Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“You would have been fired from Rolling Stone within a week and probably slapped with at least three restraining orders.” It was true. Margot was… well, insane in a fun yet surprised-she-wasn’t-in-jail kind of way. She would have, one hundred percent, handcuffed a rockstar until he agreed to take her to dinner.
“Just because I would hogtie Spencer Hailstorm…”
To be fair, I think most women would be tempted to hogtie the lead singer to Midnite Kills.
We stepped into the dimly lit interior of Mr. Chang’s, the stale scent of greasy stir fry and lo mein thick in the air. “Hogtying someone is a crime,” I said, heading between the tables.
“In some states, it’s a contest.” Margot plopped down in our usual booth by the algae-covered fish tank. “But speaking of crimes. I discovered something very interesting in the elevator… How do you feel about blackmail?” She slid her phone across the table as soon as I settled into the booth across from her.
My gaze dropped to the screen, or better yet, to the massive, pierced dick on the screen. One which would have easily been the hottest penis I’d ever seen if it weren’t for the crappy, hand-drawn smiley face scribbled across the engorged head. To make matters worse, the thing had stick arms. One of which clung to a piece of Photoshopped luggage. And underneath it all: Announcing Paul’s Europenis Tour.
“Margot, what in the…”
“Just keep perusing it.”
I clicked on the gallery icon. A picture of a Thor-like cock in front of the Parthenon—without stick arms—popped up. I slapped a hand over the device just as a family of four passed by the table.
Dear God, I’d almost forgotten we were in the middle of a restaurant.
“Why are you looking at—” I whispered the word porn—“in Mr. Chang’s Buffet? Margot, you’ve got to stop subscribing to these weird sites. You’ve already had your credit card information stolen four—”
“For the last time, it’s not a porn site.” The way her red eyebrows pointed down made her look positively offended. “It’s Lonely Fans.”
Of course, she’d say it wasn’t porn. “Margot, Lonely Fans is basically a porn site with a non-porn sounding name.”
“It is not. It’s a social media platform, thank you very much. And did you forget the part where I told you this was blackmail?”
Honestly, I had. I mean, who wouldn’t forget something like blackmail when presented with a luggage-carting cock with the handle, My Dick Travels? “What does a traveling penis have to do with blackmail?”
She peeled my hand away from the phone.
Once again, the doodled-on eyes of that massive cock stared up at me. And it was huge. Like Godzilla-takes-Tokyo-sized huge, and the silver barbell lodged through its thick head told my ovaries a man with a cock like that would be nothing more than a dirty fuck. One a woman would only regret because she’d look bad if she didn’t regret it.
“Brace yourself.” Margot plucked one of the grease-covered menus from the caddy at the side of the booth, then used it to point at the phone. “Because that amazing dick belongs to Vance.”
And for a moment, the world stopped spinning. Somewhere a fairy died.
That impressive, massive appendage belonged to Vance Morgan? Not that I would imagine Mr. Sophisticated Dream Crusher would have anything less than a dick like that. It matched his face—dreamy, with a hint of promised destruction—but he was boring, uptight, and grumpy as hell. Sure, he could whip up a witty line of dry sarcasm about cheddar cheese, but Vance was the guy I fully expected to grow old and yell at kids for riding their bikes across the corner of his pristine lawn, not have a pierced dick he paraded around like the Olympic torch on a Lonely Fans account.
This could not be real life.
I swiped through a few more photos in the hopes of affirmation only. The squish of lube and a deep, guttural groan cut through the suddenly silent restaurant when an unexpected video popped up.
Panic shot through me as I fumbled with the volume. God, it couldn’t be him. That grunt was too good. It was making me… I couldn’t bear to admit it—wet. “How do you know this is Vance, Margot?”
“Because of this.” She zoomed into the webspace between his thumb and pointer finger, tapping her nail over a heart-shaped birthmark. “I recognized it when he pushed the ground floor button inside the elevator.”
“Recognized it?” Like every minute detail of Paul, the Traveling Cock, had been laser burned into her memory. “How long have you been watching his site?”
“Months… and he must make bank. It’s forty bucks a whack to get access to some of those pictures.”
Forty bucks? To view a photo of his dick on full display in front of Niagara Falls?
I swiped to the next picture.
The monstrous cock stood in front of The Alamo, a raccoon hat Photoshopped on its head and the name Davie Cocket underneath the picture. He’d spent fifteen minutes picking up hole-punch confetti, for fuck’s sake. Why would a man like that have a site like—and then it all clicked.