Strip Poker: Bad Boys Club Romance #2 Read online

  “Yeah, man, totally! I hope you don’t mind, I brought a friend to be in the video.”

  “No,” Baseball Cap said vehemently. “Absolutely not – we’re trying to make this go viral, you know we can’t – ”

  About that time, Vic got out of the Humvee.

  “WHOA,” the baseball cap guy said as he stared. “Are you The Beard?”

  “Yes I am,” Vic said.

  Baseball Cap looked back at Trevor. “Is he the friend?”

  “Yes he is.”

  Baseball Cap jabbed his finger at Vic. “He is TOTALLY going in the video!”

  Then I got out of the Humvee.

  “Whoa,” the director said. “Is she going to be in the video, too?”

  “NO,” both Vic and I snapped at the same time.

  I glared at Vic; he just smiled at me.

  “Are you sure?” Baseball Cap asked as he framed his fingers in a square and peered at me through them. “I mean, the whole hot librarian thing – ”

  “If you need hot chicks, I could get a dozen out here within 30 minutes,” Vic suggested.

  “Oh my God, that could be – yes. YES. Would you?” Baseball Cap asked.

  “Sure, man. Anything to help out my buddy Trev,” Vic said as he whipped out his phone.

  “Awesome – oh my God, this shoot just got 500 percent better – okay, I’m gonna go set up the first shot.”

  Baseball Cap ran off and started yelling at the other people milling around.

  “That’s Duncan, the director,” Trevor explained.

  “What are you guys doing, anyway?” I asked.

  “Drone skeet shooting.”

  “…what?”

  “You know what regular skeet shooting is? Where they fire those little discs out in the air, and you shoot them with – ”

  “I know what skeet shooting is,” I interrupted.

  “Well, this is the same thing, but they’re going to use radio-controlled flying drones instead.”

  I stared at him. “What?”

  “Yeah, and we’re going to use machine guns to blow them out of the sky.”

  “…why?!”

  “Because it’s cool as fuck,” Vic piped up from the other side of the Humvee. “Seriously, Trev, cool as fuck.”

  “Thanks, man!” Trevor beamed.

  “It’s not cool – it’s wasteful!” I said.

  “Wasteful?! He’s an action movie star – he’s supposed to shoot guns and blow shit up!” Vic argued.

  “I don’t care – it’s still stupid!”

  I noticed we were attracting an audience. Virtually every guy on the crew had stopped doing their work and were watching us.

  Vic noticed, too, and it made him a little more agitated as a result. He raised his voice louder than normal as he said, “It’s not your dime, and it’s not my fuckin’ uncles’, either, so settle down and shut up, Peanut Gallery.”

  OH NO HE DIDN’T.

  A bunch of guys on the crew chuckled – until I turned around and glared at them, at which point they clammed up real fast.

  Then I asked Trevor, “Do you mind giving us a minute?”

  Actually, I didn’t really ask so much as demand.

  “Uh… sure,” he said, and shot Vic another Woo boy look as he walked off towards the camera guys.

  “What’s your fuckin’ problem?” Vic asked, arms out like What gives?

  “I’ll tell you what my problem is – my problem is you’re a self-centered, entitled little toddler with a beard, and you run around crapping all over everything and expecting other people to clean up your mess!” I yelled.

  That got some more chuckles from the crew, and a few Daaaamns. Since they weren’t at my expense, though, I didn’t mind.

  “Is this about last night?” Vic asked.

  “What, when I wouldn’t sleep with you?” I jeered.

  More noises from the crew. Vic looked around in irritation, then glared back at me. “Keep your voice down.”

  “Oh, so it’s okay when YOU disrespect ME in front of everybody, but not okay when I disrespect YOU?”

  “I’ve got a rep to protect here,” he whispered harshly.

  “You know how many fucks I give about your rep?” I hissed. “Exactly ZERO.”

  “You SHOULD, seeing as you’re the one trying to make MONEY off it,” he growled.

  Okay… I didn’t really have a comeback to that one.

  “Look, I am a guy. Trevor is a guy. And these,” Vic hissed, flinging his arm out at the crew, “are a bunch of guys, doing guy things – like shooting guns and blowing shit up. But you’re making me look like an idiot.”

  “You don’t need me to make you look like an idiot, you do that perfectly fine all by yourself.”

  “What the hell IS this?! You’re normally bitchy, but this is like Super Bitch on crack!”

  “You haven’t SEEN Super Bitch on crack yet.”

  “No, but I’m apparently seeing her on her period,” Vic snapped, which got another laugh from the crew.

  OH, IT’S ON NOW.

  “You sexist, misogynistic, emotionally retarded little frat boy – ”

  “Big words from a little girl,” he sneered.

  “Big talk from a little dick,” I shot back.

  The entire crew exploded in a gigantic OHHHHHHH!

  I’d got him. Vic’s face flushed scarlet with anger, but there wasn’t a whole lot he could do to counteract that one, not without me having an even better riposte. Unless he had a tree trunk in his pants he could whip out – and even that would look desperate and insecure. Not only that, but I could counter with, “Meh… I’ve seen bigger.”

  He was smart enough to know when he was beaten. Instead he pulled me aside and whispered harshly, “Okay, cut the crap – what exactly is your fucking problem?”

  “We should be at a business meeting right now,” I seethed.

  “We ARE – just not a STUPID one.” He stepped up closer and lowered his voice. “Look, Trevor is exactly the kind of guy we should be working with. Wouldn’t you want to become Arnold Schwarzenegger’s producing partner right before he did Terminator? Or Bruce Willis right before Die Hard?”

  “This guy’s not Bruce Willis or Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

  “You don’t know that. One good film and people blow up HUGE. Happens all the time. Chris Pratt buffed up to play a SEAL in Zero Dark Thirty. Because of that he got cast in Guardians of the Galaxy, then Jurassic World. Before, he was the funny chubby guy on Parks and Recreation. Now he’s one of the most bankable movie stars in the world. This is our chance to get Trevor when he’s doing Zero Dark Thirty. Come on, it’s a fuckin’ no-brainer.”

  I hated it when he had a good point.

  “…I’ll talk to your uncles about it,” I grumbled.

  “Lot of good that’ll do,” he snarled as he walked off. “They want me to sell mortgages.”

  32

  Vic

  Despite an absolutely shitty start to the afternoon – courtesy of Monica – the rest of the time was effin’ amazing.

  First, my little post to Instagram did its work. Within sixty minutes we had eight local girls show up, five of them Playboy-worthy models in little itty bitty bikinis, and all of them begging to be in the shoot. We took the two hottest and let the crew ogle the rest.

  Then the tech guys sent about thirty of those toy drones up in the air. There were another five outfitted with GoPros we weren’t allowed to shoot that would film the action from fifty feet up.

  Then they brought out the guns. Uzis, MAC-10’s, AK-47’s, a big-assed Gatling they put on the back of a jeep – holy shit, it was like a Sylvester Stallone movie came along and handed out party favors.

  We made the most of it, me and Trevor and the two Playboy bunnies, blasting drones out of the sky like it was nothing. Fuckin’ hilarious. I haven’t had that much fun since – well, since forever.

  Trevor looked like a badass action hero – the next Schwarzenegger, for sure.

  And o
nce the director saw how much the girls’ tits jiggled when they were firing the machine guns, they got all of the women out there blasting away.

  All except Monica, of course. She stood in the background the entire time, a disapproving frown on her face to go with the gigantic stick up her ass.

  After two hours of guns and explosions, we thanked the girls and the crew and called it a day.

  “We’ll have this edited together in a day or two with some bitchin’ music,” the ballcap-wearing director promised. “You don’t mind putting it on your Instagram?”

  “Not at all, man. Just hit me up and I’ll post it.”

  “Oh, thank you, THANK YOU, Vic,” the director said, putting his hands together like he was praying. “That’s an extra ten million hits at least – maybe even a hundred million.”

  At least SOME people knew my fuckin’ worth.

  I turned around and glared at Monica.

  Why didn’t SHE?

  I turned back to the director. “My pleasure, anything to help out a friend.”

  After Trevor and I signed the models’ boobs with a Sharpie, got their phone numbers for future Vegas stopovers, and took about a hundred selfies with the girls and crew, we all headed for the Hummer.

  Monica, of course, was already sitting inside. Had been for the last hour.

  “You get some good stuff today?” I asked Joe, my social media guy.

  “Off the hook, Vic,” Joe said.

  “Alright. Don’t post anything big until they send us the video – just some teasers, maybe. Chicks with guns, stuff like that.”

  “You got it.”

  As Joe went on ahead to store his gear in the Humvee, Trevor asked me, “What’s the deal with that Monica chick?”

  I groaned. “My uncles hired her to keep me under control.”

  He laughed. “Doesn’t look like it’s working out too great for them.”

  “And it WON’T. You can count on that.”

  “Still…” Trevor said, “she’s hot. I mean, way hot.”

  “Yeah,” I admitted grudgingly.

  “Especially when she’s mad.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s a bitch and a half, too.”

  “Super Bitch on crack,” Trevor laughed, recalling my earlier insults.

  “And on her period,” I reminded him.

  “I’ll bet she’s amazing in bed, though,” Trevor mused.

  “The crazy ones always are.”

  “You gonna tap that?”

  Not anymore.

  “HELL no. No pussy in the world is good enough to have to put up with that.”

  Trevor laughed. “Seems like you’re having to put up with it already. Might as well get something out of it.”

  “Ain’t that the sad truth,” I grumbled.

  33

  The entire ride to the hotel, Monica was sending me icy vibes from the backseat.

  I ignored her completely. Trevor and I had a great time swapping stories about movie shoots and my crazy exploits. Joe even filmed some of our conversation for posterity.

  Once we got back to the Mandalay Bay, Trevor and I said our goodbyes.

  “Hey, let’s do something someday,” he said seriously. “I’d totally work with you anytime, anywhere.”

  “You got it, brother,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Trevor and I exchanged one last hug, and Joe took off to his room.

  Now it was just me and Monica.

  As soon we were alone in the elevator, it started.

  “I was on the phone for half an hour with your uncles,” she snarled. “Both of them this time.”

  “Did you tell them what I said about going and fucking themselves?”

  “No I did not.”

  “Wasted opportunity.”

  “They spent the entire time chewing me out.”

  “They’ve chewed me out plenty of times before. You’ll get used to it.”

  “Except that I can be fired. You can’t.”

  I shrugged. “Oh well.”

  “‘Oh well’? ‘OH WELL’?! I got off your back this afternoon and let you have your fun – now I need you to help me out.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I get fired.”

  “Not my problem.”

  From the look on her face, that was probably the wrong thing to say.

  She popped the STOP button on the control panel, and the elevator ground to a halt. Then she got right up in my face as the alarm clanged.

  “You conceited, arrogant prick,” she shouted, “I will MAKE it your problem!”

  As I looked down at her, I swear to God – as much as I hated her – Trevor was right: she was smokin’ hot when she was mad. I didn’t know whether I wanted to yell at her or fuck her right here in the elevator.

  No – actually, I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

  I reached over and pushed in the STOP button, silencing the alarm and starting the elevator up again.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said calmly.

  She silently stewed as we made our way to the penthouse, then stomped into her bedroom and shut the door.

  Thank God.

  34

  My clothes were back from the hotel dry cleaner’s, lying clean and pressed on my bed. I took a hot shower to wash away the desert, then changed back into them.

  About that time is when my phone started blowing up.

  Text after text. Poker buddies, professional athletes, no-account scoundrels – all of them razzing me mercilessly.

  LOL – didn’t know you were that whipped, Vic!

  Dude, you got the Beard – where’s the balls?!

  Damn, she straight-out schooled you, Vic!

  What the fuck?

  I Googled my own name. Seems there was a video that was trending hard the last hour: “The Beard Loses His Balls.”

  What the FUCK?!

  I found the video on Youtube – over seven million views and counting.

  In less than two hours.

  The screen grab was from the desert this afternoon – Monica pointing her finger at me in a silent scream. In the background was the Humvee.

  I got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I pressed ‘Play.’

  It started off with me mid-sentence: “Settle down and shut up, Peanut Gallery.”

  Then there was a jump cut to Monica yelling, “You’re a self-centered, entitled little toddler with a beard, and you run around crapping all over everything and expecting other people to clean up your mess!”

  Somebody had intercut footage of a screaming toddler running around naked with a fake beard.

  Great.

  Then it cut back to me asking, “Is this about last night?”

  Monica yelled back, “What, when I wouldn’t sleep with you?”

  Somebody cut in a laugh track from a TV sitcom.

  Then there was a jump-cut to me saying, “You’re making me look like an idiot.”

  “You don’t need me to make you look like an idiot, you do that perfectly fine all by yourself.”

  More canned laughter.

  “What the hell IS this?! You’re normally bitchy, but this is like Super Bitch on crack!”

  “You haven’t SEEN Super Bitch on crack yet.”

  “No, but I’m apparently seeing her on her period.”

  Monica went nuclear. “You sexist, misogynistic, emotionally retarded little frat boy – ”

  “Big words from a little girl,” I said.

  And then Monica’s vicious comeback: “Big talk from a little dick.”

  Cut to an internet meme of some guy going ‘Ohhhhhhh!’ with his mouth in a little ‘O’ as the words ‘Oh no she di-int!’ flashed underneath him.

  Then it cut back to Monica repeatedly saying, “Little dick – little dick – little dick – little dick,” intercut with an old Instagram shot of me where I’d been clowning and looking sad for the camera, plus other shots of women laughing and pointing, and multiple images of cocktail wieners and gherkin pick
les.

  Then it was over.

  I stood there, stunned.

  Then I scrolled down to read the comments. There were tens of thousands of them.

  The bigger the Humvee, the littler the dick

  Hot chicks don’t like little dicks!

  Hey – new internet meme! with a link.

  I clicked it.

  There was a whole page of photos of me looking sad, with different captions on all of them:

  Little Dick Vic!

  When your Bae is all like, “You got a little dick” to the whole internet

  It takes a big Beard to hide a little Dick

  Little dick? Cue sad trombone – ‘Waaa-wuuuuh…’

  It went on and on, with a lot more effed-up variations.

  I wanted to throw the phone across the room, but I knew there was one more thing I had to check. I absolutely didn’t want to do it, because I could already see what was coming a mile away – but I did it anyhow.

  I pulled up my Instagram page.

  Great.

  Every troll and hater on the internet had come out in full force.

  I always knew he was overcompensating.

  Little Dick Vic!

  Hey Vic, is that why you gotta pay all those models to hang out with you?

  And woman after woman – none of whom I’d actually slept with – posting,

  Yeah, it ain’t all that.

  I was like, is it in yet?

  I asked him to take his pinky out and put in his dick, and he said that IS my dick

  Mother FUCKER.

  35

  Let’s get one thing straight.

  I know what I’ve got in my pants, and it ain’t even close to little.

  I’ve never been one of those guys to go around bragging. It’s like a dude who keeps talking about his Rolodex and Maserati: if you’ve got to brag about it, are you really that rich?

  So a bunch of idiots on the internet laughing and pointing fingers means nothing to me.

  EXCEPT…

  My image was everything.

  Literally, it was all I had. I’d spent years on it, cultivating it, building a brand.

  Any time my uncles tried to cut off my expense account, I reminded them of the contacts I’d made because of my parties… or that deal I’d closed because the guy wanted to party with The Beard.