Ash is a fashion model, not by choice but the desire of his projecting mother. People think he's too cocky for his own good, judging him based on what he posts online. But Ash hates the brush he's been painted with, along with the stereotypes of the...
rejected: (verb) 1. a person or thing dismissed as inadequate or unacceptable.
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We part ways as soon as Carol signs us out. I could still feel the presence of his hand on my dick, working it like magic. God, it felt like magic. My own hand could never. Now I had to accept that I have a few days without seeing him.
Re-imagining what we did to each other. His lips, they tasted sweet and his cock. Oh that felt even better in my hand. The way it grew by touching it. I never wanted it to stop, even if I know that I'm bad for him. Bad, bad news.
When I get home my father is back from work early, he's standing in the kitchen. As soon as he sees me he beckons his head down to the basement. "Come on," he says, removing himself from the stool. "Time to train."
"We trained until eleven last night, dad." I grumble. "Can't I have the night off? It's Friday and I've made plans to see my friends."
His eyes narrow in my direction and he folds his arms over his chest, displeased with my response. "Are you serious?"
"Yes, I'm serious," I breathe through my teeth. Not wanting to back down. "I need time to rest, you worked me to the bone last night. And don't think I'm not still pissed at what you told me earlier."
My father rolls his eyes. "You're still not over that?"
"Not when you do things behind my back, especially when I say that I wanted to tell them. Not you, it makes me look like a coward. Like I have something to hide!" I don't mean for my voice to raise but I can't help it and I can tell it doesn't sit well with my dad.
"I am pretty much your manager."
"No you're not." I cut over him.
He waves off the conversation. "Training. Professionals don't rest. They power on, they keep going until they physically can't anymore."
"No dad," I snap, feeling my hands shake beside my body. "Professionals rest, that's why they're so good at what they do. Because they give themselves time to rest, time to themselves so they don't go absolutely batshit crazy."
My father scoffs and I resist the urge to lose control. "You've got that completely wrong, Bodi."
"No I don't," I shake my head before walking towards the stairs. "I'm going out with my friends tonight because I deserve it. Don't try and stop me."
I pass him and turn my head, running straight for the shower. A part of me feels lighter, standing up to my dad has never felt so thrilling, so liberating. He could come charging up here any given moment but I hear no movement downstairs.
Hopefully he's got the message. Especially after telling my sponsors and future connections about being on tag, breaking the law. Fuck knows what he said, how he said it. Probably made me out to be a complete cocky git, too smug to even tell them myself.
