Page 32 of Stroked Long
Before I can look too deeply into her meaning, she claps her hands together and says, “Let’s get started, but first . . .” she holds up her finger and then snags a Tupperware container from the coffee table, “how about a little treat?” She pops open the top and holds out the container to me. “Peanut Butter Protein balls. I got the recipe from Eva. She said it’s the one treat you indulge in because it serves a purpose to your training.”
Fuck. That’s considerate.
“And I have to be honest with you, Bodi, they actually taste good. I was a little wary at first, given I had to buy whey protein to put in them. I mean, honestly, who puts artificial protein in a cookie? It’s just weird. So when I went to try one, I shut my eyes and just stuck it in my mouth, as if it was some kind of sardine. Thankfully, it wasn’t and I was delighted with its nutty flavor. I might even make them again for myself.”
“They’re not for everyone,” I comment. Shit, I’m awkward. I don’t know how to react to thoughtful gestures. “Um, thank you for making these. They’re my favorite.”No shit, that’s why she made them. Christ.
I hold my breath to see her reaction. I’m rewarded with another bright smile. Despite being awkward as fuck, I did good.
“Anytime. Now, let’s take our balls out to the balcony and get our stroke on.”
I can’t help it. “I hope you’re talking about painting.”
“What if I wasn’t?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, throwing me completely off. It must be the shocked look on my face that sends her into a fit of laughter. “Joking around with you has to be one of my favorite things, just to get a reaction out of you.”
I shake my head and follow behind her. “Excuse me, but I don’t expect such things to come out of your mouth.”
A swoosh of her body stops and she faces me. Doubt crosses her features. “Please, Bodi. By now you should know that you can never expect what’s going to come out of my mouth.”
That’s one hundred percent accurate.
Out on the balcony there is a sheet strewn across the floor, protecting the stone pavers that cover the floor. Erected next to the half wall is an easel with a blank canvas resting on its ledge. On a plastic crate next to the easel is a selection of brushes and paint and one of those things Bob Ross would hold in his hand as he painted, you know, the thing that holds the paint.
“Looks like you have everything set up,” I acknowledge, looking around. The balcony is also a fire escape, the perfect invitation for any intruder. Looking back into the apartment, I notice she never locked her front door after we entered. This realization creates a reaction within me and I start to itch with anxiety. “Um, don’t you want to lock your door?” I ask, trying to hide the gulp in my throat.
“What?” she asks, slightly confused.
“Your front door, you didn’t lock it.”
“Oh, that’s okay.” She waves my suggestion off as if it’s nothing.
But it isn’t nothing. It isn’t nothing at all. In fact, it’s as if the entire world is pressing down on my chest, so you can’t tell me that’s nothing.
Fuck.
My breathing starts to get heavy, my anxiety is rolling in my stomach, and all I want to do is go to her front door and lock it . . . three times just to make sure. The urge to do so is so powerful that I don’t hear Ruby talking to me until she places her warm hand on my clammy forearm.
“Bodi, are you okay?”
Grabbing the back of my neck, I close my eyes tightly and beg myself to calm down, to ease my breathing, and to act fucking normal for once.
But it doesn’t work. Knowing I’m embarrassing myself in front of Ruby only makes it worse.
“Hey, you know what? I think I will go lock the door. You never know about creeps, right?” Her voice is calming, reassuring.
Without another word, she enters the apartment again and takes a few steps to her entryway where she locks the door. The click of the lock instantly eases my heart, despite the self-hatred flowing through it.
It’s obvious she knew I was about to lose it, and she accommodated me. Fuck, she must think I’m the biggest pussy in the world.
But you are.
“All right, are we ready to get started?”
I study her as she begins to pour out paints and pick brushes. She doesn’t even address my minor freak out; instead she invites us to escape the moment, as if the awkward moment never happened.
Why?
She’s different. She’s compassionate, empathetic, non-judgmental.
