Break Free (Smart Girl Mafia Book 1)

by Amiee Smith

  I find my underwear on the floor. They’re still wet. I mentally debate whether to go commando all night. Nick comes back with a bottle of water and a travel pack of EO hand wipes.

  “I only had one bottle of water, so I hope it’s okay if we share,” he says, wrapping the condom in a wipe.

  “You’re prepared,” I say.

  I’m probably not the only woman who has shared his back seat with him. Men like the great Nick Willingham do not lack or want for anything. He’s another number for me as much as I am for him.

  “I eat lunch in my car a lot, so these are more effective than hand sanitizer after I’ve been on a job site. Do you want one?” he asks, passing the pack of wipes.

  Arching a dark, neatly-groomed eyebrow, his gaze drags over my half-naked, thoroughly-sexed body.

  “Yes, thank you. Sorry. I’m overindulging in the quiet before we have to go back to the party.”

  “You’re not a party person?” he asks.

  Nick drinks from the bottle of water and passes it to me.

  “Thanks for sharing. I love parties. It’s great seeing everyone, but I’m always equally as stoked to leave.”

  Sipping from the bottle, the lukewarm liquid is refreshing. I pass it back.

  “You’re lucky you live in San Francisco. Jen and Jon organize a gathering almost every week. I’ve learned to pick and choose what I attend.”

  “I assumed you went to everything.”

  “No. What’s your social life like in San Francisco?”

  “I meet up with friends on the weekends. Lately, I’ve been more selective about what invitations I accept.”

  I forgo underwear and shimmy into my jeans. Nick graciously turns his head, giving me a bit of privacy.

  “No boyfriend?” he asks.

  “No. No girlfriend right now?” I ask, buttoning my jeans.

  “No. I’m not with anyone.”

  Over the last three years, I’ve seen him with more women than I can count or remember their names. They are always the same. Tall. Thin. Stunning. Smart enough not to be ditzy. No matter who Nick was dating, he’d always break away to share a cigarette with me. I guess none of those women saw me as a threat to their relationship. But I never flirt with Nick the way I do with most men. Never.

  I slide on my shoes and slip my underwear into my back pocket. Catching a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror, I finger-comb my naturally wavy hair. My plum lipstick is long gone, but my eye makeup still looks great. Using a wipe, I blot away the post-sex shine. My purse is in the house, so I can’t touch up my lips. I never imagined when I went out for my only cigarette this month, I’d end up sexing in the back seat of Nick’s car.

  (Smoking cigs isn’t really my thing anymore. Back in the day, it was an excuse to take a break from a crowded social setting. Now, I only keep a pack in my purse for my monthly smoke sesh with Nick.)

  Nick’s glowing gaze meets mine.

  “Why no boyfriend?”

  “If I had a boyfriend, I wouldn’t be able to hook-up with you,” I say.

  On impulse, I lean over and I wipe off the purple traces of my lipstick from Nick’s chin and neck. He closes his eyes as if appreciating my touch. I resist the urge to kiss him and pull away.

  “We should probably head back,” I say.

  Nick gathers the used wipes, disposing of them in a small plastic bag in the center console.

  We exit the car and stroll down the block, the music and party noise getting louder.

  “I imagine some guys would be cool with you hooking up,” he says.

  “Would you be cool with it?” I ask absently.

  I’m mentally plotting how to get my purse and visit the bathroom before jumping back into the swirl of the party.

  We arrive at the house. Before I can dash away, Nick places his hand on the curve of my hip and whispers in my ear. His lips are so close, my body tingles.

  “If you were my girlfriend, you’d still be in the party. Panties soaked and counting the minutes until I take you home.”

  Nick retrieves my underwear from my back pocket. The gesture is sexy and suggestive and oh so dirty. I don’t have time to react. Nick steps in front of me, opening the front door. He’s immediately greeted by a guy we went to high school with and starts the “Hey, man. How you doing?” exchange.

  Any minute, I too will be greeted by a person from my past I now only see in my Facebook feed. I need to freshen up so I’m prepared. Bypassing them, I head toward the guest bedroom where I left my purse. I sneak a glance behind me. Nick slides my underwear into his pocket, while congratulating dude on the birth of his first child. His signature smile appears.

  The same smile from his yearbook photo.

  I spend the rest of the night doing the “Hey, how ya been?” routine, while wishing I were counting the minutes, in wet panties, waiting for my super-hot boyfriend to take me home.

  CHAPTER 4:

  NICK WILLINGHAM

  I want to see Lynn.

  Two hours after our car sex, the party is ending. I never stick around this long, but I want to ask her out on a date.

  There were two cake stations. One inside, assigned to Lynn. One outside, assigned to me. In between long-time-no-see conversations and a professional fireworks show (Jen goes all-out), I thought Lynn would come to me. I tried to seek her out when I went to the bathroom, but I couldn’t find her.

  Would she leave?

  I help the wait staff throw away cake plates before moving inside. Only a handful of people remain. I scan the house, but no Lynn. After saying goodbye to J + J, I head toward the door.

  Maybe she’s out front?

  “Hey, bro.”

  Unlike all the other dudes who greeted me this way tonight, this is my actual brother.

  “Hey, Alex. How long you been here?”

  He’s in a dark suit, white dress shirt and no tie. Standing a few inches shorter than me, his dark curly hair is cut conservatively low and his aqua eyes are covered with titanium semi-rimless glasses.

  “Not long. I had a client dinner. I’m going with some of Jen’s friends to a bar in Downtown L.A. Wanna roll with?”

  “Which friends?” I ask.

  “Brit. Dana and the one who lives in San Francisco.”

  I hear San Francisco and excitement surges in my chest. I’m ready to go home, but I’m willing to venture to DTLA to hang out with Lynn.

  “I’ll roll,” I say.

  Outside, Lynn and her friends are huddled up at the edge of the driveway. Walking the stretch of concrete in their direction, I feel as if I just tossed the winning goal.

  She didn’t leave.

  Before I reach the group, a Prius parks at the curb.

  “Here’s my Uber. I’ll see you guys Sunday,” Lynn says to her friends.

  My winning goal, blocked as time runs out.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go?” Brit says.

  “I’m totally sure. I’ve had a long day. I love you guys,” Lynn says, getting into the back seat. (I’d love to be in the back seat with her again, even in a leg-cramping Prius.)

  I watch the car pull away. Brit approaches us decked out in a black couture cocktail dress.

  “So, it’s just going to be Dana and me,” she says to my brother.

  “Cool. My brother is going to come too,” he replies.

  I didn’t know they knew each other, but J + J house parties have a way of turning the most unlikely people into friends. And sometimes more than friends.

  “Alex, I’m actually going to head home. I’ve got an early day tomorrow,” I say.

  “Okay, man. I’ll see you Sunday at the Club.”

  I walk to my car. Defeat hangs around my shoulders. I envision the bright green nugs of OG Kush waiting for me at home and my mood lifts a bit. I’ll go home, get stoned out of my mind, and try to forget Lynn’s vixen-grin, perfect tits, and superb pussy.

  Opening the car door, I smell lavender, coconut, and sex. My mind is slammed with Lynn’s all
-natural-no-show moans, her naughty smile as she fingered her clit, and the wet, lush, tightness of being inside her. She’s intoxicating.

  My twenty-minute drive to the Mount Washington area of L.A. is consumed with thoughts of how I can see her again this weekend. With each mile, I debate calling Jon to ask for her phone number. But every time I think to tell Siri to dial him, my mind offers a counter. I don’t want Jen and Jon in my business. They’re good people, but they like to talk. While it’s no secret I’ve been with lots of women, I’m not ready to go public with my hook-up with Lynn.

  I love beautiful women. Tall. Flexibly thin. Smart enough to get by. Lynn is girl-next-door cute. She’s the girl you’d want to be your study partner in college because she’s nice, funny, and takes great notes. The girl you’d expect to be married, posting videos of her kid’s first steps on Facebook. The girl you’d expect to say no when you ask her to fuck in the middle of a party.

  But Lynn didn’t say no. At first, I thought she was doing it for the thrill. A nerdy-girl-gone-wild thing. I expected her to be overly eager, a bit clumsy, and super polite. But in the dark cove of my back seat, she became a sexy vixen. Confident. Skilled. She knew what she wanted, how to get it, and had a hip roll that made me come in record time.

  I pull into my driveway. My house sits on a hill facing Downtown L.A. The night is unusually clear and city lights twinkle and pop below.

  I’ll call my brother. He’s with Lynn’s friends, they’ll have her number. But I can’t think of a reason to tell them why I would need to reach her.

  I want to see her this weekend. Lynn only comes into town once a month. I don’t want to spend another thirty days questioning this spark between us.

  Last month, we all did an overnight at Jen’s Malibu house. I watched Lynn drift around the sand in a white bathing suit and braided pigtails. (She was fuckably adorable.) I considered making a move while we stood on the curb of Pacific Coast Highway sharing a cigarette. But Lynn seemed shy and unaware, fidgeting and stepping side to side. Brit called her back to the house, ending the conversation. At the close of the weekend, I made the commitment to ask her out on a date the next time we were alone.

  I didn’t plan to hook-up with Lynn tonight. But after staring at her gracefully shimmying on the dance floor with her friends to Lil Jon & The East Side Boyz’s “Get Low,” fucking was the first thing on my mind. She was in a hurry after our car sex, but I thought I’d have time to ask her out during cake duty.

  I punch in the code to my front door and enter the house. I drop my keys, phone, and wallet on the gray quartz countertop in my kitchen and pull a jar of cannabis from the cabinet.

  I’m a medicinal stoner.

  At twenty-five, I tore the cartilage surrounding the socket of my shoulder joint while playing semi-professional water polo. After two surgeries and loads of physical therapy, I regained full use of my arm. However, a deep soreness continues to flare up. Pharma pain meds weren’t my style, so I turned to cannabis. While the pain-relieving effects were miraculous, I discovered I enjoyed getting stoned at the end of the day.

  I grind a dense green nug and fill the chamber of my Volcano vaporizer. When I started getting high, I’d roll joints from time to time. Then I bought the Volcano and cannabis became a daily part of my life. Vaping is easy and discreet. No one in my life knows how big of a pothead I really am. I fill a bag of cannabis vapors and sit on the sofa.

  “Alexa, play Sublime. Album. Forty. Ounces. To. Freedom.”

  I have to articulate each word, or she’ll get confused and next thing I know I’m listening to some New Age relaxation music. The bass drum intro of the first song blares from each of the five speakers positioned throughout the room. I take my first draw from the bag. The vapors taste piney with lemon undertones. I didn’t know weed strains have distinctive flavors until I started buying my stash from a medical dispensary. Two more hits; euphoria and a body buzz set in. By the time the title track of the album plays, every muscle in my back and shoulders eases and relaxes into the plush leather cushion.

  I inhale the last hit and reach for my tablet on the coffee table. When I was playing water polo, I only did the required reading for school. Over the last several years, I’ve learned to enjoy it. A few nights ago, I finished Frank Lloyd Wright’s biography. The six-hundred-page beast kept me company every night for three weeks.

  Before searching for a new book, I click the Facebook icon. I haven’t scrolled my feed in a few days. As expected, it’s littered with posts from Jon’s birthday party.

  One of Jen’s posts catches my attention. “Celebrating my husband’s b-day with my girls.” Tagged in the photo with Jen are Brit, Dana, Claire, and Lynn, an ethnically diverse group of attractive, nice, smart women. Lynn is the shortest, her white, hippy-dippy blouse is a contrast to her hazelnut skin-tone. She’s standing between Jen, a natural redhead who still carries the allure of a Hollywood A-lister, and Claire, who looks like she could be the conservative cousin of the Kardashians. Behind them are Brit and Dana. Both tall, but visual opposites. Brit is flashy and artsy. Dana is posh and corporate, even in jeans.

  I click Lynn’s tag and arrive at her Facebook page. We’re not friends so all I can see are her cover photos; an aerial pic of the San Francisco skyline at night and a waist-up shot of her in oversized sunglasses and a gray Patagonia jacket. In the photo, her face is fuller and rounder than it appeared today.

  The “About” section on her page is just basic information, but under the work section it lists: Lynn Scott International. I click the link and arrive on her FB author page. The top banner features a book cover with the words “NY Times Bestseller.”

  Shit. Lynn is a real writer. I knew she wrote, but I didn’t know the details. I thought she worked at Google? I click the “Shop Now” button and land on her “Books” page on her website. Without hesitation, I select the iBook icon under “Lowlight” and tap “Buy Book.”

  I read the first chapter and I’m hooked. Set in San Francisco, the main characters are into each other, but they’re working on opposite sides of an international hacking ring. The story is reminiscent of “Mr. Robot,” but with humor. I go to the kitchen to fill another bag, taking my tablet with me. The book is addicting, I vape and read another chapter standing at the island.

  I fill another bag and lounge on the sofa, reading several more chapters. Suspense. Romance. Mystery. Kinky sex scenes. I can’t will my attention away from the screen. The clock on my tablet reads 2:00 a.m., I change into pajama bottoms and a faded Long Beach State water polo tee. Stretching across my bed, I plan to just read one more chapter.

  An hour later, I take the story with me into the kitchen for a glass of water before stopping by the bathroom to brush my teeth, my eyes never fully leaving my tablet. I get in bed to read one more chapter. The sex scene is so hot, I jack off (I imagine being inside Lynn). After cleaning myself up, I return to bed intent on going to sleep. 6:00 a.m. rolls around and I swipe the last page. Book one in a series, I have to stop myself from downloading the next story.

  I set my alarm for 8:30. I need to be in Pasadena by 9:00 to sub-in for a dude who sprained his ankle on my company’s basketball team. I put my tablet in the nightstand drawer and turn off the light. Shutting my eyes, her vixen-grin appears in my third eye.

  After spending seven hours in the folds of Lynn’s mind, I realize I’m way out of my league. She’s wickedly smart and talented, and I’m just an injured jock turned closeted stoner who works for my dad.

  Damn, but I still want to see her.

  CHAPTER 5:

  LYNN SCOTT

  “Housekeeping.”

  A knock at the door jolts me awake. It takes a minute to remember I’m in my hotel room at the Westin in Pasadena.

  Shoot. I forgot to put the “do not disturb” sign on the door. It’s not like me. A true introvert, I cherish my alone time. I’m always creating barriers to entry.

  “Just a minute,” I call out.

  Getting out of bed
, I step on the wrapper for the cannabis edible I enjoyed last night.

  I found the sample Auntie Dolores vegan chocolate chip cookie at the bottom of my purse while touching up my lipstick during the party. I never buy edibles. It was a giveaway from my medical marijuana dispensary.

  Yesterday, my flight from SFO to LAX was delayed. I didn’t have time to hit up a dispensary in Pasadena before the party. Discovering the gold and pink packet at the bottom of my purse was like winning the marijuana lottery.

  As a medicinal cannabis patient, I prefer filling my rose gold Pax vaporizer with ground herb or dabbing a concentrate in my Kandy vape pen. I use sativa strains for their cerebral effects.

  Edibles are often a mix of different strains, so I never know how they’ll react in my body. Luckily, my well-made Auntie Dolores cookie treated my symptoms effectively. (And I got super high.)

  En route to my open suitcase across the room, I hop over an empty clamshell of blueberries and an empty bag of kale chips. Oh, the memories. At the peak of my incredible-edible high, I decided to not put the sign on the door to ensure I’d go for a run this morning.

  LOL. The twisted ditties I extract from my mind when I’m stoned often surprise me. Most of them end up in a story. To date, I have fourteen published novels that pay my mortgage every month.

  Freshman year at USC, I was diagnosed with ADHD. As a kid, the signs were there, but everyone just thought I was gifted and quirky (with a group of gifted and quirky friends).

  Utilizing the help of a therapist and my college disability services center, I successfully completed my B.A. in professional writing with honors. And while working full time at Google, I obtained my MFA in creative writing at San Francisco State.

  When I started writing and publishing romance novels five years ago, my ADHD made it almost impossible to get work done in a timely manner. In the ever-changing publishing world, deadlines are everything. Writing is my one true talent. The inability to sit down long enough to get all my creative musing on the page was devastating.