Break Free (Smart Girl Mafia Book 1) Read online

  How would he know? I mentally slap my hand for being so negative. Nick is just being nice.

  “Well, that’s what some people on the Internet say, and my mom, of course. But she’s never read any of my books. We should probably go. I assume we’re not having dinner in Pasadena?”

  “West Hollywood. Yes, we should leave. The traffic on the 10 Freeway is unpredictable on the weekends.”

  We walk to the car in silence. Nick opens the passenger door and I settle into the leather seat. Memories of my bare skin against the same material floods my thoughts. I hold my breath and reminisce on how his hands felt against my hips as my center spread to receive him. A mental image so vivid, the world around me disappears.

  Nick’s voice brings me back to reality.

  “Any music preferences?” he asks, exiting the parking lot.

  “Um, I’d love to listen to KCRW. That radio station is one of the things I miss most about living in L.A. I listen online at home, but hearing it on a car stereo is magical.”

  The urge to fidget is overwhelming. I cross my legs, fold my hands in my lap, and turn my attention toward the road. Nick drives through town to the 110 Freeway (the first freeway built on the west coast).

  “I’m a fan of KCRW. ‘Morning Becomes Eclectic’ keeps me company when I drive to job sites.”

  With a click of a button, an electro-pop dance beat fills the space.

  “What projects are you working on right now?” I ask.

  “Several residential developments, but the most pressing is a townhouse community in Eagle Rock. The developer specializes in smart homes, so it’s a little more involved than a typical build.”

  “Smart homes?”

  “Nowadays, most homes are built or remodeled with some smart features, like the Nest or keyless entry. The architect on this project wants everything from the water heater to the exterior shutters to be controlled by a central server that can be accessed from various devices. It turns a basic home into a robot. It’s a cool concept, but a pain in the ass on the building side. My crew is not used to working with technology from the foundation up,” Nick says.

  “Sounds like something you’d find in the Bay Area. Do you do any design?”

  “Not really. I’m just a boot-wearing, lunchbox-toting contractor.”

  Nick laughs, but pain lurks behind his words. Why is a man with a master’s degree from one of the best architecture programs in the country referring to himself as “just a contractor?” But that’s not my business. I’m not Nick’s life coach. I’m just an acquaintance who shares a cigarette with him at parties… and a few orgasms.

  The narrow 110 Freeway curves and bends through the hills of Northeast Los Angeles before opening to a wide, multi-lane highway in Downtown L.A. The skyline is breathtaking. The iconic buildings I grew up seeing are now surrounded by large cranes and new high-rise buildings. It’s amazing how much my old hometown has transformed in the eight years since I left.

  Nick gets on the 10 Freeway. There is a wall of brake lights. Traffic crawls along. The daylight, turning to twilight. I hate L.A. traffic. It’s why I don’t rent a car when I’m in town. Driving in this area is full of treacherous distractions, triggering all the broken parts of my brain. Thank Goddess, the music is good. KCRW’s Raul Campos is spinning a mix of Latin jazz and funky house beats.

  “Screw this,” he says.

  After ten minutes of maybe going a quarter of a mile, Nick changes lanes and exits the freeway. As we travel the streets of West L.A., I realize I have no idea where we’re going to dinner.

  Dull hunger pangs make me wish I’d taken the time to eat the hummus and cut-up veggies I bought at Natural Foods this afternoon. I was so lost in my reflections on the play and my busted solo Saturday fun day, I broke my number one rule of vegan-living; eat a snack before I go out. I broke my second rule too; research the menu or call the restaurant to check if they can accommodate my dietary restrictions.

  Yes, it’s L.A., and folks around here are food conscious. But some restaurants, like a steakhouse, are what they are. And super-hot contractor dude, weaving his boxy SUV through traffic, is what he is. I bet his diet is packed with meat-based protein. It’s strange we’re traveling to the Westside. He can find a steak and potatoes meal in Pasadena.

  Nick turns onto Santa Monica Boulevard. Ah. My cynicism is making this a terrible trip to L.A. I mentally and emotionally commit to enjoying myself tonight. Even if it means eating waterlogged broccoli and a dry baked potato. I’ll genuinely smile my way through this meal. (And then I’ll go find some medicinal weed.)

  “This is my favorite street in California. When I was in college at USC and struggling with an assignment, I’d take the Santa Monica Boulevard Metro Bus all the way to the beach to clear my head,” I say.

  “It’s a good street. It almost runs all the way to my house.”

  Santa Monica Boulevard doesn’t run anywhere near Pasadena.

  “You don’t live in Pasadena?”

  “No. Mount Washington. I haven’t lived in Pasadena since I left for college.”

  Siri’s voice interrupts the music, “You’ve arrived at your destination.”

  Nick pulls up to a valet and exits the car, handing his keys to the attendant. I’m slower to react. I reach for my purse, but leave my jacket. The evening is still warm, so I won’t need it, and my top is so pretty I don’t want to cover it up.

  Before I can grasp the handle, Nick opens the door and extends his hand. Gosh, he’s really turning on the charm. I do take his hand because given my petite stature, there is no way to gracefully get out of his SUV in these shoes.

  Nick places his hand on my lower back and guides me away from the valet. I’m not sure what it is, his firm embrace, being on the Westside, his citrusy-musk, real-man scent, the gentle breeze against my cheek, or his poise and strength, but for the first time today, everything feels right.

  We approach the restaurant and I read the sign: Gracias Madre. The L.A. sister to my favorite vegan Mexican restaurant in San Francisco. He opens the door for me.

  “How did you know I’m vegan?”

  We’re immediately greeted by a hostess so sparkly, I know I’ll see her in a commercial someday. This is L.A. Everyone is an actor (or an actress’s best friend).

  “Welcome to Gracias Madre.”

  “We have a reservation for two. Nick Willingham.”

  “I have you here. We’re clearing a table now, so it will be just a moment.”

  Nick and I step away from the hostess stand and wait with several other people.

  He whispers in my ear, “I watched your Facebook Live.”

  “Oh.”

  I’m not sure what to say. I don’t think any of my friends follow my page, let alone visit it and watch replays of my FB Lives.

  “Nick, your table is ready.”

  We follow the hostess to the back patio. Menus are placed at a table for two under a tree filled with tiny white lights. After the hostess leaves, I lean across the table, meeting Nick’s brilliant eyes.

  “Thank you.”

  I want to say more, but again, I’m not sure what to say. He flashes that smile.

  “Of course. It would have put a damper on the night if I took you for sushi or a steak.”

  “I thought for sure you were going to take me to a steakhouse,” I say, laughing.

  “There is definitely a steakhouse on my mental list of first date restaurants,” he says, scanning the menu.

  As soon as he says “date,” my stomach does a backflip.

  Holy Unicorn. The flowers, the chivalry, the vegan restaurant on the Westside… I’m on a date! With Nick Willingham! My inner fat girl does the happy dance, but the celebration is cut short.

  A lanky dude with shaggy hair and a hipster mustache approaches the table. He speaks in a booming voice made for the Shakespearean stage.

  “Good evening. My name is Trevor. I will be your server tonight. I’ll give you more time to look over the menu. Can I get a
drink started for you?”

  “What do you recommend?” I ask, skimming the two-page menu.

  “Everything is excellent. Our beverage director focuses on small-batch mezcals and tequilas with seasonal ingredients. You can’t go wrong.”

  “I have three drinks in mind. The Maserati Margarita, the Cerveza Union Mexican Pale Lager or the Blind Spot Malbec. What do you think is best?”

  “We’ll take all three,” Nick says.

  “All excellent choices. The bartender will split each beverage. I’ll be back momentarily to take your order.”

  Our server leaves.

  “Thank you, Nick. Making decisions can be a challenge for me. You have no idea how much easier you made my night.”

  “Glad to help. Now you can return the favor. I’m not well-versed in vegan Mexican cuisine. What do you recommend?” he asks.

  “The menu is a bit different than the SF location. We should definitely start with the guacamole and tortillas and the persimmon and kale salad. For the entrées, let’s share the tacos and bowl dos. What do you think?”

  “Sounds great.”

  The waiter arrives with our drinks and Nick gives him our food order.

  I sip my half of the margarita. The tart liquid, surprisingly smooth. I take another sip and muster the courage to ask the question dancing in my mind.

  “Nick, is this a real date or a ‘let’s fuck again’ date?”

  CHAPTER 8:

  NICK WILLINGHAM

  “Why can’t it be both?” I ask.

  I watch Lynn lick the salt off the rim of her margarita glass. If it were any other woman, I’d know she was trying to get a rise out of me. But with Lynn, I’m not sure. She seems to be deep in thought. I’m trying to be patient, but I’m a little unnerved by how much consideration she’s giving my question. Is this attraction all me?

  “Well, either way, we should probably get to know each other better. I realized today we’ve shared… a lot, but I still don’t really know you. What did you do today?” she asks.

  “After I saw you, I made an omelet, tried to sleep, and went to Natural Foods. What did you do today?” I inquire, before drinking some of the crisp beer.

  “After I saw you, I finished my run and had breakfast in the hotel. Afterwards, my day didn’t go as planned.”

  “What did you have planned?”

  Again, she doesn’t respond right away. It’s as if she’s mentally trying to make sure she says the right thing. She finishes her margarita and the floodgates open.

  “Well, I declared it Saturday fun day, which only made the day worse. I tried to find my favorite strain at Pasadena Patients Group, but none of the budtenders seemed to know that Blue Dream is a hybrid, not a sativa. Went to Natural Foods and they didn’t have my favorite juice. I saw a terrible play at the Pasadena Playhouse and if I had read the reviews, I would have known it was terrible. I spent the rest of the afternoon preparing for dinner, assuming I would be eating soggy broccoli while you ate a steak, and gave me a ‘I’m sorry we hooked up and let’s be friends for the sake of Jen and Jon’ speech.”

  I hear favorite “strain” and “Pasadena Patients Group.” Something warms inside me. Recreational marijuana may be legal in California, but only people with doctor recs can go into PPG. Is Lynn a medicinal stoner?

  “First, I’m not sorry we hooked up. I should have said that this is a date because I’m interested in you and want to get to know you outside of a party. Second, I’m sorry you had a bad day and I’ll do everything in my power to ensure you have a wonderful evening. Third, what sativa strain do you want?” I ask, pulling out my phone.

  “No. I don’t need a bag of weed from some black-market dealer. I’ll be the first to admit, I do enjoy getting high. But I really do use it for medicinal purposes.”

  “I do too. I’m a member of a delivery dispensary. They carry a wide selection of strains. I’ll put an order in for you and it will be at my house by the time we finish dinner.”

  “No, it’s fine. I left my vaporizer at home and I can’t roll a joint to save my life.”

  “I have a Volcano. We can go back to my place and get stoned. One day I’ll teach you how to roll a joint.”

  I’m not sure why she doesn’t want to believe me. Lynn has this faraway look in her eyes, her attention elsewhere. Hmm, so this is her quirk.

  Waiting for her response, I study her long, dark, impeccably-styled hair, flawless hazelnut skin, slender nose, and kissable lips I’d do anything to feel again. It’s as if she knows what I’m thinking. A sensuous smile forms across her mouth, her eyes beaming. I’ve seen that grin before. Last night. In the back seat of my car.

  “When we get back to your house, are we just going to get stoned?” she asks, winking at me.

  Our server returns, sitting plates of colorful food on the table.

  “Here we have the delectable kale and persimmon salad and the velvety guacamole with our homemade corn tortillas. All ingredients are locally sourced. Enjoy,” server dude says.

  (Man, he’s killing my ears with that voice.)

  We eat and drink; a silence falls over the table. I finish my half of the beer and switch to the Malbec.

  “So, a Volcano? It’s like the Bentley of vaporizers,” Lynn says.

  She bites into a piece of persimmon on her fork, the juice dripping on her lips. (Damn, this woman makes eating salad sexy.)

  I wash down a mouthful of raw kale drizzled in a citrus vinaigrette with my wine before speaking.

  “When I started using cannabis, I was on a high CBD strain as advised by my doctor. So, I wanted to buy a medical-grade vaporizer to ensure I wasn’t losing any of the medicinal effects. What do you use?” I ask.

  CBD strains have very little psychoactive effects and aid in pain relief. Most days, I enjoy strains that give me the high as well as ease tension and soreness.

  I take a bite of tortilla and guacamole. Big voice server was right, it is velvety.

  “I have a Pax vaporizer for flower and Kandy vape pens for concentrates. Do you use cannabis most days?” Lynn asks.

  “Yes. You?”

  “Totally.”

  My laughter marries hers and we share one of those moments, forever tattooed in our memories.

  We finish the appetizers, our entrees arrive.

  “What strain do you want?” I ask again before biting into a meatless taco.

  “Maybe we don’t have to order anything. What do you have at home?”

  “I have an ounce of OG Kush. A few grams of Grand Daddy Purple and ACDC. No true sativa strains other than some joints.”

  “You’re an indica-leaning guy. Umm, I could do a Lemon Haze or Super Silver Haze. I’d also be down for Sour Tangie or Lamb’s Bread. Oooh, Island Sweet Skunk would be divine.”

  The delight on her face as she lists strains is priceless. I stop eating to scroll the dispensary menu.

  “Done. Island Sweet Skunk will be waiting for us when we get back to my place.”

  “So awesome. Thank you, Nick.”

  “Any time.”

  “What do you think of the food?” Lynn asks.

  “It’s excellent. Very fresh. Surprisingly flavorful. It’d be even better with some carne asada on top.”

  Lynn laughs. “I totally understand. I ate meat for thirty-two years. Interestingly, before going vegan I wasn’t a fan of Mexican food.”

  “What?! Not a fan of Mexican food? You’re an L.A. girl. You went to USC. The taqueria on Fig and 23rd is boss. When my brother was at SC, I think he ate there every night,” I say teasingly, finishing my wine.

  “And while everyone was eating there, I was eating everything else,” Lynn says without self-deprecation.

  Another silence falls over the table, the live mariachi band playing inside the main dining room trills in the background. I appreciate she doesn’t need to fill the space with conversation. It helps me relax. However, there is still so much more I want to know.

  “Are you reading anything right no
w?” I ask.

  “When I’m working on a manuscript, I try not to read fiction. So, my tablet is stacked with nonfiction. Right now, I’m reading a book on crystals, ‘Finding Ultra’ by Rich Roll, and Carrie Brownstein’s autobiography, ‘Hunger Makes Me a Modern Girl.’ What are you reading that kept you up late last night?”

  “You. I downloaded ‘Lowlight.’ I’ve never read an entire book in one sitting. I kept telling myself ‘just one more chapter.’ Before I knew it, I had finished the book. It was really great, Lynn,” I reveal with sincerity.

  “I love the high of a good read. Thank you, Nick. I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”

  “I bet you get this question all the time, but how did you come up with the story?”

  “I do get that question a lot. Ah… I live in my imagination and do a lot of research. I also worked in tech for seven years.”

  “Is that why you moved to San Francisco?”

  “Yes and no. I received the job offer from Google, so that’s what ultimately led to me making the move. But I needed a change. I was living in Venice Beach with Brit at the time and doing contract technical writing gigs for tech companies and while I enjoyed the work, I was restless.”

  “Technical writing?”

  “Writing information for the right reader. So, digital products and app instructions, reference and maintenance manuals, training materials. Some writers think it’s boring, but I appreciate any time I can put words, thoughts, and data on a page with the reader’s interest in mind.” Lynn pauses. “I never talk about why I love writing. I talk about the story or my process, but never the origins of my need to turn words into ideas. Thank you for letting me share, Nick.”

  Lynn averts her eyes and takes a sip of wine.

  “No, thank you. It helps me understand you. When did you start writing books?”

  “After grad school. So, five years ago. As I mentioned earlier, I self-published my first eleven titles. I got a book deal and have released three books with my publisher. Another is scheduled for December.”

  Damn, fifteen books in five years. I’m kind of amazed she shows up in L.A. every month, while still being so productive.