Makayla poured herself a cup of coffee and took a bite of the lemon-filled doughnut she’d treated herself to. Sitting down at the kitchen table, she opened The Philadelphia Blaze to the Real Life section and skimmed the page for her article. Nothing. Brenda had promised her it would be on the front page, though this wasn’t the first time an editor had lied to her.
“It has to be here somewhere,” she said, ruffling the paper in frustration. But her article wasn’t on page two or three, either. Just as disappointment set in, she found what she was looking for. “How to Unleash Your Inner Vixen” was on the bottom right-hand corner of page six. Okay, so it wasn’t the front page but at least her article had made it into the third largest newspaper in Philadelphia.
A smile bloomed on her lips. Makayla got goose bumps seeing her name in print. Or rather, seeing her pseudonym in print. After all these years, her hard work was finally starting to pay off.
Makayla knew the article by heart, but that didn’t stop her from reading it out loud. Writing had been part of her life ever since college when she became the editor of the school newspaper. After stumbling across an old episode of Loveline on cable, the idea for an anonymous sex column was born. Over the next month, Makayla penned articles on everything from self-gratification to sex toys to finding the elusive G-spot. The articles were carried in the Friday edition of the paper, and when sales shot through the roof the first week, “The Lady Sexpot Files” became a daily column. To this day, nobody at the university knew Makayla was behind the racy articles.
She opened her laptop. Depending on the response to “How to Unleash Your Inner Vixen,” this could be a one-time piece or a weekly column. Makayla decided not to get her hopes up. But when her inbox came up on the screen, her eyes spread wide.
“Thirty-nine messages!” Makayla scrolled down the page. “This has gotta be a mistake!” She scanned the inbox. All of the e-mails were addressed to Lady Sexpot, her pseudonym.
From the common questions such as “Is whipped cream really an aphrodisiac?” to the crazy ones—“Will you marry me?”—Makayla read them all. She couldn’t erase the giddy smile on her face.
The strength of her article was in the frank, straight-talking interviews with self-proclaimed “vixens.” Not strippers, dancers or escorts, but housewives, bank tellers and flight attendants. All were intelligent, outspoken women who weren’t afraid to break the rules or chart new ground in the bedroom. Makayla had never done any of the things she had written about in the article, but when the right man came along, she would put all of her notes to good use. Three weeks of belly-dancing lessons had helped her feel more in tune with her body and increased her confidence. She couldn’t work her hips like Shakira but she could swivel her behind better than the other fourteen women in her class.
Makayla spent the next hour responding to her messages. The tremendous response to her article was bound to bring further success. She was sure of it. Makayla loved teaching, namely building relationships with her students and tracking their progress. Walking into a classroom and seeing children’s faces light up was the greatest feeling in the world. But as much as she enjoyed her job, she was ready for a change.
She could see it now. First-class flights. Stays in luxurious hotels. Hours spent at historical monuments. Cozy chats with the locals. It was the kind of life she had always dreamed of, and if everything went as planned, it wouldn’t be long before her dream became a reality.
She opened the last message in her inbox and her face radiated with pure joy. The message was from Brenda Van Buren, the senior editor at The Philadelphia Blaze.
Your column is a hit! Let’s set up a time next week to discuss your future.
She sent Brenda a reply and then logged off the computer.
“Time to celebrate!” It had been months since she had had lunch at Alfredo’s. The last time she had been at the Italian bistro was with Reggie, and he had spent so much time complaining about the food she hadn’t enjoyed her meal. Today there would be no distractions. Makayla licked her lips. She could almost taste the Louisiana-style chicken already. Her eyes strayed to the clock. It was still early. She had enough time to shower, dress and make it downtown for the start of Alfredo’s eleven o’clock brunch. Humming softly, she exited the kitchen and headed toward her bedroom.
“Welcome to Alfredo’s. How many in your party?”
Makayla smiled at the hostess. “Just one.”
“Would you prefer to dine in, or on the patio?”
The weather was unusually warm and the sky was clear. What better way to enjoy the day then spending it out in the sun? “Outside.”
“Please follow me.” The blonde led her outside to a table shielded by tall willow trees.
Makayla glanced around the patio. It was lined with chatting people, loners reading the newspaper and canine partners with their respective owners. “This will be fine. Thanks.”
“Your server will be with you shortly.”
From her corner seat, she enjoyed watching the world go by. Three college-aged girls were making eyes at a suit-wearing brother talking on a cell phone, an Asian couple argued in their native tongue and a group of professional women sang “Happy Birthday” to the stick-thin redhead at the head of the table.
Makayla picked up the menu. After a few seconds of perusing the day’s specials, she placed it off to the side and pulled out the book poking out of her handbag. If she wanted to have Sins of a Co-ed finished by the next book club meeting, she had to get going.
“Hi. I’m Cordell. I’ll be your server this afternoon. How are you?”
Makayla looked up at the waiter with a dreamy smile and a friendly face. “Fine, thanks.”
“Are you dining alone?”
“Yes, why?”
He winked. “Just checking.”
They traded looks. He checked her out; she did the same.
“Do you need a few more minutes with the menu or would you like to order?”
“I’ll have the brunch.”
“Is there anything else I can get you?”
Makayla smiled. As he eyed her up, something came to mind that one of the women in her book club group said last month. “Men love assertive women,” the chef-by-day-dominatrix-by-night had shared. “And the more daring, the better.”
“Are you single, Cordell?” Makayla had never been so bold.
“Very. Why don’t you give me your number so we can kick it sometime?”
“I don’t know—” Suddenly, her decision to swear off men seemed silly. Cordell was cute and he wanted to take her out. Just because she’d had a string of bad dates didn’t mean she should take herself off the market. Besides, her column was a hit. What better way to cap off a good day than with a date?
“So, can I get that number?”
“Sure, why not?” She recited her number.
Cordell scribbled it on his notepad and tucked it into his back pocket. “Cool. I’ll call you next week.”
“I’d like that.”
As Makayla watched him go, she wondered why she hadn’t been that confident when she talked to Kenyon yesterday. Stop thinking about the man, for God’s sake, she ordered herself. But blocking thoughts of Kenyon was impossible. He was outspoken, had the face of an Adonis, the body of a sculpture and although she didn’t have telepathic powers, she had a feeling he was a first-rate lover. If he didn’t have so much personal baggage, Makayla might have gone out with him.
Cordell