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Lola stares at me, nail polish brush hovering over my bare feet in her lap as she waits for my answer. Or possibly she’s just dizzy from the overpowering scent of roses in full bloom. I’ve been walking around in a rose-scented cloud since they arrived three days ago. I hum a few bars from The Blue Danube waltz. Strauss wrote it to cheer up the Austrian nation after they got their butts kicked in the Seven Weeks’ War and went broke, so it seems like a good post-Madd-breakup theme song. Plus, it’s catchy and the ultimate earworm.
I’m hosting our monthly girls’ night in my San Francisco studio. Despite the limited space (made even more limited by the addition of 937 roses in full bloom), I love my tiny, closet-sized living quarters. Said quarters are at the very tippy-top of a house fronting a square that’s alternately foggy, hot or just outright grimy, and inhabited by trees, pigeons and the occasional homeless guy. Everything in San Francisco is short on space and so the house is tall and gangly like a twiggy, sun-starved plant reaching for the occasional spot of sunshine when it breaks through the inevitable clouds and fog. The outside is all decorative bric-a-brac and a real-life turret with a wind vane sitting on its red-tile top. I had a choice of living in the turret or the unit next door, which has a balcony. If I’d been a billionaire, I’d have gone for both and knocked down the wall between them, but instead I chose the balcony. I do a morning barre routine there, fingers curled around the balustrade while San Francisco trundles sleepily below me as I plié.
Lola alternates pink with white polka dots and pink stripes on white, which means my toenails are as cheerfully pretty as the rest of my feet are not. Years of dancing en pointe have changed the shape and look of my toes, and even though they’re no longer blistered and bloody from hours of daily dancing, they’ll never look the same again. Doesn’t matter. I love them. They’re a reminder that I really can do anything if I try hard enough and long enough.
“He sent 937 roses when he returned my phone.” At least I’m almost certain they’re from Max. The handwriting on the florist’s card was really bad, to the point where if you’d told me the note was in Cyrillic, I’d have believed you. The one person I know, however, who did not send those flowers is my ex-boyfriend. Madd never sent me roses. In retrospect, I’m lucky he didn’t gift me with an STD. Part of me wants to laugh or find a way to rub my ex’s face in my flowers (starting with the thorny bits), but the rest of me is still a sad, angry llama that appreciates expensive flowers. And the quick phone repair job. I definitely wasn’t offended by that.
“Wow.” Lola caps the polish. “That’s random.”
“It’s very precise,” I counter. “I think he sent one rose for each hookup request I had on Kinkster.”
Frankly, that number is obscene. Literally. I need no more dick pics in my life, so flowers and a free phone repair are a welcome change even if the only “message” was Max’s name scrawled on the florist’s card in black Sharpie, bold and impatient. The picture I snapped of my new floral accoutrements already has a thousand likes on Instagram.
Lola just grins. “That sounds like Max actually.”
I try to sound cool, as if hot, smart guys send me the contents of a florist’s shop all the time. “He sends flowers wantonly and indiscriminately?”
Lola considers this for a nanosecond. “Max is not a flower guy.”
“His mother? Dead coworkers? Nada?”
“You’d have to ask him, but flowers are for the well mannered. Max is blunt.” She makes a face. “Wrecking-ball blunt. He tends to put people off. It’s the precision flower-sending that makes perfect sense. He wouldn’t send a dozen roses, but 937? Absolutely. That number means something to him and he loves numbers. He’s equally likely to send you 937 truffles or 937 thong panties or 937 of whatever else pops into his dirty mind.”
“Tell me more.” The smile stretching my own face is as big and goofy as, say, a bouquet of a thousand purple roses. I only want to know more because he’s seen me naked, I tell myself. And never mind that by that standard I should be holding mass meet and greets across the foggy, fine city of San Francisco. “Is he seeing anyone?”
Lola snorts. “Not for more than an hour at a time.”
I don’t have relationships.
I have hookups. For sex.
Doesn’t he realize that relationships are special? Any two people can hook up, but it takes effort to maintain that connection. It’s the difference between a salad of edible flowers and growing a garden from seed. It’s what makes Madd’s betrayal so much harder to stomach, because not only had I almost decided that he was my forever man, but I’d invested a considerable amount of time in us.
“He’s a billionaire,” Lola says. “That makes it harder, if you know what I mean.”
Now it’s my turn to snort. “Because not having any money makes everything so much easier? Pardon me if I’m not feeling sympathetic.”
“People date him for the experience or because they want stuff from him.” She turns my foot, admiring her handiwork.
I’m not stupid. I’d connected a few dots even before flouncing out of his office on Monday and then promptly checking him out on the Billionaire Bachelors app he created, an app that’s apparently the best way to meet the love (or lay) of your life. Think about that for a moment. He’s the CEO of a company that hooks people up for kinky sex and DIY porn. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that’s a money-making idea, but billionaire conjures up images of hot, cut guys (or old, fat guys) in expensive suits. But maybe that’s like assuming all dancers run around in tutus 24/7?
“That explains how he could afford all the roses.” I can’t remember the last time I dated someone who was financially solvent enough to purchase a dozen roses, let alone almost a thousand apology flowers. Not that Max and I are dating. Or hooking up. Or even remotely interested in each other. Although I do appreciate the fact that he did what he promised to do and took my dirty dancing video down. Madd had definitely set the bar low in the promise-keeping department.
“Do you want me to cut Madd’s balls off? Or send Dev to perform the amputation?” Lola grins, clearly enjoying her mental revenge fantasy.
Frankly, it appeals.
“That would be a career-limiting move,” I say finally. “I think I’m going to have to take the high road here and avoid a recreational stay in San Quentin. I’m holding out for the round-the-world tour.”
“Madd’s a dick.” Lola waves the nail brush for emphasis. “I never liked him. Next time, you should listen to me.”
“Duly noted. Walking away from a long-term relationship sucks. Madd and I were a couple and I invested time in us. I thought I knew him.”
Does that sound plaintive? Yes, it does. I make a note to kick myself in the butt.
Lola’s already shaking her head. “How many times have you gone out with a guy just for fun?”
“We had fun,” I protest.
“You go from zero to sixty,” Lola says. “You move him in and then it’s all future plans and serious talks because everything has to be a milestone and a step forward and special.”
“Lola.”
She leans her head against my shoulder. “You need to slow down, Maple. You don’t think about what’s happening right now because you’re so busy planning for a future that never arrives.”
“The future never arrives because I pick shitty men,” I say.
“You don’t know them, Maple. You just fantasize them into being right. I think you need to take a break.”
“From life? From sex? Or just the entire male gender?”
Lola sits up and slaps my shoulder. “Just have fun the next time you go out with someone. Use him for sex. Don’t go plunging into another long-term relationship five minutes after meeting someone.”
I make a face, willing someone to knock on the door or a telemarketer to call. Now would even be a good time for the upstairs neighbor to do the galumphing walkabout she usually saves for 3 a.m. “No more relationships. Just fun. And business. I’m still trying to get offered that contract from the Live Your Best Life people.”
I’m not ashamed to beg. Please, please, please pick me to be the face of your yearlong campaign because there is nothing I’d love more than to spend twelve months touring the world on your dime and shooting fabulous, yoga-and-dance-related content. Can you imagine what that would be like? Jet-setting from one tropical island to the next? They just fired the influencer who was the social media face of their campaign for drunken scooter driving in Thailand, so they need to find someone fast.
My phone pings, alerting me that dinner has arrived. Saved! I lever myself off the bed and walk to the door on my heels because it would be a shame to spoil Lola’s handiwork. I haven’t had pretty toenails in years—it’s one of the downsides to being a dancer. Nightly ice baths, gauze, blisters—none of those scream “pedicure.” Even now that I’m no longer dancing professionally, my feet are still tough and I love them.
When the intercom buzzes, I let in the delivery guy and carefully walk over to the door on my heels to retrieve our dinner.
Lola frowns at me. No, at my feet. “How do you do that?”
I look down automatically, but those are the same feet she was painting seconds ago, albeit slightly dustier. I need to up my housekeeping game. “Do what?”
“Walk so gracefully,” she says. “It’s not fair.”
“Years of practice.” I dig into the bag and pass her a set of wood chopsticks. While anybody can dance, ballet requires a commitment. In relationship terms, it’s a monogamous, twenty-five-year marriage rather than a fun hookup. And while I think I like my new life, it feels strange not to be spending sixty-plus hours a week dancing. “How are things with Dev?”
She grins. “He’s amazing.”
“Out of bed, too, I hope?” I arrange my food on the table and snap a picture then ten more because the lighting’s not quite right. #cheatnight #notsohealthy #betterthansex. Which, I discover when I dig into the first carton, isn’t an exaggeration at all. Mmm. Chow mein with those bright red chunks of pork.
Lola launches into a Dev story, something about a romantic weekend up in Napa. I think there were supposed to be wineries and maybe a romantic picnic surrounded by grapevines, but Lola’s story meanders from a really cool-sounding lunch in a restaurant that even I’ve heard of to a roadside pit stop (kissing) to finding a stream surrounded by wildflowers (where far more than kissing happened).
Her face glows when she talks about Dev. She met him by crash-landing in his lap at a networking event, and then followed the introduction up by hiring him as her new summer intern. Of course, it turned out he’d really come to her office to find out why she was illegally using his software (a completely innocent mistake on her part) and then they’d had hate-sex before agreeing to mutually use each other for orgasms. Or so Lola tells it.
Because there’s that glow that says their relationship is far more than crazy hot sex in some pretty kinky places. They’re happy together rather than angry and I think they may be working their way toward that long-term monogamous thing sooner rather than later. Like picking-out-a-puppy-together territory or possibly even a permanent move to the Kingdom of Happily-Ever-After. I’ve heard they have engagement rings and killer ceremonies there. Lola’s Dev stories are pretty freaking amazing, but I hope he realizes just how lucky he is. Lola may not have a billion dollars, but she’s worth the world to me and I’ll kill him if he can’t see that.
The Kinkster app on my phone pings and I can’t stop myself from giving the screen a quick glance. “Max owes me a rose—I have another hookup request.”
And eww. This guy also sent a picture and my eyeballs are burning. There are things you can’t unsee, no matter how small the phone screen.
Lola grabs a carton of kung pao shrimp and digs in. “I thought you deleted that app.”
I shrug. “Just keeping track of my fans.”
At first, I kept the app on my phone to make sure Madd hadn’t uploaded anything else. Then, I kept it just because. Just because I’m curious. Just because the kink other people get up to is amazing. Just because it reminds me of Max and then I can’t focus, imagining the way his mouth curled into a grin and his legs brushed mine. Maybe just because part of me wonders if he really deleted all the copies of that video—or if he’s still watching me.
CHAPTER FOUR
Max
SATURDAY IS THE crown jewel in a week that went rapidly downhill after I met Maple on Monday. It takes twenty minutes to find a place where I can pull off the Santa Cruz highway because the sandy stretch fronting the Pacific Ocean is busier than an In-N-Out drive-through after a pot festival. And then, when I finally battle my way to the surf break, rookies clog the water, battling for a shot at the waves. Secrets have a way of getting out. The whole time I’m out on the ocean, my brain keeps rewinding my encounter with Maple. Did she really believe her boyfriend would keep her video secret? Does she think about my watching her video? Does she imagine, even for a second, what I look like fisting my dick as I watch? Watched. After an epic wipeout on what should have been a good wave, I abandon my surfing attempt and head in. The sun is setting and tomorrow is another day. Just call me Scarlett.
My board bumps against the backs of my knees and I adjust my grip, towing it to shore and up onto the sand. Splashing behind me indicates Jack and Dev are following my lead.
I lob the usual no-brainer over my shoulder. “Tequila and tacos?”
Jack, Dev and I always hit up T&T after our Saturday surf. Not only is it just down the road from our favorite beach, but the bartender makes all sorts of weird margaritas and there’s a taco al pastor that’s the best this side of Cabo. This time, however, no one rushes to agree or joke about whose turn it is to pick up the bar tab. Instead, the silence stretches out between us. I turn until I can see their faces. Nope. I’m still clueless.
Jack finally shrugs. “Sure.”
He doesn’t sound sure.
A frown puckers his forehead. When did he get so distant?
Dev’s not even looking at me because he’s head down in his phone. “Lola’s in.”
This is supposed to be our time together, but things have changed since Dev met Lola and our Saturday nights have changed.
“The more the merrier,” I say because I can’t let him know that I mind. I’m the laid-back one in our group, the one who bounces from hookup to hookup because anything longer than twenty-four hours is too long.
Dev shoots me a look and I bite back a wince.
Right.
Lola’s a default setting now and not a user preference.
After four years at UC Santa Cruz and then flopping together in a crazy small San Francisco studio while we got our businesses off the ground (and I finished off PhD number two), old habits die hard. It’s always been the three of us. Four, I guess, if you count Jack’s wife, Molly, whom he married six weeks after graduation. But things change.
Items one and two: Dev and Jack have changed. Is it terrible that I feel a little bad about that? We’ll sort it out, but right now I feel unsettled. I don’t like not understanding the rules.
By the time we’re seated on the deck at T&T, the sun’s down, it’s dark, and I’m feeling better. T&T is the best beach bar in the world. The thatched roof talks back to the near-constant ocean breeze, whistling and flapping and filling up any silence not handled by the waves crashing on the shore just yards away. The furniture’s a comfortable, mismatched set of wooden Adirondack chairs (not Mexican but I cut the owners some slack) and swings suspended from the palapa roof so that you can rock gently back and forth while you belly up to the bar. There’s no better place to unwind and analyze the day’s waves and rides. It’s so good, in fact, that I’ve given serious thought to buying a beach bar of my own on some fun tropical island in the South Pacific but ownership laws for noncitizens are draconian and I suspect I’d get tired of listening to drunk people whine because they won’t own their shit.
For the first hour, drinks flow steadily as we break down the waves and our rides. We complain about the rooks crowding our sand, and for a few minutes, it feels like it always did.
But eventually Lola pops in, making a beeline for our usual table in the corner. She’s wearing a tank top and a pair of athletic leggings like the ones Maple wore. I calculate the distance between her San Francisco place and here, and come to the obvious conclusion that she’s once again spent the night at Dev’s Santa Cruz place. At some point, the two of them need to just move in together, if only to cut down on the carbon emissions.
Item: They have no qualms about kissing in public.
In fact, Lola launches herself at Dev and they end up wrapped around each other, arms, hands and tongues going all sorts of places. This isn’t a bad thing, although I prefer watching strangers go at it rather than one of my best friends. Dev also tends to be possessive and private, so I’m not sure what to make of this change.
Lola waves a greeting at Jack and me when she comes up for air, and for the next half hour we chat about the easy stuff—which companies have IPO’d, who’s seeing who, and who’s gone bankrupt since the last time we caught up over nachos. Silicon Valley is tough. We tease Jack about being Silicon Valley royalty, but he always counters that he’s more pirate than prince. Nice people get eaten alive.
“I hear you’re sending girls flowers now.” Lola digs her elbow into my rib cage. Is she being friendly or is she pissed off?
“One girl.” I stare at her for a moment. “And how do you know about those?”
“Maple’s my best friend?” She makes a face. “Plus, it’s really hard to overlook a gazillion purple roses in a San Francisco studio.”
“Nine hundred and thirty-seven roses,” I correct automatically.
Lola’s grin widens. “You owed her six more by the time we finished dinner last night.”
It takes me three seconds to work out that she’s joking, although my fingers itch to order the missing flowers from my phone. “She didn’t delete the app?”
Lola slurps her margarita. “Nope.”
Oh. I try to figure out what that means. Is Maple interested in kink? I remember the heat in her eyes when I said that I’d watched her dance. I think she liked that.
Lola stares at me speculatively. “Why did you really send her flowers?”
“I wanted to,” I say truthfully.
Jack looks up from inhaling his beer. “You like her.”
I certainly like specific parts of her—and is that such a terrible thing? She’s lovely. A whole list of adjectives pops into my head and I let them filter through my head. Funny, talented, tenacious, vibrant. Plus, I’ll bet she’s unbelievable in bed. Her eyes give away what she’s thinking and she’s super bendy thanks to that ballet career of hers. I suspect she’d surprise me, and in a good way. She’s completely unlike anyone I’ve had sex with before, and not just because she can touch her head to her toes.
But the thing is? We’d never work. She’s the queen of relationships, scouring her kingdom for The One; I’m the king of hookups. She has a wholesome business brand to manage and preserve, whereas I’m all about the dirty and the not-so-secret fantasies. After scrolling through her Instagram, I get why she’s not so happy about her Kinkster stardom. Everything on her Instagram is the kind of pretty polished that makes you wonder why your life doesn’t look that way and if buying a pair of leggings and doing a session of hot yoga might be the magic answer.
Maple’s selling fantasy, just like me, but hers is a clothes-required world.
Lola’s phone erupts, an entire troupe of Polynesian drummers banging and whooping it up in her purse. She pulls it out, looks down and frowns. Since I’m sitting next to her, I look down, too, so I can read along.
Rude.
Obnoxious.
Effective.
Sticks and stones—call me whatever you’d like but Lola has a text from Maple. I know this because the picture of the sender is Ballerina Maple, complete with crown. She looks like a wholesome, pink, sparkly princess, which just goes to show that you should never judge a book by its cover. I pluck the phone out of Lola’s hands so I can double-check the message for myself.
HELP
My inner fixer revs, begging to go into overdrive, and I remind myself to step back. Assess. Maybe she’s just got a shoe emergency or needs help picking out dish towels or forgot the name of the awesome Chinese restaurant they ordered from last night. Maybe it’s nothing.
Bubbles dance across the screen as Maple texts.
And dance.
And dance.
No words appear—just more stupid dots. Even Tolstoi handwrote War and Peace faster than this. Lola makes a grab for her phone, but no way I’m giving it up. Instead we (she) compromise: I let her squeeze up against my side and angle the screen so we can both see. Finally, Maple finishes her text and hits the send button. A riff of Polynesian drums announces its arrival on Lola’s phone.
Calling it in on the girlfriend code. Send troops ASAP. Need rescue before this guy cums on my butt.
And then nothing. I nudge Lola, slapping the phone into her hands. “Text her back.”
I should try to be nicer. More polite. Something.
And if Maple wasn’t asking for help, I’d try. Maybe. Lola opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it and starts tapping away. She texts even more slowly than Maple. I resist commiserating with Dev because sexting is clearly not going to play a part in their future life together. Finally she settles on: Where r u?
That’s the wrong question. “I can find her.”
Jack groans. “We’ve discussed cutting back on the felonies.”
“I won’t get caught.” I never do.
Maple saves me from any felonious behavior by responding: Club XYZ.
The photo that pops up on Lola’s screen is both slightly out of focus and badly lit. I think Maple’s on a dance floor. Looking down over her shoulder. Where some guy is grinding on her ass and I see red.
Think.
I grab my own phone and bring up a little app I wrote. Five seconds later, I have Maple’s GPS coordinates (south of Market in San Francisco) and a plan (drive there faster than a speeding bullet, kill the creep, rescue the girl—hot thank-you sex forming an optional epilogue). Fortunately, I’ve had a quarter of a beer so I’m good to drive. I stand up, registering the surprise on Dev’s and Lola’s faces. Jack just looks resigned.
“Going” is all I say.
I’m no one to Maple. Of course it’s none of my business. Do I care? Not really.
Lola bolts upright. Nachos fly. “Not without me.”
“Keep texting her,” I order Lola. “Let her know help is on the way.”
I don’t deny that I’m going after Maple, but I drive a Porsche that’s far faster than the piece of crap Jeep Lola owns. I’m going to get there first, and from the way Lola bellows after me as I stride away from our table, she knows it, too.
I execute the first part of my plan—the speeding bullet step—successfully, arriving in record time at 10:07. Club XYZ is indeed deep in the warehouse district. The surroundings are sketchy enough that I don’t like the idea of Maple walking around here on her own. I bound out of the Porsche, toss my keys at the valet parker along with a generous tip and head for the front door. From the quantity of bandage dresses and sparkles decorating the line of people already waiting to go in, I’m seriously underdressed in my post-surfing uniform of jeans and a T-shirt. Fortunately, cash is always the perfect accessory and the bouncer happily lets me skip the queue when I share a little sartorial wealth with him.