by Amy Daws
Man, I’m only twenty-six, how is it that everyone around me is getting married already? I thought I’d have well into my thirties before I’d have to worry about being the third wheel!
I’m just grateful I don’t have to stand up at the altar next to Finley. Granted, I’d do it in a heartbeat, she’s my best friend in the whole world, but it’s so much easier to not be on display with all these crazy wayward thoughts of mine.
Frank, Mark, Angela and I are technically part of Finley and Brody’s bridal party. But it’s more of an honorary roll. Finley and Brody just wanted it to be the two of them up there saying their vows. She said she didn’t want all the pomp and circumstance of a whole bunch of people parading down the aisle. And I’d be lying if I didn’t think it was cool as hell that they were doing their own thing.
One huge perk of not being a traditional bridesmaid was no matching dresses! I feel rather chuffed by my homemade little shift dress. The straps are thick and angle sharply in toward my neck. The print is a gorgeous black clingy fabric with tiny coral rosebuds scattered everywhere. It was a bitch to sew, but worth it in the end.
Finley said our only job as an honorary bridal party was to get drunk and weird. I can handle that. Especially if there’s any thick legs around for me to ride.
For fuck’s sake, Leslie.
When the pastor tells Brody to kiss his bride, Frank and I both instantly start hooting and hollering and catcalling like crazy. We look around to several bemused faces, but no one has the same eagerness for this moment as Frankie and I do. Screw it, my best friend only gets married once!
“Yeah, Brody!” I growl out in a yell as he deepens the kiss enough to make us all feel like we shouldn’t be witnessing such a passionate encounter.
“Take your shirt off!” Frank hollers and everyone erupts into laughter, including myself.
Finley and Brody break the kiss, laughing. They look over at me and Frank and my face flames red with sudden embarrassment. Frank just stands up and claps and cheers more and the rest of the crowd follows suit. I see Finley wipe tears away from her eyes and my eyes well instantly at how perfectly happy she looks. I laugh and bat away my tears, but more just follow. I’m truly pleased for her. After all she’s been through and all that she’s had to learn to accept, she deserves this moment. This day. This happiness. It’s just hard because I guess I still am getting used to the possibility of never having something like that.
I need to shake that remorse shit right off because this is my choice. I’m done with guys. They ought to be the furthest thing from my mind. Theo especially. I didn’t move to London to find a man.
I have my reasons for moving far away from home. Reasons even Finley doesn’t know about. Guilt momentarily slices through me as I think about how upset she’d be to find out that I’ve kept this from her all this time. We’re supposed to tell each other everything…even the cracks. That was what we said to each other growing up, “Empty out your brain…even the cracks!” It seemed to help us get through whatever personal dramas we were faced with back then. The fact that I’ve held this in for years basically spits in the face of our honest friendship.
It’s just not something I can share because it’s not entirely my story to share. But it’s forever affected my outlook on love. It’s a big reason why I haven’t been intimate with anyone since coming to London. Sure, I went on a couple of dull dates that my coworkers bossily set me up on. But I only agreed so they’d stop wondering if I was actually Leslie the Lesbian.
As much as being in a relationship with a woman sounds like an easier pill to swallow, I’m afraid I’m just not attracted to them. Men, especially men that look like Theo, still rev my engine and provide ample material for me and my vibrator. Balls. Stop thinking of Theo, Lez!
How I managed to avoid brooding Theo for most of the night at our Tarts and Vicars party is beyond me. After our initial scuttle, followed by sharing with Finley the truth about my dance-gasm, I avoided him like the black plague. Since he couldn’t really get me alone long enough to talk, he eventually quit trying and sulked the rest of the evening. I did my best to drink and laugh, and most importantly—try not to notice him.
Too bad I could feel his hot stare on me all night long. And damn it all to hell, I liked it. I liked feeling his eyes burning into my back. It was like I could feel them undressing me and licking my spine.
Stop, Leslie. Stop the fantasies right now.
I didn’t remember to pack my hotdog so I’m up a shit creek. Not to mention, I’m sharing a bloody room with Frank. And since I’m one-hundred-percent not Frank’s type, he will definitely not be interested in helping me out of my semi-aroused state.
Frank still gives me shit about the nickname I gave my vibrator. Talk about a great first impression! I laugh to myself thinking back to the first day I met Frank.
***
CHAPTER FOUR
Five Years Earlier
FRANK & LESLIE FIRST MEET:
I’m a green-behind-the-gills twenty-one-year-old attempting to take London by storm. I’ve just dropped out of college and landed a freelance gig sewing costumes for a community theater in Hampshire. They aren’t my designs but I’m in charge of hunting down fabrics for them. I’m lucky if I actually get to touch a sewing machine. Regardless, the pay is decent and I love shopping for fabric, so it’s a good gig.
I found Fab Fabrics deep within an internet search one day. The original poster was raving about the intricate selection, so I had to see for myself if it really was a diamond in the rough. The Brixton area of London isn’t all sketchy, but this street definitely is.
I stroll into the dark and musty smelling store that’s no bigger than a dorm room. The bolts of fabric on display are strewn haphazardly on rickety folding tables and cheap shelves.
This is what I came to this dodgy part of town for?
“My name is Ameerah, what do you need, child?” a large Caribbean woman asks in a thick accent as she enters from behind the beaded doorway-cover. She’s cloaked in a fuchsia muumuu and her short hair is dyed straw-yellow blonde.
I conceal a smirk, feeling like any minute she’s going to ask me if I want my palms read. “Um, I’m looking for some crewelwork. Seventeenth-century stuff…for a period-play costume. Do you have anything like that?” I ask, looking at the meek display of fabrics and feeling hopeless.
“Crewel, eh? You sure you know what you’re talking about?” She eyes me speculatively. “One moment.” She disappears behind the beads for a bit and re-emerges holding a primitive jacket inside her chubby hands.
My jaw drops as I take in the beautiful piece. She nods slightly when I reach for it in question. My fingers rub over the top of the intricate embroidery, relishing in the tiny spider-knots. Looking closely at the distressed look of the thread, I can tell instantly this is a true period-piece, not a remake. “This is period silk taffeta,” I say, touching the jacket lining to my cheek and feeling a fission of excitement. “From the 1600s.” I am in awe. Stupefied awe. “Spider knots…stem stitch…chain stitch, and buttonhole stitches! I’m…how? How do you have this?”
Ameerah smirks at me. “I have many things. Come child, I’ll show you the back room.”
Most people would feel uncomfortable following a stranger into a back room. But I would follow this blessed woman anywhere after she showed me that incredible jacket. And boy am I glad I did. I may have peed myself a little as she reveals the back room to me. It’s a night-and-day difference from the front room. I should clarify that the back room is more like an entire building. It’s huge and sorted in orderly neat rows of bolts, accessories, and even a longarm sewing machine. Fab indeed. My new mothership. My lifeboat. My second home. Fab’s was the proverbial fabric store jackpot. It has everything you could ever need from period fabrics, to bag straps, to webbing and fabric handles for camera bags. I spend more time at Fab’s than I care to admit.
After sharing some tea and visiting with Ameerah for the better part of the afternoon, she
informs me that her husband runs the shop next door. I find myself curious about what other treasures this power couple could be stashing away, so I gratefully accept her offer to take me over and show me.
“Ameerah, you saucy minx!” I state brazenly as she walks me into a sex toy shop. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m a little more than shocked!
She chuckles good-naturedly. “Don’t be so coy, child. Sex sells, everybody knows that. Something tells me you can handle this. This is my husband, Umar.”
Umar pops up from behind the counter with a bright twinkle in his eye. “Amee, what are you up to?” he asks dubiously.
Ameerah begins telling her husband about my vast knowledge of fabrics and what a great afternoon we had together. I smile and take in the quaint little shop of toys. It’s beautifully decorated with thick purple fabric draped over the walls and romantic track lighting dimmed.
Feels a lot like the back room next door but with strap-ons. I giggle immaturely. I’m not extremely sexually experienced, but I’m also no prude. Suddenly I hear the bell on the door jingle with a voice already hollering like he’s been shouting his way up the whole block.
“It’s been weeks since I’ve seen anything new. Umar…those bloody magazines better be in or there will punishment. Severe. And not sexual. Just bad. I have a feeling you like bad, you kinky bugger. But I’m not to be trifled with!” A tall, skinny redhead comes to a stop right in front of me and gives me a look like he’s in the wrong shop.
He stands stock still, staring at me with his mouth dropped open.
“Forgive me, but…are those not dildos sitting right there?” He points to the left. My head, Ameerah’s, and Umar’s all swerve in the direction he’s pointing. We simultaneously look back at him.
“I thought so. And pray tell…are those not butt plugs and anal beads…over there?” Again, we all glance to where he’s pointing.
“Frank,” Ameerah chastises.
“Amee, no, give me a tic.” He turns pointedly at me.
“And it might seem obvious, but I do believe that behind you, there are kinky vintage porno magazines.”
I scowl at him, completely unable to see what he’s getting at right now. Suddenly I’m shocked by his hands clapping loudly in front of my face.
“Miss…hello!” He claps again in front of me like he’s trying to get my attention.
Does he think I’m deaf?
“Do you speak English? Whaaat issss your native tongue?” he shouts loudly, enunciating every syllable slowly, standing mere inches from my face.
I scrunch my expression into shock and glance to Ameerah and Umar. They appear to be enjoying the show.
“Right, I’ll show you to the door,” he says. The skinny redheaded man then places his hand on my back and herds me forward. “If you’re looking for fabric, it’s next door. Ameerah will be over soon. This is a sex shop.” He stops at the door as I stare incredulously at him. He actually makes a ring with his left hand and thrusts his right pointer and middle fingers in and out. It’s everything I can do not to burst into laughter!
He sighs heavily and musses his frizzy orange hair. “What are you…Dutch? I was crap at languages in school. Dueches spreaka…ah, fuck it. Piss off, will ya? There’s sex shite in here!”
Ameerah now looks more frustrated than amused and begins to approach us. Before she can say anything, I ask, “Is this your normal clientele? ‘Cause I gotta say, I think you need to cast a wider net. Or just a better net that lets the assholes slip through, maybe?” I look pointedly at Frank while Ameerah and Umar erupt into laughter.
The redhead looks at me—his mouth hanging open. “You’re American?” he croons.
“Yes, and I’m a little pissed that you spoke to me like I couldn’t speak English and I was deaf! Also, the fact that you so pigheadedly assumed I’d never come to a place like this is insulting!” I’m in no way traditional. I resent his stereotyping of me.
Frank’s shocked expression morphs into confrontational. “Alright, American. What’s your name?”
“Leslie.”
“Listen, Lezbo, aside from the decent looking kicks you have on, and the apparently mildly-passable fashion sense, I can spot a pervert from a mile. Right, Umar?”
“Yes, it’s true.” Umar shrugs his shoulders apologetically.
“See, Umar knows. I can appreciate someone with good fashion sense. But I appreciate pervs even more. Umar is a perv, I’m a perv. Even Amee is a perv. Pervs belong here. You’re not pervy darling, I’m sorry. I think you’d be much more comfortable next door at the fabric store. Or maybe at a McDonald’s or something. Off you go.”
Frank turns to rejoin Umar and Ameerah at the counter. Ameerah looks like she’s about to let Frank have it, but my indignation reaches its own boiling point before she has a chance to say anything. I actually stomp my foot. Frank turns back in surprise.
“I won’t be shooed out of a sex toy store,” I state, balling my hands into fists. “It just so happens that my hotdog stopped working recently and I want to replace it while I’m here.” A brief moment of embarrassment flutters across my face as I realize I just used my pet name for my vibrator.
Balls. Hold it together, Lez.
It usually takes a heck of a lot more than this to embarrass me. I just need to look strong and confident. This skinny ginger isn’t going to tell me where I belong. Even if a large part of me does want to live in the magical back room of Fab Fabrics.
“Hot….dog?” The words sound so strange coming from Frank’s mouth with his posh British accent.
“Yep. Hotdog.” I shrug my shoulders. “Like you don’t have a pet name for your sex toys?”
He raises his eyebrows as a silent answer. “Well, Lezbo, it appears I was wrong about you. Please, make your selection.” He gestures around the store, boldly challenging me.
“Do you have the dolphin deluxe? The one with a g-spot twirler?” I ask expectantly to Umar who looks flustered. My expression is deadly serious. I will not smirk. I will not show this Frank guy any discomfort whatsoever. Not to mention, I’m totally bluffing. My hotdog is just a clit stimulator.
Ameerah looks even more impressed than she did when I recognized the detailing on the period jacket. She smacks Umar who’s staring at me with his jaw dropped. “Oh, yes. Sorry. We do. Right this way.”
I make my way past Frank and glance back. “If it ain’t broke...”
His brow furrows momentarily.
“I thought you said yours was broke.”
“Orgasms. I’m talking about orgasms…Frank, was it?” I cajole cockily.
He nods slowly and smiles at me like I’ve just aced a test I didn’t even know I was taking. “I’m taking you to The Pub once you’ve replaced your precious hotdog.”
“I’m not in the market for a human hotdog,” I say, coolly.
He titters at my comment and I feel confused.
“Babe, trust me. You’re not my type.” He eyes me up and down like he sees nothing interesting, except maybe my shoes.
“And what if I refuse to go to The Pub with you?” I ask, walking backwards toward Umar trying to show some pep in my step.
“You can’t fight me darling. Two pervy gingers in one shop at the same time...this is destiny.”
His smile is infectious, so despite myself, I laugh.
It takes only a few lagers with Frank before he demands I move out of the hostels and in with him in his huge three-story Victorian house. His parents own it but live in Tuscany most of the year, so now it’s his.
Normally I wouldn’t jump to live with someone I’d just met, but Frank and I just click. I feel like I’ve known him for years. And truly, living in a big house with him can’t be worse than the creeps that come in and out of the hostels all the time. I’m ready for a change, and to live somewhere that feels more permanent.
Frank’s honesty and vulgarity are a blast to live with. Our friendship might appear superficial on the surface, but deep down, I know Frank is yearning for
that sense of family that he doesn’t get from his own. Frank’s parents have been to the house a couple of times, but they always seem so distant and standoffish—even to their only son. I see an ache in Frank that could directly mirror my own. Maybe it truly is destiny that we found each other in that porn shop. We are kindred spirits.
***
CHAPTER FIVE
Present Day
FINLEY & BRODY’S WEDDING cont.
“Honestly, what is it with you, Lezbo? You’ve been sulky all day,” Frank says, pulling me out of my reverie. We’re seated at our reception table on a huge wraparound balcony attached to the resort. I tear my gaze away from the ocean view and smile sadly at the general splendor. Brody and Finley’s reception is stunning. It’s all white linens with pale pink peonies everywhere. Understated elegance—just like Finley.
“I don’t know, Frank. I’m happy for Finny, I really am. But shit, I can’t help but feel like everything’s going to change.” I screw my face into a pathetic pout as I watch Finley and Brody glide effortlessly across the dance floor for their first dance.
“What the bloody hell is going to change?” Frank twists in his chair to face me straight-on from across the table. “Brody and Finley are going to keep living with us, just like they have been! Nothing’s changing except for Finny’s last name! Honestly Lez, you’re being a daft cow.”
I grumble quietly, knowing he’s right. I take another long drink of my frosty beverage. These strawberry daiquiris are good. I am feeling absolutely no pain.
After Finley and Brody’s huge breakup last year, they patched things up and decided to move to London together. They considered looking for a place of their own, but Frank’s three-story house has a master bed and bath on the main level that is completely vacant. Previously, it had always been locked…even I hadn’t seen inside. Since real estate is crazy expensive in London, it was an easy decision for them to live with us. I’m thrilled they aren’t moving away, but now—I don’t know…something just feels different.