STROKED LONG (2 page)

“I’m not!” I shout, pushing past her and storming to my parents’ bedroom, hoping to see them on the phone with the police.

Without even thinking, I walk through the double doors that lead to their bedroom and stop in my tracks.

I see my dad’s arm lifelessly hanging off the bed.

White sheets covered in red.

A roar of a cry rips through me as I fall to my knees.

Both of my parents are covered in blood.

“Bodi!” Eva shouts as she comes up next to me and cries herself, falling to her knees, her shoulder bumping with mine.

Her arms wrap around me and her head buries into my neck, tears falling onto my skin. She holds me tight, gripping me in her warmth, but I don’t feel it.
I can’t feel it.
I’m completely cold. Everything in my body freezes over.

This is all my fault.

I didn’t lock the back door. I didn’t lock . . . the back door.

This
is
all my
fault
.

I feel like I’m in a dark tunnel with only a small light at the very end.

This is
all my fault.

I killed my parents. I killed my parents.

I’ll never hear her laugh.

I’ll never feel her hugs.

I’ll never shake my dad’s foot.

I’ll never hear his husky voice telling me he loves me.

This is all my fault.

They are dead . . . because of me.

RUBY

“Charlie, I know you’re excited, and you’re two cookies over your sugar intake capacity right about now, but I suggest, before anyone gets hurt, that you put down the glue and glitter and step away.”

An evil grin stretches across the face of the shaggy blond-haired boy I’m squatting in front of, willing him to hand over the craft supplies.

Sticking my finger in the air, trying to reason with the five-year-old, I say, “I know what you’re thinking, Charlie. You like to make messes—gluey, gooey, glittery messes—and honestly, who doesn’t?” I shrug my shoulders, trying to pal around with him, gain his trust. “Personally, I like to swim in a vat of glitter and glue every night before I go to bed. It’s a sparkly way to exfoliate. You end up feeling like a magical unicorn.” He frowns from the mention of a unicorn, and I panic that I might be losing him. “Did I say unicorn?” I back pedal. “I meant a fire-spitting dragon. Grrawww—”

My pretend dragon roar is cut off by the squirt of the glue bottle followed by a puff of glitter dust, covering my face completely. Before I can retaliate, Charlie drops the bottles, giggles like a crazed hyena, and takes off toward the building blocks.

“Little rat bastard,” I mutter under my breath, removing my thick-rimmed brown glasses to glance at them. I see the definitive coating of teal glitter over my lenses. “Perfect.”

When I applied for the local art instructor job at the Boys and Girls Club, I didn’t know it was actually a glorified babysitting job while parents got their jog on in the cardio room. Having a master’s in art history wasn’t my best idea. Did I enjoy every single one of my classes? Of course. Do I know what I’m doing with my life? Not even close.

Can you imagine no jobs for art history majors coming out of school? Weird, right? Thankfully, my friend, Eva, had some connections at the local Boys and Girls Club and helped me find this job. Unfortunately, we were both unaware of the glitter bombs that would be thrown at me on a day-to-day basis. One would hope I’d get a clue and put the glitter away—seems like a smart and educated decision—but I’m not that intelligent.

It’s just so . . . sparkly. Everyone needs a little sparkle in their life.

For me, I apparently need it in my face every day.

“Got caked again?” Lola asks from the sink where she’s cleaning glue off paint brushes. She’s in high school and volunteering with the club. She’s a big help, but I also sense her annoyance with my need to spread the glitter around.

“A little,” I answer, brushing my bangs to the side but failing miserably due to the drying glue. It’s just one of those days.

“Should I say, I told you so?”

“I think you should keep that to yourself this go around,” I answer with a smile.

Glancing in the mirror, I look at the glitter perfectly circling my eyes, thanks to my glasses. Whoever thought of using spray glue with glitter is a genius! Whoever thought of giving said spray glue and glitter to a five-year-old is an utter moron.

“Ruby, may I speak with you?” Rita Harrington pops through the door, my boss and the center’s director. She pauses and shakes her head with laughter. “Still letting the kids play with glitter?”

“I don’t think I can ever make it stop.” I shrug. “I will forever let those kids sparkle.”

She motions to my body with her reading glasses. “And looks like they feel the same way about you. Do you have a minute?”

“Yes, of course.”

She guides me to the side, out of the way of all the energetic children. Energetic is the politically correct way to describe them. Demon children is not.

“I’m aware you’re friends with Eva Banks.”

“Yes, is she okay?” I ask, a little worried.

“Of course.” Rita waves her hand in front of her face, dismissing my worry. “She’s done very well for herself and made quite the donation to start a foundation in honor of her mom, who used to volunteer here.”

“Oh, how wonderful.”

Eva and I know each other from school. When she was getting her master’s, I was completing my bachelor’s, but we were part of the same dorky art clubs and became good friends. Something tragic happened to her parents when she was young, but I never went into great detail about it with her, because frankly it’s none of my business. But I do know she and her brother donate as much time here as possible.

Yes, her brother . . .

Sigh.

Bodi Banks, Olympic royalty, masterful swimmer, gorgeous human being, and the most closed-off and quiet man you will ever meet.

The man is incredible.

I’ve spoken two sentences to him the entire time I’ve known Eva, and they didn’t generate much conversation.

One being: “You’re Bodi Banks, the swimmer.”

Well, duh, Ruby, he knows who the hell he is. You try coming up with something intelligent to say when a beast of a man is standing in front of you, his denim blue eyes staring through you.

Second time: “So you like swimming, huh?”

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?”

“That would be lovely,” I respond, bumping my hip against the counter to strike a casual pose . . . glitter face and all.

“Thanks to Eva and Bodi’s donation to the center, we are starting a new foundation to raise scholarship money for kids who want to pursue a degree in the arts and athletics.”

Complete waste of time, but I don’t say that out loud. Much help it did me. Then again, Eva majored in art and look at her. Apparently you just need to do anything but art history.

“That’s very commendable,” I say to Bodi who just nods his head, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

“It is, but we are going to need more of a backing, and that’s where you come in, Ruby. We need help developing a campaign through the art department that will resonate with big donors. We need to tie both sports and art into this program. Bodi will work closely with you on this initiative. He has some great ideas already, so I will let you two get to it.”

“Great. Thanks, Rita,” I respond with a cheery voice as she retreats. I turn to Bodi and smile shyly. “Where do you want to start?”

Pulling out his phone, he scans his schedule, “Do you mind meeting up at night?”

“Not at all. I’m flexible.” I stick my leg out and start stretching my hip flexors, showing him just how flexible I am . . . in a massively dorky way.

He just nods and gruffs as he continues to look at his schedule, ignoring my minor stretch. Not much of a talker, this one. That’s okay, I do plenty of talking for everyone.

“This is so exciting. How fortunate that you and Eva are able to give back to the very place your mom used to volunteer. You must be very proud.”

He glances up, a quizzical eyebrow directed toward me. “Do you have tomorrow free? I would like to get this going before the games.”

“Games? What games . . .?” I pause and then say, “Oh, the Olympics. Gosh, you say it so casually, as if it’s some weekend cricket match you plan on participating in out in Napa while sipping wine. You know, yucking it up with the sweaters and talking about argyle and all those important things.”

The room stills as his gaze is pulled away from his phone and he studies me, a slight tilt to his head. Blinking rapidly and turning away with a shake to his head, he says, “Um, so tomorrow. Just come to my place. I like to stay private. Put your number in my phone.” He hands me his phone abruptly and pulls on the back of his neck while I type in my number.

Just because I am the way I am, I create a new contact for him, putting my name in as Ruby *heart emoji* followed by an “s”. So clever.

When I hand him back his phone, I expect him to smile, maybe grin at me, but there is no change in his stone-faced façade.

“I will text you a time and my address. Please don’t share my number with anyone.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. You can trust me, Bodi.”

Curtly, he nods and steps aside. I watch his retreating back when he stops and faces me again. He points to my face and asks, “Are you going to have that cleaned off by tomorrow?”

“What, you don’t like raccoon glitter eyes?” I do a little side-to-side head dance for him while moving my body up and down and snapping my fingers at my side. “I think it’s very becoming.”