“That’s it, baby, lick your lips. Just like that.”
I’ve obviously gone too long without getting laid when a wet mouth is all it takes to get me hard.
In the middle of an active-wear photo shoot.
With a woman I can’t stand.
“Shit, Bria, you make that water look sexy. Wish it were my cock in your hand.”
Jesus H. Christ. I push off the stool and stalk to the fridge behind the fully stocked bar in Flint’s studio. Yeah, Flint is that kind of photographer. Next to the buffet of liquor, there’s a smorgasbord of condoms and lube and, at the back of the flat, a so-called darkroom. Whether or not any actual photo development happens in there, I can’t say. But I do know that I’ve never seen anyone step out without dilated pupils and a runny nose.
I’m a hundred-percent certain that sports bras and boxer briefs are the tamest products Flint’s ever shot, but ProFit wants to amp up their marketing campaign and what sells better than sex? Who shoots sex better than Flint?
Anxious and off the edge, I grab a beer. I agreed to this shoot because my agent thinks a sponsorship with ProFit will diversify my brand, and I don’t disagree. If these pictures turn out and the athletic company bites, my name and image will reach another sector of the American public. Next stop: ten million boxes of Wheaties.
“Show me that tongue again, princess. Fuck yeah. Perfect.”
I like the money almost as much as I like the notoriety, but there has to be a better way to bolster my motocross career than pimping myself out with the biggest groupie on the freestyle circuit.
I can say that because I’ve contributed to her hard-earned reputation more often than I care to recall. In fact, I don’t remember most of the times I’ve fucked Bria, but she isn’t the type to care about my state of mind when she wants me. And for whatever reason, it is me she wants more often than not. It’s nothing personal. Just the conquest of banging the most up-and-coming guy on the circuit.
Fortunately I’ve outgrown most of that ego-boosting bullshit. I don’t do lines (anymore) and don’t have a different girl in my bed every night. I still like my liquor, and the indulgence of a beautiful woman isn’t something I’m likely to give up any time soon. But Bria is no longer my go-to girl and it pisses her off something fierce.
I can’t pretend I don’t know why—I slipped up a month ago in Mexico and it went to her head. But my head? It knows better.
My head is in the game that is my career. My future.
I won’t fuck up again. I can’t afford to.
Flint lowers his camera and shoots me a grin. “What do you think, Colton? Is she hot or is she fucking hot?”
Behind him, Bria watches me beneath her fake, spider-leg eyelashes, silently begging me to say the words she wants to hear. But I won’t and she knows it.
“How much longer do we have here?” I glance down at my watch. “I’ve gotta get back to Anaheim to pack.”
“We’re not due in Daytona until Tuesday.” Bria cocks her head to the side and her long, bleached hair falls off her shoulder, giving full view to the tits plumping out the top of her sports bra.
Fucking dick. Settle the hell down, you dirty bastard.
“I’m going home this weekend,” I tell her, not that I owe her or anyone else an explanation. I just don’t want her showing up at my apartment and giving my roommate shit. Then again, Tito probably wouldn’t mind. He’s balled her, too.
“Wisconsin?” she laughs. “Come on, Country Boy, we both know you’d have a lot more fun here in L.A.”
If I wanted another meaningless fuck…yeah, probably.
But this weekend isn’t about me. It’s about something—someone—more important back home.
“Actually,” Flint says, flipping through the images on the camera, “I think we have enough to seal the deal with ProFit. You guys killed it tonight. I’ll touch base with Liz in the morning and we’ll get the portfolio together while you rock it in Florida.”
Bria’s smug smile burns like a double shot of whiskey on an empty stomach. I’ve worked my ass off to make a name for myself in the sports’ world and all she’s done is flaunt her ass and shoot t-shirts into the crowd. The only reason she’s even here now is because Liz, my agent, thinks I look hotter with a chick hanging around my neck. What-the-fuck-ever.
“In that case, I’m out.” I chug down the beer and pull my jeans and t-shirt back on before I grab my leather jacket and helmet. “Thanks, Flint. I appreciate your help with this.”
“Me, too,” Bria adds, and I hit the loft’s elevator before I give in to my guttural instinct to tell her off.
I ride down to the parking garage, pinching the bridge of my nose and thanking God I woke up when I did. That girl…she’s nothing but trouble.
It’s almost six o’clock and the evening is just about perfect. Cooler than natural-born Californians are used to in April, but warm by my Midwestern standards. My Ducati is parked next to Bria’s BMW and, since I don’t want another run-in with her crazy ass, I quicken my pace. The sound of my boots echoes off the concrete. Horns honk in traffic. A siren wails in the distance.
And my cell rings.
Fuck. It’s either Liz or my circuit manager, James, calling to harass me—again—about skipping out on practice this weekend. So I’ve had a couple rough rides lately. Big deal. We all do from time to time. What I don’t do often, however, is go home.
I pull the phone from my pocket, prepared to tell either of them just that, but the display flashes another name, another face, and I grin. I can’t help it. My best friend’s gorgeous smile always makes me happy.
Climbing onto my bike, I stick the phone to my ear and sing the greeting I’ve held inside all day. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…” I should clarify—I can’t carry a fucking tune, so to call the shit that comes out of my mouth singing is generous. In front of Taylor, I don’t care. Her sweet laugh is worth the humiliation.
“What did you do?” she asks immediately and I know, without asking, what she’s talking about.
“Did you open it yet?” She’s going to die when she sees what’s inside the package I had sent to her.
“No, I planned on waiting until later. I’m having a late dinner with my parents tonight. I figure I’ll need the pick-me-up when I get home.” She sighs and I almost give in and tell her that this time tomorrow night, she’ll be treated to another birthday present. But it’s been months since I’ve been home and I’ve worked hard to keep this visit a surprise.