“Thanks, Mom.” I wipe at my eyes. “Is my mascara running?”
“A tiny bit. Go like this.” She pantomimes rubbing her thumbs under her eyes while looking up.
I wipe under my eyes, and she nods her approval.
“Better. Where the heck did Angela get to?”
I laugh. “I suspect she’s inside, chatting up the bartender to give us time to talk. She’s thoughtful like that.”
“Well, go get her. I want to talk to her about a necklace for the Oscars. And bring me a glass so I don’t have to keep stealing your drink.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Nat
* * *
The unfunny “funny thing” about an unplanned vacation is that I’m so goddamned bored I want to scream. My stupid internal clock means I’m wide-the-fuck-awake at six a.m., even though I have nowhere to be and nothing to do.
I prowl the streets of Brooklyn in a misguided attempt at exercise, only to remember I hate exercise. I turn on the TV, only to remember I hate TV.
Pacing the apartment like a caged animal, I text Ritchie.
Want to gtg and maybe try to write some new shit?
He texts back right away.
Can’t today. Picked up a lunch shift at the restaurant. Tomorrow maybe?
Fucking great.
I send him a quick yes, then toss my phone onto the couch. Immediately, I reach for it and check the time. Only eight a.m. Which means five a.m. in LA, so I can’t call Bex yet. I go down to the bodega and pick up three-for-five-dollar energy drinks and bring them back to the apartment. Halfway into one of them, I realize it’s probably not the best idea to pound caffeine while I’m bored.
When an unfamiliar number comes up on my phone, I’m just bored enough to answer it.
“Natalie? This is Karina Smith.”
I sit up straight on the couch. “Karina, hi.”
“Hi. Bex is in California and I have some questions about the wedding. They told me at the Thorns that you’re off work today, but they gave me your phone number. Is this okay?”
I smile into the phone, even though I know she can’t see me. “It’s fine. I’m actually bored out of my skull. How can I help you?”
“I hate talking on the phone—it makes my palms sweat and my heart race. Can you meet me for lunch?”
We make plans to meet at a Puerto Rican restaurant near her set, and I hang up with a flutter of gratitude in my stomach.
The “restaurant” turns out to be three tables on the sidewalk and a walk-up window, but when I arrive, Karina waves at me shyly from one of the tables.
“Hi.” I sit down across from her, noting she already has a plate of rice in front of her. “You ordered already?”
“Yes. I love the arroz con gandules here. There are bits of the crispy rice from the bottom of the pan mixed in and it’s awesome. I have no idea if I’m pronouncing that right, by the way. My Spanish is pretty much limited to set-Spanish.”
She doesn’t look at me as she says it, and again I’m struck by the way she seems both nervous and cocky—like Ritchie, if Ritchie had attended finishing school.
“Mmm. That sounds amazing. I’ll be right back.” I go to the window and order the rice dish she described, then return to the table with my own plate. “So, I don’t want to be rude, but—”
“Yes, I’m on the spectrum. I thought Bex told you.”
“It’s cool.” I rush to reassure her. “I think my bass player is too. He never got diagnosed or anything, but you remind me of him.”
“Your bass player?” Her brow furrows, then clears. “You’re in a band?”
“And I thought Bex told you.” We grin at each other across the table before her eye contact slides away. “Yeah, so that’s why I’m on ‘vacation’. The Thorns found out about my illicit activities and gave me two weeks to choose between my band—my family—and my other family.”
“Wow, that sucks.” Karina’s eyes widen in sympathy. “I didn’t realize. I wouldn’t have—”
“No, it’s fine. Answering questions about the Thorns is second nature. And I can always make calls if I need to.”
“But will you get paid?” Her distress is palpable.
“Don’t worry about me. Please, let me help. I’ve been so bored all morning and it’s just the first day.”
She smiles. “Okay, so I have some questions about the flowers—do we have to use the florist currently in the contract? I don’t care if I have to pay a penalty. Because we shot this episode last week…”
An hour later, we’ve got a new vision for the rooftop decor, and I send a text to Priya:
New florist contract coming in for the Smith-Horvath wedding while I’m gone. Can you make sure Mitch gets them?
Her text comes back right away.
You got it. I’m sorry again for everything.
Her apology—out of the blue and by text message this time—hits me like a punch to the gut.
It’s okay. You got manipulated and I got fucked. Blame Elinor.
On the train home, a melody starts to form around those words. Blame Elinor. By the time I’m unlocking the door to my apartment, I’ve got the chorus written in the notes on my phone.
By the time I call Ritchie the next morning, I’ve got a new song.
But will I ever get to play it?
Nineteen
Bex
* * *
The text message from Karina saying she met Nat for lunch to make some changes to the contract takes me by surprise, but the call from Natalie much more so.
“Nat?” I pick up so fast, I knock over my bottle of nail polish attempting to put the brush back in the bottle. “Shit.”
“Heh. Don’t sound so excited.” Her throaty chuckle is my favorite noise in the world.
“Shut up, I spilled nail polish.”
“Sounds messy.”
“You like me messy,” I tease, absurdly excited.
“Mmmm. Yes I do. But I’m actually calling to apologize. When I said I needed space—I meant right then and there. For a couple hours, the night, whatever. I didn’t mean to scare you off to California.”
I wince. “I have a habit of bouncing back and forth between New York and LA when things get complicated. I guess you made it easier for me to do that this time.”
“About that. I wish you’d bounce back here soon. I miss you.”
The grin spreading across my face threatens to burst through my skin. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I had lunch with your future mother-in-law yesterday. I didn’t realize you hadn’t told her about me.”
“I told you I’d keep your secrets.”
“I know. But people say shit—” Her voice cracks, then she clears her throat and continues. “I haven’t had a lot of reason to trust people in my life. And that’s gotten harder the past couple weeks. But what I’m trying to say is that I trust you. And I appreciate you.”
My heart plummets into my stomach. “Appreciate?”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s more than appreciation. I’m not good at this, Bex. All I know is I want you here with me, not in California. And I maybe haven’t earned the right to ask this of you, but can you please, please come home to me?”
A bubble of warmth explodes in my chest, tingling out to every nerve ending.
“I’ll be home in time for your show on Friday. Wear your dick for me?”
Her surprised shout of laughter washes over me, and I know we’re on the same page. But of course, she has a request of her own.
“Wear that dress you wore to the fundraiser. The black one. And you’ve got a deal.”
Nat
* * *
Bex’s breathy laughter makes me smile as I relax back in bed.
“You have a thing for that dress, don’t you?”
Understatement of the freaking year. Bex in that dress is fantasy fodder of the highest caliber.
“I have a thing for you looking like high fashion punk, yeah.”
“Why?”
The question takes me by s
urprise—the vulnerability, the tremor of insecurity in her voice. I pause for a long moment before I answer.
“We’re really different, you and me. You’re so femme and fancy—and yeah, rich too. And I’m a working-class girl from a redneck shithole who ended up in New York because my gay uncle made it safe for me here. I try to fly under the radar.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s like this—you’re beautiful; I’m a freak—”
“You’re not!”
“Don’t interrupt. I’m a freak who writes dirty songs and dry humps her best friends on stage. When you walk into the room, every song is about you. When you walk in wearing that dress, I feel like you might even want them to be.”
“God Nat, how can you possibly think I don’t want that? I think about you all the time. Not only about fucking you—but about how you make me feel when we’re not fucking. Like I’m important and wanted. Like you notice more about me than my last name.”
A lump forms in my throat. My poor Bex, who’s never lacked for anything money can buy but craves affection like air. Who wears her sensuality like a shield, but when that shield comes down is soft and warm and sweet.
“I notice everything about you,” I whisper, my voice husky with unshed tears. “And I don’t give a fuck about your name.”
“My name opens doors.”
“Fuck doors. When I see you, the only thing I care about opening is your legs.”
I meant the comment to lighten the air, but she lets out a frustrated little groan.
“You can’t say shit like that. Now I’m wet as hell and you’re thousands of miles away.”
Her words jolt me—a sharp pang of lust sends a shudder through my body and a rush between my legs too. There is no greater feeling in the world than making her slippery and wanting. Making her come.
“Wet as hell, huh? I wish I were there to slide my fingers around in it. I love how wet you get. Let me hear it.”
I can’t hear anything but a gasp of excitement, but that’s enough for me. I shove my free hand into my pants and run a finger around my clit, teasing myself and letting the pleasure build as I imagine her getting herself off.
“Spread all that around for me, babe. Pretend it’s my hand. My fingers. Cause I’m doing it too and pretending it’s you I’m touching.”
Her gasps turn into sweet little cries, the kind I doubt she even knows she makes, but that make me feel like some kind of love goddess.
“Why do you want me to wear my dick for you? What turns you on about it?”
“I love getting fucked and filled. With your dick, your fingers, your tongue. All of you.”
My eyes roll back. Could she be more perfect? I slow the circles I’m making with my fingers. “The next time I fuck you, I’m going to fill you full. Give you my dick, my fist, whatever you need. I want to hear you make noise. I want to make you make noise.”
She lets out a sobbing little cry, and I know she’s coming. I can picture it, her eyes scrunched shut and her mouth open, her plump breasts and soft belly shaking with the force of her orgasm, her hands buried in her pussy. The image is so potent, it tips me over the edge too, and I shudder and let out a ragged cry.
“Holy shit, Nat,” she says, her voice gone reedy and breathy. “I can’t fucking wait for Friday.”
“I can’t either.” And I mean it. I want nothing more than to have her back in my arms and to make her come over and over again. As long as she’ll let me.
Until she goes back to California for good and finds someone else, someone who fits into her life and treats her like the princess she is. Until then, I’m going to treat her like she’s mine to keep.
Twenty
Nat
* * *
I strap my cock into the harness with shaking hands, adjusting until it looks and feels right. My cock. My dick. Mine. I’ve always loved fucking women—and yeah, men sometimes too. But there’s something about the way a woman grows under my touch—wild, reckless—that I’ve gotten off on ever since I figured out I could make it happen. And packing—regardless of whether I expect to get it on later—brings out my arrogant swagger. I love to pack on stage—but tonight feels different.
Because it’s for her—for Bex, who in all her cultured Hollywood glory, is my very own punk princess, and it feels like this is a little bit hers too. Not gonna lie, that’s a huge run around in my brain, this sense of ownership. Not my dick—obviously, I don’t think she’s got ownership over the hard silicone filling my briefs.
But there’s something about the way I’m getting ready for tonight’s show that belongs to her.
My Goldilocks. My Barbie. My Bex.
That she had it in her to pursue me—in spite of the drama—and to step back when that was what I said I needed? It matters.
And it matters that tonight she’s coming to the show—with her freaking mom—and wearing leather and tulle and fishnets, like this our life now.
Is this our life now?
I want this to be our life now.
We make our way onto the stage, and Teri throws me a leer—she knows I’m packing, and I’m sure she’ll get her grope on when she gets a chance. And because I know Bex likes it, I look forward to putting on a show.
Ritchie’s bass comes in, a steady, angry beat. Jacks joins him.
I look out into the audience and make some noise.
Bex
* * *
There’s a giant bulge in Nat’s pants, and it’s driving me crazy. By the time Vertical Smile steps off the stage, I’m squirming in my seat at the bar. The air in the club seems to crackle with sexual energy—all around me, people are making out. I try not to let my eyes linger anywhere in particular, instead catching glimpses of hands—down pants, up shirts, gripping, pulling—tongues tangling, bodies grinding.
“Must be a full moon,” Farrah observes as she drops another beer in front of me. “People are worked up.”
“Or it’s the way Jacks was biting the bulge in Nat’s pants? Or the way Teri was kissing Nat like she wanted to eat her alive?”
Farrah laughs and shrugs. “Or that. Tell me something—does it bother you to see Nat getting it on with the others on stage?”
I almost dismiss the question outright—what business is it of hers? But then I remember the way she looks at Teri, and I answer honestly.
“No—it turns me on. I like watching Nat free her id, and I like knowing she’s safe when she does it. It’s hot.”
She frowns, glancing back at the stage and wiping at a non-existent spill on the bar.
“What about you?” I ask. “Does it bother you?”
“I think I’m the one being eaten alive.” She walks away so quickly, I’m not sure I heard her correctly, but then she wipes at her eyes with the back of her wrist as she pulls a beer, and my heart hurts for her.
“What’s with the sad face?” Nat’s arms come around my waist, her sweaty body pressed to my back, and I lean back against her and sigh.
“Farrah and Teri.”
“Ah.” She sits down at the seat next to me. “The two of them pining after each other like great unrequited idiots. Teri fucking everybody, Farrah fucking nobody, and both of them fucking miserable.”
“Yeah, that.” I pass her my beer and she takes a long pull. I watch her throat working, mesmerized. Even the way she swallows is sexy. She hands the bottle back.
“They’ll figure it out or they won’t.” Turning my stool so I’m facing her, she slides her hand, still cold from my beer bottle, up my thigh, under my skirt. “You look hot tonight. What’s a girl gotta to to convince you to take her home?”
I drain the rest of the beer in two big swallows and pull out my phone to get a Lyft.
In the car, we can’t keep our hands off each other, in spite of the driver’s awkward attempts at conversation, which he gives up with a laugh and an admonition about perverts in this city.
By the time he drops us off at my apartment, I’m so turned on I can barely
breathe as we make our way inside. We stop in the stairwell for a long, leisurely kiss. The best kind of pain blossoms in my scalp when she pulls my hair. I cup her dick through her shorts.
“I wish you could fuck me right here,” I murmur. “Shove me up against a wall and slide inside me. Make me come.”
“I’d fuck you so hard your screams would echo through the whole building. Everyone would know how much you wanted it. They’d hear you begging.”
“God yes.”
She turns me around, puts my hands on the wall and shoves my skirt up over my ass. “Like this?”
I shudder. “Please.”
Leaning against me, she bites my ear and grinds her dick into me. “Leave your hands on the wall. If anyone comes into the stairwell, we’ll hear the door, and I’ll pull your skirt down. But unless that happens, I don’t want you to move.”
Heat lances through me as I nod, unable to talk. She slides her hands around my waist and delves one into my panties. Her fingers trace the slickness of my labia, spread the wetness around and start to tease my clit. I rock against her hand, my breath coming in shallow pants.
She pulls her hands away long enough to pull my panties down, all the way down, biting the back of my thigh along the way. At her urging, I step out of them, and she shoves them into her pocket. At the sound of her zipper moving downward, I spread my legs wider. I want this, and I’m terrified how much I want it, but that only makes it better.
One of her hands is back on my clit, plucking and teasing as she lines herself up behind me. I feel the blunt pressure of her dick at my entrance and I push back, gasping as she thrusts inside.
“Oh, god. Nat.” I moan into the wall as she starts a steady rhythm clearly designed to drive me out of my mind. Each forward thrust hits my G-spot, and her fingers rub me just right. Before long, I’m grinding myself onto her dick, gasping and yes, damn it, begging.
“Mmm, you like to ride a hard dick, don’t you? Like to feel someone deep in your cunt, making you feel alive.”
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