Page 126 of Stroked by (Stroked)
“I’ve been giving you free shows for years, sweetheart. It’s about time I cash in on my roommate privileges. Strip down.”
“First of all,” I walk toward him looking down at the menu, “I didn’t ask for your free shows. I’m pretty sure I told you to put clothes on every time, and second, getting naked is not in the roommate privileges.”
“Is it in mine.” He wiggles his eyebrows.
“You’re ridiculous, because of that, we are getting pineapple and ham pizza.” I wince and say, “Want to pay?”
His lips thin. “I will pay if you let me grab your boob just once.”
“Isn’t that prostitution?”
“Not if we don’t let the cops know.”
Rolling my eyes, I grab his hand, place it on my boob and then shoo him away. Like a spry young man, he hops off the sofa and does a little jig. “Hell yeah! One step closer to naked Tuesdays.”
He takes off to grab his wallet as I call out to him, “Never going to happen.”
When he’s in his bedroom, I turn back to the screen where another race is about to begin, Reese out of sight. I sigh to myself and look down at my phone. If only I could get in contact with him. Would he want to see me again? Or is so mad at me that there is no reconciling our relationship?
There mere thought of never seeing him again . . . ever, hits me hard and once again, tears start to flood my eyes just in time for Jonathan to see.
“Shit,” he mutters, sitting next to me, and pulling me close again.
“I love him, Jonathan, and I may never see him again.”
“I know, sweetheart, I know.”
Pizza is never ordered, but instead, Jonathan holds me while I cry myself to sleep.
***
“Give me the grandslam with sausage, scrambled eggs, and pancakes,” an elderly gentlemen says as I grab his menu and stuff it under my arm.
I turn to his breakfast companion, an elderly woman, whose wrinkles are dropping over her eyes. “And what can I get you, ma’am?”
“I will take the steak skewer and egg skillet, extra meat,” she says in her very shaky old-lady voice. As I take her menu, I wonder if her dentures will be able to hold up with her meal. “I love my meat, isn’t that right, Carl?”
“She sure does.” Carl winks at me as I throw up in my mouth.
Old people really need their own island.
I smile politely, avoiding a sarcastic thumbs up, and walk over to the register where I plug in their meals.
It’s been three weeks, yes, three weeks since I left Rio. I quickly found a job at Denny’s, serving early bird specials to the elderly and scraping the grease off my body every day when I get home. There are zero prospects for me in the production field, and I haven’t heard one word from Reese since his return.
How do I know he’s home? Well, that’s easy, he’s been all over the media. It’s hard not to know what he’s doing on a daily basis. I’ve now avoided all Internet use and refuse to watch TV. When I’m home, I’m either allowing Jonathan search for jobs for me, hence the no-Internet use on my end, or I’m watching sappy movies in my room while I cry silently so Jonathan doesn’t have to once again coddle me.
Bellini has surprisingly been out of the limelight, given her pension for needing a camera on her at all times. After Reese won gold, I haven’t heard from Melony, and the only one who really talks to me is Lauren, but that’s been infrequent.
Jonathan has been kind and caring, but I can’t help think he has ulterior motives. Ever since he confessed his feelings for me, he’s been overly touchy and has made it quite clear he doesn’t mind being naked in front of me.
One night, I actually caught him jacking off in his bedroom, and to my surprise, I watched him for a few seconds before he winked at me. I squealed, running out of his room. I’m not going to lie, I was a little turned on, but I think it’s because I miss Reese and everything about him. Yes, Jonathan has a nice penis but it’s not one I’m interested in.
“Why is it you always get the interesting couples?” Tammy, a veteran of Denny’s, asks as she saddles up next to me. “Look at them, they’re Frenching over the jellies and jams on their table.”
I turn to the elderly couple and cringe when I confirm what Tammy pointed out. Yes, they are indeed Frenching, but instead of their mouths being pressed up against each other, their tongues are barely flicking each other.
“That’s so revolting.” I shake my head and continue to put in the steak skewer meal, which I will never look at the same again.
