Page 69 of Stroked by (Stroked)
“Unkempt people really are the lonely ones of the world.”
Glancing over at Pocket, I take her in and say, “Imbecile, before you go around judging people, why don’t you make sure your fly is zipped. Honestly, I can’t take you anywhere.”
Looking down at her pants, she blushes and then zips up quickly. “I wondered why things felt so breezy. I just thought it was being in the presence of our Lord in Grace.”
My hand slams on the chaise. “How many times do I have to tell you?” I yell, utterly frustrated with her idiocies. “He is not Jesus, he is not God, and he is not the real Pope Francis. He’s a spiritual being with wisdom beyond his years.” Getting out of the chaise, I storm off to the kitchen to grab a blade of grass to gnaw on. Grass is a delightful mid-morning snack when my Tic Tacs wear off. “Listen up, Pocket. Normally, I would have Mauve make this phone call since she’s in charge of business, but given that we’re surprising her with a lesbian of her own, I need you to call our winner. It’s between Litter Box and Bread Box.”
To catch you up, I gave all the lady applicants nicknames so I could remember who they are. Litter Box impressed me with her ability to name off clothing designers without skipping a beat, and she had a good pizza topping idea of poppy seeds, lemon Girl Scout cookies, and raspberries. I would be bringing that one up to Daddy. Bread Box, she was quite the competitor for Litter Box. She was well versed in nail polish and owns a truck. Everyone likes a person with a truck, but her pizza topping idea was subpar at best. I know I’m supposed to be looking for someone of like interests with Mauve, but I’m pretty good at reading people, so I’m one hundred percent positive I know what I’m doing.
“Oh, Bread Box I think is the winner.” Pocket claps to herself.
“You are just a retched cow today,” I say in exasperation. “Do you not know how to read people at all? The obvious winner is Litter Box. She is educated in hairstyles, knows her way around a curling iron, and will be able to get Mauve to brush her godforsaken hair. And isn’t that the real goal here? To avoid dreadlocks at any cost?”
Pocket nods in agreement. “You’re so right, Bellini.”
“I know I am. That’s why I’m prettier than you.” Taking a bite from my blade of grass, I point at pocket and say mid chew, “Call Litter Box, let her know she’s won the pizza topping contest and invite her over here for when we get back from Corn-tucky. We have some matchmaking to finalize.”
Chapter Seventeen
**PAISLEY**
“If you are storing luggage in the overhead compartment, please be sure to maximize the space allotted for everyone. It’s going to be a full flight. Thank you.”
How many times is the flight attendant going to say that? I feel bad for them, constantly having to repeat themselves over and over again, no one ever really listening.
My phone beeps with a text message. Thankfully the cabin door hasn’t been shut yet so I’m free to use my electronics and personal devices. See, I listen.
I’m in the middle seat—thank you, Bellini—and waiting for the window seat person to show up. My fingers are crossed that they are a no-show. The lady next to me has to be at least ninety, going on one hundred ten. She’s wearing sunglasses, you know, the ones that wrap around the entire head, blocking off any kind of possible light, and her flowered crochet sweater is not only sporting smiling daisies, but it’s also buttoned up wrong . . . and tucked into her Alfred Dunner elastic-waisted khaki pants. A part of me wants to hug her and see if she has any M&M’s in her pocket to share with me, and the other half wants to poke her to see if she’s still breathing.
I look down at my phone to see a message from Reese. Just like a fourteen-year-old girl back in high school, my stomach flips in excitement.
Reese: This hotel room is empty. Know of anyone who might want to share it with me?
Knowing the lady next to me is probably as blind as a bat, I freely text him back without a worry of her reading my messages. Yes, you have to worry about those people, the ones looking over your shoulder, reading everything you type. I know this because I am one of those people. I learned my lesson once though when I was peeking at a man’s phone as he flipped through douchey pictures of himself, only to come across a naked selfie. Let’s just say bro was Italian and showing off his salad and macaroni.
Paisley: Who’s this?
I’ve always enjoyed being a ball-buster.
Reese: Oh shit, is this not Jessica? My bad.
Okay, maybe I’ve met my match.
Paisley: For that, I guess I will be warming my own bed tonight.
Reese: So you can dish it but you can’t take it? I will file that under information I need to know.
Paisley: Might be a good idea.
Reese: Did you get the little package I left in your bag?
Paisley: What? No.
Reese: Check your backpack.
Leaning forward, I reach for my backpack that rests under the seat in front of me and check the back pocket–the only one I didn’t use this morning since it has my laptop in it. Sure enough there is a drug store bag inside. Excitement courses through me as I open the bag to find a coloring book—construction trucks and planes—a package of twenty-four crayons and a package of Swedish Fish. He remembered I like to color: cue the girly melting. Damn it, my heart is beating a mile a minute from his gesture.
Paisley: I want to kiss you so fucking hard right now.
