by Brandy Ayers
It’s amazing how those kids can go from running in circles around our house screaming at the top of their lungs, to patiently sitting on the carpet and appearing to be little angels. Lies. All lies. Iliana got my attitude, but thankfully it is reserved for her parents. At school and with her friends, she is a sweetheart with a kind spirit. The twin boys who came along a year and a half after our girl are their dad through and through. They look exactly like him and have the same quiet patience. After the twins, I followed through on the no more kids thing, and I’ve never regretted the decision.
“Okay guys, let’s play the house theme song.” Micah’s beard almost hides his wide smile as all the kids scream Crazy Train at the top of their lungs.
“Can you believe this is our lives?” Marci slings her arm around my shoulders as we watch from the kitchen as everyone sings the cleanup version of a classic Ozzy song. “Seventeen years ago, you and I were hitting the clubs every weekend. Shopping every day. Cocktails on the regular. Now you have a nomad family of five, and I host a relationship advice radio show with my husband, and our kids are attending a preppy-ass private school and have body guards.”
“I really can’t. The girl I was back then would call me a yuppy bitch and roll her eyes.” After Iliana came, we tried to settle down and stay put for a while. But it turned out we loved the road life. So we kept our home base in Brooklyn, rehabbing the entire warehouse to be our house. But we spend most the year in our huge house on wheels. We drive from town to town, Scott discovers bands he hears about on the internet for his three-year-old record label, I look for tucked away artists and designers to promote. I homeschool the kids. Me. How nuts is that? And along the way, we stop at historic sights, beaches, woods, wherever the wind takes us. Just our little family of five all in each other’s hair day in and day out.
I love it.
I grew up with nothing but distance between my relatives and I. Having everyone within reaching distance of each is exactly how I want to raise my kids.
The phone tucked in my back pocket vibrates, and I roll my eyes. “I swear, this new clothing line for Target is going to kill me. I kinda wish I had said no it.”
Marci laughs and shakes her head at me because she knows I’m lying my ass off. I jumped at the opportunity to curate a line of kids’ clothing for the chain store. But they do call way too much.
“Hello.”
“Lacy?” The scratchy voice on the other end of phone will forever be implanted in my head from that horrible day when I almost died. Agent Templeton had been the one to question me, and she’s checked up on us a few times of the years.
“Hey, Agent Templeton. I didn’t realize it was time for your yearly check in already.” I smile and head over to the kitchen island so I can hear her more clearly.
“Actually, Lacy, I’m calling with some news.”
Blood surges through my body as my heart rate picks up speed. They never caught my father, though they did catch a few of his cronies. Agent Rose died in federal custody at the hands of one of the men he had put in there previously. Scott and I started a foundation to help girls rescued from human trafficking operations to be re-acclimated to society and receive the mental health support they desperately needed.
“Lacy, your father was found dead in Stockholm yesterday.” Agent Templeton isn’t great at the whole emotions thing, but I can hear the regret laced in her voice.
For my part, I don’t know what to feel. I haven’t seen or heard from the man that sired me in over fifteen years. When I took Scott’s last name at our insane Vegas wedding, I left behind everything attached to the Falluci name. Including any lingering hope my father and I would ever have a relationship.
“How?” This is the first update I’ve gotten on my father. I told Templeton I didn’t want to know anything until they caught him. The thought of such an evil man sharing DNA with me still makes my skin crawl.
“Are you sure you want to know. It wasn’t pretty.”
“I need to know.” Warmth and the scent of spiced cologne press into my back. Scott. Of course, he would know I needed his strength right now. Even without words. He places his hands on my hips and gives a little squeeze.
“He was shot execution style. Twice in the heart, once in the back of the head.” The information is given dispassionately. No emotion behind the words that should rate at least a little distaste. “It happened in the apartment he kept there. We believe it was a revenge killing. There has been a rash of suspected traffickers killed over the past few months.”
Something settles inside me. A piece of my soul that I never acknowledged still felt restless at having Frank Falluci out in the world torturing young women. “Good. Thank you for letting me know.”
With no more pleasantries to exchange, Agent Templeton and I give an awkward goodbye and hang up.
“He’s gone?” Scott’s deep voice soothes my frayed nerves, and I lean back into his chest.
Nodding, I crane my head around to look in his soulful eyes. “It’s strange, because I try so hard to not think about him, but I feel relieved knowing he’s not in the world anymore.”
“Not strange at all baby.” He kisses my forehead and then my lips. “Come sit with us. With your family.”
“Okay.”
Taking my hand, Scott leads me into the living room and sits me on his lap. He’s perfected the art of playing the guitar while I perch between his thighs.
“Mommy, promise not to sing.” Iliana gives me her serious face, which I always struggle not to laugh at because she looks so much like me.
“Is not nice to talks to mommy like that lil’ Ana.” Tucker, the oldest of our almost four year old twins, scolds his sister. Then in a whisper that literally the entire block should be able to hear continues, “But you nots a good singer mama.”
“I know, baby. Don’t worry. I’ll just listen.”
And I do. I sit back, close my eyes, and listen to the beat of my soulmate's heart while he sings with our children. And I thank Gucci once again that I ended up in an alley in need of rescuing all those years ago. Because if I hadn’t gone through all that, I wouldn’t have ended up here.
And this is where I want to be for the rest of my days.
The End
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If you are curious about Micah and Marci, read on for a look at the first chapter of their book “The O Doctor.”
The O Doctor
Chapter One
Marci
There are times I both love and hate my job. Profiling women who have blazed paths in STEM fields? Loved. Interviewing Supreme Court Judge Ruth Bader Ginsburg, loved! Writing a puff piece on some asshole who claims he holds all the secrets to giving women the big O and teaches classes twice a week to men with too much money and not enough sense? Not so much.
I haven’t even met the guy yet and can already tell he’s going to be a giant douche. My editor set the whole thing up, including talking with the guy and coming up with the premise for the story: Sex guru hands down the secrets of the female anatomy from on high to the unwashed masses.
That may be what my editor is looking for out of this piece, but what I want to know is where in the hell this guy gets off thinking he knows everything there is to know about a woman’s body? Just because he’s a playboy who has probably slept with hundreds of women and maybe gotten a good portion of those women off does not make him an expert. And the fact that he bills himself as The O Doctor is just wrong.
But to cover the stories I love and think are important for the public to see, I occasionally also have to cover the bullshit fluff stories my boss finds because her boyfriend figured out how to throw her some foreplay.
My Way Magazine is my dream
job. Millions of women turn to our pages to find out about politics, health, religion, and yes, the ten best sex positions while you’re on your period. But like every job, you take the good with the bad.
Today is just going to be one of those bad days.
I can’t help but stomp a little harder in my stiletto heels as I make my way through the office to my desk after the assignment meeting. I know I’m one pout away from looking like a toddler who didn’t get their way, but I can’t help it. I hate this shit.
I have an hour to gather my things together and make it across town to the bar where the classes are held. There will be a brief interview with whomever this Micah guy is, and then I’m sitting in on one of his classes. I can’t believe I have to sit through an entire three weeks of this guy’s bullshit. Twice a week for three weeks, I get to listen to some pseudo-pick-up artist tell other men how to fuck a woman into submission.
“Marcie, can I have a word?” My editor sits on the edge of my desk while I shove my portable phone charger, laptop, and a file of information on The O Doctor, which I haven’t even bothered to open, into my bag. Francesca keeps talking even though I haven’t said a word to her. “I understand you possess very little interest in this story, but I think there is real merit here. I hope you will take it seriously.”
“I take each of my assignments seriously, Francesca. You know that. I promise I will have a full three thousand words on The O Doctor on your desk in three weeks.” I don’t say that it might end up being an expose on his bullshit instead of the puff piece she wants. Thankfully, I know I have a little leeway with my assignments. I’ve been at the magazine for five years and won several awards for my writing. If there is such a thing as job security in the current print journalism world, I have it.
Francesca narrows her eyes at me, her silver hair perfectly draped around her shoulders and her Chanel power suit crisp and wrinkle free. As much as I hate the assignment whims which come with her revolving door of boy toys, I respect Francesca more than anyone else in my life. She is power personified, and I’ve seen more than a few men emerge from her office with tears in their eyes and hands reflexively covering their balls.
“Okay. In the meantime, I will look into the logistics of your pitch on the all-girls school in Africa.” She rises from her perched position and finishes her thought as she’s walking away. It’s something she does all the time. If she is already leaving when she finishes talking, then you can’t get the last word in. Brilliant. “Just remember, if you want to educate the women of the world on world politics, you have to occasionally throw them a bone about what men think about sex.”
I roll my eyes but concede in my own head that she’s right. Just because we sometimes must write these pieces that I consider below me, doesn’t mean they aren’t worth while too. We’re all curious about sex. It’s natural. I just wish someone else had to do this one.
Trying to look on the bright side, I thank the gods above that I didn’t have to participate in the menstrual cup comparison article this month. Never been so happy to have irregular periods in all my life.
Traffic across town is especially crappy at this time of day, and I know even grabbing an Uber isn’t going to get me there on time. I should use the driving time to look over the notes prepared for me on Micah, but I honestly can’t even muster the interest. Instead, I search Reddit and my favorite political blogs for potential story pitches for next week. I’ll still be on this bullshit assignment, but if I can at least have something a little meatier in my back pocket for the next issue, I know it will make this one go a lot faster.
We finally pull up to the bar about fifteen minutes late, and I know we’re going to be rushed for the pre-interview. Oh well.
The place is a dude’s dream come true. Pete’s Sports Bar is all wood paneling with light up beer signs and taps as far as the eye can see. My shoes stick to the floor, and I cringe at the thought of what has landed on this old linoleum over the years. There are at least eight TVs showing classic games from every New York sports team known to man. I really can’t help the eye roll as I cross toward the bar, which is surprisingly clean and damn near sparkles with the intensity of the shine on it. Even still, I try my best not to touch anything for too long.
“What can I do for ya miss?” The guy behind the bar is a walking stereotype. No more than five-five, shirt opened to mid-chest to show off more hair than is on his head, and a gut which hangs low over his polyester pants.
“I’m looking for the Satisfying Your Woman with The O Doctor class.” Seriously, just saying the name of the class is making me want to turn around and walk right back out the door.
The bartender smirks and looks me up and down. I’m fairly dressed down for today, boyfriend jeans, black leather booties, and a red silk wrap blouse. But even dressed down, I’m still leagues above what this place normally sees. “I can’t see a lady like you havin’ troubles satisfying anyone, man or woman.”
I don't even try to contain the eyeroll. And I end it with a glare which slices normal human beings down to size, but just makes this guy chuckle.
“Micah’s gonna love you.” He tilts his head in the direction of two frosted glass doors at the very back of the bar, in a dark corner. “Straight through those doors. I believe he is expecting you.”
Turning my back to the lovely bartender, I make my way to the room where the class will be held. The room isn’t really what I expected. There are long wooden tables like you’d see in a library lined up in three rows, three chairs behind each one. In the front of the room is a portable projection screen, and at the back, a projector setup on a tall bookcase that was obviously dragged in here just for this occasion. At first, I don’t see anyone around and wonder where this Micah guy might be.
“Motherfucker, I swear to god, if you don’t get going, I am going to drop kick you across the room,” a rough voice mumbles from the other side of the projector.
The little hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention with just that one sentence. I try to convince myself it’s because his words have me instantly on guard and not because it is the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard in my entire life.
“I know I’m late, but I don’t think drop kicking me is an appropriate response.”
The man tries to straighten from his crouched position behind the bookcase and whacks his head on the top shelf. The whole set up wobbles, threatening to topple over before settling with everything secure on top. Then Mr. Sexy Voice himself stands to his full height, and I have to fight to keep my jaw off the floor.
Because Mr. Sexy Voice is also Mr. Sexy Everything. This guy isn’t your typical New York fare. He’s tall, ridiculously so, and broad in a he should be chopping down trees in Alaska kind of way. Half his face is covered by a thick, but well-maintained beard, and above that, sharp cheekbones. The eyes are really what kill me though. Moss green, with golden flecks which sparkle at me across the room. I can’t even begin to fathom what their effect would be in close proximity.
“Sorry, I was talking to this ancient projector. Keep telling Pete I’m going to buy a new one for this place and take the price out of his room rental fee, but he just laughs at me.” Mr. Sexy Everything comes around from behind the tables with his arm outstretched and obviously looking for a handshake. “You must be Marci. I’m Micah Othon.”
Keeping my eyes off his tree trunk legs, barely encased in a pair of perfectly tailored Hugo Boss slacks is one of the greatest accomplishments of my life. Because seriously, those legs were made to drive a man full force into a woman beneath him. The dirty thoughts have got to stop. I remind myself that this douchebag is trying to peddle his bed hopping ways as actual advice to men across the city, and while he might be attractive, and I can understand why women would roll over and beg him to take them, it doesn’t make him any less deplorable.
“Yes, Marci from My Way Magazine. Nice to meet you.” I shake his hand, ignoring the growing wet spot in my panties at just that small contact, and give him my dri
est smile possible. “I apologize for being late. Traffic was horrendous. I think the president is in town again.”
“No problem, we might have to break the interview up into two parts, though, so we can start class on time.” Micah drops my hand and stuffs both his huge mitts in his pockets. The man is a study in dichotomy. He has rugged, lumberjack good looks, but he’s dressed better than most male models I know.
I can tell from here all his clothes are designer, and I don’t miss the genuine Prada leather wingtips he’s sporting on those enormous feet. Apparently spouting bullshit to men twice a week pays well.
“I took your editor’s advice and got all the guys in class to sign waiver forms. You aren’t allowed to use their real names, but you can print some of their concerns and questions. No defining characteristics though. It’s hard enough to get these guys to open up and be honest, I can’t have them being afraid their girlfriends are going to read about their sex lives in next month’s issue.”
Oh yes, we don’t want these scumbags to tip off their girlfriends that they are learning how to seduce other women. Teeth clamped together, I try to keep the snarky reply to myself. And keep my eyes on his. Not wandering to the biceps straining his powder blue button up shirt.
“Very good. So, should we get started?” I take a seat at one of the tables, and Micah goes to the other side, spinning one of the chairs around to sit across from me. “Do you mind if I record the interview?”
“Not at all.”
Once the voice recording app on my phone is going, I dive right in, hoping to throw him off balance right from the start. “So, Micah, why on Earth do you think you have the right to teach men how to get women into bed?”
His eyes widen, and then narrow, obviously not happy with my question. “I’m sorry, but you must have been given the wrong impression of what we do here. The goal isn’t to get women into bed…”
“So, you don’t have a session in each course called, How to get her to say yes every time?” I lean back, totally relaxed. Portraying a non-aggressive stance usually makes people at ease, but in this case, I’m hoping it just pisses him off, because angry people usually say things they shouldn’t.
