MILF: Wrong Kind of Love Page 4

  “Ooh, me too. Thanks, Mom,” Adam says as he pulls a stool up next to me and sits down.

  “Yes, thank you, Ms. Sullivan,” I chime in, dropping down on the seat next to him.

  “Y’all are welcome,” she replies while setting a plate, a fork, and a napkin in front of each of us. Shifting her eyes over to me, she smiles hesitantly. “Gray, please call me Mia. I don’t want you to ever feel unwelcome here, because my house will always be open to you, but there’s a new Mrs. Sullivan now.”

  Adam’s eyes bulge out of his head as he exclaims, “Mom! We talk—”

  “No, Adam,” I cut him off before he can finish, “it’s cool. I totally get it. I can’t even imagine how hard all of this has been for both of you guys to deal with.” My gaze swings over to his mom, her cheeks flushed pink and her bright blue eyes filled with unease. “I’m truly sorry for everything that’s happened, Mia, and I hate I wasn’t here to help deal with the aftermath when everything surfaced. I hope you know I had no idea anything was going on before I left, ‘cause there’s no way I woulda let that shit fly.”

  A wave of relief sweeps across her face and her tense shoulders visibly relax. “Thank you, Gray. I appreciate it, and I hope this is the last time we ever have to discuss this. They’ve both moved on with their lives, and I’m trying my hardest to do the same.”

  “As you should.” I offer a supportive smile before turning my attention back to my lunch, hoping to end this somewhat awkward conversation. My dick is no longer hard and my stomach is growling.

  She returns the friendly gesture, then says to both of us, “I’m going out to dinner with Stella tonight, so y’all are on your own. I may be home kinda late.” Then, she walks out of the room.

  “Okay, Mom. Have fun and be careful,” Adam calls out after her.

  Once she’s out of earshot, he twists to face me. “Sorry ‘bout that, man.”

  I wave my hand in front of my face and shake my head as I chew the bite in my mouth, indicating it’s not a big deal. “No need to apologize,” I respond after swallowing. “And hey, I was thinking. You said Mark and my mom were leaving today, right? So we’ve got the house to ourselves?”

  “Yeah, why?” He lifts his eyebrows inquisitively, knowing I’ve got something brewing in my head.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the old crew. I think we should have a good ol’ house party—keg, fire pit, obnoxiously loud music, the whole works.”

  “I like how you think, dude…a welcome home party! I’ll text everyone now.”

  FOR MONTHS, STELLA HAS INVITED ME to go out with her, and for months, I have found an excuse not to go. So when she called this morning asking if I’d join her at NONA for dinner and drinks, I’m not sure if she or I was more surprised by my enthusiastic, “Yes, I’d love to!”

  With Adam telling me it was time for a fresh start yesterday, and then my ridiculous reaction to Grayson in the kitchen early this morning, I need to get out and have some fun…with people close to my own age. No more hiding in my house; no more sulking in my sorrows. People get divorced every day, and no one was going to judge me for that, even if I did judge myself.

  After working for a while on my current art project, I hit the gym hard, knowing I’d probably be consuming a few extra calories tonight, and then grabbed some lunch to drop off for the guys. As I suspected, they both looked like they had just rolled out of bed when I got there, and although the vision of Gray’s hands creeping up my legs popped into my head a few times while I talked to them, I continued to remind myself I was simply overreacting and he sees me as nothing more than a second mom.

  In addition, I thought the conversation about not calling me Ms. Sullivan went pretty well. Even though it has nothing to do with him, I was pleased Gray cared enough to apologize for the situation and to ensure me he had no idea of the affair between his mom and my husband. He can’t help the fact Celeste is a husband-stealing whore and Mark is a lying, cheating bastard. I honestly didn’t think either him or Adam knew what was going on, but to hear them both confirm it did make me feel a little bit better. Sometimes it’s the small things that mean the most.

  Speaking of small things, as I now stand in front of my full-length mirror, trying on every article of clothing I own before meeting Stella, I’m convinced nineteen of the twenty pounds I’ve lost has all come from my boobs. Not that I could’ve ever been described as buxom before, but the full C cup I once had has dwindled into a barely B, and though I’m definitely not having any sagging issues, filling out my regular bras—which I hardly ever wear anymore—is a whole different story. It appears there will be a trip to Victoria’s Secret in my very near future.

  I finally decide on a deep red, lightweight, off-the-shoulder tunic over a black shelf-bra camisole and black leggings. Sliding on a pair of simple black ballet flats, I sneak one last glimpse at my reflection and decide at the very least, I’m presentable for the public.

  My makeup is light and subtle—just a little mascara and some tinted lip gloss—and my hair looks better than it has in years, though not nearly as good as it did when I left Amber’s chair yesterday. Why is it I can never recreate the same look after I leave the salon, no matter how hard I try? So damn frustrating.

  Grabbing my wristlet, phone, and keys from the top of the dresser, I make my way down the stairs, out the front door, and climb into the driver’s seat of my black Tahoe, which I was awarded along with the house in the divorce settlement. Then, I pull out of the driveway and take off down the street, on my way to my first night out as a single woman. Watch out, world! Mia soon-to-not-be-Sullivan is on the prowl.

  The irony of Taylor Swift on the radio crooning about feeling like she’s ’22’ isn’t lost on me as I drive, but I sing along anyway, hoping some of the youthful vibes will rub off on me. Shit, at this point, I’d be happy just pretending to be thirty-two.

  After about a fifteen-minute trip, I pull into the parking lot across the street from NONA, short for New Orleans ‘N Athens, a popular upscale Cajun restaurant, which is well-known for its Oysters Rockefeller and Shrimp and Grits. Shifting the transmission into park, I take several deep breaths to help calm the nerves using my stomach as a dance floor, and before I can lose my resolve and drive myself back home, I hop out of the SUV and scurry through the oppressive Georgia summer heat toward the entrance.

  As soon as I walk through the glass door, I see Stella perched on one of the stools up at the old-style wood bar, chatting it up with some of the other patrons and openly flirting with the young bartender. Thankfully, the stool to her right is open, and as I slide onto the green padded seat, she begins to squeal and bounce up and down in her chair.

  “Oh my God! You really came! You really came!!” she yells loud enough for the entire first floor of the restaurant to hear. Lunging her upper body in my direction, she wraps her arms tightly around my neck and kisses my cheek.

  Releasing the embrace, I smile timidly at her. “Yep, I really came, and I’m sure all of Broad St. is now aware of it too.”

  She ignores my snide remark and continues on with her overly-animated greeting. “And look at your hair, woman! It’s abso gorgey. How long have I been telling you to add some color into your life?”

  Stella Laughlin is the only person on the face of the earth that can say the words abso gorgey, and not make me want to slap her across the face. Not only has she been my best friend since I can remember, the one person who has never turned her back on me, no matter how many times I cancelled on her for our nights out or didn’t return her phone calls for days upon end, but she’s also my only sibling, younger by three years.

  Hands down the most eccentric and unconventional person I know, Stella not only marches to the beat of a different drum, she’s often on a completely different radio wavelength. Wearing wild clothes and having hair that would make Rainbow Brite jealous is only the tip of the iceberg with my dear sister. She smokes pot daily, keeps a sugar glider—Hazel—and a miniature pig—Zsa Zsa Gapork�
�as pets, owns a tattoo parlor, and doesn’t believe humans are meant to be monogamous. A girlie-girl at heart, she’s got a streak of bad ass in her that brings grown men to their knees…often.

  It’s safe to say she was never a fan of my extremely conservative, extremely unadventurous ex-husband, and the feeling was most definitely mutual. On multiple occasions over the years, she and Mark would get into arguments over a variety of topics, primarily how he never supported my painting. Always my biggest advocate, she told me time and time again I was wasting a talent that should be shared with the world. Now, I only hope she is right.

  “Your idea of color and mine are a little different, Stel,” I tease as I ruffle her canary yellow bob. “What’re you drinking tonight?”

  She looks down at her nearly empty glass and then up at the bartender she was talking to, her smile growing wide when she makes eye contact with him. “Drake, baby, can you bring her a Grey Goose and tonic and another Long Island for me, please?”

  “Sure thing, Miss Stella,” he winks at us before moving down the bar to grab the necessary liquors for our drinks.

  “You’re on a first name basis with the bartender?” I ask, cocking my eyebrow at her, not that I’m really surprised. From what I can tell, Drake is exactly Stella’s type—tall, thin, bald, and has full, colorful sleeves of tattoos sticking out from under the NONA staff t-shirt he’s wearing.

  “Oh, I know a lot more than his first name, sis.” She giggles, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “He’s got a hot roommate too, who I also know more about than his first name.”

  My mouth falls open as I stare at her in disbelief, then glance over at him, and finally return my eyes to her. “Are you serious?” I whisper dubiously.

  “Drake and Cole both get their ink done at the shop, and they’re good friends with one of the artists, Jimbo, so we party together sometimes. A lot of us come here to eat and drink on our days off, because they hook us up with free drinks,” she explains casually.

  “So you haven’t slept with both of them?”

  Drake picks exactly that moment to walk up and set our drinks down in front of us. Obviously hearing my question, he chuckles, and with his gaze held on Stella, shakes his head. Not backing away from his stare, she lifts the glass and takes a long, seductive drink from the straw.

  “Not at the same time,” she coos at him, batting her thick eyelashes, and then twists to look at me. “But not from a lack of trying.”

  He throws his head back with a deep laugh. “You’ve got that right, Miss Stella. I told you I don’t do two dicks. Now if you want to bring your beautiful friend here to join us,” he flashes a wicked grin in my direction, “I’ll be more than happy to oblige you.”

  “She’s my sister!” I blurt out, appalled at the mere thought of his suggestion.

  “Even better, baby.” He waggles his eyebrows at us before leaving to help another customer.

  Glaring at my sister as she fails miserably to contain her laughter, I shove her shoulder rather hard, almost causing her to lose her balance on the stool. “Stella! That is disgusting! Why are you laughing?” I exclaim angrily. “And you wonder why I never go out with you or hang out with your friends?”

  “Oh my God, Mia,” she explodes with laughter, righting herself and slapping the bar with amusement, “he’s totally pulling your leg. I’ve never slept with Drake or Cole. They’re more than a decade younger than me. Are you kidding? I’m like the mom of the bunch, except not really motherly.”

  I scowl hard at her, not finding her sense of humor very funny. “I don’t know whether or not to believe you…about any of it.”

  She wipes the escaped tears from her cheek then pats my arm soothingly. “I promise you, I may be the free spirit of the family, but I’m not a whore, nor am I robbing any cradles. I like my men to be old enough to remember the joy of getting a new Trapper Keeper before each school year, someone who knows what a card catalog is, and most importantly, a guy who thought Punky Brewster was the fucking shit.”

  “Hey, I’ve jacked off to Soleil Moon Frye on more than one occasion,” Drake adds as he saunters up, rejoining our conversation.

  “You jacked off to her big ass tits, perv,” she snickers with a roll of her eyes, “and I wasn’t referring to her in a sexual way.”

  Paying no attention to her, he turns to me with a big, friendly smile and extends his hand. “Sorry about earlier; you can’t ever take anything I say seriously. I’m Drake, by the way, Stella’s smartest, funniest, and most handsome friend.”

  I shake his hand and relax a bit in my seat. “Nice to meet you, Drake. I’m Mia, Stella’s uptight older sister.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine, sweetheart. I’ll leave you two alone to chat; just flag me down if either of y’all need anything.” He grins at me and winks at Stella again before taking off down to the other side of the bar.

  And then Stella and I do exactly what he suggests—we spend the next three hours talking, drinking, and laughing, and for the first time in a long time, I feel happy.

  Familiar faces fill my house and backyard, good music blares through the sound system, and the drinks flow effortlessly from both the kegs in the backyard and the bottles lined along the kitchen counter. Friends I went to high school with and haven’t seen in years are mingling—some even dancing—with my new college buddies, and the hottest girl at the party is cozied up by my side, refilling my red plastic cup each time I can see the bottom.

  This is exactly what I envisioned for tonight, yet I’m not having nearly as much as fun as I thought I’d be. Though I’m happy to see and catch up with my old friends, the conversations haven’t seemed to change much in the last few years and I find myself a bit bored. In Spain, people—even those around my age—were so different, the discussions more engaging, and we would often stay up to the wee hours of the morning drinking wine and discussing pertinent current events.

  To help overlook the uninspiring dialogue around me, I drink more…so much more that the voices all begin to blend together until they kind of sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher, and this puts a smile on my face.

  “Baby, I’m gonna run to the bathroom and refill our drinks. I’ll be right back,” Jess says in her syrupy-sweet voice as she hops off my lap.

  “Yeah, cool,” I mumble with an approving nod, turning my attention back to Adam, who has been uncharacteristically quiet tonight, and our friend Shawn as he continues to ramble on about the new engine he put in his ’69 Camaro. I add what I can to the conversation, but my knowledge about cars is limited to how to drive one and taking it to a shop when it needs maintenance or service.

  A few minutes later, Adam stands up and stretches his arms high above his head. “I think I’m gonna go pass out in the guest room. I’m exhausted, man.”

  I glance down at my watch and note it’s a little before midnight, but I don’t say anything, because truth be told, I wish I could go lie down myself. If it wasn’t my house everyone was at, I’d definitely be grabbing my girl and disappearing with her.

  “All right, man. I’ll be sure to wake you up for clean-up duty in the morning.” I snicker as he walks away, flipping me his middle finger in the process with a laugh.

  Once Shawn finishes talking—or at least he pauses to take a drink of beer—I seize the opportunity and hop up from my lawn chair. “I gotta take a piss and see what’s taking Jess so long. My beer’s been empty for way too long,” I say, looking for any reason possible to excuse myself.

  Opening the back door, I step inside the crowded kitchen, and amidst all the loud and vibrant partiers, the first thing I notice is Adam and Jess huddled up in the corner, discussing something that based on the expressions on both of their faces isn’t pleasant. Curious as to what is going on, I make my way over to them, neither of them seeing me yet, but I’m cut off mid-stride by Amber, Jess’ roommate.

  “Gray, we got a problem,” she announces, grabbing onto my arm and jerking me in the other direction. “Some girl is str
ipping on the table in the living room.”

  “What? Are you fucking kidding me?” I exclaim, following her as she weaves through the throng of people.

  “I wish I was,” she replies with a grimace. “It ain’t pretty either.”

  True to her claim, as we cross into the living room, there’s some chick I’ve never seen before on top of my mom’s wooden coffee table, wearing only her bra and panties, performing a striptease to Come and Get It as several guys stand around gawking like they’ve never seen a girl in lingerie before.

  “What in the fuck is going on?” I bark loud enough to make damn sure everyone hears me. Heads all over the room snap in my direction, including that of the dancer girl, who finally stops gyrating her hips and shaking her tits. “Have you lost your mind? What do you think this is? A club?”

  Then, at that precise moment, the front door flies open and my mom and Mark step inside the house, looking around the room slack-jawed with huge, disbelieving eyes—shocked and extremely pissed.

  Fuck me! I don’t know why they’re here, but this can’t be what they were hoping to come home to.

  “Everybody get out of my house! NOW!” my new stepdad roars in a thunderous explosion as he turns his glare toward me. “You’ve got fifteen minutes to get this shit cleaned up, Grayson, and then get your ass out too.”

  A mass exodus ensues as people everywhere begin grabbing their stuff and scurrying out the door as I stand frozen in place, looking at this man like he’s lost his damn mind. As Adam and Jess appear from out of the kitchen, I look over at Jess and tilt my head toward the door. “You and Amber need to leave,” I say sternly, leaving no room for her to try and argue. Thankfully, she nods and takes off.

  Shifting my attention back to Mark, I snarl, “What the fuck did you say to me? This is my house, old man. You need to learn that real quick. I’m not going anywhere.”