Four hours, five piecrusts, and six orgasms later, I packed the Brit into his new car and sent him to his interview. Then I headed to Holly’s to pick her up. We were going to our favorite little sushi restaurant, tucked away up in the hills on Beverly Glen, for a girls’ night. When we arrived, we ordered dirty martinis and spicy tuna rolls, and told our waiter to keep them both coming.
We toasted each other, sipped, and sighed at the same time. Nothing was as good as a dirty martini, extra dirty.
“So all is well with the Brit, I take it?” she asked, sucking on an edamame.
“Things are fantastic with the Brit. So glad we worked our shit out,” I said, matching her suck for suck.
“You mean you worked your shit out.” She snorted into her cocktail.
“Yes, exactly.” I smiled at her. “I mean, I still have plenty of shit to work on . . .”
“Ya think, Little Miss Meltdown?” she interrupted, which I stopped by tossing a soybean at her head.
“I do have plenty of shit to work on. Thank you. But I feel better about it than I have in a long time. Even though my way of coping was a little too dramatic even for my taste, I think coming clean with Jack about it all was the best thing that could have happened to us. We talk a lot more now, about all kinds of things. It’s good for us.”
“Imagine, talking in a relationship. We are so evolved.” She rolled her eyes, and I reared back to throw another bean when she kicked me under table.
“Look at who’s evolved now!” I laughed. “So now that I have my shit worked out, when are we gonna see about getting you a man, huh?” I kicked her back.
“I’m fine. Don’t play matchmaker with me,” she warned, gulping down her cocktail and waving at the waiter, indicating we were ready for a second round.
“I just think it’s a shame that such a fine-looking piece of ass is going to waste. You need to get some, girl!” I sipped my drink, trying to tease out the olive.
She blushed a little, then tried to distract me by pointing out Randy Quaid over in the corner.
“Don’t go all Quaid on me. What’s up with the blush, please, Ms. Holly?” I prodded, setting my drink down with a flourish.
“What? I’m not blushing. It’s the spicy tuna roll,” she said, looking at the table.
“Idiot, they haven’t brought the tuna roll yet. Are you—wait, are you seeing someone?”
The blush deepened. She was now trying to get Randy Quaid’s attention.
“Don’t you dare try to bring Cousin Eddie over here while I’m interrogating you. Are you seeing someone? Fuck me, you are! Who are you seeing?” I asked, pointing a soybean at her.
“Ya know, you point food at people a lot. Just sayin’. And I’m not seeing anyone, okay?”
I sat back and looked at her. “You’ve been with a man, haven’t you?” I asked, dissolving into laughter.
She glared at me and sucked her soybean, hard.
“Oh man, who are you fucking?” I laughed harder, almost choking on a pimento.
“Okay, look, I’m not fucking anyone. There’s someone I’ve . . . well . . . who I’ve fucked a few times, but it’s nothing. I have needs from time to time, by God, so shut it!” she huffed, and sat back in her seat.
“Hey, girl, I get it. I’m glad for you. I just can’t believe you didn’t tell me. Why wouldn’t you tell me? Unless . . . wait a minute . . . do I know him?” I asked, eyes wide.
She slunk down in her chair and hid her face behind her hands.
“Does this man happen to have killer blue eyes and a very sweet disposition?” I asked, arching my eyebrow.
She nodded, still covering her face with her hands.
“And does he happen to have abs you could grate cheese on?”
She nodded again.
“I knew it! I knew it when I saw you two at the premiere. You’ve been schtupping Lane, haven’t you?” I screeched, and she finally lowered her hands.
“Grace, shut up,” she hissed.
The waiter brought over our second round.
“Lane, Lane, Lane. Well, I’m impressed. Well done, sister.” I nodded and raised my new glass.
“You think it’s okay?” she asked, looking guilty.
“Do you think it’s okay?” I asked right back.
“It’s more than okay. It’s amazing,” she said, smiling big.
I clinked my glass to hers. “Here’s to the hottest thirty-four-year-olds in this city, getting it on with two of the hottest young actors! Hell yes!”
She grinned back at me. “Actually, Grace, you’re thirty-three. I’m thirty-four,” she corrected.
“Oh, I know. I just wanted to make you say it.” She threw her napkin at me.
Over the next few hours she brought me up to speed on what had transpired between her and Lane. Apparently when she first met with him (right after I left for New York), there were definite sparks flying. However, she’d been concerned about representing two actors in the same film, particularly one who was branded so heavily. But she enjoyed their meeting so much that when he asked her if she wanted to grab a drink later, she said yes. She would never date a client, but since they’d agreed that her representing him wasn’t a viable option, she felt okay about it.
Later that evening, she felt more than okay about it. She confided that it was the most powerfully raunchy, explosive night of amazing sex she’d ever had. But she quickly concluded that was all it was, and she’d tried to pretend nothing had happened. Poor Lane was lost in the signals and tried for weeks to get her to go out with him again. She continually refused, which explained the tension I’d noticed at the premiere. Finally, he cornered her after an event and she came clean.
That night, they struck a sort of sex-only accord—it wasn’t as if Lane was looking for a soul mate—and they’d been getting it on every so often ever since. I was happy for Holly, as she’d needed to get laid for such a long time, and by someone who knew what he was doing. And since neither was interested in pursuing anything beyond the physical, it seemed to work for them.
She was concerned about anything being leaked to the press about this arrangement, so she was reluctant to tell even me. I, of course, assured her I wouldn’t tell a soul—especially since I was one of the few who could empathize with her predicament.
We stayed at the restaurant long enough so I was okay to drive, then I dropped off the slut and headed back down the mountain toward my canyon.
The Porsche wasn’t there when I got home, so as I pulled in I made sure to leave him enough room in the driveway. I let myself in and headed toward the kitchen. I wasn’t quite ready for bed, so I poured myself a glass of red and slipped out to the patio. I sank into one of the comfy deck chairs and turned on the stereo. I’d taken a page from Holly’s house when I remodeled and had speakers installed throughout. I selected my “quiet sexy times” playlist on my iPod and settled in. The canyon was so still at night, even though mine was a well-traveled street.
I smelled the honeysuckle and lemons and relaxed into the solitude. Did I miss the hustle and bustle of New York? Eh, a little. But not enough to ever give this up. I sat quietly in the dark, in the quiet, in the wonderful. I soaked in the moon and the few strong stars that punctured through despite the city lights close by. I absently wondered why my cheeks hurt until I realized I’d been smiling for hours. And when I heard Jack’s new car purr softly into the driveway, the smile grew bigger.
I tracked him through the house, hearing the jingle of his keys on the table inside the front door, the lock clicking closed for the night, the slip of the leather jacket as it left his shoulders, and the soft slap of his shoes on the floor.
Comfort.
He spied the open door and came to stand in the doorway, squinting into the darkness. “Gracie?” he asked quietly.
“Hey,” I answered, stretching in the chair as he walked toward me.
“Hey, yourself,” he said, settling on the ottoman in front of me. I placed my feet in his lap, and he took off my flip-flops without thought. He began to rub my feet, and my toes curled.
“How was the interview?” I asked.
He smiled a knowing grin. “It was good. Holly’s going to kill me, though.”
“No filter?” I asked, arching my eyebrow.
“No filter,” he confirmed, winking at me like the devil himself.
“Good party?” I asked, leaning up a little, but keeping my feet in his lap.
“Eh, it was fine. These L.A. parties are just not my thing, but it was pretty cool, I guess. How was dinner with Holly?”
“It was fun. I know a secret . . .” I said in a teasing voice, offering my glass of wine to him.
He took a large swallow and handed it back. “About Holly? A secret? Is it that she and Lane are having the sex?”
“You knew? And you didn’t tell me?” I cried, slapping him lightly. He increased the pressure on my feet and began to work his way up my calves. His long fingers slipped underneath my legs, rubbing circles and kneading my muscles.
“I knew, but it wasn’t my secret to tell,” he replied, lowering his gaze and looking at me from beneath his lashes. I could feel my heartbeat speed up.
“Well, she seems to be enjoying herself,” I said, rubbing my legs together slightly as he continued his massage, working his hands now to the backs of my knees. My skin tingled and warmed under his fingers.
“I should think so. Lane says they’re having quite a good time. He wonders why we didn’t start dating older women years ago.”
His hands slipped higher on my legs. His palms rubbed in between my knees, parting them slightly. He wrapped his hands under my thighs and suddenly pulled me closer to him, bringing me to the edge of the chair.
“We love taking young pups and training them. You’re so much more moldable when you’re young, ripe for the picking. And the recovery time is reason alone . . .” I teased back, trying not to moan as he pushed my legs open farther.
“Recovery time, you say?” He laughed, his eyes staying on mine as he pushed my skirt up higher, his hands now inches away from my panties. He continued to watch me as he scooped underneath me and pulled me into full recline in the chair. With precision, he flipped my skirt up and removed my panties slowly. His breath quickened as he brushed against me and felt how he had already affected me, how he always affected me. My body never, ever failed to respond to him.
“Jack,” I breathed, opening my legs to him and arching my back in invitation. He grinned that half grin that was mine alone and, without another word, stood and unzipped his jeans. The sight of him bringing himself forward from his boxers was insanely stimulating. I leaned forward and pushed him back down on the ottoman. I imagined he’d been mentally fucking me since I heard his car pull into the driveway. He sighed heavily at the sight of me, and I peeled off my shirt and straddled him, skirt still on, but now bare beneath.
There was no sound except the crickets, the occasional car, the music, and our breathing as I sank down onto him, taking him inside me. No matter how many times this happened, it never failed to stop my breath as I felt him within me, perfectly. We both exhaled as I rose up, my feet flat against the flagstone, controlling this completely. I lifted, then lowered again, increasing the sweet friction between us. His hips drove into me, uniquely positioning him to hit that spot, both inside and out, every time I brought myself down onto him. His mouth found mine, our kisses frantic as I tasted the wine on his tongue. He unclasped my bra, his hands and mouth each finding one breast and addressing them equally. He rained kisses on my skin as my hands clung tightly to his shoulders.
“You feel amazing . . . how can you feel this good . . . every . . . single . . . time . . . God . . .” I struggled to speak, continuing to maneuver myself above him, legs shaking in exertion as I gave him everything I had.
He watched me move above him, teeth biting his lower lip as he groaned and closed his eyes at my words. I breathed in his ear, nibbling on his earlobe and kissing the space just below, the way I knew drove him crazy.
“I love feeling you around me, Grace. So warm . . . so fucking warm . . .” He moaned, his hips increasing speed and pressure, and I could feel myself tightening, my stomach clenching, toes curling, hands fisting, then fingers turning into little daggers as I dug into his back.
“So good . . . please . . . please . . . please . . .” I cried, and I screamed his name as I shook and shivered on top of him. He drove into me, holding me tightly against him, grabbing my legs to push deeper into me. I let him have me. He made me come a second time, the first rolling right into the next as he burst into me, sinking against my chest and calling my name.
“Jesus, Grace.” He sighed, and I cradled his head, running my fingers through his hair and scratching his scalp. We stayed like this for a few moments, and then I laughed. Laughing in this position was a little uncomfortable, and so he lifted me easily, and as we replaced our clothing, he looked at me curiously.
“Why are you laughing, Crazy?”
“I was just thinking that if any paparazzi followed you home, this would be all over the world tomorrow.”
“Not funny,” he said, slapping me on the ass as I tried to put my panties back on.
“And that right there? With that shot they’d say you’re into rough sex, you deviant, you!” I laughed, dodging his next swat.
I ran toward the house and turned to see him pulling up his pants. “Now you look like you had a little solo love out there all alone. Poor lonely Brit,” I sang out, still laughing.
He turned to me, eyes twinkling. “What was it you said about recovery time, love?” he asked, striding toward me.
I laughed and ran into the house, with Jack right on my heels.
The next morning we had to get up and move. Jack had a photo shoot, and I still had quite a bit to get done for our dinner party the following night. Jack had invited Rebecca and Lane, and I was very interested to see how things would go down between Lane and Holly—although I wasn’t so sure about Rebecca.
Apparently she was still upset with me about what I did to Jack at the premiere. And frankly, I couldn’t blame her. I knew how close they were, and I knew how Holly would feel if someone did that to me, especially on such an important night. But if Jack and I could move past it, she was going to have to as well. I was glad she was coming to the house, and I was happy to have her to dinner. I hoped this could be the impetus for a new start for us. I was in Jack’s life to stay, as was she, so we needed to get past this.
Jack left early for his shoot, and I spent the day prepping for the party and wrapping all my presents. We’d be exchanging gifts as part of the festivities. I baked pies, peeled veggies, and made as much as I could in advance so I could enjoy the time with my friends and not be stuck in the kitchen all night. Before I knew it, it was almost 4:00 p.m., and I still hadn’t had a shower. I made my way to the bathroom, stripped down, and stood under the spray for almost a solid hour, pruning. I had something I wanted to ask the Brit, but I wasn’t sure how to present it . . .
Later that night, starved, we drove to Pink’s. I craved a hot dog for some reason, and nothing would satisfy like a Pink’s. There was no way Jack could get out of the car and stand in line without being recognized, so he pulled into a parking lot half a block away, and I gladly hopped out and stood in line. This was one of the first places I’d frequented when I moved to L.A. the first time, and I’d seen a celebrity on each and every visit. Everyone loved Pink’s.
After waiting for almost an hour and having a tiny fangirl moment when I saw Jim Carrey getting a dog, I took our treats (Mulholland Dog for him and Martha Stewart Dog for me) back to the car and we devoured them—top up, as we didn’t want to risk pictures. Paparazzi tended to circle Pink’s at night since one never knew who was going to show up. In between bites of the best hot dogs ever (they snap when you bite them), we laughed and joked and talked. He told me about the day’s photo shoot and then about the fans at his apartment when he’d gone by that afternoon.
“Even though that’s been my place for more than a year now, I’m ready to let it go,” he said. “Enough with the constant fangirls.”
I swallowed hard, thinking of what I’d been wanting to ask him.
“I mean, I’m headed back to London, and who knows where I’m going to be in January. Then I’m on location for the next film. I’ll never be here,” he continued, his voice trailing off.
I wiped the pickle juice off my fingers and turned to face him in the car. His eyes were serious. We each took a breath, then spoke at the same time.
“So, I was thinking—” we both said, then laughed.
“You first,” I said.
“No, you go.”
“Uh-uh, you,” I insisted.
“There ain’t no ladies in this car,” I said, accenting my statement with a loud burp.
He wrinkled his nose and shook his head in mock disgust. “Age before beauty, Grace,” he chided.
“Did you just call yourself beautiful and me old?”
“Yes, yes, I did.”
“Well, hell, I really can’t argue with that logic. Okay, I’ll have the balls to say it first. Why don’t you just move in with me?” I said quickly, not giving myself a chance to puss out.
He stared at me, then started to speak.
I shook a finger at him and pressed on, “Wait, let me say this. You travel so much, and who the hell knows what I’m going to be doing? When we’re in the same town, when’s the last time we spent a night apart?”
He thought for a second. “I can’t remember. Not since we started . . . well . . .”
“Fucking?” I asked, laughing.
“Yes, exactly. You’re so crude, love,” he said, smiling.
I knew how much he loved it when I was crude.
“So, it just makes sense, yes? Do you even like your place?” I asked.
“Not anymore. I mean, it was only ever just a place to sleep, never a home. And now with the paparazzi knowing where I live and all the fans surrounding the place, I suppose it does make sense . . . You sure about this, Crazy?” he asked, brushing my hair back with his fingertips.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I answered, kissing his fingers as they got closer to my lips.
“I can’t guarantee the press won’t figure this out. You ready for them to be camped outside your house?”
“What’s the difference? You’re there anyway. Who cares if you bring your shit over?” I smiled.
He sat back in his seat and ran his hands through his hair. He stared out the window, then looked back at me. His gaze was piercing.
“What are you thinking, George?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing—if I could move in with you.”
“Are we insane?” I asked him.
“Totally and completely,” he answered, leaning in to capture my lips with his own. His mouth was warm and sweet, tasting of relish and mustard, and I couldn’t get enough. We kissed slowly and romantically, the glow of Pink’s neon sign in the distance.
And when we went home and walked inside, it felt good. We slept wrapped around each other in our bed.