Page 7 of Stroked by (Stroked)
“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.
Getting in her face, she says, “You work for me, you assist ME! Therefore, if I refer to you as Mauve, the color of your stupid Persian-pattern name, then you will answer to it. Don’t think I don’t know you need this job. I can see it in your eyes. Now, we can either have a nice working relationship, or I can make your life a living hell. It’s up to you . . . Mauve.”
Paisley’s jaw ticks and I can see the minute muscles of her neck flex in frustration. Talking back is on the tip of her tongue, everyone can see it, but instead of slapping Bellini like she deserves with a verbal onslaught of profanity, Paisley turns to me.
Heart-stopping grey eyes and luscious lips.
Fucking. Gorgeous.
So gorgeous my heart rate picks up, and the palms of my hands begin to sweat. I’m a relatively slick man, but my anxiety kicks up a notch from the way her steely eyes are piercing me.
There is no denying her beauty. The heart shape of her face frames her in an angelic light, the pink of her pouty lips beg to be kissed, and the length of her eyelashes speaks trouble. From the scroll of words that dance underneath her right collarbone, to the soft wave of her jet-black hair, she’s no doubt in my mind the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
“Mr. King.” Her voice shakes as she speaks to me. A part of me wants to think her voice is wavering because she’s nervous around me, but I realize I’m wearing a leopard-print Speedo and holding a beach ball. There isnoway she finds this attractive. “Would you like anything to drink?”
I clear my throat, surprised at how nervous she actually makes me. “Uh, I’m good. Thanks.”
She nods and walks away without another word.
Wow, real smooth, fuck-stick. No introduction, no “how are you”, just an “I’m good.” I mentally kick myself in the crotch for my lack of finesse.
First impressions are a real thing, and by the way I’m dressed, and my smooth-operator introduction, I’m striking out.
“Shall we get started?” the photographer asks.
Irritated, I grab Bellini’s hand and force her to sit on the bench. She squeals, flops around for a good minute, sliding around on my slicked up skin while bitching about it, and finally settles on my lap, holding the beach ball in her hand and smiling for the camera. No doubt the tense set of my jaw is evident, but I can’t help but hate every minute of this.
From behind the photographer, I glance at Paisley, trying to gauge her reaction to the photo shoot. What does she think of this sham of a relationship? Is it believable to her like everyone else? I sure as hell hope not, because I know one thing is for sure: I need to get to know Paisley. There is something mysterious in her eyes, something vulnerable. I want to know her story, where she came from, and who the hell she wants to be.
“Look at me and smile,” Bellini hisses in my ear.
Not wanting a meltdown, I do as she says and stare into her blue eyes, picturing them as murky, rodent-infested pools of blue.
In all honesty, she is a pretty woman, so it’s too bad her beauty is only skin-deep. Her heart and soul are the ugliest I’ve ever met, no contest. I have no clue why she is such a heinous human being though.
Because she’s rich? Because she’s able to afford expensive things and brag about it? How does that make her better? It really doesn’t.
