Page 86 of Stroked by (Stroked)
A knock startles me from my reverie, pulling me to the entryway. I fling the door open, ready to pull Paisley into my arms when I see Hollis and Melony standing on the other side of the door: Hollis with a six-pack of beer in his hand and Melony with a pie in hers.
“Well, don’t look like you want to kill yourself,” Hollis says sarcastically, blowing by me and into my house.
Holding up the pie, Melony says, “I made some chocolate pudding pie, it’s all sugar-free.”
I plaster a fake smile on my face. “Thanks, you can put it in the fridge for now. Looks good, Mel.”
She shrugs. “Made it all from a box, wish I could say I ground the graham crackers myself.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” I wink at her and let her in the house, quickly looking outside before I shut the door.
Where the fuck is Paisley?
While Hollis and Melony take care of their items in the kitchen, I look at my phone again to see if Paisley sent me a text.
Nothing.
She hasn’t even read the five texts I sent her. Yup, I’ve turned into that guy.
“Grip that phone a little tighter and an itty-bitty gnome might pop out,” Hollis says, taking a sip of one of his light beers.
“Shouldn’t you be watching what you consume?” I ask in a rather gruff tone.
Hollis holds up his hands in defense. “Hey, Mom, get off my back. I just made the Olympic team, pounded it out in the gym and on the tramp today, so my shit’s covered. Let me enjoy a beer. Damn, what’s your problem? You’re the one who invited us over for a cookout. Is Paisley in the back? She needs to calm you down.”
“She’s not here,” I answer curtly.
“She’s coming though,” Melony says. “I talked to her about it today. When I left Bellini earlier, she was still there, addressing envelopes to celebrities for the fashion show Bellini is putting on later in the year.”
“Fashion show?” Hollis asks. “What is she going to show off? Different colored sweater sets?”
“Dog fashion show,” Melony answers. “She’s created a line of religious wear for dogs. She’s gathering auditions now for models.”
“Dog models?” Hollis asks, not quite comprehending the idea.
“Dude, you know she’s fucking insane. Why do you even try to understand?” I ask, walking into the kitchen to grab a beer. Fuck it. It’s light. It won’t kill me to have one.
“What if I want Taco to walk in the show? Might be a good opportunity for my little Chihuahua to get some exposure. You know I’ve been thinking about breaking her into the acting side of dog careers.”
“You have a Chihuahua?” Melony asks Hollis.
He sidles up next to her, his interest in her clear. “If you actually let me take you out on a date like I’ve been asking for a while now, you would know that.”
She rolls her eyes. “I told you, Hollis. I don’t date.”
“What about a late-night fuck? I’m sure you do those.”
She sizes up his six-foot stature. “Not with men who drink light beers and own dogs smaller than a cat.”
“Ouch.” Hollis feigns hurt as I laugh.
“She’s got a point, man.”
“So if I drank Guinness and had a St. Bernard, where would we stand?”
A smart smile peeks past Melony’s lips. “Then I would probably be taking you to the back of Reese’s house right now to give you what you want.”
“Hell,” Hollis mumbles, pulling out his phone and typing away.
