by Amarie Avant
“I thought you were allergic to Italians?” I squeeze in my observation. “The way you scoffed while reading my badge last night.”
She pauses for a second. “Hmmm… you caught that? I apologize. I was just in shock. I’m half-Napolitano.”
I smile. “Oh, I get it. You Napolitano’s are always looking down your noses.”
“Something like that,” she laughs softly.
“What time should I pick you up?”
“Why do I have this feeling that you know where I live?” Reese seems to smile.
“Just leveled the playing field is all.”
“Wow, Evan, thanks for taking the desperation out of me having to offer my info,” she says sarcastically and we both laugh.
“Reese’s Pieces!” A female shouts in the background. “Get your ass back inside and work off those calories.”
“Evan, my uhhh… my friend who conveniently left me to fend for myself is calling me,” Reese dawdles.
“Alright, don’t be too hard on her, I saved you, remember? Now, go. You’ll pack the calories back on during dinner tomorrow night. After that I'll help you work ‘em back off. Besides, after how long it took us to get around to your stress release, I don’t believe I did the trick.”
“No, you did, Evan. You honestly gave me the best night of sleep ever,” she says seemingly grinning through the receiver. “Or perhaps it was your luxurious bed.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “I’m all for giving credit when credit’s due. This time you won’t have the luxury of sleeping. And this time, we’re done when I say we’re done.”
5
Reese
Sandra’s bottom lip is just about kissing the asphalt as I turn back toward the gym. Hands on narrow hips, she gasps, “Damnnnn, he sounded commanding. Is it the Suit you slept with last night?”
I sigh. “His name is Evan. And he’s not just commanding. There’s taking. There’s also giving. Generously…”
“Hmmm, you said he, Evan, forgive me, had on tailor-made. Now, we stay away from Suits––period. At least just you and I, once Jamie gets over his version of the flu, that Diva is gonna flip.”
I chuckle. Jamie only screws men in suits, the softer the fabric, the harder my friend falls to his knees. That’s what makes the three of us mesh. He’s our buffer.
“We don't personalize Suits by acknowledging their name,” Sandra adds as we strut past the weight lift area for the kick boxing class.
I take a deep breath as Sandra attempts to coax my intelligence. I hold the door open, music blares from inside the classroom. There are floor-to-ceiling mirrors in a 180-degree angle around the room. With a graceful wave of my hand, I usher my friend in first hoping she’ll shut up.
Just my luck, she continues with, “Reese, don't forget the boys in the custom-made suits are sharks. Fuck it, they’re king of the jungle. One shouldn’t overlook our motto due to a gorgeous face chiseled in Italian stone.”
Her use of regurgitating the way I bragged about how beautiful he is, makes me blink as opposed to rolling my eyes. “No suits. Never,” I murmur, following after her.
The instructor positions herself for roundhouse kicks, and we have to watch our asses while merging back toward our spots smack dab in the middle. Since the class is popular, it appears the ladies who were on either side of us and behind, shifted upwards.
“Don’t forget it either,” Sandra warns me, then she glares at the women in our spot until the scooch backs over. I stifle a laugh since she takes working out so seriously.
“Well tomorrow night the lion will be tamed. Er... Along with me as we mingle with Lolita and her new husband,” I say while alternating from kicks to punches. Though my technique is off, and I honestly can do better, I half-ass each move.
“Lolita? Oh,” Sandra groans, face contorted with a vivid picture. She almost stops shifting and is inches away from getting bonked in the side of the head by a likeminded crazy who’s never devoid of energy. The health fanatic gives us a look that should set fire to our asses and force us to kick higher, harder.
But Sandra just scoots away from the psycho, because being a health nut has flown out the window. Her mind is on my mother. “Well, I'm sure Evan won't last another night. So no worries about him scenting for blood because your mother...” Sandra shakes her head and goes back to giving it all she’s got.
I give a blank stare at myself in the mirror. My face is flushed and hair is matted to my forehead. When it comes to Lolita, I’ve stopped verbally fighting back in her favor. My last name came from hubby number two. Lolita’s husband after my father was a fucking jackass, yet not at the top of the shittiness ladder. Though each one increased it a notch in the ‘asshole’ department.
Two years ago, Sandra’s wealthy uncle fell madly in love with Lolita. I suppose the uncle was a glitch, and much nicer than the guys Lolita was accustomed to marrying.
Mom is not a hopeless romantic. Not in the least. She has a knack for finding affluent men who lack a backbone, then she proceeds to further ruin them just as much as they ruin her. The day Sandra’s uncle placed a five-carat, cloudless, diamond ring on my mother’s finger, was one of the worst days of my life, I can read the future, pertaining to Lolita. They were married for a few months. She kept the ring and God knows what else. He became one of many.
See, I know Sandra is thankful I’m not forcing her to go to dinner with me tomorrow night. Everyone that ever met my mother is done with her.
But me.
Before Evan is set to arrive, I step downstairs from my one-bedroom apartment, to my bakery. If this place doesn’t get out of its hump, I lose everything I own. A place to lay my head, the reason why I’ve ever smiled… baking. I'll be out on the streets. The handful of employees that I've gone out on a limb for, will be in the same predicament as they were before. Jobless and desperate. Besides Sandra and Jamie, who I went to culinary arts school with, I went out on a limb for my employees. I could have hired folks with accolade after accolade, but I hired those who really needed the job. It might not have been a good thing, blame it on being young and dumb, with a good heart. But stepping out on faith has made Flour a family. This crew is home to me.
“Aye, Reesita must have a new sancho,” says Maria, as she glances me up and down in approval. I’ve opted for a simple, black dress. The high neckline is lace since the dress drops dramatically, accentuating my thighs. Though my breasts are covered tastefully, I can still remember Evan’s tongue flickering over my nipples during one of our many positions.
I shake the desire from my mind. “No sancho. No boyfriend. Just a date.” I smile my thanks while looking at the unique spin she’s adding to a tres leches cake.
“No sancho?” Maria shakes her head. “You need a sugar daddy!”
“Who's talking about sugar daddies?” Jamie saunters back. Though his smooth, dark skin is in need of a shave, his imaginary hips are hitting every corner as he does. Shamefully, Jamie can catwalk circles around me.
Sandra is off today since she worked on a wedding cake which took half a day to bake yesterday. I have two other employees, but they're only hired on part-time.
I glance over the inventory and miss baking every day. Besides the special clients such as cakes for large events, I'm stuck in the walk-in sized closet considering events and public relation opportunities for my bakery.
I dare not go into the back room this evening. That environment just equals stress. My bakery has done well. I've made more money than I can even consider which charity to give to before. I know exactly when things won't go right at work.
My mom.
Lolita bleeds me dry in between husbands. Should I be elated that my mom now has a blood vessel in which to suck dry? It isn’t easy when I was born with more morals than my parents had in their pinky fingers.
Jamie grabs my hand. He spins me around. “You need higher heels. For a better sugar daddy, higher heels.”
“No sugar daddy. Five inches is more than enough.”
“Bailamos,” Maria says, doing the salsa.
I twirl out of Jamie's arms. “I've gotta go. Monday morning we have a meeting. Everyone must attend. It's crunch time before wedding season officially begins.” If we get there. I turn away from them, not wanting them to see my doubt. If I start crying, there’ll be a festival of tears. This learned trepidation that has begun to cling to me takes over as I step out the front of Flour.
We must make it. My mother has found an alternative husband so soon after the last one. Usually Lolita’s palm is out during the downtime of looking for a new, heavy wallet. So this should actually be good news. Good news, yeah, that quickly turns into guilt over the desire to pawn my mother off on a walking, breathing ATM card.
I take a deep breath and look toward the sky. There’s a flurry of gray clouds, offering the chance of rain before spring sweeps in. My eyes close, and I silently pray, "Dad, you were a fucking hustler. I've honestly gotta make it here."
I glance back at the front door of my bakery. There was a day I was proud of myself for Flour burgeoning without blood on my hands. Just as I consider this thought, the sports car Evan drove us to his place in last night zips up to the curb.
One more night with you, buddy, just to clear my mind. Wishy-washy as ever, my left heel steps backward. This is an awful idea. I’ve searched Amazon and EBay reviews for the best dildos. Why not dish out a pretty penny for a stress-reliever that can’t implicate me in any criminal activities? Oh, because I don’t have two pennies to rub together.
Dressed in an all-black suit, Evan slides out of the driver’s side and closes the door in one fluid motion, taking my breath away. Instantly I’m transported to my couch, wearing fuzzy pajamas, Ben and Jerry’s in my hand, with Jamie at my side while we ogle at an old-black-and white film, how fucking debonair, how fucking erotic. My pussy walls tighten as he saunters up to the curb.
There's no expression on his face. My heartbeat crescendos, and a mixture of fear and lust take over. Dread because his title is the epitome of everything my father hated. I always grew up confused as to if the cops are supposed to keep folks safe, per my kindergarten teacher and the cutsey picture books she read. On the opposite end of the spectrum was Milo’s definition of a cop—
Evan’s warm, brown eyes scour over my body and instead of fleeing, I wonder if the classic little-black number skimming my curves meets his expectations and desires.
I pause. Why do I give two shits about what a man thinks? Moreover, what the heck are we doing? He's meeting my mom. Nobody meets Lolita. Nobody but the one and only ex-Suit!
“What are you thinking?” Evan asks, he has this thing about him and I love it. During our long night together, I’d noticed how he takes my hand in his, his fingers trail down the silk of my palm before gliding over my pulse. How the heck does he smell of fresh water and masculinity at the same time? His scent is so dreamy that I wonder what idiocy was going through my mind yesterday morning when I stuttered upon taking his call.
Fresh air seeps through my lungs and I answer, “We’ve officially known each other for about 48 hours and you’re meeting my mom...”
“The first 48 are key.” He responds perfectly as if this is a pre-scripted reality show. Though Evan makes it seem like I hold the deck of cards, something in his mannerisms tell me, that I am lost to him. That what he desires will be had. He licks his lips, and adds, “But let's also face it, Reese. I wanted to see you at least once more. You agreed.”
“Once...” My lips barely move as the words float over the cool breeze. Evan’s gaze is all over my body, so hopefully the nanosecond of disappointment written all over my face doesn’t register. One-nighters aren’t me, but I swear you’ve imprinted on me. Though the end of us, and our technically-not-relationship will conclude with me gaining at least ten pounds on homemade ice cream and pastries, I’m the one to reaffirm, “No more after this evening.”
“Exactly. You'll be annoyed with your mom’s problem. I'll be irritated after whatever shenanigans my hopeless dad’s... gotten himself into. We can get our aggression out after all is said and done. I’ll return to my dangerous, busy life. You’ll have your store.”
My mouth is set for a pout, but then my mind runs away with me. Gulping back salivation, I concentrate on my current fortune, “Can you get rougher than last night?” I can do this. I will fuck you once more, and then adios.
“Your wish is my command.”
My eyes brighten, as illumination takes over. So this is what it feels like to have your cake and eating it too? Up until know, the analogy flew over my head. Why wouldn’t anyone want to eat a slice of verdens beste… er the entire cake if given the opportunity. “Okay. My mom, your dad, they both get an hour tops.”
“Forty-five minutes works with me,” Evan counters, opening the passenger door for me.
“Make it twenty. We skimp on them but, you and I are gonna have problems if you skimp later,” I say with a devilish smile.
“Fuck no. No half-assing in my vocabulary.” He closes the door.
I glance at all the gadgets in this nice car like I did when we came from the bar. The trappings of success. It makes me think of the ex-Suit. He was born with a silver spoon shoved up his… mouth. I thought love conquered all. Why am I not sprinting in the opposite direction?
I tell myself that tomorrow doesn't matter. Evan and I have this one more night. Then he can screw anything with tits.
6
Evan
One more night, my ass. Whenever Reese is nervous, I check her heart rate. When I arrived, my hand roamed over her palm and landed on her wrist. The entire act pacified her, yet allowed me to determine how erratically her heart beats. It indicated that she was second-guessing our arrangement. She had one foot in her bakery, metaphorically speaking, while standing at the edge of the sidewalk with me.
So one more night, that’ll fly. If this craving for sweets is satisfied, then the little tart can go about her daily life. If not, I’m going to taste her again, fuck her again, and hold her captive until the thirst for her has washed away.
The dress she’s wearing is out of this world tantalizing. The high-neckline forces me to visualize her naked, with those perky tits and rosebud nipples. Yet, the short length barely covers the sweet swell of her pussy and that’ll be my goal tonight. With one hand on the wheel, I reach over and stake claim to that curvy thigh of hers. Reese is leaning against the windowsill, and I’m sure her thought process is working overdrive as usual. Just my touch, and a smile brightens the subtle hint of tension on her beautiful face. I veer off of Beverly Hills Boulevard, and into the valet driveway for The Stinking Rose. As the runner comes around to the luxury car ahead of ours, I turn in my seat. “Reese, you ready?”
Reese shakes her head ‘no.’
“I'm game with playing hooky.” How the fuck am I going to make it tonight deprived of Reese’s touch? There’s no such thing as just one single touch.
A lazy smile tips the left side of her lips. “What about your dad? Leveling the playing field was your call, though. Granted my mom does outrageous stuff every chance she gets… I can do these.” Reese’s train of thought runs off on a tangent, “I've done this for the better half of my life.”
What is the “this” Reese is referring to? Instead of inquiring, a valet has stepped to my door. I open it and hand the keys, along with a tip, to the runner.
The interior is rustic, and the lights are dim. A pungent garlic aroma gives life to the restaurant’s moniker. From the main entryway, there are tables and alcoves of various Tinseltown designs. I don't see anyone who'd resemble her features.
Reese smiles at the hostess as they chat. “Dunham? Lolita? Anyone check in by that name?”
“Yes, ma'am. Oh, you must be Lolita's daughter. She's expecting you and one other guest.” The lady glances at me as if I am the addition she is referring to.
“Well, are we able to please squeeze in room for five?” Reese asks. She loops arms with me, and adds,
“He’s with me.”
The hostess clicks her pen pensively while glancing at the roster. “It'll be tight but I believe we can squeeze in another seat.”
As we follow the hostess past garlic memorabilia and tables from intimate couples to larger chattier gatherings, Reese whispers. “My mom didn't tell me about anyone besides her current situation. So I can only apologize in advance...”
I begin to tell her not to worry, yet my gaze tracks a very beautiful older woman. The instant my eyes land on hers, the equation clicks within my psyche. She’s laughing low, yet exuberantly to something her companion says. The man, I often speak to regularly and assumed I knew more than he knew himself. My father arises.
“Tino, you've met your new sister!” Tony says hands held out. People at the tables around us are drawn to his boisterous voice. Moreover, he’s not a tiny man, and his tenor is as affectionate as it is loud. “Pardon me,” he tells a couple to his left while squeezing around their table in order to get closer to us.
As stoic as one of my pieces of art at home, Reese is taken into his lofty embrace.
The hostess’s gander slides back and forth from the four of us, seemingly aware of each of our connections. Her pinched nose is pointed upwards in a manner that reads we’ve all committed sins of a biblical proportion. Voice contrite, she mentions, “So… looks like it isn’t necessary to squeeze in an extra chair after all…”
Jaw clenched, I nod. “Nope, not necessary.”
She lingers, entertained by the discomfort radiating off of Reese, and then struts back to the front of the restaurant. And here I am, unable to say one word when Reese speaks. “Mom this is Tony? This is the man you've married but who the heck is Tino?” She glances back and forth at the three of us as if my dad, her mom and I are related–aliens but related nonetheless.