Page 5 of Stroked by (Stroked)
“Some people might say like Brad Paisley,” she says, in an attempt to correct me. I look at her, clueless. “You know, the country star?”
“Fortunately his name is irrelevant to me. I don’t listen to that cheap southern twang you beer guzzlers call music. I only let my virgin ears listen to the harmonic composers of the Baroque period. For you imbeciles, that would be Bach, Purcell, Scarlatti, and Hendel, to name a few, but I’m sure you knew that.” I give her a knowing look as I pet Pope Francis, fully satisfied with putting her in her place.
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 Icouldfire her. Her life has now become a living hell.
I can only hope Pope Francis will pray for her.
Chapter Three
**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.”
