The One Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  Gripping the table for dear life, I rock against him, letting him set the pace, letting him control the tempo, knowing he’ll get me there.

  He’ll get me everywhere.

  I’m a comet tearing across the night sky, hurtling on a wild thrill ride through the cosmos.

  I spin and spiral, and soon, soon everything turns to a blur and I’m soaring. I’m starlight and moonlight, flying so far above the earth.

  I didn’t know it was possible to come this hard, this thoroughly. I don’t want to come down, not ever. I want to live inside these millions of sensations like diamonds in my body.

  At some point, I breathe again. I blink open my eyes. I smile like a fool in love. “Thanks. May I have another?” I murmur. I mean it as sort of a joke, but he takes me seriously.

  “As you wish.”

  He scoops me up, carries me to the futon, and lays me down.

  We reenact one of his fantasies. He spreads my legs, and in seconds, he has me so wild that he grips my hands, holding them tightly to keep me still.

  Or stiller, I should say. Because I’m a live wire, writhing and thrusting as he licks me again and again.

  When I near the cliff a second time, I murmur huskily, my throat dry, “Let me touch you, please.”

  He lets go of my fingers, and I grab his head, holding on to him. Like that, I come again, his face between my legs, my hands wrapped in his hair.

  A minute later, or maybe more, I open my eyes to find a gloriously naked and gorgeous Flynn standing at my side, stroking his cock. God, he’s stunning.

  Reaching out, I trace the grooves of his abs, the cut of his arms, and I feel his hot, hard length in my hands. He shudders when I touch him, thrusting against my palm.

  “You’re mine,” I whisper.

  “I’m yours,” he murmurs. “And you’re mine.”

  I sit up. I’m still in a daze, but I pull off my dress, and I’m completely naked. “Flynn, can we go bare? I’m clean, and I’m on birth control.”

  “Fuck, yes. I’m clean.”

  That’s all we need to know. He flips me to my knees, and I want to weep with happiness.

  I hate missionary.

  I love being taken.

  He knows what I need, and he’s going to give it to me. He’s put me on my hands and knees, spreading my cheeks, rubbing the head of his cock against me.

  I ache.

  Exquisitely.

  Deeply.

  My body craves him like a filthy drug.

  I am desperate for my fix, and he gives it to me, shoving deep inside with a carnal groan.

  I cry out. “God, it’s so good.”

  “It’s better than the first time.”

  “I know,” I whisper.

  And it’s not the position, though I love how he grabs my ass as he moves in me.

  It’s not the depth either. But I adore how he’s reaching the ends of me, how I can feel him everywhere.

  It’s not even how he pushes on my back, making me lower my chest to the futon. Or how he loops my hair around his fist, though all of that sends me into the stratosphere.

  It’s how he loves me, even when he fucks me.

  It’s better because we’re Angel and Duke, city explorers, wordsmith and mathematician, poetry reciter and poetry receiver, and most of all, we are us.

  Loving and fucking, fucking and loving.

  There’s no more role-playing tonight. We have no need to pretend because we both want the real thing.

  As he goes deep another time, swiveling his hips and stroking me, I’m there again at the edge, coming like it’s all my body ever wants to do, like I’ve been trained to do this, like I can’t stop.

  He grips me harder, groaning and turning wild. Saying my name. The way it sounds from his lips, like a benediction, like a rock song, like a primal scream of pleasure, is the highest high.

  He collapses on me.

  His arms slink around me, and he smothers my face in kisses, and I don’t know who wins the “I love you” game, but we both play it all night long, saying it, telling the other.

  As I curl up in his arms, I know I’ve never felt this way with anyone else. I’ve never felt this safe, this content, this wildly, blissfully happy. I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, but I’ll be able to get through it with him by my side.

  When morning comes we shower, learning how fun it is to get clean with my hands against the wall and his on my breasts as he makes me come again.

  Then we dress, and I get ready to see Mr. Galloway. I walk Flynn to the door of the building and wave as he heads down the street.

  He waves back, the morning sun haloing his handsome face.

  I can’t resist.

  “Wait!” I call out, racing down the steps and after him.

  I run to him, and I throw myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist, like a koala. He laughs and pulls me closer.

  “I love you, Flynn Parker.”

  “I love you, Sabrina Granger.”

  “I want to kiss you again.”

  “Kiss me again.”

  We kiss, and we kiss, and eventually, I let him leave.

  As I return to my building, an engine rumbles loudly by the curb. I turn in its direction, spotting an idling red sports car.

  As I walk past it, the passenger door opens.

  A woman emerges. Red flaming hair. Big sunglasses. Snapping bubblegum. Cowboy boots.

  Maureen is here.

  30

  Sabrina

  “Baby!”

  I still cringe when she calls me that. When she acts as if she has the right to call me anything other than my name.

  Drawing a deep breath, I let it fill me, let it fuel me with calm, with grace. That is the only way I can handle her. “Hello, Maureen.”

  She holds her arms out wide, scads of silver and gold bracelets jangling up her wrists. Her jeans are painted onto her legs, and her blouse is unbuttoned low enough to reveal the tops of her breasts. “Give your momma a hug.”

  My skin crawls. I don’t want to hug her. I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want to see her. But I also don’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how I feel. I choose blankness with her. That’s how I’ve tried to behave since she left—cool and calm, showing no emotions.

  I walk the few feet to her. Steeling myself, I give her a quick hug. The cloying scent of her Britney Spears perfume wafts into my nostrils. She tries to keep me in the embrace, gripping me tight then sniffing my hair.

  I peel myself away, smoothing a hand over my blouse—my Up Next uniform. My hair is still wet, pulled back in a looped-over ponytail.

  “Tell me all the things. What’s the dealio?” Her eyes drift in the direction that Flynn walked. “Are you going to tell me about your new main squeeze?”

  She hasn’t earned the privilege to know a damn thing about the best part of my life. I dodge the question. “How are you, Maureen?”

  She blows a pink bubble the size of a small fish. Snapping it into her hot-pink lipsticked mouth, she shakes her head and wags a finger at me. “Don’t try to avoid the subject.” Her voice is cheery like we always have these kinds of girly conversations when she bursts into town every year.

  Oh, wait. We do. Because she bursts into town every year, acting like everything is fine. “When did you start seeing Flynn Parker?”

  A blush spreads across my face when she voices his name. I hate how it sounds on her tongue. Gritting my teeth, I remain silent as I wonder how she knows who he is. But then, she probably stays current on all the wealthy men.

  She punches my arm. “You got yourself a rich man. Way to go, girl.”

  “Mom,” I say, groaning.

  “Good for you, baby. Now, you don’t have to worry about a thing.”

  Sighing heavily, I bite out the words. “Mom, that’s not how it works. That’s not how it is.”

  She juts her hip out to the side, tapping the toe of her red cowboy boot. “That’s totally the way
it is,” she whispers and nods at the car. “It’s that way for me too. Carlos owns his own business.” She scans the block then whispers, “A dispensary. Want to meet him? He loves to shower me with gifts.” She flashes a silver bracelet with a turquoise stone in it. “He picked this up for me at the casino.”

  She turns toward the car and taps the door. “Carlos, show your pretty face to my daughter.”

  With one hand on the wheel, her new beau leans his head toward the passenger side, flashing a huge grin as he drums his fingers on the dashboard in time to pop music blasting from the radio. He’s probably twenty-eight.

  “Hi, Carlos,” I say flatly.

  “Hey, Sabrina, good to finally meet you. You want to hang out with us today?”

  “I have a business meeting. But thanks.” I turn to my mother. “I have to go. I have an appointment in midtown in thirty minutes, and I need to dry my hair.”

  “Let us drive you. We can totally help you, and we can chat and catch up.”

  “No,” I say faster than I’ve ever answered any question. “I don’t have time to talk right now.”

  “How do you not have time for your momma?”

  I want to ignore her. I want to play it cool. But this time I can’t. The ancient hurt wells up. The frustration that’s never far away when it comes to her spills over. “Me? How do I not have time? How did you not have time for us? You left us, Maureen. You left your thirteen-year-old son. You didn’t make any time for him.”

  She laughs, dismissing me with a wave. “You were so much better at taking care of Kevin than I was. I never understood that boy. It was all for the best that you wound up looking out for him. Don’t you think so?”

  Red billows from my eyes. Fumes roll off my body. How can she do this? That’s not how mothering works, handing off a kid you don’t understand to your other kid. That’s not how family works. “Looking out for him? I raised him, Maureen. You left.”

  “And it was the right choice.”

  The temperature in me rises. “It was only for the best because I love him unconditionally. Because I treated him better, not because it was an acceptable thing to—”

  I cut myself off. My pulse speeds too dangerously for this conversation to continue. Why bother arguing with her? It won’t change the past, and it won’t alter the future. I absolutely know why my mother left us. Because she wanted to. Because she chose to.

  I can make a choice too.

  I don’t have to give her an audience. I don’t have to answer her questions. “I’m leaving, Maureen.”

  “Fine, fine. Be that way. But since you got yourself a rich, hot thing, can you help your momma out with some greenbacks?” She brushes her thumb and forefinger together. “I just need five thousand dollars for this new venture that Carlos and I want to start. Not too much, right? Surely, you can spare that.”

  I stare at her incredulously.

  This is who she is.

  This is how she acts.

  It shouldn’t surprise me. But it still does. Maybe it always will. But my answer will always be the same.

  “No.”

  “No?” She’s equally incredulous. “How can you say no?”

  I scoff. “I don’t have money for you, and I certainly don’t have Flynn’s money for you. I barely have my own. I have a business meeting to go to, and I am leaving. Drive safely.”

  I head inside, slamming the door behind me, my breath coming hard and fast and angry. Latent fury runs through my veins and threatens to overtake me.

  But I don’t have the time for rage.

  I have life to deal with.

  I must refuse to let her bother me.

  I tell myself to let her go, and I picture her and her boyfriend cruising along the interstate, blasting past the speed limit, getting the hell out of New York and away from me.

  I bid them a silent farewell.

  She is who she is, and every day I make the choice not to be my mother’s daughter.

  I dry my hair, run to the subway, and soon I’m back at the building in midtown, heading inside. I do a double take when I reach the nineteenth floor.

  The frames of old editions on the walls have been removed. The receptionist is gone. Most of the desks are dismantled.

  Bob Galloway strides in my direction. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in days.

  31

  Flynn

  I toss the towel into the hamper of the gym locker, grab my wallet, and slide my glasses back on. When I turn to leave, I nearly bump chests with Dale, the locker room attendant.

  He flashes a toothy grin. “Hey, Flynn. I’ve been thinking about what you said, and here’s my idea.”

  He wastes no time, and I do respect that. “Hit me.”

  Spreading his hands out wide, he makes the universal sign for I’m-about-to-give-an-elevator-pitch. “Picture this. Instead of How’m I Doing rating my own sexual performance, what if it’s used to rate your partner’s?”

  I blink, rubbing my ear. That can’t possibly be how he’s decided to pivot on his idea. “That’s your plan?”

  He nods proudly. “You’d use the app to write up the person you just got busy with. Like a sexual Yelp.”

  I part my lips to speak, but I’m not sure words exist to describe how awful that would be.

  Dale misinterprets my silence. “Brilliant, right? You could share information about someone. Rate them like an Uber driver. Let the next person know what they’re getting into.”

  “No pun intended,” I say drily, recovering speech.

  “Right. No pun.”

  That’s the problem.

  An expectant look in his eyes, he waits for my blessing. I scratch my head, trying to figure out exactly how to combine the words in the right order to tell him never do this, when he holds up a finger and says, “Or, my other idea is something to do with pizza. Because I like pizza, and everybody likes pizza, and maybe I should make an app where you rate your favorite pizza places and share ideas for great and unexpected toppings and combos.”

  My smile spreads of its own accord, and I clap his shoulder. “Go in that direction. Pizza is awesome. Pizza is good.”

  I leave the gym and head to my office. In the lobby, Claude raises his face and waves. “Mr. Parker, did I ever tell you about my cousin?”

  I stifle a groan but slap on a smile. “The one who wants to play professional miniature golf?”

  Claude chuckles and shakes his head. “Not him. I told him he needed to figure that out on his own. No one was going to ‘GoFund’ him and his dumbass idea,” he says, sketching air quotes, and I’m glad Claude set him on the right path. “This is my other cousin. Gracie. She’s eleven and goes to school in the Bronx, and they’re trying to take a trip to the planetarium next week. You know that one where Neil deGrasse Tyson does his thing?”

  “He’s the man. I love that guy.”

  “They’re trying to go there. Isn’t that cool?” He’s beaming, and I don’t even wait for him to ask for the money.

  “You need me to fund it? I’ll do it.”

  “What?” He jerks back, clearly flummoxed.

  “Oh, I thought you were asking.”

  “No, but I’m sure they do need some help. I was just telling you about it ’cause I knew you liked him. I like that dude as well. I like to watch him on TV.”

  “Claude, let me take care of it. It would be a pleasure.”

  As I make the offer officially, an idea blasts into my brain. Unexpected, but completely awesome. Because that’s what ideas do. They pop out of nowhere. I’m eager as hell to head upstairs and work out the details.

  “Really? That’d be amazing. Gracie will be excited, and so will her class. You’re the man.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Anything that exposes young kids to science is a good thing.”

  As I make my way toward the elevator with a renewed sense of purpose, ready to tackle my plan, another voice calls my name. It’s a little gravelly, like it was roughened over the years by too many cigarettes.


  When I turn, I see a woman with flaming red hair and too many bracelets. “Yoo-hoo! Sabrina told me to come see you.”

  32

  Sabrina

  Even though his face is bedraggled, the suit Bob Galloway wears looks like it cost a mint. The stitching aligns so elegantly across his shoulders that it must have been custom-made.

  “Sabrina,” he says, extending his hand and shaking mine. “Thanks for coming by. I need to give you a kill fee.”

  I flinch then swallow hard. “A kill fee?” I ask, in case there’s a chance I heard him wrong.

  “It was a brilliant piece. One of the best stories I’ve read in years.” He gestures to the disheveled offices, sighing heavily. “But the publication is shutting down.”

  Swaying, I brace myself against the wall. It’s as if the ground has fallen out from under me. “You’re shutting down?” I ask, because this makes zero sense.

  “Like many other print publications, we don’t have enough ad dollars to survive.”

  “But you had all those fat magazines full of ad pages.”

  “Those were from last year.”

  “What about the website?” I ask, grasping for the bow of a sinking boat.

  “We didn’t move quickly enough to establish a presence, so others have beaten us there.” He clears his throat, looking around sheepishly at the emptying offices. “And we might have overspent in a few areas.”

  In an instant, everything snaps into view. I see where the money went. It went to parties, to his suits, to these opulent offices they didn’t need. It went to paying exorbitant fees for articles.

  “The story isn’t going to run anywhere?” I choke out.

  “That’s why I wanted to call you in today.”

  “You could have emailed me,” I point out gently.

  Genteel till the end, he removes his wallet from his back pocket. “No. I couldn’t. I’m paying you the kill fee from my own pocket.”

  Snapping open his billfold, he fishes out two crisp hundred-dollar bills, less than 5 percent of the finished fee, and hands them to me. “The piece was amazing. Brilliant. Fair. Thoughtful. Entertaining. Beautifully written. Everything I could want,” he says, and I beam, a ray of sunshine peeking through a cloudy sky. “I’m sorry we won’t have a home for it. But it’s yours to do what you want with. You could publish it on your own website. Maybe turn it into a book,” he suggests, and both ideas border on outlandish.