Stroked Hard, Page 3

  Tall, broad shoulders, lean but muscular frame, and signature faux-hawk. He’s unmistakable.

  Hollis Knightly.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  Chapter Three

  HOLLIS

  And here I thought my day was pure shit thanks to my coach thinking I’m not ready for trials. Fuck that prick, I’m more ready than I’ve ever been.

  Two years ago, my long-time coach, Coach Wilson, was diagnosed with prostate cancer. There was no other option than to quit coaching and take care of himself. However, the cancer was metastatic, spread so fucking quickly, and took his life within two months. Two months. Two months to attempt to say thank you and goodbye. It was fucking devastating, not just because I had to find a new coach, but because I lost a very important man in my life, someone who’d been by my side since I can remember. He knew me as Knobby Knees Knightly. I miss him.

  Now I have a coach who has made it his mission to make my life miserable.

  Why stick around with him? Coach Wilson set me up with him. It’s fucking crazy to think this way but a part of me believes that being with my current coach, Coach Ted, keeps me close to Coach Wilson, as if Coach Ted carries a bit of his soul inside him.

  Fucking insane, I know, but I can’t seem to let go, which means I deal with the prick on a daily basis.

  I’m not going to lie; I’m bit of a princess at times. I know what I like. I know how I want to be spoken to, and I’ve worked hard to get where I am today, so I have the right to be cocky. I also have the right to be coddled.

  Yeah, coddled.

  Pet my ego, make me feel good. I prefer my coach to praise me, not lift his head with a barely there nod if I do well. A well-executed knuckle blast is more appreciated, but Coach Ted doesn’t get that despite the countless times I’ve told him.

  Instead, the fucker has me doing extra sets of dryland training, flipping onto a mat over and over again. I’m sore as shit, volatile in the worst way, and hungry.

  I’m always hungry.

  On the way home, I stopped by my favorite burger joint, grabbed two pablono burger sans bun with Cheddar-Jack cheese, skipped the fries, and came home to my condo. Searing with anger from coach’s tactics today, it all dissipated when I spotted the little sun-kissed brunette that’s been starring in my dreams for the past six months.

  Seeing that sultry ass in minuscule jean shorts instantly evaporated my shit mood. What the hell is she doing here?

  “Well, isn’t it the little salad ruiner herself? I know, I’m handsome as fuck but that doesn’t mean you get to stare all you want,” I tease, snapping her out of her bent-over position, mouth agape. Yeah, I could have made a cruder comment but I held back.

  Standing tall and brushing her hands on her shorts, she says, “What are you doing here? Are you stalking me now?”

  “If I were stalking you I sure as fuck wouldn’t be doing it by a dumpster.”

  She shifts, her hand on her hip, definitely on the defensive. “Just tell me why you’re here.”

  Looking around the parking lot and then back to her, I clutch my food bag in my hand and lean forward. “I live here, fudge nuggets.”

  Her eyes widen and then scowl. “Don’t call me fudge nuggets.”

  “What do you prefer? Love handles?”

  “No.” Her scowl deepens.

  “Sausage snuggler? Kissy kibbles? Juicy cakes? Licky lovestick?”

  Irritation is boiling out of her now. “Are you deranged? What makes you think I want to be referred to as sausage snuggler or licky lovestick?”

  “Does that mean you like kissy kibbles and juicy cakes?”

  I receive the deepest eye-roll I’ve ever seen just before she pushes me out of the way and starts maneuvering her boxes into the recycling bin.

  “I’m going to take that as a no.”

  “Take that as a go to hell,” she mutters under her breath.

  “Whoa.” I hold up my hands. “That’s a little hostile for someone who was just staring at my crotch for ten minutes.”

  Standing tall, she says, “I was not staring at your crotch.”

  “Hey, it’s okay. No need to be embarrassed. I have the kind of crotch worth staring at. Just try to keep it under five minutes next time. It gets a little awkward if your staring is any longer than that.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest, pushing her breasts up. I take a quick glance, because fuck, I’m a man, and then direct my attention back to her stormy eyes. I know I’m not making friends, but shit, I like the fire I see.

  “Where do you get off—?”

  “Lately in my hand with an image of you in my mind, but I would love to make that dream a reality.”

  “I can’t take you.” Turning back around, she huffs and begins struggling with the boxes again.

  Being the gentleman I am, I set my food down, hoping my burgers don’t get cold, and lend her a hand. As I reach over to open the dumpster, she swings a flattened cardboard box up at the same time, knocking me in the corner of my eye with the edge of the box, sending me backward into a pile of trash outside the garbage dumpster.

  I can feel the trickle of blood running down my face just as the shock wears off and pain takes its place. My eye waters. Rotten garbage—that’s probably been out in the steaming sun all day—surrounds me, and the sweet sound of Melony’s laughter fills my ears. Through my swelling eye, I see her with her hands over her mouth, trying to hold back her giggles as she attempts to look sincere with regret.

  “I didn’t know you were into assaulting men lending you a helping hand.”

  “I didn’t assault you,” she says still giggling.

  I point to my face. “My eye begs to differ. I’m actually . . .” I pause and start to sway back and forth. “I’m feeling . . .” I don’t finish my sentence, instead, I roll off the stank mountain and onto the asphalt in front of me. Don’t worry, I have to take a shower anyway. I lie there flat, pretending to have passed out, hoping Melony will play naughty nurse and try to take care of me.

  What I don’t expect is for her to walk to up me and toe me in the side. “What are you doing down there?”

  I don’t move. Act like a possum; act like a possum.

  She fucking toes me again, this time a little harder, nudging my body. “Hey, stop messing around and get up. I think you’re lying on pee.”

  I don’t smell pee, so she’s lying. I don’t take the bait. I continue to play dead.

  “Hollis,” she warns. Note to self, bedside manner is not her strength. Her foot pushes me harder, rocking my body back and forth. “Are you seriously going to make me squat down?”

  Fuck yes, I am.

  Huffing with irritation, she squats next to me and pushes my shoulder with her fingers. Her gentle concern is overwhelming.

  “Will you get up and stop acting like a dickhead?”

  Turning my head to the side, I glance up. She rolls her eyes about to retreat when I wrap my arm around her waist, roll over, and position her so she’s sitting on my stomach, my hands holding her hips in place.

  “What the hell?”

  “I need to be nursed back to health. Quick, smother me with your breasts. It’s the only cure to my concussion.”

  “You don’t have a concussion.”

  “How do you know? I’m dizzy, faint. I have a headache. I think I blacked out. Put your breast in my mouth, it will help me remember things.”

  Her expression changes from irritated to something I would describe as evil. Right then and there I quiver in my shorts. I don’t think I’m going to like what happens next.

  Leaning forward, she gives me the perfect view of her breasts. On the contrary, maybe I will like what she does next.

  Breast to the mouth; come on, breast to the mouth.

  Her hands ride up my chest and I brace for one of her boobs to pop out of the deep V of her tank top. Fuck they’re so perky. What do they look like without a bra?

  Her fingers play with my hard pecs and right when I thin
k she might lean down and kiss me, she pinches my right nipple. Hard.

  “Oh fuck, that hurt!” I yell, quickly swatting her away and rubbing out my sore spot . . . but also kind of liking the fact that she likes nipple play. A sly smile spreads across my face quickly eliminating the hurt expression. “You know, cuddle muffin, if you like nipple play, I can really dive deep into that fantasy for you.”

  Getting up, she rolls her eyes and says, “You’re so annoying.”

  I stand up as well and dab at my eye. The blood seems to have stopped but I still milk it, wincing with every touch of my finger. “Annoying isn’t as bad as hate, so I’ll take it.”

  Back in a defensive position, she says, “Actually there is a thin line between hate and love that’s often blurred. Annoying is just annoying.”

  I step closer and give her my mega-watt smile. “Aw, sweetums, are you trying to tell me you love me? It’s a little early but I can’t blame you. Come here, give Big Daddy a kiss.”

  I reach for her hand but she swiftly steps away, muttering, “Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Where you going? You have some boxes that still need recycling.”

  She gives me a once-over and says, “I’m pretty sure you can handle it.”

  Sauntering away, I stare at her perky little ass and call out, “See you around, neighbor.”

  There is no response and I wonder if I pushed her too far. That’s until I see her turn around and give me one last look. It’s just a glance, but that’s all I fucking need. Just that little glance lets me know I haven’t pushed her too far, that I actually have a shot at being with this woman.

  And I really want that shot.

  Chapter Four

  MELONY

  Every time I step out into the parking lot of my apartment complex, or pick up my mail, or even go to the community adult pool I look around, wondering if I’ll see him, if I’ll hear that deep, velvety voice, or smell that distinct cologne of his that makes me feel dumb from my brain short-circuiting.

  I hate it.

  Hollis Knightly.

  I would be the worst liar if I denied he was hot. You can’t look at Hollis Knightly and not find him attractive. It isn’t just the way his hair is full at the top, creating a faux hawk you’re dying to run your hands through. It isn’t those deep blue eyes staring at you with a hint of charm. It isn’t the five o’clock shadow he’s able to maintain on a daily basis, and it isn’t the best set of abs on this planet either. I’m not kidding, the best set of abs.

  His smart-ass attitude and cocky self makes him attractive as well. There is something about a guy with a sense of humor that adds so much more sexy to his persona.

  Thank God he annoys the shit out of me most of the time . . . most of the time being key.

  What I was hoping would be a fun new chapter in my life with my new apartment and residing so close to the ocean, has now become a game of looking over my shoulder, checking to make sure I don’t run into Hollis.

  It’s been a week since our dumpster run-in where I tweaked his nipple, and I have yet to see him. A blessing in my eyes. That was until today.

  “Where is my swim cap? Melon! Bring me my cap.” Bellini’s voice rings through the production crew as she sits in her chair in a ridiculously fluffy robe, her saintly dog on her lap.

  I was beckoned early this morning to primp Bellini for a production shoot of her swimming in a pool with Reese. I have no idea how Jasper, the producer, was able to get Bellini even near a pool, something that makes her skin shrivel up, but here she is. Despite having to put her hair in a swim cap, she still made me wash it, blow-dry it, and curl the tips only to wrap it all up into a swim cap.

  Do I wish I could have slept in? Yup, that would have been nice, but then again, I’m getting paid and that’s one more dollar toward my lip-stain production.

  Reese bypassed hair and makeup today, not that he really needed anything done, but he said since he was going to be in the pool, there was no need. Bellini had other ideas.

  The good thing about today? I will be paid for a full eight hours but only have to work this morning.

  After I pack up my supplies, I plan on hitting up the nearest Panera, grabbing an Asiago bagel with butter and a strawberry smoothie, and heading home to look over the packaging options for my makeup line.

  I can’t freaking wait to leave here.

  “Oh Popey, I’m pretty sure this is the end of me. They are going to make me flop around in that pool of rotten sperm water.”

  With my face buried in my makeup brushes, I roll my eyes. This woman. If only someone was brave enough to walk up to her, throat punch the hell out of her stuck-up ass, and take off without a word. I would worship that person and then hope and pray Jonathan caught it all on camera so I could watch it every night before bed. Best night-time lullaby ever: Bellini being throat punched.

  “I did extra squats this morning just for this photo shoot. Check out my ass, it doesn’t get better than that.”

  Shit.

  That voice.

  Glancing up quickly, the man I’ve been avoiding at my apartment complex just happens to be at the same pool as me today. I saw a photographer setting up some kind of photo shoot but just thought it was for Bellini and some narcissistic idea she thought of to take more pictures of herself, but clearly that’s not the case.

  Pieces of the photo-shoot puzzle start to blend together as Bodi Banks walks on set as well, looking fine as hell. He has this dark brooding thing about him that captures your attention. To be honest, Bodi, Reese, and Hollis all in the same area is any woman’s wet dream. Reese, although more like a brother to me these days, has a bad-boy look with his tattoo, beard, and dark features. Bodi is a beautiful mystery just waiting to be cracked open, and then there is Hollis. Smart-ass extraordinaire, with the body of incredible contours and sinew that keeps your mind racing. They are all dangerous.

  This was the GQ photo shoot Reese was talking about the other day. I didn’t realize they paired the two days together. That explains why I didn’t know Hollis would be here.

  Keeping my head down, I clean my brushes and prepare the lip stain I’ve chosen for Bellini today. Luckily, she’s come to trust me on my choices. I’ve learned quite quickly what she doesn’t like, thanks to the water she’s tossed in my face on multiple occasions. Yes, like a dramatic soap-opera star, a quick chug of her water to my face ensures not only my makeup is ruined, but I get water up my nose as well. She’s a freaking treasure. Did you hear my sarcasm?

  “What are we wearing? Is this a naked shoot? I’m cool with that if it is. I just got done manscaping.” Hollis continues to talk at a nearby distance and I pray he doesn’t come over to see me, especially with Bellini only a foot away. It would be a complete disaster.

  “Melon, for Christ’s sake, what is taking you so long? Swim cap and lips. I have places to be today.”

  Retched woman.

  Smiling brightly, I turn to her with my lip stain on the back of my hand and a lip brush in my hand. She puckers up like always and I have to carefully remind her just to keep her lips normal.

  “Bellini, don’t pucker.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Just helping you out, but whatever.” Contrary to what she believes, she’s not helping me out one bit, but I don’t correct her.

  I paint her lips with a light pink, a color slightly darker than her lips to make them stand out against the light color of her skin. Even though I hate the woman, she does have a nice complexion to work with. Every day I see her, I pray she has some kind of zit but she never does. She must sleep with a life-preserving chamber over her head. I wouldn’t put it past her.

  “Rub your lips together.” She does as told while I grab her swim cap to put on her head. In the background, I hear Reese and Hollis discussing their upcoming Olympic trials, which happen to fall on the same days but in different states.

  “Coach Ted is a bastard,” Hollis says. I don’t dare look in his direction, anything to avoid him as much as possibl
e. “He had me practicing my back handstand for an hour yesterday. I don’t know if there is any blood left in my head.”

  “Was there any in there to begin with?” Reese asks with a chuckle.

  “Fuck off.”

  “Uh, earth to Cantaloupe. My swim cap.”

  Shit, I’m standing still listening to their conversation playing with Bellini’s swim cap. I shake my head, trying to rid thoughts of Hollis and turn toward Bellini. “Sorry about that. I was just making sure all the flowers were in place.” That seems to please her.

  Putting her head back, as if there is a fan in front of her and she’s feeling the breeze in her hair, she prepares for the swim cap. I secure it tightly, making sure her freshly styled hair is tucked in perfectly. When I step away, I hold back the snicker that wants to pop out. The swim cap looks absolutely asinine with its fake flowers on top. It’s something you would see a synchronized swimmer from the seventies wear.

  “Bellini, we are ready for you,” Jasper calls out. There is a girl assisting him, someone I’ve never met before. She has long black hair, tattoos, and is carrying around a clipboard. I wonder if she’s new. If she is, heaven help her, as she is in for a rude awakening when it comes to working with Bellini.

  Reese, Jasper, and Bellini are huddled around, talking about the shots they want to take for the reality show, which yes, is all scripted. Every single show is scripted. If they weren’t scripted, you would be watching people sit on their asses, a TV tray in front of them while watching the latest sitcom on TV, wearing sweats with spaghetti sauce dripping down their chin. But instead, they make life seem so glamorous and fun, when in fact, a high percentage of these people laze about with their thumbs twiddling their vaginas.

  Keeping my back to everyone, I finish cleaning my brushes, knowing that once I’m done, I’ll only have to stick around for a little longer to make sure Bellini doesn’t need any more touch-ups. Asiago bagel and strawberry smoothie countdown has begun.

  I’m tucking away my curling iron when I feel a presence behind me. I don’t have to turn around to know who it is.