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“I want you to help me have an orgasm,” I said, trying to sound confident and unconcerned, like this was all just everyday stuff for me, like this was just work. Same thing as needing help running my lines, right? Totally the same. “Research not going well?” asked Kallum. There wasn’t any judgment in his tone, only a little bit of ruefulness, like he was rueful for me. Like he wanted it to be going well for me.
“That feels so good,” I whispered, looking at him, and I didn’t think I’d ever seen his face look so tormented, even in the angsty music videos for his INK ballads. “I know, baby,” he said. “I know.” Why had I bothered doing anything else with this? Having the vibrator here was fucking incredible, and I couldn’t sit still, it felt so good. I was arching and moving and Kallum watched my face as he added a second finger. “Fuck,” I managed, and he gave me a devasting smile. “That word sounds good coming from you, Winnie Baker. Why don’t you try turning the toy up?”
It smelled like warm bread and soap, like Kallum.
So yeah, I slept hard. And dreamed of Winnie. I dreamed of all the things I wanted to do to her and even of the things I wanted her to do with me. And I dreamed I was the kind of guy who could take Winnie Baker on a date. I dreamed that she had a toothbrush at my house or her own drawer in my bedroom full of sweatpants and sports bras and the kind of underwear I could tear in two.
“Kallum Lieberman, you should be one to talk. My husband would never. You on the other hand . . . you . . . you . . . HOMEWRECKER!” My jaw dropped as I sprung to my feet, meeting my sister’s energy. “What are you talking about? I don’t even have a home to wreck!” “You fuckface!” I swear to God, if ever a woman could smack someone on the side of the head through FaceTime, it was my sister.
“She said, ‘I slept with Kallum Lieberman.’ And then she tore that fat honking diamond off her finger and put it in the hand of the most sad, stunned man I’d ever seen in my life before running out into traffic and getting hit by a bus.” I froze. “Oh my God. No. Is she okay?” She shrugged. “That last part was a lie, but she did steal some random girl’s Uber.”
“Of course it’s not their fault, you pumpkin head. But you can’t just go around Kansas City swinging your dick around like King Kong.” “Don’t talk about my son like that.” “Can you please for once in your life take something seriously?” “I take pizza seriously,”
Tell her you’re sorry and that you’re done sleeping your way through every Jewish bridal party in town.” “It wasn’t just Jewish bridesmaids,” I clarified. “There were a few Catholic and Hindu weddings in the mix too. Oh, and then there was that Unitarian wedding out in Lawrence.”
Do either of you have a phone on you?” she asked. “You can just call down if you need a break or anything. I can get a walkie too.” Winnie patted the pockets of her very tiny red velvet skirt. “I couldn’t fit it in my pockets.” “I’ve got mine,” I said, digging into the very ample pockets of my jeans. Gretchen nodded with a sigh. “The fucking patriarchy,”
“Luca, can we do something about getting Winnie some pockets on her other costumes?” He sniffed. “I’ll see what miracles I can work. In the meantime, Winnie, I’m so sorry to say this, but I’ll need your puffer.” “Right,” Winnie said as she shed the floor length puffer coat she wore between scenes to keep warm. Underneath, all that was left were her hunter-green tights, the red velvet mini skirt, and a short white fur coat that looked about as warm as the fancy but thin throw blankets Tamara had on display in her house. (She had a secret stash of real blankets that actually did the job of
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“Is this okay?” I asked. She smiled with a nod as she let her shoulder lean into my side. “You’re like a radiator.” “Or a pizza oven,” I supplied.
“This thing is a little sketchy,” I said to Winnie. “It’s not nearly as bad as this Fourth of July movie I did one time. I played a small-town girl who was supposed to climb down a Ferris wheel to stop the hero from leaving town forever. The hero, by the way, was the CEO of a corporate sno-cone chain that was stamping out all the mom-and-pop sno-cone stands.” “That was a good one,” I said. “I was really sweating it when you climbed down the side of the Ferris wheel, but Nolan swore you had a body double.” “No, sir. I do all my own stunts—or as many as they’ll let me do. To be fair, I was
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I could practically hear her teeth chattering. Some Tarzan-like urge inside of my brain said, MUST KEEP WINNIE WARM. I slithered out of the fleece-lined puffer jacket I wore and held it out for her. “Here,” I said. “Take this.” “What about you?” she asked. “I’m a pizza oven, baby.”
“I don’t know how else to say this to make you understand, so I’m just going to be perfectly blunt here. Last night was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, and I’ve seen . . . just about everything, Winnie Baker.” “But I didn’t . . . You didn’t—” “Oh,” I said with a rueful smile. “I did. Back in my room.” She tried not to smile. “Good.” “I don’t think you understand what seeing you watch my sex tape did for my ego. My head can barely fit through the door at the inn.”
“I just—I’ve never watched porn before. And you’re the only person I know with a—a sex tape. So it felt somehow safe for my first experience with pornographic material to be with someone I knew. And I thought . . .” She paused to clear her throat. “I just thought that if it was you who turned me on that maybe I could use that in our scenes.” My pride swelled so much I had to stop myself from puffing my chest out. “I’m honored,” I said. “Relieved, in fact, that my sex tape is finally being used for good.”
“And it has been weirdly good for business at Slice, Slice, Baby. Which is nice, because I wasn’t even the one who leaked it. Reagan, the bridesmaid, drunkenly put it online to get back at her fiancé for cheating on her.” She gasped. “Oh my gosh, that’s awful. I—I assumed it was a PR stunt. You had no idea?” I shook my head. “It’s okay. I wish she’d talked to me first, of course. And she apologized profusely. If I’m being honest, I think she’s single-handedly funded the payroll at my Overland Park location with the amount of guilt-trip pizza she’s ordered. And we split the licensing deal,
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Kallum, who’d been about to walk into the inn, turned on his heel. When he saw me, he immediately trotted over. The corners of his mouth pressed in, like he wanted to smile, but also was trying to be cool about how much he wanted to smile, and that made me want to smile.
Be a brave little toaster, Winnie.
“A strip club?” And then I heard so much of my old self in that question, so much of my old fears and judgments, and I wanted to put myself in a time-out corner with no snacks.
The North Pole was what would happen if a straight teenage boy were put in charge of Christmas.
But also there were so many boobs. Like. So many.
It was more boobs than I’d ever seen in one place—other than that time on a mission trip when four of us had to shower at once in the converted motel they used to house Habitat for Humanity volunteers. And that wasn’t even getting into what was going on down below, which seemed to be the finest iridescent thongs that money could buy. In addition to the boobs, there was a nacho cheese machine behind the bar, lots of domestic beer, and a box of Fireball on every table. That’s right: a box. With a little spigot. Like wine.
Pearl was giving a soliloquy about finding poetic inspiration in sticky floors and bright yellow cheese,
“I can’t believe you’re buying into this white-picket-fence bullshit,” Jack said, eyes still on his phone. “Marriage is a sham. He’ll dump you and then try to give your dog a new father and then all you’ll be is a bitter divorcé.” “Joke’s on you,” Luca said with a sniff. “Bitter divorcé is the brand I’ve been cultivating for years.”
Okay, I was maybe not doing so okay. I was overwhelmed—and maybe not just by the ambient sex or how casual everyone seemed around it all, but by how much I liked it. We came here like this place was an X-rated Topgolf, a place just to hang out and have fun, but right now, I was having a little more than a good Topgolf-y kind of night. By the time Comet took the stage and began giving us teasing little glimpses of herself, I was wet enough to slide right off my chair. And while I’d slowly, shyly, been wondering over the last two years if the reason I’d always called myself straight was because
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“And you want to know my favorite thing about a private room?” “Yes,” I said. My voice had gone quiet. Distantly, I could hear the music from the rest of the club, and a lone horn from a truck somewhere on the highway. “Attention,” he said softly. “No other patrons, no other friends. Just you. The sole focus of someone’s attention.” His words dragged over me like slow, wet kisses, and I was trembling. “And what does attention look like? In a private room?” He turned to face me, and even though it was nearly dark in here, I could see the wicked grin spreading across his face. “Are you asking me
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he was possibly the least self-conscious person I’d ever met. Everything he did, he did with that same earnest, easy attitude, and I’d never met someone who was both wholehearted and also absolutely relaxed about it too. Like it didn’t matter if some blocking wasn’t working or if we had to do another take or if a joke fell flat. He would just shrug and grin and then try again.
He dropped the belt and unzipped his jeans. And even though it was regular old boxer briefs underneath—patterned with pizza slices to boot—it was still like a punch to the gut to see his thighs and hips with nothing but the thin cotton between his skin and my gaze.
Michael had only done this a handful of times, and every time had been unsatisfying and short, and then when I wouldn’t react the way he wanted, he would tell me that it was okay that I didn’t like it and stop. Meanwhile, Kallum was eating me as if he’d snarl and snap like a trapped animal if someone tried to pull him away.
and when he looked up at me, I finally knew what he meant by attention. I was the only person in the world for him right now. Just as he was for me.
even my betrothed, the Peppermint Stick, couldn’t hold a candle to this. And Kallum kept eating me through it all, these gorgeous noises rumbling from his throat, like my climax was his favorite meal and he would happily eat it forever.
“I showed you mine,” she said cutely. “You show me yours.” “We use our big-girl words,” I told her even though I was pretty sure the sight of her just looking at my naked erection would bring me to the finish line. She braced herself on the arms of the throne and kicked off one of her flats before dragging her toe up the inside of my thigh, over my hungry dick, and up the trail of hair leading to my chest. With a little bit of bossiness in her tone, she said, “Show me your cock, Kallum Lieberman.” And I just sat there, frozen in place. Winnie—sweet, wholesome, darling Winnie—was filthy. And
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She dropped her foot and leaned forward. “Did I say it right? Did I sound weird? How does everyone else sound so sexy when they say things like that out loud? Saying it in my head is getting easier, but—” I held a finger up to her lips as I stood to my feet. With my free hand, I guided her fingers to the waistband of my boxer briefs. “You can see it all you want, baby.”
“Wow,” she whispered. “I’d seen it before—you know, because of the sex tape thing, but it’s just wow. I’ve only ever seen one other penis in real life, but I feel like I can say with certainty that you have a very good penis.” I couldn’t stop myself from glowing with pride. “Can you put that on a certificate or something so I can put it on my fridge? I never did make honor roll.”
Watching her fall in love with pleasure was turning out to be one of the greatest delights of my life. It was like when someone took a bite of my pizza for the first time, and they had a giddy, blissed-out expression on their face. Except witnessing Winnie compete in the Orgasm Olympics was way better than any slice of pizza.
“Well, for the sake of research, my body is a hump-friendly zone.” “Kallum?” she asked as we stopped at a crosswalk near the production office. “Thank you.” “For letting you jack me off in the back of a strip club? Uh, not a problem.” She punched my arm gently. “Well, for that, yes. But also for being so nice and not teasing me for all the things I don’t know . . . and for just letting this be fun. I didn’t know this could be fun. I didn’t know what I was missing.” I threw an arm around her shoulder, and for some reason it felt friendlier than I wanted anything between us to ever feel. “It’s
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“Kallum, I gotta take this call. It’s my gyno. He and my dermatologist just broke up and I keep trying to tell him that I can’t choose him over her. Anyone can stick a speculum up your vagina and poke around like an orchestra conductor, but dermatology? Now, that is an art form.”
Topher: The pizza biz is good. I hired a new delivery driver for the Lawrence location. Me: Is it that guy I saw you making eyes at who asked for an application the week before I left? Topher: He was highly qualified. Topher: And highly hot. Topher: But I’m keeping it profesh. I swear. Me: Who am I to stand in the way of young coworkers in love? Topher: Uh, my boss? Me: Right.
She sent back a picture of Dad asleep in his recliner with a half-eaten deli sandwich on his chest.
“How do you raise one eyebrow like that?” I called after him. “I’ve never been able to do that without looking like I have to take a shit.” “Maybe I do,” he said over his shoulder. “Did he just make taking a shit sound cool and mysterious?” I asked Winnie. “I’m pretty sure he did,” she confirmed before pinching my ass. “Let’s go make some fake-sex movie magic.”
Winnie was the kind of girl I would risk it all for. But I’d never been the kind of guy that girls felt that way about. I was the funny one. The sweet one. I was the one before The One. Especially if you considered my string of bridesmaids. And that had been fine—as much as I’d wanted to find true love every time I tumbled into bed with someone I barely knew, I also didn’t begrudge them for using me as their soul-mate lucky charm. A stepping-stone to their true love. But I couldn’t handle the heartbreak of being a stepping-stone for Winnie.
Oh shit. My line. I ran over to the passenger door and held it open. “Your chariot, milady.” Then Winnie froze. Her shy smile dropped. Her shoulders tensed, and the Winnie I’d come to know since our time on set slunk back into her shell. And the sight of it made me want to tear a damn hole in the sky just for her. “Michael,” she said.
As we walked away from the square toward Caroler’s Creek, a narrow stream that ran through the north end of town, he took my hand. Just reached out and wrapped his fingers around it, like it was still his hand to take. It took me a minute to listen to what my body was telling my brain, and then another minute for my brain to remember that I didn’t have to hold his hand if I didn’t want to. Which I didn’t! We’d been separated for a year and a half! We’d been officially divorced for two months! What the heck!
His displeasure had always been a subtle thing—he’d never yelled, never touched me in anger. But then again, he didn’t have to. One heavy sigh, one slow look into the middle distance, and I would be desperate to make him happy again.
“And Kallum Lieberman?” “Yeah?” “If you were even a little bit bi, I’d have taken you off the market a long time ago.” “Don’t tell Bee,” I said with a grunting laugh. “Oh, she’d be so into it,” he said. “In fact, let’s just count that as an open invitation. Gotta run. Love you, pizza boy.” “Love you back.”
When I woke up the next morning, three things immediately became apparent: I should have taken the ibuprofen. I was too fucking old to sleep on a love seat. Or really anything that wasn’t a bed. I forgot what number 3 was.
I needed coffee. And bacon. That was how you survived a hangover in your thirties. Well, really, it was cold pizza, but I didn’t think that’d be on the continental breakfast menu downstairs.
But the caveman in my brain only wanted Winnie. And cold pizza.
“Thanks for defending my honor back there,” I told her once she’d had a little bit of caffeine. “Well, I can’t have Santa walking around like he just got in a donnybrook.” “Did you just say the word donnybrook like a 1950s gangster?” I asked.
“It’s better than the meditation app she had me on last year. I got so enraged by the calming Englishman telling me to pretend I was in a meadow that I purposefully dropped my phone in our pool.” “But phones are basically waterproof now,” I told her. “Well, I know that now.” She looked up over her mug of coffee. “But Pearl didn’t and still doesn’t.”
