Chapter 4
I LIKE YOUR DICK
Ivy
The struggle is real.
Do I write about sustainable fashion for my first newsletter post? Or talk about DIY trends in a video for social? Mostly, though, what the hell do I call this brand-new venture?
I groan as I set my laptop on the table while Roxy finishes breakfast in the tiny kitchen. “I didn’t think I’d be flying solo so soon,” I say to my Chihuahua-Beagle mix, but she’s enrapt in her morning devotional to kibble.
Grabbing a hair tie from the coffee table, I loop my long hair into a messy bun as I talk to my dog’s butt. “Was I supposed to be doing my own newsletter thing on the side sooner? As insurance and all for the backstabbing?”
My short-haired, cinnamon-colored girl wags her tail, but doesn’t turn around. She’s selfish like that—totally immune to my inner turmoil while there was any chance of a speck of dog food dust left in the bowl.
I know what she’d tell me though. I should have expected to be blindsided.
You can’t rely on anyone but a dog. Or a German Shepherd of a brother.
Ever since our terrible dad took off when I was ten, Ryker’s looked out for my mom, my sister, and me.
He paid for my college, and he pays for my sister’s college now.
Katie’s off in New Zealand having the time of her life in her semester abroad.
But I’ve been determined to make it on my own since graduation four years ago, which is why I gobbled up every freelance fashion-writing gig I could find before I took the assistant job with Simone.
I was logging twelve-hour days, which made it hard to build up my own name.
No one is looking for Ivy Samuels’ opinion.
Yet.
I swallow my pride, open my texts, and type.
Ivy: Hey, Ryker! Any chance that gig is still available? LMK!
I put the phone away and grab Roxy’s gear from her dog clothing basket by the door. Once I snap on her hot pink harness, I show her two bandana options. “The one with watermelons or the one with palm trees?”
With her bossy snout, she nudges the Hawaii-themed one, so I fasten it on her little neck. I head to the door with my five-pound, senior pup—adopted by me when she was twelve years old.
But as I grab the knob, I stop and pluck at my blah outfit. What if I run into Eggplant Guy in the elevator again?
I fly to my room, shed the sweats, and tug on a pair of denim cut-off shorts instead—ones that say I’m fashionable, but I’m not trying too hard.
I trade the loose shirt for a cute crop top then swipe on some blush and lip gloss.
Just a primp here and there, and it’s like I rolled out of bed looking all casual and cool.
I head to the elevator, nerves jumping in a good way.
Maybe I’ll see Hayes. Maybe I’ll get to know him more.
Find out what he does for a living with all those muscles and that fancy apartment in the sky.
Probably prints money, then carries big bags of it around to grow his biceps.
But when the doors open, it’s empty, and I’m a tad disappointed. It’s for the best though. I don’t have room in my life for a crush, especially when I’m trying to figure out my career.
Still, I should probably make plans with him for the big day. Out on the street, Roxy strutting by my side, I start to draft a note with the details of the event when my phone pings.
Oh. It’s Mister Penthouse. This text from him feels like a pre-ward for my good intentions.
Hayes: What do I wear to the wedding?
What you had on yesterday, say, around six p.m.
I don’t write that, though, because I’m classy.
Ivy: I’m interpreting this note to mean please tell me the guest wedding attire isn’t retro-ruffle themed like that engagement photo.
Hayes: It’s like you can read my mind.
Ivy: Just standard attire for a woodland wedding of course.
Hayes: Funny, I don’t know what that is.
Fair point because I don’t either.
Ivy: The wedding of two fashion influencers probably has a specific dress code. I’ll find out.
Hayes: Thanks. I aim to please.
With a furrowed brow, I study his reply as I head up Fillmore. He sounds sort of…just friendly.
What did you expect? You poured out your tale of woe to a stranger in the elevator, and he took pity on you.
I wince, realizing that Jackson was right. “I bet he’s one of those guys who always wants to save the day,” Jackson had said last night when I told him what happened.
“That’s not bad, right?”
“It’s perf for a wedding date. Bad for bed, though,” he’d said sagely. “Nice guys are never any good in the bedroom. Maybe you need two dates—a nice guy for public and a bad boy for private.”
“Who said I was taking him to bed?” I’d countered, but I kept wondering—is Hayes a nice guy or a bad boy?
The whole time in the elevator, I couldn’t stop thinking about him naked.
It was hard to look at him with the weight of all that cock knowledge on my shoulders.
What if the wedding’s like that too? It only seems fair to lead with honesty.
Especially after what Xander did to me.
Then what Simone did.
And what my cheat of a father did to my mother years ago.
So, I dive bomb into the truth.
Ivy: So there’s something I have to tell you. About eggplants.
Hayes: This could go any number of ways.
He’s so dry he’s almost hard to read. But I speak deadpan, so I keep going.
Ivy: Do you know that bar across the street from our building?
Hayes: I haven’t been there, but I believe in its existence.
Ivy: Well, to make a long story short, my friend Jackson and I were there last night on the rooftop patio at sunset.
We saw someone on the rooftop of our building taking off his clothes, and Jackson whipped out his binoculars, and I took them from him and maybe possibly checked you out while you watered your eggplants and strummed the air guitar. On your hose.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself. Then I add one more word.
Ivy: Sorry.
There’s no reply for a whole block as Roxy struts, tail high, head whipping back and forth at all the people she passes, both two-legged and four-legged.
My neighbor is going to think I’m a very dirty girl.
He’s probably going to ghost me. Or worse.
Report me to…the rental board? Oh, shit.
Is there some sort of San Francisco housing authority?
Maybe he’ll register me as a balcony peeper.
But before I can double apologize, I spot the owner of Better With Pockets adjusting her chalkboard sidewalk sign in front of her store.
It’s my favorite dress shop in the neighborhood, and Beatrix Martinez has built her business with an irreverent social media strategy. One I’d like to be a part of.
Her lip ring glints brightly in the morning sun, but her expression is unreadable as I tell her I struck out on my own and that I’d love for her to keep me in mind.
“Cool, email me some ideas,” she says, and I don’t know if that means she actually needs help or she’s just being nice, but I’ll take it either way.
“I will,” I say, hopeful she’ll actually read her email, then continue on my walk, returning to my phone, where a text blinks at me.
Hayes: Are you sorry though?
Oh. Oh. He’s not irked. He’s…intrigued. I can work with intrigued.
Ivy: Actually, I meant to say…Sorry, not sorry.
Hayes: Good answer. Also, this explains a lot.
My cheeks flame, even as my fingers fly with my question.
Ivy: What do you mean?
Hayes: I noticed last night that you tried really hard to look only at my face, Ivy.
Something about the way he writes my name out in text feels…commanding. Like an order. Maybe he is a bad boy in bed.
Ivy: I felt bad for having seen you naked and you not knowing.
Hayes: Why would you feel bad?
Ivy: Because I’d seen you naked!
Hayes: I’m still not seeing the problem.
My cheeks go hotter. He’s kind of…sarcastically flirty.
Hayes: Or do you feel bad because you were trying to get another look?
I chew on my lip, debating. But…what do I have to lose?
Ivy: Look, all I’m saying is if the Emoji Association ever needs a spokesperson for the eggplant, it should be you.
There. I pretty much said I like your dick. There’s silence on my phone for a few minutes until an image lands.
You can’t see his face. You can’t even see his torso.
The photo is a tight shot of a man holding an eggplant against his shorts.
And I sway closer to the screen, squinting.
I’m pretty sure that’s the outline of his cock right next to the veggie.
And…he’s half-hard. I stare so long I become a danger to traffic. Then, I force myself to read the note.
Hayes: Just thinking of you.
He’s not white-knighting me after all. But I’m not going to send a similar shot. Well, I am out on the streets. Instead, I write back asking for something else—info.
Ivy: I have to know, why were you naked on the rooftop? Was it Naked Gardening Day?
Hayes: That’s a thing, right?
Ivy: I googled it but it’s in the spring. Is that your kink though? Naked gardening?
Hayes: Is voyeurism your kink?
That’s an excellent question. In the moment, yesterday’s rooftop entertainment felt like good old spectator fun.
Like, why not check out some public, non-sexual nudity?
But now it sparks questions I’ve not considered before.
Like, if I’d been alone at the bar, would I have watched longer?
Or if I saw that man stripping off his shirt through my apartment window, would I stare?
I’m noodling on a reply when another text lands.
Hayes: Because if it is, tell me when you’ll have those binoculars out next.
The hair on my arms stands on end. With excitement. With possibility. I don’t even know what he’s offering. To strip for me? To touch himself on the rooftop? Something else? This is next-level text flirting, and I’m not entirely sure what to say.
I don’t have this sort of experience. My ex wasn’t a sexter. The guys I dated before him sent messages that were more of the hey variety.
Hayes doesn’t wait for my answer before he sends another text.
Hayes: Or…the next time I get dirty while gardening and strip off my clothes on the roof before I head to the shower, I’ll just stay out there longer. A lot longer.
And I have my answer. If yesterday’s show had shifted from fun to sexy, I’d have watched more.
Ivy: I think I need a shower now.
Hayes: I just got out.
This is another chance. To find out if I do like sexting. I was bold last night when I quit my job. Might as well be bold now.
Ivy: Prove it.
The man doesn’t make me wait. Another photo lands seconds later.
It’s a sliver of his abs. I can imagine water sluicing down those carved muscles and into the top of the white towel cinched around his waist. He’s strong, but not perfect.
There’s a small, horizontal scar on the right side of his stomach.
It’s an inch long, white, practically translucent, like he’s had it for a while.
I want to trace that scar then run my finger along those star tattoos on his hip.
Ivy: That’s my favorite kind of evidence.
Hayes: Good. I’d keep this up, but I have to go to work. But don’t check out any other rooftop gardeners today. Got it, Ivy?
Holy shit. Did he just give me an order to stay away from other guys? He sure did, and I like it.
Ivy: Yes, sir.
* * *
After a long, hot shower, I get dressed, then force myself to fire off an uncomfortable email to Simone. I ask about the dress code, hit send, then shake off the ick to find a text from my brother. He tells me he called the marketing department and they desperately need me for the gig.
I thank him profusely, then turn my attention to the job hunt, reaching out to the publications I used to freelance for.
Then, I plan some outfit-of-the-day ideas for Beatrix’s shop and send those along to her.
After that, I write my first post for social, picking the handle YourScrappyLittleFashionistaFriend and writing what I call the “Look The Part” fashion rule.
In short, since you never know who you’re going to run into, be it a colleague, hookup, or client, don’t leave home looking like you just changed the cat litter.
I finish it with this line: You never know when you might run into that certain someone you’ve got a thing for.
As I’m leaving for my meeting, my phone pings with a comment on my post. I’m unreasonably excited as I click it.
The handle is Number18. I’m following this advice today.
The comment has a masculine tone to it. I’m not sure why, but it just does. I reply with a cheery: Glad I could be helpful!
Seconds later, there’s a response.
Number18: There’s a certain someone I might run into today. I’m thinking a nice Henley.
YourScrappyLittleFashionistaFriend: You can’t go wrong with a Henley!
Number18: Yeah? You approve?
YourScrappyLittleFashionistaFriend: It’s one of my favorite looks.
Number18: Noted.
YourScrappyLittleFashionistaFriend: Let me know how it goes.
Number18: I definitely will. I’ll report back if I see her. Call me a hopeful guy.
So I was right in my assumptions. Something about him seems confident, too, and a little cocky. It’s a good combo.
YourScrappyLittleFashionistaFriend: Good luck, hopeful guy.