Trophy Boyfriend Quotes

He wants to call me? On the phone? Who even does that anymore?! This is an outrage! I won’t even pick up when my grandmother calls unless she calls twice in a row! If you need to get ahold of me, text. If it’s an emergency—still text.

A cold foot touches mine, an appendage so frigid it could freeze an iceberg. Or shrink a cock three sizes.

Trace Edward, what did I just say?” “That’s not my middle name.” He politely reminds her. “That’s Tripp’s middle name.” “Stop arguing with your mother,” says his father.

You don’t need extra sleep—you need a personality adjustment. Consider this community service.

Tell him to stop interrupting me, Mom,” I whine, glancing at my father, who’s watching us both, disgusted. Two grown men, with full-time jobs. Homeowners. Respectable members of society, arguing at his kitchen table. Whatever. Tripp sucks and he’s dumb.

You can easily find out her real name and address with your hacker skills, and I’ll just pop out to Cleveland or wherever and kill her. That way she won’t beat you anymore at your game. I’ll let you choose whether I Own her or not, and how slowly and painfully you want her to die. I’ll bring home a trophy for you to display so everyone will see how much I care for you.” I looked around his place. “A garland with her teeth maybe, or her scalp if she has nice hair.” Wyatt made a kind of gurgling sound. “Sam. You’re joking aren’t you? In that weird way you do sometimes? You can’t just kill her. I want to beat her at the game, not physically harm her person. I’ll work on my technique and I’ll win eventually.” Why would he want to do that? This idea was growing on me. What boyfriend wouldn’t want a garland of teeth?

I’m very fertile,” Hollis informs me, flipping her hair back. “You should stay as far away from these ovaries as you can unless you want me showing up on your doorstep in nine months.” She rubs her belly in slow circles and I feel myself hardening. I’ll fucking put a baby in that sexy stomach. “Is that supposed to be a turn-off? Because I just came in my pants twice.” Pause. “Congratulations, you’re having twins.

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Since being dumped by my ex-boyfriend last year. Steven Michael Raleigh decided that finishing his MBA meant he needed a trophy wife who

Her mouth tastes like heaven. Her tits feel like heaven in my hands. Her pussy rubbing against my cock? Heaven. No other word can describe it, and I won’t even try because I’m borderline brain-dead at this point, all the blood having drained into my dick.

I’m far from perfect. I’m literally the biggest jackass I’ve ever met and I don’t make apologies for that, so I ask that you bear with me. I don’t want to know what my like is life without you.

Mom rolls her eyes. “Your father is right, dear. This is a great way to salvage your reputation.” She drinks from her water glass. “You’re kind of an asshole.” “Mom!

I’m very fertile,” Hollis informs me, flipping her hair back. “You should stay as far away from these ovaries as you can unless you want me showing up on your doorstep in nine months.” She rubs her belly in slow circles and I feel myself hardening. I’ll fucking put a baby in that sexy stomach. “Is that supposed to be a turn-off? Because I just came in my pants twice.” Pause. “Congratulations, you’re having twins.” Her nose and mouth contort. “You are so gross.

Oh my god your mother is adorable,” Hollis is saying. “Jesus, I hate lying and I hate you right now. Look how excited she is, you asshole.” She pushes her car door open and steps out. “Mrs. Wallace, hiiiiii!” Women. I’ll never understand them.

Mom, this is Hollis,” I mumble to myself, locking the car with the remote and heading into the garage. “No, no, go on in. I’ll just start the grill. No, I insist,” I pout, deserted and alone.

The point is, I made it clear to my mother that there was zero fucking in her house. Rest assured, I put her mind at ease.” The things I do for her. How has she not fallen in love with me yet?

The list goes on and on—not that we’re competitive. It’s just that I’m better. He simply won’t admit it.

him. Ugh. STOP BEING AMAZING, DAMMIT! I’m trying not to like you!

Trace Robert Wallace do not tell me anything untoward happened in that guest room.” “Does dry humping count as untoward?” I muse, glancing off into the distance. Mom’s water glass stops halfway to her mouth. “You better be lying.” Tripp cackles. True is laughing so hard she can hardly breathe. I hate them both. “Trace.” My name on my mother’s lips holds a warning. “Tell me you’re lying.” “Okay, I’m lying.” She tries again. “Are you lying?” “Yes.” “Trace!” “You told me to lie!” “I meant tell the truth!” “Fine, okay, we kicked it old school. Is that what you want to hear? Heavy petting only. Jeez, Mom, there was no penetration—we’re just friends.” “Don’t say penetration at the supper table,” Dad finally says, scolding me, causing my sister to launch into a laughing fit.

It’s when we sit up and say our final goodbyes to our self-image, and the illusions we’ve created around this image, in an attempt to impress others and ourselves. It’s the moment of choosing to be okay with ourselves. Whether it is our job, the college degree we worked so hard to get, or our new exciting girlfriend or boyfriend, whatever personal worth we’ve been attaching to these trophies is now and forever deceased—intentionally buried by a good-self overseeing the death that counts.

Yes, but you can’t fall in love with the idea of someone’s potential, Chandler—you’ll only end up heartbroken.

She’s glowing – or maybe it’s just the lighting. Either way, she’s beautiful and pregnant and mine. Well. Not yet, but she will be.

I will do right by you in all the ways that matter. I promise, True Wallace, I will not let you down.

My strength is my patience. My contentment

That wasn’t a fun book club meeting. Plus, at that meeting, Gert ate most of the taco dip, which really pissed me the fuck off. Part of the reason I’m willing to read their stupid, shitty book selection every month is the taco dip tray I know is going to be at the meetings. Gertrude and I had it out that night, let me tell you.

You lost, sweetheart?” Sweetheart? Gag.

Did you just call me sweetheart?” she asks again. “You look sweet to me, darlin’.” “Oh my god—gross.” She jabs at the up button, desperate to get away from me. Well too bad—I’m going up, too. “Calling someone sweetheart isn’t a crime.” “No, but you don’t know me, and I find it offensive and condescending.

There’s a lot to be said for being attractive. I would know, because I’m handsome. I can’t control what my face looks like—it’s not my fault I’m so damn good-looking.

Really. You read romance novels?” I bite into my first hard shell taco and moan. “What trope?” Trope. Another mental pat and I smile to myself when her eyes get soft. “Um.” She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “Mostly the usual stuff. Uh, cowboy romance and…sports romance.” What’s this now? Sports romance? I sit up straighter in my chair. “That’s a thing?” “Yes.” “What kind of sports are you reading about?” She ignores me for a couple beats, choosing that moment to bite into her taco—on purpose, probably!—chewing thoughtfully and not answering the question. Swallows. Takes another bite. I swear to god she’s doing that to torture me. “Baseball.” “Like, baseball baseball? College or what?” “No, professional baseball.” “You’re reading a romance about baseball players?” “I mean—the guy is a baseball player. The girl works as the nanny.” The nanny? What the hell kind of book is this? “He hooks up with the nanny?! Is he married? Where’s the wife?

In my opinion, that’s way too many plot devices and completely unnecessary.” “Genre. Trope. Plot devices. Who are you?” I smirk, knowing I’ve just wet her panties a little with my knowledge of literary terms. “I love reading—what can I say? Just a big old book nerd. Hashtag book lover.” I stuff more food in my mouth, chewing slowly, so as to drive her wild with suspense.

We’ll only take our bottoms off, how’s that?” As far as compromises go, this one sounds pretty darn reasonable. “I’m very fertile,” Hollis informs me, flipping her hair back. “You should stay as far away from these ovaries as you can unless you want me showing up on your doorstep in nine months.” She rubs her belly in slow circles and I feel myself hardening. I’ll fucking put a baby in that sexy stomach. “Is that supposed to be a turn-off? Because I just came in my pants twice.” Pause. “Congratulations, you’re having twins.

Mom: Why are you so stubborn? Just like your brother. Trace: Mom… Mom: What’s her number, dear? I was going to invite her to sit with us at your next game Trace: MOM DON’T YOU DARE Mom: Why are you shouting? Trace: MOM DO NOT Mom: I’m sorry. Did you say something? Trace: MOTHER. DO NOT. Trace: MOM.

The Paul Bunyan outfit from the bachelor party suited him perfectly. Butthole. “What did you just say?” He has more of my mushrooms poised at his lips, about to be shoved into his mouth. “’Cause it sounded like you called me a butthole.” “I most certainly did not,” I huff, though I guess I said it out loud.

I’m not put out about it—I’m taking one for the team,” she counters, riling me up even more. Taking one for the team? “Uh, plenty of women would die to dance with me” is my lame, ego-fueled reply. My lack of a social life is by choice, not lack of options. Chandler makes a show of looking around at the near destitute dance floor. “Oh my god, we should hurry and finish this dance. Just look at the line of women. It’s probably around the block—good thing this song is almost half over. Give the rest of the mob a fighting chance.” Sarcastic little asshole. And she looks so unassuming and sweet, not including the dildo I found in her room.

Son, pick yourself up,” he’s saying in an authoritative tone, mouth set in a straight line. “Roger, he might be hurt,” Mom tells him, worried. “He’s fine. Anyone can see the girl tossed him on his rear.” He’s eyeballing Chandler with a healthy dose of respect. “Don’t say I blame her.

My phone rings. Dammit! It’s him. WHAT IS HE DOING? I swipe to answer, already rolling my eyes. “What?” He pauses. “Is that how you answer the phone now? I thought you were nice.” Nice?

Your tongue. Her throat.” Holy. Christ. The photo shoved in my face shows Chandler on top of me in front of her townhouse in the rain and we’re kissing, rain illuminated by the streetlights, glistening like glitter. We look like a romance novel cover. The kind of book Darla would choose.

Shit.” He suddenly sets down the carver. “You know what I need?” “What?” “An apron.” He disappears into the pantry adjacent to the kitchen then sticks his head out. “Do you want one too?” Lord. Can I handle him in an apron? “Um, sure.” Tripp is pulling one over his neck when he walks back out, a basic black canvas getup he’s tying around his waist. Has an identical one for me. Standing in front of me, mere inches away, he slides the thin straps over my head, pulls it down and sizes it. Creates a fold in front so it’s not too long, then slides his arms behind my back, loops it around once, and ties it in a bow at my belly button. “Well then. Aren’t you fucking adorable.” He leans forward, kissing me on the tip of the nose. What the what has gotten into him? What the hell is in this wine?

Also, my brother refused to delay his honeymoon so I could go to the Maldives with them, a place I’ve never been, and is it too much to ask that they fucking postpone it until February?

She doesn’t look like the type of girl who has a hot pink vibrator stashed next to the bed; then again, I don’t look like the type of dude who has to jerk off a few times a week because he cannot get laid. Looks can be deceiving.

My strength is my patience. My contentment. My lack of a need for drama.

Who gives a rat’s ass if her cousin isn’t dancing? I sure as hell don’t. She has two working legs; it’s not like she can’t go dance by herself if she really wants to.

Whatever.” The wind kicks up, lifting the hem of her pretty, floral dress, tan legs exposed. Smooth. Lean. Great legs. “Stop checking me out, creep.” Creep? What the…

Me: Literally any word? And I say it and we leave? Trace: Yup—any word or phrase. Say, for example, you were talking and wanted to go and said wiener. I would know it was time to leave. Me: As if I’d be able to use the word wiener in a sentence casually in front of all those people. Trace: It wouldn’t have to be in front of anyone—you could whisper wiener in my ear. This has got to be the strangest conversation I’ve ever had with a man, in my entire life. Me: Um, yeah, no. Trace: What about smegma. Or moist. Ointment. Me: LOL I laugh, imagining the look on a baseball player’s face—or a wife’s, or a girlfriend’s—if I used any of those words in a sentence. Trace: Wanker. Phlegm. Plunker. Flaps. Me: No! Where are you coming up with these? Trace: It has to be a word that is distinct so there is no mistaking it’s the escape word! Me: I get that, but does it have to be gross? Trace: What’s gross about the word plunker? Me: LOL Trace: Fine. How about…Daddy. Me: LOL Me: Nice try—I am NOT calling you Daddy in public. Trace: So what you’re saying is, you’ll call me Daddy in private? Me: LOL NO!

That’s right. You said you’re in a book club, but do you actually do the reading?” More chips go in my mouth. I like the idea of making her wait for my answers, especially when she seems so intent on hearing them. “Yeah. Of course I do the reading.” “Because you like books.” Why is she saying books like that? As if the sound of the word is turning her on—it’s so weird. And why is she leaning forward, with her boobs smushed into the edge of the table? Is she doing that on purpose? “Yes?” “What kind of books do you read when you’re not reading romance?” I hear her low chuckle over the sound of the mariachi band and the chatter of the people surrounding us. Brat. I rack my brain for the last book I’ve read that wasn’t a book club selection. “It was a World War II biography written by a fighter pilot whose plane went down. He lived in the jungle for a few months without any supplies, food, or weapons to keep him safe.” “Was it a thick book?” “Um. Yes?” She nods. Nods again, watching me as she takes a few more chips and breaks them into pieces. “Uh huh. Tell me more.” Okay, what the hell is going on right now? It looks like she’s turned on, but I know she can’t stand me, so is she having a hot flash? Or a seizure?

I’m definitely not sweet and I’m definitely not his sweetheart.

Hooray.” Her pink-tipped fingernail whirls through the air near her head, sarcastically. Wow. Okay, maybe not so sweet after all. “Hey…sorry I called you sweetheart. I didn’t realize you’re actually super salty.” This comment causes her brows to shoot up. “Just stop talking.

I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” I try again, laying on the charm. Another eye roll. “I didn’t throw it.” Cheeky. I like it. “What’s your name?” There. Try evading that. “I’m not telling you.

So I go to the circulation desk, grab a piece of paper, and write, I like your books. Then I slip it to her as I walk by, which, in hindsight, was creepy as fuck and a terrible error in judgment.” “Why?” “Because I have abysmal penmanship.” I grab a paper napkin and ask Hollis if she has a pen—she does—then write I like your books. Hand it to her. “I like your boobs?” “It says books.” “It says boobs.” “See? Do you see now where this all went wrong? Do you see now where this story is headed?” “Don’t say another word or I’m going to choke on this taco.” Her skin is bright red and she’s about to burst out laughing; I can see her holding it in. She is about to freakin’ explode. Obviously I say more words. “So she thinks I’m telling her I like her tits—er, boobs—which were probably sagging down to the ground, mind you.” I shiver at the memory. “Instead of confronting me about it, the lady goes and tells the librarian there is a pervy sexual harasser on the premises. She goes and tells the security guard, and he yanks my audiobook selections out of my viselike grip and escorts me out. God, I was so humiliated—Betty from non-fiction and I made eye contact, and I’ve never felt so ashamed.” “Stop it.” Tears are welling up in her eyes. “No. She told her friend Ethel, who is a member of the Bellmont Readers, who told my mother.” “This is too much.” She’s swatting at the air between us. “You’re making this up.” “They took my card away, Hollis! You don’t joke about this shit. I’m no longer welcome at any library within the tri-state area, thanks to my shoddy handwriting

Tripp, True and I are here a lot. Lots of family dinners. Family first.” I shrug it off, though inside, my heart leapt out of my chest at the tender expression on her cute face. A little. I said it leapt a little—everyone relax! Her eyes soften. “I love that.” Whoa. What is that look? Is she…making doe eyes at me, or is she feverish?

Oh my god your mother is adorable,” Hollis is saying. “Jesus, I hate lying and I hate you right now. Look how excited she is, you asshole.” She pushes her car door open and steps out. “Mrs. Wallace, hiiiiii!” Women. I’ll never understand them. How can she be hissing obscenities at me one second then going at my mother like they’re long-lost sisters? I climb out at a leisurely pace, giving them time to greet each other without my interference, and then amble over, hands in my pockets. “Mom, this is—” “Hollis, come inside. Trace Robert, can you get the grill going out back? Your father is dragging his feet.” Then she ushers my date into the house, leaving me standing there, the entire speech I prepared a complete waste of time. “Mom, this is Hollis,” I mumble to myself, locking the car with the remote and heading into the garage. “No, no, go on in. I’ll just start the grill. No, I insist,” I pout, deserted and alone.

I’m a grown damn man—my mother cannot tell me what to do.” “Okay.” “She can’t.” “I said, okay.” “Right, but you don’t believe me. You’re mocking me on the inside. I can feel it.” I nod, because he’s correct. “Then go in there and tell her we’re not staying, you big baby.” Silence. More silence. The sound of a car driving down a gravel road in the distance. An owl hooting. More silence. “Welp. Looks like we’re spending the night.” I’m dying—can barely contain my laughter. “I hate you so much right now,” he whispers. “No you don’t,” I whisper back, because he doesn’t.