After a minute, I heard her yell, “FUCK YOU!” and then the bedroom door slammed and then, thankfully, silence.
I hated to be rude, seriously, but I knew that if I didn’t give Bree the bum’s rush she would have hung around all day long. Bree was a great fuck, but she’d never win a contest at being a conversationalist. She was too young for me. I could never see myself getting serious with her even though she was drop dead gorgeous.
Tall, brunette, the aforementioned big tits, and an ass that would make the Kardashians jealous. But that’s where it ended. I’d known Bree for a few months now, and had yet to hold a serious conversation with her about anything. Just having a casual conversation was like trying to explain quantum physics to a first grader.
I was reaching for the shower faucet when I heard my cellphone ringing in the bedroom. I cracked open the door just to make sure Bree was gone, then found my phone on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed to answer it.
“Go for Chad,” I said.
“Hey, Chad. It’s Martin. How’s it hanging, buddy?”
“A little low and to the right at the moment,” I said, glancing down at my flaccid cock with a smile. “How’s it hanging for you?”
Martin Friese was my business manager and publicist. I had hired him five years ago when my fitness company, Body By Chad, first started to take off. I had worked forever to build my brand as a personal trainer and fitness coach and now, after years of busting my hump twenty-hours a day, seven days a week, the business was taking off with celebrity clients swarming around like hungry bees in a field of wild flowers.
Martin was responsible for much of that success. Body by Chad wouldn’t be where it was today if it wasn’t for his expert public relations skills and celebrity connections—connections that landed me in front of the most prestigious clients thanks to the likes of TMZ, People Magazine, and Radar Online. I was constantly amazed what one photo standing behind Katy Perry at Starbuck’s will do for your bra
nd, even though Katy didn’t know me from Adam back then. I even landed a contract to train the blonde bombshells at the Playboy Mansion. And things didn’t stop there.
As the opportunities and income grew, I knew my brand had to grow with it. Martin told me time and time again, “It’s all smoke and mirrors… You are only as successful as the public deems you to be… Live large… Always be seen… Do whatever it takes to stay in the public’s eye… There is no such thing as bad PR… Fake it till you make it, brother… Fucking fake it till you make it.”
As soon as I could swing it financially (thanks to good credit and Martin’s co-signature), I bought a Brentwood Estate just outside of Hollywood. $6.5 million bucks, baby… A luxury mansion in a gated community, with 10 bedrooms and more bathrooms than one person could ever use. Six-car garage, tennis court, Olympic size pool, theater room, gourmet kitchen, master bedroom larger than my first apartment, and a toilet that shoots water up your ass.
The basement was a perfect set-up for my own fitness studio, where I privately trained celebrity clients and recorded my DVDs and the workout videos for my private website. I put four-hundred-grand into the place after I bought it, pimping it out to my standards.
Life was good. I had my main business in my basement (I owned three gyms in the city), my own line of fitness apparel and exercise DVD’s, along with a dozen books that had been ghostwritten for me (like I have the fucking time to write). The best part about being me were the private sessions I give to certain female celebrities who shall remain nameless. Let’s just say that more often than not, those sessions come with a happy ending, if you know what I mean.
“The reason I’m calling,” Martin continued, “I need you to fly out to New York in a couple of days. Good Morning Manhattan would like to do a segment on you. It would be great exposure and you could pimp the new DVD’s that are dropping later this month.”
I whined into the phone like a spoiled bitch. “Two days? Fuck, Martin you know I can’t just up and leave on a moment’s notice like that…”
“Chad, dude, this is the show we’ve been trying to get you on for the last six months. New York City’s number one morning show. And now they want you on the show, but it’s gotta be this week. You cannot pass this up. Whatever you have going on, have your assistant reschedule and get your ass on a plane. Capiche?”
I sighed until my lungs were out of air. I fell back on the bed and gave my balls a little scratch. “Fine. Book it and send me the flight and hotel info.”
“Awesome!” Martin said. I could feel him smiling over the phone. More money in my pocket meant more money in his. “Don’t forget, rock star, you are the number one guru in the fitness industry right now and we’re going to keep it that way, my man. You got this!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said, wondering if he really believed half of the shit that came out of his mouth. “I’ll see you in New York on Monday.”
I tossed the phone on the bed and went off to take a shower. For some reason, I felt especially dirty at that moment, and it wasn’t the stink of my jizz and Bree’s cunt coming off my cock and balls.
It was just the smell of my life, a smell I knew I could never wash away, at least not on my own.
CHAPTER THREE: Zoe
“Hello, Mr. Elliot,” I said playfully. Whenever I saw Graham’s face popup on my cellphone I always forced myself to sound happier than I usually was. Graham worried about me like an older brother, so I mustered a smile and put a happy tone to my voice before I slid the screen to answer the call.
“Miss Maxwell,” Graham said, his voice soothing in my ear. “How are you today? Did you make it home safely last night?”
“If I hadn’t you would have been my first call,” I said with a grin. I pushed myself back from the laptop and turned to put my bare feet up on the little writing desk I kept in front of my bedroom window. “What’s up?”
“I was calling to invite your over for dinner tonight?” he said.
“Oh, Graham, I’ve had enough of dinner parties for a while.”
“Not a dinner party, my dear. Nothing fancy, very low key, just you and me. I have something I’d like to run by you.”
“Low key sounds great,” I said, stretching my arms toward the ceiling. I had been writing for several hours and needed a break. “Anything out of the public eye is good for me these days.”