Page 5 of Stroked Long
Another classic question coming directly from a bumbling idiot.
He politely grimaced at me, yes,grimaced, and walked away. It was humiliating. But, I always tell myself, it could have been worse. I’ve been known to throw a little fun punch here and there, so the fact that I held my fist at my side instead of saying, “So, you like swimming, huh?” while tapping his shoulder is a feat in itself.
Point to me!
But yeah, Eva’s brother is one of those mythical men you read about and follow on Instagram, wondering if he really does exist or if someone is Photoshopping your average Joe to make all women salivate over a little IG newsfeed.
Let me state for the record: he’s real. He’s so real I may have accidently poked him during my first encounter when I pointed out who he was . . . to him.
“You’re Bodi Banks, the swimmer.” *Pokes finger to chest*
I’m awkward as hell. At least I didn’t poke his nipple and then make it hard. Lord knows if that happened, I would have laughed and pointed at the hardened tip while restraining my fingers from flicking it once more.
“Do you think you’re up for it?” Rita asks me, pulling me out of my Bodi Banks-induced reverie.
Shoot, what did she ask me? I think back to a few moments ago. Foundation, something to do with Eva, and then all that comes to my mind are images of Bodi’s abs. Miles and miles of delicious, contoured, deep, succulent abs. Like a pack of buttered biscuits sitting on his stomach, waiting to be licked up by any willing and capable person.
“Sure.” I smile, not wanting to disappoint Rita, hoping I didn’t just sign myself up for crayon melting in the hot sun kind of fun. It’s on the schedule for next week and I’m dreading it.
“Fantastic. Come with me.” Rita pulls on my arm and guides me out of the arts and crafts room and straight into an empty classroom next door where Bodi is sitting on a counter, his feet dangling just inches above the floor, his head down, looking at his phone.
When he hears us come in, he looks up and his blue eyes penetrate me once again. Hopping down from the counter, he adjusts his hip-clinging jeans and walks toward us, a confused look on his face.
I ignore his facial expressions and take him in. He’s wearing a forest-green Henley shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His grey jeans are modern in their fit, clinging to his body all the way down to his white Nikes. His hair is covered by an Oakland A’s baseball cap, the brim barely curved. He’s casual, but mouth-wateringly sexy.
Plus . . . he smells like heaven. As if God cried into a pail, blessed it with every magical and mythical creation, and swirled it altogether with His mighty finger only to douse it all over Bodi. He’s blazing sex, and those dark, soulful, clouded eyes spur on my need to get to know him better, despite my failed and pathetic previous attempts.
“Bodi, you know, Ruby, correct?” Rita asks.
Please God, let him remember me. My days and nights will be made if he acknowledges my presence.
In a deep, incredibly masculine voice, full of rasp, he says, “Yeah, Eva’s friend.”
Eva’s Friend! Yes! For some reason, I am more than elated to be known as Eva’s friend. I can’t help it. I go all Ruby on him.
Placing a finger on the top of my head, I twirl myself one full 360, stop in a jazz-hand way, shoot him my fake guns, and then hold out my hand. “Ruby Hearts at your service.”
Yeah, it might be a little much but memorable for sure . . . as a crazy person.
Slowly, scanning me up and down, he grabs my hand, shakes it, and politely says, “Good to see you again.” I hold back the drool that demands to fall out over his hand connecting with mine. I’m in utter glory, reveling in the way his skin feels against mine, fighting the impulse to hold my hand in the air and shake it about, claiming Bodi Banks touched it. “I don’t remember the, uh, glitter last time,” he adds, pointing to his eyes with two fingers.
Glitter?
Oh yeah . . .
Damn you, Charlie, you little rat bastard!
My hands quickly go to my face where I try to cover the glitter mess, parting my fingers just enough so I can still look at Bodi.
Pay attention. This is what they call making a good impression with another human being. Take lessons, I know what I’m doing.
“Ever have a glitter fart blast you in the face?”
He cringes, and I realize Bodi is in his late twenties; he’s not a child, and he wouldn’t appreciate a good glitter fart joke.
Casually shrugging it off, my hands still covering my eyes, I say, “Yeah, me either.”
Clearing her throat next to us, Rita steps in, a few seconds too late. Damn you, Rita. “Shall we discuss the foundation?”
