Just Lunch Read online

  Before reading ‘Just Lunch’, you might want to check out part 1, 'Coffee Date'

  About ‘Coffee Date’

  You can find out a lot about yourself during the course of a single day.

  On the anniversary of the most tragic event of his life, Randall “The Rocket” Reese must face down paparazzi outside his house, a big sister who won’t stay out of his personal life, and a coffee date with an “old classmate” from high school whom he barely remembers. His plan is to wallow in solitude, but Fate has plans of its own.

  About ‘Just Lunch’

  Randall “The Rocket” Reese is beginning to reclaim his life both professionally and personally, with a new outlook, and a new woman, Dani Erlinger, by his side.

  Rand and Dani are in a comfortable groove that suits them both, but an unexpected invitation ‘just for lunch’ and a calamitous weekend excursion has them questioning whether they’ve become much too comfortable, much too soon.

  JUST LUNCH

  Nia Forrester

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  Copyright © 2017 Stiletto Press, LLC

  Philadelphia, PA

  All rights reserved.

  ~1~

  He’s nervous. I can tell.

  I’m watching Rand onscreen and am just able to pick up the tic he has when he isn’t completely comfortable. He squints his right eye, just the tiniest bit.

  Sitting here at the Velvet Rooster, a local pub, I doubt anyone else can detect the nervousness, but I can. Because now, I am learning his facial expressions, his moods, and even his barely perceptible tics that give non-verbal cues about what he is thinking and feeling.

  Onscreen, he is wearing a periwinkle blue shirt beneath his sport jacket.

  Last night, around midnight, he called to ask me whether I thought he should wear a white shirt, or the blue one. I told him “blue, for sure” and that’s what he’s wearing. It’s a new experience, having a man consider my opinion about things like what he should wear.

  It is especially new to have a man like Rand consider me at all. But we’ve been, I guess you could call it “dating” for two months now, and that is among the most surprising of surprises—that Rand considers me. After signing a deal with ESPN to be a commentator, they asked whether he planned to relocate to Connecticut. And then he asked me what I thought about it, and clueless as I was, I said he should do whatever he thought best.

  It was only later, after he told them ‘no’, that I realized he was offering me an opening to tell him that I wanted him to stay exactly where he is, in our hometown. And it was only much later after that, that I realized maybe he actually might have welcomed the reassurance that where he lives matters to me.

  I had no idea, at first why he was asking. Because not only is Rand a new relationship, he is basically, the only adult relationship I have ever had.

  “I wish he was still out there though,” a man to my left says to his friend. “Damn shame to let all that talent go to waste.”

  “Yeah. If it was me, they’d have to carry my ass off the field. I wouldn’t go out like that …”

  They are talking about the fact that Rand abruptly retired from the game after his wife, Faith, was killed in an horrific car accident that almost killed his now-three-year-old son as well. Most people thought that after a period of grieving, he would return to the game. And his old team offered him that option—to come back for a year, to see how it worked out. But he chose not to.

  I was relieved, to be honest. Because he and I were just beginning something, or at least the possibility of something, and I was sure that if he left then, he would be gone for good. But he chose ESPN instead, because he wanted to be close to his son, Little Rocket, and be able to raise him without the relentless interruptions of the football season.

  So, now he’s become a television personality, and I think—though I’m probably biased—that he’s going to do as well at this as he did on the field.

  I am perched on a barstool in the pub, even though it is very early afternoon, because I noticed Rand’s face as I walked by the large window on my way to grab a hostess gift for another thing that I am desperately trying to figure out excuses not to go to at all. This misguided afternoon event is one my best friend Trudie’s brain-children—what they call a ‘toy party.’

  Except the toys are for adults.

  Apparently, her dental assistant sells ‘toys’ as a side-gig; and about once a month or so, she hosts a group of women who then get a demonstration of how to “self-pleasure” and a talk on how to teach your mate to be responsive to your sexual needs. When Trudie mentioned it, I didn’t want to sound smug by telling her that I think I’ve got that covered, because, after all, I’ve only been sexually-active for about twice the lifespan of a butterfly. And as much as I am enjoying, well, everything about sex with Rand, I can’t really say I have anything to compare it to. Still, I can’t imagine that he needs to be taught anything about how to be responsive to my already-considerable needs.

  So, I am traipsing across town to Trudie’s new place (we finally decided, just recently, to forge out on our own) to watch a bunch of grown women giggle and guffaw over dildos, eat chocolate-covered fruit, and guzzle pinot grigio.

  Stopping in at the pub gives me a chance to hear how people in town are responding to Rand’s reappearance as a public figure, after two years in virtual seclusion. And it gives me a chance to prepare for a party I would rather not go to.

  “So, what’s your take, Rocket?”

  I look up at the screen again at the sound of Rand’s co-host calling him by the moniker he earned for his incredible speed on the field.

  I watch as Rand takes a second, obviously considering the question. But I’ve missed whatever it was he was asked, since I was momentarily thinking about Trudie and her party.

  “I think … that people should act according to their conscience,” he says finally. “And real talk? A team that would expect me to do otherwise, isn’t a team that I personally, would want to be on.”

  Rand’s co-host looks visibly nonplussed. And for a few beats, there is a discernible silence.

  The two men who were next to me at the bar are settling up and preparing to leave. One of them laughs, and the other shakes his head.

  “Oh Lord, he done did it now,” he says.

  Before I can ask them what they’re talking about, and what I missed of the conversation, they are gone. And I can’t stick around to listen any longer because one glance at my watch tells me that if I don’t get going now, I’ll be late for Trudie’s stupid toy party.

  All the other women are already in fine form by the time I get there.

  The toys have been laid out on Trudie’s long, oval coffee table, and everyone is sitting around it, drinking from long-stemmed glasses of sparkly liquid, and fondling the merchandise. The “merchandise” is a long assembly line of dildos, vibrators, ticklers, clamps, and plugs. I can’t help it; lured by the sight of all those schlongs in pink and purple and lurid, inky black, I position myself next to Sandy, the dental hygienist who works for Trudie, and sells this stuff on the side. At first, I am reluctant to touch anything, until Sandy nudges me in the ribs.

  “Pick one up!” she says. “It ain’t like they’ve been used, or anything!”r />
  So, I reach for a blue iridescent dildo that is about ten inches long. It is incredibly soft, and soon I am running my hands over it, fascinated by its texture.

  “That’s it!” Trudie cackles from the other side of the coffee table.

  I can see by the brightness of her eyes that she’s had more than a few, and is well on her way to being what some old folks would call “in her cups.”

  Blushing, I put the dildo back on the table, and instead reach for a pair of nipple clamps. They are silver and joined by a chain between them, which makes them look like the cables you use to get a jump when your car battery is dead.

  “My sisters!”

  I drop the nipple clamps guiltily, like someone caught rifling through an older brother’s porn collection.

  A commanding voice draws our attention to one end of the table, and it is only then that I notice the one woman in the room who I do not know. She is sitting comfortably in lotus pose, while the rest of us are sprawled ungracefully.

  “I’m glad you’ve had an opportunity to look over the tools …”

  There are titters all around and she smiles at us all.

  “Because that’s all they are. Tools for us to realize our own sexual potential … to explore the possibilities for pleasure in this …” She gestures the length of her torso and then lets her hand hover at her crotch. “Our God-given vessel.”

  I struggle not to roll my eyes, and instead purse my lips to repress a smile.

  “For those of you to whom I have yet to be introduced, I am Cheyanne.”

  Figures she would have some kind of hippie name. Cheyanne has a halo of blonde hair in a springy afro, and her skin is pale almost to the point of albinism. Her eyes, though, are a dark penetrative brown, made even more so by the contrast with her complexion. She is wearing colors—yellow and olive-green—that only emphasize her almost unpigmented skin.

  “I am going to be your tour-guide in the art of self-pleasuring,” she announces. “And will demonstrate just how you can make sure you get yours. Every single time.”

  The women around the table give a chorus of ‘woot-woots’ and a couple of them give each other high-fives.

  Just then, my phone buzzes and I reach for my pocketbook, pulling it out, while Cheyanne begins to give us all the rundown of what she’s planning to instruct us on (clitoral stimulation, digital penetration for maximum pleasure, and how to locate our individualized erogenous zones).

  I look at my phone, and involuntarily smile.

  You watch the show?

  I type back a response: Some. U looked good, sounded great.

  You didn’t hear it?

  I wrinkle my brow. Didn’t hear what?

  Back tonight. Leaving now. Talk then.

  I hesitate a moment, type ‘ok’ and then return my attention to Cheyanne and the proceedings at hand.

  I sit through what has to be a forty-five-minute long demonstration, during which Cheyanne pulls out a model vagina that is disturbingly lifelike and pliable. She passes it around so we can each cop a feel. It even has a little tuft of wiry pubic hair. Once it’s made its way back to her, she peels it open like someone splitting a tangerine. With one digit inserted, she shows us the most commonly sensitive pressure points in the vaginal canal.

  “Sisters,” Cheyanne warns. “It isn’t the same for all of us. Some of us like anal stimulation. Some like clitoral. Some of us can orgasm like nobody’s business with the tweak of a nipple … So, please don’t take these as rules, but rather as guidelines …”

  As we watch, Cheyanne manipulates the latex model in various ways, carrying on an anatomy lesson as she does. I reach for the plate of chocolate-covered strawberries, nestled in between the plastic dicks, and pick up a large one by the stem. I am bored, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch Trudie watching me be bored. After a few moments, I stand and head into the kitchen where the wine is, planning to pour myself the largest glass I can responsibly consume, and still safely drive myself back home afterwards.

  Later, as we’re all leaving, Trudie accosts me at the door.

  “You got time to help me clean up?” she asks.

  I don’t dare say ‘no’. Since we decided to cut the cord and get our own separate places, she’s been a little weird with me, and I know it’s because we’re in a new landscape for our friendship—finally striking out on our own in more ways than one.

  I kept the old apartment, and Trudie bought this new townhouse, which is much nicer than anything I will be able to afford for a long, long time. But as a dentist, sharing a twelve-hundred-dollar a month place for forever, Trudie has stashed away quite a bit in savings. I, on the other hand, have not.

  My life coach practice is a case of feast-or-famine, and has been ever since I set it up. And if it wasn’t for the money my father left me, and the small supplement to my income from renting out our house, I would probably not have been able to afford living on my own anyway.

  “Sure, I can help,” I say to Trudie, putting down my pocketbook once again, and next to it, the bag with the vibrator I bought out of solidarity with the other women, and to placate Trudie who was watching closely to see whether I’d get anything.

  As I put my things aside, I force myself not to look at my watch and check the time. I know it takes Rand just over four hours to drive from Bristol, Connecticut, and I have been at Trudie’s for about five. I am calculating in my head whether he’s back, and whether he will have stopped over to Freya’s to see Little Rocket, or to pick him up.

  “That was fun,” I say, as Trudie shuts the door on the last of her departing guests.

  “Don’t even lie,” she snorts. “I could tell you were just suffering through the whole thing.”

  I laugh. “Well, you have to admit … it’s a little …”

  “A little what?” Trudie turns to look at me.

  I sigh inwardly. This is what it looks and sounds like when someone is itching to start a fight with you. But I am not in the mood.

  “Embarrassing,” I say, though the word that originally came to mind was something else.

  “Oh.” This mollifies Trudie a little. “Well, you just started having sex, so …”

  I don’t know for sure what’s implied after the word ‘so’ and I don’t ask.

  “The place looks nice,” I say, following her back to the living room. We begin gathering plates and glasses.

  “Yeah. I have to keep reminding myself I own it,” she says. “Makes me less bitter when I have to write that big check.”

  “I don’t know when I’m going to be in a position to get something,” I say. “So, count yourself lucky.”

  “You own a home already, remember?” Trudie says.

  “Yeah, but …”

  This is how it is with us lately—she complains about something and I remind her how much worse off I am comparatively, and then she throws something up to refute that claim. We are talking around what’s really going on.

  What’s really going on is that since I’ve been dating Rand, Trudie has been acting as though I won the lottery and left her back in the ‘hood. And I get it. I really do get it. Before I started seeing Rand, Trudie and I were out there together, like cave-dwellers, rubbing two sticks together in the gloomy and dark dating pool that is our hometown—close to, but not part of a major city—where the pickings are slim.

  And now, as far as she can see, since I’m dating the most eligible man in town, I’m no longer rubbing sticks together, but able to start my own damn forest fire with the flick of a switch. There’s some truth to that—Rand and I spend lots of time together and we start forest fires aplenty. But we are just ‘dating’ as far as I can tell. Whatever that even means. There’s been no talk of exclusivity or monogamy, or what we call each other or any of that mess, although I know Trudie might be imagining that we’re picking out china patterns.

  Simply sharing that information might defuse some of the unnecessary tension one would think. One would think. But I know Trudie way too
well. She would see that kind of explanation as me pitying her, and wanting to downplay my good fortune just to make her feel better about her life.

  “You didn’t have to buy anything, y’know?” she says.

  Now we are loading the dishwasher. It is shiny and new. I wish I had a dishwasher back in our old place. But I won’t say that because—again—Trudie would think I am ‘just saying that’.

  “I didn’t mind,” I say. “Always have to support sisters on their grind. Even if it is a corny side-hustle.”

  “It might be corny for some,” Trudie says, “but for others, it’s a much-needed service.”

  I stand upright and fold my arms. “Okay.” I exhale. “Just say it. Whatever it is, just say it, Trudie. I feel like you have something on your mind, and you …”

  “I’ve got nothing on my mind,” she says. She stands up as well, so now we are facing each other across the divide of the open dishwasher. “I’m just saying that not everyone has a man on lock, ready to meet their sexual needs, so the toys are a necessity.”

  As I’m staring at her now, I notice that Trudie has gotten a haircut, and that it’s cute. Just a slight deviation from her regular bob, just a little shorter, and it’s cute. Normally, I would tell her that, but she’s starting to piss me off.

  “I don’t have Rand on lock,” I say. “Far from it. He’s not my man. We’re … seeing each other, we’re kickin’ it … but I am nowhere close to thinking of him as my man, Trudie.”

  She looks at me impassively for a few moments then blinks.

  “That’s probably wise,” she says, eventually.

  I want to pick up a glass and throw it at her.

  “Why does everything have to be so competitive all the time?” I ask. “When you were with dudes and I was getting no play, did I ever act like you’re acting now?”

  “Which dudes are we talking about, Danielle? That corny little accountant I was fucking for three weeks last summer? The gas station clerk who pretended he owned the damn gas station? Who?”