Break Free (Smart Girl Mafia Book 1)

by Amiee Smith

  “I don’t do pancakes. Not even vegan ones. They aren’t fun without butter.”

  Even though I haven’t had pancakes in, like, forever, my empty stomach growls with enthusiasm. I try to busy myself, but since I’m done packing there isn’t much to do.

  Nick leans over and gives one of my pigtails a tug. And my tits give him an eyeful of nipple.

  “You’re adorable,” he says.

  I want to run my tongue over the curve of his pec peeping out of the low V of his T-shirt. Shoot. I need to focus. I don’t have time for this. I back out of his embrace.

  “Why are you here?” I ask curtly.

  “Your flight doesn’t leave until 4:00. I thought we could get lunch and I’ll take you to the airport.”

  “My original flight got cancelled. There is a hurricane in Florida. I booked another flight departing at 3:25 out of Burbank.”

  “Great. Are you all packed?”

  I want to protest. I want to ask him to leave. But a ride to the airport and a meal is too good to pass up. Oh, and a goodbye kiss from Nick will be absolutely divine. I can almost feel his lips branding mine as we part ways in the airport loading zone.

  “I think so,” I say.

  I review my typed list and the room before zipping up my suitcase. I put my computer, journal, and purple pens in my bright pink leather Kate Spade laptop bag before transferring the contents of my purse into the side pocket. I store my empty purse and my packing list in the side compartment of my suitcase. I grab my phone, charging on the desk, and place it and the white cable in the side pocket of my laptop bag. I haven’t responded to any of the gazillion text messages, but I’ll do that at the airport while I wait to board my flight.

  This is my departure packing routine. I do my best to follow it for every trip to ensure I don’t forget something or get overwhelmed. Since the hot man kicking it on the edge of my bed is watching my every move, it’s nice to appear as if I kind of have my act together.

  “Ready,” I say.

  I lift my suitcase off the bed. Nick steps in and takes it from me. I do one more scan of the room, my eyes stopping on the lovely pink roses in a glass on the nightstand. I retrieve my phone and snap a few pics. I’ll post it to my social media pages for #RomanticGestureSaturday. My assistant came up with the theme and, ironically, it’s the only thread I haven’t been able to participate in… until now.

  We leave my room and stop by the hotel reception desk. I hand my card key to the familiar twenty-something clerk behind the counter. If I put in the effort, I could be on a first-name basis with all the hotel staff. I don’t. While I appreciate the familiarity, I never want to get too comfortable when I’m in L.A.

  “I’m checking out. Room 603.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Scott. You’re all set,” she says, all smiley.

  “I know you’re going to bill my card on file, but don’t I need to sign something?” I ask.

  Girly is skipping a step in my departure routine.

  “There is nothing to sign. Your gentleman friend settled your account.”

  She gives Nick a dreamy glance. It’s the same look I gave him many times last night (when his head was turned, of course).

  “You didn’t have to pay for my room,” I whisper, walking away.

  “Yes, I did,” he says, wheeling my suitcase through the hotel lobby.

  “Why?”

  We’re halfway across the parking lot when I ask.

  “I should have suggested you check out last night. It would have saved you the hassle of getting here this morning,” he says, loading my luggage into the rear of his car.

  Before he closes the door, my eyes fall on a bright yellow hard hat and orange construction vest. After spending time in his luxurious world, I forgot he’s a blue-collar man. Holy Unicorn, he is a romance novel cliché… and I love it.

  “You had no idea I was going to sleepover,” I say.

  Nick opens the passenger door for me and I climb in.

  “Lynn, the night went exactly as I hoped,” he says, flashing his yearbook photo smile.

  CHAPTER 14:

  NICK WILLINGHAM

  “Lettuce Café is on Lake Avenue. How does that sound?” I ask, sitting behind the wheel.

  “Spectacular. Except let’s do takeout and eat in a park. I’m not in the mood for a crowded restaurant. Lacy Park is not far from there,” Lynn says.

  “That works for me,” I say.

  Lynn replaces her glasses with giant sunglasses. She’s withdrawn. Not quite the woman I spent one of the best nights of my life with.

  When I left my house, my plan was to ask her to extend her trip. Tell her to stay at my house. But after she said her flight was cancelled, and she booked another one, I knew any attempts to convince her to stay would be unsuccessful.

  “I’ll put an order in online and run in to pick it up. You won’t have to bother with parking. It’s what my mom and I do. I’ll pull up the menu. What do you want to eat?” she asks, handing me her extra-large rose gold phone.

  A text pops up while I scroll the menu.

  Sunday, 11:32 a.m.

  Marc (Venus Bar hook-up): Wish I could have cum with you last night. Call me.

  What kind of douche spells come like that over text? He probably sends unsolicited dick pics too. Lynn deserves so much better. I pass her phone back.

  “I’ll have the steak sandwich with potatoes. Mint lemonade. Ah… a text came in,” I say.

  “Probably from my parents or Jen. I’ll deal with them at the airport,” she says, her attention focused on the menu.

  “Actually, it was from Marc, ah… Venus Bar hook-up. Do you see him a lot?” I ask.

  I’m trying not to be jealous. I’m trying not to judge dude. Because if I’m judging him, I’m also judging her.

  “No. I haven’t heard from him in months. I got three booty calls last night. It’s like they could sense I was having mind-blowing sex. Shoot! It didn’t save my modification.”

  I want to inquire further, but she's engrossed in ordering lunch. Will she put me in her phone as Nick (mind-blowing sex)? My ego wants to relish the title, but something deep within refuses to be just a hook-up.

  “Dessert?” she asks.

  “No. I still have vegan cake in my refrigerator to eat.”

  “Text me later and tell me how gross it is. There is no plant-based substitute for the deliciousness of butter,” she chuckles.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen her smile this morning. She types something in the comments on the order. Probably another modification. I reach in my pocket for my wallet and hand her my debit card.

  “No, friend. I got it.”

  Still holding and typing on her phone with her right hand, Lynn pats and rubs my thigh with her left. Lingering a few seconds longer than the boundaries of friendship.

  Friend. The word hits me like a wrecking ball. On the other side of last night, friendship seems to be the practical option. She’s not relocating. I don’t do long distance relationships. Yet, I made the impractical decision to cross the friendship line on Friday. And knowing what I know now, I’d make the same decision all over again.

  “Victory! The order will be ready for pick-up in fifteen minutes,” Lynn cheers.

  Her pigtails and tits bounce in unison. My cock twitches. She’s so fuckably adorable.

  This thing between us is not friendship.

  • • •

  “Why haven’t you been in a relationship?” I ask.

  I eat the last bite of my sandwich and wait for her response. We’re chilling in the grass on top of my blue swim towel I keep in the back of my car. Lynn sits cross-legged and mixes her side of avocado into a bowl of char-broiled vegetables.

  “It hasn’t happened for me yet. I’ve spent the last fifteen years focused on turning my one true talent into a viable living.”

  “Can I ask the most obvious question?”

  I open the box with my potatoes. Lynn swoops in with her fork and nabs one of the roaste
d fingerlings.

  “How can I write romance if I’ve never been in love?” she says.

  “Yes.”

  I fork into her bowl of gourmet rabbit food. It’s nice sharing a meal with her.

  “I’m a writer. I have two degrees in writing. I can write anything. Well, anything someone will pay me to write.”

  “So, it’s about the money?”

  “Oh, no. I love the genre of romance. It’s a vivacious community of readers and writers. I’ve been reading romance novels since I was a kid. I’m also a sucker for a happy ending.”

  A cheeky grin forms under those sunglasses. Oh, my horny girl, what I wouldn’t do for another night with you. My pants are already snug. I don’t need an erection adding extra pressure. I change the subject.

  “I grew up in this park. I forgot how nice it is,” I say, finishing the potatoes and dropping the trash in the carry-out bag.

  “When I was a kid, my parents would bring me here on Saturdays. An attempt to get me to do more outside activities. Their plan never worked. I read ‘Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret’ ten times under that tree over there. My parents fell in love with San Marino. They bought a house a few blocks away a couple of years ago.”

  “I had my first kiss over there. Kelly Speck. We had the same after-school nanny.”

  “Kelly Speck was in my sorority at SC.”

  “You were a Tri-Delta?” I ask with surprise.

  Out of all the women I’ve dated, Lynn is the most unlikely sorority girl.

  “I still am. It’s a perpetual bond of friendship.”

  Lynn laughs and lies back, resting her head on her sweatshirt. I get up, tossing our lunch trash in a nearby can.

  “I can’t picture you rushing,” I say.

  “I was impulsive my freshman year. Dana was busy doing the film school thing. Jen was shooting Sunset Moon, and was only on campus for classes. Claire was at Scripps, and Brit was at Cal. A girl on my floor in the dorms invited me to the recruitment meeting, so I went for it. I’m glad I did. I made some lifelong friends. I credit my sorority network with helping me make the bestseller list the first time around. One email and I hit number one on Amazon. Some even read the book and wrote reviews. I love those ladies.”

  “Did you live in the house?”

  Instinctually, I rest my head against Lynn’s abdomen, stretching out. Being close to her is easy. Relaxing.

  “Only sophomore year. Brit transferred to Occidental my junior year and needed a roommate, so we shared an apartment in Koreatown until graduation. That one year was so much fun. The frat parties. The socializing. The teamwork. The philanthropy. You know, my friends and I were nerds in high school. It was thrilling to not be a nerd. My parents were so happy I was doing something other than reading books and kickin’ it with my nerd crew, they pre-paid my sorority dues for the four years.”

  “Your parents aren’t down with your nerd crew?” I ask, laughing.

  She and her friends may have leaned nerdy in high school, but they’ve all grown up to be some of the most vibrant and successful women I’ve met.

  “Oh, no. They love the girls. I’ve been friends with them since third grade. My parents wanted me to have the full college experience, and since Dana and Jen were at USC too, they felt I might not make any new friends.”

  “I get it. Five guys from our high school played water polo at Long Beach State at the same time I did. It was cool to know people, but I definitely had to put effort into making new friends. Though I didn’t party much in college.”

  “Because of the Olympics?”

  “Yeah. I started training to make the team my sophomore year, and then it became my life. The Games were the summer between my junior and senior year. No one tells you it’s not just competing. It’s all the activity before and after. I missed out on the college experience and I don’t even have an Olympic medal to show for it,” I say.

  Team USA entered the Games as gold medal favorites, only to finish seventh. It took some time to get over the defeat… and at times, I feel as if I’m still recovering.

  “Maybe you didn’t medal, but you are and will always be a hometown hero. I watched all of the matches from the Games with my parents. We were so proud to say you were from Pasadena.”

  “Thanks, Lynn. That’s very kind of you to say.”

  The sun warms my skin, and the gentle breeze is both cooling and refreshing. The rustling of the leaves in the trees reminds me of last night in my backyard. Lynn must be thinking the same thing because she begins to massage my shoulder. The pressure of her fingertips is comforting. Soothing. (I wish this was a bed picnic.)

  “You know what would be awesome right now?” she asks.

  “Getting stoned?” I suggest, chuckling.

  Lynn’s laughter marries mine. “Totally. And an Epsom salt bath.”

  “Sore?” I ask.

  Turning, I run my hands over her thighs. I feel like a teenager trying to cop a feel in public.

  “Superstar, you have no idea.”

  “I do. Our shower sex did me in.”

  “Sorry. It’s the height differential,” she says.

  “I’ll install a step stool for next time.”

  “Next time, huh?” Lynn asks.

  I move so my mouth hovers above hers. She lifts her hips just enough to let me know the moment is not lost on her.

  “Lynn?!”

  A lively female voice breaks the moment. Lynn shifts abruptly, sitting up.

  “Shit!” Lynn says.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “My mom.”

  “Lynn!! I can’t believe you’re here.”

  A slim middle-aged African American woman in a light blue sleeveless shirt dress power walks toward us with a blond Labradoodle by her side. Lynn gets up, greeting her mom with a hug.

  “My sweet girl, I thought we weren’t going to see you. How serendipitous,” she says from behind sunglasses almost as big as Lynn’s.

  “We were having lunch before heading to the airport.” Lynn says, pointing in my direction.

  Standing, I join them.

  “Oh. Now I understand why I haven’t heard from you,” Lynn’s mom says, removing her sunglasses.

  She is taller and darker-skinned than Lynn, her sleek bob haircut falls below her chin. There is a fierce sophistication underneath her warm smile and large happy eyes.

  “Mom, this is Nick Willingham. Nick, this is my mom, Evelyn Scott.”

  “Mrs. Scott, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Shaking her hand, I’m temporarily blinded by the multi-carat diamond covering her ring finger. While this is my first time meeting her, I’ve seen her on the news. She is the go-to defense attorney for celebrities, athletes, and L.A. socialites.

  “Please call me Evelyn. You were the best man at Jen and Jon’s wedding.”

  “Yes. Good memory.”

  More than five hundred people attended the four-day J + J wedding. During the reception, I stepped out to the street to review my speech and found Lynn rehearsing the poem Jen was “forcing me to read.” She had an unlit American Spirit in hand. I asked to bum one. She said she didn’t really smoke and only had the one, offering to share it with me. During the exchange, I revealed I was nervous about my speech. She told me to be myself and I’d have everyone “oozing off their seats.” The memory now carries so much more meaning.

  “When did you get a dog?” Lynn blurts out.

  “Oh, Sally here is a rental. My therapist thought it would help reduce stress. Turns out, there is a weekend dog renting service. Only in L.A.,” Evelyn says, smiling.

  (Yes, that’s some crazy L.A. shit.)

  “Lynn, you and Nick must come back to the house. Your dad will be happy to see you.”

  Evelyn doesn’t wait for a reply. She heads toward the park exit, leaving us no choice but to follow. We grab our stuff and proceed to the house.

  Ten minutes later, I lounge in the living room of the Scotts’ Mediterranean-Spanish styl
e mini-mansion, sipping a glass of passionfruit iced tea. Sally sits at my feet. I watch Lynn fidget her way through rapid-fire questioning from her parents.

  “Did you get my text message about flight cancelations?” Dr. Scott asks.

  “Yes. Thank you, Daddy. My Virgin flight was cancelled, but I used my miles to book another flight on American,” Lynn says.

  She’s fiddling with the diamond in her ear. Her sunglasses now replaced with her glasses.

  “Baby Girl, you’ve gotten so thin. Are you eating enough?” Evelyn questions.

  “Yes. Three meals. Four snacks. Most days.”

  “Lynn, are you getting enough sleep?” Dr. Scott asks.

  He’s a jovial man, shorter than his wife, with a full head of dark hair and skin the color of coffee with cream.

  “Generally, yes,” Lynn says, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

  “Did you pay everything on time this month? Are you prepared to submit your quarterly tax payment? I logged into your B of A account and saw you’re transferring your royalties to another account,” Evelyn inquires.

  “Higher interest on my Ally accounts. Most of my expenses are set up on autopay. My accountant sent me an email that my quarterly tax payment is due next month,” Lynn says.

  She picks up a copy of Ebony magazine, flips through a few pages, and puts it down.

  “You should link your mother and me to those accounts. We’ll keep an eye on them for you,” Lynn’s dad says, in between sips of tea.

  “I check my accounts regularly. I’ll ask if I need help, Daddy.”

  Lynn begins tapping the toe of her pink sneaker against the edge of the coffee table.

  “Sweet girl, we are so proud of you. We want to support you in any way we can,” Evelyn says, rubbing Lynn’s shoulder.

  “Thanks, Mama. How was your trip?”

  Her parents share the highlights of their trip to Santa Barbara. Lynn’s shoulders ease, and her perpetual foot-tapping subsides.

  “You would have loved it, Lynn,” Evelyn says, showing us a pic on her phone.

  “Oh, I miss the beach. Maybe I’ll go to Stinson for a few days next week,” Lynn says.

  Excitement dances in her eyes. Damn, she’s beautiful. I’d enjoy spending time at the beach with her.