Space Between (Smart Girl Mafia Series: Book 3)

by Amiee Smith

  “Yes. I’ve always known.”

  “Do you feel the same way?”

  “Yes.” I whisper.

  “I need to hear you say it, Brit. Say it.”

  For years, I’ve fought that feeling. Those words. Letting them bubble up. Letting them guide my actions. Letting them simmer underneath the surface of my rebelliousness. Letting them remain a note, I chose not to find.

  But now he lives with me in the space between the notes. And there is no going back.

  “I love you, Alex.”

  A moan in an unrecognizable key escapes his mouth. Higher pitched, it sounds like relief and celebration. My husband juts his hips forward, extending his dick so deeply inside of me I feel him in the center of my sex. Tapping my cervix. Imprinting his wife. Merging his weirdo with mine.

  We’re so drunk.

  And I let go. Wildly propelling my hips against his torso. Alex dips his head in the crook of my neck, his breath heavy against my skin. My body trembles. My sex grasps his cock. Again and again. Over and over.

  Fully receiving my husband.

  Crying out, a sound in an unrecognizable key, I squeeze my eyelids shut. I give into all the feelings. All the history. All the love. Between us.

  And Alex works overtime to lower my IQ with a constant, steady pounding between my thighs. I lift my legs closer to my chest, resting my heels on his calves. I’m weightless in the euphoria of love, floating my way to climax.

  “Be a good girl,” he whispers.

  “Yes, daddy. Yes.”

  I tilt my pelvis toward him, the motion of his cock caresses my clit. I’ll find my way there. I’ll find my way there. He thrusts against my g-spot. My husband will make sure I get there. My husband will make sure I get there. I dig my nails into his back. Both his hands grip the top of my head, grasping my hair.

  Moaning. Pounding. Over and over. Moaning. Pounding. Over and over.

  We are so drunk.

  “Alex!”

  My throat is dry from calling his name. His forehead dampens my neck. And it builds. And builds. And builds. This is our love story. This is who we really are. Rock-steady devotion.

  Drunk in love.

  My orgasm blooms and blossoms in time with Alex’s guttural groans. I know that sound. He’s orgasming too. His body jerks and trembles in time with my body.

  Drunk in love.

  It took us so long to finally get here.

  Alex collapses on top of me. Still joined, we embrace the stillness. The quiet. The space between us. Breathing as one.

  “I’m gonna get up... to toss the condom.”

  I release my hold on him. Alex pulls out, leaving the bed. Rolling over on my side; my body heavy with exhaustion.

  “Get up and pee. I don’t want you to get a UTI,” he calls from the bathroom.

  “It’s fine,” I mumble, letting my eyelids find sleep.

  I hear his footsteps on his side of the bed before his big hand cups my backside, pushing me to the edge. Not aggressive. Just overly concerned Alex. Always looking out for me... or himself.

  “I waited almost nine years to have sex with you. I don’t want to wait ten days while you recover from a UTI. Go to the bathroom!”

  Always looking out for my best interest... and his own.

  Yes. Brit + Alex.

  Drunk in love.

  ***

  The shimmery late morning sun dances across the water of Lake Merritt. Low-70s. Brilliant blue skies. The landscape, lush, green, and in full bloom. We’re taking Miz Pepper for a walk around the Lake.

  We are both in sunglasses. Alex is dressed in black leather Chucks, no socks, deep blue chino shorts, and the white version of the Brit Palmer seahorse concert tee.

  I love the way my name looks stretched over his muscular chest. Even in casual attire, he’s clean shaven and his hair is neatly combed. And I’ve come to accept, my husband will always smell a bit like my pussy. It’s his thing. It’s who he is.

  The breeze blows my short-sleeve black and pastel pink floral patterned DVF wrap dress just above my knees as I strut the path in soft pink TOMS shoes. I carry nothing, but my husband’s hand. My keys are in his pocket and he’s always got a wallet full of cash. I’m good and safe, so I don’t need my phone.

  We stroll along the lakeside path. Miz Pepper sits cradled in his muscular arm. (Our sweet dog never really walks.)

  “Today is the Lake Merritt Farmer’s Market. We should stop by and pick up a dozen empanadas to eat during the game,” I suggest.

  “So, I can meet your student that has a crush on you?”

  “She doesn’t have a crush on me.”

  “Sure, she does. I invented her bring-you-food game.”

  “You didn’t have a crush on me.”

  “No, but I definitely wanted to fuck. You made me wait almost nine years, so I’ve got dibs on the rest of your life. She’s shit out of luck. I’ll tell her she can’t compete with me.”

  “Wow, Alex Willingham. You’re kind of an asshole,” I chuckle.

  “You’re my real wife now, so I’m going to tell you the truth. Willinghams are assholes.”

  “Your mom and dad too?”

  “Yeah, that’s who we learned it from. They are both assholes. My dad is a new money snob and my mom is a bootstrapping immigrant. Don’t let their polished exterior fool you, they are both as tough as nails. Lynn has started to pick up a little Willingham, and last night, you were all Willingham.”

  I chuckle. There is a bit of inappropriate privilege that comes with being a Willingham. However, I do wonder what his parents will think of me, and our relationship. But then again, does it matter? Alex and I are two adults who navigated a very long journey to love and happily-ever-after. Who cares what anyone thinks? It’s just us. And Miz Pepper.

  We follow the path in the direction of the farmer’s market on Lakeside Drive. The sun reflecting off the water is bright, but the light breeze makes it a delightfully warm, carefree day in The Town.

  The Lake is packed with an eclectic mix of people of all cultures and walks of life, enjoying the sunshine and loving life. Drum circles. Short-haired women power walking and discussing public policy. A hula hooping troupe. Hipster couples lounging on blankets with their kids and dogs. Groups of friends barbequing. Older black men laughing and loudly talking smack. Gothic kids passing around a vape cigarette. A group of college students debating Nabokov versus Dostoyevsky. A Latino man with a megaphone chanting “Jesus.” A group of African teens joking and flirting and rocking their hips to music being blasted from a car stereo. This is real life. And I feel so at home. My heart is so full.

  “Oakland is cool. I could live here,” Alex mutters.

  “What did you say?”

  “Let’s go to open houses tomorrow. Your place doesn’t have any room for my clothes and that carpet and Pep don’t mix,” he mumbles.

  “Wait...what?”

  “Brit, we are going to have to live together. I don’t want to hear any bullshit about patriarchal constructs because I want to have the same address as my wife.”

  I’m not fully present. I’m still fatigued from my show and my new, very vigorous sex life, and totally drunk in love. Love for Oakland. Love for Miz Pepper. Love for my hunky husband. It’s as if I’m floating...

  “Did you say something, Alex?”

  “Brit, do you ever listen to me?”

  “Usually, but I was having a moment. Tell me again.”

  He stops on the path, facing me. Since I’m usually in heels, I often forget he’s just a hint taller than me, and gosh, so big. And sooo sexy. Without a second thought, I plant a kiss on the corner of his mouth. Oh God, that mouth. I’m drunk. So drunk. In love.

  He groans lowly, drawing me into his chest and seizing my mouth. His tongue circles mine and all the feels bubble up. My sex immediately hums with a need to be close and naked with her daddy.

  Oh my, I’m kissing Alex Willingham in public for the world to bear witness.

  Miz Pepp
er yelps her approval... or maybe it’s a cry for attention? She’s our dog, so you never know.

  And for the first time, we ignore her. I wrap my free hand around his hard bicep, digging my nails into his skin. He groans.

  “Let’s go back to bed. We can order food before the game,” I whisper against his mouth.

  “I’m going to need at least a few more hours before I can fuck you again.”

  “You can suck my nipples and eat my pussy in the interim.”

  “I waited a long time for you to give me that kind of consent. But, no. Show me Oakland. If I’m going to live here, I need to know what’s up.”

  I pull away.

  “What? Since when are you moving here, white man?”

  “Dammit, Brit. Do you ever listen to me?!”

  ***

  “Do you have to go?” I whine, wrapping my arms around my husband’s neck.

  “Yes, sweetheart. I need to be at the staff meeting.”

  It’s early Monday morning. The Bay Area public jazz radio station, KCSM, plays in the background. The morning host rattles off a list of upcoming jazz shows.

  Every week, for the last three months, she announced: “The Brit Palmer Band at The Open Source House in San Francisco.” I got chills every time I heard it.

  Now that’s over. Like my job at Mills College.

  Alex and I spent the weekend mostly in bed with breaks to walk the Lake, watch the Warriors game, eat, and view neighboring properties.

  Yesterday, he made an offer on a four-bedroom, three-bathroom, two-story Tudor-style home in the Crocker Highlands neighborhood. $1.5 million. It’s a modest home by Pasadena/Los Angeles standards, but it’s ideal for a couple with a little dog in Oakland. We’ll turn one of the bedrooms into a closet.

  We’re in the kitchen. The scent of coffee permeates the air. Miz Pepper licks the last bit of food from her bowl. Alex is suited up for a day of meetings. I’m wrapped in a red kimono.

  “Here’s my card. Book a flight for this afternoon,” Alex says, tugging out of my embrace to drop his gold American Express card on the gray and white granite countertop.

  “I can’t. Emma is my plus one for the wedding. We’re flying into LAX together on Thursday morning.”

  I sip my coffee, eyeing his card.

  “She’s a grown woman. She can travel on her own. Book a flight. You’re done with school so there is no reason either of us should sleep alone for the next three days.”

  “I won’t be sleeping alone. Miz Pepper will be in bed with me.”

  “Brit, it took me four months to break her of that habit. So, don’t start it up again. I only agreed to let her stay because I thought you would fly into L.A. this afternoon.”

  “Well, why don’t you just fly back after you’re done with work? Bring some of your things. I’ll make a little room in the closet and use your card to order you a chest of drawers. You can fly back to L.A. with me and Emma on Thursday.”

  “That could work. I only have check-in calls scheduled for this week. And I’ve already purchased my tuxedo for the wedding.”

  “Perfect! You can spend the week with me in Oakland. I’ll get you my spare key.”

  I leave the kitchen and hustle down the hallway to my rarely used office. I retrieve my set of spare keys attached to a gold Warriors key ring from the top desk drawer.

  Returning to the kitchen, Alex rinses his coffee cup and places it in the dishwasher. Smiling from ear to ear, I present him with the keys to my first very own apartment. It’s not a wedding ring, but it feels just as significant.

  “Alex, will you accept the keys to my apartment?” I ask, extending my index finger with the keys dangling from a long matte gray nail.

  While I’m beaming, his brow is furrowed. Always a serious Willingham.

  “Yes, Brit. This is what I’ve always wanted,” he says.

  He takes my keys and places them in the pocket of his dress pants.

  “We can tell everyone we’re together and you’re moving to Oakland at the Jen + Jon party on Thursday night,” I say.

  “You haven’t texted the girls that we’re together?”

  “I put the text chain on DND this weekend. Clearly, I’ve been busy with my wifely duties,” I say.

  I can’t stop smiling. My cheeks ache.

  “What about Wine and Skype on Wednesday? Tell them then.”

  “It’s cancelled. Lynn + Nick are driving to L.A. on Wednesday.”

  “Why are they driving?!”

  “Your brother wants to have his car. I guess you can take a man out of L.A., but you can’t take L.A. out of the man. And they can’t fly with weed.”

  “Speaking of flying, I need to request my Uber. My flight leaves in less than an hour.”

  He opens the app and requests a car.

  “The Oakland Airport is only ten minutes away. You’ll make it.”

  “I guess I’ll leave my bag here since I’ll be back tonight. I’ll text our admin to book a return flight.”

  “Try to be back in time for the Warriors game. I’ll make dinner, or at least I’ll try... try not to make a big mess,” I say with a laugh.

  “Look at you, being all domestic.”

  “Buried deep under my feminism is a little housewife,” I joke.

  “Housewife? That’s fucking hot.”

  Alex circles his arms around my waist and lays a possessive kiss on my mouth. Full mouth. Sexy. I wish we could go back to bed and stay cuddled-up all day.

  Alex’s phone chimes with a new alert. He releases me and peeks at the screen.

  “My car will be here in two minutes. I gotta go. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Ahhh, okay. I wish you didn’t have to go.”

  I’ve never been like this with him. It’s kind of gross and cute and wonderful all at the same time. Miz Pepper and I follow him to the door.

  Alex picks her up, giving her a squeeze and handing her to me.

  “Have a good day,” I say, before kissing him like he’s going off to war.

  “I will. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  And then he leaves. For a moment, I just stare at the closed door.

  My entire body aches with longing for him. Aches with a need to be close to him. Tears form behind my eyes. I’m so silly. A big, tall dummy. He’ll be back. He’ll be back. He’s not getting on a plane and leaving forever. It’s just a normal workday. He loves his work. He loves me. He’ll be back. He’ll choose me. Will he choose me? Will he be back? I feel foggy and dizzy, my scalp tingles.

  “Mommy is so drunk and sloppy, Miz Pepper,” I say, kissing the top of her head.

  I return to the kitchen to retrieve my coffee cup and see Alex’s AMEX card.

  “Oh, lets order daddy a chest of drawers so he can have somewhere to put his clothes.”

  Shifting my dog into one arm, I slip the card into the pocket of my kimono, leaving the coffee cup behind. Together we walk to my bedroom.

  I drop Miz Pepper onto the bed and retrieve my laptop from my Prada briefcase, settling in next to her.

  “Don’t tell daddy you were in the bed. This will be our little secret.”

  Opening my laptop, I type macys.com into the browser. I view the furniture page and select “dressers and chests.”

  “Do you think daddy would like this one?” I ask Miz Pepper who has made herself very comfortable on Alex’s pillow.

  “Oh. No. This one!” I say, adding a dark wood six-drawer chest to the shopping cart. “We don’t want daddy to know you’re lounging on his pillow, so let’s get a few new pillows.”

  I add four Ralph Lauren extra firm pillows to the cart.

  “Daddy likes a fresh towel every time he showers. Let’s get some towels.”

  I add eight blue Egyptian cotton sheet towels to the cart.

  “Daddy says mommy’s comforter is too hot. Let’s get a few new ones.”

  I add three lightweight Hotel Collection Hungarian Down comforters to the cart.

  �
�We’re good here.”

  I complete the transaction with express delivery, entering Alex’s card information.

  “Yes, you’re right, Miz Pepper. Daddy does need a portable air conditioner. He gets really hot at night.”

  I open the Amazon browser and after reading a few reviews I order an air conditioner, a few more boxes of condoms, a men’s shaving mirror, three pounds of Alex’s favorite Bullet coffee, a set of All-Clad pots and pans (I’m a wife now, so I need to cook), four cookbooks, some cooking OXO utensils, and a Breville indoor electric grill.

  “Yes, yes. We want daddy to brag to everyone at Jen + Jon’s party that mommy is such a good cook.”

  I open the Food Network page. I’m like, a genius, I can learn to cook in like, a few hours. I study video after video. Bobby Flay. That bleach blond round-faced dude that wears all the jewelry. Tyler Florence. Barefoot Contessa. And Giada. In one video, she wears a soft gray Helmut Lang tank dress.

  “Yes, daddy would want mommy to have a new dress to cook in. Just like Giada.”

  I open the Helmut Lang site, scrolling around. It’s not one of my go-to designers, but I add ten dresses to the cart and check out.

  “You are so right. Mommy would look better in those dresses if she had a new coat to go with them.”

  I click my bookmark tab and select the Prada page. It’s been a while since I’ve been on the site and I slowly and diligently view the latest coats and jackets. After reading all the details for each garment, I select eight coats and check out.

  “You’re right, mommy definitely needs shoes to cook in. Definitely.”

  I open the Christian Louboutin website.

  “Yes, daddy would think it’s silly to cook in heels. I’ll get sneakers.”

  I click the sneaker tab. Everything is so beautiful. And I can’t decide.

  “Daddy won’t mind. He’ll understand that mommy has trouble making decisions. I mean, how can you really choose one beautiful shoe over the next beautiful shoe, right?”

  I click and add to cart. Click and add to cart. Click and add to cart. Click and add to cart. A few pairs of studded sneakers and a few heels. A few, as in twelve of each.

  “Are you hungry? Me too. Let’s order food.”