I make my way across the plush, green grass and around the pool for the set of doors that open into the kitchen area of the main house.
Being thirty and still living at home isn’t as disgusting or irresponsible as people deem it. At least it isn’t for me. Financially it is the only decision that makes sense. The amount of days I am on the road compared to the amount of time I spend held up in the seldom used by anyone else guest house, would be considered sad to most people. It’s a fantastic thing I’m not most people. Hotel rooms have always been more home than home. Ugly truth is, that’s always been the case for my life. From before I was born, I was traveling the world and passing non-practice moments by in luxury suites. As time went on and I grew up, everything increased exponentially. I spent most of my younger years homeschooled by private tutors and then from thirteen until I graduated we established an at school attendance when home, and by email or internet connection when not, mentality. Constant chaos and travel is all I’ve ever known. It sings to my soul. and I love to serenade it back.
The moment I step foot inside there is a distinctive gag of disapproval. My head snaps to the left to see my half-sister glaring at me.
There is not enough holy water in existence to battle the demons inside of my siblings. Even Satan would ask for them to be escorted from the premises.
“Speak to each other,” my mother sweetly encourages from where she is enjoying a glass of red wine next to the island.
“Loser.”
The unloving childhood nickname causes me to sarcastically smile. “Bratney.”
“You’re looking unusually trampy this evening,” she sneers. “Perhaps you’ll finally be able to find a poor pathetic member of the male species to move you out of our father’s guest house.”
“That’s how you were raised to operate your life. Not me.”
Unfortunately, it’s the absolute truth. Britney and our other sister Tabatha, the oldest, were both results of groupie sex gone wrong. While my dad has always been very responsible with his money, investing in things of importance rather than frivolous shit like his fellow teammates, the same couldn’t be said about his dick until he met my mother. Both Britney and Tabatha’s moms were one nightstands who were hoping to hook their claws into the money bag dream come true he was, but he wasn’t interested in them. They weren’t worth glancing away from his career goals for, not even once he found out they were pregnant. My mom? He actually fell in love with her. Hard. It wasn’t prolonged, and it didn’t take years to cultivate. He says he saw her blue eyes, she fed him a smile, and he felt the grace of God push them together. When they started dating he hated being away from her so much he convinced her to not only quit her job, but to travel everywhere he went with the team or for business. She watched practices. Cheered almost courtside at every game. Was on his arm at awards and banquets. By his side as he expanded more permanently outside of just playing basketball. Keeping her within arm’s reach at all times didn’t even stop once he found out she was pregnant with me. He never entertained the idea of keeping us put up in a home while he continued his career. No. He wanted us everywhere with him. A family that moves together stays together became his mantra. Britney and Tabatha’s mothers constantly used them as leverage, requesting more money for him to spend more time with them, which is what wedged the gap in their relationships and what lead to him supergluing me to his side.
My mother lets out a defeated sigh and ruffles her straightened hair. “Perhaps the two of you could at least pretend you get along like the adults you’re supposed to be.”
“Sorry mom,” I apologize and peck a kiss on her olive-skinned cheek.
Britney doesn’t bother repeating the words.
No matter how hard my mother tried when we were all younger, my sisters refused to accept her relationship with our dad. Their mothers didn’t like that she was white and thin with strawberry blonde hair. They didn’t like how he ‘favored’ me. They didn’t like how we were consistently being idolized by the media as some perfect family. Because of all the hatred they drilled into my sisters, they’ve never once showed my mom an ounce of genuine respect. Over the years they’ve come to tolerate her at best and even now, in our thirties, they only force themselves around her because it’s part of their agreement to have our father filter funds into their shopping accounts.
Mom offers me a warm look. “Going out with friends?”
“Date.”
Her eyebrows lift in intrigue at the same time my father comes strolling around the corner. “No dating until you’re forty.”
I give him a crooked smile. “You used to say no dating until I was thirty….”
“Yet we all know you started giving away the cookies the minute they were fresh out the oven,” Britney mutters bitterly, eyes still planted on her phone.
The desire to snap back is stunted behind my gritted teeth.
I do my best to be a good sister for our dad’s sanity. It’s never been a mystery how much our bickering and inability to get along pains him. I made a decision when I graduated high school not to add to the stress so much as alleviate what I could, even if it meant not commenting on Britney’s bad nose job or Tabby’s interest in politicians rather than politics. It also helps to constantly cleanse my spirit with fresh spring water behind the ears and thou shall not cunt punch mantra.
His arm slips around my mom’s waist. “Need to borrow the car or a driver?”
Owning a car is right up there with owning my own place. Waste of money. Besides public transportation is part of the adventure in every other city. I’d let it be included during my time here as well if my father didn’t lecture me about the dangers of taxi drivers.
“Driver? Unless you need him.”
My swift attempt to be flexible stretches his smile. “Nah. Taking us out in my new birthday present….”
“You went ahead and got the Lambo?”
“Mercy.”
I shake my head at his descriptive addition.
“Don’t judge.”
“Never.”
My mother and I exchange a mirth filled expression.
“You know, I didn’t start getting to grow my car collection until I turned 50.”
Most men start growing their infidelity around then. He decided he wanted to start buying the things he didn’t during his basketball career.
“Daddy, there are only two seats in that,” Britney whines from the table.
“Yes.” He quickly states. “You have to drive your own car.”
She catches my poorly hidden smirk. “At least I have my own car.”
“At least I have my own nose .”
“Girls.” His tone is sharp.
“I should go,” I announce promptly. The ability not to snap back at every sideline comment Britney makes is fading much too fast. At this rate I would need to purchase a factory’s worth of serenity candles in order to re-establish peace. “Enjoy dinner everyone.”
“Let me walk you out while Adeline finishes her wine,” my father swiftly insists, rushing to my side.
“Mom, will you buzz David for me?”
She nods, grabs her glass, and crosses to the selection of intercom buttons on the wall near the wine fridge.
Dad clears his throat. “Say goodbye, Britney.”
She glances up from her phone and flashes me her middle finger.
I return the gesture.
Swear she could drain the patience out of Buddha.
Once my father and I have rounded the corner out of ear shot, I immediately ask, “What do you want, Dad?”
“What makes you think-”
The pointed look stops the charade.
“I need a favor….”
“What kind of favor? Something easy, like locating mom’s favorite pumps that I know are somewhere in my closet? Or something more difficult like buy my Ursula worshipping sister a birthday gift to pretend I give a shit about her? Or…are you talking more on a professional level like entertain Drake Lenzi for the weekend to help convince him to endorse your shoes across the ocean.”
The latter I didn’t mind. Drake Lenzi is one of the world’s sexiest soccer players and was a perfect gentleman until I was less than a lady.
We continue our route to the front door. “Speak at the annual Summer Hellcat Banquet for me this year?”
All my movements freeze, and he shifts himself in front of me.
He’s 6’7 with milk chocolate skin, a muscular frame, clean shaven from his bald head to his hard face, and a ‘ladies must melt for him’ grin, which he’s had for his entire life. I’ve seen baby pics to prom ones and the smile never became less irresistible. Lamar “Big L” Hall is a man other men have always looked up to, been envious of, and tried to destroy. I know my larger than life charm comes from him, along with the continuous reminder to stay connected to something larger than myself, but sometimes, he leaves even me in awe of his unparalleled magnetism. He’s almost impossible to say no to, which makes being his daughter that much harder.
“You would be a great guest speaker, Little L. You know the ins and outs of the game. You know more about both teams than anyone else on the list, plus I think it would be great for morale if it was not only someone who loves the teams, but was raised around them.”
When dad retired from basketball, he took a vast chunk of the money he had, and became part owner of the Hellcats. A couple years later when the sister team, Cliffsworth Hellcats, was revamped, he became partners with James Hopkins. Investing back in the sport he loves is about more than just profit. It always has been. It’s about giving back to something that gave him everything . Something he lives and breathes. Something that lights his soul aflame. Being raised around a man who would sacrifice everything he had to chase his own passion is probably the reason I was willing to do it for mine.
“Dad-”
“It’s been a rough season,” he confesses the obvious.
I may not work specifically in the league, but I damn sure keep track of it, the same way I do all other conventional sports. Though, I will admit, I watch those two teams a little closer given they’re like extended family. Extended, free throw sucking, family. God, we gotta get rid of Terrell Diamond.
“I think this summer’s banquet should focus more on togetherness. Unity. Playing like a team and not just bags of money in killer shoes.”
“Profit is up on the brand, isn’t it?”
He slips his hands into his dress pant pockets and nods. “Branching out into women’s sportswear was definitely the right move and not just because your mother now feels like she contributes more to the company. The launch this fall introducing the couples line should be extremely profitable. Research has shown working out with your significant other is an increasingly popular trend.” When he starts to see me smile, he pushes, “Come on, Little L. Do this for me? Squeeze me into your schedule?”
I let out a loud annoyed groan. “Fine.”
Dad flashes me a victorious smirk.
“Two conditions. One, you will not serve veal at this thing.”
“No baby cow.”
“And two, you mark me down as a plus one.”
Suspicion seeps into his expression. “Are you predicting this date you’re meeting to still be around? Should I be asking more questions about him rather than complimenting you on your last article, which moved three of my players to make donations to charities who sponsor wheelchair sporting events for children?”
“Seriously?!”
He nods, the pride on his face unmistakable. However, before I can comment on it, he questions again, “Do you have a boyfriend?”
I have a hot cowboy whose picture I have been masturbating to for the past week or so doesn’t seem like a good answer.
“Not big into labels, Dad.”
“I know. Labels or lists or anything else you find stifles freedom or creativity.”
“Exactly.”
“But is this date-”
“Just mark it down, Dad.” I brush off his pending question. “It just needs to be a blanket, plus one. Who knows what the summer may bring. It could be him. It could be Azura. It could be a lumberjack or Jill I met while camping in Washington. You know I don’t make long distance plans. I would just like to keep the option open.”
My father doesn’t budge. “London….”
With a small smile, I begin to stroll away from him towards the front door, and call out, “Have a good night, Dad.”
If he would’ve asked me a few weeks ago about the idea of bringing anyone along as an official date, the speech would’ve held a little more weight than it just did. Going out on dates wasn’t even on my radar any more than having someone send me a good morning text message. Every. Morning. Everything with Oliver, from his lack of sports knowledge, to his frustrations with my inability to answer his leaving work calls is different . I relish in the unusual, the unordinary, the unpredictable and whatever is growing between the two of us is exactly that. What’s even more extraordinary is I wanna keep it. Not the same way I collect unique mementos from my travels in old white shoeboxes, but in a mated for life nature. It’s as if I want our souls interlaced….
After a brief ride into downtown, I arrive at Braylore’s Bistro to find Oliver with his friends hanging out at the bar as I predicted.
Trendy places like this are always running behind with reservations. You book a table at four, you’re really not getting seated until closer to four forty-five. You book a table at eight? Be grateful if you see your entrée before ten.
I strut straight over instantly catching his attention. He ceases the conversation he was having with the people beside him and devotes all his energy to me. The look of irritation over my tardiness fades. He rapidly drinks in the sight of my body squeezed into a white burlesque, corset halter dress with a red bow tied right under my tits and a ruffle skirt that is long except in the front where my thighs are. My red wedge sneakers along with the orange, oversized bow in my hair, tie into the bright shade on my lips. Oliver’s attention takes its time soaking up every little detail.
When he’s finally finished, he clears his throat, and scolds, “You’re late.”
I give my attire a wave. “Stunningly so.”
He instantly agrees with a crooked smirk yet bats it away. “Late is late.”
“And there’s never a good excuse to be late?”
“No.”
Leaning over so my lips are pressed closer to his ear, I whisper, “Not even if it’s because you’ve got me bent over the bathroom sink with your cock so far inside of me you are by definition, balls deep ?”
The groan he releases is animalistic and results in him fusing our mouths together. His tongue viciously lashes at mine, punishing it for being tardy, punishing it for teasing, and most importantly, punishing it for being gone so long. With every push I swear we’re erasing the lifetimes we’ve spent apart. My hands slide down his gray dress shirt to pull back, but he wraps a hand around the nape of my neck, not ready to end it yet.
Neither am I….And I don’t just mean this kiss.
A set out of loud throat clearing eventually breaks through the desperate devouring we were swept away in.
Oliver releases his hold and instantly his cheeks redden in embarrassment.
In a quiet voice, I question, “You’re really not used to making out in public, are you?”
He shakes his head. “I’m usually more reserved.”
“I love it when you’re not.”
Oliver groans again, mouth gravitating towards mine, when a male voice states, “Before you two start at it again, maybe introduce us?”
Spinning around to greet the three on lookers, I begin to introduce myself when the male closest, beats me to the punch. “Holy shit, you’re Little L!”
Oliver’s arms protectively wrap around my waist. I smile at the sweet sentiment. “You can call me London.”
“Holy shit!” The brown-haired male repeats, this time nailing the other male in the arm. “It’s Little L!”
My correction is met with a forced smile. “ London ….”
“Why are you two shouting about her?” The petite blonde questions from behind her Cosmo. “What’d you do? Sleep with her already?”
Her bitchy comment merely makes me smirk.
Women have a tendency not to like me. For as long as I can remember they’ve hated the fact that I can sit down and go toe to toe on sport’s topics, that cause most women’s eyes to gloss over, without having to fake it. I love sports and most men have a hard on for women who do. Oliver being an exception. My new favorite exception.
“Natasha,” Oliver reprimands. “Have some respect for my girlfriend.”
Girlfriend? Um…I’m not exactly a fan of the limited life titles like “girlfriend” bring, yet I’m seeing a guy who is ready to slap them on me willy nilly? Shouldn’t we talk about this? Discuss it? I mean, I am definitely a more go with the flow kind of creature, but occasionally I am not above stopping the boat until everyone on board agrees on a route to take.
“Girlfriend?” They croak in off key unison.
He doesn’t back down. “Correct.”
Not correct regardless of the positive, passionate reaction it seems to give my heart.
“Holy shit, man!” The male repeats. “ You’re dating one of the hottest women in the world of sports.”
“The world in general,” Oliver insists, face landing on my shoulder, hard on brushing against my back.
I toss him a seductive look over my shoulder. “Compliments make my clothes come off so much easier.”
Another blush makes itself known.
“I loved when you were the guest commentator for the UFC fight of Marx vs. Macee! Everything you said was just…like... yeah! ” He lifts his glass to have a sip of his martini. “And then when you were on Monday Night Mercy discussing the NBA draft last year.…”
“Can’t believe the Hellcats traded Miles Dennis to the Delsberg Diamonds,” the other guy interjects. “Biggest mistake they could’ve made.”
“Wouldn’t say that,” I casually argue. “Patrick Faison seems like an improvement to our team. Besides, have you seen what a shitty season Miles has had this year? The Diamonds have won one game.”
“Excuse me,” Oliver abruptly interrupts, grabbing my attention. “I thought you were an extreme sports blogger.”
“I am.”
“But KFC-”
“UFC,” I quickly correct. “It’s fighting not fried chicken.”
“Right and the NDA-”
“N B A. It’s the National Basketball Association, not a legal document.”
His frustration flares. “Neither of those sports you’re talking about are…extreme.”
I reluctantly inform him, “I also dabble in the ‘norm’. Occasional guest speaker. Guest announcer. Award presenter. Most often those types of things.”
His blue eyes seem to sparkle as if impressed.
“Have you met-”
“No more sports questions,” the woman whines.
Oliver offers her a smile. “Natasha is right. Let’s avoid work topics for a bit. All work topics.”
The two men visibly sulk.
“London, let me actually introduce you to my co-workers and friends. That’s Natasha,” the bitchy blond lifts her glass as a hello, “that’s Brando,” he points to the brunette male with not so natural blond highlights, “and this is Matty.”
After a brief round of handshakes, thanks to Oliver’s disapproving glare, we’re greeted by a hostess who escorts us to our table. The five of us are seated at a round table in the very middle of the restaurant. Almost immediately, we’re greeted by our server who struggles not to look down my top. He hands us the one-page menu and explains there is a guest chef in the restaurant, so the specials for the evening are at his culinary discretion. We collectively agree to tackle whatever the guest chef wants to deliver and dismiss the antsy waiter.
Around the time, he brings my martini along with a round of refills for everyone else, the chatting is headed a direction I know absolutely nothing about. With the block placed on talking about work related activities, the four friends drift to a topic it is obvious they discuss frequently. They laugh and quote lines from some television show they all enjoy, in between relating characters to people they actually know.
It’s rare this happens to me. I spend the majority of my time around people who I have something in common with. Sports are, believe it or not, a universal language in a way. Can’t honestly remember the last time I was the one completely left in the dark about a topic.
Oliver’s thumb strokes my bare shoulder, and I thoughtlessly lean into it. The small act is so nonchalant, yet so significant my heart speeds up.
I’ve never had a guy touch me like this.
He’s so much more than just some guy….
Boyfriend?
No. Don’t want that stifling outdated terminology.
Guy friend?
No. That’s for men like Guy Klinger and Rome Calloway.
Booty call buddy?
Ugh. Am I really just flailing down the totem pole of titles?
Fuck labels.
“Have you ever seen the show?” Brando asks me between sips of his whiskey and coke.
“Which show? Downtown Abbey?”
“ Downton ,” Natasha snips.
She receives a forced, polite smile as I recite my mantra about violence not being the answer even if a bitch slap to her thin face would make me feel significantly better. “No.”
“Peaky Blinders?” Matty references another one they’ve discussed.
“Nope.”
“You’ve at least seen Sherlock Holmes with Benedict Cumberbatch. Everyone has seen that,” Brando insists.
I shake my head slowly. “I um…I don’t actually watch much T.V. outside of sports.”
Oliver drops his eyes to mine and chuckles. “And I don’t watch sports outside of my family.”
“Don’t you seem like a shitty match,” Natasha mumbles not so quietly.
Without letting my stare break his, I retort, “I don’t know…I like that we flow to different rhythms. Makes for a much more interesting song….”
“Let’s talk about something that can include you,” Matty suggests, successfully pulling our eyes apart at the same time the first portion of our meal appears. “Why don’t you pick the topic?”
“Why does she get everything?” Natasha snips, reaching for her fork.
Unable to bite my tongue any longer I sigh, “Because I have the confidence to go after what I want without being petty.”
She drops her jaw on a short gasp.
“Look, Natasha, from your backhanded compliment about my earrings to the way you huff every time Oliver touches me, I’m gonna guess you wanted him at some point and he wasn’t interested.”
Her entire body stiffens.
“My suggestion to you would be to let that shit go before it costs you a friendship with a decent person and pay more attention to Mr. Highlights who hangs onto your every word every time you speak.”
Brando diverts his attention down as she darts hers over.
“Stop resisting the natural force pulling you towards him and embrace it.”
The table falls briefly silent, but I don’t let it deter me from eating. I simply grab one of the fried goat cheese pieces with the roasted golden beet on top and have real food for the first time today. The burst of flavors hits my tongue, and I helplessly moan, “God that’s good.”
When I cut Oliver a glance I see him glaring at the treat in my hand.
Teasingly, I state, “You can relax. You taste better in my mouth.”
His face flushes yet he grins widely at the comment.
There’s a harsh throat clearing followed by Matty declaring, “Why don’t we all dig in? See if this ‘celebrity chef’ is worth all the buzz.”
Everyone but Oliver abandons the idea for forks prompting me to question, “You really don’t like finger foods, do you?”
“I don’t like my hands dirty if they don’t have to be.”
“How did you make mud pies as kid? Or dig for dinosaur bones?” I ask after having another bite.
He transfers one of the pieces to his plate while his friends moan their approval of the food. “Why would I dig for fossils when I knew there weren’t any?”
“But how did you know that? There could’ve been.”
His brow creases. “Because even as a child I did due diligence about such activities. And I did enjoy learning about dinosaurs, which is how I knew their remains wouldn’t be found on some middle of nowhere farm in the Who The Fuck Cares, U.S. Life isn’t a ‘90s television show. We weren’t going to find coins that would allow us to call on dinosaur robots.”
Excitement flares my expression. “Power Rangers!”
To my surprise, Oliver chuckles, “You got that reference?”
“I loved them as a kid!”
“Me too!” Matty and Brando agree in unison.
“I was always a fan of the pink ranger,” Natasha coyly confesses.
Our new subject sends us down a sweet nostalgic trail filled with lots of laughter. The five of us finish up what’s left on the plate just moments before the waiter delivers the main entrée. At that point they start gushing about how incredible the concoction looks, anxious to taste it, while I’m more excited by the idea of trying new food. They begin raving about some of the other restaurants they love downtown, asking me if I’ve tried them and when I mention I haven’t they take turns rambling on about what to have when I do.
Oliver politely wipes his mouth. “You travel often, Sunshine. Do you not make a habit of trying new restaurants?”
Sucking the sauce off my thumb, I shrug. “I don’t make a habit of much.”
There’s an unmistakable glint of disappointment in his eyes.
Is that from the fact that I’m not a food snob like the rest of his group or because he doesn’t think I’ll make the effort to keep him?
Be with him?
Commit to him?
And we’re back to labels….
I reach for my cocktail and try to offer a comforting smile. “My schedule is always so chaotic, most days I’m lucky if I get more than a protein bar and an energy drink before four in the afternoon.”
The table lightly laughs.
“Most of the restaurants I eat at I don’t personally pick. I’m either there because whoever I am dining with wants to be or am involuntarily showing face for the company or my family.”
“Then when you come to town, I’ll let you do the picking,” Oliver slyly suggests.
Hearing him make definite plans to our very uncertain future has my bottom lip briefly slipping out of sight.
“We’ll make sure to book reservations wherever you want. We can spend some of our time apart picking places and dates.”
I prepare to remind him I’m more interested in us just going where we feel on a whim when a male voice suddenly appears at our table. “Hello! My name is Wyatt and I’m-” My face snaps his direction and surprise splatters itself on his too pretty for his own good face. “Little L?!”
“Wyatt!” I shriek, jump up, and toss my body against his.
The grumble of disapproval over my shoulder isn’t lost upon me.
Is it wrong to find his jealousy a tad bit sexy?
Pulling away, I shake my head in disbelief. “I can’t believe it’s you!”
“I can’t believe it’s you .”
“And I can’t believe we are still sitting here waiting to be introduced,” Oliver grouses.
“ Again ,” Matty mutters with another bite of his dinner.
“Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!” My rushed apology is proceeded with me moving to the side.
“I’m Wyatt Kutner,” he starts again, “your guest chef for the evening.”
“Oh my God it’s really you,” Natasha whimpers with an erotic shimmer floating in her eyes.
He cockily grins. “Live in the flesh, baby.”
“Didn’t you cook for like a king last year?” Brando questions, pieces of food falling out of his mouth.
“It was a private meal for the king’s son and his wife-”
Matty interrupts, “Weren’t you on Get Out Of My Kitchen last year too?”
Wyatt proudly nods. “I did a guest judge spot.”
Oliver harrumphs loudly, which is when I slip back into my seat beside him.
He wraps his arm securely around my shoulder and grunts, “And how exactly do you know my girlfriend?”
There’s that word again….You know pretending felt amazing and everything between us still feels amazing, but every time he puts that little collar around our relationship, our very new relationship, something inside of me cringes.
“Wyatt and I are kindred travel spirits,” I swiftly reply. “We’re both always traipsing around the globe for work.”
“Both by choice,” Wyatt warmly adds. “Once in a while our trips cross paths.”
“Or purposely cross paths, like last summer when you catered my father’s summer banquet.”
“Still can’t believe you didn’t show up.”
“Other obligations.”
Matty’s voice cracks, “Wait. You’ve catered for the Hellcats?”
Wyatt casually nods. “I’ve catered for athletes, actors, musicians.…”
“Princesses,” Natasha reminds on a hum.
“We get it. You wait on more important people than yourself,” Oliver snips.
I give him a harsh elbow.
His defensive nature just crossed the line from attractive to annoying. That unnecessary tone and level of negative energy are not welcomed in my personal space. This isn’t an ego maniac athlete chomping at my heels for help up in his career. This is a friend . An equal wanderlust loving friend I’ve known for years….He should be kinder to those I care about.
“How’d you guys meet?” Brando inquires. “Sports thing?”
My hand sways side to side. “Kinda.”
“The first time we met was in Costa Rica. I was there trying to perfect my plantain game.”
“And I was there for a white-water rafting event. We literally bumped into each other at this little stand that made some of the most amazing sweet fried plantains-”
“Have you had them in Cuba?” Wyatt interrupts. “ Those are to fucking die for.”
Before I have a chance to answer, Oliver snaps, “We get it. You’re old friends.”
We’ve been a bit more than that...more than once….But it doesn’t matter since it’ll never happen again.
Oh. Wow. Never again? Did I mean that? Is that what I really want or is this whole girlfriend title thing going straight to my head and throwing me uncomfortably off balance.
As if he overheard my previous thought, Wyatt quickly nods. “Exactly. Old friends.”
I offer him a silent thank you.
“How was the meal?” Wyatt drags the conversation back to the point of his presence being at the table.
“Incredible,” Matty answers first.
Natasha gushes, “Fantastic.”
“Never had beets that amazing,” Brando insists. “Not even a beet fan, but with the goat cheese….It was….”
His loss of words brightens Wyatt’s smirk. “And the Moroccan Lamb Pizza? Was that okay?”
“Are you kidding?” Brando beats everyone to the response line.
“It packed so much heat.” Natasha’s double-entendre makes Wyatt wink.
“The yogurt dressing and fresh hunks of tomato set it off perfectly,” Matty cheerfully adds.
“It was alright,” Oliver defies the rest of the collective praising.
I toss him a sarcastic look. “Liar.”
His eyes flare in irritation.
“You didn’t enjoy it?” Wyatt quickly questions.
“He’s lying,” I state boldly.
“I’m not.” He clears his throat and diverts his attention to the chef. “The toasted pine nuts were a little over the top and the crust was a bit doughy.”
His friends ramble off their objections, but Wyatt ignores them. “I’m sorry you felt that way. Would you like me to make you something else from the regular menu? Perhaps a steak or stuffed baked potato?”
Oliver grits his teeth. “Are you implying because I have a bit of a southern drawl I can only appreciate southern food ?”
My jaw drops at the bite.
Wyatt merely folds his hands behind his back. “I was assuming because you’re dating Little L, a woman whose favorite food is tater tots, you might too be a potato fiend.”
“I am not a fiend!”
“Little L, I’ve seen you scoop up mashed potatoes with parmesan truffle fries.”
“They were so good!”
Once again everyone except Oliver chuckles.
“No other meal is necessary,” he insists.
“In a rush?”
“Yes, actually. London and I are prepared to call it an evening.”
“Without dessert?” Wyatt counters.
“She is my dessert.”
The prompt announcement spins my head around. On one hand, that sounds like heaven, but on the other I’m not sure I want him angrily chomping away down there just because he has an inkling someone else wants to. Or someone else occasionally used to. There’s sexy teeth and then there’s awkward emergency room visits.
Wyatt flashes the smile that is almost as famous as his food. “Well there’s no point in arguing with that. Why don’t I have dessert delivered for the rest of the table and your meal comped on me?”
Oliver snaps, “I can afford to buy my girlfriend dinner.”
“And I can afford to treat an old friend .”
“And I can move out of the way if you would both like to unzip right here and measure your dicks for all the world to see,” I sarcastically chime in.
All eyes fall onto me.
“You know, I think I am ready to go.…” I rise to my feet. “I do not like the new temperament this evening has taken.” Turning to face Wyatt, I give him a quick hug. “It was good seeing you. Thanks for the meal it was truly delicious.”
“Anytime, Little L.”
“Congrats on your marriage, by the way.”
He lifts his eyebrows in surprise.
“Noticed the ring.”
Wyatt’s smile expands the biggest I’ve seen it yet.
I give Oliver a pointed look before bidding everyone else a goodbye. “It was cool to meet all of you. Thanks for allowing me to join you.”
“We’ll see you next time,” Brando quickly insists.
With a hint of sadness in my eyes, I almost whisper, “Maybe….”
“London,” Oliver starts slowly.
“Enjoy your dessert,” I state and give Wyatt one more look. “I’ll see you whenever I see you.”
“As always.”
He steps out of my path, and I make my way towards the exit, well aware of Oliver on my heels.
The minute we’re completely out of the restaurant, he attempts to grab my hand as he pleads, “London wait!”
My body finally spins towards his. “Why? So you can whine and stomp your feet like a toddler rather than a grown ass man?”
Embarrassment burrows into his expression, except this time it isn’t cute. It isn’t adorable. It’s deserved and punishing. It also hurts to see.
“Look, I don’t know much about the whole girlfriend thing, which by the way, I would like to be consulted before you start making decisions for me. Whether it is about what we call each other or what we’re having for dessert or when we’re leaving !” The words run rampant, and I don’t bother trying to stop them. “I am most definitely alright with just riding whatever wave we’re on when we’re on it, but I do not like my entire life being decided for me without my consent. I do not like being forced into margins and post noted like paperwork. I am not some damsel ditz head who needs you to think for her or protect her from ex-flings who are now actually friends, Oliver.”
“I’m certain you don’t need me at all.”
His words settle poorly. “I don’t.”
Oliver nods his understanding, the heartbroken look in his eyes breaking my own.
Finding myself slightly confused, I ask, “Why does that have to be a bad thing? Just because I don’t need you, doesn’t mean I don’t want you.…” I step towards him. “And just because I don’t need you now doesn’t mean at some point I won’t.” Hope returns a bit to his expression. “Besides, right now, wanting you is by far better than needing you. It means there’s something about you keeping me coming back. It means there’s something here strong enough to pull me to you. Want lacks the confines and negative connotation of need . I need to breathe, but I want the sweet smell of fresh flowers in the air, so I go and find it. I need to eat, but I want French Fries smothered in ketchup, so I hop in the car and find them. I-”
“I wanna know the little shit like he does, London,” Oliver declares at the same time his pinky links with mine. “I wanna know potatoes are your favorite. I wanna know about all the breath-taking shit you’ve seen and done. I want you to keep calling me at me three A.M. because you heard some tribal band and are recreating its song with pots and spoons.”
Got really good at it too….Hm. It’s probably best I usually stay in suites on the top floor.
“My whole life has been spent believing in order to be wanted you have to be needed .”
“And a huge philosophy for my life is living for what you want not what you’ve been told you need.”
“Prove that to me.” His finger flexes. “Give me a chance to know the difference….To feel it.”
The pleading in his tone pummels all remaining defenses. With a sweet smile, I sigh, “Alright, Hot Stuff, I’ll let you off the hook for dick dinner behavior this time. But next time you’re going to be sent outside with a relaxation ball and forced to listen to The Wind Bees until you find your center.”
Longing lightens his blue eyes. “So, there’ll be a next time?”
I drag our pinky locked embrace around my waist and playfully say, “Depends on how well dessert goes….”
A hungry growl seeps into the night air. “Is that offer actually on the table? I completely understand if it’s not. I was out of line earlier.”
“For making the naughty announcement to your coworkers or for assuming the only way to prove we’re together is with a sexual reminder?”
There’s a grumble of regret in his voice, “I can’t believe I told the entire table that.”
My free hand toys with the end of his black tie. “I liked it.…”
His hand abandons mine to cup my ass. “How about we go back to my apartment and I make you love it?”
A small whimpered agreement is pulled from my lips.
Thankfully it’s a short walk over to Oliver’s high-rise apartment. The two of us are barely inside before his mouth is covering mine. In a single swift action, he lifts me up by the hips, and I wrap my legs around him. Our kiss becomes more intense as our tongues tempestuously tangle. Every whirl has my mind freely falling further down to the erotic pit, torn between demanding to hit the bottom and begging we never do.
With a heavy thud my bare ass lands on a cold hard surface. I squeak and Oliver bites my bottom lip harshly. This time when I drop my jaw to moan, his tongue takes advantage of mine. His large hands wander down my thighs and drag my legs to opposite ends. Afterward, he slips away and sinks down onto his knees. It’s at that moment I notice he’s placed me on top of his dining room table.
“Do you always eat dessert at the table?”
Oliver’s fingers curl around my thighs. “I do when I know I’m going to make a mess….”
The proclamation barely has time to process. His hot mouth roughly captures my clit and my hands fly to his hair for leverage. Unlike the other aspects of his life, there is no order to his licking. No predictable pattern. No pre-mediated plan to pursue. It’s as if his tongue has no rulebook, only one single purpose. Oliver sucks harshly again, this time groaning as a rush of wetness whispers to be tasted. The added vibrations are met with a loud moan. He buries his face deeper. Grazes his teeth in tandem with his tongue. Relentlessly, guides the wild appendage around every inch of my pussy he can access. He sucks the first orgasm out of me with minimal effort and uses my shudders as encouragement to continue. The grip on my thighs tightens once more, tethering not only my pussy to him but my ability to have pleasure. My fingers tug at the strands they’re wound around while I whimper his name in rapid succession. Every part of his mouth recklessly continues to crash between my thighs, erasing all assumptions of him being incapable of letting loose. Incapable of him willing to jump over the edge with me. Incapable of loving me just the way I am….
Another orgasm tears through me yanking a harsh scream from my system. “Oliver!”
His satisfied rumbles amplify the ripples causing my body to collapse backwards. I see a mad rush of reds and yellows spiraling together from behind my shut eyes. He suddenly slows down the speed yet laps at the earned reward. When Oliver finally draws himself upward, I open my eyes to him leaned over my splayed body exposing to me his very wet complexion.
I smirk proudly. “You um…you’ve got a little something on your face.”
He chortles and uses the edge of his thumb to swipe away the corner of his lip. “Did I get it?”
We exchange a sweet laugh before his lips find mine all over again. The combination of my flavor on his tongue and the feeling of his body climbing onto the table to blanket mine has me melting all over again.
Maybe doing the ‘girlfriend’ thing won’t be so off-putting. Maybe our dates won’t reach a point of predictable cycles. Maybe we’ll defy the relationship overlords and find ways to keep the fun as we progress into something more. Maybe he’ll learn to focus less on the words and more on the incredible sensation that soars between us. Maybe just maybe he’ll realize it’s okay to have a balance of want and need. Maybe I’ll accept it too.