STROKED LONG (26 page)

“Took care of it.”

“And your shoes?”

I shrug. “Might have to Picasso their asses and call them my art shoes.”

“Could be kind of badass, being an art instructor and all.”

“Could be. Thanks for your hard work today, apparently all the rats of the classroom decided to come in today.”

“Just another day at the club.” She wipes her hand with a paper towel and then asks, “Any movement on the foundation stuff? I would really like to help out at the gala. It would give me a great experience to put on my résumé.”

The gala. Goodness I haven’t even thought about it, not when I’ve had Bodi Banks on my mind and trying to chip away at the wall he’s erected around himself.

“We could really use the help, especially with setup.”

“Really?” Excitement beams off Lola. “That would be so awesome. What about the pictures? How are you going to get those made? Do you need help getting Bodi to paint?” She wiggles her eyebrows and instantly my hackles rise. “He’s so hot.” Yup, now I want to punch her.

Whoa, settle down, Ruby. The girl is way younger and just crushing on a famous swimmer.

Yeah, a famous swimmer who happens to belong to me.

But does he? Oh hell, I’m fighting with myself. So not healthy.

Forgetting the old angel and devil war going on in my head, I answer her, “At training camp in San Antonio, we are going to have swimmers take some time to do paint strokes against the canvas. Since they will all be there, it will be easy.”

“That’s awesome. Are you going down there to do it?”

Huh, we never really discussed those details.

“Still working things out.”

She sighs and puts her purse over her shoulder, looking at the ceiling wistfully. “It would be so cool to be there, watching all those swimmers getting in and out of the water, especially Bodi.” Leaning forward she says, “Him and Reese for sure have the biggest packages I’ve ever seen.”

And this conversation is now officially over.

“Aren’t you going to be late for something?” I ask.

Checking her phone for the time, she scrunches her nose. “Shoot, I’m going to be late for my hair appointment. I will catch you tomorrow, Ruby. Thanks for taking care of the brushes.”

“Mm-hmm.” I nod and smile at her as she exits the room.

Sheesh, when did high schoolers become so forward? When I was her age I wasn’t talking about men’s bulges. Hell, I don’t even think I knew what a bulge was. Nope, I was too busy taking cross-stitch classes at the local Michaels, along with cake decorating classes. And where has that gotten me? I can cross-stitch a cake on a canvas with a man’s bulge coming out the top. So . . . there.

Finishing the brushes, I make sure to avoid getting water in the ferrule of the brush because that can lead to mold, which affects the stroke of the brush. Even though the brushes I’m working with are from the dollar store, I still try to treat them properly, despite the abuse they take from the kids.

Maybe one day I won’t have to yell at a child during the day not to stick the entire bristle of the brush up their nose.

But I’m painting my boogies.

I don’t get paid enough for this job.

I dry my hands after all the brushes are on the drying rack and then quickly take the sprayer and rinse the sink. I have no clue what I’m doing for the rest of my day. I was looking forward to hearing about that seamstress job, but I guess I will have to wait a little longer.

My purse is in a cupboard so when I turn around to grab it, I halt in my position from the sight of Bodi sitting on one of the desks just staring at me.

With my hand over my heart, I say, “Sweet little Jesus doll, you startled me.”

A side smile graces his face as he takes me in, his eyes heating me up with his perusal. “Sorry, Rubes.” God, he is so gorgeous.

“What are you doing just sitting there? It’s kind of creepy you didn’t make yourself known.”

His face falls and I realize my error. He’s already socially awkward, and probably doesn’t want to be called a creeper.

I backtrack. “I mean, not a creeper.” So smooth. “Just, you know . . . you scared me.”

He hops off the table, keeping his distance, and sticks his hands in his pockets. “Sorry.” He’s looking down, like a wounded little boy and instantly my hearts starts to break. Good going, Ruby.

Needing to comfort him, I eliminate the space between us and wrap my arms around his waist, hugging him tightly. He’s stiff at first but then wraps his burly arms around my shoulders and pulls me in close. “I missed you,” I say into his chest.

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice becoming less frigid.

“Yeah. Kind of liked hanging out with you last night.”

He raises a rakish eyebrow at me. “You only liked the hanging out part?”

“Yeah, hanging out, you know . . . private parts dangling . . . hanging out.”

Shaking his head, he says, “You’re such a dork.”

“And what, you’re Mr. Cool Britches?”

“Much cooler than you. Who says britches in this era?”

“Old souls,” I counter. “We need more people like me. People who appreciate the fine things like arts and crafts. Who can sit down and watch an entire musical without looking at their phone. People who prefer a deck of cards over an iPad.”

Kissing the top of my head, he succumbs. “You’re right about that. Maybe you can start a club for people who like to organize ribbon.”

“Wouldn’t that be fabulous?”

“The tits,” he jokingly responds. “What are you doing tonight?”

Just as I’m about to answer, my phone rings. Putting up my finger, I say, “Hold that thought.”

The caller ID says it’s my mom and since we are texters a lot of the time, I answer.

“Hey Mom.” Bodi’s ears perk up from the mention of my mom.

“Ruby, did you look in the paper today?” She sounds almost erratic, frenzied.

“No, is everything okay?”

Instantly alert, Bodi comes over to me and takes my hand, worry etched in his features.

“Everything is fine. Why would you ask that?”

“Because you sound like you’re out of breath, and you’re asking me to check the paper.”

“I just ran up the stairs.”

“Why would you do that? You don’t run.” And that’s the God’s honest truth. My mom refuses to break a sweat, she believes sweating is for men and pigs. I don’t get the logic. Every human perspires. Hell, my pits are dank just from hearing the frantic tone in my mom’s voice.

“There are two reasons I run . . .”

My eyes fly open and my heart pounds in my chest. “Black Friday and Yarn Sale.”

“And it’s not November.”

Screaming at the top of my lungs, scaring the ever-living shit out of Bodi, I run in place and throw my hands in the air only to bring the phone back down to my mouth. “Yarn sale!!”

“Sweetheart, brace yourself. All Red Heart yarn is on sale. Dare I say, even the boutique styles.”

“Oh. Em. Gee.” I start pacing in the classroom. “Please tell me I can use the twenty-five percent-off coupon I’ve been saving.”

“Honey,” she pauses, “you can.”

“Sweet honeyed ham.” I turn to Bodi and say, “I can’t hang out tonight; I have some shopping to do.”

“Hang out? What are you talking about?” my mom asks.

“Oh sorry, I was talking to Bodi.”

And now my mom is screeching in the phone. “You’re with Bodi? Are you two together? Are you an item? Have you kissed him? Oh, put him on the phone. Mommy wants to talk to him.”

So not going to happen.

“Yeah, I’m afraid that’s not on the docket for today, but thanks for asking.”

“I don’t mind talking to her,” Bodi says, clearly able to hear our conversation.

“Yes, you do,” I inform him.

“No, I don’t.”

“You do.” This time when I talk to him I use my stern face.

Sadly, it doesn’t work.

“Seriously, I can handle it.”

“Just give him the phone,” my mom shouts.

Hating everything about this, I roll my eyes and hand Bodi the phone.

“Hello, Mrs. Hearts.” From a distance I can hear my mom cooing into the phone only to follow it up with a lecture on how to be nice to her daughter.

Looking me dead in the eyes, Bodi says, “I have no intention of hurting her, Mrs. Hearts. Okay, yeah. Have a good night as well.” Holding his hand over the phone before handing it over, he says to me, “Grab your purse, we have some yarn shopping to do.”

***

“You hate me, don’t you?”

“Why would you say that?” Bodi asks, peeking his head over the pile of yarn I’ve forced him to carry.

“Because I’m using you as a mule. You have yarn coming out of your pockets.” Yes, I stuffed yarn into his pockets. Didn’t mind grazing his tush while doing it. “And for the last five minutes you’ve been patiently waiting, not complaining, while I try to decide between getting white or soft white.”

“Go with the soft white.” He winks at me.

Really? This man, how can I not want to jump him right here in the yarn aisle while little old ladies bump elbows to cash in on the mega deal going down in the craft store. The moment my mom mentioned yarn sale, I was gearing up to fight it out on my own but Bodi wouldn’t allow it. I told him multiple times that he didn’t have to go but he refused to see me be thrown defenseless into the seas of canes and dentures.

All in all, it’s worked out better for me because during a yarn sale I only purchase what I can carry. That way, I don’t get out of hand in my spending, but this go around, with my coupon and a burly man carrying around my yarn, I get to indulge a little.

“He’s right,” a little old lady with fire-red hair says. Gripping on to Bodi’s bicep, she ogles him. “I’d go with soft white just so I can get home to this fine piece of man.” Snapping her dentures at Bodi, she does a growling sound and then takes off.
Did I really just hear a wrinkle sac growl? At Bodi?

Bodi, the ever so polite man in public, mouths, “What the fuck?” I cover my mouth and giggle from the wide eyes he’s showing under the brim of his A’s hat.

“Soft white it is.” I tuck two packets into his already full arms. “All right, I think I have all I need.”

Scanning what we’ve gathered, Bodi asks, “Not that I’m judging you and your craft supplies, but why do you need all this yarn?”

I place my hands on my hips and tilt my head, scanning Bodi. “Besides the fact that it’s an amazing sale and any idiot would be dumb to pass up on the opportunity to stock up on yarn, my mom and I spend the second half of the year knitting scarves and hats for the Special Olympic athletes around the country.”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“Special Olympics, you’ve heard of it, right?”

“Of course,” Bodi says. “There is a club that comes in on Fridays for pool time. I’ve hung around them a few times, some of the best athletes I’ve ever had the pleasure of swimming with.”

Be still my heart.

Do not stick your tongue down this man’s throat in the middle of the yarn aisle. Self-respect, Ruby.

Clearing my throat, I say, “So you’re familiar. Well, they have winter games every year and just like you, they have an opening ceremony where they conclude with a parade of athletes. Different clubs and regions wear different colors. There is a large group of women who make scarves and hats in the specified colors for the athletes to wear during opening ceremonies. You know . . . since they’re not sponsored by Ralph Lauren.”

“You really do that?” Bodi asks, almost as if he can’t believe it.

I shrug. “Yeah. I mean, why not? I think it is a great thing to do.”

All I receive in response is a curt nod. I can tell he’s thinking something over; what it is, I have no idea, but he’s getting lost in his head, which means he’s retreating. Time to call an end to my yarn shopping. I have plenty of spools to last me quite a long time.

“I think I’m good. Let’s head to check out.”

Nodding again, he follows behind me, quiet the whole time as he lugs my yarn around. His silence is eerie, and I’m wondering if I did or said something wrong. Recounting the last five minutes of our conversation, I can’t pinpoint anything. If I wasn’t afraid to scare him away, I would be frustrated. I’ve always been about communication and not closing yourself off, so interacting with Bodi has been difficult. There have been times where I’ve wanted to shake him and ask him what’s wrong, but I know that’s not the way to handle this man. He’s broken—for some reason—and he needs a gentle touch.

“Wow, you sure are taking advantage of the yarn sale,” the salesperson says as I start to unload Bodi. “What do you plan on making? Baby blankets?”

I used to work at a craft store, so I know it is always a requirement to ask the customer what they are making. Frankly, I hated it because I either got answers that were sweet like a baby blanket for my new grandson, or I got an answer from one of the closet craft creeps who said they needed to replace the bedazzle on their double-sided dick sling. Don’t even ask. I couldn’t get that image out of my head for a while.

“Just knitting some scarves and hats.”

“Do you do craft fairs?”

“No, she donates them,” Bodi pipes up, pinning the salesperson with a death glare.

Okay, someone is looking a little psychotic and it’s neither me nor Clark, the poor teenager ringing up the yarn.

Rubbing Bodi’s arm, I try to ease the tension in his body as Clark finishes up.

“That will be sixty-one dollars and thirteen cents, ma’am,” Clark says. Forty spools of yarn even on sale puts a slight dent in my grocery shopping money but that’s okay. It’s worth it.

“I have a coupon.” I hand it over and Clark gives me the updated price.

I go to swipe my card when a large hand stops me. Looking up at Bodi, who is hovering over me, he says in a rough voice, “I got this,” and then proceeds to hand Clark cash.

Not bothering with his change, Bodi grabs the bags and heads out of the store.

Credit card in hand, purse open, and a stunned face, Clark and I both look at each other. Awkwardly, his voice cracks when he says, “Uh, does that man want his change?”

Looking at Bodi’s retreating back, I shake my head. “Doesn’t look like it.” Patting his hand, I say, “Buy yourself something pretty, Clark.”