STROKED LONG (11 page)

“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.

“Here.” She stands up and hands me a pink cloth.

“What’s this?”

In that cheery voice that is starting to become engrained in my brain, she answers, “It’s a smock, of course. You don’t want to get paint all over those nice monotone clothes, now do you? Heaven forbid you put a little color in your wardrobe.” The wink she adds lets me know she’s teasing.

“But it’s pink.”

“Yeah, well I don’t have fire truck smocks big enough for you so you’re going to have to settle for what I use. Go ahead, don’t be shy.” She nods at the smock, encouraging me to put it on.

“What makes you think I’m going to fit in your smock? I’m much larger than you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Bodi, we are all aware of the muscles you have under that shirt of yours, no need to rub it in.”

“I wasn’t—”

She holds up her hand, a smile gracing her face. “Save it for the jury, muscle man. I wear an extra-large smock in men’s.”

A crease in my brow forms. “You’re not an extra-large.”

“Awe, look at you being all sweet. Yes, I’m aware I’m not an extra-large, I just like to swim in my smocks. It’s comfortable, especially when I wear nothing underneath.” She bends over and fixes the drape on the floor, acting as if her last statement should have no reaction and was just casual conversation.

She wears nothing under this smock?
Fucking hell, the thought of her naked in this smock has my dick hardening. Where the fuck did that come from? Well, I know where it came from, but fuck! I can’t get hard around Ruby.

“Well, are you going to put it on or risk getting paint all over those pristine grey jeans of yours?”

Pulling my mind away from dirty thoughts, I put the smock on and roll up the sleeves.

“Oh, you look so pretty.” She claps her hands.

“Not the look I was going for.”

“Oh yeah? What kind of look were you going for? I wasn’t aware you were Mr. Fashionable.”

“I know some fashion,” I say quietly, adjusting the sleeves.

“Enlighten me.” Her smile is so damn big, I can’t help but engage in this conversation and feel somewhat . . . normal.

Leaning against the exterior of her apartment, I say, “Eva was always into fashion when we were growing up and I remember her distinctively saying ‘black and brown make her frown’ and to never pair them together.”

She nods, understanding the rule I still apply today. “A good concept but so out of date. Black and brown actually can be a good combination when done in the right way.”

“What?”

“Yeah, you can pair black and brown together. I actually saw your sister in black skinny jeans the other day with brown suede pumps. She’s misled you, Bodi. Black and brown is in now, especially with all the leopard-print trends. Although, you can really wear leopard print with anything. I have these cute leopard print flats that I love pairing with bright dresses. Do you have any leopard print?”

“Can’t say that I do.” I chuckle, shaking my head.

From the corner of my eye, I can see her head tilt to the side and a long sigh eases out of her lungs. I catch a glimpse of what seems like . . . lust in her eyes.

Is that lust? I have no fucking clue. It seems like it.

Clearing her throat and straightening, she says, “Okay, let’s get a move on. Are you ready to paint?”

“I guess so.”

“Do you need to warm up or anything? I don’t want you pulling something and then you can’t go to the Olympics because of me. Oh God, that would be devastating. I can’t have that hanging over my head.”

“I’m fine.”

“I really think you should do some arm swings,” she suggests.

“I’m good.”

Desperation laces her features. “Bodi, do some arm swings so I know at least I warned you. I can’t have this project hanging over me if something happens to you.”

To appease her, I move my arms back and forth, knowing full well I will be fine. Visibly she relaxes and hands me the brushes once I’m done.

“All set?”

“Yup, all warmed up.” I try not to roll my eyes. She’s looking out for me, which is something I’m only used to from Lauren and Eva.

“Good. Now I figure we start with the easiest stroke, your freestyle.”

“What makes you think that’s the easiest?” I ask, curious to her reasoning.

She pauses and thinks about my question. “I’m not sure. Just seems like the more natural one. Butterfly looks painful and breaststroke by far can’t be the easiest. Backstroke seems difficult to do right now so I figured we would go with freestyle.”

“Not doggy paddling?” I quirk an eyebrow at her.

“No.” She playfully pushes my chest, surprising the both of us.

Fuck. It feels as though the weight of the world isn’t resting on my shoulders. I feel . . . light? It’s a feeling so unfamiliar I can’t really label it. I don’t know how to express myself, but right now, Ruby is making it a hell of a lot easier with her easy-going, accepting personality.

“Freestyle works.”

“Good. Now I picked a few colors for you to play around with, it’s your choice what to paint with, but I will say, I only chose bright colors for you.”

“I can see that.”

“Oh, don’t get your Speedo in a bind. It will be healthy for you to add some color in your life. Before you dip your brushes in the paint, why don’t we do a few practice strokes so you know how you’re going to hit the canvas.”

“Fair enough.” With the brushes in my hands, I stand in front of the canvas, bend over into position and slowly move my arms, barely grazing the canvas with the tips of the bristles.

“Good,” she coaches. “Now I think you can go a little faster than that.”

“Faster?”

“Yeah, just slightly, that way we get a crisper paint stroke.”

A strange sensation rolls through my body and for the first time in a very long time, I feel the urge to joke around. So I pick up the pace for only a few strokes before I drop the brushes and grip my shoulder, acting as if I’m in pain.

“Holy fuck,” I shout, playing it up.

“Oh my God!” Ruby’s eyes widen to saucers, and she starts running in place. “Oh my God, oh my God, you hurt yourself. I knew this was going to happen. This is all my fault. Your coach is going to kill me. Lauren and Eva will disown me and make sure I’m fired from the club. Oh God, and then I will be kicked out of my apartment because finding a job with an art degree is like trying to find a carrot at a doughnut convention.” Her hands are in her hair, pulling on the strands while her eyes search me out. “And now you can’t swim at the Olympics. Oh my God! Not only will your coach, Lauren, and Eva hate me, but all of America will hate me. I’m going to be deported and sent to some shoe factory in Bora Bora where we make moccasins for misbehaving mallards who have no interest in purchasing them. I’m not good in humid heats, my hair gets crazy, and I know I won’t be a good salesperson to the duck community when it comes to footwear. This is horrible.”

Yikes. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.

“Um, Ruby—”

“No, don’t move. I need to get you ice. I’ll massage you until it’s better. Do we need to go to the hospital? Let’s keep that as a last resort; the press can’t hear about this just yet. Ugh, I can see it already: NBC Olympics on Facebook is going to crucify my face. The end of Bodi Banks’s career, taken down by an art major with no solid savings in her bank account.”

“Ruby—”

“I’m going to have to sell my story and throw you under the bus to the tabloids just to feed my Pop Rocks addiction, and I’m not talking about crackling cocaine. I really mean Pop Rocks, you know the little shards of sugar that explode in your mouth? Of course you don’t, you eat whey protein as a ‘treat.’ But let me tell you, I can’t get enough of them.” She drops down to her knees, fists in the air. “Oh Pop Rocks!”

“Ruby!” I bend down and grip her shoulders so she’s forced to look at me. “I was only kidding.”

“You were what?” Her eyes light up with fire.

Fuck, here I thought joking around was a good idea, maybe not.

“Uh, I was kidding. I’m fine.”

“Why would you joke about something like that?”

“I’m not sure.” I grab the back of my neck, uncomfortable now because Ruby truly looks upset.

Shaking her head, she stands and crosses her arms in front of her chest. I know that pose: that’s a
don’t fuck with me
pose. Shit.

“Yeah, I was going to really try, but I don’t think I can do this anymore. I’m sorry, Bodi, but you’re going to have to leave.”

Standing tall, I search her eyes for the truth, but they are cast to the ground. Is she serious? All because I joked around? Fuck, if I knew that was going to happen, I never would have tampered in the joke department.

That’s what I get for stepping out of my comfort zone.

“Okay.” I nod and begin to take off the pink smock. “For what it’s worth, I’m really sorry, Ruby. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

I hand over the smock but she doesn’t take it, instead she grips her stomach and starts laughing so hard tears fall down her cheeks.

What the fuck is going on?

“Oh Bodi, do you really think I would be afraid of being deported to Bora Bora to make footwear for ducks? It sounds like an absolute dream to me. And the hair, well, there are things called ponytails.”

Confused as fuck, I ask, “So you were just playing around with me?”

“Of course.” She nudges my shoulder. “Please, I would know if you really hurt your shoulder. I’m sorry to say, Bodi, but acting isn’t in your near future. I would stick to the pool.”

“Christ.” I wipe my hand over my face and let out a long breath.

“But you’re so cute for trying.” Out of nowhere, she steps up to me and wraps her arms around my waist, pulling me into a hug. Her head rests against my chest and her warmth spreads through me as she squeezes me tight. I stand there like the Tin Man, unable to move and not sure what to do. Something in my brain is telling me to hug her back or to at least pat her on the head, but I’m frozen.

Everything about her feels so damn good pressed up against me.

Before I can reciprocate, she removes herself and points at the smock. “Put that back on. I need to get some ridiculous pictures of us painting. I’m going to use them in a pamphlet. Good thing you did your hair all sexy like.”

Sexy like?

“Go on,” she encourages with a smile, “I don’t have all night, Bodi.”

For some reason, I’m wishing we did, which surprises the fuck out of me.

RUBY

“And I made you cookies. Your favorite. Butterfinger with big chunks. Maybe you can share them with your swimming friend, Bodi.”