Strangely Amazing

by Amiee Smith

  “Your back is a geeky wet dream,” a short, round guy wearing a lanyard says from behind us.

  My lip curls; he’s so close I can smell his drug store men’s body spray. After giving him my “back off” stare, I step away from the bar to see what dude is gawking and drooling over.

  Lilly’s backless dress reveals expansive tattoos running from her collar line to her tiny waist. Each black tattoo, a different math formula, tastefully covering her light brown skin. Dramatic. Provocative. Artful.

  These aren’t tattoos, but a glimpse inside Lilly’s soul.

  On instinct, I run my hand from the bottom of her spine up to her neck. Moving closer, I do it again, but this time I stop at each formula. My touch is dominant but restrained. I’m taking a risk. Is she into a little pain with my admiration?

  Standing behind her, I apply pressure to the first formula at the base of her spine. Lilly inhales, sharply. Her back, straight and poised.

  “Pythagorean theorem,” her voice, husky but clear.

  Moving to the next formula, I press my fingertips into her skin.

  “Area of a circle,” her words, still husky but crisp.

  Next formula, my fingers push more deeply into her soft flesh, inducing more pain. She gasps a bit louder, yet her demeanor remains stoic. This woman knows how to play kinky in public.

  “Newton’s Second Law,” her tone, controlled.

  She trembles as I press harder into the next tattoo. Her shoulders straight like a queen. The complex formula extends across her delicate skin in deep black ink.

  “Cauchy’s Integral Formula.”

  Lilly sounds almost bored. As if unaffected by my touch.

  I can’t help but smile. She’s everything I imagined. Wanted. Desired.

  I push down more firmly into the next tattoo. Lilly inhales deeply before speaking. She’s so composed, no one at this crowded bar would suspect the erotic exchange of painful pleasure happening between the two of us.

  “Binomial Theorem,” her voice, blasé.

  Last tattoo, I press intensely into her flawless caramel skin. This might leave a mark. The equation located between her shoulder blades is one I know well. She sips her drink. Tiny quakes run through her slight frame.

  “Compound Interest,” I say into her ear.

  My lips graze her skin. One of her curls teases my forehead.

  “I never let a man do that on the first date,” Lilly whispers, with a sideways glance.

  Arousal beams from her dark gaze, more penetrating and intoxicating than this mid-level bourbon. She resembles the singer, Corinne Bailey Rae, but more sultry than cute; her doe-like eyes more mysterious.

  After running my palm up and down the center of Lilly’s back to soothe the area, I drag my fingers away from her skin.

  Screw this regular guy shit.

  I want this woman. I want this woman in the best-worst way.

  “Good thing I’m not a regular guy.”

  The bartender returns with my card and receipt.

  After signing the slip and returning my card to my wallet, I take another sip of my drink before speaking.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I whisper into her ear.

  Her vanilla scent runs from my nose to my cock, now straining against my jeans.

  “It’s going to take more than a dinner without dessert and a drink to get me into bed. Let’s bowl,” Lilly whispers back, her lips so close I can almost taste her.

  “We will bowl. At my house in Pac Heights. I will arrange for you to have dessert.”

  “While I appreciate the physics of Wii bowling, it’s not a substitute for the real thing,” she says, her eyes pointed toward my mouth.

  “I have a two-lane bowling alley on the basement level of my home. Leave the drink. The bar in my game room is adequately stocked. If I’m going to beg for mercy, I would like to do it in private.”

  Taking her hand, I lead us through the thick crowd of people.

  “If you have a bowling alley, why would you bring me here?” Lilly asks, stopping at the hostess stand.

  “Nick said…,” I begin.

  “Spare me.” Lilly raises her narrow palm before speaking to the rockabilly hostess with a white bandana wrapped around her head. “Please, cancel our lane. It’s under Michael Ahmed.”

  Her pronunciation of my last name is syllabically precise. “Ah-med” with an unvoiced wisp of air at the end of the “Ah.” I sit in meetings with people trying to do multi-million-dollar deals with me who can’t be bothered to say my name correctly. Ack-med. Ack-med. Ack-med. I’ve heard it so many times, I’ve given up trying to correct them. Instead, I give my full attention to negotiating deals that yield more money than I could spend in my lifetime.

  (I long to share my wealth with my wife.)

  As Lilly converses with the hostess, dude after dude pauses to admire her bare tattooed-back.

  She is a geeky wet dream.

  Tonight, I aim to make her my dream come true.

  Beautiful Lilly.

  I’ve spent most of my adult life searching… and longing for this woman.

  CHAPTER 3:

  LILLY SHEPARD

  “I want to stop by my flat to get my bowling ball and shoes,” I say.

  Michael pulls his black Tesla Model S out of the valet onto King Street, zooming by the AT&T Ballpark.

  I’m trying to maintain my composure, but every cell in my body is ignited. My inner thigh damp with desire.

  What happened between Michael and I at the bar was better than intercourse. Pain. Pleasure. Control. I’m into it.

  Yes, Michael is fine as fuck AND fine enough to fuck. Dominant. Regal. Composed. He knows exactly what his fingers pressing into my back did to me. His touch… euphoric.

  Squeezing my thighs together, I mentally recite the periodic table to give my body time to return to normal. It’s not working.

  Stopped at a light, he scrolls through his GPS until he locates the preset address labelled “Lynn’s House.” Of course Michael sees it as her place. Even though I’ve lived there longer, the Edwardian duplex where I rent the bottom unit will always be hers.

  If I’d kept my pharmacist job instead of jumping ship to research drugs to heal and eradicate disease, then I’d own a place someone would put in their GPS as “Lilly’s House.”

  Memories of my modern condo with brick walls in the Lower Downtown (LoDo) neighborhood of Denver halt my recitation of the periodic table. My body returns to normal.

  The day I closed escrow on my condo was one of the best days of my life. Three years later, I handed over my keys and fob to my real estate agent and headed west with dreams of discovering ways to save lives and end suffering.

  We arrive at the duplex. Michael parks in the driveway and I get out. His door opens and closes behind me as I hustle up the stairwell leading to my flat. The glow of the porch light makes it easy to locate my keys at the bottom of my purse.

  Entering my home, Michael is on my heels. Our steps thud against the ancient hardwood lining the long railroad-style hallway. We pass my bedroom and bathroom until we arrive in the living, dining, and kitchen area.

  I flip the switch for the overhead fixture, bathing the space in warm golden light. My sparsely furnished living room consists of a mounted fifty-inch TV, a big blue sofa, overfilled low profile bookcases lining the wall, and a coffee table with very few decorations or personal touches.

  It looks like the home of a geeky scientist who’d rather play Grand Theft Auto or re-watch episodes of “Game of Thrones” or “Sunset Moon” on her days off instead of perusing Pottery Barn and Crate & Barrel for houseware.

  The area is clean… well, apart from my notebooks, pens and highlighters, laptop, tablet, binders, textbooks, medical journals, and scientific journals piled on my coffee table. The dining table is littered with the remains of the basket Michael sent. And of course, my gaming console is spread across the floor.

  I open the tall birchwood Ikea storage cabinet in the dining area
and retrieve my red and black rolling bowling bag. Michael stares at my framed degrees above my bookcases.

  “You majored in Chemistry and Biology at MIT?” Michael asks.

  “With a minor in math for fun. Yeah, I’m the queen of the geeks,” I say with a nervous chuckle.

  This guy was probably partying it up in college on a Saturday night while I bowled or kicked it in my dorm room working out equations… for fun.

  “A beautiful tattooed queen. You went to pharmacy school at UNC Chapel Hill? Are you a pharmacist?”

  “Yes. I worked at an HMO in Denver for four years. When I was in pharmacy school at Carolina, I would reward myself with a new tattoo every semester. I’d save my money and travel up to Washington DC to have them done by Imani K. Brown. She’s a world-renowned tattoo artist who specializes in fine line work on brown skin.”

  “I majored in business with a minor in real estate at USC,” Michael says.

  “Great school. I got accepted to their PharmD program.”

  “Why UNC then?”

  “The PharmD program is ranked number one.”

  “What brought you out here?”

  “I decided I’d rather research drug therapies instead of administer them, so I applied to the top five PhD programs for pharmacology in the world. I didn’t get into Harvard and UCSF was the next highest ranked school I was accepted to. After a lifetime of snowy winters, it was an easy decision to move to California. I’m ready to go, if you are.”

  “Pack a bag so you can stay overnight. I won’t be able to drive you back after another drink,” Michael says.

  “You don’t need to drive me back. I’ll ride the MUNI.”

  “No. You’re not taking the bus in the middle of the night,” Michael says, his face twisted in disgust.

  “I’ll be fine. Pacific Heights is one of the safest neighborhoods in the City.”

  “Lilly, please pack a bag. You’ll stay in one of my guest rooms… or you can sleep with me. Either way, I will drive you home in the morning.”

  Michael speaks with a self-assuredness I find so very sexy, but I need to be discerning in this situation. I’m too attracted to him. I may not be able to keep my emotions contained to only sex.

  I can’t risk getting my heart broken again. Especially as I begin my dissertation work. Especially with this so-not-a-regular-guy (who, incidentally, may be as kinky as I am).

  “Michael, why did you send flowers and donuts to Lynn?”

  “I’m searching for the one. I thought she could be it, but it’s very obvious she’s not right for me.”

  “Because of Nick?”

  “No. Because I met you. I spent the last week trying to convince you to go on a date with me. I felt like a junior sales exec trying to land my first big account,” Michael says, flashing his dazzling smile.

  I chuckle, and something clicks within. I believe him. Michael seems to genuinely like me. Underneath my sometimes-cold exterior, I’ve always dreamt of being “the one.” I need to make sure this Persian prince is the one for me… will Michael like/keep/want all of me?

  I became a pharmacist with plans of earning a good living, so I could settle down and start a family. But after four-too-many heartbreaks— wealthy men who were obsessed with me in the beginning only to decide I was either too ambitious or not worth a goodbye— I committed to following the science and contributing to my field.

  I move down the hall to my bedroom, Michael is right behind me. I turn on the light and grab my large KQED tote (a pledge gift for my last donation) from the closet. I pack pajamas, underwear, a bra, an ivory peter pan collar shirt, a red cardigan, and beige oxford shoes.

  Leaving my room, I drop by the bathroom to get my toiletries travel bag and contact lens gear. Returning to the living room, I retrieve my glasses and their case from the coffee table (next to the gold box of chocolate Michael gave me when he picked me up for our date). I make my way through the galley kitchen to the back door opening to the deck.

  Outside, the evening air is unusually heavy and warm for the City. Stopping abruptly, Michael’s body collides and molds into mine from behind. We connect like puzzle pieces. His jeans graze the skin of my calves and the cool buttons of his shirt tickle the center of my back.

  Voices above our heads hold me captive.

  “Oh, Nick. Right there,” Lynn’s breathy moan sounds from the upper deck.

  Low and deep, Nick whispers a string of Italian phrases like a sensual spoken word poem. Lynn responds with more breathy moans. Their mutual pleasure and affection is almost tangible.

  I can’t move, held spellbound by their intimate call and response. Time freezes. This is auditory voyeurism.

  I should be ashamed, but instead my body flames with an arousal I spent the entire car ride trying to diffuse. My nipples tighten and pucker. I should move along. I should grab my jeans I hung to dry this afternoon. I should…

  “I speak Farsi.”

  Michael’s warm breath against my earlobe causes my knees to buckle. As if he knows, his arms encircle my waist.

  The moment is sensory overload— the erotic sounds above our heads, Michael’s tall, sinewy body hugging my frame, the total darkness of the deck and backyard.

  Turning my head, I find Michael’s lips. My intent is a taste, but he leans forward and deepens the kiss. Our tongues meet and greet. Kismet. In synch. A sweet ‘n spicy kiss. Our mouths mutually savoring the other. I don’t know if he’s “the one,” but right now, Michael tastes like the richest, most decadent dessert. And I want all of it.

  “Lynn, inside. Dress off.”

  Nick’s commanding voice from above disrupts my feasting. I drag my mouth away from Michael.

  “Say it, Superstar,” Lynn coos.

  “Get the cuffs and the eye mask,” Nick responds.

  Lynn offers a deep, guttural moan before the fall of footsteps against the wood of the deck sound and disappear. The door shuts behind them.

  Reluctantly, I untangle myself from Michael’s embrace and retrieve my jeans from the metal clothes rack. I drop them into my tote and move inside. Michael’s long strides match my own. We stop momentarily, he grabs my bowling ball bag.

  Locking the door, we walk back to the car. Michael puts my things in the trunk and opens the passenger door. Before sliding in, I wrap my fingers around his toned forearm.

  “I’m in my thirties, so I don’t need to play hard to get anymore. But I expect at least a few rounds of bowling and dessert before I take off my dress,” I say, smiling.

  “Deal. It will give me time to figure out how to get some cuffs and an eye mask,” Michael replies with a chuckle.

  My laughter joins with his.

  “Wrong woman. Though I’m not opposed to you being on your knees. All night long. Until the sun comes up.”

  “Beautiful Lilly, I will gladly beg you for mercy. All night long.”

  “All night long” makes me think of the R & B song, “I Wanna Sex You Up” by Color Me Badd. Getting into the car, I hum a few bars. Michael’s eyes narrow as he closes the door.

  I doubt my Beverly Hills Persian prince grew up listening to the C.M.B CD over and over again like I did.

  He sits behind the wheel and types something on his phone before dropping it into the center cup holder. I wait while his copper-colored index finger taps the large screen embedded in the dashboard.

  Through the windshield, I glimpse up at Lynn’s bedroom window. There’s a soft glow on the other side of the white curtains. I bet there is a lot of sexing up going on in there.

  Michael reverses out of the driveway. The intro to “I Wanna Sex You Up” pours from the speakers. I glance over at him, a smirk on his lips.

  He caught the reference.

  My Persian prince may be a keeper.

  CHAPTER 4:

  MICHAEL AHMED

  “Yes!” Lilly yells.

  The crack of falling pins echoes throughout the game room. Leaping up and down, her red dress twirls around her thighs. She bowled
another strike, winning the game.

  This woman can bowl. Her gloved left hand matches her black leather bowling shoes. She has an unspoken formula. Her movements precise and calculated; determination covers her face like makeup. She’s as focused as if she were filling a patient’s prescription or conducting an experiment. I knew she was educated. I didn’t know she was a pharmacist. My mom will love her!

  I’ve been bowling my whole life. My uncle has a bowling alley in his Bel Air home. Every holiday, the whole family gathers in his game room and we eat, drink, and bowl.

  The memory conjures the scent of tadig, mint juleps, and cucumber fruit salad; the sound of my cousins speaking English with Farsi words mixed in; the sight of designer clothes, Gucci bags, and gold dripping off everything and everyone. This is my life in Tehrangeles. Even when my disease kept me teetering between life and death, I had my family.

  Now, I want a family of my own and this tall, geeky queen to be my matriarch.

  I’m certain she’s the one. When Lynn showed me Lilly’s pic earlier this week, I got the same sixth sense I experienced when I did my first deal. A ten-million-dollar investment that, to-date, has yielded over a hundred-million-dollar return.

  I need to convince her I’m the one for her. I know how to get a girl, but trying to be a “regular guy” is ruining my well-crafted romance game. A game, like my finances, I’ve spent my adult life mastering.

  “Let’s make a wager on the next round,” I say.

  Lilly clears the digital scoreboard and sips a Shirley Temple with a four count pour of Cîroc.

  “By the looks of this house, I know I can’t compete with any bet you’d suggest,” she says, tapping the touch screen.

  It’s the first time she’s mentioned my eight thousand square foot modern home. Four levels of new construction; I’m the first owner. Most people I meet in the City ogle over the size and luxuriousness of the space, but Lilly strolled through my house like it was a five hundred square foot walk-up in Nob Hill.