Page 90 of Stroked Long
He arrogantly shrugs, chopsticks in hand, a pile of steamed veggies in the other hand. When he offered to pick up Chinese food, I was bowled over with excitement to watch him dab in some General Tsos, maybe a little Sesame Chicken, but nope. He ordered steamed veggies—gag—and boiled chicken—puke. I, on the other hand, showed no mercy to my hips and went with sweet and sour chicken with fried rice, naturally.
Getting him to dip his pinky nail in my sweet and sour sauce was a task on its own, and there was no way he was eating one of my chickens. This is where you would expect me to say I batted my eyelashes and begged him to try just one teeny tiny bite and he did.
Nope.
The man knows how to hold his ground. I even pulled my shirt down lower, you know, show off the old melons—or how I like to pronounce them, mell-oons—but he was not tricked. Maybe if I pulled out the nipple he would have been more eager to take part in the Chinese taste test I was offering. Noted for next time.
“You’re telling me that you can sit behind a microphone and sing a little ditty and sound good while doing it?”
“No.” He shakes his head with a mouthful of steamed veggies. “I would never sing into a mic in front of people. Now in the shower, that’s a different story.”
Makes sense, Bodi doesn’t seem like the type of person to sing the national anthem before a sporting event.
“But in the shower, do you sound good?”
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a total boyish move but for some reason it turns me on. What the hell is wrong with me? Maybe because I’ve seen him wipe his mouth after going down on me . . .
Don’t go there, Ruby. I will only end up salivating and dry humping his leg that is extended in my direction.
“Depends.” He shrugs.
“How does it depend? You either sound good or you don’t. You can either sing or you can squawk. Which one is it?”
“Depends on the acoustics of the shower.” He plucks a giant piece of broccoli from his carton and pops it in his mouth, smiling and chewing at the same time.
“Sooo . . . you can’t sing.”
“Everyone can sing.” He points his chopsticks at me. “You don’t have to sound good to sing or even be able to talk in order to sing. There are some very beautiful videos I’ve seen of deaf people using sign language to sing a song.”
Yeah, I’ve seen some of the videos. Along with military coming home to their loved ones, signed-out songs will make me weep like a baby until I’m drowning in my own tears. Real gut-wrenchers.
“I’m well aware. What I’m asking is if you can carry a note or not.”
“Who’s to judge if someone can carry a note?” His demeanor is casual, teasing, instigating.This is playful Bodi. I haven’t seen much of him in person, only in text. He’s annoying, but I still adore him.
“Everyone,” I practically shout. “Everyone with ears is allowed to judge.”
“And those without ears? Can’t exclude them, Rubes.”
Sitting back, tired and exhausted from this conversation, I say, “Wow, you really don’t want to get any tonight do you?”
“I’m not worried about that.”
Cocky bastard. Who is this Bodi, and what has he done with the shy, awkward man I used to know?
“You should be.” Stretching and yawning, I say, “You should actually get going, it’s getting late.”
A questioning brow is raised at me as he studies my serious expression. At least I hope it’s serious, as the boy needs to learn a lesson: don’t poke the bear.
“Get going, huh?” He studies me and then nods his head. “All right.” Tucking his carton closed, he meticulously cleans up his food around him, makes quick to my kitchen where he stuffs his leftovers in the fridge, and then washes his hands . . . three times. Does he know I notice those little tells of his? While he dries them, he turns to me and says, “I’ll call you tomorrow, Rubes.”
Neatly he puts my dish towel back on the oven handle, strides toward me, his muscles flexing under his tight shirt, and leans down to peck me on the forehead.
Peck me . . .
On the FOREHEAD.
Pulling away, he says, “Have a good night,” and moves toward the door.
