a strip of bacon hanging out of his mouth?

This reality show is against everything I want to be a part of, but after a long conversation with Ashley, I know my career is coming to an end and I need something as a backup. Without a gold, I am just a rugged face, with a reputation as the bad boy of the swimming pool, the legendary Silver Stroke, who never reached the apex of his career, instead failed miserably . . . three fucking times.

As I approach the set, Bellini is hyperventilating and waving her hands in front of her eyes, fending off tears. I resist the eye-rolling that forms from her ridiculousness and walk over to where she stands.

Mr. Chambers is holding Pope Francis, the only legit being in the family, wearing his same Burberry plaid pants, white polo, and gold sunglasses. He looks like an absolute mockery.

“Oh Reese,” she coos in relief, “thank God you’re here.” She grabs hold of my arm and hangs on to me dramatically. “They got the bench all wrong. It was supposed to be African blackwood, but it’s oak. I thought I could act like a peasant and sit on it but now I see it up close, I don’t think I can.”

I look at the bench, confused. “It’s a bench. Just sit on it. Who cares what kind of wood it is?”

The crew around me snickers from my clear logic.

“Just sit on it?” Bellini scowls at me. “Just sit, as if it was a regular old bench?”

“Uh yeah. Bend your knees and place your ass on the bench.” I mimic the movement. “Despite what you might think, you’re not going to die. The wood isn’t going to swallow you whole, and it sure as hell won’t ruin your makeup or hair if that’s what you’re worried about.”

She studies me; there is a little twitch in her neck, a small pulse of indifference. I can tell she wants to lecture me on the “decency of talking to her”—believe me, I’ve heard her tirade a couple times—but I know she won’t do it in front of all the people staring at us.

If anything, the fake wannabe CUNTry-club snob puts on a good face when she needs to, and right about now, with a few dozen people waiting on her, and money being spent, she will do what she’s told.

Instead of yelling at me, she smooths the skirt of her dress and asks, “Will you hold my hand while I attempt to sit down?”

I grind my teeth, refraining from head butting her back to her feeble roots.

“Miss Chambers, I have your Fiji water you asked for.”

Bellini reaches for the water as if it’s her lifeline. I glance up for a second to see the back of a woman’s head, long black hair falling past her shoulder blades. Soft tendrils of ebony capture me, and I wonder what it would feel like to have that hair wrapped around my hand. Her backside is covered in short denim shorts, cut off at just the right length that has me begging for her to bend over, just an inch so I can see more of her beautifully tan skin. Her feet are encased in black boots that have seen better days. From certain angles, I can see words written on her body—her extremely athletic body. I observe the way the muscles in her legs flex with her small movements, the way her toned arms fall to the side. From her build, she must do CrossFit.

“Uh, Mauve, are you just going to stand there? Offer Reese something to drink, for Christ’s sake.”

Mauve?

“My name is Paisley,” she corrects, and I cringe, wishing the girl had more common sense than to talk back to the she-beast herself.

Bellini sets down her water and walks right up to Paisley, standing toe to toe. Bellini is a decent five nine in height, and this girl must at least be five five. Bellini towers over her.