STROKED (The Stroked Series Book 1) (31 page)

“You’re so stupid.”

“Mmm, not in the teasing mood?” I ask, nuzzling her hair, taking in her intoxicating scent. “Fine, what’s weird?”

“Whenever I smell chlorine, I get a flutter in my belly. The smell reminds me of you.”

From the bottom of my belly a laugh erupts.

“Why are you laughing at me?” Sitting up, her hand on my chest, her brow comes together. “It’s not funny.”

“Calm your tits, baby. I’m not laughing at you. I’m just laughing at—”

“At me,” she huffs.

I can’t help the smirk that escapes me. “Fine, I’m laughing at you. But it’s cute, does that make you feel better?”

“Last time I tell you something.”

Flipping to the other side of the bed, she pulls the covers over her shoulder and faces away from me, boxing me out. It’s funny to me that she actually thinks turning away will stop me from talking or touching her. Scooting to her side, I palm her stomach and with one swift yank, pull her into my chest. I land my head over hers and kiss her cheek.

“Are you looking for attention, baby? I can give you attention, just tell me where.” I kiss her cheek, down her neck, and rest on the spot where her neck meets her shoulder. With a nip, I get her attention.

“Stop that,” she says with a light tone. “You can’t try to charm me with your sexual ways.”

“Well, how the hell else am I supposed to charm you then?”

“Maybe with your mind.” The pompous but humorous tone doesn’t escape me.

I pull away from her and rest on the mattress, my hands behind my head and my gaze at the ceiling. “My mind, huh? What a novel idea. All right, how’s this? About one hundred people choke on ballpoint pens every year.”

Nailed it!

Slowly, Paisley turns around, pulling on her ear slightly, confusion written all over her face. “What did you just say?”

“People choke on pens.”

“Why is that something you would tell me?”

“You told me to charm you with my mind. So I told you a fact. Chicks dig smart guys.”

She shakes her head, turning completely around to face me, the sheet falling just above the crest of her breasts. “Not guys full of useless facts.”

“Useless?” I repeat, insulted. Sitting up, using my elbows to prop my body up, I say, “How is that useless? It’s far from useless, more like a public service announcement. I’m doing you a favor.”

“How is that?”

I think about my answer, giving myself time. “Next time you’re writing away in your little notepad and come to a halt, trying to figure out what else to write, and you find the need to bring the plastic flute up to your mouth for a little nibble, you will remember my VERY USEFUL factoid about choking on a ballpoint pen.”

“I use felt-tip,” she counters, the smart-ass.

I press my lips together. Shit, this girl can cut a man down at his knees. “Last time I share with you.” Pulling a Paisley, I turn to my side of the bed, this time boxing her out. See how she likes it. Too bad I can’t hide the smile that graces my lips.

“Oh my God, are you really going to pout?”

“My feelings have been hurt, I’m a wounded man, bleeding from my soul.”

Hopping on my back and straddling my body, she laughs and says, “You’re so ridiculous.”

I don’t budge. “Please, let me nurse my wounds in private. It’s the least you can do after castrating me with your comment.”

“Well,” she hops off me and onto the bedroom floor, “guess I’ll head home then.”

Damn her!

Sprinting out of bed, I run after her, naked parts flying around my bedroom. Her giggle fills the room, and right before she escapes the bedroom, I hook her around her waist and pull her back to my bed, corralling her body with mine.

Pinning her hands above her head, I say, “Why can’t I ever win with you?”

“I’m smarter.” She winks. “It’s the jock in you.”

“Hey now.” I chuckle. “I know things.”

“Random, nonsensical pen facts.”

Outraged with laughter, I say, “These facts save lives.”

“I’m sure they do. All I can say is, thank God you’re pretty.”

“Pretty?” I ask, a raise to my eyebrow.

She raises her chin, sticking to her term. “Yeah, pretty.”

“Not ruggedly handsome? Sexy? Some might say I have the body of a Greek god, but that’s just hearsay.”

“I can’t stand you right now.” She chuckles.

“That’s disappointing, because I was getting ready to lick the fuck out of your pussy, but I guess if you can’t stand me—”

“On second thought.” She palms my head and pushes it down between her legs.

“Fucking horny woman.”

“Whatever.” She settles into the mattress. “You know you like it.”

I part her slit that’s glistening and give her one long, luxurious swipe with my tongue, causing her to moan. “You’re right, I do like it.”

**BELLINI**

I feel bad for anyone who has to be around me on a daily basis. Not because I’m some deviant looking to cut a bitch with every turn of the corner. No, I’m a saint in a sweater set with high morals and a heart of gold. I feel bad for people because I am the epitome of everything beautiful, inside and out . . . but mainly out.

I don’t care what society tries to tell us; we judge people by their looks. It’s human nature. I’m guilty of it. I refuse to be served by the giant mole with a residing black hair poking out of it at The Brown Derby—it’s where all the celebrities go—despite the wretched waitress who refuses to see Dr. Kevin downtown who can laser off such monstrosities. Honestly, I’m at the point of taking my father’s state-of-the-art samurai sword and chopping it off myself, only to serve it to her on a platter. See how she likes it.

Thankfully, I was born with perfect bone structure, flawless skin, and hair as golden as the sun. I’m beautiful, an integral cog in this world for making it a more suitable place to live. Could you imagine if we had pot-faced platypuses walking around this earth, their lips plucked out and unshapely clothes that would look better on a homeless asshole caressing their bodies? Harsh? No, it’s the truth. That’s how I see the people around me. Most of the time, the human race is too offensive to look at. You think I’m being a little severe? I’m not.

Fact one: high-waisted pants have come back around in the fashion world. Sure, they look cute on Taylor Swift but on everyone else, they’re a picture frame to the art you’re mounting between your legs. The camel toe. Ladies, if your lips are defined by your pants, it’s time to make a change. No one wants to see the crevice to your private parts. Positively ghastly!

Fact two: glitter. It will never be in style, despite how you want to paint it. Oh, it’s unicorn farts, it’s the rain at kitty’s play palace, Leprechaun sneezes are just glitter spreading around the world. No mythical idea will ever make glitter okay. It’s made for whores, prostitutes, and drag queens. Unless you’re one of those, then your glitter use should cease immediately. You’re no longer a menstruating tween making poor decisions that will affect your social life forever. Cut it out.

Fact three: tattoos. What an appalling idea. You want to express yourself? Here’s five dollars, go get a diary and write it down. They’re hot, they’re symbolic, they represent who I am . . . false. If you are a trash bag dug up from the inner depths of the graveyard of biker’s anonymous, then sure, get a tattoo. You’ll fit in perfectly.

Fact four: cat shirts. So you’re wearing a sock hat these days with jeans so tight that when you bend over, they stretch to the point we can see your skin. You’re a hipster, congratulations, oh, I mean,
whatevs
. I won’t even go into how hipsters are just geeks trying to act cool, but I have to mention the cat shirts. No matter how much you try to spin it, it’s a cat on a shirt. I don’t care if it’s flying on a Pop-Tart, if it has laser beams coming out of its eyes, or its face is mingled in a pepperoni pizza. It’s a cat on a shirt and should never be worn by a grown adult unless your name is Aunt Milly and you can’t remember if you put your dentures in your mouth or in your butthole. Burn the damn shirt and ask for repentance.

I could go on forever about the poor choices made by the human race, but I’m already bored.

Back to me.

I’m gorgeous. I wonder what it’s like for someone like Mauve—a tattoo person—having to serve me every day within the beauty that surrounds me. Does she go home and draw mustaches on her own pictures, hating the fact that a black dick broom would actually make her look more appealing? I wouldn’t be surprised if I stopped by her apartment and saw discarded pictures all over her floor.

I would never do that though, go to her apartment, that is. No doubt in my mind that it’s a hot bed for vibrating wannabe man wands and a soiree of bed bugs. If you want to stick something up your whoo-ha, why not just wait until you’re married to a man to have him up in your business? It makes no sense to me.

I’m pro-choice over sexuality—I’m so progressive. If you want to smack two doughnuts together, that’s your business. It’s the people who try to fill one single woman in all her holes at the same time that should be exiled. You know, the people who enjoy foursomes. Pope Francis prays for them every night, as it’s on his list of sinners, along with chefs, people who live with more than four cats, and individuals who enjoy eating Cheerios—no one should eat a bowl of vaginas.

“Tic Tac,” I shout, pointing to my mouth as I walk down the stairs of my mansion.

Mauve appears at the bottom of the stairs with a container in her hand ready to pop one in my mouth. She really has become more efficient over the last few days. She’s been organizing me, taking care of all of my menial tasks, and even cutting my toenails when I’m too lazy to bend over to do it myself. It is a little unsettling why she is doing so well, even when I start to test her. Does she know about the lady I found for her? If so, she must be extremely grateful, seems like my plan is a smash hit, not that I’m surprised. I’m great at everything.

“Jasper will be here around noon, so in about fifteen minutes. He wants to discuss Rio and his plans for shooting activities.”

“Ugh, Rio, that’s all anyone ever talks about anymore. What’s the big deal?”

“It’s the Olympics . . .” Mauve suggests but I wave her off, blowing by her to head to my living room.

“Melon,” I call out, needing someone to brush my hair. Pocket has some kind of vaginal infection right now. When she told me, I banned her from being near me until she could provide a certified letter from a doctor stating she no longer has the buildup of yeast in her crevice. Apparently it’s from sitting in a vat of tomato juice but I refuse to take responsibility. “Melon,” I shout again. “Where is that damn cantaloupe when you need her?” I mumble.

“She went to go pick up lunch,” Mauve answers.

“What for?”

“Because people need to eat,” she says under her breath.

“Excuse me?”

Plastering a smile on her face, Mauve says, “Jasper called it in. I thought it would be best if Melony went to get it in case you started to feel faint and needed some more Tic Tacs.”

Eyeing her skeptically, I try to gauge her intent. Is she being a sarcastic ass? If it wasn’t for her recent track record of doing everything correctly, I would think, yes, but she’s been so helpful, maybe she’s telling the truth.

“Fine,” I answer, turning on my heel. “Will you wait at the door so you can let Reese in when he gets here?”

“Reese is coming over? Why didn’t I know that? I should know that. That should be on my schedule. Who made this decision?”

I hold up my hand to stop her incessant jabbering. “If I wanted a lice-coated parrot to be squawking in my ear, I would have asked for one. Before I start throwing stale saltines at your face to shut your trap, just do what I say and wait at the door. Honestly.”

Storming off, I sit in the porch swing and rest my head against one of my cream-colored Sferra Abbey throw pillows. They cost one hundred eighty-five dollars each, but they’re well worth it. Instead of pressing your skin against a poorly crafted polyester cotton-filled sack, you can rub your face over the velvety smooth fabric while playing with the stitched variegated color fringe. It brings relaxation to an entirely new level.

“Bellini, there is a woman at the door waiting for you.”

“Who is it?” I snap, hating the vagueness. Whatever happened to servants announcing people correctly?

Attention, please welcome Scott Eastwood of Malibu.

Looks like I’ll have to put everyone through another
Downton Abbey
training if I want anything done right around here.

“She says her name is Lauren but you call her Litter Box.”

I sit up, from the mention of the woman I handpicked for Mauve. I completely forgot she was coming over today. I can feel my eyes glow with excitement as I adjust myself on my cushiony swing, fanning out the silk robe I have on.

“Send her back here.”

Leaning forward, Mauve asks, “Do you really call her Litter Box?”

“That is none of your concern. Now bring her back here, I have a surprise for you.”

Skeptically, Mauve eyes me and then says, “Okay . . .”

“Popey, Popey!” I call out, hearing the jingle of his heavenly bells ring out as he approaches. Everything I do in life is for my dog, to impress him, to make him feel proud, to make him love me more and more every day. This is a moment I don’t want him to miss, my most humane act so far.

“There you are. Come here, you little disciple of Christ, come to Mommy’s bosom.”

With his paws on the edge of the swing, I quickly snatch him up and snuggle him close, taking in his cologne, loving the way he smells like an old church, like he just came from scrubbing grime from church pews. I wouldn’t put it past him. I once saw him lick the floor of an altar, his way of blessing the sacred grounds of Saints Constantine and Helen Greek Orthodox Church.

We’re not Greek but we are lovers of Christ, so we go to all the churches, blessing them with Popey’s tongue, despite our Catholic origins.

“Hi Bellini,” Litter Box’s voice calls out as I sniff Popey’s paws. They always smell like corn chips, they soothe me.