STROKED LONG (3 page)

No response, just a nod, and he’s off toward the door. It’s mesmerizing the way his shoulders flex under his shirt with each movement as he walks away. I would say I’d love to see him without his clothes on, but almost everyone in the world has seen that body. It’s hard not to. He’s all over the Internet as best swimmer’s physique.

There’s a dispute between who’s hotter: Bodi or Reese King. Yes, Reese has the dark smoldering look going for him, but Bodi? There is something about his light brown hair, dark blue eyes, and damaged soul that calls out to me.

There is no contest where I’m concerned.

Not that it really matters though. Bodi is a business associate I’m now working with on a project that actually might be a lot of fun. At least it will get me out of the babysitting job for a little bit and get me into something a little more unique, something of higher caliber then teaching kids how to properly wash paint brushes.

Tomorrow night can’t come soon enough and not because I will be going to Bodi’s house, but because I will get the chance to start something new and refreshing. Maybe I can put all my skills to use.

Returning to the classroom, I take a quick peek at my phone because I’m that excited about starting this project, not because of Bodi or the way I could see his six-pack through his shirt. There is a text from a strange number. I know it’s him because he tells me.

This is Bodi. Tomorrow, 8pm, no dinner just work. 8 walnut dr.

Well, he gets to the point, doesn’t he? Just because he said no dinner, that doesn’t mean I can’t make dessert.

As I gather the rest of the paint supplies and clean them out, I think about all the desserts I can make for Bodi. If anything, I know how to paint, draw, sew, organize ribbon, scrapbook, and bake. I’m a regular fifties housewife. Time to turn that fifties charm on Bodi. Just so I can make him smile.

BODI

Doors locked.

Floors cleaned.

Carpets vacuumed.

Bathrooms bleached.

Doors locked.

Windows locked.

Dishes in the dishwasher.

TV dusted.

Garbage taken out.

Doors locked.

I go over my nighttime ritual in my head, over and over again, repeating my checklist, double-checking my precisely laid out list.

Scanning my open-concept condo that overlooks the ocean, I take in everything. Chairs are lined up along the back of the rug, remotes are perpendicular to the TV, throw blankets are rolled and organized by color in the basket, counters are completely clear, and all the doors are locked. I double-checked them along with the windows. Three times. Reiterating in my head their strength and the alarm system I have in place, to let me know if there is a lock out of place.

Now I just have to wait . . .
for her
.

Ruby Hearts was not my first choice when it came to working on the foundation with another person but Eva didn’t have time, Lauren wasn’t interested, and no one else at the club was deemed trustworthy enough to work closely with. Eva assured me Ruby would be sweet and able to keep things confidential.

It’s not that I don’t like Ruby, I do. She’s nice and quirky in her own way, but I don’t know her like Eva does.
I choose not to expose others to my demons and insecurities. Who would want that anyway?

I’m flawed mentally, and my personality doesn’t shine like it should, given my stature and position in the sports community. There is a high demand for my time and attention in the public eye, for my assistance in raising money, in teaching camps, but I’m jaded, skittish, barely able to function in social settings other than ones I’m already comfortable with.

I swim, train, lift weights, volunteer at the Boys and Girls Club, eat, and sleep. I don’t have a social life; I don’t have friends, and the only people I talk to are my coach and my sister.

But the insistence of my person is demanded outside that comfortable little square I’ve put my life in, thanks to my sister and her idea to start a foundation. How convenient she can’t head it up herself. At first, I told her I couldn’t do it, I wouldn’t do it, but then she threatened to put someone else in charge of it, someone I didn’t know or trust, therefore I caved, but I can’t do it on my own. That’s why I’m sitting on my couch, staring at the wall while my knee bounces up and down as I wait for Ruby to show up.

A wave of nervous internal sensations rolls through me. My stomach quivers, my mouth goes dry, and the palms of my hands are extremely clammy.

Ding dong.

My doorbell startles my heart, sending it into overdrive as I look at my watch. Eight o’clock exactly. She’s right on time.

Giving my palms one last swipe over the thighs of my jeans, I stand and straighten my T-shirt, fidgeting with it just to give my firing nerves something to do.

You can do this, Bodi. It’s just an hour or so talking about the foundation. Nothing more.

But what if she wants to get to know me?

My hand stretches for the doorknob just as my mind thinks of all the things she could ask me.

Why is it so clean in here?

Why are all the blinds shut?

Why are you adamant about your security system?
I grip my hair and pull on the stands, retreating from the door, just as she knocks.

“Fuck,” I mutter, trying to steady my erratic breathing, my fingers twirling in my hair, pulling tightly enough to cause pain to radiate through my skull.

Steadying myself, I look at my reflection in the entryway mirror, taking in my appearance. My eyes are heavy with fear, my hair is volatile, and my jaw is tense with anticipation of what stands behind my front door.

It’s just Ruby, Eva’s friend. She’s not a reporter, she’s not a super fan, she won’t probe, and she is not here to dive deep and explore your demons.

I repeat that sentence a couple times in my head, take a deep breath, and open the door.

“Hi.” She smiles at me brightly with Tupperware in her hand.

The glitter that graced her face yesterday is no longer circling her big brown eyes, but instead, she is wearing brown-framed glasses that are modern but look vintage. Her long blonde hair frames her face and her thick full bangs cover the top of her eyebrows, draping her forehead in golden splendor. She’s wearing a red sundress paired with a green belt and a navy cardigan. She’s a kaleidoscope of colors, but it works for her, unlike me, who’s wearing gray jeans and a black shirt. There are no bright colors in my life. Besides grey, black, and white, I will wear green on occasion to support my A’s, but that’s pretty much it.

“Come in,” I say, stepping aside and quickly shutting the door and locking it. I then disarm my alarm system to make sure it doesn’t go off. After I type in my code, the itch to unlock and lock my doors again to make sure they are truly secure is overwhelming, to the point that my entire body feels itchy. I refrain from rechecking them to avoid embarrassment in front of Ruby. But that doesn’t mean I don’t take a look back at the door to make sure everything is in place.

Everything is locked.

“Wow, what a great space,” Ruby says, looking around.

“Uh, thanks,” I reply, grabbing the back of my neck with one hand while the other one goes to my pocket, trying to hide the nervousness shaking through my bones.

Turning and holding out her Tupperware, she says, “I made my famous oatmeal raisin cookies. They’re famous because they’re soft and chewy on the inside with just the slightest crunch for texture on the outside. Don’t even try asking for my secret ingredient.” She winks and pauses, waiting for me to say something, but I don’t, so she carries on. “I know you said no dinner, but you never said anything about dessert. Whenever I am invited to another person’s house, I always like to bring something. It’s proper etiquette. Here you go.”

“I don’t eat sweets. It’s not in my diet plan.” The words slip out of me before I can be a gracious host and accept her gift.

Her face falls flat as she lowers the Tupperware full of cookies. “Oh, I didn’t consider that.”

Great. Not only do I feel like my skin is about to crawl off my body from nerves, but now I feel like the biggest dick on the planet.

“Um, I actually will take one,” I say awkwardly, holding out my hand.
God, Banks, could this be any more uncomfortable and stiff?

“That’s okay.” She waves me off. “You don’t have to eat one. I should have asked before making them.”

“No, I would like one.”

Placing her hand on my forearm, she gently says, “Bodi, don’t worry about it. Just means I get to take them home and gorge on them while binge watching
Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt
.” Sighing, she looks toward the living room. “Shall we?”

Studying her, wondering if I should make one more attempt to eat one of her cookies, I see that her eyes ring with sincerity, so I drop it. “Sure.” I motion to the dining table where I’ve set up notepads, a pen for each of us, folders, and some reading materials, all precisely organized and straight where I made sure to line them up horizontally with the edge of the table.

“It’s so . . .” she pauses, and for some reason I wait with bated breath for her next sentence, “it’s so clean in here.”

Clean is a good thing; I pride myself on being clean. Clean and structured is the kind of life I strive for, one with repetition and order.

“Thanks.”

“I like the white walls.” She says this with no sarcasm or humor in her voice. I glance over at her to see if she’s smiling, but all I see is her observing her surroundings, taking in my home. “But where are your curtains?”

Thrown off by the question, I ask, “Curtains?”

“Yeah.” She sits down on one of the metal chairs that rests under the dining table and places the tub of cookies in front of her. “Don’t you know, Bodi? Curtains are the heart of a home. They make or break a living space. They can turn any ordinary living room into a homey one. They also feel like a protective shield from the outside world to me.”

“Curtains?” I fidget in place, uncomfortable with this conversation.
Did my childhood home have curtains? Fuck, I can’t remember.
“Um, I don’t need them.”

She shrugs. “I couldn’t live without curtains.” Clapping her hands together, she looks up at me, a bright smile on her face. “Where do we start?”

“Can I get you a drink?” I ask. Tried to ask. It sounded like a demand. My mom used to sound so kind when she asked house guests . . .

“Sure, what do you have?”

I walk to the fridge and hold it open while I call off my drink options. “Water, fat-free milk, protein shake . . .” I cringe as I realize I don’t have anything really to offer her.
I don’t do this. I don’t do well with people.

“I was kind of looking forward to a protein shake, but water sounds great.” She chuckles and I start to feel insecure at my lack of finesse when it comes to being social.

“Sorry. I haven’t gone to the store.” Grabbing two water glasses, I fill them with ice from the fridge’s icemaker and go for a water bottle when Ruby steps up next to me.

“I love tap water, no need to open a bottle.” Taking charge, she fills both glasses with water from the faucet, snags napkins from the napkin holder on the counter, and then heads back to the table.

A little perplexed, I shake my head at her and head back to the dining table behind her. Popping open the lid to the cookies, she takes out two and places them on napkins. Sliding one of them over to me with my water, she winks and says, “In case you get a wild hair in you.” She takes a sip from her glass and then scrunches her nose. “Ooo, that’s cold. The ice knocked against my front teeth. Ever get a brain freeze from ice hitting your front teeth?”

“What? No,” I say, confused.

“You know what a brain freeze is, right? Oh wait, you don’t eat ice cream because it’s sweet.”

I can’t help it, I chuckle. “I’ve had ice cream before, Ruby.”

She claps her hands and sits up in her seat, vibrancy pouring off her. “Awesome! So you know what a brain freeze is. Ever get one from ice on your teeth?”

“No.”

“Me either, but what a story that would be, right? One knock from the old ice cube sent my head into a fit of panic and froze everything over. The only cure? Tongue to the roof of one’s mouth and prayers to Elsa from
Frozen
to end all pain. Am I right?” She elbows my arm and wiggles her eyebrows.

“Uh . . . sure,” I drawl out, a little intimidated by her ability to talk about pretty much anything without a worry or care. “Maybe we should get started on the foundation planning.”

She’s in mid bite to her cookie when she nods her head, crumbs falling to the table. I make a note to vacuum once she leaves. “Great idea. No more nonsensical chit-chat. Let’s get down to business. What are you planning to accomplish with this foundation? What is the money going to? What would you like me to do? Do you have anything done yet? Do you have marketing or promotions or a Facebook page, or a board of directors?”

Her questions come flying at me a mile a minute and I can’t comprehend all of them. Her multiple and diverse questions spin around in my head, sending me into a pit of confusion and frustration. She’s going too fast, and it’s making it hard for me to concentrate.

“Wait.” I hold my hand up and squint, trying to comprehend everything that’s coming out of her mouth. “Just give me a second.” I take a deep breath and open my notebook. I have notes with boxes next to each of them so I can check off the topics I want to go over.

“Wow, your penmanship is on point.” She leans over and looks at my notes. Feeling a little suffocated, I pull away quickly, and she catches on. “Oh, sorry. Am I invading your bubble?”

“My what?”

“Your personal bubble.” She motions a circle around her. “I get it, I can be a little much at times; you just have to tell me if I’m going too fast for you. You’re not going to offend me.”

I nod and swallow hard. Even though I am extremely uncomfortable, surprisingly, she is not making this hard.
She is reading me somehow.
If this is going to work, she needs to know a little bit about my working process, that way I can make sure I don’t end up freaking out on her, which I can already feel starting to build up.