Free Getting Even by Kayla Perrin Page B

long-term relationships.”
    “Sammie.” God, I sound whiny. I hate how pathetic I sound, but I can’t help it. I’m as desperate as any of the women on Desperate Housewives, and I’m about to lose my mind.
    “All right. Let me think. The toys didn’t work.”
    “It was a French maid’s outfit, and maybe it was too conservative. Maybe I have to go all out and become really skanky.”
    I stop talking when a topless waitress appears at our table. I feel so embarrassed for the woman, I want to use my scarf to cover her breasts. At least they look real, which is a plus. Why can’t men like women the way they naturally are? We have to take them the way they are.
    “Molly,” Samera coos. “This is my sister, Annelise.”
    “Hi.” Molly gives me a bright smile, as if I’m a long-lost friend or something.
    “What do you want to drink?” Samera asks.
    “Oh, I don’t think—”
    “Get her a sex on the beach,” Samera tells her, then laughs. “I bet you’d like that right about now, wouldn’t you?”
    I grin—painfully—until Molly waltzes away. Then I say, “You don’t have to announce to the world that I’m not getting laid.”
    “Relax. Molly doesn’t know anything, and even if she did, she could care less.”
    I suppose Samera’s right. “Can you teach me some of those slutty moves you girls do with the pole?”
    “They’re not slutty. They’re artistic.”
    “That’s what I meant,” I say. I flash Samera a sugary smile, and then we both chuckle.
    “Oh, Annie. I know we’re not close, but I hate what Charles is doing to you. Making you doubt your sexual power. You’re better off without him.”
    “Sammie, please.” I know my sister feels this way. She made it clear how much she disliked Charles on our wedding day when she cornered me in the bathroom and told me that it wasn’t too late to annul my marriage. Those were the days that Charles and I screwed like rabbits. “Will you teach me to use the pole or not?”
    “I can teach you, but maybe what you need to do is make a big change—not just in the bedroom.”
    “Huh?”
    “You know—change everything about yourself. Start wearing low-cut blouses and tight jeans and strappy sandals all the time.” Samera’s eyes slowly roam over me. “Let’s face it—oversized T-shirts and baggy jeans don’t exactly get most guys in the mood. Is this how you always dress?”
    “No.” Yes. “Well, some of the time.” At Samera’s doubtful scowl, I admit, “Okay, most of the time. But I want to be comfortable. When I’m at the studio, I get on the floor, on the grass, or climb a tree—whatever’s necessary for the best shot. I need to be able to move.”
    “Do you want to get laid or don’t you?”
    “I want to get laid,” I reply without hesitation.
    “Then trust me. Make a change. A big one. Get some kick-ass skintight black leather pants. And a lot of tight, short skirts. Guys love that. It’s easy access, and pretty much wherever you are, all you need to do is bend over for a quickie.”
    “Sammie!” I exclaim, mortified that she’d do such things in public. But then I think about my dismal situation, and I can’t deny that if I were out with Charles and he wanted me badly enough to sneak off into a bathroom and give it to me in a dingy stall, I would feel so loved.
    Molly appears, breasts bouncing. She places my drink on the table. Then she heads off to deal with some guys at a nearby table who are calling out to her. Thankfully.
    “You ought to try sex in public before you knock it,” Samera comments.
    “I’d have sex on national TV right now if it meant Charles could get it up.”
    “That’d send Mama right to her grave!” A sharp burst of laughter escapes Samera, but as her laughter dies, I see something in her eyes—something that says she misses our mother. “You talk to her lately?”
    “Mama?”
    She nods.
    “About a week ago. She was heading off to some bible something or other in