Page 53 of Stroked by (Stroked)
Tears well in my eyes from the emotions building inside me, and Jonathan pulls away from me just in time to see them.
“Hey, what’s going on?” he asks, wiping away the tears that stain my cheeks with his oversized oven mitts.
I shake my head, my throat tight with remorse, unable to speak.
The timer goes off in the background, indicating the casserole is done. Taking a quick look at me, his lips quirk to the side in concern, and then he retreats to the kitchen to pull out dinner. A wave of heat floods the small space and a cheese-coated baking dish is pulled from the oven. Jonathan turns off the timer and the oven and then pivots in my direction, both hands mitt-less and pressing against the counter in front of him.
“Why are you so upset right now?”
Jonathan has been my best friend for years. He’s been the one person I’ve relied on ever since I left my family in Temecula. He’s been my backbone, my cheerleader, and I’ve never lied to him, but ever since I took this job, I haven’t been able to tell him the truth.
I’ve been unable to confess my feelings about Reese and the way he consumes every last inch of my body, how he makes me feel, like I’m the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen, or how he refuses to let up on his pursuit, how he’s worn me down to the point that I’m weak around him, unable to stay away.
“Paisley, why aren’t you talking to me?”
I hate that look in his eyes, a part of me thinks he knows what’s going on. He’s perceptive and can read me like a book. I kind of wish he would just say it and get it over with.
I clear my throat and say, “I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” My confession is on the tip of my tongue. All I want to do is get this heavy weight off my shoulders, but then Jonathan’s disappointment would be too strong, so I chicken out. “I’m on my period.”
“Eh, gross, Paisley. Damn, we’ve talked about this.” He turns his back to me and starts grabbing dishes from the cabinet. “We don’t talk about womanly problems.”
Offended, even though I’m not on my period, I defend all womenkind. “Don’t say gross. It’s a natural process of the human body—”
“No, the human body would include men. You don’t see us bleeding out of our buttholes.”
“Um, that’s called hemorrhoids.”
He shakes his head. “This conversation is ending. We are not talking about menstruation, womanly things, or hemorrhoids while we eat this rockin’ casserole. You hear me?”
He puts two plates on the kitchen bar with two cups of green tea. Pulling up a stool next to me, he sits down and starts digging into his dinner, blowing viciously on the steaming casserole before he sticks it in his mouth.
“I have a girl coming over tonight, hope that’s okay.”
I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to ask me every time.”
“I do when I’m kicking you out of the living room. You’re going to have to spend the night in your room.”
“I don’t care,” I say, blowing on some food. “I’m probably going to go to bed early anyway. Long day out in the sun wore me out.”
“Good news for me.” He raises his fork in triumph.
“But can you please just make sure to keep all your mingling private parts in your bedroom?”
He thinks about it for a second before answering. “Just because you’ve already seen my penis this morning, I will keep sexual intercourse to the bedroom.”
“You’re so kind,” I respond sarcastically.
We spend the rest of the evening eating dinner together, talking about the girl Jonathan is having over for a Netflix and chill. He says he plans on actually trying to watch some Netflix, but by the fresh shower smell coming off him and the fact he’s eating dinner with me, I’m pretty positive we are looking at a certified booty call.
I help Jonathan clean up and then grab my purse from the entryway and head back to my bedroom, which thankfully is on the opposite side of the apartment from Jonathan’s, while he preps the living room. The minute I get into my bedroom, I hear the knock at the door, followed by Jonathan saying, “Hey sexy. Glad you found the place.”
The man is a whore, a glorified, no-questions-asked manwhore.
I get ready for bed in record time, slipping on a pair of boy shorts and a loose tank top—thanks to the hot night—and flop onto the white fluffy comforter that adorns my bed. It feels like a cloud in the middle of the sky, sucking me into relaxation.
Not quite ready to shut my eyes, I grab my phone from my purse and I’m instantly assaulted by a barrage of text messages and missed calls from Reese. My immediate reaction is to read them, coo over them, and swoon like a teenage girl in the nineties attending her first New Kids on the Block concert.
But I refrain . . . for two seconds, and then I open them.
