Page 14 of Stroked by (Stroked)
He swallows, smacks his lips together and smiles at me. “There is nothing like reading the newspaper and eating a bowl of cereal while your balls rest against the cold surface of a chair. Sorry, sweetheart. Sun’s out, dongs out.”
With that, he winks at me, and then heads back to the couch to watch his highlights.
The man is infuriating.
Chapter Five
**REESE**
These wooden chairs are doing nothing for the pain searing through my back. My morning swim was a bitch. Coach Fern showed no mercy and kept drilling me on my one-hundred-meter freestyle. We were doing benchmark testing, preparing for the Olympics Trials, and he was not easing up, not that he ever would. This was my final swim. We were both giving it all we got.
But fuck if I’m not sore. Two hours of relentless kicking and stroking every morning for the past few months has been grueling. Some people think since I’m a swimmer, I’m just floating through, allowing the buoyancy of the water to sail me to my destination. Not true.
Water is approximately a thousand times thicker than air. It’s in the physics. Instead of a runner who is propelling their way through air, I have to stroke my way through water, an environmental element much denser than the oxygen we breathe. Ever wonder why we shave every last inch of our body? Every square inch of smooth skin counts.
If I wasn’t meeting Paisley this morning, I would have had breakfast delivered to me while I sat in the hyperbaric chamber to aid my recovery. I’m older now, so I don’t bounce back like I used to, and I feel it every fucking day.
But Paisley is coming, so I dressed in a pair of sweats, a swimming T-shirt, a backwards hat and left the pool. Bellini will probably stroke out when she sees me but I couldn’t care less what she thinks of my attire. I am sore, achy, and fresh from the pool, the last thing I wanted to do was dress up in a pair of stiff jeans and a button-down shirt. The restaurant didn’t care either, since I’m a frequent brunch customer. They have the perfect carb-filled wheat pancakes with banana and granola that fuel me through my day.
I glance down at my Garmin and realize it’s ten past the hour. I wonder if Paisley is lost. I’m not surprised Bellini is late, as she’s never on time.
Bored, I pick up my phone to check Facebook when I see a message from Paisley.
Paisley: I’m at the front door. They won’t let me in to sit with you.
“Shit,” I mumble, sorely getting up from my seat. I forgot to tell the hostess Paisley would be joining me today.
I work my way through the restaurant, avoiding stares and phones snapping pictures in my direction, and see Paisley sitting in the entryway with a worried look on her face.
“Paisley,” I call out.
She stands immediately and straightens the dress she’s wearing. It’s black, just as black as her wavy long hair, and falls to the top of her feet. The middle of the dress is cinched at her waist, and the top is cut just low enough for me to see the swell of her cleavage. She’s wearing a light-colored fedora, wrapped by a thick black ribbon, and her wrists are decorated in bangles and bracelets.
She’s casual yet drop-dead gorgeous.
When she sees me, her grey eyes light up, and she cautiously waves. I turn to the hostess and say, “She’s with me. Sorry about the confusion, I forgot to put her name on the list.”
“Not a problem,” the hostess responds.
I nod my head to Paisley, directing her back to the table I always have on reserve for mornings. It offers the perfect view of the ocean, with a decent amount of privacy from the outside world.
“Sorry about that,” I tell her, making sure to pull out her chair. I can be a gentleman. “They’re pretty good here about protecting me from fans.”
“Not a problem.”
“You look good,” I say, scanning her one more time because I can’t help it. I notice something new about her each pass. Like her little toes, painted a midnight blue, or how she has her tragus pierced on each ear, a little heart earring wrapped around the thick cartilage. Along her forearms she has tiny tattooed words in script, words I can’t decipher unless I were to invade her personal bubble to get a closer look.
Fuck, I desperately want to invade her personal bubble.
“Um, thank you,” she replies, clearly nervous. “I would say the same about you, but you’re wearing ratty sweatpants.” Her comment is followed by a delicious laugh that makes my ratty old sweatpants tight in the crotch.
“Athletes are superstitious,” I reply. “It’s pretty much impossible to throw out anything.”
“So, you’re saying you’re a hoarder? If I came to your house, would I be able to walk through it? Or would it be full of leftover egg shells from every protein shake you’ve ever made?”
Sassy. I fucking love it.
“I keep the eggshells in a bin in the closet. I label each bin by year. Before every swim meet, I make sure to run my hands through every tub, while clucking like a chicken. It’s a habit I can’t seem to stop.” I give her a wicked smile before taking a sip of my orange juice.
