Page 23 of Stroked by (Stroked)
“So . . . you like women?”
“Yes, that’s what lesbian means.” Maybe she will get off my back about Reese, realize I’m not after her man . . . at least give it the illusion I’m not. I can’t help the way I look at him. He’s all muscular and smooth skin. Hump-worthy for sure.
Perusing me once more, her lips turn thin. “I can see it. Your arms are too toned, your style is rather boyish, and I thought you smelled of musk and wood.” Well that’s a ridiculous stereotype if I’ve ever heard one.
“Is that how you think lesbians smell? Like a lumberjack?”
“Well, that’s what you are, aren’t you?”
I bite my tongue, literally bite down on the motherfucker because if I don’t I will be telling this woman off so fast, blowing my career up quicker than I could tweak her nipple. She’s such an ignorant wench.
I need this job. I need this job.
I take calming breaths and smooth my hands over my dress. “The media portrays lesbians to be flannel-wearing, lumberjacks when in fact—”
“Jasper, you’re here!” Bellini claps her hands together, interrupting my verbal onslaught.
A wiry man with glasses leans over Bellini’s lounge and kisses her on the cheek before nodding at me.
“We were just discussing lesbians. Look at me, Miss 2016 with an open mind.”
“You’re so progressive,” he compliments, sarcasm and annoyance clear in his voice. “Who is this?” He nods at me.
Waving her hand in my direction, she says, “Oh, that’s Mauve.” Whispering once again with her hand next to her mouth, like she is about to tell a secret, she answers, “She’s a lesbian. She’s my assistant, and she’s a lesbian.”
“Oh, your new assistant.” He reaches his hand out to me to shake. “I’m Jasper. Nice to meet you, Mauve.” He cuts to Bellini quickly and says, “Bellini, don’t out your employees, it’s very disrespectful and condescending.”
I refrain from correcting him when it comes to my name and shake his hand instead. He’s one of the producers of Bellini’s show,Rollin’ in The Bacon, if I need to impress anyone right now, it would be him.
“Nice to meet you, Jasper. I’m excited to be a part of the show and will be happy to help wherever. I actually have a background in—”
“You can be quiet now. Jasper doesn’t want to know about your background in knowing your way around female organs. It’s irrelevant to the show but good to know since I won’t have to worry about you drooling over Reese again.”
A part of me, a very small part of me wants to call up Reese and invite him over just so I can hump his face tonight out of spite, but knowing I have a good opportunity with my career, I hold back my finger that itches to place the call.
“Good to know,” Jasper says, sitting across from Bellini. “Let’s get down to business. Reese’s publicist sent me his schedule for the upcoming swim season. Production plans on following him every step of the way.”
“And what about me?” Bellini asks, insult evident in her voice. “The show is about me, you know.”
“We are aware,” Jasper deadpans. “But ratings have been down. We have to add another element to the show, more than just you talking on the phone to your dad about the newest shoe he needs to buy you.” Bellini crosses her arms in defiance. “Reese is an American treasure with an interesting image that will bring in a new set of viewers.”
Spitting venom, Bellini says, “He hasn’t even won a gold medal. He’s spent more time on a Wheaties box for accomplishing absolutely nothing than any other athlete on this planet. He’s the male version of Anna Kournikova, famous for his looks and ability to wear a triangle of underwear in front of a camera.”
“Now that you got that out of your system, let’s remember not to say something like that in front of the camera or during interviews.” Jasper’s patience with her is wearing thin. I’m surprised he hasn’t already snapped her femur in half.
“I’m just pointing out the obvious. There is no need to tiptoe around it. He’s a professional choke artist.”
“Do you even like him?” I say, letting the words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.
Very slowly, Bellini’s sunhatted head turns in my direction, a sneer to her lips. “Excuse me?”
I cough and pat my chest, clearing my throat and giving myself a second to respond properly. “I’m sorry, I had an itch in my throat. I asked do you like the gym?”
She eyes me skeptically before saying, “What does that have to do with what we are talking about?”
Think Paisley.
What does that have to do with the present conversation?
