by Amiee Smith
My doctor dad encouraged me to take Adderall as prescribed by my psychiatrist, but it made my periodic bouts with insomnia worse. My mom urged me to explore holistic, non-medicinal treatments.
After hours of therapy, time management coaching, aromatherapy, acupuncture, supplements, and even a weekend intensive with a shaman, I just knew there had to be a better treatment for me. I went on a quest to find my own way to manage my symptoms.
My junior year of undergrad, my ADHD was dramatically better. I was hooking up with a dude from my poetry seminar. Blond hair, blue eyes, dreadlocks; he was a backpack rapper from Newport Beach who was never without weed or a moleskin journal full of rhymes. Any time I was with him, I would take a few drags from his joint and doing homework became easy-peasy.
At the end of the school year, we went our separate ways and I returned to fighting my brain to do what I needed it to do so I could be a productive member of society.
Fast forward to four years ago, I got a doctor’s rec and gave medicinal marijuana a try. Holy Unicorn! Getting stoned before my nightly writing sesh became my magic carpet ride to productivity. Cannabis helped manage my symptoms so I could finally utilize my well-developed writing skills and my perpetually pregnant muse to craft my stories.
At one point in my history, I was working at least twelve hours a day in GoogleLand (not including the two-hour commute), writing four thousand words every night, flirting with boys on the weekends, and I had eight books on the Amazon bestseller list. Thank you, cannabis!
I’ve spent the last seven months training myself to exercise every day, while vaping every night. A person is only a lazy stoner if they choose to be.
Though I can’t lie; I do enjoy getting super high and chilling on the sofa with a bag of kale chips and a book or movie.
Wiggling into black yoga pants, I notice a dull soreness in my inner thigh. Oh Goddess. I had dirty-quick sex with Nick Willingham last night. The memory of his strong hands gripping my hips as he pounded me from behind is so arousing, I consider jumping back in bed to spend time with my travel-friendly vibrator.
The voice of the housekeeper, speaking a mix of English and Spanish, keeps me focused. I put on socks, black and pink Asics running shoes, a sports bra, and a gray Patagonia jacket.
I usually don’t wear the pink Romance Writers of America T-shirt I sleep in out in public, but I feel bad making the housekeeper wait so I slip it back on.
Zigzagging through my room, I toss my munchie trash and store my luggage in the closet. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and pull my curly hair back into a low ponytail. Before leaving, I grab my phone, earbuds, sunglasses, card key, and orange Coach wristlet.
The housekeeper is on her phone outside the door.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I whisper.
Putting on my sunglasses, I hurry down the hallway to the elevator.
Outside, the L.A. sun is fierce and bright. Oh, how I miss foggy San Francisco.
I pop in my earbuds. All week I’ve listened to the Warpaint station, but I need something more aggressive to get my body moving today. I play At the Drive In’s “Relationship in Command” album and jog down Los Robles Avenue. As always, the first five minutes of my run suck. Halfway into the second song, I hit my strides. Ten minutes in, I’m light on my feet.
I never imagined smoothly running, block after block. Growing up, I was the least athletic black kid, ever. I’d rather read books, daydream, and have dance party sleepovers with the girls. After moving to San Francisco, I fell in love with using my feet to go to and from.
In L.A., cars are embedded in the culture. Living in the City gives me the freedom to walk, ride a bus, hail a cab, or request an Uber.
My new running habit grew out of being liberated from behind-the-wheel travel. Most days, my blue Mini Cooper stays parked in my garage. I probably haven’t even hit the ten thousand-mile mark since buying it two years ago.
At the beginning of the year, I got serious about losing the extra weight I’ve carried around my entire adult life. I tried everything from CrossFit to SoulCycle, but I’d get bored within a few weeks. So, I started walking every morning. Those turned into jog-and-walks. Within a few months, I progressed to running. My first runner’s high was like flying. (It was a windy day in the City. I probably caught air.)
Turning onto Del Mar Avenue, my strides are interrupted by a red light at the shopping center. I take the pause to catch my breath and change the music. L.A. always reminds me of The Mamas and the Papas and I’m yearning for the slightly off-key harmonies of “California Dreamin’.”
Audi, Maserati, BMW, Cadillac. Luxury cars in Pasadena are a stark contrast to the Prius-Tesla-i3-and-MUNI-bus-filled streets in the City. I’ll admit, I’ve been keeping an eye out for a specific luxury SUV with rear-tinted windows.
The guitar picking intro plays, the light turns green, and I glide off the curb. The honking from a car making a right turn stops my flow. It’s as if someone pulled the covers off me on a chilly night.
“How rude!”
My voice is louder than I think. The Mamas and the Papas are jamming out in my ears. I turn to give the driver my best bitch face and find a handsome man in a boxy silver Mercedes. Shoot. As a woman thinketh.
“Lynn!” Nick calls.
He points to the shopping center parking lot and I reluctantly follow. He’s sexy as hell with his dark disheveled hair and day-old five-o’clock shadow, but I’m a hot mess in my old Patagonia jacket and sweat pouring out of every crevice of my body. Turning in, he parks. I approach the rolled down window on the passenger side.
“Hey. Sorry I yelled at you,” I say.
“Hey yourself. I’m sorry I startled you. Where are you off to?”
Nick flashes a smile that makes me want to jump in his back seat. He’s in a white T-shirt, black warm-up shorts, and brushed chrome Aviator sunglasses. Even in athletic wear, he’s hot. It’s not fair to the rest of the human race.
“I’m on a run.”
“What hotel are you staying at?” he asks.
During one of our cigarette chats, I shared that I stay in hotels instead of with my parents or the girls when I’m in town.
“The Westin.”
“Hop in. I’ll give you a ride.”
(YES!)
My body buzzes with arousal. He’s being polite, but my horny mind goes there. I study the bright pink laces in my sneakers to collect my thoughts.
“No. I need to finish my workout. Where are you going?” I ask.
“Home and then to bed.”
My pervy imaginative mind hears him add: “Do you want to come?”
(YES!)
Focus. I need to focus. This conversation will be more awkward than it needs to be.
The downside of writing love scenes that cause readers to feel magical things down below is that I don’t always know how to turn it off. I try to re-direct the smutty trajectory of my mind.
“Did you go out after the party?” I ask.
“No. I stayed up late reading. I had to get up early to play basketball for my work team,” Nick says.
The lust alarm rings throughout my entire body: #HotGuyReading!
The image of him shirtless, in bed reading, pops into my mind in HD. Smooth golden skin, wrapped in white sheets. Broad muscular shoulders, resting against the bed frame. A book or maybe a tablet, nestled between real-man hands. His well-defined pecs and abs, exposed and ready for me to lick and suck down to his… Holy Unicorn.
Pay attention. I need to pay attention. I shift from side to side, trying to remember where we left off in the conversation. Basketball. Stayed up late. Reading!
“I’ve done the same thing many times. Well, not the basketball part. Were you reading for work or pleasure?”
I add enough cheer to my voice to convince myself I’ve been totally tuned in and not imagining my tongue all over his…
“Definitely pleasure.”
His lips curl as he says the word “pleasure.” It’s li
ke he’s telepathically approving all the sexy possibilities consuming my thoughts. Of course, he can’t read my mind. Nick is just being a nice guy, engaging me in small talk to diffuse any tension after fucking in this car.
We have mutual friends, so our hook-up is more complicated. He probably thinks I’m one of those women who gets clingy and emotional after an orgasm (two to be exact) and calls her girlfriends to process: What does this mean? Does he like me? Will he text me?
It also doesn’t help my shirt is the shade of strawberry froyo and the word “romance” is written in cheesy white cursive across my chest. (Next year, I’m joining the committee in charge of designing the RWA conference shirt so I’m never in this situation again.)
Focus. I need to focus. As I search my mind for a small-talk appropriate response, Nick jumps in.
“When do you go back to San Francisco?”
“Tomorrow. My plane leaves at four.”
“What are you doing tonight?”
“I usually have dinner with my parents, but they’re out of town. I’ll probably bum around my hotel room or see if any of the girls are free.”
“You haven’t made plans?”
“No.”
“Have dinner with me.”
It’s not a request, but not a demand either. I’m distracted by his full bottom lip. The image of his mouth sucking my nipples dominates my thoughts.
“Why?” I blurt out.
“I need to eat, and you need to eat. Let’s do it together.”
He laughs. Nick is just being nice. He doesn’t want a repeat of last night, only a casual meal between acquaintances to clear the air.
“Yeah, totally. Sounds great. Where?”
“Let me see where I can get a reservation. I’ll text you. Put in your number.”
Nick passes his phone through the open window and his fingers brush against mine. I feel as if I’ve been shocked. It takes a minute to remember all the digits in my phone number. My hand shakes. My feet step-touch. Licking my lips, I’m suddenly parched and lightheaded. This is ridiculous.
“I need to go. I’ll wait to hear from you,” I say.
I drop his phone on the front seat and bounce out of the parking lot. If I can’t have a five-minute conversation with him, how am I going to get through an entire dinner?
Arriving at the Westin, I enter a clean room. After a quick shower, I use my vibrator. Nick. Nick. Nick. Three orgasms later, I dress in jeans, a white short-sleeved blouse with a lemon print, and beige Tory Burch flats, and go to the hotel restaurant for brunch.
I order dry whole wheat toast, a side of avocado, a side of fruit, a bowl of plain oatmeal, and coffee.
I went vegan seven months ago. I experimented with other eating plans, but they were too complicated for my scattered brain. Cutting out meat and dairy and adopting a plant-based diet, easier. Kind of weird, but it works for me. I did my research; read a lot of vegan blogs and took an online course. Clean eating took me from 175 pounds to 123 pounds.
I swallow my B-12 supplement before scrolling the menu of a medical marijuana dispensary in Pasadena on my phone.
After I eat, I’ll pick up a pre-filled vape pen to use for the rest of the weekend and toss it before boarding my flight. (Weed is legal in California, but it’s still illegal to fly with it.) The dispensary is a few blocks from a Natural Foods, so I’ll get snacks and a green juice for my late-night munchies.
Sipping my coffee, I visualize how fun it’d be if Nick was an adult stoner too. We’d get high, hang out, and talk. I want to know his story. What makes him laugh? What excites him? With lots of hot sex in between.
If only I were so lucky.
I tap the Facebook app on my phone and search his name. He must have his privacy settings set to friends of friends, because I can see everything on his page. As expected, it’s sparse. Friends and family pics, most from J + J parties that he’s tagged in.
I find one pic from four years ago. Nick is wearing a graduation cap and a suit that looks tailor-made to fit his muscular frame. He’s posed in front of the SCI-Arc building in Downtown L.A. with an exquisite, stylish, mature woman with his same thick dark hair and olive skin… I’m guessing this is his mom. Interesting. Nick has a Master of Architecture from one the top schools in the country.
My food arrives. I click the “Work” link on his page and land at the Willingham Contractors website. I scroll around. They build luxury housing, schools, retirement communities, and museums.
I view the management page. At the top, Alan Willingham, President and CEO. Nick’s dad. His fair skin and thin, reddish hair are the opposite of Nick’s, but his piercing hazel green eyes are an exact match. At the bottom of the page, a headshot of Nick in a classic dark gray suit, with the title Project Executive.
I tap the pic and it lists his projects; mostly residential developments. His bio states he’s consulted on projects in San Francisco. Nick has spent time in the City?
I smash avocado onto my toast. My imagination adds layers to my fantasy… get high, hang out, and have lots of sex. My dream Nick is super-chill. Fun. We’d hook-up in L.A. and SF. Our time together, totally low-maintenance and drama-free.
My fantasy is nowhere close to reality.
Nick is the dreamy jock— all grown up. A guy an introverted writer admires from afar, but can’t have. He’s the typical conservative Pasadena bro who I bet wanted to check “sex with a black chick” off his bucket list before he settles down with some ex-beauty queen and has kids. Now, I have to go to dinner with him to process our hook-up so he feels good about himself.
Spooning fruit into my oatmeal, my mind is a loop of negativity. This isn’t like me. I strive to be a positive woman who keeps myself busy doing stuff I love so there is no room for pessimism.
Unfortunately, I didn’t plan this trip to L.A. well. Like, at all. I’ve been super focused on hitting goal weight, finishing up a manuscript, and promoting my books on social media.
I usually spend Saturdays with my parents when I’m in L.A. I called on Thursday to let them know I’d be in town, but they had already booked a winetasting trip in Santa Barbara for the weekend.
My parents are all love. All love for me. All love for each other. All love for their careers. Mom, a defense attorney. Dad, a pediatric surgeon. They truly love what they do. They taught me to love what I do. They worked a lot when I was a kid, but they never skipped family Saturday fun day.
Today, I have to do Saturday fun day alone.
Since I didn’t rent a car, I need to find something to do in Pasadena. If my parents were in town we’d catch a play at the Pasadena Playhouse. I pull up the show calendar on my phone. Without reading the description, I buy the best ticket available in the orchestra section for the 2:00 p.m. matinee. I’ll be able to hit up the dispensary, Natural Foods, and drop by my room before call time.
Maybe after my closure dinner with Nick, I’ll get high, and create a new story. All my books are set in the tech world. My publisher keeps suggesting I write an erotic romance that doesn’t involve coding, servers, hacking, or cyberterrorism.
Maybe it’s time to write a tech-free story, something dirty and sexy and oh so loving about two characters who just want to be together, but life keeps getting in the way.
A play, getting stoned, good snacks, and storytelling— a fantastic way to spend a Saturday.
I finish my food and set out to have the best solo Saturday fun day.
CHAPTER 6:
NICK WILLINGHAM
I have a date with Lynn.
After three hours of tossing and turning, but not sleeping, I get up. I head to the kitchen for a glass of water. The piney and lemony scent of my cannabis stash hangs in the room.
If I were going on a date with any other woman, I’d probably fill a bag and get high, knowing by the time I leave I’d be good to drive. But after last night and this morning, I want to be as level-headed as possible. It’s just a date. No big deal. I’ve had lots of dinners with women. But for some
reason, nerves keep climbing up my mountain of confidence.
Last night… or rather this morning, after finishing Lynn’s book, I considered not pursuing her. That woman has a brain too big for her own good. Her mind, flawlessly geeked-out all over the pages of her story. I’m smart enough, but even in my nerdiest moments, I’m not sure I’d be able to keep up with her. I was content to let our sex be a one-night thing. A thing I foresee myself jacking off to for many months.
But after seeing her this morning, I want her. Even if she seemed distracted and unaware. I still want her.
Maybe we’ll date casually? Hang out, have fun, and fuck again? I’m ready for whatever happens. More so, I want to spend time with her outside of a party, where she’s all ladylike and sweet. I already know she’s got a little freak-in-the-sheets in her. Now, I want to know how far it goes. I want to know if I can hold her attention. I need to know if this attraction is mutual.
This morning, Lynn was alluring. Those pants shaped the curve of her bottom, slender thighs, and petite legs. That princess pink shirt hugged her tits so tightly, I’m almost certain her nipples were begging for my mouth. The way she pursed and licked her lips, made it appear as if she was imagining our backseat sex in her head.
I could be wrong, but I think there’s way more freak in Ms. Scott than I ever imagined. And if I’m correct, I don’t want anyone else to have her. I want her to myself. I want whatever happy ending she wants to create.
Excitement beats in the center of my chest. I retrieve my phone from the counter and click the OpenTable app. I check Houston’s for a reservation. It’s my go-to first date spot. Shit. Nothing until 9:00 p.m. I search my other three favorite restaurants. All booked until 9:00 p.m. or we’d have to eat at 5:30 p.m.
I click the Yelp icon, but trying to find a restaurant in L.A. on the app is impossible unless I can narrow the search by type of cuisine. I consider texting her to ask, but it’s my responsibility to pick a restaurant for the first date.