seat of a car.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “But I thought your whole problem with Dwight was, you know, sexual.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m clueless about vibrators,” Sylvia said. “God, Tina.” She stifled a sigh, telling herself she was grateful to have a friend like Tina with whom she could talk about things like sex, even while kicking herself for ever hinting to her friend about her hideous childhood, her asshole stepfather, Martin, or the problems in bed that had plagued her ever since.
“Sylvia? You wanna clue me in here? What exactly am I missing?”
Sylvia sighed, then cocked her head toward the side of the room, urging Tina toward the relative privacy of the far wall. “Sex with Dwight was fine,” she said. “Except, it’s not fine. I mean, I’m not, you know, comfortable with him. With telling him what I want. Does that make sense?”
“You’re the quiet type in bed,” Tina said with a shrug. “A lot of girls have trouble telling a guy what they want. Not me, of course. But a lot of girls.”
“Sure,” Sylvia said. “You’re probably right.” Not that she believed that, but this was hardly the time to talk about it.
“I mean, it even makes some sense,” Tina said. “Your early experiences with men weren’t exactly warm and fuzzy. Martin totally dominated you. It wasn’t like you could ask him to stop doing something, right? So now you don’t feel you can ask, either. For what you want or for what you don’t want.”
“Absolutely,” Sylvia said, wishing Tina would just drop it. She didn’t want to talk about this. Not when she was still dripping with guilt from having left San Francisco for Los Angeles. Everyone—her mom, Tina, Dwight—thought she’d left because she’d had an amazing job offer from the largest law firm in California. But what none of them knew was the reason she’d applied for the job in the first place—to escape.
Dwight was on the verge of popping the question. He’d been hinting around for weeks. But Sylvia didn’t want to marry him. Hell, she was only so-so on the subject of dating him. He was nice enough, and she did love him. But she wasn’t in love with him.
But she couldn’t tell him that any more than she could tell him what she wanted in bed. Instead of dealing with Dwight as a normal, rational, reasonable adult, she’d called a Los Angeles headhunter and been snatched up so fast that Sylvia had called it fate in an attempt to alleviate some of her guilt.
Of course, she’d known the job offers would flood in. That was a given considering her résumé. In a perverse way, she supposed she even had Martin to thank for her success. She’d delved in to enough pop psychology to realize that her overachiever personality was her way of fighting back. Of proving to him—and to herself—that she was worthy.
She’d aced school and landed an amazing job in San Francisco. Now she was moving to Los Angeles for an even better job with an even better salary. Would she have accomplished all that if it hadn’t been for Martin’s vile whispers every night after her mom had gone to bed? The kisses he’d planted on her mouth and between her legs, making her feel ashamed and dirty? His hushed tones telling her she was worthless, and her screaming inside her head that she wasn’t?
Martin might be the root cause of her desperation to succeed, but he was also the reason she so often escaped into fantasy. If she wasn’t buried in her work, chances were she was lost in a book or curled up in the dark with a classic movie playing on her television.
Martin was also the reason all her relationships failed. Why she couldn’t communicate sexually with a man. And why she was running now from a decent man who loved her. She couldn’t simply escape into a book or movie where Dwight was concerned. So instead of dealing with the question he was about to pop, she’d escaped real life by taking a job hundreds of miles away.
When she’d accepted the job offer in Los Angeles, she’d told Dwight that this was simply too good an opportunity to pass up, somehow neglecting to mention the part about how she went looking for that opportunity. Their relationship was strong enough to handle this, she’d said. And all the while, she’d had her fingers crossed, hoping, that in their case, distance didn’t make the heart grow fonder.
“I think you just need to go balls to the wall and shift into dominatrix mode. That,” Tina said, “will work wonders for your self-esteem.”
“Excuse me?” Sylvia asked, her voice climbing higher.
“When Dwight comes down to visit, you jump his bones. Tell him exactly what you want. If he can’t handle it, well, then you’re in a new town with new men. Send him back up San Francisco way.”
“I…but…” Sylvia blinked, feeling more than a little befuddled. “It’s not that easy.”
Tina deflated a bit at that. “Maybe not. I mean, you’ve got a history with the guy. That would make it harder. I know,” she squealed, her features flushing bright. “Just find someone you like and pick him up. No strings, right? Surely you can tell some stranger exactly what you want in bed. I mean, why wouldn’t you? No expectations. Just wham, bam, and tell the boy thank you very much.”
Sylvia just shook her head. “This conversation is so over.”
“I’m serious, Syl,” Tina said. “You spend your life watching movies. Just pretend you’re some uber-hot starlet. Like Uma in Kill Bill. Or Kathleen Turner in Body Heat. Find a man you want and take charge. No strings, no expectations. Just make it all about Sylvia. Get exactly what you want from the guy. And once you do that, you’ll be free of Martin. I promise.”
“I mean it, Tina,” Sylvia said. “We’re not talking about this anymore.”
Her friend pouted but didn’t say anything else. Instead, she just raised one hand, then took a step back. “I guess I’ll go check out a few more of the exhibits.”
“Right,” Sylvia said. “You do that.”
As Sylvia watched, Tina went off to look at a display of vibrators shaped like various animals. Beavers, bunnies, even a bright yellow ducky with an, um, useful beak and tail. Sylvia didn’t follow. Instead she moved out of the room and into another, finally settling on a plush bench. Antique, obviously, but Sylvia knew about as much about history as she did about dildos, so she couldn’t guess the period. Whenever it was from, it was comfortable, and she sagged a little, suddenly exhausted but still interested in the room.
The inside of the Greene Mansion was just as fabulous as she’d imagined it would be. Built in the 1800s by industrialist Carson Greene, the house overflowed with graciousness, the carved wood ornate and warm, the furniture inviting, and the many windows giving the interior a cheery, light-filled quality. Of course, there were dozens more rooms that were off-limits to patrons of the exhibit, and Sylvia was disappointed about that. For one, she’d hoped to see some Hollywood memorabilia. So far, though, she’d seen nothing.
She’d also simply wanted to explore the house. Her whole life, Sylvia had been fascinated by old houses. Or, rather, not her whole life, but at least from age six. That’s when Martin Straithorn had married her mother. They’d moved into his ramshackle farmhouse. Old, but hardly stately or elegant.
Even so, Sylvia had soon learned that the house was the best thing about her mother’s marriage. Maybe even the only good thing. Because the farmhouse had lots of nooks and crannies. And that meant lots of places for Sylvia to hide. Lots of places where she could hole up with her books and sit quietly
