Break Free (Smart Girl Mafia Book 1)

by Amiee Smith

  “Was it too much?” Lynn asks, carrying glasses to the kitchen.

  “No. The acting and the story line were a bit awkward, but it was engaging. Your story would be a great movie.”

  “Thank you. Dana keeps begging me to write a script so she can pitch it to a cable network.”

  “Dana is an agent, right?”

  “Literary. For film and TV.”

  “Would you have to move back to L.A.?”

  I kind of hate the hope underscoring my question.

  “Um… probably not, but the additional travel would definitely throw off my writing schedule for the next few years,” she says, rinsing off the plates and placing them in the dishwasher.

  “Wait. You’re scheduled out for the next few years?”

  “Ah, yeah. Writing is like any other job. I’m under contract for four more books and I plan to self-publish at least two more titles.”

  Lynn starts the dishwasher. I was planning to do it, so it’s as if she read my mind.

  “Six books in two years. That’s crazy, Lynn,” I state, wiping down the panini press.

  “Only crazy to people who don’t write for a living. But yes, I am a crazy writer. If I’m not sleeping or running, I’m probably writing. I do make time for play on Friday and Saturday night. It gives me… material.”

  Lynn is only in L.A. once a month, leaving lots of weekends of play for her to pull from that won’t include me. I’m trying not to let it piss me off. Trying.

  “Does every romance writer have a schedule similar to yours?” I ask, diverting my anger.

  “Some. I live in one of the most expensive cities in America. I have to adhere to my schedule so I can maintain, and hopefully exceed, the quality of life I had when I was working at Google.”

  I like the fact she is self-sufficient. Most of the women I date are in search of a husband to take care of them. My mom always worked, and I think it made my parents’ marriage better.

  “If you got married, would you write less?”

  I’m nowhere near ready to have a marriage conversation, but I want to at least know where her head is at.

  Lynn laughs. “No. I’m addicted to storytelling. I get squirrely if I go two days without writing. So, I guess it’s not about the money.”

  With the kitchen cleaned, I stop the radio playing in the living room. I click off the lights and move toward the bedroom.

  “Should we go to bed?” I ask.

  “Probably. I need to check out of my room by ten and be in San Marino by eleven.”

  “San Marino?”

  “Brunch with the girls. We meet at Julie’s Cafe every Sunday I’m in town.”

  I’m glad she gets to spend time with her friends, but I thought we’d have most of tomorrow together before her flight. So much for sleep. I’ll catch up tomorrow.

  “How about a shower?” I suggest.

  “Ah… I don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry… you probably want to sleep.”

  “No. Surprisingly, I’m not tired. It’s just…”

  “What is it, Scott? I’ve seen you naked. Hell, you’re practically naked now.”

  Lynn laughs. “No, it’s not a modesty issue. It’s a black girl hair issue. I spent an hour with my flat iron this afternoon and I want it to last at least another day. I didn’t get a shower cap at Walgreens.”

  I’ve dated a few black women who were all about their hair. I couldn’t touch it and they had to wrap it up in a turban-looking thing at night, so I do understand what she means. I may even have what she needs in my bathroom.

  “Would it be weird if I had a shower cap?”

  “Not at all. You definitely seem to be into your hair.”

  “Ah… no. It’s not mine.”

  I lift an eyebrow, hoping Lynn catches the subtext.

  “Oh… does it belong to someone you’re currently… showering with?”

  “No.”

  I’ve made this conversation way weirder than it needs to be.

  Lynn sighs. “Nick, it’s totally fine. We’ve been through this… I have a past and you have a past.”

  We walk into the attached bathroom. Damn, she’s really cool. Wait…

  “Have you… had to borrow a lot of shower caps in your past?”

  Lynn laughs, I open the drawer of my vanity.

  “Asks the man who has a drawer filled with items of past shower companions.”

  She finds what she needs and closes the drawer.

  “I get it,” I say.

  I still want to know though.

  We strip off our clothes and enter my double-headed, side-by-side, walk-in shower. I designed the all-white tiled stall to meet my height and to accommodate company. I’m the last person who should be questioning Lynn’s shower companions (her words, not mine).

  “Nick?” she asks, turning on her shower.

  “Yes, Lynn.”

  “You’re still a little stoned, aren’t you?”

  I pass my body wash to her. The shower fills with steam and the scent of cedarwood soap.

  “Probably. Why? Are you?”

  “Never mind. Nick?”

  “Yes, Lynn?”

  “You’re my only shower companion… ever.”

  That piece of information feels as good as the warm water hitting my skin.

  CHAPTER 13:

  LYNN SCOTT

  I wake up to gleaming sunshine poking me in the face through one of Nick’s gazillion windows and sorer than after my first week of SoulCycle. Of course, our casual shower turned into doggy style on the back wall of the stall. Afterwards, we both fell asleep as soon as we got in bed. Then Superstar wakes me with the rising sun to a position— I know only from my research— called the saucy spoon.

  Basically, it’s spooning with intercourse. Incredible. The position is so gentle. Intimate. Satisfying. Every woman needs to experience the saucy spoon at least once in her life. His muscular body engulfing mine while he fingered my clit. I think I came twice. The count is unclear, I’m certain I dozed off mid-orgasm.

  Nick is sleeping on the other side of the bed, I ease from under the covers. The clock on the cable box reads 9:32 a.m. Ugh. So much to do in a short amount of time. I tip-toe to the kitchen where I left my clothes on a barstool. My head, all kinds of scattered.

  I want to wake him to say thank you and goodbye, but he’d insist on driving me to the Westin and I’ll be shitty company. Unfocused. Tired. Sore muscles. And running late. The perfect storm for my cynicism and sarcasm I work to keep at bay. Also, him driving me would prolong the inevitable. Nick is my dream guy in so many ways, but this is just a hook-up.

  I put on my jeans without panties. Yet again, I’ve lost another pair when in his company. They’re probably in the en-suite bathroom… with my flip-flops. Crap. I’m going to have to do the walk of shame in those heels. Less than twenty-four hours ago those shoes weren’t so bad, but now the L.A. fantasy is lifting and I’m transforming back into the City girl who wears flat, I-can-walk-two-miles-if-I-need-to shoes.

  I finish dressing, but leave my heels off so I don’t make any noise while walking across the hardwood floors to the guest bathroom. It’s all-white like all the other bathrooms, but instead of a shower it has a huge soaker tub.

  Sitting on the toilet, I whimper a bit. I’d love to have thirty minutes in this tub with two cups of Epsom salt. Even more sad, I’ll never get the opportunity to soak in the pristine tub Nick probably had custom made. I finish, grateful the toilet is one of those super-quiet, water-efficient bowls.

  I wash my hands and peer in the mirror. Ugh. My hair is on its way back to curly town and my mascara is flaking. I have face wipes and a hair tie in my purse.

  Tip-toeing to the living room, I retrieve my bright pink crossbody from the table behind the sofa. My heart races as soon as I see my phone inside my purse. I haven’t checked it since Nick picked me up.

  I press the home button and find an endless stream of messages.

  Saturday, 6:45 p.m.
>
  Mom (cell): [Pic] Here’s the view of the beach from our room. Can you see the dolphins? It’s a sign, sweet girl. Something magical is happening in your life.

  Saturday, 7:30 p.m.

  Dad (cell): [Pic] Isn’t your mom radiant tonight in red? We miss you, Lynn. Please stay an extra day. I will cover your hotel room and flight changes.

  Saturday, 7:45 p.m.

  Dana Sandoval: [To group] I can’t do brunch. Client meeting. Trying to close a 6 million-dollar deal with Starz. Let’s do dinner tomorrow night. My treat. Lynn… Will you change your flight?

  Saturday, 7:48 p.m.

  Claire White: [To group] I need to make a campaign appearance at a church in the morning, so dinner works better for me.

  Saturday, 7:49 p.m.

  Jen Manning: [To group] I can do dinner. Where should I make a reservation?

  Saturday, 9:45 p.m.

  Mom (cell): I had too much wine at dinner. Missing my baby girl. Stay another night. Or move back to So Cal. Don’t tell your dad, but I’ll buy you this condo if you do: pasadenacondos.com

  Saturday, 10:05 p.m.

  Brit Palmer: [To group] I can’t do dinner on Sunday. I have a gig. I’m free Monday night, after 6:00. Lynn, can you stay until Tuesday? If so, would you read my dissertation?

  Saturday, 10:06 p.m.

  Dana Sandoval: [To group] I can do Monday night if we pick a restaurant in Beverly Hills. I’m not sitting in 2 hours of traffic to get to Pasadena by 6.

  Saturday, 10:06 p.m.

  Claire White: [To group] I can be in BH by 6:30 p.m. on Monday.

  Saturday, 10:08 p.m.

  Brit Palmer: [To group] I can come… only if you’re treating. [winking emoji]. BH dinner + my bank account = No Bueno.

  Saturday, 10:09 p.m.

  Jen Manning: [To group] I’ll make a reservation at Sauce. Lynn, wanna ride with me?

  Saturday, 10:10 p.m.

  Brit Palmer: [To group] Lynn, I’ll pick you up. You can read my dissertation.

  Saturday, 11:06 p.m.

  Jen Manning: [To group] Lynn? Did you change your flight? Trying to make res.

  Saturday, 11:26 p.m.

  Missed call. Brit Palmer.

  Saturday, 11:26 p.m.

  Brit Palmer: Where u at? Wanna get a drink in Silver Lake and discuss my dissertation?

  Saturday, 11:28 p.m.

  Brit Palmer: Tried calling your hotel room. Are u partying w/out me? Call me back. I’ll come 2 u.

  Saturday, 11:36 p.m.

  Brit Palmer: Did you get really stoned and get lost in an alternative Universe? If so, can I join u? [smiley face emoji]

  Sunday, 12:01 a.m.

  Marc (Venus Bar hook-up): I’m at Milk in the Haight. I can be at your place in 20. Wanna have some fun?

  Sunday, 12:52 a.m.

  Jackson (coworker Google/hook-up): Long time no talk. We should kick it. Your place or mine?

  Sunday, 1:31 a.m.

  Riley (DJ @ Wish/hook-up): I’ll be done with my set at 2. Can I come by?

  Sunday, 5:01 a.m.

  NPR [Notification]: Hurricane Marshall expected to hit the coast of Florida by 10:00 a.m., EST. Flights all over the country will be delayed.

  Sunday, 5:18 a.m.

  Virgin Airlines [Notification]: Due to weather conditions flight #8784 to SFO is delayed. Please check the website for updates.

  Sunday, 6:00 a.m.

  Reminder: Take B-12 vitamin.

  Sunday, 7:00 a.m.

  Reminder: Check out of the Westin at 10:00 a.m.

  Sunday, 9:13 a.m.

  Virgin Airlines [Notification]: Due to weather conditions flight #8784 to SFO is cancelled. Please contact our customer service for additional information.

  Sunday, 9:18 a.m.

  Jen Manning: [To group] Lynn? I’m totally trying to bug you. Really need to make res. There are only 2 tables left for 6:30.

  Sunday, 9:25 a.m.

  Mom (cell): Sorry about last night. I know you love living in SF. Miss you, sweet girl. However, my offer still stands. (Smiley face.)

  Sunday, 9:35 a.m.

  Dad (cell): Heard flights are delayed today because of a hurricane on the east coast. Call your airline to check. If you’re overwhelmed, call us. Mom and I are on the road now and should be home in an hour.

  Sunday, 9:38 a.m.

  Carrie (copyeditor): I’m so sorry, Lynn. I need another week to finish your manuscript. My kid gave me the flu. Definitely next Monday morning. Sorry if I’m throwing off your timeline. I’ll check-in with you later in the week.

  My head pounds as I pace in a circle around the living room. My fingers twist the hem of my blouse.

  No brunch. No flight. No manuscript to work on next week. A hurricane. Tons of text messages to respond to. Pushy, endearing parents. Pushy, endearing friends. Fifteen minutes to check out. No flat shoes. Is that a helicopter? Three booty calls in one night? If I had been in the City, who would I have chosen? After last night, will I ever be able to hook-up again? “Only please me.” Still need to wash my face, brush my teeth, and pull back my hair. Breathe, Lynn. I should help Brit. She really needs money. Maybe I’ll give her a loan out of my savings? Need to request Uber. I don’t even know Nick’s address. My legs are so flippin’ sore. “Only please me.” Nick. Nick. Nick. Someone make that dog stop barking. Yes, Daddy. I’m really overwhelmed. Breathe, Lynn. But I can’t call you because Mom will lecture me about moving back to L.A. so you guys can help me manage my condition.

  Shoot. I need to get out of this house. I never want Nick or anyone to see me this scattered. This hasn’t happened in a while. Breathe, Lynn. Breathe.

  Universe, I want to go home. To my city. To my flat. To my stuff. To my sanctuary, where everything is controlled and organized. Where I’m only responsible for me.

  I wish I could get high, but I have no idea how to use the Volcano or even where Nick keeps it. I grab my jacket and purse, slip on my shoes, and tip-toe to the door. Oh, my green juice. I’m so hungry. Nick is so amazing. I hurry to the kitchen, retrieving the plastic bottle from the refrigerator, and head outside to request my Uber.

  I can do this. Deep breath. Sip of juice. Deep breath. Sip of juice. The weather is a bit cooler, but the sun is being mean to me and I don’t have my sunglasses. Luckily, I only wait five minutes for my car to arrive.

  “You’re going to the Westin in Pasadena?” my driver asks.

  He’s middle-aged, maybe Persian or Armenian. His cologne assaults my nose, causing me to roll down the window.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Focus, Lynn. Breathe. My driver curves down the hill to the main road. Okay. I’m okay. I need to do the next logical step. Another sip of juice.

  “Sir, I hope it’s alright, I need to make a few calls.”

  “No problem, ma’am. Do what you need to do. I’ll get you to Pasadena.”

  The reflection of his white smile through the rearview mirror helps me relax. Focus.

  I compose a mental list. Step 1: Call the Westin and let them know I’ll be checking out late. I’ll be charged a fee, but it’s nominal compared to paying for another night. Step 2: Call American Airlines because I have some unused miles. Step 3: Enter reminder into my phone to resolve my cancelled Virgin flight on Monday.

  “Thank you for calling American Airlines. How can I assist you today?”

  A woman with an upbeat Southern drawl comes on the line.

  “Hi, I need a flight for today from LAX to SFO or Burbank to SFO. My flight with Virgin was cancelled due to the hurricane. Shoot. I don’t have my rewards information, so if I have to pay for it, I’ll give you my credit card information.”

  I try to ignore the hints of desperation in my voice.

  “Not a problem. The phone number you’re calling from is linked to your account, so I have all your information. Okay, Ms. Scott... I have a flight leaving out of Burbank direct to SFO at 3:25 p.m. The only seat available is an aisle in first class. Do you want me to book it for you?”

  “Ye
s. Thank you.”

  I sigh with relief.

  I’m so ready to go home.

  • • •

  An hour and a half later, I’m standing in front of my open red suitcase, reviewing my packing list. Thank Goddess for my lists. They keep me from forgetting stuff.

  Freshly showered and dressed in black leggings, a white tank, an unzipped gray asymmetrical hoodie, and bright all-pink Nike Air Max. This is my traveling outfit. My hair is in two French braided pigtails and I’m wearing my glasses.

  Other than the rumbling in my stomach, I feel more like myself. The juice did not put a dent in my hunger. Maybe it’s from all the naked exercising I did last night, but I’m hungrier than I’ve been in a long time. Late check-out is at 12:30 p.m. I have plenty of time to grab a bite to eat in the hotel restaurant.

  Ah. Nick. Gosh. There are no words to describe how magical last night… and this morning was for me. A fantasy come true. I could daydream about it all day. But if I give it too much thought, I’ll do something impulsive like… stay another night. Falling for Nick Willingham is not an option. I’m too old to confuse fucking with feelings or a hook-up with happily-ever-after.

  A knock at the door pulls me away from my thoughts. It’s probably housekeeping.

  “I’m doing late check-out,” I call out, hoping they’ll go away.

  Another knock.

  Opening the door, my heart jumps in my throat. Nick’s dressed in slim-legged khaki pants, a white undershirt (identical to the one I wore last night), all-white classic shell-top Adidas, sunglasses, a gray knit hat, and sporting five-o’clock shadow like it’s an accessory.

  “Bad hair day?” I blurt out.

  I’m not ready for human interaction.

  “Hey. I heard your brunch got cancelled,” he says.

  Nick bypasses me and enters the room.

  “From who? I only found out an hour or so ago,” I say, shutting the door.

  “My brother called for my pancake recipe. He’s hanging out with Brit.”

  “I didn’t know they knew each other. You have a pancake recipe?” I ask.

  “Yes. I would have made them for you, if you’d stuck around.”

  He sits on the unslept in bed next to my suitcase.