Looking back, it was kind of ridiculous how far I let this go. What can I say? Me dog. Her female.
I eye the ten-pin formation at the end of the lane, then heft my bowling ball, racing forward on my tiptoes like Fred Flintstone. I let the ball fly.
“Sti-rike!” I call out in my best Fred voice.
The ball rolls into the gutter. I pretend to pout.
Ally shoots me a consoling smile. “Your optimism is adorable, but face it. Flintstone physics don’t work in our world.”
“Ye of little faith. One day I’ll do it and who’ll be laughing then?”
Rachel gets up to take her turn. Probably the only girl who bowls in a pencil skirt, but she manages to make that whole Vegas Rat Pack vibe work for her, so what the hell. She lets her ball go just as a giggling bunch of six-year-olds traipse by.
I recognize their chaperone. Nikki: a freshman drama major who’s elevated looking hot to an art form. Also one of the rare exceptions to the “want more” rule.
With Nikki, I barely got my pants on before the lights were on and the door open, awaiting my exit. Bless her.
“Wow.” Ian has seen Nikki.
“Where?” Rachel cranes her head. “Ah.”
“That’s allowed?” I may have to give Rachel more credit.
“Sure,” she says. “If looking is a threat, the relationship has other problems.
“Huh.” Then it occurs to me. “Nikki is perfect for our first lesson.”
“I thought paragliding was our first lesson,” Ally says.
“Yes, but you failed it. Nikki is Falco personified.”
“Are you speaking English?” Ian asks me.
I ignore him to speak to Ally. “Watch and model your behavior on hers.”
I head toward Nikki with the others following at a discreet distance.
I catch up with her at the snack counter. Ally, Rachel, and Ian pretend to scan the vast choices of soggy nachos and chocolate to cover their shameless eavesdropping.
I just hope Ally doesn’t pull out a notebook. Not out of the realm of possibility.
I put my hand on Nikki’s arm. “Nikki. How are you, sexy?”
She gives me a total cocktease smile and my body responds.
“Sam Cruz,” she purrs in a throaty voice. “Been a while. But I’m very good.”
Judging by the blood rushing away from my head, yes, she is.
“Glad to hear it,” I reply. “I was thinking we should get together, but you have a bad habit of blowing people off.”
“Only the deserving,” she says.
“Good things come to those who wait?” I ask cheekily.
“Baby,” she murmurs, “it’s gonna be like Christmas.”
“Aunt Nikki,” a high-pitched voice pipes up, “why does he get Christmas early?”
We look down at the scruffy kid tugging on Nikki, a pair of knotted bowling shoes in her hand.
“I’m really, really good,” I explain to the little girl.
Nikki just laughs. She unties the shoes and hands them back to her niece.
The girl turns to me. “You like presents? I rip mine open.”
I keep my tone rated G but my answer is an R for Nikki. “I unwrap them slowly.”
“I hope there’s a little sumthin’ under the tree for me,” Nikki responds, totally getting it.
“Why?” the kid demands. “You haven’t been good. You’ve been mean all day.”
Nikki turns the girl around toward her lane. “Shoes. Now.”
The girl scowls at her, but seeing the look on Nikki’s face, leaves.
I wait until the kid is gone before adding “I’m a firm believer in the spirit of giving.”
“Even if I’ve been naughty?” Nikki asks.
“Especially if you’ve been naughty.”
Nikki rewards me with a very feline grin.
It’s so on.
Chapter twelve
Ian looks impressed. “Cracking.”
“A stellar performance on both sides,” Rachel agrees.
I glance over at Sam and Nikki, my lesson clearly forgotten in their hormone parade. “You think they have DVDs?”
Surprisingly, Sam does return to us. I’m guessing Nikki is busy with the rugrats that evening but has promised him future delights since he seems pretty pleased with himself, whistling cheerfully.
The four of us make a quick stop for cat food because apparently Sam really does have a cat, then head to my place to hang out and watch a movie.
Mom is racing around transferring items from her daytime purse to her nighttime one because she’s meeting Dad downtown for a date.
“Don’t eat me out of house and home,” she scolds cheerfully.
“Aunt Elise, got any diet root beer?” asks Rachel.
“Check the laundry room. It’s not cold though.”
“Got it.” Rach makes a quick trip off the kitchen to the laundry room for her diet caffeine fix.
Mom shakes her head at Sam drinking straight out of the juice container. “Glass, Sam. Now. You know better.”
He stops mid-chug and looks up guiltily. “I was going to finish it.”
“Not cool, kiddo. What were you, raised by wolves?”
“Yeah, you. Foxy lady.”
“Ewww!” I groan loudly.
Mom thinks it’s hilarious. “You’ll be glad when you look as good as I do one day,” she tells me. “Now play nicely and have fun. I’m off to get my husband drunk and have my way with him.”
“Moooom!” I’m horrified.
Mom grins. “That never gets old. Bye kids.”
She leaves.
I rock in the fetal position for a bit.
Rachel returns with some pop cans. “Oh grow up. Be glad you got the sister you did for your mom. At least she’s got a sense of humor. Mine could make lemonade with that sour face of hers,” Rachel complains.
She has a point.
“No dissing Elise.” Sam is really protective of my mom. I know he’s thinking that I should feel lucky I have her. And I do. I just don’t want to know about her and Dad’s sex life. I prefer to think I was a result of In Vitro. A miracle of science.
“Have fun with Nikki earlier?” I ask Sam.
“She’s a fun girl,” he retorts. “Enough with the chit chat. Show me what you got.” He rips open a bag of chips, his eyes on me.
I take a deep breath and shake out all my tension. Everyone watches. It’s almost comical.
“Here goes.” I smile mysteriously at Sam.
He nods in approval. “Nice. Good start.”
I wink.
“Mmm, not where I’d go, but alright,” he mutters through a mouthful.
“Could work,” Ian offers.
I keep winking, aware that I must look like I’m caught in a spastic loop but I can’t stop. There’s dirt in my eye or something and it’s driving me mad.
I scrunch up my face and sharply shake my head, hoping that might help dislodge it. Damn contacts.
Sam freezes in mid-reach for more chips. “Quit it, you’re freaking me out.”
“Oh good,” Rachel adds. “It’s not just me.” She takes the bag from Sam and dumps the rest of the chips into a bowl for all to share.
I want to tell them to shut up. That I’m not a total psycho, it’s just that I’ve got what feels like a nail grinding into my eyeball.
“There’s. Something. In. My. Eye.” I manage to grit out.
I jab my finger into my eye and rub it around. Sweet relief. It’s gone.
I blink at Sam.
“Your eye looks a bit dodgy,” Ian offers, snagging Rachel’s diet pop.
“Because it’s the size of a golf ball and red?” Sam replies.
“Sorta. Yeah.”
“Focus,” I or
der. I concentrate, holding a picture of Falco in my mind. “You know. I think maybe the problem is that Falco needs to be a she.”
Sam looks aghast but I revamp my vision.
“Much better. I can be Falca no problem.”
“No. You cannot call her Falca,” Sam insists. “You’re killing me.”
“What the hell are they on about?” Rachel mumbles to Ian.
“You’re right. I can’t.” I let Sam have his moment of relief before destroying it with relish.
“Falcalita. Latinas are uber sexy.”
And this Falcalita is going to need a bold move to wipe the memory of the eyeball away.
Aha! I lean forward, stroking my cleavage. It’s perhaps not as smooth a motion as I’d like, but I feel it does convey the general idea. Trampy come hither.
“I’m so hot,” I breathe.
Sam, Rachel, and Ian trade alarmed looks.
“Are you having an allergic reaction?” Sam asks.
I slam my hand down on the counter. “I’m flirting!”
“I’ll get an antihistamine,” Rachel offers, opening cupboards to look for medication.
“New tactic,” Sam says.
“With bullet points? Maybe graphs?” I ask hopefully. Improv is evidently not my strong suit and if I’m to have any hope of becoming hot stuff, I need specifics. Lots of them.
“Since I’m not sure I want to know what kind of graphs Sam could possibly come up with on this subject,” Rachel begins, “Ian and I will go pick something off Netflix for us to watch.”
“I’m fascinated,” Ian protests.
Rachel whispers something in his ear.
“Take your time,” he assures us and follows her with a stupid grin on his face.
Sam watches them go. “Think I might skip the film,” he says.
“Yeah. Me too. So?”
“I guess I could give you a breakdown on step two,” he suggests in a doubtful tone.
“With detailed explanations?”
“You sure you can’t just go with the flow?”
I look at him like he’s stupid.
Sam caves. “Yes. With detailed explanations.”
~
School the next day is great. I’m the bright, shiny new toy of interest in the hallways due to my makeover.
Jack, head meathead of the football team, holds the front door of the school open for me while totally checking me out.
The guys in my honor classes are tongue-tied. Even Max, Jeremy’s douchebag best friend, is awkward around me, instead of mean.
The power has shifted.
I. Love. It.
We honors kids have our classes pretty concentrated up in this one wing on the second floor. We’re even on our own lunch schedule, which means Sam and I don’t see a lot of each other at school.
It also means that Sam hasn’t seen me yet in this particular outfit, which on a scale of one to ten puts me at a fourteen with its amazing cleavage showingoffness. So I’m excited to meet up with him at Delish Dish after classes.
Behind the counter, Matt chats with Rosie, a feisty senior and regular patron.
He glances at me as I enter, slide off my coat, and head for our usual booth. Sam is there, texting.
“Doesn’t Ally look lovely, Rosie?” Matt asks.
Vic, an elderly curmudgeon, and another regular, pipes up from the booth next to ours. “She looks damn sexy.”
“Quit it, guys. I’m blushing.”
I grin at Sam, who has glanced up as I slide into the booth. He just stares at me, grim.
“Bad day?”
“I didn’t see you buy that one.”
“No. Rach went back with me later to add a couple more things. Don’t like it?”
“They’re clothes.” He shrugs in a “whatever” way.
“Glad I’m not trying to impress you. Everyone else seemed to love it.”
“Goody for them,” he mutters and shifts in his seat, like he’s pinched his testicles in his underwear.
I throw an exaggerated leer his way. “What’s next? Wild animal sex?”
Not even a smile.
“You can do better,” Matt says, frowning at Sam as he deposits two coffees on our table.
“Not Sam. Someone else. I am a modern woman owning my sexuality.”
Rosie swings around on her stool. “Make sure he gives you an orgasm,” she orders.
“Do all you old people have your hearing aids turned to eleven?” Sam fumes. “This is a private conversation.”
I smile in apology for his appallingly bad manners but Sam stares pointedly until they turn away.
“Fries, Matt,” he grumbles.
“Please,” I correct.
“Please,” he repeats.
“Me too, please,” I add, glowering at Sam for his general assholishness which is definitely unlike him. He doesn’t respond.
Fine. “What about that breakdown?” Maybe I can distract him back into a good mood. “What’s step two?”
“The Grover Bailey.”
“You mean the Abra Renfrew,” I reply. “I want a girl.”
Abra was the name of my favorite cat so I figure Sam won’t bother fighting it.
He doesn’t.
“And Abra Renfrew is who?” I ask for clarification.
“The kitten with a whip,” Sam replies smoothly.
“I like that, but it sounds somewhat vague. Elaborate.”
“Abra Renfrew is the sister who controls the play. Once she’s owned both her own sweet self and wherever she happens to be, she then uses every situation to her advantage. There is nothing she can’t make work.”
I frown. “That doesn’t sound very scientific.”
“No shit, Sherlock, since it’s not a result of a five-year intensive study.”
I motion for him to continue. “Commence breaking down.”
“Recognition, disinterest, come hither, flirtation, and invitation.”
“This oughta be good,” Vic chuckles.
“Go on,” Rosie says.
I try not to laugh out loud at their blatant nosiness because I know it’ll irritate Sam more, but come on. It’s funny.
Under the weight of everyone’s stares, Sam reluctantly starts.
“‘Recognition.’ Brief eye contact. Slight smile. Let him know you’re aware of him. Followed by ‘disinterest.’ You. Don’t. Care.”
“So being friendly?” I ask.
“Absolutely not. You are the million-dollar jackpot, not some cheap carny prize. Act accordingly.”
“Aloof and desirable,” I affirm.
“Well, you know. Desirable is a relative term. Leaving a lot to the imagination can be desirable. Wearing a turtleneck. A long dress.”
“I always did like a glimpse of a well-turned ankle,” Vic offers.
“You also liked it when women couldn’t vote. ‘Come hither?’ Sam?” Rosie prompts. She glances at him with fond amusement. “Don’t leave us hanging,” she says. “This is fascinating.”
Sam looks like he’s about to give her the finger but instead mimes tossing his hair. He shoots a sly sideways glance at me.
Okay, that’s kinda hot.
Matt comes out with our fries in time to catch it. “Do that again, baby,” he says. “I get all shivery.”
“First time it’s free,” Sam replies. “Second time you gotta pay and you can’t afford me.”
Matt looks mock insulted.
“‘Flirtation,’” Sam continues. “Now you may speak. But only about superficial and preferably sexually innuendoed topics. Nothing you’re actually interested in.”
“So don’t be me,” I mutter, dousing my fries in ketchup.
“Crazy, right?” Sam steals the ketchup away. “So, really, why would you want to do t
his? You have a great personality and you should let it shine. Dazzle them with all those fun animal facts at your fingertips.”
Enough is enough.
“Sam,” I say sternly.
“Don’t be you,” he agrees, sounding resigned. “This isn’t a meaningful connection of the minds, if you get what I mean.”
“A child would get what you mean. ‘Invitation?’”
“Get up and leave, but throw a look over your shoulder,” Matt offers.
Sam nods. “That works. Anything that gets you out of there. And remember, you can always leave alone. There’s no shame in a nice quiet evening.”
“You got written copies?” asks Vic. “I could use it for Bingo night.”
“Unless it comes with a map and detailed technical instructions, it wouldn’t help you, you old coot,” Rosie tells him.
Vic scowls and turns away.
“That sounds like fun, Ally,” Rosie tells me.
I nod, enthusiastic.
Sam is tight-lipped. Seems the veritable master is having issues with his creation.
Too. Freaking. Bad.
Abra Renfrew is in the house.
Chapter thirteen
Ally looks off-the-charts hot and it’s killing me. Death by blue balls.
I’d gotten cocky about my mental well-being where she was concerned after that initial makeover shock. At paragliding she was hidden under a helmet and layers of warm fleece. Afterward, I had my hookups with Alicia and Nikki to distract me. And Ally’s “show me what you got” disaster set her back several stages in the hot race.
But today? In that top?
I can’t get home to take a cold shower fast enough.
I race down the hallway and collide with some woman coming out of our bathroom. Wearing the same top as Ally. And while she stretches it out a hell of a lot more, she doesn’t look half as good in it.
“You must totally be Greg’s son,” she beams at me. “I’m Alexa.”
“Hey. I’m Sam.”
Not bad, Dad. Obviously she’s my dad’s latest “girlfriend.” Since they only tend to last a couple dates, the quotes are a must.
Alexa has blond hair, blue eyes, big tits. My dad’s standard. And if she’s like the rest, she’s probably in her late twenties, which is pretty good for my forty-five-year-old dad.
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