by Amiee Smith
Monday, 2:31 p.m.
Lilly Shepard: Molly is great. You surround yourself with good people. Thank you again. Is it too soon to say… I miss you?
Monday, 2:46 p.m.
Lilly Shepard: I need to read 652 more pages of medical journals today. I’ve read the same page three times. This morning keeps replaying in my head.
Monday, 2:59 p.m.
Lilly Shepard: You are probably contributing to the growth of our economy right now. I’m supposed to be reading about the connection between inflammation and depression. But I cannot stop daydreaming about you.
◆◆◆
Monday, 3:52 p.m.
Michael Ahmed: I’ve been in a meeting. You’re always on my mind, Lilly. I would give anything to wake you up every morning. I want you to miss me as much as I miss you. I want you to daydream about me like I daydream about you. But I don’t want to be a distraction. Finish your reading. GTA date tonight?
Monday, 3:52 p.m.
Lilly Shepard: Yes! 9 for GTA?
Monday, 3:54 p.m.
Lilly Shepard: Request accepted. Status changed. I’m now officially in a relationship with
Michael Ahmed.
Monday, 3:59 p.m.
Michael Ahmed: 9 works. Yes, we are definitely in a relationship. Wear the panties.
◆◆◆
Monday, 4:48 p.m.
Lilly Shepard: Storm! Rogue! Jean Grey! Cyclops! Gambit! I don’t even want to know how you found these or how you had them sent to me so quickly. Thank you, Michael!
Monday, 4:51 p.m.
Michael Ahmed: I pay my assistant to be part magician. You’re right, X-Men characters on women’s underwear is a rare find. Do you like them?
Monday, 4:51 p.m.
Lilly Shepard: LOVE them. Wanna see?
Monday, 4:52 p.m.
Michael Ahmed: Sure. Send me a pic.
Monday, 5:02 p.m.
Michael Ahmed: Hello?
Monday, 5:25 p.m.
Michael Ahmed: Where did you go? I’m going into another meeting. We’ll talk soon.
Monday, 5:45 p.m.
Lilly Shepard: Warning: NSFW.
Monday, 5:45 p.m.
Lilly Shepard: [video]
Monday, 6:02 p.m.
Michael Ahmed: Watching you try on panties made my meeting magnificent. Wish I could have seen your face, but I understand your discretion. Thank you! PS: I want to be sorry about all the marks between your thighs, but I love seeing them.
Monday, 6:04 p.m.
Lilly Shepard: You’re welcome. A visual you can use later tonight. Yeah, you made good on your promise to leave your mark. 238 more pages to go. Looking forward to GTA. PS: Did you really watch my video during a meeting?
Monday, 6:04 p.m.
Michael Ahmed: Can’t wait. PS: Maybe.
CHAPTER 11:
LILLY SHEPARD
Texting with Michael definitely made the day go by faster, but it’s dinner time and I still need to read a hundred and twenty-five more pages before my GTA date. Well, skim.
My first mentor, the only African American woman professor and scientist in the male and pale Chemistry department at MIT, encouraged me to develop the skill of skimming. The goal being to find the point of the research presented and quickly decide if the information is useful and beneficial to my work.
Curled up on my sofa, I pick up my tablet and swipe through an article on drug development for autoimmune diseases of the intestines. The research is fascinating, but it’s difficult to even skim. Thoughts of Michael fill my mind.
I’d love to cook dinner for him tonight. Or be in bed in nothing but my Storm panties waiting for him to get home. Or playing GTA, just me and him in the game room. I’d love to hear the bright baritone resonance of his voice when he laughs. The way he uses Farsi words mixed with English when he’s tired. Or how he chants my name when he orgasms.
Yeah, I’m smitten. And I don’t mind either. If I can’t focus on science, I might as well contemplate my incredible boyfriend.
And he’s incredible. A true giver, he asks for nothing in return. He spent so much time between my legs last night, my inner thigh aches in all the right ways. A collection of purplish-red hickeys and teeth marks decorate my skin. Michael is also a great lay. He uses his dick with the same loving ferocity he uses his mouth.
Abandoning my tablet, I click on the Jill Scott station on the Pandora app on my phone and connect it to the Bluetooth speakers in my living room. “Love Rain” keeps me company as I season two grass-fed chicken breasts and cut up organic squash and broccoli (all courtesy of Molly).
I put both dishes in Pyrex baking pans and slide them into the oven to roast for thirty minutes. It will be enough food for dinner tonight and to eat before my shift tomorrow.
I consider taking a quick shower in preparation for my GTA date, but I have to keep reminding myself Michael won’t actually be here.
I felt like a heart-eye emoji recording the video for him today. Giddy. Grateful. Gushing. Before trying on each pair of X-Men panties in front of the camera, it took some time to figure out how to angle my phone so the shot was from the waist down to mask my identity…I’m a respected scientist, after all.
I didn’t edit the short video, so Michael got an ample view of my cunt and the masterpiece of marks he left behind between each wardrobe change. It was a silent film and my rare attempt at being creative. Sweet. And sexy all at the same time. I’m a math and science geek with barely B tits and an intense glare most misperceive as bitchy. I never do creative, sweet, or sexy. But my Michael seemed to like it. He seems to like me.
Is it Thursday yet?
Retrieving my tablet, I return to skimming the article standing at the counter in my kitchen. My bare feet are cold against the old linoleum flooring. After a weekend of glorious weather, the City has returned to chilly, windy and gray. My cherry red cargo pants rest at my hip bone. Braless (a norm in my world), my kid-sized long sleeve white T-shirt falls at my belly button. The perfect weather and outfit for reading and taking notes.
This morning, I got dressed in my best jeans and a cream-colored blouse with red polka dots, applied press powder, mascara, lipstick and eyeliner, and styled up my hair just to eat breakfast in Michael’s kitchen before taking an UberLux two miles to my flat so he could pick up his car. If he were a regular guy, I would have slipped on leggings and UGGs and took the bus home.
My man is always impeccably dressed. Even his pajama pants have creases. Arousal loops through my sex as the image of him from this morning reels through my mind. His tall, toned body wrapped in a fitted white dress shirt, tailored charcoal slacks, and black dress shoes. His thick dark hair, brushed up and styled with just enough product. His stubble beard, trimmed and neat. His smile, gleaming. Michael looked like he was ready to walk a red carpet.
If Molly hadn’t been darting in and out of the kitchen, I would have asked him to give me a hand job right there on the marble island.
Is it Thursday yet?
Macy Gray croons “I Try” on the speakers. The lyrics to the song force my hand and I give up trying to read about healing the intestinal lining.
Checking on my dinner, the doorbell rings as I close the oven and add eight more minutes to the timer. It’s after eight o’clock and other than food delivery I never get a visitor this late.
Umm, maybe it’s Lynn with a fancy bottle of wine and a desire to talk about boys. (Who am I right now?!) Excitement peaks for a moment and then I remember her rambling conversation from earlier today when she brought my misdelivered package to my door. She’s editing her manuscript at a faster pace than normal in preparation for our L.A. trip and other than running will be housebound until Thursday.
Is it Thursday yet?
Maybe it’s Michael? Maybe he missed me and hopped on his plane to kiss me good night. My heart pumps with an emotional velocity I rarely let myself feel as I trot the long hallway to the red door. I open it without checking the peephole.
On the othe
r side— another tall man. This one, pale, with scruffy dark hair hanging at his shoulders, and untrimmed five o’clock shadow. Wearing a tan North Face fleece, blue jeans, and brown Earth shoes, he looks like a man who owns a Subaru and rock climbs. Because he does.
Jack.
My eyes narrow and my mouth tightens with disdain.
“Why are you here?”
“You didn’t respond to my texts.”
I used to love his man-deep voice. Now, I only have the urge to run and hide.
“I blocked your number on Saturday.”
“Because of your rich boyfriend?”
“How do you know about Michael?”
“You changed your Facebook status.”
“I unfriended you on Facebook years ago.”
“I’ve been keeping an eye on you, Lilly.”
His gaze, wild and difficult to read, I reposition the door so I’m less exposed.
“Is he here?”
“No, but you need to leave. I’m cooking dinner.”
“Oh, sweet pea, I miss your cooking. Let me in. There’s so much to tell you.”
I hate that he knows the nickname my grandma gave me when all the kids at school started calling me “string bean.” I hate that I spent so many evenings planning and cooking meals for him. I hate that his nearness is turning my heart cold after a weekend of Michael thawing it out.
“Jack, there is nothing to discuss. You need to leave.”
“Lilly, I was so messed up when we were together. I didn’t know what mattered. The money and recognition got to me. I spent a year and a half in Bali with a guru and my mind is clear. I’m working on a new app. It will be huge, sweet pea. We can start our life together. For real, this time. You won’t have to work some bullshit research job. I’ll take care of your grandmother. You can cook and make babies.”
I hate that my work is bullshit to him. I hate that I told him my deepest concern about my grandma still living in Detroit public housing. I hate that he knows that underneath my fierce determination to save the world and badass tattoos is a deeply maternal woman who wants to prepare organic meals for her husband and walk her kids to school. I truly hate him because he knows if he stands here long enough, I will let him in. I’m a junkie for men like him.
“Jack, you need to leave,” I say, my firmness starting to crack at the foundation.
“Lilly, give me an hour. I’ll explain everything. I’m better now. Let me in,” Jack says, placing his hand on the door.
His persistence chisels away at the fence around my heart. I spent three years longing for the answers he’s dangling in front of me. As an always curious researcher, I’m tempted to hear what he has to say. But then, I think of my beautiful Michael. An image so palpable, I can almost smell his spicy cologne.
“Please, Lilly. I miss you. I miss our talks about having kids and starting a family. I wasn’t ready then. I promise, I’m good now. Let me in. I’m better for you than some stuck-up suit from Beverly Hills.”
Jack is deliberately poking at my most tender spots. He’s a salesman more than an app developer. This man got a venture capitalist to give him twenty million dollars for an app, “popping bubbles to relieve stress.” His well-rehearsed declaration has nothing to do with his feelings, but everything to do with my new relationship status.
“Jack–”
“Hey, man. I’m not sure if something is wrong with your hearing, but she has asked you to leave three times.”
My eyes turn watery as my perfect Michael ascends the steps in front of my door. Still in his dress shirt and slacks from this morning, a wool coat covers his tall, powerful frame. Pushing past Jack, his lips land on mine. The kiss, deep and defining. He pulls away, grinning.
“What’s for dinner, babe?” he asks, his eyes sparkling.
“Chicken and vegetables,” I say, a little sob at the edge of my response.
“My favorite. Good night, man,” Michael says in a tone so sharp it could draw blood.
He crosses the threshold, backing me inside and shutting the door on Jack.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, wrapping my arms around his neck.
“The terms of our GTA dates are undefined, so I didn’t know if tonight counted as a real date. I’m trying to get to five or six in record time.”
I give him a big smile before dashing down the hallway to turn off the oven timer beeping on the other side of my flat.
CHAPTER 12:
MICHAEL AHMED
“Did the money in your Ameriprise account come from Jack?” I ask Lilly, stroking her inner thigh and Storm’s face.
Before dinner (which was masterfully prepared), she changed into a gray shift dress with a red collar. Her bare legs drape over mine as we lounge on her blue overstuffed sofa. The screensaver for GTA bounces on the TV. (She kicked my ass. And I wasn’t trying to let her kill me… maybe).
“So, you did a background check. What else did your research uncover?” she asks, softly.
This morning, her student loan company called before we were out of bed to verify the transaction I made last night. Both of us were emailed a payoff disclosure form to sign, listing both of our social security numbers.
“Your FICO score is 850. You owned a home in Denver. Your entire driving record is clean. Not even a speeding ticket. You’re a Fulbright Scholar. And you have almost a quarter of a million dollars in an investment account in addition to your various retirement savings.”
“You must pay your assistant to be a private eye as well, because I know my Fulbright, driving record, and investments aren’t listed on my credit report,” Lilly says with a smile.
“It’s a multi-faceted job. Are you creeped out?”
“No. I understand. Hell, I probably need to do a background check on you since clearly I don’t have the best track record with men.”
“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” I say with sincerity.
I want Lilly now more than ever. After overhearing Jack talk about her desire to have kids and build a family, I know she is truly the one for me. We want the same life.
Lilly leans back on the arm of the sofa, extending her legs further across my lap. Her body perpendicular to mine.
“No. Jack never gave me anything. I’m a pharmacist, a scientist, and an academic. While they are not billion-dollar-earning gigs they do pay me well, Michael. I save and invest. I bought my first stock at fifteen. I’m pretty savvy with money.”
“Why didn’t you pay off your student loans?”
“Remorseful?”
“No. Not at all. I want to understand how your mind works.”
“The return on my investments is higher than what I pay in interest on my student loans. Working a few days a week to pay them off made more sense than pulling the money out of the market. My investments are my cushion, so I can always follow the science. I’m free to go wherever, no matter what the job pays. They are conducting some amazing research in Sweden, so if I want to go there, I can.”
I love that she understands finance. She knows money is a game. Lilly gets the rules and she plays to win.
Professional freedom is something I value as well, but California is home. While I’m a fan of the holiday abroad, I like to stay close to my medical and wellness team.
“Is your plan to move to Sweden? What about having a family?” I ask, tentatively.
I hold my breath, waiting for her response. Have I misjudged her?
“No. I haven’t decided where I want to land. I want to go where the most innovative work is being done. I owe it to myself, but I’d adjust my plans to accommodate starting a family. Being a wife and mother are important to me.”
I exhale. It’s the response I needed to hear.
“You’re amazing, Lilly.”
“Thank you, Michael. Were you serious? You will tell me anything I want to know?”
“Yes. I will tell you anything you want to know.”
Lilly shifts a bit and her eyes focus on me.
“When were you diagnosed?” she asks.
I pull my hand away from her inner thigh and run my fingers through my hair as I speak.
“12. I didn’t tell anyone about my symptoms for a month or so. I kept hoping the diarrhea and bleeding would go away. Then it took about three months for me to be properly diagnosed.”
“How many surgeries?”
“How do you know I had surgery?”
“You didn’t take your shirt off last night. Pitch black room. I just assumed.”
“The pitch black is truly for sleeping purposes. There was a time in my life when I didn’t get a lot of sleep so I value quality rest now. But yeah, my first surgery left a pretty nasty scar. How did you figure it out?”
“I’m still not exactly sure what it is, but I have an idea. The Specific Carb Diet is used for autoimmune diseases of the digestive tract. Are you in remission?”
“Yes. My symptoms are minimal now. I haven’t had a flare-up in nine years. I still have some rough nights from time to time. Occasionally some cramping, but it’s rare.”
“What medications are you taking? Humira? Prednisone? Remicade?”
“You really are a pharmacist. I only take vitamins and Lomotil now. Diet and exercise have been life changing. But at one time, I was on all of those medications and then some.”
“When did you have surgery?”
“My first was my senior year of high school. They removed a good portion of my small intestine. I was in and out of the hospital for most of high school. It’s amazing I was able to graduate and get into USC. College was good, though. My symptoms were manageable, so I felt comfortable joining my fraternity. I was able to have the college experience. Then another surgery when I was twenty-five after a long flare-up. It started when I was vacationing in the Caribbean. I spent the entire flight back to L.A. in the bathroom and vowed to buy my own plane, so I’d never have to listen to people complain while I’m dying.”
