Sex Says

He furrowed his brow, and his gray eyes creased at the corners as they took in my pathetic appearance. “Deadline?”

Nothing said deadline like bloodshot eyes, dark circles, and jeans I should’ve washed two weeks ago.

Yeah, okay, my mind taunted. Focus on the jeans so you don’t focus on the grease in your hair.

I shrugged. “Something like that.”

A sympathetic smile raised the corners of his lips. “When are you gonna learn?”

“I’d like to say soon, but I’d probably be lying.”

He chuckled softly and tapped the rim of my reading glasses. “These new?”

I nodded. “Yep.”

“Red rims…” He crossed his arms and rested them on top of his belly. “I dig it.”

“Thanks.” I had a thing for buying an array of cheap reading glasses in every size, shape, and color. Well, it was also out of necessity. My eyes were shit, but I had a bit of a phobia about eyeballs. Consider it a ‘trigger” for me that stemmed from my older sister, Annie. She had the gross talent of being able to flip her top eyelids back so her eyeballs bugged out. And when we were kids, she had done it all the fucking time, often chasing me around the house making zombielike groaning noises.

Thanks to Annie, I had to go through life as a sufferer of Ommetaphobia.

Not only that, but my eyesight wasn’t that great. And because of my phobia of eyeballs, I couldn’t do the adult thing and see an optometrist. Nope. I had to self-medicate with reading glasses.

Basically, Annie had lived up to the whole big sister reputation and ruined my life. And Ommetaphobia wasn’t even the only phobia she’d caused. I also couldn’t stand to have a porcelain doll anywhere in my general vicinity, the number nine was some kind of satanic symbol, and don’t even think of asking me to water your lawn—but those were all different stories for another day.

Howard slapped the counter, startling me out of my childhood, and asked, “What’s your poison, Lola girl?”

“Toast with strawberry jelly and a fresh cup of joe, please.” I pulled my laptop out of my messenger bag and set it out on the counter.

“Coming right up!” Howard shouted jovially, and with a pep in his step, disappeared behind the swinging door that led to the kitchen.

It was safe to say Howard had gotten some good, good lovin’ from his wife Nina last night. He was normally a cheery kind of guy, but at this hour of the morning, he wasn’t usually one step and a smile away from breaking into a song and dance.

Way to go, Howard and Nina. You little sex freaks.

“I can’t believe he didn’t call last night,” a woman behind me said with a disappointed sigh, and my ears perked up like a dog who’d just heard his owner open up a bag of potato chips.

“When was the last time you talked to him?” her friend questioned as I continued to rudely eavesdrop on their conversation.

“Last week.”

My spidey-sex-column senses were rising.

Surreptitiously, I glanced over my shoulder and found three twenty-something girls dressed in sweats and comfy hoodies, sitting together in a booth and drinking coffee. One had the saddest face in the world, and the other two just looked concerned.

“Sorry I made you guys get out of bed this early, but I just don’t know what to do,” the sad one said.

“It’s okay,” her friend reassured. The other one didn’t look like being dragged out of bed pre-six a.m. was okay at all but schooled her face into something more sympathetic before either of her friends noticed.

“I mean, what do you think is going on?” the sad one questioned, her face somehow managing to look sadder. “I thought Jeremy and I had a really good thing going. I really liked him, and now, it’s like he’s become distant. He’s not answering phone calls. He’s not calling me. And don’t even get me started on my text messages. It’s like they don’t even exist to him.”

Jeremy sounds like an asshole.

“Why do I feel like this always happens? Is there something wrong with me?”

“Of course not, honey,” her other friend responded. “You’re beautiful and funny and super sweet. Any guy would be lucky to call you his girlfriend.”

“Ugh,” the sad one groaned. “I swear to God. I think I’m just going to quit dating. Men suck, and I hate feeling like this all the time.”

Those were words and frustrations probably every woman actively in the dating world had muttered more than once. Dating on its own was hard, and when a guy wasn’t up front with you about his intentions or didn’t have the balls to tell you he didn’t want to pursue anything further, it made it ten times harder than it needed to be.

The little inspiration lightbulb went off inside my head, and thanks to the saddest chick in San Francisco, I knew exactly what this week’s column would be about.

Hallelujah!

I almost went over and kissed her right on the mouth, but I realized that would’ve been a little awkward. I mean, she was in mourning, and it’s surprisingly hard to kiss someone with a frown on their face.

Howard strode through the kitchen doors with fresh coffee and my toast, not to mention a smile that screamed, Hello, world! My name is Howard, and I had sex last night!

“Here ya go, Lola girl,” he singsonged as he set my breakfast down in my front of me.

“Thanks, dude.”

He winked and started to head toward the booths with a check in his hand.

“Psst,” I whispered. “Howard.”

He stopped in his tracks and raised an eyebrow in my direction.

I gestured for him to come closer, and he followed.

“Whose check is that?” I asked in a hushed tone.

An amused smirk crested his lips, making the laugh lines below his nose more pronounced. “Considering there is only one other set of customers in here, I’m going to say it’s for the booth of girls over there by the window.”

I looked around the diner and realized he had a point.

“Give me a break,” I muttered. “I’m going on twenty-four hours without sleep, and I’m on a deadline.”

He chuckled softly.

I snatched the check out of his hands.

“I’m paying for their breakfast this morning,” I whispered. “Oh, and box up that coconut cream pie twirling around in the dessert display case, too. That sad chick is probably going to need it tonight.”

He quirked a brow. “That table just gave you column material, didn’t they?”

“Give me a little credit,” I retorted. “I’m a nice girl who likes to do nice things.”

Okay, so maybe it was a little bit of both. I was a nice girl, but I was also a girl on a deadline. And in an evil sort of way, a little glad sad sack by the window was frowning into her blueberry muffin.

Okay. Okay. It’s true.

Sometimes, deadlines really did hold the power to suck your soul straight out of your body. But at least I’m trying to counter that by sending sad face home with the best coconut cream pie in San Francisco.

I mean, I get a little credit for that, right?

Once I paid their bill and finished my toast, Operation Stay Employed commenced.

A different kind of motivation filtered through my veins at the visualization of Louie and me on the cold streets.

That’s right, column. Get ready to be my bitch.

I’m really good at being chased by the police.

At least, I used to be.

On top of buildings, through alleys, up and down the steep hills of San Francisco—even in a boat out in the Bay once. San Francisco was a playground, and I was the most athletic kid on it. That is, if athletic meant criminal and playground meant place to perpetrate my crimes.

I’d had a pretty good track record of finding myself in that particular pickle about once a week from ages eighteen to twenty-nine. Thankfully, during that time, I’d managed an equally winning record of getting away. It’s amazing how many people will let you talk, run, or sashay your way out of something if you act like you know what you’re talking about.

But for the last two years, my family had been trying to get me to reform—something my sweet mother called growing up and my traditional father called about damn time. I guess they were tired of close calls and endless worry, and most likely, expected me to have something to offer when it came time to cough up money for their nursing home.

As far as I was concerned, I was already grown up.

I just didn’t live my life the way the majority of people, including my family, saw fit. I didn’t wear a suit or carry a briefcase, and most days, I didn’t set an alarm clock in the morning. My rules were my own, and that’s the way I liked it.

But my sister was married to the law now, a cop named Cameron Russell, and my parents weren’t the spring chickens they once were. So, for their sakes, I’d toned down some of my wilder moves and channeled that energy into other avenues.

But I had to admit…I missed it.

Breaking into a jog, I timed my steps to the passing trolley and caught the rail on the back just in time to swing myself out to the side and safely on board. Sadly, most people on board didn’t even pick their heads up from their phones.

The passenger closest to me, however, did notice. A woman, probably in her early twenties, seemed surprised by my entrance but not outraged like someone who’d been born to a time with more traditional values.