by Amiee Smith
“Girl, since you bounced out of his life, I’ve become his Warriors buddy. I know everything. Or as much of everything as Alex is willing to tell.”
“Do you know about Canyon?” Emma questions.
“Yep. And the eight years of weekly support group meetings. I always wondered why his calendar was blocked off on Tuesday evenings. He still goes to the meetings.”
My wife’s cognac eyes caress my skin, but I don’t meet her gaze.
My support group is the closest I’ve come to friends. I couldn’t bring myself to quit. My support group and Pep kept me sane over the last eight bleak months.
“Do you know about Miz Pepper?” Emma continues.
“Yep. Alex now brings her wherever he goes. He hired a sitter to watch her at our Airbnb in Rockridge.”
“She’s here? Can I see her?” Brit asks, her hand stroking my thigh.
Her nails are neatly manicured, medium length, and a matte gray. Instead of rings on every finger, a large gold geometric ring covers her left index finger. This is grown-up Brit.
“Yeah. We’re in town for the night.”
“Brilliant idea! Alex should smash your flower. Oh, and I’ll say this now before you officially become my bosses, you both are hella hot!” Emma exclaims.
She waves her finger in the air, bouncing her shoulders to Luniz’s “I’ve Got 5 on It” playing in the bar.
(She reminds me of an extroverted version of my sister-in-law, Lynn.)
Will dips his head, smiling. If his skin wasn’t chocolate brown, I swear I’d see him blushing.
I haven’t felt this relaxed in months. I lean into Brit, whispering in her ear.
“I’m down, if you are,” I growl.
Brit runs a single nail down my thigh. “Dragon, I’d love that. Are you free tonight?”
“Yeah, after the game. I just have to pick up Pep first.”
“Ah, no. I mean... are you free right now? We can pick up Miz Pepper and then go back to my place to watch the game. It doesn’t start for another forty-five minutes. We’ll only miss a bit of the first quarter by the time we get an Uber to Rockridge and go back to my place on the Lake. I’ll order food. Ah, and then we can hook up after the game.... I mean... if the Warriors win. You can stay over if you want,” she whispers back.
“Brittney, I love the Warriors. But win or lose, we are definitely going to hook up.”
She comes close. I haven’t seen her like this since that night she did her smart-girl-sexy-dance. Eager. Flirty. Unrestrained. Into me.
“Dragon, there is no other man I’d rather be with tonight.”
And to my shock, my innocent Brit, rubs her hand over my partially erect cock.
“Let’s get out of here,” I whisper.
Reaching into my wallet, I retrieve a hundred dollar bill, dropping it on the table.
“Emma, we’re going to go,” Brit says.
“Get it, girl!” The tiny, animated woman says, lifting her glass.
CHAPTER 14
BRIT PALMER
“Good evening, Brit. I thought you’d be watching the game,” James says as we walk through the lobby of my building.
James has been the doorman for this building for twenty years. African American. Middle-aged. Born and raised in Oakland. Over the last decade, he’s seen The Town transform and be remade by the tech-fueled economic boom and gentrification.
With my purse over my shoulder, I carry Miz Pepper in my arms. My yellow Manolos glow against the white marble flooring.
The 24-hour doorman was what sold me on my mid-Century high-rise apartment. Very few buildings in Oakland have a doorman. My rent is a bit more than what I would pay somewhere else on the Lake, but I get a warm welcome every time I come home.
“We’re on our way up to watch the game. I’d like to introduce you to Alex and Miz Pepper.”
“Oh, my goodness. Is this the real Alex and Miz Pepper? Well, it is sure nice to meet you. Brit has told me so much about you both,” James says with a jovial grin, petting our little dog’s head.
“Nice to meet you as well, sir,” Alex says, shifting his overnight suit bag on his shoulder and extending his hand. He carries Miz Pepper’s travel crate and bag in the other.
“It’s good to see you smiling, girl. Have a blessed night!” James says after shaking Alex’s hand.
We ride the elevator twelve floors up to my apartment.
“You told your doorman about me?” Alex asks.
“When I first moved in, he suggested I get a cat. I told him I was more of a dog person and I showed him pics of Miz Pepper. You were in some of them.”
“Raul asks about you every time I see him. I haven’t told him we’re divorcing,” Alex shares as we step off the elevator.
Raul, the doorman at Alex’s building in Downtown L.A., just assumed we were married and often called me “Mrs. Willingham.” We never corrected him.
“So much for keeping our relationship on the downlow,” I say.
While his family and the Mafia may have been in the dark about our relationship for eight years, it seems our marriage was in plain sight for the rest of the world to see.
I unlock the door to my place, and we enter the expansive living room with plush white carpet and floor-to-ceiling windows. In full view, the evening sun casts shadows over the glistening Lake Merritt.
Clicking on the lights embedded in the high ceiling, I drop my purse and keys on the shelf holding some of my records next to the door. My baby grand piano sits by the window. The wall side of the room is lined with more shelves filled with more records, sheet music, and ten years’ worth of fashion magazines. My turntable and cable box sit on top of a birch-wood TV stand.
In the middle of the space, an extra-long black velvet Chesterfield-style sofa and a wide tree stump coffee table face the wall. Behind the sofa, all five of the guitars Alex bought me and my banjo sit in stands on the floor in front of the window. Adjacent to the living room, an empty dining room leads to the kitchen.
“This apartment is huge, Brit.”
“It’s owned by a Mills alumna. You can put Miz Pepper’s stuff in the dining room,” I say, easing our adorable dog to the floor.
Alex places her crate and bag in the dining room.
“I wondered how you landed a lakeside apartment. Is she letting you live here for free?”
“No. I’m paying market value. I’ll take your bag to my bedroom,” I say, extending my hand.
“No, I’ll carry it. I want to see the rest of the apartment. How are you able to afford this on your salary?”
“Claire made a spreadsheet and calculated it all out. I’m within budget,” I say.
“With what money? You couldn’t afford this even if you were tenured,” Alex says.
“Dragon, you are always running the numbers, aren’t you? Believe me, if Claire thought I was overbudget she would never have let me rent this apartment. She co-signed for me since I don’t have any recent rental history.”
“Is she paying part of your rent?”
“No. You know Claire is fiscally conservative. The bedroom is this way.”
Clicking on the light, I lead Alex down a long, carpeted hallway that opens to my large bedroom at the end.
He stops to peer inside each room. The first a small office with nothing but a rarely used desk and chair and my aging NordicTrack treadmill.
“Nick gave me the desk and chair. It came from his house in L.A.”
“He didn’t mention it. Do you still use this?” Alex asks, pointing to the treadmill.
“Three times a week in sneakers. Once a week in heels.”
Walking in heels on a treadmill is an old-school modeling trick my mom taught me.
The next door is a small updated full bath.
The following room, a bit larger than the office, houses what is left of my wardrobe. Double rod garment racks filled with coats and apparel line two of the walls and industrial-style shelves filled with shoes run the length of the other wall.
Alex s
urveys the space before peering into the walk-in closet. Inside is a chest of drawers filled with bags and accessories. Hung-up are more coats, a few couture pieces, and ready-to-wear dresses and apparel. The shelf above is packed with more shoes in their original boxes with labels listing the style and heel height. Lynn went wild with the label-maker one weekend.
“It’s not as nice as the closet you designed, but it works. Jen and Dana helped me put it together.”
“I want to see the other room,” Alex says.
We proceed to the master bedroom with an en-suite bath. A king-sized mattress and frame with matching nightstands sit in the center of the large space. The ornate bedframe, a Ralph Lauren solid mahogany French-style bed, was originally in the mansion. Across from the bed is a small cherry wood entertainment cabinet with an Echo speaker and a cable box on top.
Alex peers into the messy walk-in closet. Clothes fill the rack, the hamper and the floor surrounding it. Boxes of shoes line the top shelf, also labeled. This closet houses my kimonos and attire in regular rotation.
“I’m not this clean. I picked up the floor and changed the bedding this afternoon in the event I met someone to...”
Dragon gives me his intense-stare before hanging his garment bag in the closet.
“The game is starting,” I say, leaving the room.
“There are no TVs in this apartment. Are we going to watch the game online?” Alex asks in a low voice, following me down the hall.
“No. I have projectors in the bedroom and the living room. I went on a date with a man who had a projector and it was so incredible I had to have one. I found two used projectors online. Nick installed them for me.”
“How did the date go?” Alex asks, quietly.
“Not well. He asked me to leave in the middle of the second quarter after I said, ‘fuck LeBron.’ I tried to explain that in my mind there are two LeBrons. I totally respect off-the-court LeBron, but then there is on-the-court LeBron...”
“Yeah, fuck that drama queen,” Alex says.
“Thank you! You always get what I mean!”
We both laugh, sitting on the sofa. I retrieve the remote from the coffee table, pressing the power button.
The wall in front of us fills with the image of the game. Only a minute into play; the score 4-0, Golden State.
Leaning forward, I place the remote on the coffee table. Dragon strokes my slightly exposed lower back. My body enflames. Men I’ve dated over the last eight months have touched me here, but it always felt unnatural. Alex’s palm against my bare skin feels so right. So right. An inaudible moan escapes my lips.
Tilting my head in his direction, I notice his hair is longer. Almost as long as when he was my student. Hints of gray strands that weren’t there when I last saw him, course through his dark, neatly brushed curls. Behind his signature silver semi-rimless frames, fine lines shape his blue-green eyes.
Classically handsome; light olive skin tone, clean shaven, straight nose, chiseled jawline, cleft chin, a broad chest covered in a crisp Warriors-blue dress shirt, and muscular thighs hidden by tailored gray slacks. Exceptionally fit, Alex is neither lean nor husky. Just all hot man.
“When did you grow up, Dragon?”
I don’t wait for him to answer, instead I press my lips to his strong mouth.
Our first kiss.
As soon as I make contact, a warmth fills my body and I lean in, deepening the kiss. Alex groans, swiping his tongue between my lips. His masculine hand cradles the nape of my neck, drawing me closer. I moan, closing my eyes.
Our mouths twist and tangle. Deep. Volcanic. Soulful. His lips are fuller and softer than I expected. Alex tastes like beer, and the ultimate freedom. And I want it all. All of him. Shifting in his arms without breaking the kiss, I straddle his thighs, rocking my hips against his torso and wrapping my arms around his neck.
I’m not the only one who wants to be all up in daddy’s lap.
Miz Pepper leaps on the sofa, wedging herself between us. This dog barely walks on her own and now she’s jumping! Named after my favorite drag queen, I’m quite certain she’s cock blocking me right now.
Alex breaks away, ending our first kiss ever.
“Pep. Crate.”
She gives him a lopsided, big-eyed look but doesn’t move. Gosh, she’s so cute.
“Miz Pepper, crate!” he says in a firm tone.
Still she doesn’t move.
“Dude, have you met our dog? She doesn’t follow commands.”
“Yes, my dog follows commands. We spent 90 days in obedience school.”
Moving off his lap, I try to pretend like what he said didn’t sting. Way back when, I had suggested an obedience class. But we never signed up. At the time, Alex was working 16 hours a day, and the school required both owners to attend for maximum benefit.
Now, Miz Pepper only has one owner who’s recently had a lot of time on his hands.
I listen to him say “crate” repeatedly, seeing him from a new perspective. Alex isn’t the man I knew eight months ago.
First, he seems less on edge, almost calm. Secondly, we’ve been together for almost an hour and he hasn’t asked if he can go down on me. And thirdly, he’s way, way hotter than I remembered.
What’s more shocking, I yearn for him. Yearn in the way I used to crave a Chanel coat or a pair of Manolos.
But he doesn’t seem to be yearning for me in the same way. Even as I was rubbing my center all over him, he seemed chill. Into it, but chill. I could feel his erection through my jeans. But he’s definitely not the thirsty man who sucked my clit in Claire’s living room like it was the last pussy on Earth.
I replay my conversation with Emma in my head. Alex has been a free agent for eight months. In between obedience training and the investigation, I bet he’s free-agented beautifully petite women all over Los Angeles.
Tonight, he’s just doing me a favor. A favor I’ll kindly accept. But I need to keep things in perspective. Just like I’m no longer Miz Pepper’s mommy, Alex is no longer my daddy. This is just sex with an old friend I reconnected with on a hook-up app.
I leave Alex and his dog on my sofa to battle wills, retrieving my phone from my purse. Kicking off my shoes, I unfasten the top button of my pants. The tummy tamer in my jeans has got my abdomen pleading for leggings and a kimono.
“I’ll put in our dinner order. Tacos suck in the Bay Area, but there’s this amazing restaurant that makes the best chicken wings in The Town.”
CHAPTER 15
ALEX WILLINGHAM
Need. Frustration. Need. Frustration. Need. Frustration.
I’m trying to be cool. Maintain some control.
I want to be romantic. I want to impress Brit with Pep’s newly developed obedience. I want to strip my wife out of her jeans and finally introduce my cock to her flower. I want to post-sex-chill with Brit and Pep on this black velvet sofa and watch the rest of the game.
But none of the females in my life are following my agenda. Pep flops onto her back, exposing her belly, and waits for me to pet and feed her. Brit unbuttons her jeans, exposing her belly, and scrolls the food delivery app.
I’ve just had the most difficult eight months of my life. And all I want is to break my almost nine years of celibacy, spend time with my girls, eat a good meal, and watch basketball. Am I asking too much?
Enough is enough.
I stand, lifting Pep. On my way to her crate, I snag the phone (the only expense I still cover) from Brit’s hand and slide it into my pocket.
They both offer me some form of a whimper. Lowering Pep to the floor, two irresistible faces stare at me.
The words of the drag queen, Bianca Del Rio play in my inner ear: Not today, Satan. Not today.
“You. Get in your crate. You. Get undressed. Or no dinner for either of you.”
Taking a breath, I prepare myself for a shit-ton of sass and disobedience.
For what seems like forever, they both stare at me. And I stare back, my eyes bouncing from my incredi
bly sexy wife to my adorable dog.
Brit caves first, lifting her Warriors T-shirt over her head and lowering her jeans. She leaves her clothes on the floor. Pep follows, trotting into her crate. I latch the door and retrieve puddles of Brit from the plush white carpet.
“Sofa or bedroom?” Brit asks.
I don’t feel like speaking; I just hold out my hand. She unfastens her navy-blue padded bra and slips off her matching panties, passing them to me.
Bare feet. Neatly manicured matte gray toenails. The longest, lightest brown legs. Full thighs to match her full bush. Soft tummy. Bouncy tits with brown pierced nipples. Her deep brown curly hair extends well past her bustline. Seeing Brit naked never gets old. It will never get old.
A horizontal cursive tattoo, down the length of her left side, captures my attention.
“What is that?”
“Ah, nothing. Just the title to a song. Let’s go to the bedroom.”
Dipping my head, I graze my fingers over the Italian words inked into the skin of her torso. I speak Italian fluently and sometimes better than I speak English. I smirk, lifting an eyebrow. My wife may be dating, but she sure as hell is not trying to get a man.
“Brit, I fully intend to smash your flower tonight, but first you’re going to tell me why you have sempre drago, ‘always dragon’ tattooed on your body.”
Brit’s mom was a model, and indirectly taught her daughter to carry herself as such: poised, graceful, always elegantly still. While my brother’s wife fidgets and paces, my wife never does.
For the first time, I watch Brit nervously twitch her way through an explanation.
“Um... I was jamming with my band... ah... one rainy afternoon in a rehearsal space in San Francisco and... ah... I came up with the song on the spot. We recorded it. You wouldn’t understand, but it was one of those like, brilliant creative moments. A lightning bolt... ah... I wanted to remember it, so I stopped and got this tattoo on my way home. It’s no big deal, Dra—, ah... Alex.”
“Play the song.”
“The Echo is in the bedroom,” she says.
Together, we cross the living room, past the game projected on the wall and down the hallway. I walk behind her. Her soft, ample bottom entices me with each step.
