Page 22 of Stroked by (Stroked)
“Understood,” I answer, knowing full well how reality shows work, but I wasn’t about to point that out to her. Instead, I pull out my notebook and start taking notes on everything she’s saying, even the ridiculous things. I can’t forget one minor detail, even if it was the smallest of tasks. I know if I have one screw up with Bellini, she will make sure I won’t be working for her anymore. She doesn’t seem very forgiving.
“But before Jasper gets here, I need to talk to you about something.” Bellini crosses her legs and fans out her robe as she stares me down. “You understand you work for me, correct?”
“Of course,” I answer, wondering where this conversation is going.
“And you understand that you work for Reese as well?”
“Yes, Miss Chambers. I’m very excited to assist you both with the show and Mr. King’s upcoming events.”
“Good.” She examines her nails and then stares daggers at me. “Then you realize the way you look at my boyfriend is completely inappropriate and if I catch you ever looking at him with longing in your eyes again, be assured that your hole in your sneaker-wearing ass won’t find another job in this town.”
Hole in the sneaker? I think back to my shoes and can’t think of one pair that have a hole in the shoe.
Then what she said clicks in my head, not about the shoe, but before that.
I look at Reese with longing in my eyes? How is that possible when I tried to avoid eye contact with him during breakfast when Bellini was there? Did she spy on us afterward?
“I’m sorry, Miss Chambers, but I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t understand? Let me say it in words you might.” Bellini’s face contorts into something entirely too menacing to see on a frail blonde. “There are two types of girls in this world. Girls like me, who have men draped across their feet, wishing and hoping for one sniff from their very sought-after lady garden. And then there are girls like you.” She sneers, looking me up and down. “Girls who flap their dilapidated garden gate open for any kind of attention, doesn’t matter, man, woman, child, or dog. Bestiality isn’t beneath girls like you, nor is acting like a complete whore to other women’s men. You have no morals, and no ethical guidelines when it comes to your dank taco. Newsflash, not everyone enjoys Taco Tuesday, so close it up, shut it down, and don’t look at my man like you want to dangle between his legs, dick in your mouth, with one task at hand . . . swallowing. Lord knows you are one of those dick guzzlers I pray for every night.”
Flabbergasted. It’s the only reaction I will allow myself to show because I need to keep this job. So I tame down the inner lioness who wants to get all stabby with my pen in Bellini’s eye, mutilating it until it looks like ground lamb, ready to be balled up together with breadcrumbs and fried as a tasty treat.
Lamb eyeball—I would eat it just out of sick pleasure.
That’s how stabby I feel. I’m talking about grinding up someone’s eye into an Italian delicacy.
Without showing my anger, I take a deep breath and nod my head. “Understood, Miss Chambers. I’m sorry if I gave the impression of a . . .” I pause for a second and swallow hard. “If I gave the impression of a loose . . . taco.”
“Just don’t let it happen again.” She flips her hair to the side. And then puts on a bright smile. “So, tell me, what did Reese say about me when I left? Was he desperate to make up with me? I can only imagine how heartbroken he must have felt, knowing I left on bad terms.”
If only she knew.
“He seemed pretty upset,” I lie. The truth will not go over well right now. This is exactly why people lie to uptight, dramatic celebrities all the time, to avoid the lashing of a lifetime. Hell, I apparently looked at Reese a certain way and was deemed a taco-flaunting whore. Who knows what she would call me if I actually told her the truth about breakfast?
Which would be what? That we touched hands, shared food, and then I flicked him in the brow. Now that I think about it, maybe she wouldn’t care.
“I knew he would be.” She picks up her champagne glass and swirls the liquid in the narrow flute while she speaks to me. “I can tell you’re single, Mauve. It’s written all over you in a Crayola Crayon-labeled desperation. Naturally it’s a puke color, because well,” she looks me up and down and shivers, “you’re slightly repulsive.”
What a freaking sweetheart.
“What you need to know about men, is that you can’t just throw yourself at them.” She stares at my dress and says, “That means the see-through cheap cotton blend of a dress you’re wearing has to be shredded the minute you get home. It reads impetuous, needy, like you’re meeting a gang of street youths down at the 7-Eleven to share a blue raspberry slurpee Big Gulp. If you want a man in your life, you’re going to have to—”
“I’m a lesbian.” I cut her off, before she starts getting too deep into relationship advice. It is so not needed from her.
And no, I’m not a lesbian, but I would say just about anything right about now to shut her up.
She leans forward, her eyes big, and her lips parted just slightly in shock, like I told her I gave birth to a killer whale last week.
“You’re . . . a lesbian?” She whispers the word and looks around to see if anyone heard her.
Note to everyone out there: you don’t have to whisper the word gay or lesbian when saying it out loud. It’s not a swear word, you’re not going to be banned from the universe for speaking of those who are same-sex oriented. It should be a word spoken in regular tongue, a word that is a part of everyone’s vernacular . . . and not in a derogatory way.
I nod my head in confirmation, thinking of my friend Carrie back home, and how she would be proud of me for joining her side. She is one of those girls who you envy and realize that one saying is true. “All the cool girls are lesbians.” She’s chill, laid-back, and STUNNING with her long blonde hair and full eyelashes. She’s made men cry before, breaking their hearts when they realize she’s batting for the other team.
Taking a moment to mull over what I confirmed, Bellini not so casually covers her bathing-suit exposed body, making it known she doesn’t want to be ogled. I roll my eyes.
Another note to everyone out there; not all gay men and lesbians are checking you out. They have better things to do with their lives than prey on the heterosexuals of the world.
