Page 19 of Stroked by (Stroked)
“No, that’s okay.” I stuff a giant piece of French toast in my mouth, chewing quickly so I can finish my meal. Talking with my mouth full, I say, “Just want to know about the tickets.”
He gives me a quizzical look before answering. “I will make sure there are tickets for you and Bellini.”
“Oh, I don’t need a ticket if you can’t get one.” I shove an entire egg in my mouth, feeling the yolk drip down my chin. Quickly, like a ninja, I dab my chin with my napkin, praying he didn’t see the mess. A massacred pile of French toast, eggs, and bacon float around in my mouth, threatening to overspill at any minute.
“Are you okay?”
I shove one last piece of bacon into my already full trap, praying the maximum capacity doesn’t rebel on me and explode right in front of Reese.
“Fine,” I reply, covering my mouth with my napkin just in case something falls out. “All good over here.” I give him the thumbs up and pat my stomach. “Delicious.”
From the pace my teeth are working at, you’d think steam is coming out of my ears, but thankfully it doesn’t when I swallow and wash everything down with my drink. Once my mouth is clear, I smile at Reese who is studying me intently.
“All done.” I feel the need to open my mouth and lift my arms in the air to show him all food has been consumed, as if I was on a reality show where eating food was the contest.
“Did you even taste it?”
I snort.
Yes, you read that correctly. I snort.
I’m not a snorter. I laugh, I chuckle, I giggle even. I don’t ever snort.
Snorting is a violent way to force air out of our nose, a human reaction that happens usually uncontrollably when you are nervous and in need for relief somewhere in your face.
So you snort.
Needing to check my nose to make sure during my vicious exhalation of air out of my nose, I didn’t accidentally lose any mucus, I casually—like a professional—run my finger under my nose in the most offhand, yet smoothest way possible.
“You didn’t shoot anything out of your nose if that’s what you’re checking for,” Reese says, leaning back in his chair, observing me.
Immediately, heat flushes my cheeks, sweat forms over my upper lip—I can feel my ears turn red from embarrassment—and all I want to do is crawl into a hole from complete mortification.
“I uh, had an itch.” I make a point to use the tip of my finger to itch my nose, rather vigorously. “Funny how skin itches, huh?”
Funny how skin itches?
Someone please come punch me in the face and end this miserable moment.
Reese leans forward and crosses his arms on the table, turning up the heat in my body to lava levels, melting me right in my seat. He points under his nose and says, “Oh, I guess you did shoot something out when you snorted.”
“Oh my God!” I exclaim, bringing my napkin to my nose, completely and utterly humiliated.
Clapping his hands together, Reese laughs and says, “Just kidding, but damn was your reaction priceless.”
What?
He was just kidding?
Irritated, embarrassed, and wanting revenge, I lean toward him and without an ounce of thought or concern for repercussions, I flick him between the eyes. As if my digit is a bullet out of a gun, a high-powered flick makes an impression in his forehead, causing both of his eyes to shut out of reaction.
Holy crap!
The minute my fingernail connects with his skull, I realize I made a big mistake. I’m not making good decisions today.
He’s shocked.
I’m shocked.
