I cleared my throat with a grunt before undoing my pants and fully dropping trou. “That?” I asked with a chuckle. “Nah, I’m not nervous about your little pouch. About leaving my twenty-year-old nephew in charge of my business for a month so I can run away to film a soft-core Christmas movie when I could just be living a mostly quiet life with my family back home? Yeah, I’m nervous about that. Did I mention I’m Jewish?”
“I’d probably be Wiccan if I weren’t so lazy. So much work. And do you know what a bundle of sage costs in LA County these days?” Luca sized me up from the waist down, taking in what he’d be working with. “So I guess it wasn’t just the angle then,” he said.
I grinned. “Nolan warned me about you,” I told him, “but you’re not nearly as vicious as he said you’d be.”
Luca scoffed as he handed me a pouch to try on while he turned his back. “Vicious? I’d be lying if I said I was anything other than flattered.”
I scooped my junk into the little pocket of fabric, but it became immediately clear that this one wouldn’t do the job. “Do these things come in sizes?” I asked.
“Mind if I take a peek?” Luca asked.
“Go for it.”
He spun around and nodded thoughtfully. “We’re going to need a bigger boat.”
After digging through his magic box of dick pouches, he came up with a few more options and also matched my skin tone to some color swatches.
As I put my pants back on, Luca sucked in a breath before saying, “You were my favorite.”
“What?” I asked. Not because I didn’t hear him, but because I didn’t often hear those words.
“God, this is so unprofessional of me,” Luca said as he dug into his Gucci backpack that was either real or a really good fake. He held out a black T-shirt and a silver fabric marker. “Could you maybe sign this for me?”
I held up the shirt and recognized it immediately. “Whoa,” I said. “Talk about an artifact. I’d be honored.” I took the marker and spread the shirt out on the table. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been asked for my autograph. (Technically, I was asked to sign the shipping manifest when a new pizza oven was delivered to my flagship location three weeks ago, but that didn’t count—even if I did at first think I was being asked to sign for INK-related reasons.)
This specific shirt though was from the merch run from our second stadium tour. Across the top in a neon-green font were the words:kallum nation. Beneath that, I stood with my arms crossed and my legs spread in a wide stance. Despite the tough pose, there was a smirk on my face. It was definitely you-can-trust-me-because-I’m-the-fat-funny-one energy. Anytime we had individual merch for INK, like T-shirts with our faces on them, my print run was always lower than Nolan’s and Isaac’s. But I didn’t let it get to me. How could I? I was on top of the world with my two best friends.
After scribbling my signature with the silver marker, I handed it back over. “Nice to know that someone actually bought those,” I said.
Luca blushed. “I’ve got a whole trunk full of Kallum Lieberman merch, I’ll have you know. You, former ice-skating princess Emily Albright, and Martha Stewart. My holy celeb trinity.”
“Well, bring the whole collection next time,” I told him, my chest puffing with a little bit of pride.
Luca’s gaze narrowed. “Don’t say it unless you mean it.”
I chuckled. This guy was intense, but I liked it. “I mean it. See you in Vermont?”
“With bells on,” Luca sang.
As I walked out of the main offices, I stopped to take a quick picture with the Hope Channel sign. Steph had been on my ass about developing a social media presence beyond pizza. This would make her happy. I whipped up a quick caption about just finishing my first fitting forSanta, Babyand hit Share. Since the video leaked, I’d had an influx of followers, and even though I felt like a dinosaur on the internet, I was willing to do whatever Steph said to give this career rebound a real shot. If I was going to piss off my family, I’d better make it worth it.
The Hope Channel sent a car service to take me back to my hotel. When the driver asked if I’d like any music, I told him to turn on whatever he wanted to listen to, so as the Lakers game blared through the speakers—the sound of shoes squeaking on the basketball floor and announcers talking too fast—we sat in the kind of traffic that made me homesick for the much-less-traffic-afflicted KC.
As the sun dipped below the smoggy horizon, the day began to slowly sink in.
Winnie Baker—the same Winnie Baker who made me feel like a fucking animal when I was a teenager—had just admitted to me that she’d never experienced an orgasm. To top it off, I just got fitted for a dick pouch to wear during the steamy Christmas movie we were about to start filming. My business was on the line. My mom and sister were pissed at me. And all I could think about was the shape Winnie’s lower lip would make as she shuddered with pleasure—preferably given by me.
Why was I doing this to myself? Even if something somehow happened with Winnie over the next few weeks, it wouldn’t last. As much as I hated it, I couldn’t deny my romantic history: I wasn’t the kind of guy that girls stuck around for. And screwing my way through weddings looking for The One couldn’t last forever, but it was a good enough time. Eventually some of those girls would get divorced, and maybe one of them would settle down with me. I’d make an okay second-round pick one day. Babies hated me anyway—especially my niece. If I so much as accidentally looked at her, she’d erupt in bloodcurdling screams, but I could be a stepdad to an awkward tween or something. Twelve-year-olds liked free pizza, right?
When I finally made it back to the hotel, it was dark, and I was on the first flight in the morning back to KC to wrap up just a few more things before disappearing for the better half of a month.
I was exhausted. I needed to sleep.
But all I could think of was Winnie, standing in that hallway, leaning into me. Sitting beside me on our fake sleigh as my hand wrapped around her delicious thigh.
Reaching for my phone, I opened YouTube and typed in a phrase so familiar that my phone autofilled it after the first two letters.
Winnie Baker lip biting compilation.
