Extra Credit - Poppy Dunne

EXTRA CREDIT

POPPY DUNNE

CONTENTS Copyright Dedication 1. Chelle 2. Will 3. Chelle 4. Will 5. Chelle 6. Will 7. Chelle 8. Will 9. Chelle 10. Will 11. Chelle 12. Will 13. Chelle 14. Chelle 15. Chelle 16. Will 17. Chelle 18. Will 19. Chelle 20. Chelle 21. Chelle 22. Will 23. Chelle Unprofessional by JD Hawkins Hands Off by Kayti McGee Acknowledgments

Copyright © 2017 by Poppy Dunne Cover design by: Book Blast All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Want to keep in touch with Poppy, get access to exclusive sneak peaks and hear about all of her latest books? Sign up for her newsletter!

Dedicated to Los Angeles in all its kale-eating, smoothie-sipping, celebrityworshipping glory.

1

Chelle William Shakespeare once said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” Not bad for a man in the sixteenth century, but if he were around in today’s Los Angeles, he might have said “All Runyon Canyon’s a stage, and all the men and women who work out there are hot. Like say, anywhere from a seven to a nine point five. Please don’t interrupt me, my agent’s calling.” Will wouldn’t have made it in LA, though. Too many out of left field plot twists. Still, Runyon Canyon’s perfect for me in the here and now, right as dawn is lighting up the sky. It’s beautiful, cool, and I get the place to myself. No shirtless douchebros trying to hit on me, no veganites with penicillin dairy free milkshakes judging me because I once—once—ate a sandwich. Just me, the gorgeous trail, and my little dog Archie. Archie’s a mutt rescue. Not sure what the mix is, but probably a combination of dachshund and Gremlin. He’s got big, flappy ears, a waggly little butt, and if I feed him after midnight, he poops on everything. As I run up the canyon trail, Archie skipping and yipping ahead of me, I focus my thoughts on the day ahead. Because it’s the Chelle Richardson show, ladies and gentlemen, pulling into another over-privileged, ritzy elementary school. The place is called Bay of Dreams, all the way up in Laurel Canyon. You know, one of those places the hippies found and infested back in the 70s. Well, now it’s a probiotic day school for the richest and crunchiest Angelenos and their kale in the lunchbox children. Considering the demographic I’m going to work for, I’m guessing there’ll be three kids in the class named Kale. But you know what? As long as the kids are happy, bright-eyed, and passionate about putting on the best version of Jesus Christ Superstar a ten-year-old can create, I’m giddy to work with them. I love every aspect of theater, and nothing’s better than seeing a kid’s face light up when she takes her center stage moment as Candlestick #5 in Beauty and the Beast. That’s what I do, what I’ve been doing the five years since I graduated Northwestern with a B.A in Communications in my eager, sweaty grip. I travel from town to town, school to school, setting up shop for a few months to put on a fabulous production with a bunch of adorable kids. Then the face paint gets wiped off, the auditorium doors shut, and I get a not-so-hefty paycheck and a friendly, “Thanks, we’ll call if we need you again.” Nothing permanent yet. Which, to be honest, is kind of a pain. At twenty-eight, I’m hitting the age where being a redheaded lady who bounces around the country with a suitcase and teaching lessons Xeroxed the night before is no longer that attractive. I’d love to

settle down, get put on the full time faculty of a nice elementary school, and spend my life happily showing kids the marvelous joys of community theater. I mean, it’s what I went to school for. It’s what I trained for. As Archie does three zooms around a rock and then pees on it with crazy puppy excitement, I think about taking my little portable pooch and heading back out to my parents’. That’d be tough at the best of times, but considering what my folks do…well, let’s just say that putting on a prepubescent version of Hair looks downright conservative. Archie puts his little nose in the air, smelling something frantically. Then he charges ahead, kicking up clouds of dust and yapping his flappy-eared head right off. I take off after him, and then stop. Because I hear something ahead—a man’s voice shouting, and damn if it doesn’t sound like he’s in trouble. “Shit! Shit! Hold on!” he yells. I take off, images of heroic rescue leaping into my mind as I go. I may be five foot nothing with Ronald McDonald hair, but this heart beats Gryffindor scarlet. I was on Pottermore. I know the drill. I make a turn in the road, and find myself face to…well, not face, but face-toback with a tall man, one hand to his ear. The shirt he’s wearing has a V of sweat down the back, and you’ll pardon me for noticing it’s a very nice back. I’m pretty sure I can pick out every definition of muscle. He’s like a sweaty Donatello carving. “Are you okay?” I ask, running around to look at him. From the way he’s got a hand to his ear, the poor man might be suffering from a ruptured eardrum. That or, you know…he’s on a Bluetooth. Yelling at somebody. “Ken, you can’t be serious. How can the Dow be that low at opening bell?” he asks, his brow furrowed. There’s a majorly incredulous look going down here. He’s tall, so tall he doesn’t seem to notice me. Then again, most normal-sized people don’t seem to notice me—I am but a ginger hobbit. “Sorry. Thought you were in a crisis,” I say again, right down here at like his navel. My god, this man is tall. And as the sun begins to crest the canyon, I notice how tall is also translating to hot. In fact, he… Then Archie gives a yelp. I wheel around and find him pinned down to the canyon floor, getting his maidenly virtue tarnished by a humping bullmastiff. This dog, this slobbery, beautiful, big-eyed dog has probably not been neutered and is claiming his territory like a canine John McClane rappelling down the Yakatomi Plaza. If the Yakatomi Plaza were my dog. “Hey! Get off Archie! Shoo!” I cry, waving my hands at the big slobbery sweetheart. He looks up at me, jowls tumbling, drool drooling, and gives a big, happy bark. It’s a loud bark—it could probably make you as deaf as a four hour U2 concert. But as soon as he sees me, he bounds off my little mutt and makes straight for me. It’s love at first slobbery sight. I laugh as he knocks me down and starts laying on the wet, sloppy kisses. His tail is waggling like nobody’s business, and from the view I’m getting from down here…yep, that is a fella who seriously needs his stones scooped. But who am I to get mad at such a beautiful baby?

“Oh, I love you too,” I laugh, especially when Archie starts bounding up and down around us, looking to get in on the action. I hear the guy hang up his call, and he takes the big mastiff off me by his collar. The dog whimpers, looking up with “please love me” eyes. Who could ever resist that face? “Bruno. Come on, I was on a call,” the man says, though he gives the dog a loving scratch between the ears. Bruno’s massive Gene Simmons tongue lolls out as he gets scritchies. Still chuckling, I get to my feet, dusting at my sweatpants. Archie takes a flying leap into my arms, licking at my chin to make sure he’s still my number one special guy. “We almost had to make it a shotgun wedding between these two,” I say, grinning as Bluetooth Man turns to me, finally clearly visible in the pink morning light. When I get the full picture, I nearly do my own Gene Simmons impression. Because this man is a sweaty god. He’s at least six one, gotta be, with rock hard biceps and a gray college shirt that is hugging gorgeously sculpted pectorals. His chin is angular, dusted perfectly with stubble, his eyes the kind of steel gray that can only be described as snapping. With looks like this, it makes sense he has some important-sounding job on the other end of a Bluetooth. Hell, he could be the emperor of a small foreign country, one where they’re still on the gold standard and people are all supple and hot even past fifty. Man, what a place. I’d like to retire there. Then, Bluetooth Man makes Bruno heel, looks me up and down, and says, “You should keep that dog on a leash, you know.” Oh, hypocrisy, thy name is This Guy. Cradling my little Archie against my chest, I try to keep myself from sniping as I reply, “You’ve got the bigger ballplayer. And since he’s got all his balls intact, maybe he should be on a leash.” “I only meant that smaller dogs can get snatched up easier,” the man says, crouching a little to look into Archie’s face. His forehead creases. “Much, much smaller. Wow. What breed is he?” Oh, I get it. A small dog snob. The kind that thinks any animal under fifty pounds makes no sense. I take Archie and press him into Hypocritical God’s face, and Archie gives a friendly lick. The dude starts a little, surprised by cuteness. “He’s all tongue and eyes,” I drawl. “So I gathered.” The man pats his leg, and Bruno heels at once. He looks like the sort of guy who wrestles bears into submission and then beds maidens fair by bubbling streams, beneath a crush of wildflowers. That is not a fantasy I am having at all. These are just facts. “Sorry to interrupt your walk. It’s just good to get out in the morning.” The guy looks off into the dawn light, which is doing amazing things to his cheekbones, my god. “This canyon is the perfect place—” “To feel at one with nature, and be peaceful,” I say, agreeing. “—to get some actual work done. New York’s three hours ahead.” Right, of course he’s obsessed with hours at the office. Probably worships at the altar of CrossFit, too. The man finally turns his rugged, admittedly panty-melting gaze

back at me. “You keep to a tight schedule, too?” Oh, I could try to invent a hundred great and impressive sounding jobs to interest this hot dude I’m never going to see again. But for some inexplicable reason, the truth slips out. “I’m a substitute teacher.” “Ah.” He’s got that look that people in a certain tax bracket get when they find out I’m living like an overgrown college student. “That probably doesn’t require… strict hours.” That gets my natural redheaded dander up. Putting my chin in the air, I say, “Prepping the next generation for a hard world is a pretty noble calling, if you ask me.” Ha! Sweaty God nods in agreement. “Sorry. What do you teach?” “Theater.” Idiot! Not impressive sounding at all! “Science,” I add weakly. “Theater science. Sounds…relaxing.” He passes his glance over me once, probably taking in all the components of a struggling late twentysomething. Well, two can play at that game, buddy. And when I pass my glance over him, I…get lost a little bit on the way. But still, I refuse to give in. “It’s a balm for the soul,” I say in the most aggressive way possible. Then I take a step backward with Archie, and feel a rock slip out from under my heel. Oh, shit! I’m going backward, about to take a dive off the canyon trail, and I can just imagine how much this is going to hurt. I’d wave my arms to save myself, but I’d have to drop Archie. Never. You jump, I jump, Jack. Or Archie. Dog. But I don’t have to take that dirt bath, because the man steps in and grabs me around the waist, pressing me to his body for one brief moment. My heart beats against him, or it would if we weren’t squashing a tiny, licking dog between us. Still, his arm is a rock hard support around me, and he lifts and deposits me easily back onto the trail. My head spins a little. He steps back, looking strategically tousled and nonchalant. Like he dashes to the mountain rescue of fair ladies on his off days. Man, what would his on days be like? Don’t get horny on the trail, Chelle. Maybe I should ask him to walk with me a bit? Get to talking, laughing, swapping dog stories. I mean, it’s the least I can do for my rescuer… And just like that, the hand goes up to the Bluetooth, and Hot Dude forgets I exist. “Ken? Listen, tell Don we need to sell… No, don’t give me that shit, sell, dammit!” Hmmf. Well, anyone who’s that wrapped up in his work is perhaps not the right candidate for my maidenly affections. Whistling for Archie, I take off up the trail, having to coax Bruno back when he bounds along for some slobbery love. I finally manage to shoo him home to his hot, workaholic owner. “Hey,” the guy calls as I head higher up the trail. “No goodbye?” Oh, for god’s sake. I whip around, and this time I don’t even trip over my own feet. Good for me. “Tell Dow and Jones hi for me,” I drawl, flashing him a peace

sign. Something about that makes him give a short laugh. And then he rolls his eyes. Okay, the laugh was cute, the eye rolling was frustrating in only slightly a sexy way. Tossing my fabulous curls, I run ahead, Archie yipping at my heels. Honestly, some guys are so entitled, so full of themselves, so convinced of their own Master of the Universe shtick. Probably a good thing I’ll never see him again.

2

Will Numbers aren’t hard; people are. It’s no chore to see which way a market’s going, how much it’s faltering, if it’s taking a quick nap or crashing hard. When you realize what’s wrong and how much it’s going to cost, it’s not difficult to assess the damage and come up with a plan. Back at U Penn, a buddy of mine called me Mr. Freeze. I thought it was for my admittedly fantastic Schwarzenegger impression, but it was on account of my cool head. Sang froid, as the French call it. No bullshit, as the late great William Munroe II used to call it. My dad. So now, William Munroe III is sitting in his Santa Monica office on the twelfth floor, looking out over the Pacific Ocean and the pier in the distance. You don’t get this far at thirty-two without some serious no bullshit sang froid. If all I had to do were study the numbers day in and day out, I’d never break a sweat. But like I said, numbers aren’t hard. People are. And right now, I’m trying to talk down a terrified man who’s convinced himself, somehow, that Coca Cola is not a safe goddamn bet. In the market, I say people should bet absolutely on only three things: Coke, Apple, and me. Right now, my client’s balking on two of the three, which annoys the shit out of me. But I keep a professional tone. It’s important. “So, let me see if I understand,” Mr. Jackson says, making this the third time so far he’s repeated my own words back to me. “It’s a safe investment?” “I would put my own daughter’s entire inheritance in the hands of Coca Cola,” I tell him, which is true. I glance at her picture on my desk, taken one year ago at a trip to the beach. She’s grinning up at me, one of her front teeth gone, a tiny mussel shell to her ear. She was convinced she could hear the ocean in that, even though I told her it was impossible. Just the picture brings a smile to my face and sets me back in the zone. That’s one picture of approximately seventy sprawled all over my desk. I’m a proud papa. Mr. Jackson breathes a nervous sigh of relief. I get the feeling this is a man who still takes “don’t step on a crack or you’ll break your mother’s back” like it’s gospel. Poor bastard. “All right. If you say so, Will, we can stay with Coke.” “Excellent decision,” I say. “In fact, I think we should buy more shares. The market’s down right now, which makes it a great time to dig in deeper.” And wouldn’t you know it? I convince him. Mr. Jackson hangs up feeling great

about the world, and I kick back in my ergonomic chair, feeling like a badass. That lasts approximately ten seconds until I get a call from Nicki at the front desk. “Hey, Will. Sorry to bother, but your daughter’s school’s on the line?” If you ever want to feel every muscle in your body tense, including your sphincter, first have a child, then send that child off to school, and finally have said school call you at work. I grab the phone and hit line two, my heart rate the best it’s been in ages. “Hi. What’s wrong?” I admit it’s not the most tactful and restrained I’ve ever been, but can you fucking blame me? The musical voice of Willow, assistant vice principal over at my daughter’s school, floats in over the line. “Oh Mr. Munroe, we don’t use the word wrong at Bay of Dreams.” Willow clucks her tongue; I’m pretty sure I can hear Sherpa bells in the background. Probably leading the kids in Tibetan chants again. “Wrong implies that children are somehow out of sync with the universe. We prefer the language of unconventional.” “Okay, is my daughter unconventionally at the hospital? Sick?” Willow sighs dreamily. I don’t think she does anything un-dreamily. “Not at all. Amelia has such a rare and raw individual energy. We would simply like to invite you to attend a cleansing process.” I swear to god, if I could go back in time to the night when Suzonne and I made Amelia, I would do two things. First, I would finish making sweet love to my exwife, and then, after whispering in her ear that I loved her, I would tell her we are never sending any child of ours to school in Laurel Canyon. It would’ve made everything so much easier. “Is this a parent council thing? Do you need help sweeping up or something? Because Suzonne usually handles the intimate school schedule thing.” “Oh, I’m sorry. You probably didn’t read the new vocabulary sheet we sent home with the children.” Willow laughs. “It makes these situations so much easier when you know the language. A cleansing process is like a parent teacher conference, only much more spiritually humbling.” Shit. Amelia’s in trouble at school again. Rubbing my eyes, I lean back in my chair. Ergonomic. It feels so good. “This’ll make it, what, the fourth time this quarter I’m in the office?” I ask. I try not to snap, because this woman’s just doing her job. “Amelia is simply having a difficult time with energy transference to the group,” Willow soothes. “Once her chi becomes more in sync with the other children, these issues will smooth themselves over.” You know, I don’t think I want a ten-year-old who blends in harmoniously with all the other children. I kind of like my precocious, energetic little angel the way she is. But Suzonne’s out of town this week—stupid silent yoga retreat workshop— and I promised I’d balance the parenting and the work seamlessly. I feel a twist in my gut at the thought. Amelia’s handled the separation better than could’ve been expected, but she’s still feeling unmoored. Hell, it’s probably why she’s acting up

in school so much. And that’s my own damn fault. So I’m going to be the parent Amelia needs, as well as deserves. I’m like Batman that way. “Okay. Let’s talk,” I say, leaning forward. I’m going to be dad of the damn millennium. “Wonderful,” Willow coos. I can practically see her, hanging upside down from a circus silk while making this call. “Would an hour work for you?” For Amelia, I’m willing to get up and cancel the rest of my workday. I’m even rising to my feet to do it when Bert, my boss, leans into my doorway, a look on his face that says “remember that VIP meeting, Will? I know you didn’t forget. You are so fired if you forgot.” Shit. I can’t. Wincing, I say, “Unfortunately, office hours aren’t going to permit that. But if there’s time later?” “Of course. We can set up a time at your convenience.” “Listen, I’ve got to run to a meeting. Give Amelia my love.” I sneak another quick look at the myriad pictures of my smiling little girl. The stockbroker’s heart grew three sizes that day. “We’ll talk soon. Er, namaste.” “Mr. Munroe.” Willow’s voice gets a bit reprimand-y. “That’s cultural appropriation.” Okay, but Sherpa bells aren’t? I exchange a quick pleasantry before finally hanging up on the call. Bert runs a hand across his bald, sweaty pate. Poor bastard’s lost just about all of his hair. He’ll tell you it’s too much testosterone, then he’ll also tell you his balls are too big for his underwear. I try to make sure we’re away from the ladies in the office before he lets that truth bomb slip. “Japan,” he says as I slip into my jacket and head out the door. He walks with me toward the main conference room. “Country. Asia. Good sushi, though you can get that anywhere in LA,” I say conversationally. Bert groans. “Don’t play cute with me, asshole. I need to send my very best over there,” he says, huffing and puffing as we round a corner. Right, the big international trip. The golden tour. Two solid weeks in Tokyo, with maybe a stopover in Kyoto. It’s the kind of trip every man and woman in this office salivates to get sent on, and Bert tossed it into my lap like a particularly juicy bone with a hunk of meat still hanging off of it. But I’m trying to dance around it, because that’s two weeks away from Amelia. Two weeks away during a slightly contentious divorce process. I make enough money to support my daughter; it’s not about that. Suzonne’s been concerned that I’m away too much on business, either traveling or locked in my home office. She’s worried that I’m not going to be a steady figure in Amelia’s life. The worst part is she’s got a point. I don’t want to be an absentee father like a lot of the divorced guys in my circle. You know the type. They get the kids every other weekend, take them out for ice cream and mini golf and video games, show them a good time for twenty-four to thirty-six hours, then pack them straight back

to mom and stepdad to raise. Eventually, these men become a little pathetic in their own children’s eyes, like balding Willy Wonkas who live in a Glendale duplex. I’m not going to be that kind of dad. Amelia’s going to have two parents raising her equally. I’d sell my left nut to make sure that happens. Unfortunately, the two week trip to Japan isn’t the kind you can just tell your boss “No thanks, rather not.” So I do what any good, red-blooded stockbroker does and tap dance around the situation. “Bert, you flatter me. I know I’m smarter, faster, and better looking than every other man or woman up for this job, but they have qualities that I lack.” I give him the easy-going, I’m-in-Sigma-Chi bullshit grin that I perfected in college. “Humility, for example. The Japanese love humility, and table manners.” “Then learn to eat like a person and shut up about yourself once in a while. I need you over there.” Shit, Bert’s not letting this go. He’s like Bruno on the trail today, humping that little dog. Or the little dog’s owner, that admittedly pretty hot redhead with the fast mouth. Jesus, if that woman were my boss I wouldn’t mind staying late at the office… Except I would, because Amelia has to come first. “Let me get back to you soon. I mean it. First, let’s blow these New York assholes out of the water,” I say, pulling back my shoulders as we hove into view of the conference room. “These assholes are from Belgium,” Bert says conversationally. Perfect. My admittedly flawless Schwarzenegger accent is about to come out of retirement.

3

Chelle “Big stretches!” I stand on my tiptoes, and the three little girls in front of me do the same. I forgot how adorable ten year olds can be, especially when you get them into competitive theater games. Unfortunately, we couldn’t get too competitive— Bay of Dreams has a problem with aggression, testosterone, and meat. I’m now really glad I didn’t decide to do Terminator 2: The Musical for the kids’ school play. Too bad, because that went down like gangbusters in Arkansas. The special effects were really killer. Who knew you could get cardboard to do so many incredible things? Right, back to the here and now. The little girls bend over with me to touch their toes. After a few rounds of improv, where we all pretended to be our favorite movie characters, they’re ready for a cooling down stretch before heading home. The final bell is about to ring. And by bell, I mean brass gong. Confused the hell out of me when that thing went off for lunch. “Now, do we feel all spiritually cleansed?” I ask the girls when we roll ourselves back up. As I came to learn, things like spiritual cleansings are deeply appreciated over at Bay of Dreams. I tried to laugh off having a ham sandwich for lunch when all the other teachers were deeply shocked. Said I’d been a pig in a past life and was reconnecting with my old physical self. Guess how well that went down. “I guess,” one of the girls, Amanda, says. She’s got the face of an angel and the playful intensity of an overworked accountant in April. I’ve made it a priority to get her to crack a smile before my time here is done. “I feel like a Martian,” Ivy says before kicking off into a handstand. That’s what she’s been telling me all class: she’s a Martian, she comes from Mars, that Matt Damon movie was wrong because there are a ton of unicorns and Pegasus roaming the planet, and the air is really purple. What did we do to get lucky enough to deserve children? The final bell, er, gong, rings out, and the girls skip off to collect their shoes and yoga mats before heading out to their parents’ Teslas for a swift and silent ride home. That’s another memo I missed: electric cars are the thing to have here. My gas-guzzling car is not making me any friends. Still, as I walk back to the administration building to collect my bags, I have to admit what an idyllic place this is. The whole school is situated on a beautiful lot near the top of the canyon, complete with rustic hiking trail and waterfall. It’s the

kind of place where animated birds and big-eyed baby deer should frolic. Given the drugs some of the people who’ve used this property must have done, I’m sure that’s more realistic than I think it is. If only I could get that invitation to stay, become a full-fledged staff member. Because, I remind myself, this is it. The last gig. I promised myself that if I hadn’t found the right kind of job by the time I turned twenty-nine, I’d get back in my car and turn back to Mom and Dad’s trailer, probably trundling through the badlands of Montana by now. That sounds pretty dire, and it gets even worse when you find out what my parents do for a living. No, it’s not illegal. Although sometimes I think it should be… Still, no bad juju right now. I enter the office, where the staff is all laid out facedown on the floor. No, that’s nothing to do with the incense (though it’s pretty damn thick), it’s afternoon meditation time. Looks more like a dead man’s float in no water to me, but hey. I don’t have tenure. No room to judge. “Chelle!” Willow appears before me, a benevolently smiling blonde woman with feathers twined in her pigtails. Apparently she was an owl in a previous life. She was the only one who took my ham sandwich joke seriously. “Can I borrow a moment of your time? I’ll return it, I swear.” Given how metaphysical it is around here, she might even be able to do that. “Oh! Is it super urgent? I need to get home and give Archie his walk.” That’s the big downside of being out in the canyon. It’ll take me an hour to get home, easy. Willow nods in sympathy. “Of course. It’s just about the spiritual cleansing of Amelia Munroe.” If that doesn’t sound like a cult, I don’t know what does. But I have an idea what this is about and frown. “Oh, she doesn’t need that. Does she? I mean, it was such a funny thing this morning, right?” I laugh, but Willow’s not joining in. Her mouth pouts into a little O. If she starts hooting, I’m outta here. Owls, you know? “Her father’s come all the way from his office in Santa Monica. I think it’s right that you speak to him personally.” Crap. Well, gotta keep the parents happy. Happy parents mean recommendations for me to stay and keep working with their munchkins. I follow Willow back to the office, twining my way around and between my nearly comatose colleagues. What a day. We enter the assistant principal’s office, which has huge murals of daisies on the walls and beanbag chairs on the floor. The man I find seated in one of those chairs looks like the beanbag touched him in a secret place, and now it’s awkward between them. He shoots to his feet, happy to have an excuse not to sit on a round sack of pink pleather any longer. When I say shoots up, I mean right to the ceiling. He’s tall. Gorgeous. And if you swapped out the pristine suit and tie he’s wearing for a sweaty T-shirt and put an unneutered bullmastiff beside him, you’d have the very picture of the Bluetooth

wearing douche I ran into this morning. Cancel that. He’s more than a picture. He’s the original artifact. When our eyes meet, I can tell he recognizes me too, because his eyebrows shoot up. It’s hard to look sexy while you’re making Roger Rabbit surprised cartoon eyes, but he manages it. Like Jason Statham in a Warner Brothers cartoon. That thought should not turn me on as much as it does. And I need to slam the brakes on being turned on at all right now, because he is a dad. If he is a dad, then that means that he is married. Because as logic will tell you, some men are dads, and some dads are Socrates, so all men are Socrates. There’s a reason I went into theater science, in case you were wondering. “Hi. Chelle Richardson,” I say, giving him my hand for a firm, very collegial handshake. He takes my hand, which sends an unintentional flush through my body. Then, slowly, his eyes travel over me from head to toe, sending a much baser, much more fun flash of heat through me. Even though we’re in a school office in the middle of the day, I can feel my body, er, responding to him. Actually, it’s just like high school again, come to think of it. Ah, the days of crushing on Ricky Johnson when he had to go to the nurse’s office for his asthma… Wait, stop it, Chelle. There’s nothing remotely sexy about a stockbroking asshole scoping out his kid’s teacher when he’s probably married. Not cool at all, but completely in line with the way he was acting out in the canyon this morning. Like the universe is a new model Lexus and all he needs to do is get comfortable behind the wheel, start her up, and drive. All while taking advantage of the selfwarming seat, obviously. “Will is Amelia’s dad,” Willow says, obviously missing the angry eye-fucking that’s going on between me and this guy. Probably for the best. “And a proud dog owner as well,” I say. Will quirks half his mouth up in a smile, one he’s clearly fighting. Score one for the redhead. “Oh. How can you tell?” Willow sounds amazed. “It’s a vibe I get.” “Vibes. Mmm. The air’s full of them up here.” Will releases me, then sinks into a beanbag chair with such alpha male confidence that it somehow does not look ridiculous. I sit across from him, trying not to disappear into my seat. “Now. What’s Amelia done wrong? Not finish her kale chips at lunch?” From the slightly irritated tone, I can tell this guy thinks this place is all a little bit ridiculous, and I appreciate that. I also appreciate letting my gaze fall on his left hand to find that there’s no gold ring. Maybe he’s not married. Except he probably is, and I shouldn’t be scoping out the marriage status of students’ parents. That’s how you end up either in the unemployment line or the subject of a Lifetime movie, and not one that ends with everyone happily singing around the piano on Christmas Eve in a charming manse located in coastal Georgia. Not like I’ve made a study of those. Right. Amelia. Let’s talk about the kid, Chelle.

“Nothing. At least, I thought it was nothing.” I shrug. “We did a little introductory game in theater class today. Something to loosen up the shy kids. There’s an art to it.” “Really? I thought it was a science,” he says in a low, delicious tone of voice. Oh ho, yeah, he remembers me. It takes all of my considerable Northwestern theatrical training not to start drooling in front of him like Pavlov’s dog. We’ve had enough canine happenings for one day, the two of us. “The kids get to pick out music on my iPod and dance to it as a way of helping us remember their names. Amelia’s was…adorable,” I say at last. Willow tuts. She’s balancing a beam of balsa wood on her lap, which substitutes as a desk over here at Bay of Dreams. She’s making notes in finger paint. Yes, it’s really happening. “She chose Beyoncé’s ‘Bootylicious’ and then started waggling her spiritual end zone in the children’s faces,” Willow says gently. Spiritual end zone is a creative vocabulary choice for a child’s posterior, I gotta say. Will gets that steely, flinty, sparky, look in his gray eyes. “Are you telling me,” he says slowly, enunciating every word, “that you have ‘Bootylicious’ on your iPod?” He quirks an eyebrow at me, and I try not to laugh. It comes out as a splutter. Damn, I’m cool. “We all have past indiscretions we need to atone for,” I say simply. Will steeples his fingers, looking me up and down like I’m a portfolio he’d like to do particularly bad things to. Mmm, that’s right, sir. My market’s all bottomed out, waiting for you to come in and fix the problem. I have no idea what I’m saying, but it sure sounds like finance. “We need children to remember that they’re still too young to understand the fragility of the gender binary,” Willow says. She sticks her thumb in a tub of yellow paint, marking her note as very urgent. “Also, how the gender binary does not really exist, but the anarcho-communist post-biology segment of education doesn’t start until seventh grade.” “Mmm,” Will says, obviously not paying attention to Willow. Neither am I. It’s like a wrestling match between his gaze and mine, and I hope it ends up with my gaze naked and spread eagle in front of his gaze, while still taunting his gaze about how he’ll never defeat her, never. What the hell am I talking about? That got strangely Ayn Rand all of a sudden. “So my daughter should try to express herself in a binary-less way,” Will finally says, ending the heated gaze contest. He gives Willow a small nod. “From now on, it’s Cat Stevens and 70s pop all day, every day.” “If you could have her listen to Breakfast with the Beatles on Sunday, I’m sure it would do wonders for opening her inner eye.” Willow beams, pleased that we’re finally on the same page. I still think this is crazy, but I didn’t birth the kid, so I have no say. Wait. Actually, I’m still a little annoyed by this. Hold the line. “Your daughter doesn’t need to change,” I tell Will, feeling a tiny bit fidgety that

he’s so ready to just take the hippie musical prescription and move on with his day. Probably has a squash game in ten minutes, or whatever it is rich corporate types do for fun. Rich corporate types who are probably divorced… Not now, libido. “She also doesn’t need access to your outdated musical tastes, perhaps.” Oh, that got chilly. Will doesn’t like anyone muscling in on his parental territory, it seems. Well, that gets my stereotypically fiery redhead temper all enflamed. Pun not intended. Mostly. “At least she has fun in my class. She felt like she was able to express herself fully today,” I tell him proudly. Willow’s getting doe-eyed. Apparently she doesn’t know what to do when people get a bit caustic. Maybe it’s all the red meat that does it to me. I get up out of my beanbag easily, like the meeting’s over. Which it is. And Will rises along with me, setting that chiseled jaw and throwing back his shoulders like he is here to alpha all over this place. Well, good. Two can play it this way. “She can express herself at home. She can dance all she wants.” “But does she?” I squint a little. Does Amelia really feel comfortable and free to be herself with the world’s hottest and surliest dad right here? Hot being my word, that is. Not Amelia’s. Will thinks about this, and his (perfect) lips set into a firm line. Ha. He knows I’m right. “I’ll talk to Amelia,” he tells Willow, though he never looks away from me. “There’ll be no problems from now on.” Willow starts babbling about how they have some reiki Amelia can try if there are still issues, but Will dismisses her—and me—with a curt nod before starting to head out. “Tell Amelia I have all of Destiny’s Child if she’s feeling more retro,” I call after him. He stops, and gives me a searing glance, one that suggests I wouldn’t dare. Oh, but I would, hot, surly stockbroker. For Queen Bey, I would do anything.

4

Will I’ve never met a woman like that before in my life. Words and images are flashing through my mind, shoving into one another as I walk out of the room and try to get my thoughts in order. The nerve of some people. Red hair. Obstinate. Headstrong. Beyoncé. Dancing. Short. Sexy. The word flares up in my imaginary eye, and I have to throw it to the imaginary floor and stomp on it, imaginarily, because that’s not the way to think of a woman like that. She’s not my type, let’s be real. I’ve always loved long-legged, blonde, gamine women who charmingly forget to put a bra on before they leave the house. That’s my speed. Not loud-mouthed, caustic, incredibly sexy dammit not again. I speed walk into the courtyard, the freaking gong sounding the end of the day. Rubbing my eyes, I focus myself. It’s fine. Suzonne’s going to start picking Amelia up again once she’s back from that stupid yoga retreat. I won’t have to deal with that woman anymore, which suits me fine. Hell, I know it’s got to make her happy. Though she was checking me out. Obviously. I could feel it. I know these things. I have a sort of radar for those sorts of things. My antenna, as it were, is rising just thinking about— There are many good places to start getting an erection, but an elementary school is never one of them. My brain shuts down and I cool the fuck off. Good. Collected. Centered. I take a lap around the pine trees at the school’s edge, stop by the vending machine to pick up some kimchi-flavored Chex mix, and wait ten minutes for my little princess to come running out of her classroom, her Adventure Time backpack bouncing on her shoulders and a radiant smile on her face. “Daddy!” She slams into me, wrapping her arms so tight around my middle that I just about start choking. But hell, there’s no better way to go. Amelia’s at the age where she could be embarrassed about calling me Daddy or giving me a cheerful hug in public, and I’m grateful it hasn’t happened yet. I take her backpack and we walk to the car. People are giving my Lexus dirty, judgmental looks as we get inside. I know, it still uses fossil fuels, which means I am Satan himself. Giving a wave to all the carpooling hybrids on the street, I gun the engine and pull out. “I had the best. Day. Ever!” Amelia punctuates the last three words by knocking back against her seat, knees up to her chest. She’s dressed in a pair of pink, zebrastriped leggings, with a yellow tee shirt and a purple hoodie with mouse ears. If there’s one thing this kid is, in every sense of the word, it’s loud. She’s already taken control of the radio and is rolling her window up and down with a speed and

dexterity that borders on the incredible. “What was good about it?” My smile evaporates a little as Amelia gushes, “We got a new drama teacher named Chelle. She’s the best. She let us dance!” Her entire face lights up, and she tugs on my sleeve. “I want to be an actor! They’re going to have tryouts for the play, so I have to be in it. I have to.” Amelia bunches herself up into a little ball, then flings her arms out wide. Well, I can see her being bitten by the acting bug. “You know, about dancing. I had a talk with Ms. Chelle and the assistant principal.” I stop there, because the annoyance I felt at finger-painting Willow is resurfacing. What’s so wrong with a kid dancing, for god’s sake? And Chelle agreed with me. She was standing up for Amelia, if doing it in the most combative way possible. To me. She was doing her best for my kid. Standing up for her. I can’t think about my two fortuitous run-ins with that woman, though. I need to keep my mind and eyes on the road. “What about dancing?” Amelia asks, giving me the perfect angel look that means I become putty in her hands. Hell, she doesn’t need to know about what an idiot the assistant principal is. “Never mind. Ice cream?” I watch Amelia’s excitement level go from normal to stratospheric. “Mom never lets me have ice cream anymore!” That’s true. It’s all probiotic yogurt squeezes and low-protein goat milk over at the yurt. I’ll admit that when I found out Suzonne had sold our house to live with our daughter in a very nice tent in the canyon, I lost my temper a little bit. But the lawyers tell me it’s very safe, absolutely no bears and minimum sightings of wild cats. I’m not pleased, but until we get this custody issue sorted out, I need to keep my cards close to the chest. “Well, how about a little Salt and Straw and she never finds out?” Amelia gives me Angel Eyes™, the required accessory of every ten-year-old girl. “You’re the best, Daddy.” See that? I’m the best. Ice cream for every meal from now on.

We’re sitting on the street corner in Larchmont, enjoying a double serving of sea salt caramel ice cream, when my phone buzzes on the table. It’s an incoming FaceTime message, and Amelia’s eyes go wide. As for me, my testicles retreat a little bit up into my body. I try to keep that information limited to as few people as possible. “Hide the ice cream,” I tell her, because Suzonne is messaging me. I accept the FaceTime, and she’s there. Right there. Looking as beautiful as the day I met her, and as utterly pissed as the day she left. “Hey, Suze. What’s up?” She says nothing. At first I think this is a call to let me take a hard look at what I let slip away, but then she holds up a dry erase board. CAN’T TALK. SILENT YOGA.

Oh. Right. I let Amelia polish off my own ice cream while Suzonne erases the words and writes again, her brow furrowed with concentration. On the bright side, this is the quietest she’s ever screamed before. Finally, she holds up the board with a new message. VMAIL FROM SCHOOL. AMELIA IN TROUBLE?? “It’s not bad,” I tell her, mentally kicking myself for not coming down sooner and keeping Suzonne out of this. Then again, the school probably called her first. Since she’s the primary caregiver, it makes sense. Still, a friendly little aneurysm is building up in my brain, just waiting for the moment it can finally pop and end this. “Everyone laughed about it. Me, the teacher, the assistant principal… Well, she didn’t laugh, but she did finger-paint. We enjoyed that.” There we go, writing again. I wait about three minutes, and in the intervening time I toss my ice cream cup and wipe Amelia’s face with a napkin. I swear to god, her food ends up everywhere. Finally, Suzonne finishes, and it’s a long message, so the words are much smaller. Why can’t I go out of town for three days without a problem? My guru says that this entire divorce has thrown me out of alignment, and I can’t put up with this amount of negativity. They say it’ll cause brain cancer. I’ve been on a cleanse since Monday, and I’m already low on blood sugar. This did not help! Why can’t you think about my needs once in a while? Why don’t you try spending some quality time with our daughter so she doesn’t end up doing something crazy like taking drugs or dating an engineering major when she’s older?? “Is Mom mad at me?” Amelia asks, her voice uncharacteristically quiet, her eyes on the table. Okay. You can take it out on me all you want in this life, but you mess with my kid and the Hulk breaks out. And I don’t have those expanding underpants Hulk does, so it’s going to get really awkward exceptionally fast around here. “No way,” I tell her, then turn my attention back to Suzonne. “Suze. The school is fine. The teacher is fine. The class is fine. Amelia is fine. Go back to your garbanzo bean treatment, and we’ll see you in a couple of days. All right?” I’m still being pleasant, but Suzonne knows me well enough to understand not to push any harder. She mimes a sigh, and nods. The tension deflates. Then, quickly: ARE YOU EATING? WHAT KIND OF FOOD? Oh, dammit. “Soy yogurt,” I tell her. It’s not a lie. Except for the fact that it’s a lie. She looks mollified, and signs off of the call. I look at Amelia, who’s now scuffing the toe of her sneaker across the sidewalk. She’s drooping. “I didn’t mean to screw up,” she says softly. “You didn’t. Ms. Chelle thinks the world of you,” I tell her. Just like that, her energy powers back up to 100%. The kid runs on sugar and good thoughts. I defy you to find me a more perfect human. “She even told me you have a lot of energy and stage presence.” “Really?” Now Amelia’s flying high, and starts typing away at her iPhone. “I

need to put that on my calendar of good vibrations.” “They make you keep that at school?” What am I saying? Of course they do. “You want to audition for that school play, huh? Nervous at all?” Amelia’s never done anything like that. She scrunches up her face and giggles. “Nope. I’m going to get in, and then I’m going to get an agent, and then I’m going to get into movies or TV. I’ve got it all planned out,” she says, serious as a heart attack. Where’d she hear about agents? “Nichole’s dad’s an agent. Maybe he’ll be at my play!” “Slow down, lightning. You still need to get cast.” I ruffle her hair. Then, more softly, I say, “This is why I’m proud of you. I never had such big plans for myself when I was your age.” “Okay. First get the play, then talk to Nichole’s dad. That’s on the planner.” She hits send on the email, and sits back in her chair, swinging her legs and feeling pretty damn pleased with herself. I point at her ice cream. “I don’t like to see quitters. Finish that up, then we have some work to do. Like picking which movie we want to go see.” Look, I’m not going to be one of those Willy Wonka dads, I swear. But you’d never believe how happy a kid can sound. As she thinks about how much butter she wants on her popcorn, I realize Amelia’s only this happy because of Chelle. The woman really did her a solid on the very first day. Must be good at what she does. That’s a pretty sexy quality, come to think of it.

5

Chelle “So. First week. How you feeling?” Emery asks as she sits across from me, swinging back and forth in her hammock. I’d like to tell you we were having this conversation at some exotic tropical locale with drinks in umbrellas and taut cabana boys sauntering around, but no. Hammock’s at school. Turns out the teachers’ lounge took a page out of the 19th century navy and replaced our sofas and chairs with hammocks. One of them you have to climb a ladder to reach, and you better be supple. José, the alternative chemistry teacher, fell out of it on Wednesday. Then again, I’m pretty sure he was dabbling in some alternative chemistry, if you know what I mean, and I mean pot. “It’s wild. Kind of crazy, but also kind of lovely? The kids are a dream.” They really are, too. I’ve always loved kids—you’re a masochist to get in this job if you don’t—but these are among the cutest I’ve taught. And so conscious of things like the environment, child labor laws, and the history of the Tibetan conflict. Okay, those parts are a little creepy in a Lake Woebegone sort of way, but these kids also have the most pinchable cheeks and happy giggles. That makes up for the socialist stuff. “I just wish Willow would lay off Amelia a little bit,” I say, taking a sip of my all natural, high symbiote Macha green tea. I make a face, and not just at the hedge clippings in my mug. “It’s not the kid’s fault she’s energetic. And likes animal protein.” This entire week, I’ve put Mr. Surly Munroe out of my mind and have focused entirely on his perfect angel of a daughter. Amelia’s the bounciest, most excited kid in the class. Anytime I’ve got a scene to read out or an activity to demonstrate, she nearly falls off her beanbag chair to be allowed up. But apparently that much energy is distracting from the natural rhythms of the class, or whatever it was Willow said. It’s starting to irk me, actually. Emery rolls down her sweatpants leg and falls out of the hammock, somersaulting before she lands on the floor. She teaches karmic hockey and other physical activities over at the gymnasium, which is really just a nice term for a small patch of lawn to the west end of campus. Bay of Dreams isn’t exactly the place to send your competitive athletes, in case you were wondering. Still, it’s because of Emery I’m here at all in the first place. She flips her dreads over her shoulder and walks out with me into the hall. Ah,

the gong sounds. Time for my afternoon munchkins. “Let’s get some actual coffee this weekend and discuss more. My treat,” she calls, walking backwards to wave at me before running to class. God. Coffee, and maybe some processed sugar. Life never tasted so good. The kids are already running in a circle when I get there, warming their little bodies up. I spot Amelia right away; she’s the one who insists on always wearing a hoodie with mouse ears. Could I bottle her cuteness? Is that allowed? “Okay, center and circle,” I call, clapping my hands. I lay out a few purple gym mats, and everyone scampers to a seat at once. Amelia’s sitting Indian style first, rocking back and forth with enthusiasm. “So we have an announcement. Our spring musical is going to be…” I do a little drum roll, banging on the mat, then throw my hands in the air. “Oliver!” It’s true, in order to get the Dickensian tale of porridge-deprived urchins and Victorian haves and have-nots past the faculty, I had to take a few liberties. Like we’re setting the play in a Koreatown sweatshop now, not London. And Oliver needs to have one song at least about saving the whales. Beyond that, though, the sky’s the limit. Amelia squeals, and the rest of the kids get excited as well. Kids loving theater; is there anything better? “We’re going to have auditions real soon, but first I need you to talk to your parents this weekend and see who might be happy to volunteer.” I look over the sea of silent ten-year-old faces now. Can you blame them? Who wants their mom or dad hanging around with their teacher for weeks on end? “I only need one for right now, and you can tell Mom and Dad it’s going to be basic stuff. Help with picking out sets, help with costumes, help with snacks.” I widen my eyes dramatically. “Snacks are the most important part.” They all start laughing at that. Amelia starts bouncing up and down, waving her hand in the air. “My dad can! He can do it!” She stretches as far as she can into the air without actually standing up. She’s so adorable that I almost forget that her dad is probably the last man on earth who wants to pick out attractive yet affordable urchin costumes. In fact, if he’d been alive in Charles Dickens’s day, he might’ve been one of the guys who told Oliver Twist to stop asking for luxury items, like food. So I do my hem and haw routine, hoping to throw her enthusiasm off track. “Oh, well, we don’t need an answer right now. Go ahead and ask this weekend, and—” “But he wants to do it! He told me.” She gets the saddest, most stricken expression. “He told me how you’re a really good teacher for me.” I am not impervious to a little flattery, especially not from an adorable little girl with a super hot dad. It’s all I can do not to start twirling my hair around my finger like a teenager asking about her damn crush. Focus, Chelle! “Your dad said he wanted to work on the school play?” I’m not quite buying this,

but Amelia looks pretty serious. “He said he never cared about anything as much as I care about acting. He told me he wants to support me.” Amelia’s now getting some ten-year-old side eye, probably because she’s being enthusiastic and passionate and generally happy. Still, I don’t want to set her up for a lot of teasing, so I quickly say, “Well, let’s see what your dad says after school. That sure would be a ton of fun!” “He’ll say yes.” She looks proud enough to get up and take off flying around the room. “He used to not do anything with me at school, but he told me that he’s done being a jerk and is, uh, ready to be present. Or something. I don’t know.” She giggles again, but what she says pierces my heart a little. Doesn’t shock me Will Munroe used to not be the world’s most attentive dad. It also softens me a little toward the guy. Going through that divorce probably made him more sensitive. But sensitive in a John Wayne learning to love way, not a guy who wears a sleep mask and spends a lot of money on facials way. I don’t know why I felt the need to make that distinction, or why all I can see now is John Wayne in a glittery sleep mask. I need to stop thinking things. Like ever. I also need to stop thinking about how sweet Mr. Tightass Munroe is with his daughter, or that’s going to seriously compromise my ability to hate him for no reason. “Yoga exploration time!” I say, standing up and beginning our stretches. The kids are all right with that, let me tell you. When class is done, it’s the final gong of the day. Everyone slips into their shoes and backpacks while I tail after Amelia. My heart rate hasn’t gone up because I’m going to talk to her dad, oh no. It’s all that yoga. That’s what it is. Will’s parked in the shade of a pine tree, leaning against his car and staring down at his phone. He’s wearing a studly, frowning expression, like he just realized the world on average is not as hot as he is. A stunning realization, that. Okay Chelle, let’s go in nice and slow here. No need to profusely thank him or anything. A firm, diplomatic handshake ought to— “How’d you like my first born child?” He looks up in shock. “What?” If I step back and get a good running start, I can maybe plummet all the way down the canyon to my end. Just keeping that in reserve. “Sorry, it’s how I do you. Talk to you. How I do, and talk to you, I sort of combined those.” Come for me, sweet death. Take your servant now. While Will slowly slides his phone into his pocket, thus giving my insanity his full attention, I continue to try to stop fumbling the conversational ball. “I just meant first born child, like, in a ha ha way? Funny? Sort of like Rumpelstiltskin, you know? Did you ever read Amelia that story?” Will thoughtfully nods. “Much as I love collecting infants, I still don’t think I understand why I need yours.”

Firing. On. All. Cylinders. Today. Chelle. “I just, sorry, I thought you were a dick when we first met. Turns out you’re not. The thinking you were a dick thing, that was on me. I was raised to make quick choices and not look back, it’s how I ended up with six figures of college debt I’ll never repay. You know. It’s the exact same thing.” Now Will is looking like maybe he needs to get me into the car so he can surreptitiously drive me to Cedars-Sinai to get them to check my frontal lobe for any possible trauma, and honestly dude? Right there with you. Thankfully, I’m saved from any further nonsense when Amelia comes skipping up to us. Truly skipping! Truly saving my ass! Love this kid. “Daddy, you’re going to help with the play, aren’t you?” Will’s face stretches into utter blankness, and I know right then that Amelia volunteered him out of hope, not truth. God, now this is embarrassing. At least I can go back to sulkily judging him as an Armani-wearing douchebag. Good. That’ll comfort me in the dark of the night, when I reach for my vibrator. I…I don’t know where that last part came from. Then, to my seemingly endless supply of shock for the day, we add this little nugget: “You bet. Helping with plays is what I do.” He looks up at me, an eyebrow raised. “It’s how I repaid all six figures of college debt.” Oh ho, it is to laugh. “I don’t know if Amelia’s told you all the particulars.” I put my hands on my hips. Cock one hip a little bit. Maybe even swivel it… No, I don’t do that—there’s a child present. “It requires work on nights and weekends. Grueling decisions, last minute choices between costumes and sets. Granted, we’ve got a fantastic budget to work with.” “A lot of money, I take it.” “James Cameron gave us a grant of nine hundred thousand for the next three years. I could have actual lions doing Lion King if I wanted.” “Have to keep them fed. Lions, and all that.” “You could provide the meat.” There. Is. A. Child. I. Did. Not. Mean it. To sound like that. Thankfully, Amelia’s tapping away at her iPhone, and I recover fast. “Like, you could buy it and make choices between rump roast and filet, and it would probably need to be a lot—” “You’re asking me to give up nights and weekends from my twelve hour a day job to help with my daughter’s school play,” he says coolly. He puts a hand on Amelia’s head. God, he’s like a hot thirtysomething Daddy Warbucks. Maybe we should’ve done Annie. Maybe he could’ve shaved his head. No. Sacrilege. “Yes. That’s what I’m asking.” Here’s the windup, and the pitch of inevitable refusal, which is just as well because I do not want to spend a lot of time with this man, ho boy, not a chance. Not a chance. “I’ll do it.”

There’s a chance! “Oh. That’s…that’s nice,” I say, hoping I’m not now drooling on myself. Amelia looks up with boundless enthusiasm shining in her eyes. She even squeals, bouncing on her little Converse clad toes before wrapping both arms around her dad. Will smiles down on her, not an ounce of cynicism in his face. “It’s going to be my daughter’s debut? It needs to be perfect,” he says. Okay. Look. Assholery aside, I think my ovaries just started warming up. “Then I’ll, ah, be in touch. About. About schedules,” I say, starting to very subtly edge my way out of this perfect moment of love. Will looks up, his mouth quirking into a grin. “I expect you to be ready. I’m a person with ideas,” he says, “and I expect excellent results.” Oh, so it’s a challenge? Excellent. “Well, I don’t let anyone fall down on the job.” “Good. I’d hate to think I’m pulling dead weight.” Of all the lousy, stupid, sexy… “Don’t worry. I’ll be pulling you all ni—pulling you along all night.” Good save, Chelle. The World Series winning conversational catch of all time. “Then I think we’re in business.” Do I detect a little extra glance along my body as he says it? Or am I imagining things? God, I hope I am. God, I hope I’m not. “Guess we are,” I say as a clever parting shot over my shoulder. I march down to get my car, and I can’t help breaking into a grin. Business never sounded so exhausting, or interesting.

6

Will The great pack animal lopes ahead, scenting out his kill. He’s all majesty in action, all steely muscle and quivering snout. And drool. Don’t forget all the goddamn drool. Bruno stops on the trail in front of us, his head perking up and his ears rising. My heart rate gets higher; that’s right, boy. Is she coming? Or are you going to— “Ew, Bruno pees a lot,” Amelia says. It comes out as more of a yawn as she slumps against me. Sun’s barely crested over the canyon, and she’s already out of bed. Normally on Saturdays when we’re together, I make sure it’s a good day. Amelia gets a little extra shut-eye while I walk the beast, then wakes up to some pancakes and bacon. I make the manliest pancakes on the west side. Mickey Mouse shaped and everything. Chocolate chip eyes. The testosterone flows, my friends. She was a little confused, in the sleepy child way, when I gently prodded her awake at five thirty in the morning. She’s a trooper, though. I think she had the idea when we got to the canyon that it was going to be a pancake scavenger hunt. They’d be hanging from the branches of trees, like the best Garden of Eden ever. Hell, if Eve and Adam had to avoid eating pancakes instead of apples, the snake would’ve never needed to get into the picture. Who can resist pancake fruit? By now, it’s apparent to myself that I’m rambling on because I got my angel daughter out of bed at the crack of dawn to scour the canyon looking for a particular fiery redhead. Christ, but I couldn’t get her out of my head after yesterday. Rumpelstiltskin references are the way to a man’s erotic center. Also, she doesn’t back down from an argument, no matter how inane it is. That’s a woman I can get behind. And yes, I meant it that way, and no, I do not apologize. But I realize that I dragged Amelia into this, which makes me take a hard look at myself and not love what’s looking back. She stops, rubbing a fist into her eye while yawning so wide I can see her molars. Not winning Dad of the Year points at the moment. “I think Bruno’s pretty well walked and peed-out,” I tell her, ruffling her hair. “What do you say we head down to Castro’s for some pancakes? Bruno can have some chicken sausage.” “Can we get the kind of pancakes with the melted butter drizzled on top?” Amelia’s eyes widen at the possibility of drawn butter. This child is mine, I tell you. “Extra butter.” I whistle for Bruno, and the three of us begin a walk back to our car.

Christ, I need to ease the fuck up about this. I’m going to be in a room with Chelle for weeks to come, arguing about tape measurements and shit like that. She’s going to be as irritating as any other teacher is during help on an after school project. I’ll stop noticing things like her bright green eyes, or the swell of her breasts, or the perfect span of her hips. Pretty soon, I’ll just see her as a floating mop of red hair. Sexy, curling red hair. Fine, I won’t notice that either. It’ll be like talking to an invisible being wearing yoga pants. Nothing to take my mind off the task at hand. Then, with a huge woof, Bruno takes off like a shot. Amelia starts calling for him, chasing after. There’s the sound of high-pitched, frantic yips. Christ, I’d know those yips anywhere. They come from that ball of hair and eyes that Chelle calls a dog. So unless Arnold or whatever his name is drove himself out here, that means mistress is not too far behind. I run ahead to find Amelia giggling and pointing. Bruno’s standing there, tail wagging lazily as Archie the mutt humps his foreleg vigorously. Apparently, Archie is into revenge sex. There she is, jogging up alongside the two canines and giggling while running a hand through her hair. Chelle’s arrived to save the day. I come to a halt beside the humping dogs, pick Archie up, and hand the squirming animal back to his owner. “Fancy meeting you here,” she says. Did she wink at me? Was that a blink? Damn, I need to loosen up about this. “Introducing Amelia to the wonders of early morning exercise,” I say casually. My daughter is now curled up beside the dog, asleep on the ground. “We’re taking it one step at a time.” “Well, I know how it feels to need your beauty sleep.” Chelle kneels and gently shakes my kid’s shoulder. When Amelia sees her new favorite teacher in all the world, she’s as awake as if I’d given her a shot of espresso in a stick of dynamite. She nearly bowls Chelle over, squealing with glee. “Remember how you said we need to pretend we’re part of our environment?” Amelia’s panting with excitement. “Watch! I’m a boulder.” Then she rolls into a tight ball on the ground. Chelle about falls over laughing, and Amelia rolls around happily. Damn, she’s good with my kid. I used to think a nicely rounded ass and a pair of knockout tits were two of a woman’s sexier attributes. That’s got nothing on this. “You will be the finest rock of them all!” Chelle says, helping Amelia up. She’s looking good this morning, in a pink zip-up sweatshirt with a pair of clinging light gray yoga pants. Damn, she wears them well. “Well. You two are probably on your way home, so I’ll get out of your hair. Or fur,” she says, scratching Bruno’s head. He woofs, licking up at the little hairball in Chelle’s arms. Archie licks the air right back. I think it’s a mutual attraction. “We were just on our way to breakfast,” I say as she comes alongside me. She stops, her arm brushing against mine. She raises those killer green eyes. Fuck, if

she knows what I’m thinking, or how I’m responding to her, she’ll be horrified. Probably. Maybe turned on. I like that line of thought better. “Why don’t you join us? Amelia can’t talk about anything but you.” I smile. “Maybe if she tries talking to you, I’ll get a break.” “Well, I’ve been singing Amelia’s praises, too.” She grins right back. “You’ve got a pretty perfect kid.” “Will you come to breakfast? Omigod, will you?” Amelia leaps to her feet, Bruno leaps alongside in shared enthusiasm before knocking her down and kissing her. She giggles, so no harm done. “What do you say? I need a chance to thank you for making this a good year for Amelia.” That is absolutely true. The fact that I climbed a freaking mountain to see her has nothing to do with my invitation. Chelle looks down at Archie, who licks at her chin. “Well. Do they have outdoor seating?” she asks. “Unless they want a bullmastiff harassing the wait staff, they better.” “Now that I want to see. I’m in.” She turns breezily and walks with Amelia down the canyon trail, the two of them chatting it up. Bruno walks alongside me, tail whacking me with his enthusiasm. I know that feeling, brother.

I like a woman who can eat. More than that, I like a woman who can eat home-style fried potatoes, scrambled eggs, pancakes, and five strips of bacon in a single serving. We’re at Castro’s, one of those brunch places that gets hipster-y as hell on Sundays, but come Saturday morning and it’s a bunch of dogs and the owners that love them. Bruno and Archie are sniffing around a potted plant against which a dachshund is busy rubbing its ass. Amelia’s halfway through her giant stack of pancakes, and I’m on my second cup of coffee. Chelle? She’s dug straight into her food. “I don’t eat like this every day,” she says, the only moment she’s sheepish. She pokes at the eggs with her fork. “I mean, I’d love to but I’d have to be rolled out of Bay of Dreams. You gotta indulge now and again, you know?” I know. Judging by the way I find it hard to look away from her, even with half a pound of potatoes on her fork, I understand the temptation to indulge all too well. “So what is it? Kale smoothies and garlic pills in the morning most days?” “Ew.” She wrinkles her nose. That’s another good thing. For a while toward the end of our marriage, Suzonne kept talking about how we needed an actual goat in the house so she could feed straight from its teat. After giving the goat nothing to eat but saltines, of course. “No, I’m a bowl of Raisin Bran kind of gal. But growing up on the road didn’t give a lot of time or money for splurging on breakfast. Mostly we’d be happy with a packet of Pop Tarts and some Diet Coke.”

“You got Pop Tarts and Diet Coke?” Amelia gapes like it’s the greatest thing she’s ever heard, revealing a heap of mashed-up pancake while she’s at it. With a throat clearing designed to get her to remember her table manners, I return to the conversation. “On the road? Were your parents in the army?” She blushes a shade of red that goes along well with her hair. “They, ah, had the same ridiculous face paint the army sometimes uses.” “Excuse me?” She looks at her lap and mutters something. “Sorry, one more time?” “My parents are clowns.” She looks up, still red from the tip of her chin to her hairline. My first thought is that they’re a couple of losers who didn’t make the right kind of choices in life, but then I think about it. Grown woman who travels around putting on plays with kids? That kind of nomadic lifestyle would be right at home for the child of… “Circus clowns, exactly. Your eyes are sort of lighting up with dreaded realization.” She starts digging into her plate; I think she’s trying to avoid my eyes. Holy shit. A couple of days ago, this would’ve been comedy gold. The mouthyyet-attractive woman telling me how to raise my own kid, the spawn of clowns? How many tasteful yet irritating clown jokes can you make? Family vacations in the clown car? Ronald McDonald as your first adolescent crush? The options are endless. But this woman, unlike her stereotypical alpha hipster teacher counterpart, doesn’t deserve ridicule. “It must have been…fun,” I say at last. She snorts. I think she’s waiting for the hammer to land. “Hell, I would’ve done about anything to have grown up like that.” “I don’t know, trying to have friends over for a sleepover in the Airstream trailer was kind of a stretch. Actually, make that friend. One friend per town.” Sighing, she looks over at Amelia, who’s secretly feeding bacon to the dogs. “I would’ve done just about anything to grow up in a house with a yard.” “I did that, but I think it’s overrated.” She gives me the yeah, sure look. “Seriously. Dad would come home from a day at the office, loosen his tie, take a scotch on the rocks and call his secretary. Mom would clean the kitchen in response. Third time that week.” God, it was like Mad Men but with worse retro shag carpeting. “That’s awful.” She chews some pancake in solidarity. “My parents always loved each other. That was something to be grateful for.” “Always grateful?” She grins and then winces. “I mean, sometimes they’d send me to the store for ice cream. I always had to go, even if the store was a mile and a half away. It gave

them some alone time.” Okay, maybe growing up the child of circus clowns leaves a lot to be desired. “Tell me something honest here.” I steeple my fingers and give her the Calculating Stockbroker Look™. “Did you ever wear the red nose?” “Oh, all the time. I was baptized in it.” She says it with a very serious face as well. Amelia giggles. We have an audience. “What happened when you hated home?” “I told them I was going to run away to an accounting house.” “Favorite sport?” “Juggling.” “Childhood pet?” “Jumbo.” “Elephant?” “Anaconda.” “That’s a weird name for an anaconda.” “Well, we called him that after he ate the elephant.” Now Amelia’s laughing so hard she’s practically falling out of her seat. While Chelle revives her with a sip of hot chocolate, I inwardly curse at not being able to deploy my size of your clown shoes routine. Chelle Richardson is funny, no question. Only when she looks up at me with a friendly wink, it’s not funny at all. No, it’s serious business.

7

Chelle “Hello, peanut!” my dad says as he pops into view on my computer screen. Dad’s grinning, as usual. I mean, he’s still wearing his garish clown makeup, so the smile’s kind of painted on. But he’s got a genuine smile as well. It’s like he has two grinning mouths. Let me get that horrifying image out of my head, and we’ll continue. By the way, just so we’re clear, “peanut” is my nickname. And yes, it’s for Circus Peanuts. With my parents, the show must go on, and on, and on, forever and always. “The place looks great,” I say, taking in the surroundings. Looks like he and Mom had finally put their eight parakeets in cages. I love those little chubby birds, but they do have a tendency to crap on everything. I see them all now, fluttering their wings as Dad waves them on. “Say hi to Chelle, kids!” They all whistle in unison. Aw, such cuties. Then Jimmy the monkey leaps onto Dad’s shoulder, eating a banana. Looks like the gang’s all here. “How’s my baby?” Mom asks as she sits down next to Dad, holding a plate of brownies. Aw, she’s baking! That’s so normal it’s…oh. “Those aren’t legal baked goods, are they, Mom?” I ask. She shushes me and giggles like a schoolgirl. Right. It’s pot. “Looks like you’ve got quite a spread there!” Dad says, giving me a grainy, potato cam thumbs up. Well, considering they live in an Airstream with birds, monkeys, and until recently a miniature albino alligator (RIP Ethel), my cramped studio apartment is palatial. Mom and Dad have some pot brownies while I content myself with my Chipotle burrito. Archie dances around my feet, hoping for some pulled pork. I hand it over, of course. I’m not a monster. “I looked at my calendar, and guess what I realized?” Mom pulls out her Hot Clowns of 2017 poster. Think those sexy firemen calendars they sell for horny women’s favorite charities, but add wigs and a nose. Then, after you return from the screaming edge of the abyss of insanity, have a stiff drink. Right now, we’re on the month with the clown pulling open his expandable trousers, pointing suggestively at what’s inside with a rubber mallet. “Er, what, Mom?” “Your six year anniversary is almost here!” She squeals with glee, all but kicking her feet.

My stomach sinks as I remember that promise I made to myself the day I drove out of Northwestern’s gates, graduation cap still askew. If I can’t get a real teaching gig by the time I’m twenty-nine, I’ll hike it back to the old Airstream. There’s no place like home. Granted, there it’s more “there’s no space at home.” Ha. Ha. I’m funny. Seriously, I didn’t expect to be standing on this particular precipice, looking down into a void of cotton candy and balloon animals. A very soft void, that. Anyone can get a job teaching, right? Surely someone in this country wants to hire a full-time theatrical faculty member, right? Right? Nope. “We’ve got your room all ready for you again.” Dad beams and takes a chug of his Mountain Dew. He drinks that stuff by the plastic gallon. Ever since I told them about my plan to move back if things didn’t take off, my folks have seemed psyched about the whole thing. Wish I shared their enthusiasm. “You mean my corner of the trailer, right?” I say weakly. My room. Ha. Funny. “We even put a curtain in so you can have your privacy. I’ll just be sorry to stop having wild screaming sex with your father whenever I like,” Mom says conversationally. Then she tears up. “It’ll be so nice to have you home, sweetie.” I love my parents, I truly do, but going back to Casa Richardson with all the plastic horns and the fake noses and the potential monkey bites just leaves me feeling sick. Archie whines and blinks up at me with his huge Disney eyes. I wonder how he’ll do with Jimmy. At least Ethel isn’t there anymore to swallow him whole. Poor Ethel. Jumbo the anaconda seriously eats everything in sight. “We’re counting down the days!” Dad says as we finish the Skype call. Then I go, lie facedown on my bed, and wonder how exactly I got to this point in my life.

All children are wonderful and all children are insane. Never is that more apparent than during audition rounds for a school play. After a busy Monday full of macrobiotic smoothies and reestablishing each child’s crown chakras, I’m watching two solid hours of auditions for Oliver, ranging from adorably out of tune to a bit bizarre. Will sitting next to me, his jacket off and his shirtsleeves rolled up, isn’t helping my concentration any. When I sent him the email asking about help with auditions, I was certain I’d get back a response along the lines of, “Being a master of the universe, I’m afraid I’ll be too busy pumping iron in my office while millions of dollars flood into my bank account as if by magic. Also, here is a high definition photo of me without a shirt. Salivate from afar.” I may have spent a little too much time imagining that last part. But here he is, on time, appraising each kid like they’re auditioning for the Broadway production of Sad White People: The Musical. The last four have been kind of strange, and he’s having a hard time keeping his manly composure.

The first kid, Delilah, came in and sang Muse’s “Uprising,” complete with a self-written rap interlude in which she condemned global warming and talked about My Little Pony. The second, Jefferson Immanuel Kant (all his first name) belched the opening to the Communist Manifesto. Number three was Rubicon, who did the entire “You like Huey Lewis and the News?” scene from American Psycho, complete with plastic raincoat, axe, and lots of exploding ketchup packets for blood. I put a special note next to his name to ask his parents in for a special cleansing of “please monitor your child better.” And finally, Christine sang “Tomorrow” from Annie. In Elvish. Throughout all of this, I’ve been giggling and wanting to jump up, clap my hands, even sing along since I sort of know Elvish as well. Marathoning Lord of the Rings movies will teach you valuable life skills. However, Will keeps adjusting and readjusting his tie, doing it stoically. Manfully. Testosterone-ly. I have to say, Christine especially has something soulful going on. The gap in her front teeth also makes all of her S’s adorable, which is something that’ll translate great to an audience. When she skips off the stage, I turn to Will, beaming. “I think we’ve got our Oliver,” I say. But he’s not having any of that. The brows go down, the perfect lips scowl, and now he’s a frowny Calvin Klein model. Boy, I sure do love making this man sad. The view is fantastic. “You can’t be serious.” “This is my serious drama face.” “She doesn’t have the right impish look! Look, I’ve made a chart,” he says, taking out an actual spreadsheet from the leather binder on his lap. Dear god, he has a pie chart as well. “By my estimations, Oliver needs maximum vulnerability with an offsetting cuteness. If you have cuteness tipping beyond vulnerability, the audience won’t be able to emotionally connect. There’ve been studies about this sort of thing.” “The vaunted studies of pulling pie charts out of your butt?” I snatch the binder out of his hands and head out of the auditorium, into the mellow late afternoon. Holy shit, this guy has everything. He even did a study of what kinds of vocal ranges are suited to hero versus villain roles. This man is both astonishing and clearly needs to get laid. I’m looking for volunteers, I mean. You know. Acting as his manager and such. “You don’t need to get so worked up about this,” I say, laughing as Will shoulders his way out the door after me. He’s set his phaser guns to stun, admiral. By phaser guns, I mean his eyes. By stun, I mean that in both the good and bad way. Even bad is good, in this case. Sorry, I digress. “We need to teach these kids how they’re going to be evaluated in the real world.” Will crosses his arms, bunching his (steely, perfect) muscles beautifully. “No, we need to teach these kids how to be creative and have some damn fun,” I answer hotly.

Will snorts at that. Somehow, this man can snort sexily. It ain’t fair. “Sounds like my ex-wife,” he mutters. Then, quickly, he adds, “I’m not saying you’re her. It’s just that she’s always going on about how kids need to be free, but that usually translates to unsupervised and neurotic.” I’m getting a whole mixed fruit salad of emotions right now. The cantaloupe is exasperation—and it’s not the good kind of cantaloupe, it’s that watery green kind. Yuck. There are a few blackberries of intrigue, what with the ex wife. But the unsyruped cherry on top is how he thinks children should be taught. That makes me both angry and hungry, because I shouldn’t have made this fruit salad metaphor so close to dinner. “Look, you’re not wrong. Not totally. A lot of the people around here,” I mutter, jabbing my thumb out at the holistic courtyard in front of us, “seem to think that any kind of discipline will shatter kids’ fragile little spirits. That’s total bullshit.” Will gives a surprised bark of laughter at that. Guess bullshit isn’t an approved word here at Bay of Dreams. Eh, screw it. Meet the real me, Will Munroe. “But art isn’t the same as finance, or medicine. I know it sounds corny to say this, but it’s about emotion. Connection.” I get that fizzy bubble feeling inside me when I talk about this next part—I always do. “Ready for a sappy story?” “From you?” Will’s eyes get what I might call a sparkle. “Always.” I’m not blushing. It’s sort of maybe warm out here. “When I was in Oklahoma, my school did a production of Sleeping Beauty, and the girl we cast as the lead was deaf. I got a lot of flack for that from parents, even from the principal, saying that the girl wasn’t going to be able to meet the requirements. They said she was too shy, and that the role should go to someone who could actually do it. But I knew this girl had the right quality so I dug my heels in. We changed her part up a little bit and it really worked! Turns out she was a pretty good dancer—which no one knew—so we made it almost a ballet pantomime. Everyone went crazy for it, and when it was over, this kid ran over to me and signed really fast. I needed to get her mom to translate for me, but she said she’d never thought she could be a princess before, but now she knew she could be one if she wanted.” Man, this is the part that always makes me ugly cry a little, so I have to take a minute to compose myself. Will’s listening attentively, I’ll give him that. “Anyway. That’s the reason you have kids do theater. They have to feel strong before they can go out in the world and be strong.” A full minute of silence ticks by. Will’s frowning now, his gaze piercing me through. Not in the sexy way, either. It’s like he’s trying to figure out how I work on a mechanical level. “So. Got a tis—” I’m asking for a tissue when he sweeps me up into his arms and kisses me. His mouth covers mine, nothing tentative about it. It’s a masterful kiss, him claiming my mouth over and over again. My arms twine around his neck, when what I should be doing is pushing him away with a Scarlett O’Hara “I do dee-clayah! Mr. Munroe!” But I don’t. Instead, I pull him closer, feeling the scrape of his stubble

against my cheek. He tastes like breath mints from heaven, or something else celestial and minty fresh. When we finally pull apart—which body does not want, but brain insists on—I find I can finally exhale. Will lowers me back to the ground like I’m floating back out of a dream, back to my job and the school and…the fact that I’m still doing my job at the school. While snogging a parent. Snogging’s a great word. Okay, brain. Let’s get back to it. “That was…” Will’s voice trails off. The tone is deep, rugged, sexy. I respond, “Shhweee.” I think I was looking for the word sweet, but we’ll never know. “Very,” he agrees. He steps away, even though every molecule in my body right now is telling me to fling myself back at this tall, infuriating, infuriatingly gorgeous man. But just as I’m about to throw caution and my bra to the wind, someone adorable comes bouncing up to us, her mouse-eared hoodie still on. “Is it time for my audition yet?” Amelia beams up at me. I don’t think she’d be this casual if she’d seen me locked in a passionate clinch with her dad, so I think we’re safe. “Audition,” I reply helpfully. “Yet. I mean, yes. Your dad’s going to get some coffee, I think.” We arranged ahead of time that Will wouldn’t take part in casting Amelia, because of conflict of interests. Then again, I was just in a furious lip-lock with him, so my interests are conflicting all over the place today. “Soy bean coffee. Good for the digestion,” he tells his daughter as she gleefully races inside. Already, I can hear her warming up, singing “la la la” and “do re mi” and “Bootylicious.” Yeah, I let her listen to my iPod again. Sue me. “Look, before you get your soy on,” I say, feeling proud of myself that I’m not shaking, “that can’t happen again. I mean, not that it was awkward or you weren’t a good kisser.” Crap. Not how I meant that. “You’re an insane kisser. Like insane good, not insane psycho killer with an axe. Your tongue is not an axe. I’ve never had an axe in my mouth before.” “I’m sorry. I got caught up in the moment.” Will says it with that steely, casual air that you get when you’re earning a certain amount of cash. “Don’t worry about it.” “Because I would worry about it a lot. I mean, it’d be great if your daughter weren’t here, and the school, and Mercury’s in retrograde, you know?” My flawless reasoning speaks for itself. “Like I said.” He gives an effortless, liquid kind of shrug. “My bad. It won’t happen again.” But as Will saunters off to get himself a cup of not-coffee, and Amelia leaps onto the stage ready and willing to sing her little heart out, I’m emotionally stepping on my own toes until my eyes water. Because my body is still reverberating with that kiss, and hot damn but I liked it.

8

Will Usually, the beginning of the day is my golden hour. As the sun rises over the Pacific, and the cars below on Ocean Avenue are just starting to pile up into traffic, I find myself at my most Zen. This is the time of day to make the killer decisions, pick the best stocks, and woo the most difficult clients. Today, however, there’s no wooing involved. I’m sitting here, squeezing my stress relief ball that’s shaped like Garfield the cat—which Amelia gave me for Christmas, making it the most perfect squeeze ball on earth. I’m squeezing the fat orange thing because I can’t get my mind off Chelle’s lips. I can’t stop thinking about how I want to make them my own. In a romantic way, not a terrifying way. I can negotiate; it’s what I’m known for, what my bosses expect of me. If I can navigate the pitfalls of the marketplace with ease, I can convince this woman that slamming the brakes on us—whatever this nebulous us is at this point—is the biggest mistake of her life. I didn’t mean to kiss her, especially not at Amelia’s school. But the way she was speaking about that kid in Oklahoma made me feel like a drowning man who’s seen a branch hanging over the river that he can grab onto. A really gorgeous, motivated, passionate branch that he wants to explore with his… I need to get off this topic. It’s starting to get weird. Chelle cares about everything she does. She’s not looking to game the system, to rig things so that she can benefit. She’s one of those people who wakes up in the morning feeling like things can be changed. It’s impossibly naïve. It’s something any sane adult knows you have to leave behind in your idealized youth. Chelle doesn’t seem to give a shit about any of that. I’ve never seen a more desirable trait in my life. So I kissed her, impulsively, I’ll admit. But then the thing happened that I really didn’t expect: it felt fucking amazing. The way she melted right into my arms, the way she pressed herself against me, wanting more. The little exhalation of surprise when we stopped—that one got me hard instantly. That one was a little difficult to walk off. Like I said. There’s a way around this predicament. For me, there always is. Rubbing my eyes, I return Garfield to his customary place of honor, next to Amelia picture 587b. Looking at my kid’s face, I’m also worried as hell about more than her gorgeous teacher. With my cup of what-the-fuck-is-this, I’d snuck in during the audition to watch. Amelia’s got enough energy to power downtown Los Angeles, but even I could tell she was a little unfocused. She got ahead of the music

on her singing audition, and she kept smiling when reading the lines, even the dramatic lines where Oliver has to run away from the sweatshop owner shouting about the rise of the proletariat. Pretty sure that wasn’t in Dickens, but it’s been a while since college. But when my angel doesn’t get the lead—and I know she won’t, because Chelle’s already locked down the Elvish kid—is she going to be devastated? Maybe that’d be for the best. Then I wouldn’t have to hear about how amazing Chelle is, how fun Chelle is, and I could start disliking Chelle for ruining my little girl’s dreams. Anything to get over that goddamn kiss. My phone buzzes from Nicki at reception. I pick up. “Hey. New call?” “So sorry,” Nicki whispers. “She’s on her way now.” The way Nicki says she means I don’t have to ask who it is. I’m on my feet as my door swings open, and my ex-wife walks into the office. The morning sun creates a halo effect around her long blonde hair. She’s still as tall and slender as the day we met, if maybe a little more tanned. She snatches her sunglasses off, revealing eyes as blue as the ocean outside, still sparkling with life. Seeing her like this, it can be hard to remember why we separated in the first place. Then, without saying a word, she goes and sits in a corner of the room, facing the wall. She lets out a long om type of chant. That’s why. “Suze. Is there any reason this couldn’t wait until I was out of work?” I wonder what’ll happen if Bert comes in and sees this. Considering Bert’s on wife number three, he’ll probably give a commiserating nod. “Oh, it’s nothing at all, Will. Our daughter’s only been ensnared by a trickster spirit!” Every muscle in my body tenses as I think this is her way of telling me to put out a fucking Amber Alert, when I realize that in Suzonne speak, this’ll probably amount to “our daughter has some semblance of a mind of her own.” “Is this like trickster fox? You kept mentioning that one from the last vision quest you went on.” White Sands, New Mexico. Suzonne took the peyote and communicated with her spirit helper, the one that looks like Bono and a lizard had a baby. I remember it like it was last week. When really, it was…two months ago. Christ, Suzonne’s been pretty AWOL recently. If my attorney were here, she’d be telling me to take notes. “She tells me about this new drama teacher at Bay of Dreams. She says this woman is the greatest person ever.” Still facing away from me, Suzonne holds up an accusatory finger. “Her words. Also, totally amazeballs was added for emphasis. Then she told me she auditioned for the school play.” Suzonne makes it sound like Amelia did a line of coke and then went for a joyride in a cop car. “I’ve met Chelle. She’s done a lot to encourage Amelia.” I sit back behind my desk, because I will meet my ex-wife halfway on a lot of things, but this spiritual avoidance technique is bullshit. Booting up my screen, I get back to work. “Is that a

problem, Suze? That our daughter’s getting encouragement?” “It is when she’s getting encouraged to do the wrong things.” Suzonne finally stands and sits in front of my desk. She puts her hemp handbag down at her sandal-clad feet, and leans her admittedly toned and flawless arms against the sides of the chair. “We know Amelia doesn’t have the required animus for theater.” “We don’t know anything of the sort. This is something you just said and acted like we both agreed on it, probably in some dimension that isn’t accessible except through that machine from the movie Contact.” If that sounds bizarrely specific, it’s because we have had that exact argument before. “I want Amelia to shine. To nurture her potential into the full flowering of creation.” Suzonne does some kind of mystical hand waving while she speaks. It’s like a referee throwing a bunch of signals nearing halftime, except none of them make sense. “Amelia’s calling isn’t in the theatrical arts. My favorite monk told me so.” That’s right. Suzonne knows enough monks to have a favorite. How? Don’t ask me—I was working at the time. “Suze, allow me to cut to the chase.” I look at my ex-wife, making sure my eyes lock with hers. “Amelia loves acting. Maybe it’s something she’ll love for two years and give it up. Maybe she’ll become a star and astound us all. The point is, she’s excited and happy, and I’m not going to dissuade her from that. You can have an opinion; I just don’t have to go along with it.” Breathe in deeply, breathe out deeply. See, a good system came out of all the years of her trying to get me to do hydraulic yoga. Suzonne puckers her mouth, but she doesn’t argue. She loves our kid. I know she does. But she shows it by micro-managing her in an abstract way. It’s like the worst of helicopter parenting combined with the worst of raising a latchkey child. “Well. I suppose that ‘Chelle,’ as you call her, will take care of Amelia’s inner growth.” “Why’d you put air quotes around Chelle?” “She may one day decide that’s not her name. She may also discover she’s otherkin, so she might be a different species. I met a seahorse the other day trapped in a man’s body—” “I’d love to keep this up, but unfortunately I have a meeting.” A meeting with the screaming voices inside of my own head. I get up, and Suzonne rises as well, hitching her purse up to her shoulder. “Let’s talk tonight, okay? Give Amelia a big hug for me.” “Oh, one last thing. I need your approval for something very minor.” My ears perk up, all coyote like. This is bound to be anything but minor. “I want to put Amelia on a macrobiotic juice cleanse. It’s only a week long and I think that her body is getting backed up with a lot of processed sugar. I’ll need you to help me on the weekend, though, when you have her. Make sure she drinks four glasses of juice a day, along with two glasses of water. That way, all the toxins will flow out of her in a great rushing river.”

“Of shit? Because that’s what it sounds like is going to happen.” I take Garfield off of my desk and give him a good couple of squeezes. Get me through this, pal. “Amelia needs this, Will.” “Did she say she wanted it?” Suzonne lip-puckers again. I already have my answer. “She doesn’t want to, but I’ve told her sometimes grown ups know what’s best.” “And sometimes they don’t. You’re not starving my daughter.” I’m already taking out my phone, and pulling up my attorney’s number. “Please, for your own sake, don’t make Sheila the happiest she’s been in months.” Suzonne knows not to press this. She sighs as she slides her glasses back on. “All right. If you want your daughter to be clogged, that’s your right.” Damn right. I want her clogged with awesome, that’s what I want. What the hell am I saying? “At least don’t forget to pick up Amelia tonight. You can take her back to the yurt,” Suzonne says conversationally, like the word “yurt” is something every separated couple includes in their vocabulary. “My Reiki class is going to be hard at work.” “I’ll be there,” I tell her. And I will.

I go right up to the auditorium doors when I arrive, because I want to be there to give Amelia a hug. There’s no question she’s going to be disappointed in the play. The doors open, and a bunch of kids run out. Soon, I see the mouse ears, and brace myself for a kid trying to put on a brave face. Disappointment makes you strong; there’s always the next play. I’m trying to pick which of these to start with when Amelia launches into my arms like a rocket. “Guess what? Guess what?” She’s practically tearing my hair out in fistfuls, but who gives a damn about my scalp? My kid’s happy. The world’s all right by me. Holy shit, did she get a lead part? Maybe it’s like the ending of one of those movies where a pleb like me can’t tell that my child has real natural talent. Like Purple Rain, only without the sex and 80s hair. “I got cast,” Amelia says, gathering a dramatic breath, “as one of the pickpockets!” “That’s…amazing!” I say, wracking my brain to remember Oliver Twist. Let’s see, tenth grade, third class of the day, I was sitting next to Luisa Johnson and she always wore the top two buttons of her blouse undone…nope. Dickens is gone. Only breasts remain. “So you’re going to be…” “In the chorus, but it’s okay. I’m going to get to design my own costume and everything!” My daughter finally climbs off me, setting off for the car with determination. “I have to make a mix! I’m going to listen to it every day to get pumped up!” she shouts. The kid’s ready to make the most of the smallest opportunity. I’m sorry, my

child is the best. Thank you for showing up to the rest of planet earth. “They’ve all been super excited,” a familiarly sexy voice says behind me. Chelle giggles as she watches the kids stampede for the cars, ready to tell their parents. “Usually there’s some jealousy over who got the lead, but they’re all so welladjusted.” She twirls some hair around her finger idly, and in that moment I lock in. I may lose this fight, but I’m going to give this my best goddamn shot. The woman is sexy, funny, smart, soulful, and good at her job? How in hell has she not been snapped up by an elite school by now? Or an elite kind of man? Then again, do I really want to complain about that last one? “I was thinking we could get together soon and start planning,” I say, gathering her attention. I make sure that my gaze weds with hers. I all but wink at her as I say, “Just the two of us.” “Great idea. It always pays to get ahead.” She grins, awfully businesslike. Christ, this woman is either teasing the hell out of me or she doesn’t know what I want, and either way it’s turning me the fuck on. “How about Embargo? It’s a new place on the west side. We could meet tomorrow, maybe at seven.” She’ll look up the directions, see the kind of place this is, and know at once what we’re really doing. It’s a way of dropping a hint without being obvious. Slow and steady wins the race, said the tortoise. And in this case the tortoise is trying to wine and dine a particularly feisty hare. I know that’s not how the fable went and there’s an element of cross-species weirdness going on, but I do not back down from that analogy. That’s not what I do. “Sounds good!” Chelle writes that into her phone calendar, and walks with me back toward the parked cars. Amelia’s tugging on the door handle, already itching to get inside and start creating her awesome mix. “See you tomorrow,” Chelle calls to me, waving goodbye to Amelia as she heads down to her own car. I get behind the wheel grinning. My plan is perfect. She’s going to show up tomorrow ready to be wined and dined. She’s totally on board.

9

Chelle Holy shit, I’m wearing a Voltron sweatshirt to a swanky wine bar. How the hell did this happen? I managed to snag the perfect parking spot right in front of the place—also helps that I’ve got my trusty little Smart Car, which I realize looks almost exactly like my parents’ first clown car. That killed my joy a tiny bit, but I named it the TARDIS and felt better. It’s small on the outside, roomy inside! And lime green, so not really the TARDIS, but I mean— Okay. Wine bar. I should’ve looked more closely at the address when I typed it into my GPS. I got the stupid idea it was a coffee shop, and dressed for the occasion. Sneakers, gray yoga pants, and said Voltron sweatshirt. It’s my nicer Voltron sweatshirt—the robot’s got the sword and everything. Maybe, just maybe, I’ve forgotten how to be social. The people coming in and out of the bar look like the type who jet set to Capri on a moment’s notice. There is no body fat on the people here. Maybe I can’t even get through the door because of that. Maybe they have a retina scan that detects whether you’re rich or not. Why would a retina scan be able to tell that? Flushing, I take my notebook and purse and walk quickly into the bar with my head down. I pass a couple of futuristic-looking lamps, like the kind that resemble a Tesla coil but fancier. The whole ambience of this place is Blade Runner meets billionaire. The bartenders dress in black silk, and the ambient lighting is soft. Glasses wink in the light, and people eye me over their expensive Malbec. I wish I’d worn my leather jacket instead. Yes, it has pink hearts on it with “Pink Ladies 2014” in glitter paint, but it was the best high school production of Grease in Seattle, dammit. This is where I stop, and turn around, and walk straight out the door. Damn the Gucci set and their nitrogen cocktails or whatever everyone’s drinking in here, I am way underdressed. I’ll text Will from the car and tell him that I died. That will go over without a hitch. “Chelle! Where are you going?” There he is, right on schedule. I let myself pivot slowly, wondering if I can come at him with a convincing fake accent. Chelle, who ees thees? I yam but a French spy, monsieur. The fake accent wedges itself in my throat and refuses to come out, because Will takes my ability to talk away. His hair’s attractively tousled, like he’s fresh out of a shower. He’s in a dark blue sports coat over a deep blue shirt, one that sets off his

tan and reveals his cross fit physique. Just the barest glimpse of his chest is revealed, and it’s so perfectly sculpted that I nearly start drooling on Voltron. Voltron wouldn’t mind. Voltron knows a smoking hot man when he’s standing in front of it. “I, ah, don’t think I’m appropriate.” Let’s face it, I never am, but usually I at least look nice. Will’s finally taking me in, scoping out my ponytail, my freshly washed, makeup-less face, my yoga pants. Dear god, my yoga pants. I could’ve gone with black. At least I could’ve passed that off as Armani in dim light. “Let’s just get you a drink,” Will says at last. “I don’t think I can be here. I think you need a mid five figure salary to be allowed in the door.” “Then I’m good for both of us,” he says casually. Big spender, then. I flush a little in embarrassment. “I don’t look right.” “You look like a person, which is right enough. Alcohol will help your anxiety. All the best doctors tell you that,” he says, cocking an eyebrow as he leads me on. It’s like being led along in a fairytale, an LA fairytale where the enchanted forest is all exposed brick and casual bongo music, and the enchanter is a fabulously attractive man with a lot of cash and a pinch of arrogance. I hear you in the audience yelling at me that that’s about perfect, but I don’t see it that way. We finally sit at a table with a small, open fire pit. I’ll have to remember not to accidentally fall face first into the coals, though it might be a blessing right now. A waiter with a hipster goatee and a billowy poet’s shirt takes our order—he’s taking a whiskey on the rocks, I’ll have all the wine in existence. Then it’s us, him and his fancy clothes, me and my Hello Kitty purse and notebook. I don’t need to bring Hello Kitty out at this moment, but I feel it regarding me from inside my bag, judging me. “Man, I thought this was a coffee shop,” I say by way of explanation. The wine gets here, and I take a polite chug. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to run out back there and leave you hanging. It’s just that between this really swanky place, and the soft lighting, and the romantic music, and the snooty wait staff, and your classy outfit, this is the last place I would’ve picked for a casual meeting about a school play and holy shit this is a date, isn’t it?” It all comes running out of me like a colorful waterfall of crazy. Will’s watching me with the patient, steely gaze of a man who realizes what he’s locked himself into. I’m on a date with a parent of a student. No, no, this isn’t happening. Gotta get up, Chelle. No matter how hot he is, or how great he is, or how amazing that kiss was, or how perfect his lips are, or how hot he is—wait, you said that already. Shit. Get new material. Before I can either run out of the place or inadvertently light something on fire,

which was option number two, Will does something I didn’t expect. He laughs. Not the wheezy kind of laughter, or the psycho killer laughter, both of which would’ve been turn offs. It’s the kind of delighted, and utterly surprised, laugh that someone gives when something good’s happened. It almost makes me feel like a not-screw-up. Almost. “Yes, this is a date.” He looks at me across the table, the firelight casting wicked shadows across the elegant planes of his face. This is wicked in the best way. “At least, it can be.” “Eh?” I’m glad I made that noise instead of boi-oi-oing and having my tongue roll out of my mouth like a carpet. I was supposed to react to the word “date” like it was shocking to my very delicate, ladylike sensibilities. Instead, it all but melted me where I’m sitting. “I believe in negotiations. If you choose this,” he says, laying a hand on my notebook, “we finish our drinks, discuss the play, and head home. No repeats, no renegotiations.” He’s now giving a half-smile, his eyes coming alive with the challenge. “But if you agree to put it away, this becomes a date. No strings, no promises of anything other than a drink or two. And we see where the night goes from there.” God, he’s got that cocky edge to his voice. He knows he’s not going to lose. “Suppose I choose option A?” I don’t care if this guy’s gorgeous—I mean, I care a little—but he doesn’t get to assume total conquest. I take a sip of my wine, feeling pretty fancy, even in my Voltron sweatshirt. Will grins, looking charmingly wolf-like. Very charming. “You could, but that’d be the less adventurous option. That doesn’t much sound like you, does it?” he asks. Nope. I once hog-tied a rattlesnake to keep it from getting at our best tapdancing pig. I was born adventurous. “You don’t know me very well,” I say, still trying to be cautious. I think that’s what I’m doing, at least. “Last I checked, getting to know each other was a reason for a date.” Well, touché then, sir. “No funny business?” I notice Will takes too long to respond. “Hey!” “Sorry, I was going to make a clown joke but stopped myself.” He leans back, confident, invulnerable, and wearing really, really nice cologne. It smells like success and a dense pine forest. “What do you say, Chelle?” After a moment of careful thought, I slide my notebook off the table and back into my bag. Will’s smile only widens. After all, it’s just one drink. What’s the worst that could happen, besides losing my job, embarrassing myself in front of a man I’ll have to spend large amounts of time with, and probably lighting the table on fire by accident? That’s all pretty bad. But the worst? The worst would be walking away, because this man is infuriating and wonderful in equal measure. I take another sip of wine while I think, and finally, “I say we should take a look

at the menu. We might be here a while.” I think that’s plenty brave enough for Will. In fact, I’d say it’s damn near a turn on.

“You left town in the middle of the night with an exam the next morning?” Will and I are now much closer, cozied up in a corner of the table. My wine’s winking at me in the glass, or at least what’s left of it is winking. Heh. Wine with eyes. I’m a little drunk, shhhh. “The ACT, mind you. I would’ve had a perfect score, too, if it hadn’t been for Melissa Ann’s birthday party over in Glendale.” I shake my fist at the ceiling. “Curse you, parents, for putting me in charge of the bubble machine.” Hell, I can always say I was learning a trade. In fact I did, on my application to Northwestern. They ate that part up with a spoon. “Didn’t you miss any of your friends?” Will’s removed his jacket by now, and that shirt is beautifully tailored to his body, picking out every definition and firm line. Mmm. Firm. Mmm, line. Wine. Whatever. “If I had any to miss, sure. But Mongo Jerry the pig and Peaches the banana slug were allll the friends I needed.” The hours I spent pouring my little adolescent heart out to a slug should not be recorded in the history books. We should let that part die. “No boyfriends left behind in the caravan’s dust?” Will slides my wine glass back to me, brushing his fingertips against mine as I take it. A warm, delicious shiver runs down my spine at that touch. I cross my legs as the heat pools between my legs. My head’s fuzzy and this man is perfectly attentive. It’s going to be hard going home alone tonight. “I didn’t really date in high school. Once a guy knows you can juggle better than him, it’s game over.” “Boys are fucking idiots. I like to see a woman who’s good with her hands,” Will says. Mmm, so many ball handling jokes, so little time. “And for you? Were there dozens of fainting teenage girls left behind in your wake?” “Hundreds.” He leans in closer, whispering in my ear, “I never lie.” “You’re so modest.” “No, never that. Just skillful,” he says, his tone getting deeper and richer by the second. Jesus Christ, I’m about to fall out of my seat, and that’s mainly not the alcohol talking. Slowly, ever so slowly, Will’s hand slides down to rest on my thigh. I can’t help a soft gasp that escapes; he seems pleased to hear it. “I’m kidding, of course. Well, not the skillful part. More like three.” “So, practically a monk,” I drawl. Will shrugs, liquid and effortless. “I was second string on the football team in small town USA; I could’ve gotten

laid all I wanted. But I studied too much, and besides, I like women who are a challenge,” he says. His fingers trail along my thigh, tentative, seeing how far I’ll let him go. Fuck, but I’m prepared to let him go very far. The second before he arrives at, er, the final destination, I put my hand on his. Stop him cold in his tracks. Will stiffens—not in that way. Well, maybe, I’m not sitting in his lap so I can’t tell. He makes a low noise in his throat, practically a growl. The way he squeezes my thigh, and the smile playing on his lips both make me think he likes the hunt. “So you wanted to see if you could bag the cute little redhead at your daughter’s school?” I try to make that sound easy, but I’m worried there’s truth to it. Will takes his hand away. Crap, I may have been onto something. “I think you’re using the wrong words,” he says coolly. Ah, there we go. Control freak time. I probably needed to hit at least seven of fifteen of his would bang vocabulary words. “Should’ve gotten rid of cute?” “Definitely. Sultry. Smartass. Beautiful.” His eyes trail to my chest—I took off Voltron when it got a little warm in here. “Fantastically endowed. We could start there.” “Where’s it going to end?” I ask, my breath catching in my throat. I’ve never squeaked so sexily before. “That depends on the next move,” Will says as he draws me against him and kisses me. It’s not a surprise move like it was the last time. Now, I’m aware of everything as he leans down, ghosting his lips over mine for one brief instant. It’s him checking to see if this is okay. Which it shouldn’t be, because he’s still a parent and I’m still a questionable professional. “Yes,” I breathe, and he captures my mouth with his. I moan against his lips as he traces a hand along the edge of my tank top, as he brushes his fingers along the swell of my breast. My nipples harden at the merest touch. For tonight, fuck school and everything else. It’s been a long time since my last relationship, and I’m not the type that goes out to a bar looking for a fling. My body’s ready for this. “We’ve had a little too much to drink,” he says softly, his lips still brushing against mine. At first I’m afraid he’s going to imply I’m out of my mind with booze and that we should table this. Because my body is slamming on the internal gas, roaring down the Fury Road of sex. Whatever that means. I need to stop watching Mad Max movies before I fall asleep. Thankfully, he continues, “We shouldn’t drive.” “Uber exists,” I say, getting out my phone without dropping it. Score one for me, especially as I nearly do drop it when his hand caresses my thigh just inches away from the danger zone. Kenny Loggins, I don’t need you in my head right now. I’m about to get laid.

10

Will I don’t think about what I’m doing. Not as Chelle presses her body against mine in the car, my hands gliding over her perfect fucking breasts. She gasps and keens with that little contact, and I’m hard at the sound. I don’t think as we get out and go up the stairs to my condo, me following close behind her and watching her ass in those yoga pants. Whoever invented those sons of bitches is a hero to mankind. I don’t think when I fumble the door to my place open, but I do think about keeping the light off. The lights from the street shine in through the windows, but other than that I want her here, like this, the place dark around us. Chelle gasps as I pick her up, and her legs wrap around me tight when I lay her on the couch. She looks up at me, lips parted. I kiss her again, listening to her moan when my tongue thrusts inside her mouth. “I want you like this,” I tell her, sliding my hand up under her shirt. “In the dark, begging for me.” She keens as I circle her nipple through the thin fabric of her bra. Her red hair spills across the sofa cushion as she arches her back. Fuck me, it’s taking everything I have not to come right now. She sits up enough to help me pull off her shirt, and I start unhooking her bra while I kiss her. She tastes phenomenal, like red wine and strawberry lip gloss. The bra slips off her shoulders, revealing her breasts. Her nipples are hard and perfect as I flick my tongue across the peak, taking her breast into my mouth. Groaning, she then straddles me, wrapping her legs tighter around my waist. My erection presses up against her, begging for release. Christ, she starts moving her hips. She bucks against me. Fuck, I need this woman now. “Hold on,” I whisper while she fumbles with my coat. I slip it off, and her hands get to work on the buttons of my shirt. Her lips are parted with need—she’s flushed and begging for my cock. “It’ll be worth the wait,” I growl, easing her to lie back on the sofa. In one swift motion, I slide off her pants. She lies there, wearing only her panties, and it takes all my self control not to rip them off as well. I kneel above her, fish a condom out of my pocket, and tear the foil. Chelle laughs, sounding breathless. “You came prepared,” she says, sounding admiring. “Boy Scout days,” I tell her as she unbuckles my belt, unzips my pants. I mean, we didn’t earn merit badges like this. While she frees my cock and begins stroking, her hot little hand running up and down my shaft, I put my hand between her legs.

Fuck, her panties are damp. She’s ready for this, wants this. Chelle gasps as I yank them down, trail my fingers up the length of her naked thigh. Then I circle her swollen clit, loving the way that she calls my name and trembles under my hand. She lifts her hips, whimpering to get me to go deeper. I take it slow, teasing her as she writhes against me. “Please,” she whispers. “Will, fuck me.” “When I’m ready,” I say, edging one finger deep inside of her pussy. Then, for good measure, I add a second. Moaning with pleasure, Chelle starts riding my fingers, thrusting against them. Goddamn, she’s so wet and tight. Her pussy clamps down on my fingers, her motions urging me on to take her all the way. Before I give in, I press my thumb against her clit, harder and harder as she throws her head back and cries out. “God, I’m going to come. Oh, fuck,” she moans, grinding harder against me. Jesus, I think I’m about to lose my fucking mind as her pussy tightens on my fingers. I pull my hand away as Chelle sits up, knees to her chest. She looks up at me with eyes that are pleading and pleased; she knows I want this as badly as she does, maybe even more. “You come when I’m inside of you, riding you hard,” I tell her, finally removing the condom. Chelle reaches up and takes it in her hand, circling my cock. Fuck yes, she strokes all the way to the base and squeezes me before dragging back up. I groan low in my throat as she continues, leaning forward to put her lips on the very tip of my dick. God, I could come right now, but I know her pussy will be better than anything. I have to be inside of her. Chelle sits up higher on her knees, still working her hand up and down my cock. I press her against me, lining my body up with hers as I kiss her again. “I need you inside me now,” she whispers against my mouth. The condom in her hand, she rolls it deftly down and over my shaft, then straddles me again. My cock rubs against her opening. She reaches down and guides it in a hot, teasing line along the seam of her cunt. Moaning, she almost edges it inside of her. Almost. But that’s my job. I take her by surprise, laying her back down on the couch. I begin to sink inside of her while she gasps, but then I take it back out halfway. Grinning, listening to her whimper, I begin my process all over again. I drag my cock up and down her pussy, lingering on her clit. At the moment before entering her, I stop again. She bucks against me, her eyes wide and pleading. “Beg me,” I tell her, my teeth gritted and my arms shaking. It’s all I can do not to allow myself to take this woman as hard and as long as I can. I want to know how much she wants it, that she wants it so much she can’t stand to be without my cock deep inside of her. Chelle responds by biting down on my shoulder, just enough so that my nerves explode in pleasure. Grunting, I pull her close against me and pull her hair away, kissing the back of her neck and all the way down her shoulder. Her skin is electric

against mine, and she’s gasping as I slide myself on top of her, as my cock is so hard and so ready that I can’t stand it anymore. “Please,” she whispers in my ear, her arms wrapped around my neck. “Please fuck me. Make me come.” Then her mouth presses against mine, and as she kisses me I drag the head of my cock down around her clit one last time. Then, slowly, I sink into her, listening to her moan as my cock claims her utterly. Christ, I’ve never known a woman this tight before. She thrusts against me, panting with need as I slide in to the hilt, until I can’t go any deeper if I wanted. When we’re joined like that, I groan. Fuck, it hasn’t felt this good in a while. It may never have been this good before. Slowly, I pull back and savor the sensation of her pussy tightening, trying to hold on. Then I thrust again, and again, loving how she cries my name as her hips match my rhythm. I wanted to start even slower, to make her ache for it and beg me, but I can’t control myself. I thrust harder, and deeper, and faster, listening to the perfect timing of our gasps. She fists my hair and buries her face against my neck, crying out as I drive into her. She says my name over and over, like a prayer and a release at once. I press myself close against her, feel her tits as they bounce with the rhythm. My balls tighten, and my vision starts fracturing. I’m right on the edge, but I want to listen to her moan my name when she comes. I want to see how much I can make her scream. I pull her knees up so that they’re against her chest. Chelle cries out as I start pounding inside of her, I slip a hand between our joined bodies and circle her throbbing clit one last time. At my touch, her entire body convulses and she throws her head back. “Fuck, I’m going to come,” she whimpers. Yes. That’s right. I keep teasing her, circling her clit as I pound harder and faster. I want her to know I’ve been here. I want her to remember. As she calls my name again, begging me to release her, I feel the pressure building in my own body. Her cunt clamps down tight on my dick and I know I’m lost. Chelle shudders and screams—actually screams—as the orgasm hits her. Her eyes are shut tight, her mouth wide open as she’s pushed over the edge. That’s all the incentive I need, and then my cock jerks as I come inside of her. “Fuck,” I growl, losing myself in her calling my name and the hot slap of our bodies coming together. Then I let myself lie on top of her a minute as the orgasm spins itself out and the world’s pieces reunite themselves. Chelle kisses my chest, my neck, my jaw, still whimpering. Her eyes flutter closed, and she gives a soft sigh of relief. “So. Good meeting?” I say, still trying to catch my breath. She giggles and screws her face up at me playfully. “You get a gold star,” she says, kissing me as I slide out of her. As I lie back on the couch, and she lines her body up against mine, I think about how important it is to stay in school. An education really sets you free.

11

Chelle I wake up to the scent of coffee and the feel of fabulous designer sheets beneath my naked skin. This is sort of like that time I dreamed I had a passionate night with ’95 era Colin Firth, only this time, A) the décor is a lot less Austen-esque, and B) this is actually reality. A wonderful, coffee-and-sex filled reality. My phone alarm is buzzing beside me, patiently reminding me to get the hell up. There’s a robe waiting on the chair. My god, it’s like if house elves were six foot even and ruggedly handsome. I would do the hell out of Dobby if that were the case. Well, probably not. The condo is two levels, and I head downstairs to a living room bright with sunlight. I hear the gurgle of coffee, and cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen. I pass by the sofa where Will and I had our first carnal embrace of the evening. Nobody ever calls it a carnal embrace anymore. Let’s bring that back. Will’s in the kitchen, wearing a crisp white shirt and elegantly tailored black pants. His suit jacket’s hung on a chair. He’s been up and out, the glorious bastard. He turns when he hears me enter, and be still my heart, he’s holding a plate of fresh croissants. My stomach joins the conversation, loudly congratulating this man on being such a thoughtful lovah. My stomach says things like lovah and fabulous, dahlink. It’s a 1930s French movie star. “Good morning,” Will says, a smile tugging at his lips as he looks me up and down. I believe he’s undressing me with his eyes. I believe I want to slip out of this robe and help his imagination out a bit. I saunter over—sauntering never felt so good. Then I take a steaming cup of freshly brewed coffee out of his hand, choose a buttery, flaky croissant, and brush my lips against his. He finishes the kiss, sealing my mouth with his. God, I feel like letting the breakfast crash and burn on the floor while exploring every gorgeous inch of this man… And then I remember it’s a school day. And I have a dog that hasn’t peed. And I’m almost totally naked. “I have to go!” I say, though my lips are still on his and his tongue is flickering in my mouth so it sounds like Mm hmm hm mrrrrrr. Will does the sensible thing of releasing my lips from his. I race back up the stairs, chugging coffee and taking gargantuan bites of pastry as I go. Damn, I’m going to have to Uber it to my car, drive to my place, take care of the pooch while changing—I’m just going to have to hop into work clothes in the middle of the street. No one will mind this, I’m sure. Brush teeth, comb hair? Eh, we’ll see how much time we have.

Fuck! Why did I make such a stupid mistake last night? I should never have stayed over. “Need help finding your clothes?” Will’s leaning in the doorway, one eyebrow cocked and his (muscular) arms crossed over his (rock hard) chest. Ah, now I remember. Not a mistake at all. I slip out of my robe and wriggle into my clothes while he watches me with appreciative attention. When you’re raised in show biz—well, sort of—you get used to being naked around people. The people are not usually as hot as the man involved, so this is just a bonus. “Team Voltron is a go,” I say, finally tugging the sweatshirt on and rolling across the bed, ninja style, to grab my purse. “Watch me soar.” I rub up against him in the doorway, which is hardly an inconvenience. “Sorry to eat and run.” “And to think I got up early just to pick up those croissants.” He tsks, shaking his head. “Fucking tragedy.” “Oh, you bought them? You didn’t manfully bake them while also grinding the coffee with your bare hands?” I flutter my lashes, bringing out another devilish smirk. That looks good on him. Then again, a tie-die spandex onesie would probably look good on him as well. Maybe it’s the confidence. Or his bone structure. Or my particular fetish. “I had to wrestle a bear for those beans, if it makes any difference,” he says, sweeping me into his arms for one fast kiss. I feel myself melting, just as his hand trails down the front of my sweatshirt. My nipple peaks with just the pressure, so I have to remove myself from the situation before it gets, ah, out of hand. He winks. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” I never do, sir.

“Not to be weird, but do you have a sweater I can borrow?” I ask Emery when I run up to her in the teachers’ lounge. She’s hanging upside down from one of the circus silks, and when she sees me, she nearly falls to the floor. Great. Kill your friend, get some coffee, go to teach: perfect start to the day. “Girl, was there a fire at your place? Everything burnt up?” she asks as she hustles me to her locker. Thank god Emery’s a pack rat who keeps half her wardrobe at school. With a bright red cardigan, I at least look chipper. It’s good I’m a theater teacher, so I can pass the yoga pants off as movement exhibitors or something else fruity. “Now you gotta tell me,” she says, waggling her eyebrows. “Who’d you do the walk of shame for?” “Uber of shame,” I groan. Traffic was terrible this morning. I barely got to my car before I had to floor it to school. Thankfully my neighbor looks in on Archie from time to time, so we’re covered there. Then I sigh, because can you blame me? “He was great.” “Anyone I know? Candice said she has a brother.” Candice is our friend from social knitting class. Her brother is a self-proclaimed

cat Sherpa, just to give you a point of reference. “It, er, step into my office.” I drag Emery into the gym, where we start setting up the mats. “This can’t go any further than you,” I hiss. Emery rolls her eyes; that’s her version of cross your heart. “Will Munroe.” “Will—” Her eyes go saucer-wide. “Oh, you did not. Holy shit. You’re crazy. Was it good?” “Very.” I give her my crazy smile. Crazy like a fox. A fox floating on a cloud of endorphins while it lounges by a pool in a bikini. Weird image, but we’ll run with it. “It’s not, like, serious is it?” The way Emery says that is the nice way your friends ask if you’re really going to get those shoes, or if you’re really eloping to Barcelona with that zephyr player. It’s concern wrapped in smiles, wrapped in bacon. I wish it were bacon. “Not at all.” Pssh, of course I don’t give a shit about the three best orgasms of my life all happening concurrently. I can walk that off easy. “Kay.” She bites her lip, which is Emery speak for very concerned. “I just know that his ex-wife is crazy. Even by crunchy granola standards, she takes the glutenfree cake. She tried to put Amelia on a juice cleanse. Even called the office to get them to deny the kid solid foods.” Holy shit. “So I need to watch out for boiling rabbits on my stove? Or, you know, boiling rabbit substitutes?” “Exactly. Plus, he seems like kind of a dog, doesn’t he?” Does he? Doesn’t he? I don’t know—I showed up to an expensive wine bar wearing cartoon characters. I’m all out of good radar. “I like dogs. I have a dog.” Good, that adds to the conversation. As the gong sounds and the kids start racing inside, slipping out of their shoes and hanging up their backpacks, Emery squeezes my arm. “Men after a divorce are always just lookin’ to score. Good for you for getting some, though.” She winks and heads out while I set the kids in a circle and ignore the fast fluttering pulse, the suddenly icy palms, and the overall lack of control. The wine bar, the smooth talk, the croissants and coffee, it all feels like it’s straight out of a player’s manual, doesn’t it? Will was confident—check. Dreamily confident—check check. In fact, he never seemed nervous, or like he was trying out something new. Holy shit, what if I’m the third person at Bay of Dreams he’s put the moves on? Maybe the others are too embarrassed and too afraid of losing their jobs to talk about it? Or maybe I’m the only one who’s ever been stupid enough to follow through. Holy shit. It’s Darren all over again. “Who’s Darren?” one of the kids asks. They’re all in a circle around me, watching with wide eyes. Please tell me I didn’t curse in front of the kids. “Darren is my imaginary friend,” I say lamely, putting my arm around a phantom nobody beside me. “Say hello!” While the kids giggle and wave, I realize why I was so short with Will before and

why the annoyance turned to arousal in such short freaking order. It’s because I used to date Will Munroe before, back when he had another face. I don’t mean this in a Face/Off sort of way where he’s John Travolta or anything. My old boyfriend, my one serious relationship, Darren—he was a single father. He had a harpy of an ex-wife. He seemed perfect and understanding and made me coffee. Then, one fine spring evening, he took me out to our second favorite sushi joint and informed me that he and his ex-wife wanted to have another kid. They wanted another kid so much that they banged, and now she was pregnant, and he was planning to take some time off of our casual relationship to help her through the pregnancy. Then, after a few months of living at home with his still very much ex and welcoming the newborn, he’d be ready for us to continue our casual, casual fun. Here are two facts about me: One, I carry a foghorn in my purse. It’s sort of a holdover from my circus days; I just feel better when I have something that honks near at hand. After Darren laid this whole beautiful story at my feet, I rummaged in my purse, took out said foghorn, and held it an inch from his ear. He did eventually recover most of his hearing. And two, I have terrible taste in men. If I’m intrigued by you, or if you start getting my panties damp and my nipples perking to attention, it’s probably because you have the creep pheromone. I’m attracted to it like Archie is to the smell of another dog’s balls. In fact, it’s probably a related phenomenon. Now I’ve gone and shtupped a man who can derail my career with one easy word to the principal. What the hell have I done to myself this time?

“I’m just glad you’re giving this one more shot,” Emery says as we stroll into the Urth Café later that night, balls and needles in hand. That is yarn balls and knitting needles, of course. We’re the most boring twenty-somethings in Los Angeles. Our social knitting group is in their spot right by the window, looking out onto the street. The place smells like expensive coffee beans and green tea. The gang’s all here, all looking very preppy and scrubbed. When Emery told me about a knitting group, I was excited. Finally, people to make elephant tea cozies with and discuss which Robert Jordan book is our favorite. Answer is every one of them until he died, and Brandon Sanderson took over. Natch. But instead of finding a nerdy camaraderie, I ended up with a bunch of yoga moms and preps. I always feel like I’m out of step because I don’t give a damn how hard aquatic yoga is on your arms or cellulite, and I don’t have an opinion on whether Taylor Swift was better before or after she left country music. The ladies—two named Shelley, three named Alison—all look up as we sit down. Emery told me once, under her breath, that they begged her to stay to allow them some diversity cred and make them feel super tolerant. The only reason she keeps coming is to throw glorious shade.

“Hey Shelley,” she says to one of the Alisons as she sits down, taking out her needles. “Oh, that’s so funny! I’m Alison,” Alison 3.0, or maybe 2.0, says. She turns to the others like she just heard a hilarious joke. “Isn’t that funny? I love how that’s so funny, that you can’t tell us apart.” “I really can’t,” Emery says flatly, beginning the left arm of her sweater. It’s going to show the Virgin of Guadalupe eating a cantaloupe. None of the Alisons or Shelleys get it, but they tell each other it’s so funny over and over again. My phone buzzes as I sit, and I take it out. Second text from Will of the day, which should make me feel like dancing on the tables, but currently makes me want to curl up under one and rock back and forth. Good day? I could try reading many nefarious intentions into that text. It’s almost as evil as his first, when he texted: Hope you got to school safe ;) He gave me an emoticon wink. Clearly the man is an axe murderer. Every time I’ve gotten one of these, I’ve wanted to text back. Maybe something flirty, like, Safe is one word for it (glad we used a condom if you missed the meaning) or WHY DO YOU WANT TO HURT ME or Thanks ;) Pick one. What am I supposed to do? Tell him I want it casual? That I like things casual? That the only man I ever thought I loved viewed me as totally casual, so casual is how I have to think of myself? I’m like leisure wear. I’m like a casual traveling suit that a man might wear on a business trip in the 40s, with a slight checkered design. You know, a suit that’s been around to a few places, maybe the Orient Express… “Oh dear, you’ve completely missed your stitch,” one of the Shelleys says, clucking her tongue at me. I look at the whole congregation of them, two sleek brunettes and three blondes with their roots touched. They’re wearing yoga pants and cardigans, same as me. They’re the same age as me, or thereabouts. But none of them just screwed a divorced poon hound. None of them just blasted their chances of getting tenure at a school. None of them have to move back to an Airstream with two clowns and a murderous anaconda that I’m pretty sure is just biding its time before it gets us all. None of them have fucked up problems. I could open up to them, tell them all my fears and doubts. Maybe I could lean in on that glorious sisterhood we’re supposed to be creating together. But when I open my mouth, all that comes out is, “Look, I like casual sex!” One of the Alisons is actually wearing a set of pearls she can clutch. Emery gives me what can best be described as a pitying look. The other women give me scrunched up faces that indicate silent disapproval. One puts on an extra layer of pomegranate lip gloss, just to give her something to do that isn’t awkward. “Well. How nice for you, hon,” Shelley the First says. Fuck this. I stow my needles and yarn, my cheeks burning as I hike my bag over my shoulder and duck out of the café with muttered excuses.

“Hold up! I’m your ride, remember?” Emery calls as I wave back at her, shouting apologies and dialing an Uber. I can’t even sit with Emery right now. I can’t feel how big a failure I am in front of one of the more sensible people in my life. I need something to take my mind off how badly I boned today. How goodly, or well-ly, or whatever I boned Will Munroe. I need the sweet embrace of pie.

12

Will Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. My arms are burning as I get close to my final dead lift, but the pain’s good. Pain’s focusing, as my father used to tell me. Well Dad, if you taught my brothers and me anything it’s to A) wear protection when sleeping with someone else’s wife, and B) life is pain. I never had any use for the former, but the latter’s come in fucking handy over the years. I finally let go of the bar, wincing and hissing as my arms remind me how much they want to kick my ass right about now. Well guys, you can’t kick anything. That’s what legs are for, and this isn’t leg day. As I walk the length of the gym, past women who are ten pounds underweight and running to keep it that way, I think about Chelle. I think about how she hasn’t returned either of my texts. I think about how I’m thinking about that too goddamn much. One golden rule to follow if you’re a man: don’t text more than twice a day, especially if she hasn’t responded. Three’s the magic number that makes you look desperate at best and a stalker at worst. Speaking of stalker, I see one of the shitheads from my job heading toward me, a towel draped over his shoulders and a water bottle in his hand. He’s got the whole serious workout look going for him. It’s too much like a costume, and I think this kid knows it. He’s one of the twenty-somethings I call Bert’s “walk and laugh” pack. You know the type: five or six younger guys in suits, trailing the boss like a line of Armani ducklings, laughing at whatever the older, richer duck says. This kid’s name is…shit, Kevin or something, I forget. There’re three Kevins in the gaggle alone. “Munroe. Looks like you’ve been going hard on yourself,” the kid says, like he just did something other than state the goddamn obvious. He holds out his hand for one of those bro clasps that doesn’t come. He knows I’m not playing his game, and hides his annoyance. Hides it badly, too. “Helps to keep yourself sharp,” I tell Some Kevin before moving past him. “Congrats on the Tokyo trip,” the kid says as I breeze past. I hear him mutter something a lot less pleasant under his breath and smile. Good. That kind of resentment’ll give him hunger. It’ll do him good down the line. And yeah, the Tokyo trip is the Big One. The two week one, the one that the company needs its best and brightest for. Normally this’d be a win for me, but there’s still the problem of Amelia, and Suzonne, and Chelle. This is coming right

when Suzonne’s warming up to the idea of letting me have Amelia jointly. It’s coming right when Amelia’s play is about to go up. And it’s coming right when Chelle… Well, I’m a gentleman, so I’m not going for the obvious come joke. I’ll just imply it like an asshole. Why hasn’t she returned my texts? Fuck it. After I shower and change, I’m back in the car and headed down Pico toward the Apple Pan restaurant. Chelle’s a pastry kind of girl, and Apple Pan has some of the best apple pie in the city. Next time I get her over to the condo—and there will be a next time—it’ll be nice to have something on hand.

I park my car and walk inside the restaurant. Apple Pan’s set up in a strange way; the kitchen’s right in the middle of the room, with a bar lining the whole square of it and stools surrounding said bar. You perch by the wall, waiting for someone to finish eating and stand up so you can grab the seat. I wait until one man stands up, belches, and moves. Then I dive in and grab the seat, proving I’ve still got it. There’s a woman next to me who seems to be having a real shitty day from the way she’s shoveling pie into her mouth. Her red hair hangs in her face, and her cheek’s in her hand as she bites into what looks like her second slice. I feel kind of sorry for the woman, especially when I realize she’s pretty goddamn cute, and her hair is a familiar shade of red, and yes—fucking yes—it’s Chelle. “How’s it going?” I watch her respond to me with what can best be called a sizeable jump out of her seat. “I’m awesome. I’m not eating pie. I mean, I am.” She sighs, shoving her plate away. “I’m eating all the pie.” “This’ll sound crazy, but I was picking up one for myself.” I wave the guy over, give my order, and watch Chelle lean her head down into her arms. “I’m guessing this isn’t celebratory pie eating.” “My dog peed on the floor, I went to school in clothes I had sex in, all the most basic women in the world see that I’m a failure, and the worst part is they’re right. Bay of Dreams isn’t going to hire me back after I had sex with a parent, and I’m going straight back to the circus.” She lifts her head, her eyes shimmering with tears. “By the way, whenever I hear people talking about childhood dreams of running off to join the circus, my kidneys get a new stone.” The pie arrives in a neat pink box. I pay for it, then slide it over to her. Chelle regards it like it’s a bomb dressed up in pastry’s clothing. “I don’t think you’ve had enough.” Damn, though, this woman looks worn through. Fuck, that’s probably why she didn’t return my texts. She’s scared for her job, which I didn’t even consider. “So you know, I’m not the kind of guy who calls to inform the school board every time I get a great blow job from one of their teachers.” Chelle snorts. “So only the subpar ones get reported?” “There needs to be some accountability in education.” That makes her smile a

little. Picking up the pie box, I slide my arm around her waist and ease her off the stool. “We’re going to have a talk.” When we get in my car, I hand over the box and a plastic fork. “Eat. Or talk. Try not to do both at the same time.” “New upholstering?” she asks as she takes a forkful of pie. I never thought watching a woman eat her way through an entire apple pie could be so fucking arousing, but I’m learning a lot about myself these days. “Business time.” I drum my fingers on the wheel; fuck, am I nervous about how this is going to go? “Are you upset over last night?” The way she snaps her head up and the shocked look in her eyes instantly sets me at ease. “Last night was amazing. In a casual way,” she adds quickly, stabbing at the crust. “That’s what I’m all about. Casual.” That should be my cue to punch the roof of the car in celebration, sigh in relief and maybe do a victory lap around the parking lot. To the divorced professional, casual sex is what keeps the engine running. However, I’ve been right on the edge of combustion for a while now, metaphorically speaking, and I kind of like it that way. Then again, this woman’s not sure if she’s going to have a job in a few months. Getting serious right now would probably be a bad thing, at least in her eyes. “Casual, then. You’ve got nothing to worry about from me. The school’s not going to fire you just because you’re amazing in bed.” “Amazing, eh?” She grins, visibly relaxing. “I try to encourage grander vocabulary in my classes. Superlative’s a good one.” “A superlatively frustrating woman? Is that good enough?” I ask, grinning. She flutters her eyelashes dramatically. “You have besmirched my maidenly honor, methinks,” she drawls. A lock of hair falls into her eyes, and I brush it aside. I trail my fingers along her cheek, tracing the line of her full, sensual bottom lip. Fuck, I can’t be getting hard behind the wheel of my car. The steering column’s a bitch on an erection. “Always happy to besmirch again,” I say. Chelle watches me, then takes the pie box and settles it in the back seat. She draws nearer to me, nearly crawling across the gear selector. “What about now?” she asks, her eyes searching mine, her lips waiting. She also tries to dust some crumbs off the front of her shirt, clearly hoping I won’t notice. This woman is mouthy one minute, vulnerable the next, and clearly doesn’t take herself too seriously. Up to this point in my life, cool, unknowable blondes were my style. I’ve had enough of those for a goddamn lifetime, I realize. This is something real, and incidentally, something hot. I can’t pretend that’s not a factor. I close the distance, kissing her hard as she moans deep in her throat. Fuck, that sound is electricity through me. Chelle moves against me, now almost straddling me in the driver’s seat. My mind’s blitzed by the feel of her rubbing against my erection, the sensation of her breasts as they fit perfectly into my hands. She gasps

a little as I squeeze her nipple through the thin material of her shirt. Fuck, I could come just listening to her. There’s enough of my functional brain left, though, to realize that we need to be less visible. So as much as it’s fucking impossible to tear myself away from her tits, to stop kissing the line of her throat, I get myself under control. “There’s more room in the backseat,” I growl. “There’s a pie back there.” “Fuck it. It can watch.” With a swift and clean jump, Chelle’s in the backseat. I didn’t think about how roomy the back was when I bought the car, but now I want to go back to Studio City and shake that man at the dealership’s hand for excellent planning. Chelle’s on her back, gasping with need as I slide down her yoga pants. Christ, I’m hard, but I don’t have a condom on me. I should go everywhere with those bastards, but even if I had one I wouldn’t want to use it right now. She’s had a rough day. Someone ought to make her feel better. Just lucky that someone should be me. When I slide my hand down the front of her panties, Chelle begins to keen. She looks up at me, her eyes half-lidded with desire. “That’s all right, baby. I want to watch you come,” I murmur, leaning forward to kiss her neck, her chest. Hiking her shirt up to reveal her lacy bra—I missed the sight of that thing—I suck her nipple through the material. Chelle groans, biting her fist to make as little sound as possible. Who knows if anyone’s outside. Let ’em listen and be jealous is my motto. She’s already wet as I run my finger up and down the lips of her pussy. I sink one finger into her slowly, feeling her clamp down. As I start moving my finger in and out, rhythmically, I press my palm to her clit, applying more and more pressure. Chelle gives up on fist biting, instead arching her back and gasping my name while I kiss and nip my way down her stomach. I’m going to make this woman come screaming my name. The thought is nearly as good as being inside of her. When I feel that she’s stiffening beneath my hand, about to tip over the edge and shatter with her orgasm, I stop. I want her to beg me for it, and claim her mouth again. Her tongue lightly strokes against mine, and I grunt, bite gently down on her bottom lip. Chelle bucks her hips insistently, trying to get me to take her the last little bit over the edge. I’m resolute. Not yet. “Fuck me with your mouth,” she whispers, kissing along the line of my jaw. That’s a beautiful idea. Slowly, I help her sit up, so that I end up situated right between her legs. The windows in here are tinted, if starting to steam a little. Christ, it’s like every horny teenage boy’s dream, going down on a girl in the back of a luxury car. If high school me could see this, he’d be happy with where his future’s headed. Chelle takes off her shirt, but not her bra. Don’t want to get too indecent in public, I suppose. Slowly, I run my tongue down between her breasts before circling

back over her nipple, sucking and biting once more. Chelle runs her fingers through my hair as I cycle from one breast to the next, getting lost in them. How can any woman have such perfect tits? While I kiss, bite, and suck, I slide her panties down so that she’s almost completely naked. Then I pepper kisses down her stomach, glancing up to find her looking down at me with her lips parted, raw need shining in her eyes. Yes. That’s what I want to see: her desperate for me, wanting me to take her over the edge. I go down, down, until I’m at the perfect spot, until Chelle’s breathless and flushed and waiting. Then I begin.

13

Chelle This man is going to be the orgasmic death of me, and I don’t want it any other way. Will’s kissed his way down my body, his hands trailing up and down the length of my inner thighs. My pussy’s aching, my clit throbbing with need, but he hasn’t started yet. He’s staring up at me, almost daring me to beg him to continue. I would, except I’ve nearly forgotten how to talk. Will smiles, like he knows I’m nearly out of my mind. Like he loves it. I lean back against the seat, and give in. “Please. Make me come,” I whisper. He doesn’t even respond, because he doesn’t have to. He kisses his way up my thigh, taking his good, sweet time. Finally, finally… Yes. Please. His stubble is a sweet whisper against my skin, and his hot breath is on my sex. He gives one tap of his tongue against my clit, making me cry out. He holds me still, his hands on my legs, as his tongue continues to circle my clit. Sensation is pulsing through me; I’m half certain I’m about to pass out just from wanting it, wanting him to make me come. He licks me again, this time in a straight line along my cunt, before thrusting his tongue deep inside of me. Fuck, it feels better than I imagined. He thrusts in and out of me several times before finally lapping back up to tease my clit. Then he inserts a finger inside of me to pump as he continues to lick. There’s another finger, and I throw my head back. I’m teetering on the edge of an orgasm, one that’s already threatening to shatter me. My pussy clenches around his fingers as he sucks my clit into his mouth. My whole body moves, my hips wriggling in response to his attentions. God, I’ve never been so sopping wet before, and my skin seems to hum with the energy. I look down, watching as he thrusts into me with his fingers, with his tongue. The sight of it alone nearly undoes me. This keeps going, fingers and then tongue, and I could go on for hours. I feel like I could live hanging on the very edge of the orgasm for the rest of my life. That’d make teaching awkward, but I’d be happy as hell. I feel like I’m filling up, all my muscles tensed and screaming for release. That’s the instant that Will stops, gazing up at me again. Our eyes meet, his look searing and electric. He’s possessing me entirely, and it’s so good I want to scream. “You’re incredible,” he whispers, his breath hot against my thigh. Then he licks my clit once more, his tongue swirling in deft circles. His fingers thrust into me again, and I begin to shake violently. My body isn’t my own anymore. I’ve lost myself, and I love it. “Please. Make me come. Please,” I cry out.

He thrusts faster, and sucks my clit into his mouth rhythmically. Every muscle in my body tightens; my legs go rigid. I feel myself falling, tumbling down into the orgasm. Will’s tongue is relentless, and I begin to cry out, my breath coming in short, fast pants. Then I come, the world rupturing all around me and taken away in a burst of white hot light. I find myself screaming his name, my hands pressed against the roof of the car just so I don’t collapse. Then Will’s sitting up, pressing me against his body. He kisses me, and I taste myself. I taste his obvious pride, and why shouldn’t he be proud? Part of me had wondered if last night was as good as it was because I’d had a little wine, but this is proof that Will Munroe is pretty much sex itself. That, or apple pie is a hell of an aphrodisiac. Can’t it be both? “Feeling better now?” Will whispers in my ear, pushing aside my hair as he kisses down my neck. I nearly purr as I lean against him. “Incredible. But I feel like I need to return the favor,” I murmur, wrapping my hand around the incredible bulge in his pants. He moans as I squeeze, thinking about all the ways I’m about to— There’s a tap at the window, and we both freeze. While I slide myself to the floor of the car, pretending that I’m a discarded coat—that theater training really coming in handy—Will rolls the window down a tiny bit. I’m pretty sure that’s steam wafting out into the evening air. “We’ll, ah, move,” Will says. Whoever’s outside gives a tiny, tight-sounding noise, and leaves. He looks down at me as I’m scrambling into my panties, and we both laugh at the same time. “I have a confession,” I tell him. “I think I’m lying on top of the pie box.” “Looks like we’ll need something else for dinner.” He helps me find my pants, and gets back in the driver’s seat. “Sushi?”

I never thought an eel roll could taste so good. No, I am not talking in euphemisms here, we’re at a very nice sushi joint in Santa Monica. Will’s got the kind of rich person car that seems to clear traffic by magic: going west of the 405 should’ve been a nightmare this time of day. Is there anything he can’t do? I mean, the man can make eating sushi look erotic. And that’s not a euphemism either. “I need to tell you something,” Will says, dipping a piece of sashimi in some soy sauce. Hopefully the following words will be some combination of we need to do the sex again and I have saved room for dessert. If we can get both of those going at the same time, so much the better. “What’s that?” I lean my cheek against my hand, feeling dreamy as I take up my chopsticks to snag a tuna roll. Life is perfect right now. Utterly peaceful. I know I should be suspicious of those emotions by now, but you never seem to learn.

So when Will says, “I have to go to Tokyo for a couple of weeks,” well, that’s when my mind goes kind of blank. At first I think he chose the sushi as a thematic way of asking me to go with him, which I would be more on board with than I should. “Oh. For work?” Or for black market smuggling, Chelle? What do you think he’s doing there? “It’s an idea of expanding the company. They seem to think I’m the right guy for the job,” he says. I think he’s the right guy for the job too, if that job involves taking my pants off with his teeth. Pretty sure that’s not what his bosses were thinking, though. Which is their loss. Okay, back to reality. I don’t want to look needy or clingy in any way—why would I, when I just had a fabulous orgasm in the back seat of his car? I mean, like I said, casual is good. It’s clearly the thing that I want. That’s what I’m going to tell myself over and over. “Amelia will miss you,” I say, forcing myself not to add me too or my vagina too, because that might be a wee bit too forward. “I know she will. And I know I’ll miss her,” he says, looking me right in the eyes. With the soft overhead lighting sculpting his cheekbones to perfection, his beauty is kind of distracting, but I get the impression he means he’ll miss me. Or I’m reading into this pretty hard. “Yes,” I say, because that adds a lot to this conversation. Taking up my chopsticks, I concentrate on grabbing a slice of ginger as a palate cleanser. “I know you said you like to keep things casual.” Will pours some more sake, which I’m always in the mood for. “Casual, that’s me. As you can tell from the way I dress, it extends to all aspects of my life,” I say, trying not to embarrass myself too hard. As usual, it’s a fight I’m going to lose. Will shrugs. “Fair enough. Though I was wondering if you had any casual formal wear.” For a second I think this is a total non-sequitur until I remember the gala that’s coming up. Bay of Dreams is hosting a benefactor gala. They’re looking to expand the eastern wing, probably to incorporate more feng shui into the woodwork or whatever it is they want to do these days. I agreed to set up a little musical interlude with the kids, something from the coming show that we can use to sell the benefactors on how great the school is. Hell, if I can make the school look good, they might make my hiring a permanent sort of thing. I’ve got my best little black dress all ready for the occasion. Now Will is saying… Is it what I think he’s saying? “Are you asking me on a casual date?” I take a sip of my sake, which only slightly dribbles down my chin. Go me. “Casually, of course.” He smiles, that wicked light returning to his eyes. But it’s the kind of wicked that wants to get me all dolled up and at a swanky event, not just

fucking in a car. Or an apartment. Or on the floor of a restaurant. That’s not a suggestion, just something I can’t help but imagine. There’s a part of me that’s still sending up alarm bells about Darren and the wonderful, terrible troubles of boyfriends past. But if both Will and I know what the game is, there shouldn’t be anything to worry about. Except going to the gala with a parent and our hot sexcapades being exposed. I suppose that might merit some consideration. But if we’re lucky, all the old benefactors will be drunk off their asses and won’t notice Will and me making out on the dance floor to the sultry sounds of “Time of My Life.” And yes, that is a full on fantasy right there. “If we’re careful, it could be fun,” I say, giving a wink. Casual wink, of course. Will seems to enjoy that, because I feel his fingers tracing the top of my thigh. He doesn’t go any further, since we’re in public. But the lingering promise is there. If only I could convince myself a casual bit of fun is all I’m really looking for, I just might be the happiest I’ve been in a long time.

14

Chelle “Remember, chorus, you need to keep waving your protest signs,” I tell the kids as the rehearsal thunders along. My accompanist on piano is looking like she’s had enough of our shenanigans, with her glasses on askew while she chugs a second diet Red Bull. I can’t blame her, since we’ve been here for two hours and the sun’s already beginning to dip below the horizon. But we need to have this extra scene I’ve had to add to Oliver, and we need to have it perfect. The school board wanted more of a message of the evils of the chinchilla fur trade. As a result, Oliver and the Artful Dodger need to take some time off from starving in the streets to sing a song about Dodger’s very first friend, a street chinchilla named Adrian who was brutally exploited by luxury fur dealers. If that sounds batshit to you, I can’t even explain how it felt writing it. And trying to rhyme chinchilla with anything past vanilla. At least Amelia’s having a good time. She’s pulling double duty as a protestor in this scene, and made the cutest sign of all: a girl and a chinchilla holding hands, smiling with a rainbow stretching over them. I check my phone and find that it’s time for the kids to be getting out of rehearsal. Which means that all the parents will be pulling up to collect their little angels, which means I might run into Will. I plan on being entirely easygoing, not at all undressing him with my eyes in front of his daughter. It’s two days after our pie/sex/sushi excursion, and there’s been some friendly texting. Maybe even a little risqué, in terms of emoticons. Still, Will and I haven’t discussed firm plans for the gala, which is right around the corner. I’m hoping we can figure out how we’re going to go about this. Right now, my personal fantasy has us arriving in separate cars, not making eye contact over the crab puffs, having passionate sex in the teachers’ lounge, then returning like nothing has happened. I also lose my panties somewhere in the fantasy, and then we have to stage a late night break in to retrieve them. My love of espionage clouds my otherwise better judgment. Anyway, the rehearsal’s done and the kids leap off the stage to deposit their prop signs and stuffed chinchillas. We walk out together as the accompanist heads off with a grumble and I lock the doors behind. A gaggle of freshly tanned and showered mothers with admirably flat stomachs are waiting for the kids. I take a peek and…nope. Zero Will. Maybe he’ll show up in a second, having stopped for a quick afternoon hike. Maybe his shirt will still be damp with sweat, clinging to his pectorals and abs, drawing the eye along his chiseled physique like—

“Mom!” Amelia stops short beside me, shifting foot to foot in an adorable, kind of awkward dance. My attention snaps to an Amazon blonde with perfectly toned arms and skin so healthy it practically glows. So. That’s Will’s ex wife, then. Now I know that any sane, healthy adult understands that marriages break down for all types of reasons. Having said that, I’m not particularly sane or healthy, and this woman is the kind of goddess that men go to war for. So if you’re asking me, hey Chelle, how do you feel right now being all short and grubby in sweatpants? My answer would be not great, Bob. Not great. I’m calling the ether Bob because I have to call it something. “Amelia, we need to get home at once. It might rain,” the woman says, looking skyward. Suzonne, I remember now, that’s her name. Amelia heaves a slight sigh, odd for such an enthusiastic kid, and runs to her mother. “We have to waterproof the yurt,” Amelia calls over her shoulder to me. I blink, because when I hear yurt all I get as an image are those kind of roomy tents that the Mongols used to live in. The woman in front of me is wearing baby pink cashmere yoga pants that are probably five hundred bucks, easy. I’m thinking even she can’t be that granola, if you will. “But not before we cover up the Zen garden,” Suzonne reminds her daughter in the same no nonsense tones you might expect from asking the kid to take out the trash. I was wrong. It’s granola with extra dried cranberries and probably some kind of hard to find Tibetan seed. “Hi. I’m Amelia’s teacher,” I say, grinning as I walk down to the woman. She’s busy typing something into her iPhone, but I figure it can’t hurt to be approachable. I mean, we’ve both slept with her ex-husband. United by a common penis, that’s us. At any rate, it helps to be on good terms with all the kids’ parents. “Chilly,” Suzonne says idly, frowning at her screen. “Oh. Yeah, it gets cold around here at night,” I say, trying not to fumble this weird conversational ball. “That’s your name, isn’t it?” Suzonne finally looks up, running her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose to get a better look at me. Those Warby Parker babies probably cost a week’s salary for me. “Er, close. Chelle.” I put out my hand to shake and she gives a slightly shocked look. I know, touching people who make under 50k a year is a shock to the system around here. Flustered, I retract it. “Sorry, it’s just that shaking hands is a patriarchal construct. I’m teaching Amelia to blend her aura with other people’s. That’s a better way of saying hello, isn’t it?” Suzonne smiles at her daughter, and I’ll admit there seems to be genuine warmth there. Amelia hugs her mom around the waist. Aw. Well, we all have weird quirks or customs. I soften toward Suzonne. “Sure, I get it! I just wanted to tell you how amazing Amelia is.” I wink at the

kid, who gives a radiant smile. I mean, everything about Amelia is pretty much radiant. It surprises me when Suzonne frowns. “I appreciate that she’s trying. We just want her to try things that she’s extra special at, right?” Suzonne hugs Amelia close, and the light goes out of the kid’s eyes a bit. Okay, I know the traditional game here is placate wealthy parents, especially when you’re sexually inveigled with their exes, but some things can’t be dismissed. “I think Amelia’s got real raw potential. She’s one of the hardest workers I’ve ever seen.” There. Enjoy that with your soy matriarchal smoothie, or whatever you drink. Suzonne blinks. I don’t think she knows how to respond. Shit, I overplayed myself. “Let me guess.” Suzonne tilts her head with a sympathetic expression. “You eat red meat, don’t you?” Guilty as deliciously charged. “There’s an In N Out two blocks from my apartment. It’d be a cardinal sin not to.” The woman sighs, rummages through an enormous purse that seems to be woven out of many different varieties of regional grasses, and pulls out a glass bottle filled with some brownish-greenish mulch. She hands it over to me, while I watch the contents bubble and clump together. It looks kind of like seaweed, actually. “It’s a turmeric, with seawood, green algae, ginger root, pineapple, and Indonesian mushrooms.” Suzonne looks pretty proud of this. “It’s my own special blend,” she says, like it’s a secret at a Tupperware party. “Fancy that. You’re in business?” She waves that away. “No, I think that markets are such a joke. I believe in giving without expecting anything in return.” That’d be a nice thought if we weren’t standing in the parking lot of her daughter’s insanely expensive school, paid for by her husband’s hard-earned alimony. Still, I take it to be polite. Amelia wrinkles her nose at the bottle and mouths, “Gross!” to me. I feel you, kid. Suzonne runs a hand through her daughter’s hair, a loving gesture that makes me smile. Then she says, “You might consider a turmeric cleanse for two weeks. It would do wonders for your skin, and help distend your stomach. I can tell you bloat.” My emotions are like a yoyo, and this woman is like the psychotic schoolyard bully who keeps walking the dog too many times. That made sense in my own head. Pursing my lips, I say, “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind when I’m not working twelve hour days, six days a week.” “Of course. Work makes women really harried. It disrupts the goddess mechanism.” She says it all while looking at her phone. I have to stop myself from getting an obscenely large Looney Tunes style mallet

and whacking her one. And yes, I have one in the trunk of my car. I have many things in there, many dark secrets. “See you later, Amelia. Great work today.” I grin at the kid as she strolls away with her mother, throwing me a last, mournful look. My hands are shaking as I get out my phone and quickly write a text to Will. Not to worry, it’s restrained and dignified. YOUR EX WIFE IS A MONSTER Okay, let’s try that again without caps. Your ex wife is a monster Hmm, maybe still too antagonistic. I try making a joke out of it. Met your ex. I’d say she’s like Cruella de Vil, but I think she’s anti fur. Flushing, I delete the whole thing. After all, what right do I have to get Will involved in this? It’s not his fault he was married to a narcissistic vegan with homemade turmeric. Maybe just have a conversation about it. That’s a good idea, Chelle. Met your ex. She’s a little abrupt. Does she know about us? The second I type that, my whole body freezes a little. I’m getting Darren flashbacks hardcore now, remembering how he kept telling me he and his ex were over. Totally over. Not at all sleeping together over. Then, out of the blue, he did the naked tango and popped out another kid, and I just…I don’t know if I can do this again. Babies That’s the next thing I type, without thinking. I try deleting the whole damn thing, but then, to my horror, my stupid thumb hits the stupid send button. With a whoosh sound, the text is sent. And it looks something like this: Met your babies. about us? Fuuuuuck. Half a second later, I get a text back. …are you trying to tell me something? Not pregnant or anything, I type while imagining lying down in the street and letting a Prius run over me. Met your ex. She picked up Amelia. She’s a handful. Okay, now I feel like I want to roll off the canyon and save us all the trouble of dealing with me. When I get another text, I’m half afraid to even look at it. Maybe I can accidentally destroy my phone with my comically large mallet. Maybe. She is. A minute passes, then, That’s a conversation for in person, not texting. We can talk tomorrow when I pick you up. The gala. Right. Nothing like rocking my best off the rack ensemble while guzzling champagne cocktails and hearing about my casual fling’s hippie ex. It’s like Pretty Woman, except in no way is it like Pretty Woman. I text back that it’s fine and leave to walk to my car, my gut churning hard. I have to keep telling myself that Will isn’t Darren. He’s not going to run back to Suzonne. They’re divorced, after all. Signed, sealed, delivered, and all that jazz. I just wish I could feel more confident about this.

15

Chelle “How do I look?” I turn in front of my laptop, swirling in my chic, new, totally-notfrom–Ross-why-would-you-even-say-that-haha gown. Emery’s watching me from her classroom, Skyping in to help me get over my nerves. She’ll be going to the gala as well, but since she’s not getting picked up by the hot dad she’s banging, she’ll just go there from the school. Emery makes much better life choices than I do. “Lookin’ good. You’ve got the right chest for the beaded top thing,” she says, waving a hand across her own gloriously ample boobs to illustrate. I’m not overly blessed in the chest department, it’s true, but I’m accentuating a little with the crystal beads. I’m wearing a pretty, sky blue dress that goes to my knees, with delicate designs on top and spaghetti straps. I’m feeling the Middle Earth elf princess thing tonight. It almost makes me want to wear my prosthetic elf ears, which I own for reasons, but I get the feeling that’s a little too out there even for the Bay of Dreams crowd. “When’s he picking you up?” Emery munches on some carrots and hummus. “Any minute now. I think we’re going to talk about the ex.” “Jesus, how’d that meeting go?” Emery rolls her eyes. Just then, my phone buzzes—Will. Downstairs. My stomach starts rippling, doing its damnedest to convince me that staying home is the best idea. Home with Archie and Netflix and my crippling despair that increases with every passing year. But I mean, you know. Netflix. Screw it. I grab my clutch purse, sign off with Emery, and head downstairs. I say hello to the two old men who are always sitting in the mail room arguing with each other about who had the best bowel movement in the 1970s, and walk out to the street. Will’s got his car purring up by the sidewalk. In this part of town, it’s like a glorious chariot with leather seats, and I slide in gratefully. I had several intelligent things I was going to say, but they’re washed away when I get a look at Will. It’s a miracle I don’t start drooling all over myself, because he has made an extra effort tonight. He always looks good—I think I’ve waxed poetic on that pretty often. But he’s dressed in a suit that probably costs half a year of my salary, and his cologne makes me think he washed in a mountain stream and then rolled in a pile of cash and crushed herbs. His dark hair is balanced perfectly between tousled and orderly, and he’s utterly clean shaven. Much as I love the scratch of stubble against my cheek, the shave makes you realize this is a jaw that could cut glass.

“You. Herbs,” I say out loud, my brain grasping at whatever I was just thinking and presenting it in the dumbest way possible. “Normally women ask for flowers, but we’ll see what we can do.” He leans over and kisses me, and my whole body lights up. Not literally, because then he’d be radioactive, but you get what I mean. As we pull away from the curb and merge into traffic, he murmurs, “You look gorgeous.” Flattery will get you everywhere, sir. Flattery will get you wild, rampaging sex up against a brick wall. Not to give you any ideas, of course. “So.” That’s a good conversation starter, Chelle. “So. I think we should talk before we get to the party,” he says quietly. Yep, good idea. I grip my purse so hard that some of the sequins cut into my palm, but I’m cool. Very cool. “I didn’t mean to bombard you yesterday. Quirkily, of course.” “I think I need to explain about my ex,” he says as we take the ramp onto the freeway. I watch the car’s taillights ahead of me, girding my loins for whatever I’m about to hear. “Things are complicated right now.” Holy shit, my worst fears are being realized. They’re going to have a baby. Two babies. And adopt three basset hounds. Would falling out of the car at this speed kill me? Should I try? “But,” he says. But. But is a magic word. “It’s really over between us, Chelle. I can’t stress that enough.” Will clears his throat, checking the rearview mirror. I get the feeling this isn’t the most comfortable conversation for him, and can you really blame the guy? “We’ve been apart for over a year now, and the marriage was over long before that. When Amelia was five, I was spending more nights on my office couch than I was in bed. The only reason we stuck it out as long as we did was for her. But I realized it’d be even harder for her to grow up in a house where her parents couldn’t stand each other. So we split.” He glances over at me, a look both designed to smolder and check. He wants to see how I’m reacting. “I got the feeling you were nervous about Suzonne.” Oh, nervous about the gorgeous blonde in the cashmere pants? Surely you jest. “I had a bad experience,” I say simply. Fidgeting with my bracelet, I mumble, “I got duped by a guy who wasn’t over his ex. Or at least, he wouldn’t leave her alone.” Will squares his jaw. “I’m not that guy. This, between us?” Again, he gives the careful side eye. “I like this. So I wanted you to be aware.” My body is hyperaware right now—that is the absolute truth. My legs and arms unclench, because every word he’s saying is exactly what I need to hear. So long as Suzonne’s truly out of the picture, I can take whatever comes. Even if it doesn’t work out, I just can’t stand being lied to again. I think I’d snap. And I’d snap in the way any child of clowns would, by laughing maniacally and attacking the offender with a bottle of seltzer water. You don’t want to see me mad, folks.

“What are you thinking about right now?” he asks, his voice deep and rich with curiosity. “Seltzer,” I answer truthfully. We drive in silence for a few moments longer. “You’re strange.” He thinks a moment. “That’s sexy.” If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that, I’d have a dime. But it’s appreciated all the same, and I slide my hand over his. He winks at me, and I feel heat pool through me, spread to my limbs. I’m relaxed. I’m secure. It’s party time.

I did not realize how many parents and benefactors of Bay of Dreams were either celebrities or banging celebrities. Had I known that three A-listers, five B-listers, a handful of producers, and Meatloaf would be here, I would’ve prepared myself accordingly. By that, I mean I would have brought my autograph book and squealed with glee alone in my room later tonight. As it stands, I don’t feel comfortable asking people to autograph either my iPhone or my back, so I stand in the corner and sigh over the missed opportunity. Though Meatloaf does autograph my cocktail napkin after I sing “I Would Do Anything For Love” softly, creepily, under my breath while he passes. I win at life. My kids do a great job of singing for the audience of parents, who applaud and coo adoringly. However, then Jay Z gets up onstage—he’s an uncle to someone here, apparently—and does an impromptu performance, and I have to admit that my adorable urchins have been outclassed. Man, what’s it like to live in this kind of world? All the women are tanned and relaxed looking, all the men have whitened and capped teeth. It’s God’s country here, folks. “I see you’re ogling the celebrities,” Will says, appearing at my side with a glass of red wine and a plate filled with delicacies. There are some sliders with actual Kobe beef and mozzarella cheese, along with crispy fish tacos. It is so gloriously, wonderfully real food that for a second I think I’m hallucinating. “Where did you smuggle this in from?” I nearly shove my face into the plate. “When they’re trying to raise money, Bay of Dreams realizes they need to be a little more accommodating towards other lifestyles.” Will winks at me, and snatches a meatball slider for himself. I try to eat carefully, just so I don’t end up with a face full of sauce. Then I’d have to lick it clean. Or get Will to. And that would be both gross and arousing, and that could lead to some questionable behavior. Like this entire evening isn’t questionable behavior. Will holds out his hand when I’m done, which is pretty fast. Damn, expensive beef tastes good. “I think they’re playing our song,” he says. One of the parents, a pop-punk rocker who was an alt-rock god back in the 90s, has gotten onstage and is singing about how trees are our friends, and about how trees should be the ones running giant corporations. I start snort-laughing, and thankfully Will joins in. “Seriously, though. Let’s dance.” “No one else is. Everyone’s too floored by the purity of the music.”

“Don’t you like standing out? I thought that’s what you’re best at,” he murmurs. “Ah yes, child of clowns. Like I said before, my childhood dream was to run away and live with an accountant’s family.” I give him my hand. “However, occasionally standing out is not a bad thing. That’s what I tell the kids.” “They’re lucky to have a teacher like you.” Will keeps us to the side, a little out of sight so that not everyone can wonder why the temporary teacher is grinding against one of the parents. Still, there’s plenty of room to move here, and he moves exceptionally well. As a matter of fact, there’s no grinding going on here. It’s more elegant slow dancing, though his hand does skim down my back to just—just— come close to grasping me in a, shall we say, more intimate manner. Classy and still tinged with some lust; that’s perfect. If Cinderella came to the ball right now, she’d probably look down on my dress, but she’d be envious of the guy I’m with. Say what you will about him, Prince Charming is kind of a bore. Will Munroe is not. “I have something to tell you,” I whisper in his ear. I peek over his shoulder, and find that no one’s looking at us. “What’s that?” Take a deep breath, Chelle. You can do this. “I’m going to miss you when you go to Tokyo.” There. It’s out. Will keeps us moving, but doesn’t respond. Okay, maybe I can take it back. Maybe I can pretend to faint. Maybe I can kick him right in the shin, because he made me think this was okay, dammit. Maybe I should stop panicking and wait for his actual response. “Interesting. Because I’m going to miss you as well.” His lips just brush my cheek as he pulls away, and every inch of me is on fire. He gazes down into my eyes. Thank god I wore my heels, so he doesn’t have to stoop. As the alt-rocker sings about peace in our time and free, kindly sourced candy for every child, I look into Will’s eyes and imagine that maybe I’m done with being casual. Maybe, just maybe, there’ll be a reason for me to stick around this city even if Bay of Dreams doesn’t work out.

16

Will I’m going to miss this goddamn plane. As I pull up to Bay of Dreams, all I can think of is getting my ass down to LAX in record time. There’s a flight for Tokyo leaving in a few hours, and if I’m not on it, I might as well start swimming to Japan. Bert won’t be happy if his rock star can’t make a connecting flight on time. You get a reputation for being flaky like that. But I’m not going anywhere until I drop these bacon-covered donuts off. A man has to provide for the woman in his life, gentlemen. Don’t let anyone tell you different. Especially when the woman in your life loves bacon; then you need to keep her. I get out of the car and jog down to the auditorium, white cardboard box balanced. I swear, she’s going to think I’m fattening her up or something, I think as I push the door open. Then again, she runs in the canyon nearly every day. She can handle a few choice carbs. My eyes scan all the painted backdrops on the stage, and I admire the handiwork. The past week I’ve been helping Chelle get everything painted. That’s right, I work a stressful day in a high rise building only to drive over to my daughter’s school and slap blue paint onto a two dimensional orphanage. I’m a man of many talents. But for Amelia, I’m happy to do anything. And for Chelle, I’m happy to do anything to her, so it works out pretty damn nicely. Though we had to wash the paint off her back that one time. It was sexy. No one’s inside—Chelle’s probably taking the kids on a nature hike, the one she was telling me about today. I go up the stairs and slide the donut box onto a table by the side of the stage. Whenever Chelle gets back here and starts running cues with the kids, she’ll find these babies. Unless the kids do, in which case I hope she wrestles them to the floor. Artisanal donuts are expensive. I’m half hoping the door will swing open and they’ll all wander inside, but I get the feeling the kids wouldn’t appreciate me groping their teacher on my way to the car. Or they might, like the little perverts they are. As I pass out the door, I acknowledge that the place looks pretty damn great. The background painting of Koreatown, the police car they rigged together entirely out of cardboard—Chelle’s a miracle worker. She’s good at what she does. Competency is sexy, kids. It’s probably a good thing I don’t see her as I get back in my car and head for the airport. Christ, I’m barely going to make it as is. Chelle’s a distraction, and in the past, I haven’t wanted too many of those. But with Amelia needing me around

more, and Chelle needing me more (which I will never complain about), distractions are abundant these days. Getting through the swarms of people at the terminal, however, is not a distraction I’m that crazy about. There isn’t enough duty free scotch in the world to make up for that. Though taking a business class flight to Tokyo is an excellent place and time to make use of said scotch. I can imagine Chelle in the seat next to mine, probably fiddling with the controls to lay the chair out fully. God, she’d probably be amazing to travel with. Probably would be well up to join the mile high club. I need to stop getting hard on airplanes. It’s distracting. We’re up in the air when I decide to take advantage of the plane’s Wi-Fi. I shoot Chelle a text, just to test the waters: On my way. Hope you ran the show tonight. There. Doesn’t give too much away. I’m about to tear into a complimentary bag of wasabi flavored peanuts when I get a text back. What was that? I can’t hear you around this AMAZING BACON DONUT This is followed by five donut emojis, to get her point across. Grinning, I text back. Texts are for your eyes, bacon donuts are for your mouth. Where do your ears come into this? A second later: Well somebody’s got their flawless knowledge of anatomy working overtime ;) I’ve got more knowledge of anatomy than she’s even guessed at yet. I make sure to tell her, and she seems to appreciate it. Know what you can bring me back? You have to keep it warm, though, she texts. Smiling, I wait until she sends her follow up. Teriyaki. They closed my favorite restaurant on Olive Street and now I don’t know what to do with my life. I try not to laugh too loudly. It goes back and forth between us for a while, until she’s got to drive home and I’ve got, well, a shit ton of crappy NBC programming to catch up on. The rest of the flight to Tokyo goes off without a bump. When I land, I’m in a sleek black car in seemingly ten seconds flat, and soon after I’m in the Hilton gazing down from thirty stories up on the city streets below. The hotel room is crisp and business elegant, with smooth gray carpeting, an entire wall of windows, white linen sheets and low black furniture. This is the kind of room, and the kind of trip, that billionaire assholes are supposed to relish in. When Suzonne was still in the picture, I’d have been on this trip with a huge fucking grin on my face and two bags of duty free scotch at my side on the plane. Partly as a way to get free of my problems at home, partly because I wanted to be one of those assholes. Maybe still could, if I paid attention. But Amelia’s living in a yurt somewhere on a mountain now, which still doesn’t sit well with me. Even being away from her for two weeks is going to be an issue in the custody battle. Chelle, meanwhile, is probably dancing with Archie around her cluttered apartment. I’ve been to that place a couple of times now, and it is exactly

where you think a woman raised by clowns would live. No human being should own that many silk and chiffon scarves. I don’t know what she does with all of them. I text my daughter first, but get nothing. Based on different time zones, she’s probably just about to get up for school. I text Chelle next, but nothing, probably for the same reason. Though maybe she’s running up the canyon trail right now, grinning as she powers ahead. I can see her, headphones in, yoga pants hugging her flawless ass. And the dog—the dog keeps getting in the way of my imagination. Shoo, Archie. Go grab a drink with Bruno or something. With the two women in my life probably still asleep, I feel the most wide awake in a long time. It’s a lonely feeling and I hate it. But the meetings and the conferences and all the other bullshit that’s going to eat up my time here don’t get going until tomorrow. Right now it’s only me, in this giant hotel room with no one else. No Amelia to order too much ice cream from room service. No Chelle to take to bed. This’ll be the longest two weeks of my damn life.

17

Chelle Having your parents over to see your apartment is awkward at the best of times. Having them over when your socially-conscious new production of Oliver is about to open, and your probably-boyfriend is in another country, and they brought a monkey with them…well, that’s something else altogether. Chuckles the monkey is cute, though. He’s a Nordic pygmy? Or a Rhodesian rawhide? At any rate, he is about the size of my palm and loves to cuddle while eating peanuts, so he’s good in my book. Though Archie had a rougher time. Really, Archie will let any animal on this green earth pin him down and hump his brains out. I think he enjoys it. Hell, I still don’t understand how that was physically possible. “Know what I love about this place?” Dad says as he comes the whole two steps out of my bedroom and into the living room. “It has so much space!” He says this while looking very hard for one smooth piece of floor to step on. Look, I have a lot of scarves. I don’t remember why I have them, why I bought them, or what I planned to do with them. Same way I don’t recall when I bought that five-foot stuffed giraffe in the corner. But it makes a good hat-rack. And as I have seven hats… Maybe I should make a trip to Goodwill soon. “Well, when you live in an Airstream out in the Dakota badlands, any place with a roof and no wheels has that effect,” I say, giving Chuckles another peanut to munch while he perches on top of my head. Aw. God, I hope he doesn’t poop again. “Ain’t that the truth,” Mom says as she comes out of my bathroom. The toilet’s flushing, and my blood chills as I realize she hasn’t taken off her Harlequin makeup. My dad plays Bozo the Clown roles, with white face and big red lips and a multicolored suit and the type of look that creates life long night terrors for children. Mom, on the other hand, goes for a more classic black and white look, the kind of clown with the pure white face and the single black tear tracking down her cheek. Which she is wearing right now. For some reason. “Mom. Is there a reason we needed to bring Columbina out for dinner?” I ask, trying to be casual. Columbina is Mom’s character that she plays, usually for richer kids’ birthday parties. Good thing they’re rich, because they will need to pay those psychotherapy bills somehow. “I figured it would attract attention! Then maybe some parents stop to talk to us, and their kids like us, and boom!” She throws up her hands, very proud of herself.

“Your father and I are booked for another party.” “Boy, that’s a great idea!” Dad’s face lights up as he hightails it for the john. “Debbie, we packed my red wig, didn’t we?” I don’t throw myself into Dad’s way so much as I fall into the hallway in front of him. Like I said, this apartment ain’t big enough for the three of us and our combined crazy. “Guys, can we just go out for some halibut without any weird looks? Please?” My parents stop. Mom looks sad—I mean, even though she’s got crying painted on to her face, she looks even sadder. “I thought you liked it when Bonko and Columbina went out to dinner,” Dad says, shoving his hands into his pockets in a look that screams sad clown dad. I really had loved Bonko and Columbina—God, those names—when we’d go out to dinner. But I had been five, and we were at a CiCi’s Pizza in Salem, Oregon, and it was just a different vibe. We got a free ice cream sundae after Dad made balloon animals for the chef. That won’t happen in downtown Los Angeles. “Please, Mom? We can hand out business cards instead.” She sighs, but at least starts heading for the bathroom again. “Your problem, Chelle, is that you care too much about what people think,” she tsks. She does kiss my cheek, though, which is probably now covered in makeup. I mean, she’s not wrong. When I’d go to people’s houses for dinner during college, I’d see the same middle class homes with the same lawns and the same gates and the same family pictures on the walls. I’d listen to stories about uncles who sold insurance, or daughters who were planning to pursue law, and I’d be fascinated. I could never understand why people wanted to know what a childhood full of clowns was like. I’d already lived it. Why should anyone else care? But I love my parents, and they do try their best. “Tell you what. Why don’t you bring the honking red nose, and if we see any kids we’ll put it on?” I suggest. Both of their faces light up, and they go to get ready while I set Chuckles back into his little cage. Archie’s seated below it, his little butt waggling in anticipation. Whether he’s trying to eat or screw the monkey, I can’t say. “Be a good guard dog.” I scratch Archie’s little ears and go put on my jacket. I check my phone for texts, but find nothing. Sighing, I try not to worry as I heft my purse onto my shoulder. Will usually sends me a quick message around this time. Being in Japan, he’s on a bonanza schedule that means we have about five minutes per day we can say hi to one another. But we find a way; in fact, we had a sushi date two nights ago. He had to bring his back to the hotel room, and mine was a breakfast sushi with eggs and bacon wrapped in rice—surprisingly good. But it was a lot of fun, Skyping and talking while we had dinner/breakfast. It was just like a regular date, and I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed seeing his face. How much I’d missed laughing, or mentally high-fiving myself when I made him laugh. On the other hand, at least Will being in Tokyo means he doesn’t have to run face first into my parents. I love Mom and Dad, but they are firmly wrapped up in

their own little circus world. To someone I’m sort of semi-official with, the reality of the clown thing might be enough to shatter our insular little world. Like, it’s one thing to have great sex with someone. It’s another to realize that your potential future children might end up wanting to juggle professionally. Mom and Dad come out, makeup-less and ready to go. Dad holds up the red nose, squeezes it once for a squeak, and slips it back into Mom’s purse. They give each other that look: the one that says they’ve still got it—whatever it is—all these years later. I’d like to find that someday. If I can do it without the face paint, it will be all be that much sweeter. Before I can ask if we’re all ready to go, there’s a knock at the door. Crap, it might be the bird lady from upstairs. Mrs. Jimenez has two dozen parakeets that she teaches to sing in harmony, and she sometimes tries to get me to show up with Archie for an evening of Broadway show tunes. I actually went once. She made me popcorn. But I don’t have time for “Hello Dolly” tonight—and besides, it should be “Bye Bye Birdie,” let’s be real. I open the door to tell her that, only to find that Mrs. Jimenez has transformed herself into a well-built man of six feet tall. That wily sorceress, turning herself into my perhaps-potentially-boyfriend. Will’s standing in front of me, looking deliciously rumpled in a chic gray suit. It’s the kind of rumpled that implies getting off a plane having slept most of the way in business class. In his hand, he’s got a white paper bag. It smells delicious, and my stomach starts rumbling. Good thing I’m about to go to dinner. With my parents. Who are here. With clown noses. And Mrs. Jimenez can turn herself into other people. And it takes me a solid twelve seconds to realize that I’ve completely misinterpreted that last part. All I can think to say to this man standing in front of me with food and a confident smile is, “Is that teriyaki?” Breathless, that’s me. Will slides a hand around my waist, pressing me up against his body. I am now having thoughts filled with naked sofa sex and Japanese cuisine, and I want to tell you those images aren’t combined. I want to tell you that, to spare you. But I can’t. “I promised to bring some back, didn’t I?” He whispers these words against my neck, sending my body into hyper awareness and sensitivity. I can feel every bit of stubble that’s across his jaw, and my lips go to catch his as— “Hey now! Who’s this?” Dad honks a horn directly behind me, and I all but climb Will like a cat. Thank god I manage some self-control, because I’m pretty sure that would’ve sent both of us sprawling down the stairs. Dad’s adopted his most protective Dad look and his best fighting clown stance. Namely, he’s got a hand on the rubber end of a very large horn, and he’s not afraid to use it again. “Will Munroe.” He doesn’t skip a beat, only offers his hand to my dad to shake. “I’m the delivery guy.” He holds up the paper bag, and his wicked, joking-around face seems to win Dad over at once. He lowers the horn; we’re all safe at last. “Smells good,” Dad says conversationally as we let Will into the apartment. By

let, I mean allow him to squeeze inside. Now that there’s four of us, a monkey, and a dog, the place is only going to remain standing so much longer. One of us will have to leave. I just don’t want it to be Will. Or if he leaves, I want us to go with him. Yes, good, putting brain to use there, Chelle. Invite big, strapping man along for dinner. Though that does mean he’ll have to spend quality time with my parents, and like I said earlier in the interior of my mind, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. I mean, the horn thing is charming in its own way, but if they pull out the big rubber shoes… And you know they have at least one pair on them. Somewhere. Hiding. “I told Chelle I’d bring her teriyaki back from Japan.” Will smiles as my dad inspects it, with that slight questioning expression that is particular to men who get the impression their daughter is banging some guy. “Said I’d keep it warm,” he murmurs into my ear. Dear god, he’s a miracle worker. “How did you manage that?” I ask, gaping. “Got it from two blocks down in Little Tokyo.” He grins and winks. “Apparently they don’t want you bringing food through the airport and onto a plane. The things you discover.” “But you remembered.” I’m not going to swoon over chicken teriyaki. If it’s beef teriyaki, though, all bets are off. I’m swooning away. “I didn’t, well, know you were back.” “The deal closed earlier than we expected. There were some things to take care of at home.” My heart and my libido step into overdrive. “Amelia, for one.” Of course his daughter. Calm down, Chelle. Don’t embarrass yourself. “Plus, I had a delivery to make.” His eyes rake up and down my body on the sly, since my folks are here. But dear god, you can pack a lot of desire into one brief glance. Talk, Chelle. Say something that isn’t either “fuck me below the monkey cage” or “hrrrmmmm”. “We’re, ah, heading out for dinner.” Here it comes. Don’t freak out, Chelle. “Would you like to join us?” He’s going to say no now, because he got a good look at Dad. Or he’s going to realize that his prospective teriyaki sex night has been canceled, so what’s the point of even being here now? Or he’s going to become awkward and quiet, looking around my cramped apartment and the monkey swinging in its cage and come to the conclusion that this is too weird. This is all just too weird. You can’t bring Amelia into this place. In fact, he must be breaking up with me right now. That’s why he says, “I’d love to come. That’ll give us a chance to talk. Mr. Richardson?” he says, pointing to my dad in that kind of is it all right if I call you that way. Dad seems to like it, because he waves his hand. “Please. Call me Steve. Or Bonko.” Dad’s eyes light up. He likes the Bonko character a little too much, I

sometimes think. Mom watches Will carefully, and I can sense that this is it. He’s going to think it’s weird, and he’s going to make a face, and that’s going to be it. I can feel it— “I like Bonko. It has a certain flavor to it.” Will shakes my dad’s hand, and now that someone has joined in with his crazy, Dad’s delighted. “You know, my kid’s got a birthday coming up. What would you say is good entertainment for a group of eleven year olds?” Will asks my parents as we all squeeze out the door. Five bucks says the answer will be clowns, which is advice he hopefully will not take. But he’s interested in their business, and wasn’t weirded out by Bonko. That means, in their book, he’s aces. And as we walk to the restaurant, I realize I’m feeling nearly giddy. Will didn’t just come to my apartment for a teriyaki sex fest. He wants to have dinner with my parents. He wants to discuss balloon animals for two hours just to spend time with me. I don’t think this is casual at all, and I think I like that.

“So,” Will says when we’re seated back in his car, the seats warming and the engine purring. There’s a bit of leftovers between us, some very delicious sea bass wrapped up in a tinfoil swan. “You weren’t kidding about your parents.” “I never kid, sir,” I say, affecting a dramatic accent. Think Russian spy meets proper English countess. I don’t even know. “All I do is drink to forget.” When the dinner first got started, that’s exactly what I was prepared to do: drink until I couldn’t feel feelings anymore. You know how many gin and tonics it takes to get me good and toasty? The answer is ignoring the gin and tonics and going straight for the two fingers of neat scotch. Makes everything taste better. But as the night kept going, and the wine kept pouring, and Will didn’t mind discussing the intricacies of different hand buzzers, something amazing began to happen. I started to laugh. I started to feel less crazy than usual. Will was good with the parental units. Hell, more than good—he made them like him. Whether it was listening to crazy family stories of a clown reunion in Pensacola, or helping my mom figure out the best way to invest for a retirement trailer, he was always game. That kind of thing apparently makes me incredibly hot, because I’m now sitting beside him wanting another round of car sex. Maybe we could round the corner to some isolated spot… “I have a suggestion,” he says at last, handing me the swan. “My place. I missed you.” His hand leaves the swan and travels south, gently lifting up my skirt to skim along my thigh. My entire body shudders in pleasure as his fingers glide over the silk of my panties. Will leans over, his breath warm against my neck as he whispers, “Two weeks is too long.” “It was only nine days,” I murmur, giving him what I hope is a teasing smile and not an I can do math, go me look. Will kisses the back of my neck, and the numbers

leave my head on a sweet tide of hormones. “Accuracy,” he says, his fingers gliding up my thigh again to just the right spot, “is very attractive in a woman.” Right now, I’m beginning to moan with need. God, we need to get back to his place, because I need to celebrate his return. What better way to celebrate than riding each other’s brains out? If everyone took my line of thinking, we’d be constantly looking for new things to celebrate. Perfect colonoscopy? Returned the library book on time? Here’s a Hallmark card, followed by sex. The world would be a much better place with me in charge, let me tell you.

It’s amazing Will can get the door open with me practically climbing his body. My legs are already wrapped around his waist, and he balances me perfectly against him while finally ushering us into his condo. Kicking the door closed behind him, he then walks me into the living room, pressing me up against the wall—and against his erection, let’s not forget that delicious detail. “Hold on.” I manage to scoot down, running my hands down his body as I lower myself to my knees. Even in the near darkness, my fingers find his belt buckle, and he inhales sharply as I start to undo his pants. Slowly, I tug at his boxers, revealing his cock, which is A) enormous and B) very ready for me. “What are you doing?” he growls, gasping when I take his cock in my hand and give one quick squeeze. “Can you guess?” I whisper, and lick him. Slowly, very slowly, I trail my tongue along the length of him, savoring how silken and steely he feels. Will throws his head back and groans as I kiss the very tip of him before slowly taking him into my mouth. I ease him inside slowly, tasting the salt and steel of him. I run my hand back down to the base of his cock, squeezing rhythmically as my head begins to bob back and forth. “That’s right. That’s perfect,” he moans, bracing his hands against the wall. “Don’t stop, Chelle. Don’t fucking stop.” Happy to oblige, my tongue swirls around him. God, he’s so thick, and the tension in his body as I continue only makes me happier. I love knowing that I’m driving him crazy, that I’m making his breathing deeper and more ragged. He fists my hair, guiding me along faster. I take my time then, dragging it out. I enjoy listening to him moan—in fact, I think I love it. “Chelle,” he whispers, repeating my name over and over again. I run my hands up and down his legs, rock hard with muscle. I take his cock again, squeezing the base before I slide him as deep into my mouth as I can. This goes almost too far, but still I take my time drawing him out of my mouth. I love how his breathing hitches, how he sounds on the verge of coming undone when I suck on the tip of him, swirling my tongue around and around again. “I can’t hold on much longer,” he moans, gently removing me from his cock. I

want to keep going, but he brings me to my feet. “I want to come buried inside of you,” he whispers against my throat. Picking me up, he hitches my legs around his waist again. I can feel his erection through the damp silk of my panties. He wants to go in, and I want him so much. I want to feel him stretching me, thrusting deep inside of me. Will carries me up the stairs, all the way to the bedroom. I’m deposited on the bed, and with an expert zip my dress falls away from me. I’m spread out and waiting for him as Will lowers himself on top of me. His hands slip behind me to deftly undo my bra, and my nipples peak in the cold air. The moonlight streaming in through the window outlines him as he sits up, stripping off his jacket. My fingers fumble at his buttons, and my eyes track up and down his rock hard body as he strips the shirt off. He wastes no time reaching for the bedside table, finding a condom and ripping it out of the foil. An instant later, he’s got his cock sheathed, and lowers himself on top of me again. He grabs me around the waist again, and I raise my hips to meet him. I start to whimper as he teases me, sliding the head of his cock up and down the line of my pussy. Gasping, I try to wrap my legs around him again, to draw him deep inside of me. He stills me, slipping a hand between us to touch me again. He fingers my clit, and I know he’s loving how I’m the one whimpering in need now. “Not yet, baby,” he whispers, spearing one, then two fingers deep inside. I thrust my hips against him, grinding hard against his fingers. Already, I can feel myself spiraling out of control. God, I want him inside of me now. “Please,” I whisper over and over, peppering kisses along his jawline as he raises himself on his elbows over me. Hitching my leg up again, I feel him position the head of his cock at my opening. Then, finally, he thrusts inside. God, he takes his time inch by inch. His face is taut with concentration and want, his eyes blazing in the moonlight. I’m slippery and waiting, so desperate to feel this. Even after nine days apart it’s almost hard to handle his size and girth. I bite my lip and arch my back as he sinks deeper until he possesses me utterly. He starts to move, his hips rocking against mine. Fuck, I want him faster, and try to speed him along with my movement. But he puts a hand against me, stilling me. He wants to take his time, the glorious bastard. Will slips a hand between us, and begins to finger my clit as he thrusts. Oh god, that’s it. I throw my head back and call his name over and over. “Fuck me,” I whisper, beginning to ride the waves of sensation. My orgasm is close, and I want it. “I plan to,” he growls, licking my nipple and then biting down on it. Moaning, I tighten my grip on his arm, his hair, whatever I can get a hold of. Will begins to move faster, thrusting his cock inside of me to the very hilt. My pussy clenches, gripping him as tight as it can. He responds with a cry, and his hips move faster, his body taking mine. “I want you to come,” he growls in my ear, leaning close again. “Come for me.” He moves languidly again, his slowness agonizing and delicious. “You want to feel

this way.” “Yes,” I whisper over and over again. I roll my hips, meeting his movement. His hand traces my body, the swell of my breasts and the curve of my hips. He moves hard, riding fast and deep. The bedsprings cry out beneath us as his rhythm picks up speed. I wrap my legs tight around him, moaning as he reaches down and rubs my clit, once, twice. He takes my breast in his mouth again, taking as much of it as he can. My muscles begin to tighten, and my breath grows shorter and faster. The world around me is going away in a haze of orgasmic light. Fuck, I’m so close. He thrusts as deep into me as possible, so that I can know I’m his. I can feel that in the look in his eyes, the wild and possessive look that says he wants me to know he’s inside of me, to always remember that I was his. One last time, his hand slides down my damp skin, all the way to my clit. One last time, he taps it, and I feel the pressure building up inside of me, spearing all through my body. “That’s it. Don’t stop,” I gasp, thrusting against him. Then the world explodes in light, and I come so hard that my entire body shakes. I lift myself off the bed with the force of the orgasm, sitting up halfway and meeting his mouth. I scream against his lips, and I feel him jerk as he comes inside of me hard. Will pulls his head away, his features tightening. Slowly, my mind pieces itself back together again as he falls forward on top of me. We breathe together, our bodies pressed close. I toy with the curling hair at the nape of his neck, now damp with sweat. Will traces his hand across my body again, following my curves with expert skill. “Hey,” I whisper in his ear. “Welcome back.” “It’s good to be home.” He looks deep into my eyes as he says it, and I get the hopeful feeling that he’s talking about us.

18

Will I wake up with Chelle’s naked back pressed up against my chest, my arm draped around her. God, just the sensation of my bare skin next to hers is enough to get me hard. Blinking the sleep out of my eyes, I tighten my grip and bury my face in her hair. She smells like sex and mango body wash, which I never thought is a combination I’d love. I kiss her bare shoulder, my cock rising further when I hear her stir out of her sleep. The sheets rustle as she turns over to meet me, a slow smile washing over her face. Fuck, I’m ready for another round. Like three last night wasn’t enough. “How are you feeling today?” she whispers against my mouth. Besides unimaginably horny, I feel alive. It’s a good goddamn feeling. “Let me show you,” I murmur, guiding her hot little hand to my cock. She grins and kisses me deeper. I’m about to slip my hand between her legs and help her along when there’s a clattering sound downstairs. It’s like someone banging the cupboard doors to see how much noise they can make. Fuck, it’s an intruder. Chelle’s eyes widen as I leap out of bed. My erection’s going to have to wait a while as I take a flying leap into my clothes, grab a baseball bat from near the closet, and head downstairs. If the motherfucker has a gun, there’s not much I’ll be able to do. Taking it slower, I ease down the stairs and look around the corner into the kitchen. There I find… Suzonne. In the kitchen. With a stack of dishes. It’s the worst game of Clue ever devised, and that game is stupid to begin with. “The hell? What are you doing here?” I put the bat down at least and walk over to meet my ex, who’s now got a look of sheer, angry concentration on her face. She puts the plates down, adding a couple of coffee mugs to the mix. “Look, I don’t need this bad energy right now.” She says it like I’m the one who’s being unreasonable. “Suze, you broke into my condo. Bad energy is par for the course.” I take the mugs out of her hand and put them back. She pouts, crossing her arms. “I didn’t break in. I have a key.” “Amelia has a key,” I correct her, stacking the dishes back as well. My head is throbbing, my brain threatening to pool out my ears. How can I go from being hard and happy to this in ten seconds flat? This divorce can’t go through soon enough. I look around for Amelia…and don’t see her. It’s Saturday. Which means she’s not at school. Which means…

“Suzonne. Where’s Amelia?” I say it with enough calm precision that she knows it’s not a light question. She throws up her hands, again, like I’m unreasonable. “She’s fine. Someone’s staying with her at the yurt.” My temples throb, and I know it’s important to keep calm right now, but fuck me if it’s nearly impossible. “You know I hate leaving her with strangers up there. More than that, we agreed it wasn’t going to happen anymore.” “D’Andrei is not a stranger.” She looks honestly hurt by that. “You think I’d leave our baby with some weird man?” Every person in that yurt commune seems certifiable to me, so I decide not to answer that one. Besides, D’onkey or what’s his fuck is a grown ass man watching over my ten year old, and I have thoughts about this. Major fucking thoughts. “What are you doing here?” I finally close the cupboard door. Suzonne huffs, playing with the beaded edge of her blouse. That’s a surefire sign she fucked up and knows it. “Some of our things were stolen,” she mutters. All right, head clear now. I lean against the counter. “Someone from the commune?” Of course. Suzonne huffs. “It’s not about private property, you know. It’s agreed that we all share and share alike. So, it’s not stolen. More like…borrowed.” “What else did they borrow?” She gets super quiet. “Amelia’s hoodie.” The one with the mouse ears? Her favorite article of clothing on the planet? Now I see red, because I know how upset she’s going to be and I want to murder the jackass who thought taking a little girl’s things is in any way all right. “She doesn’t have another of those lying around. Let me guess, she burst into tears when she found out and you couldn’t handle it, so you had to come over here and see if there’s a replacement you can give her? Well, you can’t.” “Don’t yell at me over some stupid material possession! That’s your problem, Will.” She all but jabs me in the chest with her finger, which is the wrong thing to do. “You prioritize things.” “I prioritize my daughter’s fucking happiness, which is something you don’t seem to give a shit about.” I swear, I think my goddamn head’s about to explode. “I never wanted Amelia living with those assholes up in the canyon because I knew this would happen.” Suzonne snorts. “Oh, because you’re always so present, aren’t you? So much that you came back early from Japan, of all places, and we didn’t hear anything about it! I didn’t expect you to be home.” She’s saying this like it’s an argument, and what’s pissing me off is the fact that it actually is. I got home, and I had an excuse about not calling Amelia—namely that she was at her mother’s for the weekend. They never get to have weekends together. But still, I got off the plane and the first thing I could think about was Chelle. Oh, fuck. If she comes downstairs right now, Suzonne’s going to remember her.

If she remembers her, then the job at Bay of Dreams is ashed in a second. I check the stairs fast, and she’s not there. Good. Stay naked and out of this. “Look, you never get weekends with Amelia. Frankly, I wanted to give you the chance for some bonding time, but apparently that means letting assholes steal her favorite things. That hoodie had meaning for her, Suzonne. I know it seems stupid to you to get attached to anything, but Amelia’s a kid. Kids love their toys and their games. Kids love lots of things, including their idiot parents. Amelia would do anything to make you happy. So if the only way you can get close to our daughter is to starve her, make her think she’s fat and disgusting, and not bat an eye when creepy motherfuckers who probably worship My Little Pony sneak off with her favorite clothes, then why don’t you let her live with me fulltime? Why are you pretending to give a shit?” Fuck. I didn’t mean to start yelling, but this morning took such a hard goddamn turn in the wrong direction that I can’t stop myself. When I’m done, it seems like the entire kitchen’s holding its breath, waiting to see what Suzonne’s going to do. To the side, I hear the telltale squeak of a floorboard. Fuck. Chelle’s standing on the top of the staircase, but she’s not coming down. Good. Hopefully she put some clothes on, because if Suzonne catches her I really don’t want it to look like what it exactly is. Then Suzonne’s eyes fill with tears. If you ever want to feel your balls swallow themselves up into your body, make a woman cry. Even if it’s justified, you will feel like the world’s biggest goddamn monster. “I…I feel so lost all the time now.” Suzonne’s now sobbing, her shoulders shaking as she buries her face in her hands. “I know Amelia hates the yurt.” Holy shit, that’s the first time I’ve heard her admit it. I hold out a hand to her, just to give her a reassuring touch. She takes that as an invitation to launch herself onto me, clinging around my waist. My entire body stiffens, though she doesn’t seem to notice. Christ. I check out the corner of my eye, and still see Chelle’s bare feet on the top step. How do I negotiate this without either revealing the woman I’m sleeping with or hurting the woman who’s already sobbing in my arms? And when the hell did my life become this much of a soap opera? I’m not made for this shit. Last night, all I wanted was some teriyaki and some sex. Why is that so hard? “We can talk about this in mediation,” I tell Suzonne gently, inching her away until she’s no longer wrapped around me. She sniffs, and pulls out a packet of tissues from her purse. They look like they’re made of biodegradable tree pulp, so good for her. She dabs at her eyes and blows her nose. “See, this is what I mean.” She’s pissed at me again, but at least she’s not crying. “I have this emotional outpouring and you don’t want to respond to it. You want to talk about it with our lawyers. Well, I can’t live like this anymore!” Now we’re right back to yelling. Who can keep up with this? Then Suzonne stomps out into my front hall—fuck, right where she’s got the perfect spot to look up and see Chelle. I walk with her, ready to dive in front of my

ex if need be. But Chelle’s gone, thank god. I open the door for Suzonne, who looks about ready to start running. “Look. Tell me what you need, and I’ll order it for you. If you need a place to stay, I’ll pay for it. Just do me a favor and get my kid out of that damn canyon.” “Your kid. Of course. She’s always your kid when you want to take her out for ice cream or movies or show her what a monster I am in comparison.” Suzonne narrows her eyes. “Do you know how she’s going to feel when I tell her that Daddy came home and didn’t even call her? She’s going to be heartbroken. You only want her around when it’s good for you.” That’s it. “When this divorce finally goes through, I’m going to fight like hell to get sole custody.” “That is never going to happen. Spiritually, it is better for children to be with their mothers!” “Spiritually speaking, you’re talking out your ass. Go back to D’Artagnan and tell him to keep his hands off my kid. I’ll be over in two hours to pick Amelia up, so have her ready to go.” As Suzonne steps out, I snap, “And I’ll get you your fucking dishes, since that’s what you really came here for.” “We need another hoodie,” Suzonne snaps back, like that will somehow win her the argument. Slamming the door shut, I then lean my forehead against the wall and breathe the anger out. That’s one thing the therapist told us when we were in counseling: take your anger away in your own time so that you can experience it fully. Frankly, that was the only part of those crackpot sessions that did anything for me. That and learning that I need to let my Jungian shadow out more, or some shit. Finally, I walk back up to the bedroom, where I find Chelle throwing on her clothes. Christ, I didn’t want her to see that. I don’t think there’s a way back to the almost-fucking we were doing, but I go to her anyway. She dodges around me, like she’s trying to do anything she can to avoid touching me. Christ, what the hell is this? “I know that wasn’t the best thing to see first thing in the morning,” I begin, before she cuts in. “You haven’t gone through with the divorce yet?” She’s making the bed with a ferocity that would be sexy if it didn’t look like she wanted to throttle the pillows. “We’re still in mediation. We don’t want to make things too drawn out in court, especially when it comes to Amelia.” I’m not going to grovel about this shit. My kid has to come first, even if I don’t call her the second I land after a long business trip. That sounded a lot more responsible and caring before I thought it. “Okay.” She sounds distant when she says it, which is the opposite of what I want. I want the fiery woman who yells about everything, from what happened to my marriage to what kind of soap she should buy. This quiet is out of character for her, and that’s why it’s bad. “It’s going to go through. We just need a little more time.” “Sure. Fine.” She neatens the comforter about three times, then picks up her

jacket and slips it on. “I should go. I need to go now.” “What’s wrong?” Goddamn it, I can’t do this right now. Chelle looks up at me; fuck, her eyes are bright with tears. Why am I such a shitty human being? What kind of man makes two women start crying before ten in the morning? “I didn’t know that you came to me without calling Amelia.” I get the feeling this can either go spectacularly well or not, so I wait. “See, I used to date this asshole who would go months without calling his kid. Then, out of the blue, he suddenly decided he needed to have another baby with his ex to give his kid someone to play with.” Her voice falters here, and she stares down at her hands. “He also told me he and his ex were through, but then they ended up having that second child together. I couldn’t trust him.” “Chelle, it’s not like that.” I try to approach her calmly, talk to her. Before I can make that move, she grabs her purse and nearly flings herself out of the room. Jesus. I go down the stairs after her, but the door’s open by the time I get halfway down. She’s like a ninja when she wants to be. “Chelle!” By the time I’m in the hallway, I can see the elevator doors closing. Fuck! I don’t care that my shirt’s half unbuttoned, I take the stairs. By the time I hit the lobby, no one’s there. She’s not on the street. Her car’s gone. She’s gone.

19

Chelle I do not need Will Munroe’s help to build this police car. That’s what I’m going to keep telling myself with every tire I attach, made out of cardboard. With every window I paint, made out of cardboard. With every detachable hand radio, also made out of cardboard with a little plaster as well. I tell myself that running out on that asshole was the best decision I’ve made in a long time. Another good decision is crying in the janitor’s closet every night after the kids go home. Then again, it’s not the janitor’s closet; it’s the holistic center of janitorial well being. You know, even if I’m about to lose this job, maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. This place is nuts. Emery tried talking me down about Will. Amazing, considering she wasn’t so crazy about this match in the first place. But I listened to her. After all, what I saw was a marriage in its death throes. I saw a man who has to deal with a woman who’s raising his child in a commune. I saw a woman who feels very lost, and maybe unsupported. I should try giving both of them a break. That would make sense, except that this is setting off all the alarm bells I installed after the Darren fiasco. Let’s face it, Will Munroe isn’t free. It’s not about his kid—I have zero problems with sharing emotional space with an adorable ten year old. Hell, I know that Amelia has to be Will’s top priority. It’s that she wasn’t for the night when he decided that his top priority was to ingratiate himself with my family and get laid. If he can switch up his focus and the space in his heart that easily, who’s to say he won’t find his way back to Suzonne one day? Who’s to say there won’t be another situation where he’s got a second baby and I’ve got a drinking problem? Plus, there’s the fact that he could’ve cleared up his situation with Suzonne. He could’ve told me they weren’t technically divorced yet. Well, he did: after the fact. As soon as I got back to my place, I found a couple of texts from him. I’m sorry. Followed by, I should have told you I wasn’t fully divorced yet. Let’s talk. So I did what any rational adult woman should do and pretended I didn’t see the texts. I’m grown up. Look, Will’s apologies are good, but I can’t help the feeling he didn’t tell me because he must have known instinctively how that would look. It’d look like he wasn’t totally free yet, and few women want to get emotionally entangled with a man who could drop off the market at any second. He didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth. That and the Amelia thing were the two strikes that I needed to see

this wasn’t going anywhere. Even if I cried all the way home. Even if I cried so hard that I nearly got into a fender bender with a very nice Iranian tile salesman. Even if I cried so hard that the very nice Iranian tile salesman offered to help me redo my kitchen for fifty percent off. So here I am, one week later and getting ready to start the last run through of the show. The lights have been set up, the sets are painted, the costumes are stitched, and now my urchins are putting on the most attractive smudged dirt face makeup they can find. Some of them are rubbing actual dirt onto their faces. Talk about verisimilitude, I guess. What’ve I been doing since I took up stonewalling Will? Well, I’ve chosen to embark upon healthy and uplifting activities. For example, I found out that stress knitting is a thing. I’ve created two tiny caps for Chuckles, along with a sweater and a tail warmer. He’s going to need one of those if they spend the winter in Montana again. I’ve also made Archie a pillow, and earmuffs, and I’ve knitted a doggie dish for him. It doesn’t hold any water, so maybe that was a stupid idea. Well, no maybe about it. I’ve also taken to ordering my comfort food every night. Some people have meatloaf or pot roast; I have corn dogs and cotton candy. The guy at the supermarket was at a loss when I asked him if he had just cotton candy mix. Apparently it’s weird for people to have their own miniature cotton candy makers. So I’m odd. Who would’ve guessed? So yes, corn dogs and cotton candy and knitting are how I’m about to hit my twenty-ninth birthday. Since the principal and Willow over here at Bay of Dreams have said absolutely nothing to me about extending my stay, I have to assume this means I’m not being asked to come back. Which is fine. That means I’m off to live in the trailer with Mom and Dad and Chuckles and Jumbo and Erasmus and Todd. When they were in town, my parents told me that everyone needs a hobo clown for their parties now. I mean, it’s not politically correct to call it that, but if a woman plays the hobo it seems to be more socially acceptable. The things you find out about clowns. So this is it. No Los Angeles, no love, no job, nada. Nothing. But honestly, I’d rather die as a clown than live waiting around on some jerk to suddenly decide to be an acceptable human being. You can write that on my tombstone. Though who am I kidding, I plan to be cremated and have my ashes scattered at Disney World. I’ve got it written into my will. That took a dark turn. As I adjust the steering wheel inside the cop car, I think about maybe getting out on the road again and looking for another town, another job opening. Maybe I can finally make this teaching gig work out full time. But at some point, you need to grow up. So it looks like Archie’s going to have to tango with the boa constrictor pretty soon. Poor little guy.

“Hi there.” That sweet voice can only belong to one person. I get out of the car to find Amelia looking down at me, scuffing the toes of her sneakers on the stage floor. She’s got her little mouse-eared hoodie back, so that’s good. That makes me happy. I pat the ground next to me, and she sits. “Those ears look good on you,” I say, making her smile a little. Still, she keeps her eyes turned down. Amelia’s a good kid, and she’s smart. Will and I did our best to keep her from seeing the extent of our relationship, but some people are just intuitive. She knew who left the bacon donuts behind in the auditorium. Heck, she even shared one with me. We had to keep it on the down low, but I’ve never seen a child almost cry over how wonderful bacon tastes. Then again, knowing how things are with her mother, I’m not surprised she doesn’t get her healthy share of nitrates. That’s not the point. The point is that Amelia knew what was going on, even if she didn’t know. She was used to waiting with me for her dad to come pick her up, catching Pokémon, watching YouTube videos of people playing video games. I swear, the things kids like these days. But it was fun, and now it can’t be that easy between us. “It’s my favorite hoodie,” she says, patting her mouse ears. “Did your dad buy you another one?” Crap, I just sort of let it slip that I know the whos and whys and hows of losing that hoodie in the first place. But she only shrugs. “It was kind of neat. He drove up to the canyon and threatened the guy who stole it!” Her eyes brighten as she tells the story. Aw. The man who threatens creeps for his daughter is…a man I should not be involved with because reasons. “Who was the guy?” I give her a stick of my strawberry chewing gum, which she loves. She blows a bubble while she considers. “He had, like, really long hair that he kept tied in pink ribbons. Then he claimed my mom was his spirit guide in another life, and he took my hoodie to feel the spiritual essence of her passing along to me. But I think he just liked the colors,” she says sagely. I swear to god, I hope Will manages to get her out of that yurt. “So are you staying with your dad for a while?” I ask with absolutely no interest, why would you say that I had any interest? Lies. Amelia blows another bubble, one so big her eyes widen with amazement. When it pops, and she manages to pick it off her cheeks, she says, “He’s really stressed out. That’s what he says. There’s a lot going on with work. And other stuff.” She gives me the biggest, most mournful eyes ever. God, I feel like such a jerk now. Must stay strong, Chelle. “Well, grown ups get stressed a lot, but then they always get better.” I smile at the little make up case she’s got in her hands. It’s covered in pink and purple daisies, because of course it is. This is Amelia Munroe we’re talking about. “Are you ready for your star-making debut?” Amelia gives me this smile that’s both kind and a little bit sad. “Ms. Chelle, it’s

okay that I’m not going to be the star of the show. My dad tried telling me I was the star, but everyone thinks I’ll be hurt if I’m not. You know? It’s okay. One day, if I practice, maybe I actually will be.” “Oh.” Man, talk about not knowing what to say after that. “That’s…such a grown up thing to say, Amelia.” She shakes her head, bouncing her curls back and forth. “People always say that like it’s a weird thing. You know, acting grown up. Okay, I’d better get changed.” Impulsively, she leans over and gives me a hug. The lights blur around me because I’ve got something in my eye, not because I’m on the verge of tears. It’s dusty in here, you know. The kids all get settled, made up, and costumed. Then, after running a few exercises, like stretching all the way up on our toes or singing scales, it’s time to run the show. I sit at the back of the theater on one of the metal folding chairs and watch the thing unfold. Despite all the shenanigans that’ve been going on, for a little while I get lost in the moment. The lights are bright, the sets are freshly painted, and the kids are (mostly) singing in tune. When Oliver asks for more kombucha at the sweatshop, I admit it’s kind of not what Mr. Dickens may have had in mind. But when he runs into the Artful Dodger, now a fast-rapping kid from South Central, I feel like it got a pretty good update. This is the moment that all the stress and the lack of money make worth it: when you see everyone feeding off each other’s energy, having a good time. If adults could get along for ten minutes as well as a group of hyperactive kids get along for two hours on stage—while singing, mind you—the world might not be such an utter disaster. Of course, part of the reason it works on stage is everything’s scripted and everyone knows what they’re supposed to do. Which could work in real life, if you were willing to go for a sort of Truman Show thing, but anyway— “Looking good.” Emery plops down next to me, swiping her hair out of her eyes and giving an appreciative nod at the stage. “I don’t know how you make it all work. I also don’t know how you worked a save the whales song into Oliver, but you did it.” It’s true, the kids are currently involved in a, shall we say, original number about helping an orca whale in captivity escape to freedom on the open seas. I’ll admit I stole the plot line from Free Willy, but it’s all going to be worth it. At the end of the show, two kids dressed in an orca costume swim across the stage, Oliver on the whale’s back, heading toward Catalina Island and freedom. The more I think this through, the more I realize we probably shouldn’t have credited Charles Dickens, since he has almost nothing to do with this. But you know what? That’s why I sneak a hip flask into opening night. While the kids dance and the accompanist pounds the ivories, Emery leans closer. “Promise you can keep a secret?” she whispers in my ear. “Nope.” “Good.” She grins. “I kinda want this one spreading around the school.”

Clearing her throat for dramatic emphasis, she says, “Guess who got engaged, spur of the moment, on Zuma beach yesterday?” Every muscle in my body freezes. Every hair follicle turns a little bit gray at the root. It’s Will. How can it be Will? Why would Emery be such a sadist that she’d be smiling while telling me it was Will? For a moment I have an out of body experience and wonder if somehow the biggest surprise of all happened and I got engaged to Will at Zuma. I mean, even if I don’t remember it, a lot stranger things have happened. I think. Probably. “Who?” My voice comes out as the softest, hoarsest whisper. I sound like an owl wracked with emphysema. “Suzonne Munroe. Or should I say, Suzonne D’Andrei. At least, she will be.” Emery wiggles her eyebrows. I’m pretty sure that out of body experience has turned into me leaving my body utterly, turning it into an AirBnB and moving out of state. Blinking, I manage to articulately ask, “Whuhum?” “So I only know this ’cause Danielle in reception talked to Tomi who’s the kindergarten assistant, and she talks to the cafeteria lady, Gerald. Point is, you know how that lady’s been living up in, like, a yurt commune in Topanga or something? Like, even for how kale friendly things are around here, that’s super messed up? So there’s some surfer bro who lives up there with them, but he’s not, you know, into the culture the way the others are. His name’s Jason D’Andrei, he’s twenty, so over a decade younger, and Gerald told Tomi that apparently he and Suzonne hit it up big at the community bonfire. It’s where they burn all the remnants of their old life. Probably illegal given the fire season, but hey, stupid people gotta keep their stupidity going.” My head’s spinning. Not literally, in an Exorcist way, although it feels like that’s not out of the realm of possibility. “How the hell does Gerald know all of this?” “Her dad, Jennifer, lives up in the commune.” Stop asking questions. Life keeps getting weirder. “So. They’re. That is, Will’s. Well. He’s not.” Find a sentence, Chelle, and marry it together. “Gerald also told me that Suzonne’s been the one dragging her feet about signing the final divorce papers. Apparently, Will’s lawyer keeps going up to the commune but gets told she’s, like, talking to a goat or something. The goat spirit, I mean, not an actual goat.” Emery frowns. “Damn, I hope that’s what it means.” I have to think about this. Holy shit, is it possible I’ve had this completely wrong? Will wasn’t the one hiding anything about the divorce—Suzonne wouldn’t let him go until she was ready, so he didn’t want to mention that. Because who wants to tell someone you’re dating, “Listen, my ex lives in a tent and she won’t let go of the fact that it’s over. Do you still want to have sex tonight?” Hard sell, that. “Suzonne finally has her new boy toy, so now that she’s got him?” “I wouldn’t be surprised if she signs those papers tonight. She doesn’t strike me as the hurry up and wait type, you know?” Emery’s taken out a bag of dried wasabi peas, and holds it out to me. I take a few, though I can hardly taste anything. Suzonne signs the papers, and gets remarried. Will’s not still pining for her, or

trying to jerk her around. I think I made an enormous goddamn mistake. Muttering some kind of explanation and asking Emery to make sure no one falls off the stage, I leave the auditorium and walk outside. The night blooming jasmine’s sweet on the air, and the wind’s cool. Thank god, no more hot Santa Ana nights. I walk up and down the path leading toward the administration building, trying to wrap my head around this. Maybe I could call Will and ask to talk. Maybe I could explain the Darren thing and tell him how I need to stop seeing all potentially divorced men as potential assholes. Maybe there’s a way forward for us. But I stop right by the pond of tranquility and feel my shoulders slump. My brain’s already shutting this possibility down, because who am I kidding? Will’s going to be a completely free man with a kid to take care of. And me? I get to head back to the badlands of Montana to perform birthday parties for the rest of my life. Maybe I’ll meet a nice rodeo clown and we can have five clown babies. Maybe TLC will start a reality show about my life. Maybe I’ll learn to be happy with that. I could’ve talked with him instead of running out that day. I didn’t, and after the run around the last woman in his life gave him, I get the feeling Will’s not going to be excited to revisit crazy town. While the kids are still singing and dancing inside the auditorium, I sit at the edge of the pond and want nothing more than to be quiet for a good long time.

20

Chelle There are times in your life to have your heart broken, and to wallow in the heartbreak. There are times to sit in your sweatpants in front of your television, watch a Hellraiser movie marathon, and wonder how much chocolate chip ice cream you can eat before the bloody stuff on the screen makes you have to put the tub down. My record, incidentally, is halfway through. I’m very consistent. But the time for sweatpants and movie marathons and ice cream and general heartache isn’t opening night of a musical. I’m standing backstage, peeking out from behind the curtain as the auditorium starts to fill up. Man, I knew the parents at Bay of Dreams liked to be supportive. I just didn’t know they’d bring in a legitimate production company to shoot the performance. Gauging the cameras I’m seeing, I’m guessing this’ll be something you could show in IMAX when it’s all over. Wealthy people live differently than you and me. “Ms. Chelle! How do we look?” the girl playing Oliver asks. She and Artful Dodger turn around for me, both in their most realistic and yet family appropriate costumes. Oliver’s dressed like a prisoner, in a gray smock and pants, and Dodger’s got the most neon pants and flashy Air Jordans of all time. Well, just wait until Oliver escapes the sweatshop. That’s when he becomes fashion conscious. “Great! Hands in the energy circle.” I put my hands out and wiggle my fingers. Giggling, the kids join me, and we wiggle faster and drum our feet until finally, with a loud cry, we release the energy by throwing our hands in the air. The kid playing Dodger in particular looks like she’s nervous. She bounces up and down on the balls of her feet as she watches the audience file in. The look in her eyes is priceless. It’s exactly the kind of look that gets people addicted to the theater their whole lives. Even if they don’t become professionals, they come to love it. Then they pass on the love. I get a sudden pang, wishing I could stay and work with these kids again. Most of them are very talented, and even the ones who don’t have a lot of natural ability are hard workers. Everyone’s improved since we started. If only I could stay, see them reach the next level… But I did my best today, hanging around outside Willow’s office. I pretended to accidentally trip and fall inside her office. It was sort of a Fifty Shades of Grey type situation, only instead of becoming her submissive, I wanted her to give me tenure. Though if being Willow’s submissive gets me tenure, hey, she’s hot and I’m

unafraid to experiment. I literally almost gave her that exact pitch before I thought better of it. Good thinking, because I’m about sure security would’ve escorted me off campus. “Look!” a familiar voice cries out behind me. I turn and find Amelia spinning around for my approval, dressed like the world’s most adorable orphan. She’s the only one who wanted to look like she was truly from Victorian London, and since the kids are allowed to pick their own costumes, I wasn’t going to argue. She’s got on brown pants with suspenders, a patchwork jacket, and fingerless gloves. Smudge some dirt on her face, muss up her hair, and what you’ve got is the cutest starving urchin of all time. “You look great.” I beam, though my face goes slack when she pulls something out of her pocket: a bright red rubber clown nose. “Oh. That’s…” “Is it okay if I’m a clown orphan? Please? My dad told me that all the best people are clowns.” If that’s not enough to stop my heart, I’m not sure what is. Though I get a pretty good idea when the curtain swirls to the side and Suzonne ducks into the hall with us. “The, ah, parents are seated outside.” I’m trying to figure out how not to be awkward about this, and as usual I’m coming up horribly short. Besides, I’m amazed at Suzonne’s apparent overnight transformation. When I saw her at Will’s, she had been frenzied looking. Granted, I hadn’t gotten too good a look at her as she stormed past him, shouting about dishes and hoodies. But the tightness I noticed on her features before has completely gone. Her whole face looks relaxed, and the same goes for her posture. For the first time, she really looks the part of a hippie down-home earth mother. She solidifies the idea that she’s a pod person when she wraps Amelia up in a warm hug, and kisses her dirty cheek. “You’re going to do so great! Break a leg, sweetie.” “Thanks!” Amelia beams like this is all normal, and for a split second I have the terrifying idea we’ve slipped into a wormhole and we’re now in an alternate land, where Will and Suzonne are still happily together and I’m probably a harried alcoholic. I mean, I know I’m harried, but I haven’t hit the sauce quite yet. “Listen, I wanted to catch you,” Suzonne says to me in a low voice, grabbing my arm. Oh shit. She knows about me and Will. The jig, she is up. I’m about to have my ass handed to me on a balsa wood platter. She takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry about how I behaved earlier.” “I didn’t sleep with your ex,” I say at the exact same time. Suzonne blinks. “What?” “What? I said go on with what you were saying. Explain. I didn’t see you explain.” She takes a minute, probably to let everything rewire itself in her brain, and continues, “I think when we first met I was a total bitch to you. Like, telling you

that you were fat, worrying about your skin. Trying to force my homemade recipes onto you.” She sighs, waving her hand through the air before returning it to its death grip on my arm. “That’s so me when I’m hormonal, you know?” I don’t think this is going to end with her pulling out fistfuls of my hair while we battle it out in front of the kids and the audience, so I’m willing to go along. “You weren’t… That is, you were under a lot of pressure.” I know it’d be wise to act like she wasn’t a raging bag of feminine abuse, but I don’t believe in lying to people. When you grow up literally painting a smile onto your face every day, it makes you want total honesty as an adult. Unless you’re trying to lie to keep your job, in which case, go for it. I’m starting to lose my train of thought. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. “That’s all done now. I’m done tormenting you, my ex, my kid. Goddess, it feels so good to come out and say that, you know? My guru told me it’d work wonders to bridge pathways between myself and the people I wronged. At least, I think that’s what he said. I don’t speak Cantonese.” I finally look down at her hand, and notice a great lump of something on her ring finger. “Nice ring,” I say, hoping I’m right about what it is. Suzonne beams. “Isn’t it amazing? My fiancé made it.” She holds her hand up to her face, in the classic check out my bling type of move. Only instead of a diamond on a platinum band, this ring’s made out of rope, and has what looks like a bottle cap attached to it. So. High end luxury goods, right there. At least Suzonne mentioned the fiancé, so I can appear shocked and pry. “Oh! Congratulations. When’s the wedding?” When are you getting officially divorced from your smoking hot ex-husband so that I may pine for him from afar? Maybe I should’ve led with that. “Next week. We’re driving out to Joshua Tree so the desert can give its blessing.” She says it all so conversationally. “Just as soon as I complete some official paperwork. I’m so bad at paperwork. I think that’s true of all spiritual people.” So long as she doesn’t spiritually take Will for all he’s worth in legal fees, that’s all right by me. Then, something happens that startles the hell out of me—Suzonne gives me a big hug, pulling me in against her tone and unfairly svelte body. Man. Hugging her is like hugging a sexy coat rack with curves. I meant that a lot nicer than it sounded, I swear. “A little bird told me that you and my ex worked together on this production. She says her dad was so present, all because of you.” And this is the part where I end up with a knife in the back, and a terrible murder mystery begins. The Tale of the Substitute Theater Teacher’s Mangled Corpse: An Amelia Munroe Mystery. Thankfully, this doesn’t turn into anything so commercial. Suzonne pulls away, and winks at me.

“Maybe he needs more of that in his life. I’m sure it does him good.” With that, she breezes out again, back into parent land. I’m left standing there and wondering if she knows we’ve banged. I’m going to say yes, just because I’d like to feel she’s giving her blessing. Not that there’s a blessing to give here. It’s not like Will’s ever going to see me again. After tonight, I need to close up shop, lock the doors, throw Archie into the car, and head on back to wherever the hell the trailer is. Besides, Will will be free. Like I said. Free to date everyone. Sleep with most of them. Marry one of them. Perhaps two, if he can get away with it. “Ms. Chelle.” There’s a tug on my sleeve, as Fagin looks up at me. We changed the character to a twisted social worker, and she’s got on her best Warby Parker eyeglasses and middle aged frump wig. She frowns. “They say the show’s got to start soon.” Right. If you go out, go out with a bang. I assemble all the little muppets backstage, all of them jittery with nerves and giggling, trying to pat their wigs and prosthetic teeth into place. I don’t know why some of them have vampire fangs. Maybe I should’ve been more involved in the costume process. “Let’s go out there tonight and give them the best show they’ve ever seen.” I put my hand into the circle, and everyone follows suit. Making sure to get a good look into everyone’s eyes, I add, “But whatever happens, make sure it’s the most fun show we’ve ever had. Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose.” I don’t care that I stole that from Friday Night Lights, that whole franchise is an American treasure and it works. The kids cheer, throwing their hands into the air. I slip backstage, give the okay to the stage manager. Then, as they ready everyone for places and dim the lights, I head out through the curtain and into the auditorium. You wouldn’t believe the array of people here tonight. There’s Beyoncé and JayZ, presumably for the niece or cousin or whomever they’re related to. Spielberg’s here—I think he’s a grandparent or something. And of course, the principal, Ms. Littleton, and Willow are here. They’re both wearing their best strings of wooden beads and have actual gardenias in their hair. Well, at least this Oliver will be socially conscious enough for them. Everyone’s rich and powerful, and I’m just going to slide over to the back of the room and watch my magnum opus like the simple, small creature that I am. Except that someone’s eye catches mine as I’m making my way down the side. It’s Will. He’s wearing a dark blue suit, and he’s got a probably very expensive camcorder in his hand. I realize how much I love the fact that he’s not going in on this whole filming extravaganza, where he hires an Academy Award nominated cinematographer to handle it. Do it yourself is my favorite kind of person. Scratch that. I think Will Munroe is my favorite kind of person. But I can’t think that way anymore. Still, as I’m trying to casually walk past him I find myself wanting to launch myself on top of him. Very subtle, that’s me. With a motion of his hand, he tries to wave me over. Ho boy. Should not do that. But I don’t want to be rude, and if this is the last time we see each other, I want it to be a fond parting. Imagine me waving a white handkerchief at him as I climb into

my car and drive off, with only a million scarves, a mutt dog, and a couple of cheap lamps in the back. I want him to look at me and think wow, that is a woman I had sex with. It sure is. Point being, I calmly walk over to him and crouch down. God, he smells like pine and fresh soap, his dark hair is perfectly tousled, his jaw looks more iron than ever. Would it be overplaying my hand to simply thrust my head into his lap, cling on, and never let go? His perfect mouth opens, and he says, “Looks like a good crowd.” It’s not quite you look ravishing and I want to make love to you up against a wall when this is all over, but I’ll take what I can get. “It’s a good crowd now.” Crap, his eyebrows lift. He thinks I’m giving him a compliment, and he doesn’t realize that I want to compliment him but I didn’t yet, because how weird would that be? So I helpfully add, “It could be a better crowd. You know. In case the crowd is getting ideas.” His eyes seem to darken, and that’s not a reference to the fact that the lights are dimming. Show’s about to start. He gives one quick nod, then looks ahead stoically. I notice a bouquet of purple and yellow daisies on the seat next to him. Suzonne’s not sitting with him; I can already catch a glimpse of her on the other side of the theater, clutching the arm of someone who looks super buff and super young. And also, when they glance in each other’s eyes, super in love. I wonder how Will’s feeling about all this. But I can’t ask him. In fact, I need to continue to awkwardly make my way to the back and watch this masterpiece. I stand up, and quickly whisper, “I’ll, ah, see you after.” He nods once, non-committal. Great. Just great. I make my way back with my cheeks burning and prickly tears forming in the corners of my eyes. Then I cross my arms, smile a little as Emery stations herself beside me, and watch as the play begins. We took a lot of liberties with this baby, but even I have to admit that it turned out pretty damn good. Oliver starts off in that humble sweatshop, asking for the kombucha, and then the next thing you know we’re in a modern day Los Angeles. With whales. I…I never quite figured out how the aquarium got into the mix, but it was something they all wanted, so I had to give in. Oliver’s big song “Where is Love?” stays intact in our production, and since it’s one of my favorite songs, I’m glad. Bill Sykes, the thuggish monster who ends up murdering poor Nancy in Dickens’s original, is now a terrible contractor who wants to destroy the neighborhood and build duplexes. Nancy isn’t a prostitute now, but rather an environmental activist. And instead of Bill beating her to death, they engage in some fights with samurai swords which Nancy ends up winning. Again, I’m not sure how we crammed all this into Oliver Twist, but we did. Also, like I said before, Oliver ends up leaving on the back of a whale for greener pastures, or islands. Though Fagin adopts Dodger, and they agree they can go visit Oliver on Catalina every once in a while. So. That’s a happy ending, I suppose. My eyes inadvertently find Amelia whenever she’s in the chorus. I don’t think

I’ve ever seen a kid have so much fun with such a little part. She really glows up there, and I get the feeling that if she works hard at auditioning and hones her craft, she could get a lead role. She could get several. But I’m not going to be there to work with her on it, because I’m going to be on the road, living far away from her and everyone else here. Including, I reluctantly admit as I look at the back of his gorgeous head, Will. I’ll miss him too much. I may not ever be able to get over it. So as the cast takes their bows and the audience rises to its feet as one to applaud its progeny, I take an organic tissue from Emery. She knows I cry at opening nights anyway, and this time around there’s an extra reason to cry. When the curtains fall and the lights come up, I have to hurry backstage to congratulate all my amazing players. I hurry past Will so I’m not tempted to stay and talk, because that could get messy. You only want happy tears on opening night.

21

Chelle I love how excited the kids are about their big debut performance. I get tons of hugs and people jumping up and down in excitement. What I don’t expect, when we head out of the curtain afterwards and into the sea of parents, is how much everyone else loved it as well. Seriously, I’ve played shows from Oregon to Maine, Minnesota to south Texas, and I’ve never had so much enthusiasm from so many adults before. “You know, I never would’ve thought to have the climax of Oliver Twist be on top of the US Bank Tower,” one of the parents marvels. She’s wrapped up in some kind of pashmina, already chowing down on grapes and expensive wine from the reception tables. She squeezes my shoulder, and the rings studding each of her fingers contain enough expensive stones to fund another ten productions. “You’ve got such a gift with the kids. My Adelina keeps going on about how much she loves acting now. I think I’m going to be mad at you in a few years when she majors in it in college!” She laughs, and I laugh, but I get the feeling she’s serious and sort of sidle my way back into the party. Beyoncé gives me a hug, which is pretty much the culmination of my life up to this point. Everything that went before will be premature, and everything after will have the smack of anticlimax. While I gibber and try to shake as many people’s hands as possible without losing my mind, Suzonne comes up to me. She’s draped over D’Andrei, who I now realize is half a head shorter in addition to being way younger. Then again, the dude is jacked, tanned, and bleach blond, so I can understand her not caring about either of those things. “Amelia sparkled up there,” Suzonne gushes, squeezing her man tighter. D’Andrei, meanwhile, looks at her like he found the greatest treasure of his life. Or scored the perfect wave. Or whatever it is professional surfers talk about when they talk about love. “You’ve made her so happy. Thank you.” Aw, shucks. As I kind of demure and talk about how great the kids are just in general, I feel a presence behind me. A sexy presence. The kind of presence you want to bottle up and store in your vibrator, for the exceptionally needful times. Even I’m creeped out by that idea, and I vaguely understand what I just said. Will. Will’s behind me. That’s what I’m getting at, and he and Suzonne respond to each other like sane, healthy individuals. “Our kid’s pretty incredible,” Will says to his ex, as they smile at each other in a completely non-aroused way. They’re friendly, and that’s it. Maybe I couldn’t see it when they still had the furious antagonism between them, but I can see it now—

they’re over. It’s done. No take backs. If I hadn’t been so obsessed with my old mistakes, maybe I could’ve seen how different this one is. My heart’s thudding in a terribly obvious way as Will and Suzonne part so that she can go find Amelia. Now it’s only him and me, standing here surrounded by celebrities and wealthy people and my boss and basically all the folks I shouldn’t have a screaming breakdown in front of. I’ll keep you posted on how successfully I manage that. “Those are nice flowers,” I say, noting the bouquet in his arms. “Amelia’s going to love it.” Will shuffles the packet, and brings out something smaller. It’s one red rose. In the language of flowers, that can be roughly interpreted as DTF. My entire body freezes, then melts, then regroups itself into solid matter. Don’t question me, my understanding of physics is flawless. “Oh,” is all I can helpfully think to say as Will hands it to me. I take a quick sniff, just to make sure it’s not like chocolate or something and I should be unwrapping it right now and stuffing my face. It smells fragrant. Beautiful. Perfect. Like Will. Or Will’s body wash. God, he’s staring straight at me and probably waiting on a logical response to this. Brushing the rose under the tip of my chin, I elaborate. “It’s gorgeous. Thank you. I have to move to Montana.” Keeping. It. Real. “Give me five minutes,” is his only reply. He looks toward the door. “Meet me outside?” If he asks me to run away with him and have mad passionate sex, and/or rob a bank, I will be down for it. This rose will seal our Bonnie and Clyde bond. I back away, watching Will’s face light up as Amelia comes charging down the aisle to him. He wraps her up in his arms and spins her around, laughing as she tells him something that is probably simultaneously adorable and hilarious. Suzonne and D’Andrei watch, blissful smiles on their faces. Well, if nothing else, the Munroe divorce seems to be smooth sailing at last. For Amelia’s sake, that’s a good thing. I find myself outside the auditorium, pacing and saying thank you to the people as they come out, kids in hand. The children are holding bunches of flowers and bags of candy, and are skipping along together and singing pieces of the show. Ah, to be a kid again. To not have to worry about student loan payments or finding a job or facing thirty. To only watch Pewdiepie videos on YouTube. To truly feel alive. “Chelle.” That’s a rugged, masterful voice right next to me, and it’s being wielded by a rugged, masterful man. I feel like rugged, masterful should be directly under Will’s name on his business cards. Sorry, I’m mentally stalling for time. I do that when I know I’m about to be either deliriously happy or disastrously sad. It’s an instinct. “You liked the show?” I walk with him around the corner of the building, so no one can see how truly freaked out I am. Will leans a shoulder against the wall, and

looks down at me with those glinting gray eyes of his. And the expression I read in them is…concern. Is concern what you feel when you give people red roses? Shit, maybe I have the language of flowers all jumbled up in my head. Wouldn’t be the first thing to get jumbled in there. “Chelle,” he says again. I could listen to my name on his tongue every day. I could also put a lot of parts of mine on his tongue every day, but that feels not terribly classy to say out loud, so I don’t. Barely. “Will.” Here we are, playing say my name, say your name. A few more rounds of this, and we can sort of call it a conversation. Here’s hoping. “That was an incredible show,” he says at last. A wide, gleaming smile stretches over his face. God, I missed seeing that. I didn’t realize how badly I’d missed it. “Thanks,” I say, a bit breathless. “The kids did all the work. I just directed it. And painted the sets. And hung the lights.” “I know. I was there.” Then he steps closer, the distance between us reduced to mere inches. I feel like my mouth’s gone dry as cotton as he takes my hand, his fingers skimming the delicate skin of my wrist. “I’m sorry about what you saw, that day.” “I’m sorry,” I say instantly. I don’t think I can keep staring up into his gorgeous face, so I study my shoes instead. Nicest shoes Payless can provide. “I should’ve stayed and talked things through. I freaked and ran and that wasn’t right.” “How are you feeling now?” he asks softly, still tentative. That’s the stockbroker in him, probably, the part that doesn’t want to go all in on a purchase until he knows for a fact it’s going to work. Lifting my eyes again, I meet his stare. Then I say, softly and gently,“Montana.” Christ. Way to go, girl. Will’s brow furrows. “What?” “I meant, better. Better. I feel better now that I got to talk to Suzonne. Her new fiancé’s pretty…pretty. Much younger. But I think that’s probably a good fit for her.” Am I babbling? Almost certainly. I’m good at that. “I like him. He’s good to Amelia, so of course I like him.” Will catches the tip of my chin and lifts it higher. Then he leans in a little bit himself, so that his lips just brush against mine as he speaks. “The divorce is speeding up now. We’re going to sign the final papers tomorrow. We’re going to my lawyers to do it.” That’s it then. He’s going to be completely free. “What’ll you do with all that litigation-less time on your hands?” I ask cautiously. He smiles slightly against my mouth, and says, “This.” Then he kisses me. It’s the same scorching, volcanic heat as before. The second our lips touch, I lose myself in the feel of his body. My arms wrap around his neck, and I revel in the taste and, the touch of him. My feet lift off the ground as he picks me up, and I don’t mind if he doesn’t set me down anytime soon. Or ever. Never’s a good time to be placed down as well.

As well as the heat, there’s a growing thread of tenderness. He cradles the back of my head as he lowers me to the ground, so that only the tips of my toes steady me. His other hand trails down my back, keeping me close as much as taking in the line of my body. And the curves. Well, he’s not too much of a gentleman to keep from exploring those. Which is exactly the way I like it. “What do you think?” Will whispers, his lips now inches from mine once more. I’d love nothing more than to climb him like a studly mountain, wrap myself around him, and kiss him again. I’d like to go full on exploratory. But my stomach falls as I step back, creating enough distance to not lose my hormonal mind. “I’m about to lose my job.” I’m a little dizzy, but I’m grounding myself again. I suppose that’s good. Maybe. “I know.” Will sets his jaw, which is strong and square enough that you could likely cut diamonds against it. That’s not making this decision any easier. “There’s other schools in Los Angeles, you know. They say there might even be places in the valley.” He shakes his head, like he’s described some mythical Shangri-La locale. “But who the hell knows if that’s even real?” “Sherman Oaks? ’Tis spoken of in whispers,” I deadpan. Will laughs, the smile exploding across his face. God, it’s hard to say no to that smile. Those lips. Teeth. Molars. Gums. Okay, maybe I need to pull back a little. Getting too close there. “It’s not just that I can’t pay my rent anymore. Will, you may not have noticed this, but I’m a little emotionally…not there?” “In an uncertain way?” “More like in a doesn’t exist way. My emotions are still in the chrysalis stage. Then they’ll come out with fabulous butterfly wings, like all purple and ochre and bright yellow, and maybe they’ll, like, fly away from me.” None of that made sense. Doesn’t matter. Continue. “When things looked bad, I didn’t stick around. I ran.” “It wasn’t as if you were entirely on your own in the department of bad decisions,” he adds. Then he comes closer, his manly pine scent closing in on me. It’s like wanting to have sex with a forest. Who knew that was a fetish? “I should’ve been clear about the situation with Suzonne and me.” Oh, who am I kidding? He’s right, and we should start making out in celebration. I blink fast. No. Focus. Be honest, Chelle. “I have baggage. In my car, obviously, because I never unpack anything, but also personally. You’ve got Amelia to think about. She’s already got so much upheaval going on. Do you really think bringing my crazy into her life is a good thing?” Will pauses. Shit. I can see the wheels turning in his head as he takes all that into account, and my heart sinks. I know I did the wrong thing, or maybe the right thing. I reminded him that he’s a dad first and foremost and that screwing his daughter’s teacher is not the way to increase stability. “Amelia was acting out a little when you came into her life,” he says at last. He continues towards me, pressing me flush up against the wall. Not a bad place to be,

all things considered. “I knew the separation was getting to her. When you showed up, made her laugh, gave her an outlet, she blossomed. I wasn’t getting through to her and neither was Suzonne. You made my kid happy again.” He puts a hand to my cheek, his fingers twining into my hair. His thumb traces a soft, intoxicating path down my neck. “I think you’re the best thing for my daughter.” His other hand slides around my back, and I let myself go flush against him. He looks down at me, lust and need and a little fear glimmering in his eyes. “If you don’t want to take on a divorced man with a kid, I can’t blame you. But don’t worry about me for a goddamn second. Think about what you want. The open road? Or me.” He pauses, as if thinking that through, and amends it. “Us.” Us. That’s a wild, wonderful, and frightening word. It also lights up my entire body, sending energy shooting through my bloodstream, sparking my nerve endings. I’m not a biologist, but I’m pretty sure that’s what’s happening. The point, beyond anything else, is that it was the single word I needed to hear. “You don’t mind having a clown in the family?” I stand on my toes again— damn, this man is tall—and slide my hands up his chest to hook around his neck. He leans down, smiling against my mouth. “I’ve got too many clowns to begin with. At least you make me laugh.” “That’s a sexy quality, so I’m told.” “The sexiest.” Then his mouth closes over mine again, and I’m lost. His tongue strokes lightly against mine, and I groan as I taste him. Peppering kisses along his jawline, I revel in the growl of satisfaction that reverberates through his body. Whatever comes, we can handle it together. I believe that now. It’s good to believe in something. “Besides, Amelia always wanted to learn how to juggle,” he whispers in my ear. Man, I wish I could make snort-laughing sexy, but hey, at least Will doesn’t seem to mind. “Speaking of the future juggler, we should get back. Amelia will wonder what happened,” I say as I finally disentangle myself. Before Will can wander off with lipstick smeared all over his face, I grab my organic tissues and help neaten him up. See? Those suckers came in handy after all. Since I’m about to be let go anyway, we wander back up to the auditorium with our arms around each other. No point in hiding any longer. Bye, Beyoncé and Jay-Z. Bye Spielberg. It’s the Chelle and Will show now, and we don’t need your approval. “Chelle. What’s this?” Willow asks as she appears before us in a cloud of sandalwood and citrus. She’s dressed in what appears to be a long cotton sheath, with turquoise beads jangling at her wrists. She looks Will and me over like something alarming is going down. Well, so what? I am a grown woman with a functioning relationship and a well-received elementary school musical. Nothing can stop me now. “We were just walking back to get Amelia.” I squeeze Will tighter around the waist, and he returns the squeeze. Willow’s eyebrows lift. “Oh. Well, I wanted to talk to you about staying on at Bay

of Dreams.” Oh. Well, in that case, maybe I should adopt a professional stance, like not clinging on to a child’s parent. I manage to untangle myself, just for the moment. “Oh?” Why did that come out as a squeak? Why can’t I sound badass? “I had a discussion with the principal just now. We shared a cup of lotus tea, and we do still need to work with the astrolabe to determine your salary.” She grins at this, like this is a thing normal people say to one another. Then again, what the hell do I know about normal? “But we both agreed that you’ve done exceptional work here. The children seem to love you, and we’re already trending on Twitter!” She shows me her phone, in a wood paneled case. Sure enough, Beyoncé tweeted and we are rocketing up into three thousand tweets. All publicity is good, and this one is better. “Holy shit.” Will looks quietly amazed. He even takes the phone from me to scroll through the mentions while Willow continues. “So we’d like to discuss a permanent position here. If that’s something you feel you would like?” Willow frowns. “We don’t want any spiritual displacement.” Lady, you can displace my spirit and throw all its furniture onto the street if that’s what it takes to stay in this city. “Oh, that’s something I’d like. I’d be happy to stay on.” I feel about ready to skip down the steps, run over to the pond of tranquility, and take an impromptu naked swim. Of course, my spirits dampen a little. Heh, dampen. Get it? Pond, et cetera. Whatever. Is this going to clash with Will? Because I can feel his gaze track over to me at the same moment I’m having this realization. It’s like we’re in a psychic mind meld. Sex does that to people, so I’m told. Willow smiles. “Also, we do need to talk about interpersonal relationships,” she says. Aw, crap. But Will steps in before I can say anything. “I don’t think I mentioned how wonderful this school is for my daughter,” he says, giving Willow that certain smile. The one that makes you weak at the knees, but doesn’t quite combust your panties. It’s very well calibrated, that smile. “I was thinking of making a charitable donation to…what needed fixing around here?” “The stables.” Willow’s face goes slack as she thinks of it. “We want to show the children the gift of caring for horses and never riding them. Saddles are oppression.” “All the saddle-less horses you can think of.” Will nods his head. “Just let me know what you decide.” Holy shit, he’s buying our relationship. This would be slightly questionable if it weren’t seriously hot. It’s both. Willow’s mouth puckers as she clearly thinks it through, then grins. “In that case, I think that so long as interpersonal relationships are conducted in a manner that doesn’t interfere with the children’s chi, we don’t need to worry.” Willow, you sly fox you.

“Glad to hear it.” “We don’t take personal checks.” “I’ll be in touch with my bank in the morning.” Will smiles back, and she walks away. “This better be worth that amount of money,” I say, still kind of reeling. Will smiles at me, the dangerous kind. Yep. Panties have officially combusted. “I have the feeling it will be.” He wraps his arm around me again, and we walk back to the auditorium. Amelia’s holding two bouquets, one from Will and one from Suzonne. She’s back in her regular clothes, though she hasn’t taken off the clown nose yet. Hey, if she feels a spiritual calling to the life, she and I will have a lot to talk about. When Amelia sees her dad walking up with me, clearly looking loved up, she leaps into the air and squeals. Then she runs at us and tackles me, knocking me straight to the ground. If you want to know what’s the happiest pain you’ll ever experience, get shoved onto concrete by a ten-year-old hugging you too hard. It’ll help you realize what the best things in life truly are. “You two worked everything out?” Suzonne asks Will. She’s looking very happy with the situation. For the first time in what feels like a long time, I let out a sigh of relief. “What do you want to do now?” I ask Amelia as I help us both up off the ground. “It’s your night, after all.” She screws up her face, thinking hard. Then her eyes brighten. “Pie!” Shit, what’ll Suzonne say to that? All eyes turn, even D’Andrei’s. He’s rubbing her shoulders, clearly knowing what’s at stake here. Her brow falls, and her mouth screws up. Aw, crap. She’s going to vegan the hell out of this, isn’t she? Then, like a miracle, her expression clears. “Sounds good. Can you have her home by eleven?” she asks Will. Pie! Suzonne’s letting us have pie! It’s like the sun bursting out from behind the clouds, only way more delicious. “Will do. See you later,” he says, giving her a friendly nod. As Suzonne and her husband-to-be walk back to their car, Amelia leaps into Will’s arms. “I want apple,” she declares. I pick up her makeup case, and we head for the street. Truly, this is a kid after my own heart.

22

Will I’ve never loved watching a woman eat so much. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen a woman eat so much. Chelle’s teaching Amelia the joys of deep dish apple pie, and it’s a beautiful sight. My kid’s giggling, with a dab of vanilla ice cream on her nose as her legs swing back and forth on the leather stool. The two of them are already having a great time without me, which is the way it should be. Chelle sweeps her hair away from her face so she can take an extra large forkful of pie. God, watching this woman eat gets me horny as fuck. That’s part of it. Still, I’ve got to watch how turned on I get when Amelia’s around. There’s plenty of time for more adult entertainment later. “Mom says she and Jason are going to go to Las Vegas tomorrow!” Amelia doesn’t seem fazed by Suzonne’s sudden marriage, and thank god for that. Though I never really saw Suze as a Vegas type of girl. We got married at Big Sur, because A) it was close to her parents, B) she was too pregnant with Amelia to fly, and C) if we put the wedding off any longer her dad was literally going to get his shotgun out of the truck. Then again, maybe she would’ve been a Vegas type of girl if it hadn’t been for the shotgun. Maybe she’s finally getting what she wanted, the way she wanted it. And I’m glad for her. Because having Chelle in my life now helps me see what an actual relationship is supposed to be. Hot sex, yes. Hell, more than yes; absolutely. But I think she gets me, corny as that sounds. And yeah, I think I get her, too. So I get her a napkin, before she gets pie crumbs all over herself. My kind of woman. “Mom says she can drop me off tomorrow morning. She wants me to help her pack up the yurt.” Amelia says it with an obvious sigh of relief. If there’s one reason to give D’Andrei a manful hug, it’s convincing Suzonne to move out of the canyon and into his beach house near Santa Monica. It helps with my commute and Amelia’s commute to me. Chelle takes the phone, and starts flipping through pictures of the show with Amelia. “I loved how you looked during the protest number.” Chelle points something out, and Amelia beams. “You looked really invested. You really cared.” “I just let the spirit move me, like you said.” Amelia nestles her head against Chelle’s arm. I wave to the guy behind the register. “Box, if you got one.” We’re going to need

to keep the rest of this pie fresh. That is, until Chelle sneaks down during the night and eats it. And until I start coming up with foolproof ways to stop her and protect my part of the pie. This relationship is going to be a battle of wits, I can already feel it. We walk back out to the car, Amelia singing and dancing one of the songs. I’m carrying the box, and Chelle’s got a fistful of plastic forks that she swiped. “Always thinking ahead.” I lean down and kiss the back of her neck, and that little action alone’s enough to start getting me hard. I need to get this woman back to my place. “I plan on swiping more during the ride home,” she says sweetly, fluttering her lashes. Devil woman. We stop by Chelle’s place first to grab Archie. Poor little mutt can’t be left alone for too long. Amelia won’t stop fussing with his ears as we drive back to the canyon, wave goodbye to Suzonne and D’Andrei, and then take off back for my place. In Los Angeles terms, this is all like driving to the moon and back. But for the women in my life, I’d drive even further. Maybe an extra half hour. After all, a man’s got to know his limits. “Think Bruno will be happy to see Archie?” Chelle giggles as her tiny mutt jumps up and licks the tip of her nose. I scratch the dog’s ears, and he thumps his leg in approval. See? I can get along with little dogs. “I just hope it doesn’t end up in Bruno dominating all over again.” Chelle sniffs. “I think Bruno will be in for a surprise. You know, Archie’s been meditating.” She whaps my arm lightly when I laugh. “Seriously! I started playing wolf howling soundtracks for him, to get him more in the predator mindset. He’s getting so much more in tune with his primitive roots.” “You’ve been spending too much time at that school.” “Is that going to be a problem? Now that I’m hired to faculty and all?” She flutters her eyelashes again. Damn if she doesn’t know it’s sexy. Reaching over, I squeeze her knee. “No problem at all. I’m all in favor of continuing education.” To make my point even clearer, I skim my hand up her leg, right up to the apex of her thigh. She gasps, and squirms a little beneath my touch before gently taking my hand away. “Later,” she pants. “When the dog isn’t watching.” Archie blinks his bug eyes at me. Son, you ruin everything. But you’re cute, so your mistress will undoubtedly let it slide. Finally, we’re back at my condo. Bruno comes woofing up as we let ourselves in, and immediately takes to sniffing Archie’s ass. The little dog kind of accepts it while Chelle and I move away upstairs. Shutting the bedroom door behind us, I look at the woman in front of me. She’s still toying with her curls, shifting her weight from foot to foot. I understand this look, and this body language. She’s afraid this is all going to go away. She needs something to keep her grounded, to let her know this is real. Well. I’m about to show her how real it is.

Chelle gasps as I cross the room, pick her up, and lean her against the wall. Her arms around my neck and her legs around my waist, I know she can feel my erection. My cock’s already rock hard just this close to being inside her. “Why Mr. Munroe, you’re very forward tonight.” She whispers this against my mouth, then gives me a light, teasing kiss. When I go after her, she bobs away from me. Coy. Teasing. Both of those are guaranteed to make me harder, if that’s even possible. “Then let’s be clear.” I kiss her neck all the way down to her collarbone, and she starts to grind against me. Fuck, I could come from this alone. “What do you want?” I growl in her ear. She squeezes me with her thighs, driving me way past crazy. Quickly, I turn around and deposit her on the bed. Chelle gasps as she lands, bouncing a little. She giggles as I lean down over her, waiting. My hand slides up her thigh, all the way up to the silk of her panties. Her eyes go half-lidded as I thrust the thin material of the panties aside, and I tease one finger along her opening. Moaning, she writhes, but I hold her still with my other hand. I want her to tell me what she wants. “What do you want?” I ask again. “You,” she whispers. “Me. Sex. Uh. Please. Can’t think.” Then she dissolves into laughter again, reaching up to trace her fingers along the line of my jaw. She’s both aroused and relieved and so am I. No more worrying about work, the show, my kid, my ex. Her clowns. Now it’s just us, the way it should’ve been from the start. “I want you to fuck me,” she says at last, sitting up and kissing me. I lay her back down, continuing to pull off her panties. They slide away easily, and I press my thumb against her clit once, twice, tapping it gently. Fuck, she’s wet already. Moaning, she bucks under my hand as I guide one finger inside of her. I move with a rhythm, picking up the pace as she throws her head back and groans. Her eyelids flutter shut, her hair is a red spill over the bedspread. I begin to pull the straps of her dress down, but she shakes her head. Fingers fumbling, she undoes my belt, starts unbuttoning my pants. “I don’t want to wait,” she says, gazing up at me with an expression of pure lust. Baby, neither do I. I reach for the bedside drawer, pull out a condom, rip the foil. Once I’m nicely sheathed, I press the tip of my cock against her cunt. Chelle moans again, running her hands up and down my arms. Her fingers dig into my biceps, urging me on. She’s begging me to go deeper. So I do. I enter slowly but relentlessly, filling her. I thrust as hard as I can go, then pull out. It’s so slow I nearly drive myself crazy, but I want her to feel every inch of this. I want her to feel me, to know I was there. “I’m not going to last,” she cries, gripping me around the neck. Her fingers slide through my hair as I lean closer, pressing a kiss against her throat. I taste her sweat, and the scent of her arousal is overwhelming. “Please. More.” I grab her ass, tilting her hips even higher. I slide in her as far as I can, all the

way to the hilt. Chelle moans as I thrust harder, my rhythm picking up. Her hips buck against me, grinding to take me even further inside of her. Grunting, I piston faster. Chelle’s breaths come fast against my neck, and her thighs tighten around me as I drive into her with everything I’ve got. Already, I can see the world melting away at the corners. Fuck, I can’t believe I’m already as close as I am. The bedsprings scream beneath us, and Chelle joins in, getting louder and louder. The orgasm is building inside me, an unstoppable force. Chelle closes her eyes tight, her mouth open as I give her everything I’ve got. Then, so slow it’s beautiful, I watch as her orgasm crests and breaks. Her mouth forms a perfect O and her entire body shudders as she leans back, collapsing onto the bed. Chelle screams my name—all that I need to spill completely into my own orgasm. The world stops around me as I come, pouring everything inside of her. I can hear my own gasps and groan as if they’re far away. I collapse onto her, and we both breathe out together. Christ, I don’t think I can move after that. Chelle nuzzles up against me, trailing kisses along my jaw. I kiss her, tasting her. Her tongue laps against mine, and fuck me if that alone isn’t almost enough to get me hard again. What does this woman do to me? Whatever it is, I need it. “Was that what you wanted?” I murmur this against the hollow of her throat, as I kiss her. Sighing, she looks up at me as I pull out. I fold her against me, my chin resting on the top of her head. Chelle chuckles. “I mean, I wanted something mind-shatteringly good. That’s hard to come by.” She grins when I grunt in surprise. “So imagine the shock when my expectations were met. You, sir, are getting a highly favorable rating on Yelp.” “All I’ve ever dreamed,” I deadpan, and Chelle squeals when I flip her back onto the bed. I kiss her mouth, her chin, all the way down her chest. Fuck, maybe I really can get hard again. This woman makes me feel like I’m a goddamn senior in high school. Only without the shitty SATs. The next perfect orgasm is interrupted, because it sounds like a commotion downstairs. More specifically, it sounds like two stupid dogs are tearing the place apart. Plates breaking, precious memories destroyed, levels of the place getting torn apart. Cursing, Chelle and I get off the bed and head downstairs. I flip on the lights, and look down to find that, yeah, the entire dining room’s been knocked over. The chairs are on their backs; the table’s on its side; a bowl filled with ball knick knacks that Amelia insisted on keeping’s been thrown to the ground, and the balls have rolled every goddamn place. And in the center of it all sits Bruno. He’s got his tongue hanging out lazily, like he’s just had a great workout. Furiously humping Bruno’s leg is none other than Chelle’s little wild-eyed mutt, Archie. Both Chelle and I stand there, kind of agog at the display of canine stupidity below. “So.” That’s all I can think to say.

“Looks like Archie finally humped his way to the top of the pack,” she says in reply. Damned if we don’t laugh so hard we nearly fall down the rest of the stairs. And damned if it doesn’t feel good.

23

Chelle How the hell has it been a year already? My life is a blur these days. First there was moving in with Will, then having Amelia over way more frequently. Pancake breakfasts, morning hikes, taking her to school with me, trying not to show her a lot of favoritism, kind of failing. It’s all been part of twelve wonderful, delirious months. And now, here I am, back in the auditorium at Bay of Dreams. The kids are going to be auditioning tonight for You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown. This time, I put my foot down. There will be no ridiculous political messages, nothing post-modern, only the pure and simple story of Charlie Brown, Snoopy, and their friends. And the plight of migrants. I couldn’t find a way to keep that one out, but I’m sure we’re going to handle it very tastefully. My footsteps echo on the floor as I walk over to the stage. I climb up the stairs, and stand there looking out at the long, empty space. Mom and Dad are going to love this show. They’re coming out for it, and to spend more time with Will and Amelia. They even agreed not to bring red noses or business cards. This play’s going to be purely my creation, with the help of the kids, of course. As I put my bag down and head to the table at the back—nothing like moving the furniture now, to save time when they show up—I notice something. It’s a white box, of the pastry variety, and my stomach instantly rumbles. Man, my stomach is a pushy beast. Just the way I like it. Grinning, I flip the box open and… yes. Yes, there they are—the maple bacon donuts of heaven itself. I may just have had lunch, but it was soy bean salad with vegan goat cheese sprinkled on top. I barely got five forkfuls down. Will likes to keep me fed. God, I love that man. I lift a donut out of the box, bringing it to my lips with something like preorgasmic satisfaction…when I notice there’s a piece of folded paper on top of the donuts. At first I think it’s a receipt, but the paper quality’s too nice for that to be the case. Yes, I notice things like paper quality. Who worked at a stationary store through college? Yours truly. I unfold the note, which reads: Pond of tranquility. ASAP That’s Will’s handwriting, and for an instant a quick twinge of concern hits me. Is he all right? Why is he communicating with me in pastry form? Does he know that’s something I want on the regular from now on? Never one to ignore a donut, I take a bite and walk outside.

The lawn is still and peaceful. The sun’s beginning to set, creating a slanting afternoon light over the brick patio and across the trees. I head down to the pond. “Will?” When I get there, I find a bag from Dylan’s Candy Bar. It’s filled with ten million varieties of gummy candy. My favorite. Okay, is this like Hansel and Gretel? Is Will fattening me up for the oven? Is that a new role play game we’re getting involved with? Is it wrong to say the idea turns me on a little? There’s a note attached to the bag: By the pine The pine is what Bay of Dreams calls the tallest tree on the premises. It’s a little further into the woods, so I wander the path, feeling like I’m in a confusing fairytale. A fairytale with bacon. The best kind. There he is, standing by the tree, leaning against the trunk with his hands in his pockets. Dear god, that man is delicious. Screw the candy and donuts—that is the tastiest sight of all. He’s taken off his work clothes, and is dressed in a simple dark gray tee shirt, the one that perfectly picks out every line of his abs, pecs…man, I get lost every time I look at him. A little too lost, because I helpfully trip over a tree root and nearly go sprawling. I also nearly lose my treats in the process, which is unacceptable. “Whoa!” Will’s arms are around me in a second, keeping me from wiping out on the path. He rights me but doesn’t let go. Just the response I was looking for. “I know I’m a lot to handle.” He gives the rakish grin I love—second out of eight grins I’ve categorized so far. Then he kisses me, and heat pulses through me. Again, I nearly drop the donut. Man, I gotta eat this bad boy. “I love the surprises, but any particular reason why?” I ask when we finally pull apart. Taking another bite of the donut, so it doesn’t go to waste, of course, I follow him back to the pine. Then I remember what time it is, and frown. “Also, shouldn’t you still be at work? The world of stocks won’t broker itself.” Will laughs at that, then looks me over. His eyebrow cocked, he nods as if in appreciation. Well, it makes sense he appreciates. I am double fisting sugar. It’s sexy. “There was one more thing, before I go and let you get to your auditions.” He shakes his head, a lock of dark hair falling in his eyes. I’d brush it away, but I might get maple sugar in it. “But they were out when I went to the store.” “Please. You spoil me enough as it is.” I stand on my toes and kiss him. Does the fluttering ever go away? Because I don’t want it to. “It was a Ring Pop.” He smiles against my mouth. “Strawberry.” “Aw, my favorite! That’s okay. I shouldn’t be eating that much anyway.” I offer him half the donut, but he holds up his hand. Aw. He’s missing out. “I got you a substitute, though.” He takes a small black box out of his pocket. This time, I can’t help my reflexes. The donut and the bag of candy hit the dirt. “It’s. Ah.” I blink, taking the little velvet box. Slowly, with shaking hands, I

open it. That is a diamond right there, yes it is. The ring flashes in the deep afternoon light. It seems that the birds quit singing, and the squirrels quit chittering. Everyone in the forest is now watching my reaction. It’s like a Disney film, only with way more pre-marital sex. “Chelle Richardson.” Will gets to one knee, and for an insane minute I think he wore his non-work clothes so he wouldn’t get them dirty on the ground. But that’s not it. Work Will has been balancing out better with Play Will, and Play Will is my favorite. That’s the Will who plays games with Amelia and me on Saturday nights, who takes me to my favorite spot on the beach at Point Dume. That’s the Will he’s wanted to be for a long time. That’s the Will I want to marry. If this is a marriage proposal. For an insane minute, I think he’s asking me something else. Because my brain is like that. Fortunately, that idea doesn’t stick around. “Will you marry me?” Will asks. I could come up with a clever way to answer, or I could just kiss the hell out of this man. I choose the latter. Never let it be said I don’t make good decisions. He stands, and I’m in his arms in a second. Nearly climbing him, also. His hands roam my body as we kiss, the ring box still clutched tight in my grasp. No one takes this ring away. Sméagol forbids it. The ring is my precious. It will tell you a lot about me that Andy Serkis is whispering in my ear while I make out with the man I love. “I take it that’s a yes?” Will laughs when we finally pull apart, after a full minute. “Yes. I’ll keep saying it. Yes.” Trembling, I’m back on the ground and trying like hell to get the ring on my finger. Will helps with that, sliding the band onto my left hand. He pulls me against him again and I let myself go. I feel free, and safe, and wild, and happy. And hungry. But the food’s on the ground. Oh, bother. “I have an idea for before the kids arrive.” I kiss him, bite down gently on his lower lip. Growling with pleasure, his hands cup my ass. “What’s that?” “There’s a box of donuts in the auditorium.” Will throws his head back and laughs, the surprised laughter that never fails to delight me. “I thought you’d never ask.” He hooks an arm around my waist, and together we walk back down the path. Donuts, a marriage proposal, school plays, and it’s only a Tuesday. I can’t wait to see what happens next.

***

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Unprofessional by JD Hawkins Looking for another fun and sexy read? Check out the first chapter of Unprofessional by JD Hawkins!

*** Chapter One Owen The elevator doors open and for a second it feels like a theatre curtain unveiling. It’s three PM, and the TrendBlend offices are buzzing with the kind of vibrant, frenetic energy you only get when you put some of the West Coast’s most creative people in one place. The kind of energy you get when those people are allowed to create work that they love, then put it out to millions of fans. Our website is as likely to release a viral video about sex as it is to start a national discussion about ethics. It’s a site that’s got the first scoop on the latest trends and the last word on the zeitgeist. And it all originates in an office with as many fashion bloggers as there are political reporters; where feminist activists rub shoulders with movie critics. Christ, I love my job. I step out of the elevator clutching my remedy for the mid-afternoon slump: a tall cup of cappuccino (I usually maintain enough coffee in my system to wake the dead) for me and Margo’s cinnamon latte in the other. Back into the bustle of the bullpen. “Hey Owen,” Davina, the site’s resident make-up expert calls from a three-way conversation she’s having. I turn in her direction without breaking stride. “What’s up, D?” “Wanna do a video with me and Sara tomorrow?” she says through purplecolored pouted lips, angling her mini-skirt-clad hips the way she always does when she talks to me. “‘Hot guys try make-up for the first time.’ We’re looking for volunteers.” I sip my cappuccino to hide my wincing at the idea. “Uh…” She moves away from the others to get a little too close, tongue tracing her lips as she says, “Just tell me what it’ll take for me to get my hands on you…” and as

her gaze drops below my belt I’m not sure she’s even talking about the video anymore. Davina’s got the body of the ballerina, walks like she wants to seduce everybody in the room, and dresses like she’s at the beach half the time. She’s hot as hell and knows it, and even though she’s got a few million followers online who agree, she’s been chasing me since I started at TrendBlend. The more I say no, the more her mascara’d eyes flutter at me from across the office. Another place, another time, and I’d let the spark between us flare up, but when you’re surrounded by journalists, gossip columnists, and a couple dozen other women trying to jump your skin, you need the diplomacy of a hostage negotiator just to keep your job. “Lemme check my schedule. I’ll get back to you,” I say, nodding as I step past. “I’ll be waiting,” she purrs. The office layout is simple—but it works. A vast bullpen of shared desk spaces cover the center of the office. Tables with four or five stations to them, all decorated with random personal effects, coffee cups, art books, and photos. The desks are cramped enough that you’re never more than three feet away from being hooked into something or overhearing another idea you can help out on. Half the time nobody’s at their desks though, as they run between the studios downstairs and the bullpen. Down one side of the office the windows look out onto the city of L.A., and from up here on the fifth floor you can almost catch sight of the beach on a clear day. On the other side are the offices of the higher-ups. The decision-makers and puppetmasters who guide the whole thing from behind closed doors. “It would be really great if you could!” Sara, Davina’s curvy, redheaded desk mate (and frequent partner in crime), calls out behind me as I shuffle past a couple of co-workers carrying cardboard cutouts of the Kardashians. “You’d look so good in lipstick!” I raise my cappuccino and kiss the air in their direction before walking a bit quicker to my desk. In a funny kind of way this place saved my life. Before my college friend Margo helped me get this job just over a year ago, I was partying like crazy. All I did was drink and dance, fuck and fight. All I cared about was the next crowd, the next hot girl, the next thrill. I’m not gonna lie and say it wasn’t fun, but even fun can be dangerous when you’re as insatiable as I am. So here I am, putting Margo’s cinnamon latte beside her on our shared desk (without a hello, since she’s hunched over her cell phone with her back to me), and dropping myself into my chair. I wake up my laptop to reveal the half-written article I’ve been pecking at today, all about hot beach dates. My inner bad boy not so much tamed now, as focused. Enjoying life as much as I ever did, but with the addition of a steady paycheck and a 401(k). The best of both worlds. Six seconds later I hear a quiet, stifled half-sob beside me. The kind of helpless, feminine sound that cuts through ten thousand years of civilization and makes me want to club whatever caused it. I look toward Margo and see her staring down at

her keyboard, one hand still holding the phone to her ear, the other buried in her hair. She’s so distressed she hasn’t even noticed the coffee I brought her yet. If there’s one con to working in the offices, it’s that there’s not much privacy, and right now it looks like Margo’s desperate for it. “Why do you have to be such an asshole about this?” she whispers harshly into the phone. “No. I never said that…whatever, Carl…you’re my—you were my boyfriend, not my father, don’t talk to me like I’m five… Look, I only called to ask when I can pick up the rest of my stuff… Yes, actually, it is over! Oh god…just forget it!” My eyes on my screen, I hear Margo toss her phone clumsily onto her desk—the modern equivalent of slamming a receiver down. When I glance at her again she’s hunched toward her screen determinedly, as if about to try and climb through it, rattling away on the keyboard like she’s playing a Bach variation on it. She still hasn’t noticed the coffee. I open my mouth and then close it, weighing her possible need for words of comfort against her possible need for space. She’d been tight-lipped and tense all morning, and now it appears that things have gone full nuclear status with her and that film school douchebag Carl. Good riddance. She deserves better. Margo and I go way back. We met our first year at college. More specifically, we met at three AM outside the girl’s dormitory when she was coming home late from a party, and I was in the process of trying to get back into the dorm after sneaking out through a window to avoid my date’s judgmental roommate. Being naked at the time was a hell of a conversation starter. It was friendship at first sight—for her, anyway. I spent the first six months I knew her trying to find out what her tight body would look like on all fours, but she kept me at bay just about long enough for me to realize that she had a lot more going on than just legs I wanted to wear like a belt and tits like a three-star dessert. Turned out Margo was a party animal just like me. Drinking, dancing, and fucking with an appetite almost as big as mine. We started hitting places up together, the rest of our friends only holding us back. Having a wingman can help you lay hot women, but turning up at a bar or party with the hottest girl there made it almost too easy. Don’t get me wrong: I’ve thought about fucking Margo plenty of times, and how could I not? She’s fucking gorgeous, with those thick-rimmed glasses and that artfully messy dark hair that she lets cover most of her face. A thigh length, oversized yellow sweater, her slender legs going down all the way to a pair of motorcycle boots. She’s got a body that it would take a month to explore, a sway in her walk that could make you dizzy, lips so juicy they could probably qualify as one of your five a day. So the truth is, as much as I think of her as just a great friend— intelligent, talented, and funny; someone who deserves to be thought of as more than just a body—it ain’t always easy with a body like hers. Still, I manage. “You ok?” I finally say. It takes her a second to snap away from her screen and realize I’m talking to her.

“Huh? Oh… Yeah. I’m fine,” she says, flashing a forced smile before quickly turning back to her computer. I watch her for a few more seconds, peering at her screen like it’s ten feet away, and consider just leaving her alone. Margo might be as hot as she was in college (hotter, probably) but that’s about the only thing that hasn’t changed. Somewhere along the line she gave up the parties, the drinking, the reckless fun. Now the only thing that’s wild about her is her career ambitions. I suppose I should be grateful, since she’s the one who got me the job here. But it’s been pretty shitty watching her stop screwing and start dating guys long enough to recognize how many douchebags there are out there. “Hey Margo,” I say, and she turns around to me. “Do you have any idea why there’s a bar set up in the studio downstairs?” “No idea.” She refocuses on her work, but I persist. “Why don’t you come down there with me and find out.” Margo smiles slightly and brushes her hair aside, exposing strong cheekbones for a second before her hair falls over them again. “I’d love to. But I should really finish this piece.” I shrug. “Hey, we should all really be finishing something. But this is a bar at work. Maybe it’s tequila day and nobody told us.” She chuckles lightly and I can see a little of her bad mood breaking. I keep it going, leaning in a little as I lower my voice. “Come on, you know I’m not used to drinking without a good-looking girl beside me.” Margo leans back in her chair, smiling pearly teeth through thick lips at me. She crosses those bare legs and for a second I almost break eye contact. “I know what you’re doing…you heard me on the phone, right?” she says, still smiling, but I can tell she’s at least a little self-conscious about it. “I sit less than two feet away from you, you know.” “Then you know I’m not in the mood for tequila and fun,” she says, but she’s looking at me with those doe eyes and I see a challenge instead of a refusal. “Come on,” I say, looking at her closely. “What happened to the old Margo? She must be in there somewhere.” “She grew up and got a job—got you one, too.” “And I’m good at it,” I say, pointing at her, “precisely because I know when to take a break. Which is what you need.” I take her hand from her thigh and stand up, tightening my grip a little instinctively at the brush of her soft skin. I tug her hand gently. Margo looks between me and the computer screen like she’s deciding which of us is the angel and which the devil, before throwing her palms up and getting out of her chair. We smile at each other conspiratorially for a second before moving back through the desks toward the elevators. “Hey Owen,” Margo says, once I press the button. I look at her. “Thanks,” she says with a soft smile, her big green eyes looking down a little shyly. “I could use a friend right now.”

“Come on,” I say, as the elevator arrives, opens, and empties. “You’re a gorgeous woman with a big, sexy brain and kick-ass fashion sense. Being single again is one of the best things that can happen to you. The hell are you doing getting into these long-term relationships for anyway? You’ve got too much hotness for just one guy.” “Thanks for the pep talk.” She looks away, nodding a little, and lets out a sigh. “But it’s not so much the being single part that annoys me,” she says, enigmatically. “What is it then?” Margo stares at the closing elevator doors for a moment like she’s lost and then says, “I don’t know… I’m just…frustrated. And overwhelmed. With a lot of stuff. And Carl was very good at articulating all the ways in which I’m failing. Now that we’re broken up, I feel like everything shitty he said about me was right.” “Assholes are good at making people feel like that.” “He said I wasn’t ‘fulfilling my potential.’ ‘Stagnating,’ he called it. He thinks I should be writing for some upmarket New York magazine instead of here. Like I’m hiding out at this fluff job because I’m secretly afraid I’m not good enough to go someplace better.” “That’s bullshit,” I say as I watch the floor numbers go down. “Your stuff is fantastic. That review you did on the last Christopher West movie? It’s the best fucking movie review I’ve ever read.” I see Margo’s eyes glint with surprise at me behind her glasses. “You liked it?” “I fucking loved it. And the piece about the Los Angeles aqueduct. You’re an amazing writer. I could feel your passion on the page.” Margo shuffles a little, looking away so I can’t see how uncomfortable she is with being praised. “I’m surprised anybody actually read that.” “Hey, I told you I loved it at the time.” “I thought you were just being polite.” “I’m rarely polite.” Margo laughs a little, but it falls away quickly, replaced by that tense, concerned expression that’s been her default since the phone call. “Anyway, the thing is…he’s right,” Margo says, as the doors open and we step through. “I am underachieving. I do want to write stuff that’s more important than…a movie review, or some preview for an art show.” I wrap my arm comfortingly around her shoulder and she leans her head against my shoulder as I lead her into the studio, my eyes going a little hard, daring the crew setting things up to ask if we should actually be here uninvited. It’s the second time I’ve touched her today, and I’m starting to realize how nice it feels. And how dangerous. “Listen.” I pull back and turn her to face me, silently reminding myself that we’ve stayed in the friend zone all these years for lots of good reasons, that I’d be a terrible person to even fantasize about taking advantage of her while she’s on the rebound. “I don’t like this ‘you,’” I say, mock-sternly. “Vulnerable, self-conscious,

uncertain. Leave all that for the girls without awesome hair. The Margo I know is a feisty bitch with a smart mouth and even smarter articles. You could write a piece about pin cushions and have me quoting it for weeks.” Margo laughs, and I have to hold myself back from moving on to how tight her ass is and how fuckable her lips are. “This flattery is doing wonders for my ego,” she says. “But let’s investigate that bar quick before someone tells us we’re not allowed to be here.” That’s the Margo I know. So far there’s no one else in sight besides the people we saw setting up, so I take advantage of the fact that we’re early for whatever the hell this is and pull a few of the already-poured shots off the bar, handing one to Margo. She downs it quickly, barely wincing, still lost in her own thoughts. “We had this plan,” she says, picking up some thread I thought we’d dropped half a conversation ago, a little more fire in her voice now, grabbing another shot, “well, Carl had this plan. See, he’s a director—or wants to be, anyway. He hasn’t done anything since his film school thesis made it into Cannes a few years ago, but nothing ever came of it.” She downs the shot with ease, slamming the empty glass down. “I was supposed to get this amazing job in New York—he was obsessed with New York City, ugh—and find some cool loft apartment where he could stay and work on his ‘art,’” Margo puts over-elaborate air-quotes on the word before sticking her tongue out. “Sounds like he was just looking for a free ride,” I say, about to take my own first shot as a crowd starts to trickle into the studio and form around the bar. “Right? Oh, I’ll take that,” Margo says, grabbing the little glass right out of my hand. “Is that your third already? Maybe you should slow it down a li—” Ignoring me, Margo downs the tequila and continues, “I mean, do you know how many people would kill to write for those New York magazines? It’s not like you can just walk into their offices and say “hey, I’m awesome, give me the features page.” She slams the empty glass onto the bar, gasping deeply before casting those nowfierce eyes at me again, finger pressing every point of hers home. “It’s not like TrendBlend is some dark corner of the internet. If anything we get way more readers than all those pretentious, hi-falutin’, stuck-up-their-own-asses, pseudo-intellectual sites.” “Hear, hear,” a co-worker in the crowd around us says, before handing Margo another shot. “Hold on—she’s already had three,” I say quickly, but Margo’s already downed it before I reach the end of the sentence. I know from past experience that Margo can hold her liquor, but the problem is that I also know how crazy she can get when she’s holding it. “And another thing…“ Margo says, her face a little red now, her finger-pointing slightly inaccurate. Thirty-five minutes later Margo’s holding my arm to keep herself steady and

waving another empty shot glass around the studio as she continues to eviscerate her boyfriend. There’s a bigger crowd around us now, some offering Margo words of encouragement or just nodding sympathetically, and I still have no idea why the bar got set up down here in the first place. I decided the best course of action was to stay sober, not tell Margo she’d been sipping from a shot glass I filled with melted ice, and just let her tire herself out. “…And his films suck! I mean really suck! I figured I was just too close to him to be objective but—hic!—but it’s like… I… What was I saying?” “Ok everybody!” comes a call from the center of the studio. “Who’s intoxicated and camera ready? Send me the first victim.” Before I can stop anything from happening, several people are pointing out Margo, who finally realizes her glass is mostly empty, grabs a full one, and downs her fifth or sixth tequila shot just before a production assistant ushers her away into the next studio. I follow close behind and pull Tom—our resident lighting guy —aside, just as Margo’s compelled to take a seat in front of several cameras. “Hey, Tom? What’s going on? What are you filming?” “Oh hey Owen,” he says, turning toward me. “It’s called ’drunk women get surprised with kittens.’ It was Sara’s pitch so she’s directing.” I’m about to ask for a little more detail when the wail of a crying woman splits the air and I turn to find all the detail I need. Margo’s bursting into tears at the table as a tiny ginger tabby is brought to her and set in her lap. “Oh my god!” she squeals. “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life…” she coos through already-brimming tears as I try not to laugh loud enough to be heard on the audio. “It’s so cute I’m going to have an aneurysm!” More kittens are brought to her one at a time and Margo finds a whole new octave of happy-crying. “No no no! It’s too cute! Is this real? Oh my god, look at the paws! The tiny little paws! Am I dreaming this? Is this really happening? This is too good to be true. Like, I’m too happy right now to be awake. Can this one’s name be Mister Whiskers?” I watch, laughing with the rest of the filming crew as Margo expresses through streaming tears how much she’s in love with these mewling kittens. Eventually Sara steps forward and, with a big smile, says, “Ok, I think we’ve got enough. Send in the next—” “No! Don’t take them from me!” Margo wails, her voice muffled by the fluffy face of a calico she’s nuzzling. She pulls back from the kitten, half-seriously staring into the camera with tequila-glazed eyes. “I wish I was a kitten. I’m not even joking. Can I be a kitten?” Ten minutes later the cats are gone and Margo’s standing outside the studio doors rubbing what can only be an oncoming headache. “She going to be alright?” the production assistant asks. “Yeah, I’ll drive her home,” I say. “It’s almost five anyway.” “No,” Margo slurs, waving a finger in the air like she’s stirring an upside-down

bowl. “I’ve got…something? To do?” “Yeah. You drive her home,” the PA nods emphatically. After a lot of cajoling I get Margo to my car, and then, after buckling her in safely, get us going down the freeway toward her apartment in the Valley. I drive as smoothly as I can while she sits, head lolling, giggling at her own mumbled speech in the passenger seat. When I pull into the parking lot at her apartment I’m just glad that it’s a two-floor complex. “My hero,” she grins as I help her out of the car. “Nobody’s ever called me that before—how many tequilas did you have?” “Just one.” “Must have been a pretty big one then.” I scoop her up in my arms and carry her in as appropriate a manner as I can manage across the lot to the doors, though Margo seems intent on draping herself around me like a flag at a parade. “Thank god you live on the ground floor,” I say, as I rummage for her keys in her bag with one hand while keeping her from falling with the other. It’s not that I haven’t been to Margo’s place before, but when we hang out it’s usually at work functions or the occasional bar, and at the moment I can’t shake the feeling that I’m intruding a little. “You know, you’re really fucking hot,” she slurs, giggling. My cock stirs at the brush of her lips so close to my neck, her warm breath against my skin. I have to shake it off. “And you’re really fucking drunk,” I reply with a forced laugh, as the key finally catches and I kick the door open. “No…I mean it,” she says as I step into her apartment, still holding her in my arms. “You’re like…the most beautiful man.” “That’s very sweet of you,” I say, as I open a few wrong doors (closet, bathroom) until I find her bedroom. I walk in and lay her down on the bed, then pull away, setting her bag on the night table. “You should probably just rest a bit, let it pass.” I unlace her boots and ease them off gently, setting them on the floor before straightening up to go. This feels familiar, although I haven’t carried a too-drunk Margo home from a party and put her to bed since our undergrad years. “You need anything? Water, or—” “Yeah.” Margo smiles. “What?” Instead of answering, she mischievously beckons me closer. I look at her, dress rolling up around her thighs, twisting her body up in the sheets, my imagination starting to whirl a little. “Come here!” she yelps impatiently. This could mean trouble—the problem is, I like trouble. I groan and go nearer to the bed. “Closer,” she giggles, and I’m taken with the smile, the way she grinds into the bed… “What?”

Her hand pulls on my shirt, her smile goes and instead her mouth is open now, weakened like she’s preparing to kiss me. I could so easily fall into her here, so easily bring my mouth onto hers, put my own hands under her clothes. I can almost taste her, appetite stirring… Except being a real man doesn’t just mean knowing when to make a move, it also means knowing when you shouldn’t. “Nice try,” I say, pulling back. Margo laughs and pounds her fists onto the bed with disappointment. “But I need to see what’s under your shirt. You still got those Grand Canyon abs, I bet.” “Ok. That’s my cue to go,” I say, half-out the door. “See you tomorrow.” “No! Come on! Please! I remember the view was fucking amazing. Just a little peek. A tiny little peek for old time’s sake. Come on, Owen! Don’t be an asshole. You know you want to show it off.” I look back at her, hand on the doorknob, and find myself laughing. “Happy now?” I say, pulling up my shirt a little way. Margo screams and falls back onto her pillows laughing. “I knew it! Just as perfect as that night you got locked out of the girl’s dorm,” she says, as I close the door and leave. When I get back to my car, I’m still smiling.

*** Check out Unprofessional!

Hands Off by Kayti McGee Check out the first chapter of Hands Off by Kayti McGee!

*** Chapter One I’m just your average girl in most ways but one: I have a fatal flaw. Almost no one knows about it, so more often than not, I’m safe. But right now? Right now I am up a creek without a paddle. And I did it to my own damn self. Let me rewind a bit here. (Cue reverse effect complete with voiceover, movie-style.) My days always start at precisely 6 am, when I hop out of bed and head to the coffeemaker. Awaiting me will be the first yellow post-it of the day. “Buy more coffee, run dishwasher, pick up dry cleaning,” it might say, or some similar items. Stuff other people do without thinking twice. After enjoying a breakfast of toast (light butter) and orange juice (with pulp), going for a quick run, showering, a second cup of coffee, and applying my makeup (muted neutrals), I have usually collected and distributed several more post-its. They are simply the most efficient method of reminding myself of things. So over the course of the morning, for example, I might lose a button on a shirt, notice the toothpaste is almost gone, and discover a recipe for dinner. All note-worthy items. I started this system ages ago, and it works for my ADD brain, so I really don’t even care how often my roommate scoffs at me. Spoiler: it’s a lot. This morning I woke up as usual, starting the coffee and taking note of my sticky yellow reminder to go iron my shirt. Once I got to the bookstore I manage, I opened my planner and removed the first little square on today’s date. “Inventory,” it read. Also, “Fern works today. Consider stocking wine to cope.” Past me was wise, but not wise enough to pre-stock. The highlight of my day was my favorite customer coming in. Correction: my former favorite customer. She’s dead to me now. Deader than dead. What would that be? Non-existent, I suppose. Good luck at the library, Melissa, because you are no longer welcome in Bound. (Yes, I do get plenty of mistaken customers looking for a BDSM shop, why do you ask?) She was checking to see if the new book club book had come in. It had. We

chatted. Little did I know it was the last chat we would ever have. Persona non grata that she is. I survived my least favorite co-worker Fern’s incessant droning monologue, and at precisely six pm, I locked the door behind her. Now she was my just my roommate again. With great relief, I counted down the register and opened my planner again. My evening post-it was awaiting me, as always. “Dinner @ Port Fonda, 7”. I wondered why I hadn’t written down who I was supposed to be meeting, but let’s face it. The whole reason I write these stupid notes is because I forget goddamn everything. Anyways, I assumed I’d be able to figure it out pretty fast. If I left immediately, I could get there early, grab a drink, and wait for someone I knew to walk in. Then I pretend I knew all along. I do this like, three times a week, legit. Everything went according to plan, until seven o’clock. There I was, minding my beeswax, gazing at the door and sipping on sangria, when suddenly a cop plopped himself down at my table. In full uniform. I was so horrified. What on earth had I done to warrant being tracked down at a Mexican restaurant? Actually, I did know that, it’s my other fatal flaw. But that’s not the point. “Charity? Hi. Melissa told me you hate blind dates, so she tricked you. I’m Leo. It’s nice to meet you.” So here I am, sitting across from an effing police officer on what apparently is a blind date my ex-customer set me up with by faking a post-it. Because she was one of the few people who knew The Flaw. Which is that I do everything, literally everything, the notes tell me to. Just like that Ron Burgundy movie and the teleprompter. It’s much funnier in fiction, I assure you. Fatal flaws always are. As if it weren’t complicated enough, there’s that second flaw. The one that makes dating a cop the worst idea ever. Well. I’m sort of a kleptomaniac. I know, the irony is out of control. My name means giving, and I am the very worst kind of taker. Maybe if my parents had named me something normal, like Jennifer or Sara… but I’m getting off track. That brings my narrative back to the present moment, where I am finding my drink far too interesting to look at the face attached to the uniform. My server, my server, who will now have to decide how she feels about cops and decide to give me better service or crap service depending, well, her uniform has entered my sidevision. “May I have a margarita, gorgeous?” My eyes would roll, but I am utterly determined not to make eye contact with him, even in passing. I wait to discover how she’ll respond to his combo of uni and charm. “You can have anything you’d like,” she coos, and suddenly my eyes can no

longer be controlled. They snap to my disloyal server and then narrow. “And two shots of tequila, please,” I add. “That’s nice of you,” Cop says. “And it’s cute that you think one was for…” My traitorous eyes have accidentally found his and goddamnit. They are the shade of caramel that would make even the most hardened server say, “anything you’d like”. In fact, I’m highly considering sharing my tequila. And I never share my tequila. To make matters far, far worse, the rest of his face is as delicious as the caramel. There’s olive skin, there’s full lips, there’s a five o’clock shadow that won’t quit, and was anyone aware that necks could be sexy? Because it turns out they can. I fucking hate Melissa. I am so turned on by this officer’s dulce de leche gaze right now. “Did you just put your silverware in your purse?” he asks. “Nope,” I say. It’s not exactly a lie, because I didn’t really mean to. Look, a girl needs a big purse, whether she has priors or not. Sheesh. And when a girl gets nervous, she really doesn’t want to hear accusations. Also, a girl isn’t convinced the flatware is actually silverware, so that’s a technicality. Back to the matter at hand, where the girl and the cop are staring each other down and they are both so turned on they are about to burst. Well, at least I am. Perhaps I am projecting his feelings. He may be about to arrest me. Is it so wrong that I am also turned on by that? Answer: not wrong. That is super sexy. Hey, Bound may be a regular bookstore, but I’m not immune to peeking in the romance section every now and again. However, a criminal record is not sexy at all, only the handcuff part. So I decide to make a break for it and get as far away as I can before he notices I’m not in the bathroom. A girl, well, I, cannot just sit here and be accused like this. I stand up. My purse rattles. My purse is also a traitor. I sit down gently, and luckily my purse doesn’t clank again. “Are you nervous?” he asks. Officer Watson asks, according to his name badge. “Nope,” I say. That’s a lie. I am extremely effing nervous. “I’m off the clock,” he says, as though that reassures me. It marginally reassures me. Not enough, though. I drum my fingers on the table and wonder if there’s any cilantro in my teeth from the salsa. Then I wonder if I could scare him off by using bad table manners. Then I wonder if he’d cuff me if I ask nice. Basically, I sit here silently alternately trying to get rid of him and get him naked in my head, all the while he just looks at me. I think he likes what he sees, too, based on the covert glances that keep heading towards the ladies peeking out of my top. The biggest problem with having a body like mine is that your boobs are constantly trying to make a break for it. Today’s victim was the top button of my shirt.

Unless, of course, there’s just some cilantro there too. It occurs to me that he must be great at interrogations, because I am ready to confess all my deepest sins already. “Here are your shots,” our server says, showing up just in time to prevent a regrettable outburst. “Two more, please,” says Officer Watson. “And some salt.” “Salt? But I could swear I just gave… huh. Okay, be right back,” she says to us. My eyes are everywhere but on the server, who definitely had given us some salt. I knock back one of my tequilas and then I stare at him, the preposterously sexy officer who is ruining my night by hijacking my post-it. I’m supposed to be enjoying myself? Melissa doesn’t get me at all. Cop Watson’s shots arrive and he takes one too. “Booyah!” he says, as he slams the empty shot glass down on the table. “That’ll put hair on your chest.” Then he winks at me. Did he really just say—? Surely I misheard that. No one says booyah. “I certainly hope not,” I tell him. “Or tonight’s going to get very weird.” “Melissa led me to believe you aren’t the most normal of girls,” Officer Leo Watson says casually. I can’t figure out what name suits him best. I suppose Sergeant Sex-on-a-Stick isn’t appropriate, but—wait, what? “You are really not selling me on this blind date, and anyway, I’ve decided I no longer know anyone named Melissa.” I take my other shot for emphasis. Damn, but it really does need salt. I covertly lick a finger and then dip it into my purse. My date raises an eyebrow, but blessedly keeps his mouth shut. Maybe he’s not so bad. At least when he isn’t talking. I reluctantly pull the saltshaker out of my purse and slide it towards him. Just as the waitress shows up with another one. “Oh, sorry, I thought you’d asked…” she trails off, looking confused. “Might as well leave it,” I tell her, and make the hand gesture for more shots while I’m at it. Perhaps I’m not running out the door and sticking him with the bill quite yet, but that doesn’t mean I will make it through this dinner sober. After all, even though he looks like a model, he is still definitely a policeman. “How do you know Melissa?” I ask. I fantasize briefly about reasons that she could have been arrested. I’ve often suspected her of being a bit of a pothead. “I work with her husband, Spencer.” “Oh! Her husband’s a cop? I thought he was a baseball player.” The couple times I’ve seen him lurking outside the store, I could have sworn he was the ace first baseman for the Royals, Eric Hosmer. “Common misconception,” Officer Leo said. “One that he does his best to encourage. Less so now that he’s married, mind you,” he hurried to add, smiling at the waitress as she drops off a couple more tiny glasses. “A cop. Huh. I always thought she was a stoner.” I’m still confused at how I could have been so far off base. After all, until just a few minutes ago, Melissa had been my favorite customer.

“Now, does being around a police officer always mean you’re on the straight and narrow?” He casts a meaningful look at my purse. I give him an extremely indignant look back. It is far too soon for him to be playing that card in casual conversation. But two can play the game of making it uncomfortable. “So why are you single?” I ask. With a face like that—it is a good question. There are several options. He could have a fatal flaw like my own. He could have a tiny penis. (Please, baby Jesus, don’t let it be that.) Worst of all, he could be a vegetarian. “I’m not,” he says. “Um.” I am busily drinking his last shot of tequila, and that response causes a fair amount to come back up my nose. Not only is that a very uncomfortable feeling, I can only imagine what my face looks like. Actually, scratch that, I don’t want to imagine it. Once the coughing fit ends, I realize Officer Asshat is laughing at me. “I was kidding. I didn’t realize you were going to be taking a drink when I said it. Literally. Taking. Because… okay.” I gather the shards of my dignity and dab at my mouth, nose, and also eyes with my napkin. Then a few spots on the table. Then and only then do I gaze imperiously at him. “It’s your sense of humor that drives girls away, then.” “What? No! It’s my—” Don’t say tiny penis, don’t say tiny penis. “Profession, mostly. Everyone’s hiding something, I’ve discovered. It makes intimacy difficult.” I’m simultaneously relieved about his penis and disarmed by his confession. That state of vulnerability is the only way I can account for how I go ahead and order another tequila, plus a round of goat tacos. Hey, don’t knock them til you’ve tried them. “Well, I’m single because I only like fictional men,” I go ahead and just get that out of the way. The last guy who’d tried to date me had announced that to me as though it was a surprise. I was like, duh, buddy! Could have told you that ages ago. Also, I’m too young to settle down with anyone outside a book. So I don’t try very hard. “Like… Mr. Darcy?” Officer Leo-Who-Is-Totally-Forgiven says. “In fact, no, but you get many bonus points for knowing that’s a thing. I prefer my fake boyfriends more rugged. Fewer ruffles. The Jon Snow type.” My eyes glaze over a little just picturing the man, the fur, and that cave north of the Wall. “Oh. Huh. Not really a Game of Thrones fan,” Officer Leo-Who-Is-UnforgivenAgain says. Well, now I know the real reason why he’s single. He knows nothing. I resign myself to the fact that at least someone else will be buying my tacos tonight, even though I never had the chance to eat them. I have also lost a loyal customer. The sad fact of never looking at this glorious face in front of me again smarts a little too. I’ll just have to find him on Facebook and gaze sadly at the photos he’s set to public. I fervently hope a few are topless.

I down the last of my drinks and suddenly realize I am going to need an Uber. I can’t get into the phone to order one. Frustrating. I try again. Still locked. “Why do you have my phone?” Officer Leo asks. “Total accident,” I slide it back. “Yours looks just like mine.” He glances down at his black Otterbox, and then back at my bright pink bedazzled case. “They do a strong tequila pour here,” he mumbles. “Welp, gotta run. Lovely meeting you, Officer Watson,” I say, standing up a little too fast. Swaying, I reach for the table. The table grabs back. I look down, extremely startled. It’s not the table. It’s his hand. “Call me Leo.” His strong grip engulfs mine, shooting electricity through me, and I rethink my decision to leave. He looks like he genuinely doesn’t want me to go. What if…? But then, my purse rattles again, and I know the decision was already made, a long time ago. “Goodbye, Leo,” I tell him. “Tip generously.” On my way to the door, I wonder if it’s against the rules to kick Melissa out of book club for this stunt. I like the other members too well to subject them to Fern, so stepping down isn’t an option. Perhaps simply ignoring her answers, the way I ignore Fern’s monotone voice? I pause before opening the door and jot down “deal with M problem” on a fresh Post-it. The door swings open for me like magic, and maybe the night is going to go my way after all. Wait—no. That wasn’t magic. It was Leo Can’t-Leave-Well-EnoughAlone. Although, another long, searching look from his caramel-colored eyes makes me wonder if magic isn’t real after all. “Are you going straight home?” he asks. I nod. Any more tequila at this point would just be ill advised. “Let me wait with you at least,” he says. I suppose another few moments of gazing into those eyes wouldn’t hurt me, so I agree. Plus, I’m a tad unsteady on my feet. Probably just the heels. I attempt a casual lean against the hood of his cruiser. Channel your inner music video vixen, girl. And I do. I have it. Right up until my heel snags on a rock and my inner sex kitten discovers she doesn’t always land on her feet. I blink up at Leo, trying to determine if anything besides my pride is broken. His mouth is twisting, his eyes are watering, and his shoulders are shaking with the effort, but I must give him an A for not actually laughing out loud. Blessedly, his radio starts squawking. “I have a J-03 in progress at 44th and Gillham,” the radio tells him. He ignores it, and holds out that large, strong hand again for me to grab. I refuse it. I plan to stay here in my misery until I die. “I can see your panties,” he adds helpfully. Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse. I heave a sigh, and let him help me out of my sprawl, only to collapse again when I realize my ankle isn’t quite ready to bear my weight yet. “Is someone at home waiting for you?” I think for a second. My roommate

Fern’s sleeping at her boyfriend’s tonight, so no. I shake my head. “Nope. I’ll be by myself.” I’m perfectly capable of icing my ankle, jeez. “Is anyone nearby? Seriously, anyone.” “Crap,” Leo says, and I must agree. Falling. Exposing myself. And now my ankle. This is a truly awful blind date, possibly my worse ever. The fact that it is my only one ever does not help matters one bit. “I’m the only one close by. Let’s do this!” And with that, I find myself unceremonious heaved into the backseat. “Elevate that foot!” he yells and rushes around to the driver’s side. As we speed away, me sputtering and confused on my back while desperately trying to elevate my ankle on the seatback, I think about how he asked whether I lived alone and realize that I may have just been kidnapped. My purse jangles, and I know it could also be an unorthodox arrest. Even worse, my Uber rating will certainly go down after I cancel my ride just as he pulls up. “I can still see your panties!” Leo calls cheerily from the front seat. Worst. Date. Ever.

*** Hands Off is available on Amazon now!

Acknowledgments Thank you to the fancy pants private school I subbed in when I first found my way to Los Angeles. I was never in a room with Beyoncé and Jay Z, but I did go on a field trip with Blair Underwood and give Jodi Foster a tissue. I'll take it. Kiki Chattfield of The Next Step PR and Debra Presely of The Book Enthuiast are amazing professionals in this industry, and working with them and learning from their experiences was a pleasure. Shannon Passmore with Shanoff Formats, Sybil Wilson of PopKitty Designs, and Book Blast are creative and accommodating geniuses. Thank you for help with promotional images for this book. It would be super easy to acknowledge all the YouTube stars who have entertained my children as I worked on this book. I could copy and paste the browser history onto this page. (Let's not discuss Mr.'s browser history, ok?) It's harder to thank the countless readers and bloggers who have shown me big and small acts of kindness and encouragement. Every drop of positivity matters, and I will surely fail to acknowledge everyone. So thank you to all who go out of their way to make other people smile and spread happiness and warmth around our little book corner of this universe. I'll never stop looking for ways to pay it forward. (And right there is my husband's cue to say, "Poppy, your Angeleno's showing." I know, dear. I love you, too.)