Free Say You Love Her, An L.A. Love Story by Z.L. Arkadie

says it all. I can pat myself on the back. She stands up from the bench.
    “After you,” I say.
    She moves as if she suddenly remembered how to walk. I’d rather skip New Orleans, go back upstairs, and spread her across the bed like creamy butter.
    “You smell good,” she says as she sweeps past me.
    “So do you.”
    We grin at each other on our way to the car. I open the door for her. It’s already happening. My dick is going up and then halfway down and then back up. It’s going to be fluctuating all day long. I’ll have a serious case of blue balls by bedtime.
    Angelina guides me to the highway. She doesn’t need to. I’m good at remembering how I got somewhere in the first place.
    “Did you grow up in New Iberia?” I ask once we’re on the open road.  
    “Some,” she says, fiddling with that letter in her hands.
    “Did you split the time between here and California?”
    “No, not California.” Angelina looks preoccupied as she gazes out the window.
    “Oh,” I say. She’s distant. I hope it’s not because of me.  
    Finally she turns to smile at me. “Sorry, I’m somewhere else right now—mainly inside of this envelope. It’s awfully strange.” She shakes the envelope and holds it up to the window so that it catches some sunlight. “Doesn’t feel like there’s much to it. And it’s not even sealed.”
    “Just open it.”
    Angelina flexes her eyebrows naughtily. “I should. Shouldn’t I?”
    “It’s just me and you, and I’m not going to tell on you.”
    “You’ll keep my secrets?”  
    I take my eyes off the road to glance at her. She’s batting her eyelashes.  
    I smirk. “Every single one of them.”  
    Her eyes narrow to slits. After a beat, she sighs. “Okay, I’ll control myself.” Angelina stuffs the letter into the small handbag she’s carrying. “What did you ask again? Oh, that’s right. I went to school in D.C. for two years, and then when my mom booked a two-year gig in Paris, I lived there.”
    “Oh, parlez-vous français, Mademoiselle ?”  
    “ Très peu et très mal ,” she says with a cynical air.
    I laugh.
    “What about you?” she asks. “Where did you grow up?”
    “Colorado.”
    “And now you live in L.A.”  
    “I don’t live in L.A. I’m just passing through.”
    “Then you call Colorado home?”
    “I call Martha’s Vineyard home.”
    “Oh.” She sounds intrigued. “I’ve never been, but I’ve heard it’s gorgeous and a lot of rich people live there—you being one of them.”
    “What’s wrong? You don’t like rich people?” I smirk, waiting for her response.
      “Why did you ask me that?”
    “You’ve blasted me about shopping at Barneys and having a cook.”
    “Oh, I wasn’t blasting you. I would never criticize anyone for being something that doesn’t hurt anyone else.”
    It falls silent between us. Molecules of pure chemistry are pulling us together. I want to kiss her so badly. I wonder if she feels the same way.  
    “So what do you want to do in New Orleans?”
    That smile of hers always gets me in the heart. “Everything and anything.”
    My eyes take a dip down to her braless tits. “I like the sound of that,” I say.
    She snickers. “Do you dance?” I think she’s purposely changing the subject.
    “I can dance.”  
    “Good. Today I want you to be a voyeur, not a music man. Experience the thrill of sound and movement with me. Can you do that?”
    The car swerves. “Shit!” I pull the steering wheel to set the tires back between the lines. She must know what the fuck she’s doing to me.  
    For the rest of the drive we talk about some of the places she lived in New York over the last five years and try to figure out if we were ever in the city at the same time. Just knowing she was there during some of the worst periods of my life is like finally putting a Band-Aid over the crazy shit that happened. We barely take notice of the trees lording over the sides of the highway, the dank waters under and