Space Between (Smart Girl Mafia Series: Book 3)

by Amiee Smith

  “Ahhh,” they all say.

  Even Jen utters something that sounds like approval.

  And now my husband is in full sales mode.

  “Jen, I know you advised my brother on Lynn’s ring. I hope you’d extend your expertise to me as well. Here’s what I have in mind,” Alex says, pulling up an image on his phone.

  Before I can get a good look, he hands it to Jen. She is silent for a bit, before passing it back.

  “It’s perfect. But it doesn’t change the fact you stole Brit away from me... away from us.”

  “No. That was never my intention. All I ever wanted to do is help. Do you remember the night Brit broke her arm skateboarding in Louboutins at the party in the Hills?”

  “Of course, I remember her breaking her arm! I took her to physical therapy for two months afterward. It... might have happened at a party,” Jen says, quickly.

  “That party in the Hills was so good,” Lynn mumbles, staring off into the ethers.

  “Party in the Hills? You guys must have gone without me,” Claire says, sipping her drink and adverting her eyes.

  “Um, I do remember Brit breaking her arm. And... I vaguely recall a party,” Dana says.

  Everyone remembers that night.

  Fact: OG Mafia girls like to have fun. OG Mafia girls like to drink. OG Mafia girls like parties. OG Mafia girls get sloppy while drinking at parties. OG Mafia girls never like to remember being sloppy at parties because it ruins the fun. Duh.

  And the story goes... Jen got us an invite to a house party in the Hollywood Hills thrown by the head of an extreme sports cable network.

  Because Jen, Claire and Dana had been pulling long hours in their grad programs, they were super excited for a fun night out. I was on leave from my doctorate program. Lynn was in town visiting from SF.

  We pre-gamed at Jen’s house with at least five bottles of wine and a huge spread of appetizers (Jen knows how to do SNACKS right). Once we arrived at the party, everyone went in different directions.

  Lynn hooked up with a sports writer for the L.A. Times who was in her brother-fraternity in college.

  Claire secretly hooked up with, not one, but two ACLU attorneys at the same time, in a hot tub. (She only shared this information with me when she brought get-well flowers to the mansion.)

  Dana hooked up with an up-and-coming agent in the screening room of the house. Dude bragged he was trying to sign a down-and-out TV writer with an AMC-worthy show idea. The same TV writer thanked “my agent, Dana Sandoval, who believed in me when no one else would” in his Golden Globes acceptance speech two years later.

  (That writer launched her career and she was promoted from junior agent to agent shortly after he won best screenwriter for a drama series.)

  Jen mixed words with a woman from the Bachelor who was shit-talking the Lakers. And then she hooked up with a starter for the Lakers.

  I made friends with a group of pro skateboarders, which explains why I was on a skateboard, at night, in 120mm heels, riding around the Hollywood Hills. I was doing so well, until I fell.

  Of course, I called my husband-friend to take me to the hospital... and pay my medical bills. But what no one knows, not even Alex, the ER doctor said my injury was so dire that without proper care, I wouldn’t have been able to play piano or guitar again.

  My husband impeccably reads his audience, changing his tune.

  “Maybe it wasn’t a party. But my wife did take a nasty fall in the Hills. She called me because you amazing women were busy making your way in the world. I felt like a member of your crew by being able to help. In no way did I attempt to steal her from you. I was just hoping that someday, I might mean as much to her as all of you,” Alex says.

  My husband is a salesman, but he’s not selling right now. Dude is hella sincere, laying his heart on the stone countertop for all the girls to see. His blue-green eyes are passionate behind those silver glasses.

  I so want to go down on him right now.

  “Alex, I know I’m new to the Mafia, but Michael and I sincerely think of you as the original Mafia Man,” Lilly offers.

  “Totally,” Dana says.

  “You definitely seem to care a great deal about Brit. Watching out for her, when we... were too busy,” Claire says, quietly.

  Emma jumps in. “Care about her?! Dude is so flipping in love with her! Hello?! He went to a spring concert at a small women’s college and donated to the cause. I’m not a member of the Smart Girl Mafia yet, but I’m Team Alex. 100%.”

  “I’m Team Alex!” Lynn cheers.

  “I’m Team Alex,” I say, smiling.

  Everyone stares at Jen.

  The music changes to “Whatta Man” by Salt-N-Pepper with En Vogue singing the hook. I don’t fully believe in signs, but Lynn would say the change was a nod from the Universe.

  “Fine. I’m Team Alex. You’re a good match for Brit. But if you fuck up, I know a guy who will totally make your death look like an accident,” Jen says with a gleaming grin that made her a household name two decades ago.

  “Jen! Murder is a crime even among the celebrity caste,” Dana says.

  “I’m kidding...” she sips her martini, “Sorta.”

  “Welcome to the Mafia, Alex,” Claire says, raising her wine glass.

  “Welcome to the Mafia!” all the girls say in unison.

  “Thank you,” Alex says. “With that out of the way, I would like to meet with each of you in a few months to discuss how Willingham Wealth Management can support you in growing your net worth. I have a system proven to help you do more with your money.”

  Everyone gives Alex a sideways glance.

  “Too soon, Dragon. Too soon,” I whisper.

  CHAPTER 23

  ALEX WILLINGHAM

  Growing up in the shadows of my star-athlete brother, my fashion-designer-to-the-stars mom, and my business maverick dad, sucked. As the family fuck-up, I longed for an opportunity to shine.

  Even after growing my business to seven figures before I brought on additional staff, I still never felt like I shined. But tonight, at this party, being Brit Palmer’s man feels better than any professional accolade.

  I’m standing in a circle on the patio next to the pool with the other official Mafia Men: Jon, Michael, and Nick. Also in the circle: Will, Carlos, Adam, Jordan, and Gabe. All of us have a drink in our hands.

  Party guests drift around us.

  The conversation has turned from a debate as to whether a Kobe/Shaq Lakers team could beat a present-day Warriors team to investment strategies. Because of my suspension, I can’t talk business. Instead, I get to be a regular guy, hanging out with my friends at a party.

  “I don’t know. I’ve reviewed all their financials. Something doesn’t seem right,” Michael says.

  “A friend of mine just bought 100 shares. Nick, you and I should go in together,” Jon suggests.

  They are discussing an AI company I’m nearly certain will go belly-up in two years. I can’t say anything, but I do give my brother the Willingham stare. It is family code with multiple meanings, and my brother intuitively knows what I’d say if I could.

  “No, man. I can’t invest in anything risky right now. I’m trying to pay off my wife’s mortgage. Her renters cover her monthly payment, but if I pay off her mortgage, then she wouldn’t have to churn out books so quickly and could spend more time with me.”

  “Does Lynn know?” Michael asks.

  “No, it’s my wedding gift to her,” Nick says.

  “Bro, that’s not a good idea,” I offer.

  “Why? I have the money,” Nick says, glancing at Will, who now manages his portfolio.

  “I don’t think she’d see it as a gift right now,” I say.

  “Or ever. Man, these women are hella weird about money and making their own way in the world. Jen plays the role of a housewife letting her man take care of her. And I play right along with her,” Jon shares.

  I feel bad for the guy. I know every detail of my wife’s finances (or
at least I hope I do).

  “What do you mean?” Nick asks.

  “Jen doesn’t spend any money in our joint account other than to cover household bills. She’s not working but she can always buy expensive dresses, throw insane parties complete with permitted firework shows, drop thousands of dollars at a winery and maintain a house in Malibu. I’m certain she still owns the house in the Hollywood Hills. And I’m sure she had a hand in buying this house, even though her dad said it was a gift,” Jon says, before chugging his beer.

  “So, you do know,” I say.

  “Of course! I’m not Mafia smart but I’m definitely not an idiot. She starred in 50 commercials from the age of 10 until she got cast in Sunset Moon. A show with a cult following! I read on TMZ she earned a half a million an episode the last season. Her father is a doctor, so her family didn’t spend her money. I know my wife is not down-and-out,” Jon says.

  “Why do you let her lie to you?” Carlos asks.

  “Do you remember that Fruity Flakes commercial they used to run during Saturday morning cartoons when we were kids? The one with the cute redhead with that smile?” Jon asks.

  Carlos hums the “Fruity Flakes” jingle and for a moment every man bounces his head from side to side. Fruity Flakes. Fruity Flakes. Everyone loves Fruity Flakes.

  “Oh snap! The girl with the pigtails? Every time I saw that commercial, I always wished I had Fruity Flakes instead of government-issued oatmeal,” Will says.

  It’s rare my partner speaks of his past. I know a basketball scholarship and good grades took him from Inglewood to Yale, but he keeps the details of his childhood under wraps.

  “Yeah, that was Jen. And she still knows how to use her sparkle. Any time I ask her anything related to money, she flashes that smile. And I just feel blessed the little girl from the Fruity Flakes commercial grew up and chose me to be her husband. Even if it means I have to share her with her Instagram fans, play second fiddle to the Mafia, and tolerate her lying to me about her finances,” Jon says, affectionately.

  My brother shows all his cards. “Well, my wife also has a smile that lights up a room and she has shared it with half the tech dudes in San Francisco.”

  “Lynn would never cheat on you, Nick. You’re her dream man,” Michael says.

  “You know Lynn is easily distracted. And a part of me is preparing for the day she goes for a run and trips and falls on a dick,” Nick says grimly.

  “So, you think if you pay off your wife’s mortgage, she won’t cheat on you?” Gabe asks.

  An NFL linebacker, Gabe will start what is probably his last season in the fall. He grew up down the street from my childhood home, but he went to a local private school with a history of turning out football pros.

  “I pushed too hard with the wedding stuff. I should have told my parents no. We had the wedding she wanted, but I...”

  “You want to declare your love publicly. I get it,” Michael says.

  “Just the ceremony. I could skip the reception,” Nick says.

  “I understand, man. It felt good to say my vows in front of all those people,” Jon says.

  “If I could do it all over, I would want to have a big wedding with Brit,” I share.

  “Do it all over?” Adam asks.

  “Yeah. Brit and I are married. It will be nine years in August,” I say.

  “What the hell? How did you keep that secret?” Carlos asks.

  “The same way you keep yours,” I mumble under my breath.

  “Why do I get the sense your secret marriage has something to do with sex and money?” Jordan asks.

  “Less sex. More money. It’s complicated,” I say.

  “But you two are on the right track now?” Michael asks.

  “Yeah, it’s never been better. Everything is out in the open. No more sneaking around. I’ve never been happier,” I say.

  Okay, maybe a little more sneaking around. And I’ve never been happier.

  ***

  My phone vibrates in my pocket.

  “I’ll introduce you to my friends, Michael Ahmed and Jordan Wexler. They’ve developed land throughout California,” I say.

  I’m having a conversation with a guy who played water polo with my brother in high school. He recently inherited ten acres in an area of Pasadena that was once an ostrich farm. I may not be able to trade right now, but I can definitely network.

  I peek at my phone.

  A text from Brit: Guest bedroom. Second door from the top of the staircase.

  Back in our sneaking around days, we’d always find a place in this massive house to meet up during a J + J party.

  “Listen, man, I gotta meet my wife. Let’s arrange a time to talk next week,” I say.

  “Wife? I didn’t know baby bro was married? Anyone I know?” dude asks.

  “Maybe. She was in your grade. Brit Palmer,” I say.

  “The weird tall girl in band that got a perfect score on the SAT?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can see you with her.”

  “Really?” I ask with genuine surprise.

  “Yeah. Under the weird, she’s a pretty girl. Model pretty.”

  “Yes, my wife is very pretty. But her weird makes her beautiful. Good talking to you,” I say, patting him on the shoulder.

  I move through the wide doors separating the backyard from the interior of the house.

  On my way to the stairwell, I see my sister-in-law batting her eyelashes and laughing with a guy from my grade. His gaze is glued to her bountiful cleavage.

  As badly as I want to see my smart girl, I gotta go bros before... yeah.

  I tap dude on the shoulder. “You do see the ring on her finger?”

  “Lighten up, bro. It’s a party,” he says.

  “Yes! A party for my brother and his wife,” I say, pointing to Lynn.

  “Oh. Oh. I had no idea. She didn’t seem like Nick’s type. Please don’t tell him. Nothing happened. I swear,” he says, backing away and leaving.

  “WTF, Alex. I was just talking. I’d never cheat on Nick,” Lynn frowns.

  “Nick doesn’t know that, sister-in-law. And in guy language, you weren’t just talking.”

  Lynn gasps and I watch her wide eyes connect all the dots.

  “Please keep this between us,” she whispers, staring into space.

  “Obviously I’m great at keeping secrets, but this is the only time. Clear?”

  “Clear. Thank you, Alex. And again, welcome to the Mafia.”

  I nod and hustle upstairs.

  I find Brit on the other side of a door to a neatly made-up room with a painting of Jen + Jon hanging over a king-sized bed.

  Brit twirls and sways to the Cardi B & Bruno Mars song, “Please Me,” blaring through the house-wide stereo system. She holds a red lollipop. Her bright blue dress swishes around her thighs with each twist and turn.

  She’s so good. I bob my head in time with the music and move closer to her.

  “I found this edible Alisha made at the bottom of my purse. She doesn’t sell these anymore after all the new marijuana regulations. Do you want a lick?”

  “Yes, I always want a lick, Brittney.”

  “I was hoping you would say that, Dragon. That’s why I called you up here.”

  Alisha’s edibles are known to be potent medicine and definitely not for recreational use. But hey, it’s a party. I grasp the white stick with a red globe on top, covering it with my mouth. I pass it back.

  “I’m going to have to leave my car here and Uber back to DTLA. Unless I can stay with you at your Airbnb tonight?” I ask, watching my wife insert the lollipop into her mouth. And suck. And suck.

  I so want her to break girl code tonight. She passes the lollipop back.

  “No. No. It’s just me and Emma in the Airbnb. You should have declared your love for me before we made our plans.”

  “No, pretty girl. I should have declared my love for you before we got married.”

  Brit runs a nail down the center of my chest
. “Oh, Alex Willingham. You can’t drive. You’re drunk in love.”

  “Yeah, I’m drunk... in love.”

  “Since you’re under the influence, I’ll need your formal consent.”

  I tilt my head, grinning. “What do you have in mind?” I ask before sucking the lollipop again.

  “For years, I have watched my friends hook up at parties. Now, it’s my turn. I mean, if you’ll agree.”

  “Does the door lock?”

  Brit nods her head.

  On my way to the door, I toss the lollipop in a small waste can next to a desk at the ideal height.

  “Sit here, Brittney,” I say pointing at the desk.

  “No, Dragon. We don’t have time for you to feast. There is a hella fun party downstairs. We should fuck. Fast.”

  I click the lock.

  “We don’t have protection.”

  “Yes, we do. Take your shirt off so it doesn’t wrinkle,” she says, pulling a condom from her purse.

  “So, you planned this out? You just assumed I was that easy,” I say, unbuttoning my shirt.

  “We’ve already established you’re easy, hunky husband.”

  I toss my shirt on the bed. Brit lowers her black panties to her ankles and steps out of them. She leaves everything else on.

  I stand in front of her. “Are you sure you want to fuck in runway couture?”

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  She lifts the full skirt with one hand and pushes my hand between her thighs with the other. I dip my middle finger into her fold, skimming past her already slick curls. Slowly, I circle her clit. Brit moans, closing her eyes. Feeling her heat, my mouth waters.

  “I’ll give you consent, if you let me lick your pussy. Just a little bit.”

  I slide the tip of my finger into her wet center. Why did we wait so long to be together?

  “Ummm, Dragon. I’ll agree, but I get to say when.”

  “Brittney, I’ve done enough waiting in this relationship,” I say, easing my finger deeper inside.

  She moans and presses her nails into the skin of my forearm, causing my dick to buck and strain against the zipper of my jeans. Brit moves my hand away.

  Unzipping my pants, she cups and massages my balls through my briefs.

  “I promise, you’ll get your turn. But I need you to agree to play my way. This is my fantasy.”