by Amiee Smith
“Yep. Yep. That is on the agenda. Between the main course and the non-vegan dessert. I call dibs on Lynn’s piece of pie,” Brit chimes in, before taking a generous gulp of wine.
“Love triangles are hot right now. Lynn, write this as a spec script. I’ll pitch it to my contact at Lifetime,” Dana says, her glass of Pinot in hand.
“Could you get me an audition for it? I haven’t read for anything in months. I was on a hit show! Now, I have to send a box of croissants to get my agent to call me back!” Jen says, showcasing her celebrity grin.
I resist asking Jen what type of croissants she sends. In all my plant-based hoopla, I still miss the flakey, buttery goodness of a well-made croissant. I put a forkful of quinoa in my mouth, hoping it will help me forget my butter-filled past. It doesn’t. Focus. I need to focus.
“Maybe I could write a song for the movie? Then I wouldn’t have to deal with my dissertation,” Brit says, retrieving another chicken breast from the platter.
“Really, guys? You’re trying to profit off Lynn’s woes? But if you could get product placement for the flower shop, I would be forever grateful,” Claire says, winking at me.
“Hello?! We need to deal with the elephant. Lynn needs a plot,” Jen says with a mischievous grin.
“Write it as a paranormal. I could pitch this: A thirtysomething, multicultural ‘Twilight,’ set in modern-day L.A. Boom! It would so sell,” Dana says, smiling.
“No! Because Nick by default would be Jacob. Incredible body. Works with his hands. Poor. Not really poor, but just in comparison to moneybags over here. I was always Team Jacob,” Brit says with a giggle and a wink.
I’m trying to hold back, but I’m a member of the Mafia too. If they are staging a coup to take down an elephant, I want to help.
“Really? You were Team Jacob? I was so Team Edward. The hair… and the glittery thing he did. Umm, delicious,” I say.
Under the table, I drag my fingertips back and forth over Nick’s thigh. The gesture is meant to be a signal so he doesn’t think my friends and I are batshit crazy (we kind of are), but it only makes me hot for him. Staring into nowhere, I skip down my mental hallway where my fantasy world and imagination connect. Dana calls me back.
“Hey! Save your spacey for when you’re in front of your laptop writing this moneymaker,” she says with a grin.
“Girls, hair can’t be the deciding factor. Both Michael and Nick have larger-than-life hair,” Claire says, covering her grin with her wine glass.
“Woah. Woah. Stay on the right side, Madam Chairwoman-to-be. Nick is Lynn’s dude, so that’s what team you’re on,” Jen says, smiling.
One of Jen’s greatest qualities is her unyielding devotion to the Mafia. At the height of her fame, we were still the most important people in her world. Her loyalty to our twenty-five-year-long friendship is the only reason why I ever feel any shards of guilt for living in San Francisco. She keeps me boarding a plane every month.
“I’m practicing a little bipartisanship. It’s like, a requirement for being an elected official,” Claire says, trying to maintain a serious face.
“Yo! We found a solution. We’ll vote on it,” Brit says, fighting back laughter.
“You’re a genius,” Dana says gleefully.
She puts her glass on the table, retrieving her phone from the white Birkin bag hanging from her chair. (Yeah, she’s a shot caller in the earnings department.)
“I am a genius. Mensa certified and like, everything. The paperwork is in my old Fendi bag. Golly, I miss that bag,” Brit says.
Brit gets a nerdy look that only surfaces for obscure music scores and fashion. She’s by far the smartest of us. Not only does she read astrophysics textbooks for fun (with wine, of course), she’s been called a musical prodigy because she can play at least six different instruments. Though her voice is her true talent.
“We are all Mensa. Well, except Lynn, who was too hyper-cool to apply for membership,” Jen says.
“No. No. Lynn does not display symptoms of the H in ADHD. Impulsive. Restless. Spacey. Not hyper,” Claire says.
“I get a little H after a run and a fresh-pressed green juice,” I say with a grin.
“Hey! Let’s stay on topic. I found an app, so we can vote anonymously. I just sent you all a link,” Dana says, all smiley and proud.
“Wait. What are we voting on? The script or my actual life?” I ask, playing up my spacey.
“Both,” The girls say, pulling out their phones.
I left my phone in the kitchen, so I abstain. As the meal ends, the Mafia has done their job and killed the elephant.
The final vote:
Nick (Team Jacob)- 3
Michael (Team Edward)- 1
(Which I’m certain Claire casted as an “act of bipartisanship.”)
• • •
“Michael, you’ll get a kick out of this,” I say, handing him my phone.
We’re gathered in the living room for an after-dinner Port from Nick’s wine collection and eating the pie Alex brought. (Michael and I don’t eat pie.) Jen is telling a story about how she and Jon evaded the paparazzi the last time she visited her Malibu vacation home.
“Who is this?” Michael asks.
He’s sitting adjacent to me on the sofa, so we can have a conversation without interrupting Jen’s monologue.
“Lilly. My tenant. She sent me a selfie with the donuts and flowers,” I explain.
In the pic, Lilly is holding a large white box of multi-colored donuts with a mountain of multi-colored roses in silver vases covering her dining room table and the floor.
“Is this her entry way?” he asks.
“Maybe in your world. It’s where she eats,” I say, a little dis behind my words.
“G-d, I’m an asshole. I’ll send someone over to remove them in the morning,” he says, his embarrassment evident.
“I tried to send my handyman over. Lilly said the donuts are too delicious and the flowers are too beautiful to discard. She’s super busy researching her dissertation and working at Genentech so I think it brightened her day,” I say genuinely.
Michael clearly feels bad about the situation. Even if he caused me a lot of distress earlier today, I don’t want him to suffer. In his godly world where money is overflowing, he was just trying to... impress me.
“She’s your friend more than your tenant?” Michael asks, studying the pic.
“No. She was already living there when I bought the property. We don’t interact much, but she takes care of her place and pays her rent early so I’m very thankful for her. I probably owe her a meal after today,” I say.
“Please have it on me. I’m co-owner of Plain Jane in the Mission District. Give them my name when you arrive, and your meal will be comped,” he says.
“That’s kind, Michael. Thank you.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
And just like that, Michael Ahmed goes from creepy, stalker, rich dude to nice (still rich) man. He’s very handsome, but not as statuesque as my superstar.
In the back of my mind, I wonder what it would be like if I wasn’t in a relationship with Nick. Would I be into him? I have a way of blitzing dudes’ sensory systems when I flirt. Is that any different than what Michael did today? But I don’t want to be in a relationship with any of those guys, I remind myself.
Michael types something into my phone before handing it back to me. The Notes app is open.
Monday, 9:03 PM:
If Team Jacob doesn’t work out, I hope I will be your first call. 310-574-1818.
-Michael Ahmed #TeamEdward #ImFunToo [red heart emoji]
PS: There is no elephant.
To my surprise, I don’t tap the trash can icon at the bottom of the screen. If nothing else, I appreciate his creativity and willingness to play along with the Mafia’s antics.
CHAPTER 20:
NICK WILLINGHAM
“Let’s request an Uber and go Downtown. Some friends of mine are playing at the Mayan. It will be h
ella fun. You can crash at my place and we’ll work on my dissertation in the morning,” I overhear Brit say to Lynn.
They’re clearing out the dishwasher. Before dispersing for the night, the Mafia rallied around Lynn who made a “Post-Dinner Clean-Up” list. After kicking off their shoes and forming a pile of diverse styles, colors, and expensive leather at the edge of my kitchen, they tackled dinner clean-up like a well-run gang.
I now know why Jon calls them the Smart Girl Mafia. The moment Lynn began caressing my leg under the table and playing ditzy, I knew something was up.
Their nutty conversation at dinner was staged to diffuse any weirdness between Michael and me. I watched them pass mischievous glances with each outlandish thing coming out of their mouths. And, amazingly, their plan worked.
Over dessert, Michael and I comfortably discuss the Piano Loft project. He made it clear he has every intention of moving forward. We even exchanged contact information so we can meet for a meal to discuss it further. Michael also agreed to give my brother’s wealth management company a trial run.
I’m sitting at the now cleared dining room table with my brother and Michael. A large arrangement of white hydrangeas sits in the middle of the table, a host gift from Claire. My brother and Michael discuss the pros and cons of an investment. I smile and nod, but my ears are waiting for Lynn’s response to Brit’s request to go out and sleepover.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t want to go out tonight,” Lynn says.
Yes! I mentally do a fist pump. I desperately need to enjoy being naked with her tonight.
“It’ll be a Venice Beach flashback. Life was simpler then. Don’t you miss that time?” Brit asks.
“When I drank cheap wine and powered through my 14-hour workday with espresso shots and Egg McMuffins to barely cover all of our rent? No, I don’t miss the Venice days, friend,” Lynn says.
“The Egg McMuffin is so dope. I had two like, yesterday,” Brit says.
“How do you stay so skinny while eating so much food?” Lynn asks.
She stands on her tip-toes to put plates away in the cabinet. Brit steps in to help her.
“I love food. How do you stay so productive while smoking weed every day?” Brit pokes.
I hold back a smile. I appreciate that Lynn is a productive stoner. Like me.
“I love cannabis. Point made,” Lynn says.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Brit continues her plea.
“That’s why I’m not going with you. I want to come tonight. With the gorgeous human being over there that I’m starting to mentally refer to as my boyfriend. Maybe by the end of the week, I’ll be comfortable saying it out loud to other people,” Lynn says.
I smile, inwardly. I’m learning Lynn has no filter when she’s comfortable. Tonight, with her friends, I saw a playfulness she only shows me when we’re alone. Adjusting myself under the table, I start counting the minutes until this dinner party ends.
“Lynn Scott! This is the first time in twenty-five years I’ve heard you say, ‘my boyfriend.’ I’m going to let you off the hook, this one time, for choosing a dick before a chick,” Brit whispers.
Lynn laughs. “Thanks, Brit. I also want to try writing a spec script tomorrow. Since I’m on vacation, I have time. Dana thinks I can create a sellable story, and I might be visiting L.A. a little more often to see Nick. Just a little more. The extra cash would cover my travel.”
My chest expands with happiness and pride in response to Lynn considering visiting L.A. “a little more” for me. She searches for the drawer with the serving utensils, opening one after the other until she finds what she’s looking for. I can almost hear her mentally cheer, “Victory!”
“Nick would pay for your airfare. But he’s Team Jacob, so you probably should make a little extra paper,” I overhear Brit say, giggling.
I would pay for Lynn’s airfare. I’m amazed by how well Brit knows me by way of my brother. I’m trying to wrap my head around the nature of their relationship. They aren’t dating. Alex hasn’t been with anyone since starting his business. But there is a closeness between them that is more than casual friendship.
“Please stop with the jokes. Nick is my dude. Michael is my friend. I’ll pay for my own plane ticket,” Lynn says.
“He’s graduated to friend in just a few hours? I know how you treat your male friends,” Brit whispers.
Lynn closes the dishwasher and they move from the kitchen to the living room, eavesdropping now impossible.
Brit’s words replay in my mind: “I know how you treat your male friends.” Michael smiles in response to something my brother said, making eye contact with me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand. While he and I are professionally cool now, I can’t shake the feeling this dude will be a factor in my relationship with Lynn.
• • •
Alex added an extra thirty minutes to the night when he brought out LOUIXS Cigars to commence his new professional relationship with Michael.
“Hey, Alex is leaving. Is Brit in here?” I ask.
Opening the door to the guest room, Lynn sits on the bed writing in her leather journal. She’s in black lingerie and those nerdy glasses. All I see is nipples poking through the transparent fabric, yearning for my attention.
“She went home. I requested an Uber for her while you guys were outside smoking,” she says, still focused on what she’s documenting on the page in purple ink.
I stand in the ajar doorway, not moving. She glances up.
“Another Raquel pick. Too beautiful not to wear,” she says, smiling.
“Definitely beautiful. Be in my room in ten minutes,” I say before shutting the door.
I walk outside as Michael Ahmed drives away in his silver Maserati.
“Brit took an Uber home,” I say to my brother.
“Yeah. I just got a message from her.”
“Are you going over there?” I ask.
Now I’m wondering if their friendship is strictly platonic.
“No. She’s well-fed tonight. I only get an invite when she wants burritos or lasagna or BBQ ribs.”
Brit’s diet is the opposite of Lynn’s. She ate half of a chicken by herself, sucking all the meat off a chicken leg. She repeatedly complimented my food, warming my home cook heart.
“When you’re not managing my money, you’re a food courier?” I tease.
“Dude, you know clothes. She spends all her cash on fashion. If it weren’t for me, she’d be living off fast food and ramen noodles,” Alex says.
The foodie in me cringes at the thought of fast food and ramen. I’ll take my vegan girl, anytime… and take her from behind, anyplace. Damn. I gotta get inside, but my brother isn’t moving along.
“If you’re just friends, why do you do it?” I ask.
He sighs. Pausing, as if he’s gearing up to say something, but turns to unlock his car.
“There are a lot of layers to my friendship with that woman,” he says, climbing into his white Mercedes GLS SUV.
I’m too tired and turned on to figure out his cryptic words.
The light in the guest room is still on when I enter the house, so I take a one-minute shower to wash off the cigar smoke. A few minutes later, I switch off the lights and get into bed wearing light blue boxers. Lynn shows up on time.
“That was the longest ten minutes of my life,” she says, slipping into bed.
In the dark of my room, her mouth finds mine like a hungry ghost. I immediately break away.
“What’s the rush?” I ask, running my hand over the curve of her thigh.
“Sorry. You worked so hard on dinner. I didn’t want to keep you up. Sorry.”
Where has my confident Lynn gone? The woman who, with her Mafia, alleviated a potential professional problem for myself and my brother. My horny girl who is part clown and part vixen.
“I think you’re just as tired,” I say.
“You’re right. Today was a lot. Between the phone calls and the dinner, it’s the most activity I
’ve experienced on a Monday in like, forever. And now I have my first boyfriend. Assuming, my mega crush on Luke Perry in the 90s doesn’t count,” she says.
“No, it doesn’t count. You’re a relationship virgin,” I say, kissing the corner of her mouth.
“Totally. Touched for the first time and like, everything,” Lynn giggles.
My Lynn starts to return.
“I’m serious. Tonight, be the virgin. Let your boyfriend please you,” I say, running kisses down her neck and over her collar bone.
“Nick, I don’t…”
“Shh, my horny girl. Just for tonight. We can go back to our sexual tug of war tomorrow,” I say, easing her back.
Under the weight of my body, she relaxes. As I run my tongue in the valley between her tits, Lynn moans. The faint scent of rose water coats her skin, making me dizzy with need. She lifts and circles her hips, calling my already hard cock home.
“You’re perfect. No. Not yet, love,” I say.
If she keeps it up, I’m going to go faster than I want. I plan to savor every touch, praying I bring her as much pleasure as she brings me. I nip and suck a nipple pushing through the thin fabric.
“I love when you do that,” she says, arching into my mouth.
“I’m kind of obsessed with your tits,” I say, soaking the fabric.
She chuckles in between moans, embracing my shoulders.
“I never would have guessed. I thought it was my intelligence.”
“Lynn, your mind is why I can’t stay away from you.”
I move onto my side and suck her peaks mercilessly. Running my fingers between her legs, I pull my mouth away from her hard bud.
“No panties?” I ask with a groan.
“An inconvenience.”
Lynn tries to guide my hand to the spot, but I brush her away.
“It’s my night. Please. It’s been a while since I’ve had a girlfriend.”
“What? A few months?”
“Four to be exact. She took a job in NYC after we started dating, so I didn’t see her much.”
I vowed never to do a long-distance relationship again. Yet, here I am— dating a woman who lives in San Francisco. My pixie has turned my world inside out.