Break Free (Smart Girl Mafia Book 1)

by Amiee Smith

  “Lynn, that’s incredible. When did you leave Google?”

  “Two years ago. Almost to the day. You probably don’t remember the night, but I told the girls I was leaving my job at Jon’s birthday party at Dave & Busters. After getting chewed out for not moving back to L.A., I found you to smoke a cigarette,” Lynn says.

  She scoops the last of the guacamole on to her plate and mixes it with the braised lentils and vegetables in the bowl dos.

  I put my fork down.

  “I do remember. You were wearing a navy top with white flowers.”

  “Oh, Nick. How do you remember my blouse?”

  “Honestly? It was so sheer I could see your bra underneath.”

  That night in the parking lot, I had wanted to continue our conversation. The blonde I was dating showed up and Lynn cut out. I don’t even remember that woman’s name.

  Lynn does that faraway glance, smiling.

  “Okay, if we’re being honest. I remember you were wearing a mauve dress shirt. I kept thinking, ‘Gosh, he’s so fly he can rock that color and still look like a warrior.’”

  She meets my gaze and takes another sip of wine. Her eyes twinkle over her glass.

  “Polo Ralph Lauren from the spring line.”

  “So, you’re into fashion? You’re always well-dressed, but now I’m sensing style is your thing.”

  “Thank you, Lynn. Yes, I do love clothes. I gotta thing for labels, but only because those clothes tend to be well-made. What about you?”

  “I like nice clothes, but I hate to shop. Even online. So, I wouldn’t say I’m into fashion, but I have recently fallen in love with well-made bra and panty sets. Which is a great transition, can I have my panties back?”

  There is a playfulness in her stare even as she tries to be serious. Our server approaches the table to clear our appetizer plates. She sips her wine and looks away.

  “How is everything?” server dude bellows.

  “Wonderful. Thank you,” Lynn answers.

  Saved by the server. Lynn drops the subject of her panties, still in the pocket of the pants I wore last night. I’m not one of those dudes with a fetish. There was something so naturally sexy about the fact she didn’t put her underwear on because they were soaked with her arousal. I took them to preserve the moment, hoping she’d come find me during the party.

  “I saw on Facebook you graduated from SCI-Arc.”

  “Yeah. I hurt my shoulder, so playing water polo professionally was no longer an option. My undergrad degree is in construction engineering management. Once I started building, I wanted to understand the design side of projects, so I went to architecture school,” I say.

  “Does Willingham Contractors do design?”

  “No. A friend from grad school has hired me to consult on projects in San Francisco. I’m able to mix my building experience with design.”

  “Are you in the City often?” Lynn asks.

  “Six months ago, I was there every week for two months straight. I haven’t been lately.”

  “I can’t believe you never mentioned it. The next time you’re in the City, let me know.”

  “I will. What neighborhood do you live in?”

  “Hayes Valley. It’s at the intersection of the Haight, Civic Center, and the Mission.”

  “I know it well. I worked on a project in the Western Addition. I would have dinner most nights at Vine,” I say, before tasting the margarita.

  “Are you kidding? You were blocks from my house. Vine is one of my favorite restaurants,” Lynn says, finishing her wine.

  Our server appears, “Can I interest you in dessert?”

  “No,” Lynn responds instantly.

  “We’ll take a piece of the tiramisu con mezcal to go,” I say, selecting the first item on the dessert menu.

  “I’ll put the order in and bring the check,” our server says, exiting stage right.

  “Nick, vegan cake is packed with more calories than regular cake,” Lynn says, placing her napkin on the table.

  “I guess we’ll have to find a way to burn it off.”

  “The suggestiveness in that statement is not lost on me. Sex with you? I’m down. That cake? You’re on your own, Superstar.”

  She winks at me.

  “Superstar?”

  “Come on, Nick. You know you’re all parts amazing.”

  “Yes, I know who I am. I’m more interested in knowing what you think.”

  The server must know we’re having a conversation that shouldn’t be interrupted because he leaves the bill on the table without a theatrical speech. Lynn gives me her incredibly sexy grin and shrugs her shoulders.

  “Let’s see how the night goes,” she says with a little laugh.

  She reaches for the check, but I’m a little faster to the draw.

  “Did you really think I was going to let you pay for dinner, Lynn?”

  “You bought my weed and ate vegan food with minimal complaint. It’s the least I can do.”

  “I’ve got a whole list of things you can do. Or let me do to you. Preferably in bed, but we make the best of wherever we are.”

  I’m turning it on a little thick, but I’m not sure how she feels about me. Sex, weed, and writing seem to be the only things that get a reaction out of this tiny woman.

  “In that case, I should pay because this is all tax-deductible research.”

  She laughs, but doesn’t argue with me over the check. I lay my credit card on the tray with the bill.

  “You would write about me?”

  I feel like the needy girl who has sat across a table from me on many dates. I want to know what she thinks… of me.

  Lynn is quiet, finishing the last of her beer. The faraway glance appears for a moment and then dissipates, replaced with her vixen-grin.

  “Nick, I write about hot guys. You are by far the hottest guy I’ve ever seen… known.”

  Something inside of me soars, my chest constricting as if I just swam the length of a pool in a full-out sprint. Yes, I’m good looking. I’ve heard it my entire life. My mom’s designer friends, both male and female, have praised my appearance since I was a kid. But Lynn saying it means so much more. I needed to know this attraction is mutual.

  The check and my card disappear without fanfare.

  Lynn continues, “And when this thing we’re doing ends, there will be a hero in a story with perfect hair, haunting hazel green eyes, and loads of charm who will make my readers weak in the knees and juicy-goosey down there.”

  I come crashing down.

  “There’s an expiration date on us?”

  “Nick, I love a good fantasy. But our reality is what it is. You live here. And I live there. The 300-plus miles between us isn’t going anywhere.”

  In addition to being attractive, I have a spoiled inner-child who is used to getting what he wants. (Yes, I’ve done some time in therapy.) I want to kick, scream, and exert my will, but deep down I know she’s right. However, the superstar in me is a tenacious son of a bitch. I’m not going to let Lynn walk away from this before I give my best argument for why this is so right.

  “Lynn, anything can be preserved.”

  “Yes, but I try to stay away from preservatives.”

  My card and the receipt arrive with the dessert in a brown eco-friendly to-go container. I add the tip and sign the slip as I contemplate my new favorite word: try. The three-letter word gives me a new sense of hope and determination. If Lynn thinks I’ve been charming thus far, she hasn’t experienced the Willingham Effect yet.

  My dad beams with pride when he tells the story of how a gangling, Irish-American contractor, with little in the bank and a whole lot of charm, won over an Italian super model. Mom calls it the Willingham Effect. And if it worked for Dad, it will work for me.

  Game on, vegan writer girl. Game on.

  • • •

  Even though it takes twice as long as the freeway, I drive Santa Monica Boulevard back to my house. We’re passing through Hollywood. Lynn stares o
ut the window, wide-eyed. She grew up in L.A., but seems unjaded by the bright lights.

  “What song is playing in your head right now?” I ask.

  She laughs. The sweet timbre of her voice is energizing, helping me forget I’m operating on less sleep than normal.

  “Ironically, I keep hearing Alicia Keys belting ‘New York.’ This area and the song represent big dreams.”

  “Siri, play ‘Empire State of Mind,’ by Jay Z and Alicia Keys,” I command.

  The beat kicks in. Lynn grooves her shoulders and waves her hands. It’s evident rhythm and soul run through her veins. Alicia sings the chorus and Lynn joins her. Singing is not her talent, but her enthusiasm is contagious. I can’t help but sing along too. I never sing or dance, but this pint-sized woman has got me waving a hand in the air and doing car karaoke on one of the busiest streets in Southern California. And I don’t care who sees me.

  The song ends; I stop at a red light. Lynn leans over, drawing me in for a kiss with her soft hands. Shifting the car into park, my lips glide over her mouth. My tongue meets hers in a devouring embrace. Open. Wet. Greedy. Cars honk behind us. I can’t stop. I want more and more. Lynn’s lips; lush and plump. I sink deeper into them.

  She pulls away.

  “Nick, even superstars are not immune to the law. We gotta go before you get a ticket.”

  Lynn gives me a cherry-on-top kiss, appeasing my desire enough to continue the journey back to my house. My erection straining against my zipper is begging me to abandon my Santa Monica Boulevard plan and hop on the freeway. Traffic is probably moving. I could be home in ten minutes, and Lynn could be naked in less than fifteen. Instead, I adjust myself and settle into the ride.

  After a few minutes of silence, Lynn suggests Sheryl Crow’s “All I Wanna Do.” But both of us are distracted. The classic song starts and ends with silence. Santa Monica Boulevard turns into Sunset Boulevard.

  “Nick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We should hang out for a while before we have sex tonight. Give this thing between us a little extra shelf life.”

  “So, you’re down with preservatives?”

  I fight the twitch of a smile forming at the corners of my mouth. Lynn stares out her window. She holds up her hand, extending her index finger and thumb to symbolize how much life she’s giving it.

  “A little bit,” she says.

  One point for me. The Willingham Effect, already working.

  I turn on KCRW and follow the narrow, curving streets leading to my house.

  CHAPTER 9:

  LYNN SCOTT

  “Do you mind if we stop at that Walgreens?” I ask, resisting the urge to slip off my shoes.

  Nick is driving through the Silver Lake neighborhood of L.A., not far from where Brit lives. I’ve crashed at her place enough to know where to get supplies.

  “I have condoms,” he replies.

  Nick changes lanes to turn into the parking lot.

  “I assumed you would. I want a pair of flip-flops. Hanging out in these shoes seems tedious and unnecessary.”

  I only wear these heels in L.A. They’re chic and comfortable enough to get through a night when I won’t be doing a lot of walking, but they aren’t my style. If I’m going to hang out with Nick tonight, I want to be myself— or at least as much as I can, considering I’m not in San Francisco.

  Nick parks.

  “I get it. Designer shoes aren’t the best for chilling.”

  The way he says “chilling” fuels my excitement for the rest of the night. Underneath all his sparkle, he can hang out like a mortal. I unfasten my seat belt and clumsily hurry out of the SUV. I don’t want to waste my evening with Nick. I’ll spend more time than most selecting a pair of flip-flops. Even if there are only three options, I’m so easily distracted in stores that it takes me forever to shop.

  “Hold on, I’ll come with you,” Nick calls from behind me.

  I’ve spent the last decade learning to manage my ADHD and I’m comfortable with who I am. However, I’m not ready to expose that part of myself to Nick. But he’s that guy. The rare breed of man who’d never sit in the car, scrolling his phone, while his date goes into a store after dark.

  I slow down so he can catch up, which takes no time because his long strides are equivalent to four of mine. Nick moves like a man who knows his body. Fluid. Agile. Strong. He looks as if he could compete in the next Olympic games.

  “Do you still play water polo? How do you stay in such excellent shape?”

  “Excellent, huh?”

  “I’ve seen you in action and naked, remember?”

  “I swim most days and my job keeps me active. I also have a little gym at home,” he explains.

  We walk the fluorescent-lit aisles of the drugstore. I’m doing my best to stay focused, though the desire to look at and touch everything is gnawing at me. My first therapist taught me to pause and give into the urge just enough to feel grounded.

  I stop abruptly, taking a breath. Nick probably thinks I’m searching for the right section. I visualize the stuff I would need if I were crashing with one of the girls. I take another breath and start moving.

  I zigzag the store; Nick keeps time with me. I grab a soft toothbrush, a travel-size pack of Burt’s Bees face wipes, and a pair of size seven tan faux-suede flip-flops and head to check out.

  “Did you get everything you need?” Nick inquires as we stand three customers deep in line.

  “Yes. I’m all good,” I say, feeling at ease.

  We approach our turn in line, Nick moves to stand on the opposite side of me. He’s going to pay— again. He’s that rare breed of man.

  We finish checking out and stroll back to the car.

  “Thank you, Nick. You didn’t have to do that, but it means a lot to me that you did.”

  “Any time.”

  He grasps my hand, kissing the top. A grand gesture I see in movies, but have never experienced.

  Holy Unicorn, I’m on a date with Nick Willingham. And I’m enjoying it… I’m enjoying him. He’s fun, a little serious, and chivalrous. With Nick, I feel like a modern-day princess. Even if this thing between us can’t last, at least I have tonight.

  I allow myself to aah and sigh all the way to his house.

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later, I’m in Nick’s kitchen in my new flip-flops, showing off my purple toe nails, and grinding a nug of the dankest weed. We stand around the expansive island in the center of the open concept space.

  Nick is setting up the Volcano. After receiving the dispensary delivery, he changed out of his boots and into a pair of blue leather Ralph Lauren flip-flops. The earthy, skunky, tropical scent of cannabis wafts around us.

  Even the cannabis in his world is luxurious. Come on, I live in the Bay Area. The land of 5-star eats, world-renowned wineries, tech companies, and the best weed on the planet. Only Nick would have a premium dispensary that delivers two heavy eighths to this front door.

  “Nick, these buds are covered in crystals. Can you smell the grapefruit?”

  I lift the lid on the metal grinder, holding it up to his nose.

  “Um, I’m getting sweet and citrus. Very smooth. If you’re into aromatics, smell the OG Kush in the cabinet on the left side of the sink.”

  I open the cabinet to find Nick’s stash shelf, and I feel as if I’m at home. Three jars of cannabis flower, two more grinders, a cup of pokers and cleaning tools, a glass pipe, a bottle of CBD topical cream, cannabis-infused transdermal patches, various edibles, and rolling papers.

  “You use cannabis for pain,” I state, dipping my nose into a large jar.

  While I’m not an OG Kush fan, I immediately recognize the dense buds and lemony scent of the legendary strain.

  “Yeah, I do. I enjoy getting high, but it definitely helps with the stiff and sore days. I haven’t taken an Aleve in two years. I also go to bed on the earlier side, so it helps with sleep too.”

  “The downside of being an athlete.”
<
br />   “And my job. What about you? What do you use cannabis for?”

  I’m still not ready to share the details of my ADHD. The misconceptions are so far and wide (especially for women). Trying to explain my condition will make me feel as if I’m paddling upstream. I use my go-to answer.

  “I love the euphoria of getting high, but I medicate for focus and concentration. It helps me stay on track,” I say, admiring his home.

  The kitchen and dining area are modest in size and so minimal, it would be easy to dismiss it as an on-trend remodel. However, upon closer inspection, it is a work of art (like its owner)— gray on gray custom countertops and cabinets, blond wood accents, and chef-grade appliances. Natural timber wood floors run throughout the house, along with light-gray walls, a white exposed beam ceiling, and an Eichler-style wall of windows with a stunning view of the canyon and the San Gabriel Mountains.

  There is nothing ordinary or regular in this space. Every piece, from the modern brushed nickel handles on the drawers to the chrome pendant lighting, is custom. Designer. Art.

  “What temp do you vape at?” he asks.

  He presses buttons on the front of the Volcano’s digital temperature gauge.

  “My Pax doesn’t have a digital temp read, but I use the second or third heat setting at the start of my sesh. I switch to the fourth setting to finish out the bowl.”

  Nick taps the home button on his phone.

  “Siri, what is the third temperature setting on the Pax?”

  “Here is what I found on the web,” Siri says.

  “400 degrees. Does that seem right, Lynn?” Nick asks, scrolling his phone.

  “I guess so. What do you vape at?”

  (Superstar is serious about this temperature thing. It’s cute.)

  “Between 375 and 390.”

  “Set it for whatever you think is best. 390 will be fine.”

  Nick sets the temperature. He brushes out the mesh bowl and fills it with weed from the grinder. I run my fingers over the crinkly, cellophane bag with a plastic valve at one end.

  “My favorite dispensary in the City has Volcanos available for use on-site, but I’ve not tried one. I prefer to vape at home. How does it work?” I ask.

  “It takes six minutes to heat up and then I’ll fill two bags.”