Too bad the real thing isn’t an option.
I haven’t dated much recently. Being too focused on school, too distracted by trying to make ends meet, and too selective about partners has left me alone more nights than I’d like to admit. So I’m glad my new gig has the potential to make those lonely nights a lot more ‘fun’.
I pull into the lot of the Grand Hotel, driving down a few aisles before I can find a parking spot. There are a lot more cars here than I expected, which makes a spike of nerves shoot through my gut. Sales isn’t my best skill, but like Kara said, the promise of dead Franklins is enough to get me pumped for this. “Twelve gift boxes and that bonus is yours, Samantha. You can do this.”
I’m not crazy for talking to myself. It’s a valid self-pep-talk method that’s recommended by many professionals.
Right as I’m about to step out, my phone rings. I’d ignore it, but I want to make sure it’s not Jaxx with some last-minute instructions, so I dig it out of my purse.
Mom.
Shit. I have to answer.
“Hey, Mom, I’m running into a . . . uh, meeting. Everything okay?” I spit out quickly. I don’t know why I don’t tell Mom about my Bedroom Heaven party. She’s been accepting of my plans to become an intimacy therapist, but this feels different.
I’m selling cocks, but don’t worry, it’s totally for the greater good!
Yeah, that conversation isn’t happening right now.
“And hello to you too, honey,” she replies dryly. “I won’t keep you, but I wanted to see if you’d help keep an eye on Olivia tonight?”
Olivia is my younger sister. At sixteen, she doesn’t need a babysitter. Hell, she is one. But when left to her own devices, she tends to rebel more than she should, especially against Mom’s ridiculously strict rules like no drugs, drinking, or sneaking out. Actually, I agree on the first two, but the last is negotiable. Sometimes. But Mom’s wildly invasive ideas like ‘tell me where you’re going and who you’re with’ send Olivia off the deep end into super-sized, attitude-filled tirades that stress us all out.
“Uhm, I’ll be out most of the night,” I answer, glancing at the hotel and then the dashboard clock. I really need to get inside.
“That’s fine. Just be available if she needs rescue.” Under her breath, Mom sarcastically adds, “Or bail money.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have a . . . I mean, I’ve got . . .” I swear, she sounds like a giggly schoolgirl, unsure of what to say, which is nothing like my mother. Susan Redding speaks her mind, whether you want to hear it or not, runs her family like a well-oiled machine, and works her ass off. I’m proud to say that she passed those traits on to me in spades.
Finally, she sighs and admits, “I’m going on a date. An overnight one.”
“Mom!” I shriek in surprise. “With whom?”
My parents divorced years ago, and I’ve encouraged her to dip her toes into the dating world again. But though the twenty-something pool is full of unwashed, unmotivated frat boys, the over-forty pool is somehow even worse, with men who want to be worshiped by young, impressionable women they can control or who are cheating on their wives, which is what Dad did. Though he did end up marrying his mistress, who’s only a few years older than me.
Mom stood by us, though, helping me get to college when Dad said he couldn’t afford it because he was buying a new place, and taking care of Olivia even when, filled with hurt and anger, she told Mom that Dad wouldn’t have left if she’d tried harder to make him happy. That led to a lot of sisterly conversations where I told her that she needed to grow the hell up and quit blaming Mom for Dad’s failures.
“A man I’ve been seeing for a bit now. His name’s Marvin, and he’s a day trader. His wife passed away several years ago, and he’s been focused on raising his son, who’s seventeen now. He understands some of the difficulties I’ve had with Olivia, and we just click. He makes me laugh and feel hopeful.”
Mom sounds happier than I’ve heard her in ages, and I have to look up at the headliner of my car and release a slow breath to fight back tears.
“Mom! I’m so happy for you, but do we need to have the sex talk again?” I tease. “It’s not all free love like when you were young. Remember, ‘Safe, Sane, and Consensual’ is the catchphrase now.”
She scoffs. “I’m not that old, Samantha. I wasn’t even born in the sixties for the free love days. And I’m the one who taught you about condoms, STIs, and what to watch for. Speaking of, are you testing regularly?”
Errrrk! I pump the brakes on this whole conversation. “Nope, not discussing my sex life with you. Not now, not ever.”
I can almost hear her smile at having redirected our talk away from her own date and tonight’s activities. “Okay, but I’m here if you need me.”
“Thanks. You too, Mom. And don’t worry, I’ve got Olivia tonight so you can get your freak on with Maaaarvin,” I drawl out theatrically. “Though I’m not sure you can moan that name in a sexy way. You might need a nickname for him.”
“I’ve got one, but you’d be surprised how sexy hearing your name from your lover’s lips can be, no matter what it is,” she says wisely. And mature soon-to-be therapist that I am, I stick my tongue out, gagging silently at the idea of my mother saying the words ‘lover’s lips’. “I won’t keep you, though. I know you said you have a meeting, and I need to head inside. I’m already at Marvin’s. He’s making us dinner.”
“Have fun and behave yourself.”
We hang up, and quick as I can, I text Olivia, knowing that calling her won’t do any good. She doesn’t answer her phone. Ever. But she’ll text or SnapChat back.
Hey, girl! Mom says she’s going on a date and asked me to check in on you. For her sanity and your safety (because I will kill you), please behave. Need anything?
Two seconds later, I get back an eyeroll emoji. I hope that doesn’t mean she’s up to no good, but I’ve got to trust her. Plus, she knows I’m only half-kidding about killing her if she does do something stupid or dangerous.
Maybe we can hang out tomorrow?
When she sends back a pancakes emoji, I breathe a sigh of relief. If she’s thinking about brunch, she can’t be up to anything too bad, right? I heart her emoji and then send Jaxx a short message to let her know I’m here and on my way inside before shoving my phone back into my purse.
I was already late, but now I’m late.
I grab the pink bag full of loose products from my backseat, knowing I’ll have to make another trip for the gift boxes, and click-clack across the parking lot in my heels as fast as I can.
Inside, the lobby is elegant and grand, apt for the hotel’s name. At the front desk, the receptionist is typing furiously on her phone—her personal one, not the hotel’s—and doesn’t look up at my approach.
“Excuse me?” I wait for her to respond or at least look up from her phone, but when she continues typing, I clear my throat. “Excuse me,” I repeat a bit louder. She glances up, one brow arched as if I’m the one being rude. “Could you tell me where the Bedroom Heaven party is?” I ask quietly, not wanting to announce to the bustling lobby of people that I’m here for the sex toy convention.