The Leftover Club Read online

  I sent a panicked look over my shoulder when he leaned over my shoulder to place his hand on mine, lifting the spoon towards his mouth. I memorized every detail of his sensual, full lips as he opened his mouth and captured the bright red sauce on his tongue. I dropped the spoon, splattering tomato sauce all over his chin, my shirt and the tile floor.

  “Shit! I’m sorry,” I muttered as I reached for a towel to clean up the mess.

  He wiped the sauce from his chin with his hand. “You should take your top off. It’s going to stain.”

  I nodded as I dumped the wadded paper towels in the trash. I started to brush past him but he grabbed my arm. “The laundry room is that way,” he gestured with his head the other direction.

  “I need to change,” I explained.

  “You need,” he began as he stepped closer, “to get your shirt off before that stain sets in.”

  His eyes were dark and unreadable. I stammered and he interrupted me.

  “After all, fair’s fair. You saw me with my shirt off.”

  I crossed my arm across my breasts. “That’s different,” I mumbled.

  He shrugged. “All in the family, ‘Sis.’ That is what you’ve been telling people right? All your friends? Olive? Bryan?”

  I choked back any response. I couldn’t share anything I had shared with the fellow Leftovers with him. Not in a million, billion, trillion years.

  “Is that how you see me?” he wanted to know. My eyes fell and I realized he hadn’t yet fastened his jeans. I could still see the red underwear… and a pronounced bulge.

  “Dylan, stop,” I pleaded.

  “Why?” he demanded softly.

  With every iota of strength I could muster, I met his gaze dead on. “Because it’s not right to tease me like this. I do see you as a brother,” I lied. “There’s nothing between us. There never has been.”

  His eyes narrowed into angry slits. He lifted up his hands and let me sprint out of the kitchen to the sanctity of my bedroom. I locked the door and peeled off my shirt, stopping short in front of the bed where he had lay just an hour before, half-naked and suggestive, like he would have any interest at all in seducing me like one of his cheerleaders.

  It was another joke. And I was the butt of it.

  By the time I reemerged from my room, he’d gone into hiding. I didn’t see him until the next day at school, during lunch, when Olive approached him about the next time he’d model. He cradled his newest interest, a pixie with cropped blonde hair and a gymnast’s body, under his arm.

  “Yeah, I don’t think I want to do that anymore,” he said dismissively. “It just feels weird. You know, with Roni being like my sister and all.”

  Olive was dumbstruck by his about-face. Frankly, so was I.

  “Good luck finding someone else, though,” he said to her, though he was looking right at me. He smiled at his newest squeeze and left us standing like idiots in the middle of the crowded cafeteria.

  Olive’s face reddened from the embarrassment of his unexpected rejection. “What the fuck was that all about?” she asked.

  I just shrugged. “I told you. It was a stupid idea.” I carried my full tray to the big trash bin and dumped it all in without taking one bite.

  12: SexyBack

  September 22, 2007

  I shredded yet another napkin between nervous fingers as I watched the oversized oblong clock on the wall of the kitschy coffee shop. Bryan finally reached over and peeled the decimated remnants from my fingers. “Would you relax?”

  “Easy for you to say. She didn’t move to Africa to get away from you.”

  “She didn’t move to Africa to get away from you, either,” he corrected. “She moved to get away from him.”

  I grimaced. After Dylan dropped her art project flat, he pretty much ignored her existence completely. If she came to the house, he’d get in his car and drive anywhere else. When she tried to give him her drawing, he shrugged it away as if he wanted to forget the unpleasant episode altogether.

  As did we all.

  I stopped inviting her over because it was just too painful to watch. He wasn’t just freezing her out; he was ignoring me, too. He would bring girls to the house, lock himself up in his room and blast suggestive music so that I’d know just exactly what he was doing. Meanwhile Olive and I stayed in my room, quiet and restrained, thinking about what might have been.

  Apparently being frozen out by Dylan could not be mitigated by the attention of the Leftovers, and finally, by April, she had given up on high school entirely. She was the epitome of a square peg. Her clothes weren’t just hand-me-downs, they were weird and never matched. She never wore a speck of makeup or tried to fix her hair to blend with the other girls in our grade. And she had very specific ideas about the world that didn’t often fit with our more conservative classmates who couldn’t wait to make their first million.

  In an environment one survived by assimilating with the masses, she defiantly stood out.

  She ended up drawing a nude for that art project, and was rejected and reprimanded as a result. After that she lost all interest in participating in anything that had to do with school pride.

  And I knew it was all my fault.

  So when I saw her enter that coffee shop, I knew I deserved whatever ass-chewing she had waited more than twenty years to deliver.

  Instead I was taken into a big bear hug that took my breath away. I was stunned as we broke apart. “It’s so good to see you,” she smiled wide as she looked me over. “You look great, Roni.”

  I glanced her over. “You don’t look so bad yourself!” I teased.

  She no longer wore her hair in a braid, or big, clunky glasses or secondhand clothes. Her sweater was cashmere, a snug black turtleneck that she wore over a pair of hip-hugging jeans. She was no longer skinny as a rail. Her slender figure now fit her tall frame in an elegant silhouette. She had dyed her hair a burgundy red and cropped it short, to the nape of her neck. And she had replaced her bottle-thick lenses with purple, skinny-framed glasses.

  She turned to Bryan. “And don’t you look like a superstar?” she said as she reached for a hug.

  “I do,” he admitted gaily as he lifted her right off the ground. We all sat and she placed her order to the waitress who brought a basket of mini muffins to our table.

  “I couldn’t believe it when I got your message,” she said. “Talk about ghosts of high school past. I’m just glad I was in town so we could hang out. It’s been too long.”

  I nodded. “Nineteen years,” I confirmed.

  “Jesus,” she breathed. “So tell me everything. What’s new in the world of Roni and Bryan?”

  I shrugged. My story wasn’t a fascinating one, and certainly didn’t stand out in any way. “Got married. Got divorced. Raising my teenage daughter. Not much to tell.”

  She laughed. “Don’t tell me you married that asshole, Dylan Fenn.”

  I snorted in spite of myself. “No, it was another asshole entirely.”

  “Dylan never got married,” Bryan confided.

  “Big surprise,” she sneered.

  “What about you?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I never found the right girl.”

  Bryan gave me a victorious side-eye smirk. “Told you.”

  She swatted him with her napkin. “Stop bragging. We could always spot our own, that’s no trick.”

  “Forget about us,” he said. “You’re the world traveler. What’s been up with you lo these many years?”

  “Where did we leave off?” she asked.

  “The monks,” Bryan and I said together.

  “Right, the monks. Well, after the monks, I decided to come back home, back to Oregon. By then I was old enough to live on my own so I took care of our house until we sold it. Did some renovating and such. Fell in love. Fell out of love. You know how it is.”

  Bryan nodded. I shook my head.

  “Anyway, I ended up making my way toward San Francisco. I entertained the thought of going to Berkeley
but the art scene was too tempting to ignore. I lived as a starving artist through much of the 90s, renting out rooms and staying on the move until I found Juniper Bell. She ran a local art gallery, I drew local art. It was kismet. Within three months I moved into her family house in Nob Hill and we lived happily until she got sick in 2005.” A cloud passed over her eyes. “After she died, I’ve sort of been living out of my suitcase. Went to New York for a while, then Chicago. Aiming for Europe, eventually. I think every artist should live there at least once in their lifetime.”

  “So what brings you back here to Los Angeles?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t know. I always hated it here, and that hasn’t changed much. You can’t live in New York or San Francisco and then settle for L.A.” She sighed. “I guess after twenty years I was feeling nostalgic. I’ve been staying at my aunt’s house, helping her get everything ready to sell so she can move to Arizona. After that, I’m Paris-bound.”

  I envied her. I thought I had it all just because I’d managed to juggle a career and motherhood. Olive had none of that and had managed to see the world, collecting in her jar of experiences things I had only read about.

  “So I guess you wouldn’t be up for a Leftover Club takeover at the 20-year reunion,” Bryan teased.

  She made a face. “God, no. I didn’t like any of those douche bags then. I doubt they’ve gotten better with age. Present company excluded, of course.”

  “Of course,” Bryan agreed.

  “So what do you square-britches do for fun around here?” she asked with a big smile.

  That night we took Olive to Eleete, whereupon she endeavored to drink every single one of us under the table. She bought colorful shots made out of hard liquor and gelatin, which she demonstrated how to eat properly with a deft swirl of her long, agile tongue. As rusty as I was, it took me a few tries. “We need to get you laid,” she said in my ear before she pulled me out onto the dance floor.

  Olive wasn’t shy or awkward anymore. Like Bryan, once she embraced all those things that made her “weird” or stand out, she flourished just like a colorful butterfly who finally realized she had wings. I followed where she led, matching her dance move for dance move and shot for shot. By the end of the night we had to take a cab home, so I offered she stay in my apartment rather than go all the way back to Orange County.

  We grabbed fast food on the way back to my place and once there, she broke out a joint for us to share.

  “I haven’t done this in twenty years,” I giggled before I took a hit. I held my breath, saying as I exhaled, “I’m a respectable woman now.”

  “I can fix that,” she promised with a chuckle.

  Within an hour we were flying high and eating everything that wasn’t nailed down. We stood in the kitchen in front of my open refrigerator, with me stripped down to my shorty pajamas and her in boy shorts and a silky camisole. Food tasted like it hadn’t in years and I couldn’t stop eating, testing, trying new things.

  We grabbed bags of naughty food and headed back to my bedroom, climbing onto my big queen-sized bed to watch any stupid comedy we could find on demand. We fed each other ice cream drowned in chocolate sauce, giggling as ooey, gooey chocolate dripped down our chins. "No hands!" she exclaimed as she licked it away, and of course I had to follow suit.

  It got even funnier every single time we did it, especially when we couldn't reach our own and had to depend on the other to clean it away with the swipe of a tongue.

  In fact, I hadn’t laughed this hard or felt this good in a long, long time. When the giggles hit I fell back on my back and dissolved into laughter that I couldn't have stopped if I tried. It was an emotional release. A laughgasm.

  I guess that was why I didn’t turn away when she brushed the hair out of my face. “Sounded like you needed that,” she said softly as the laughter subsided.

  I nodded. “I did.”

  Her fingers captured a lock of my hair as she lay down next to me, propping herself up on her elbow. “You probably need a lot of things, don’t you?”

  I think I might have blushed. “You know how it is,” I shrugged.

  She grinned as she crawled across my body to open up my nightstand. She straddled my waist as she dug around. She didn't stop until she uncovered my favorite battery operated boyfriend from his hiding place. Her fingers danced over the shaft. "Sebastian?" she asked.

  I giggled and shook my head. "Julio."

  "Julio," she repeated. "Muy caliente!" We laughed as she mimicked giving it a blowjob. Finally she got serious. “Yes, I do know how it is,” she smirked as she settled next to me. “I also know how it can be. But you don’t, do you? You are still a virgin in many ways.”

  I shrugged. It didn’t matter. I reached for the joint for another hit. “There’s always knitting,” I quipped.

  “Fuck knitting,” she said softly, examining my dual purpose vibrator in her hand. It did everything but wash the dishes and take out the trash. “I know what you need, sweetie. It's about damned time someone gave it to you.” Her eyes darkened as she bent forward for a kiss.

  My eyes fluttered closed and I went with it, losing myself to the sensation of another warm mouth on mine. I didn’t even mind much when her tongue nudged my lips apart, to boldly search my mouth in a way no one had done in almost a decade. I moaned a little and she pushed me into the bed, covering my body with her own. I felt my head spin as I gazed up into her eyes.

  “No one has ever properly loved you, have they?” she asked softly as she ran a finger across my chest and in between my breasts.

  I closed my eyes. I gave a sad shake of my head.

  “You’ve been in your own kind of closet. Hidden away, afraid to be yourself, afraid that you’ll never be accepted.” She ran a hand over my breast, and my body responded to her touch like a dying plant strains for the sun. “I want to show you how it could be. How you could be,” she added. “It doesn’t have to mean anything more than this moment. Just one friend. Helping another friend. And if I do anything you don’t like, you just say the word and I’ll stop.”

  My insides coiled in anticipation as I nodded. She kissed me again before she trailed her mouth down across my body, sucking one hard nipple into her mouth through my clothes. I grabbed the comforter in tight fists on both hands as she awakened a hunger long buried inside of me.

  Despite what I always said, how this part of my life was over, never to return, I wanted to be wanted. And I wanted to be shown.

  After the divorce, I knew my job was to raise my kid. I didn’t want to complicate matters by jumping into bed with anyone. That had cost me enough already. So I closed that part of myself off and resigned myself to occasional solo play when I was feeling especially antsy.

  It had been near a decade since I felt someone’s mouth on my skin or hands on my body. Suddenly I needed that more than I needed anything else in the world.

  When she kissed her way along my stomach, I instinctively and unconsciously opened my legs for her. She used the realistic looking vibrator to rub me over my clothes and I ground my hips against it, but it was an exercise in futility. It offered subtle pressure, but nothing direct and firm like a finger or a tongue. I needed more. My insides caught fire in anticipation when she deftly removed my pajama bottoms. She brushed her fingers along my thighs. “You’re beautiful,” she whispered. “You always were.”

  Somehow I believed it from her. I didn’t even bother to argue. Olive Young had always seen things in a different way than anyone else. Why should I be any different?

  I watched her disappear between my legs, going to a place no one had ever gone before. Her breath rushed over me before her tongue lapped firmly against me. The minute she touched me, I cried out. Her mouth was warm and her tongue was commanding as it circled my clit just like she was pulling a gelled shot out of a plastic cup. My eyes rolled back in my head and my thighs clamped her ears as I drew her closer into me. She rewarded me by flicking her tongue across me until I was bucking against her face.


  She knit two fingers together and eased them inside. I grasped those fingers hungrily. I wanted, needed, to be fucked. She happily complied, fingering me until I was begging for more. Finally she eased my toy up inside as she sucked my clit into her mouth. It sent me rocketing into outer space.

  But she wasn't through with me. Not by a long shot. She thrust and swirled, teased and titillated as she fucked me slowly, all the while using her tongue to set off a thousand tiny explosions throughout my body, one right after the other. I had barely come down from the first one before she used the vibrator to make me come hard a second time. I convulsed against her as tears welled in my eyes from the most intense pleasure I had ever known. She knew just what spot to hit and just how fast to go. I ground against her as I screamed out into the night with each stroke. I was incoherent as she made me come again for a third, mind-blowing time. By the time she climbed up my body, I could barely catch my breath, practically a puddle underneath her expert fingers.

  I was still pretty high when I offered to reciprocate. But she shook her head. “This was for you, babe. To remind you what it’s like to be a woman. It’s more than being some asshole’s ex or some teenager’s mom. You deserve to be treated like a queen.” She kissed me softly and I tasted myself against her lips. “Never settle for anyone who doesn’t see you as one.”

  I nodded and she curled up against me, laying her head on my heaving breast as we finished watching the movie.

  I was asleep before the credits rolled.

  She was gone by morning.

  13: Sister Christian

  July 26, 1986

  I’m not sure what persuaded me to go to the beach party. These weren’t really my friends, and in fact were a couple of years older. Amber was leaving soon for college and had invited me to a going away party her best friends were hosting in a summer house at Huntington Beach.

  If it hadn’t been for Dylan insisting that I needed to go (and that I needed to take him as my ‘date’,) I probably wouldn’t have bothered.