Romantic Interludes 2: Secrets

Imagine the excitement when everything you thought you knew about love becomes so much…more.

An anthology of sensual love stories about women sharing passion, surprises, and secret desires. Discover the thril of love as you never dreamed

it could be with more than twenty selections from best-sel ing romance authors: Colette Moody, Lesley Davis, Lesléa Newman, Meghan O’Brien,

Clifford Henderson, Merry Shannon, Erin Dutton, Ali Vali, Carsen Taite, VK Powel , Julie Cannon, Yolanda Wal ace, Andrews & Austin, D. Jackson

Leigh, Nel Stark and Trinity Tam, KI Thompson, C. J. Harte, Lisa Girolami, Clara Nipper, Shea Godfrey, Kim Baldwin, Lea Santos, and Radclyffe

writing as L.L. Raand.

Romantic Interludes 2: Secrets

Brought to you by

E-Books from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

http: //www.boldstrokesbooks.com

E-Books are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

Edited by Radclyffe and Stacia Seaman

Erotic Interludes

Erotic Interludes 2: Stolen Moments

Erotic Interludes 3: Lessons in Love

Erotic Interludes 4: Extreme Passions

Erotic Interludes 5: Road Games

Romantic Interludes

Romantic Interludes 1: Discovery

Romantic Interludes 2: Secrets

Romantic Interludes 2: Secrets

edited by

Radclyffe and

Stacia Seaman

2009

Romantic Interludes 2: Secrets

© 2009 Bold Strokes Books. All Rights Reserved.

ISBN 10: 1-60282-116-XE

ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-116-3E

This Electronic Book is published by

Bold Strokes Books, Inc.,

P.O. Box 249

Valley Falls, New York 12185

First Bold Strokes Printing: September 2009

“A True Story (Whether You Believe It or Not )” copyright © by Lesléa Newman from Secrets (New Victoria, Norwich, VT). Reprinted with permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Credits

Editors: Radclyffe and Stacia Seaman

Production Design: Stacia Seaman

Cover Art: Barb Kiwak (www.kiwak.com)

Cover Design By Sheri (GraphicArtist2020@hotmail.com)

Table of Contents

Introduction

Moonlight Serenade - Colette Moody

The Twelfth Rose - Lesley Davis

A True Story (Whether You Believe It or Not) - Lesléa Newman

Devil and the Deep Blue Sea - Meghan O’Brien

Boiled Peas - Clifford Henderson

The Whisper - Merry Shannon

Better Than Fiction - Erin Dutton

Hooked on Quack - Ali Vali

Privileged and Confidential - Carsen Taite

Return to Me - VK Powel

Masquerade - Julie Cannon

Saturday Night at the Dew Drop Inn - Yolanda Wal ace

Madame Broussard - Andrews & Austin

Box Ful of Surprises - D. Jackson Leigh

Tenebrosidad - Nel Stark and Trinity Tam

Constant Companion - KI Thompson

Crossing Over, Jordan - C.J. Harte

Finding Grace - Lisa Girolami

Sentimental Fool - Clara Nipper

’47 Cheval Blanc - Shea Godfrey

Meeting My Match - Kim Baldwin

The Lies That Bind - Lea Santos

When Hearts Run Free - Radclyffe writing as L.L. Raand

About the Editors

Books Available from Bold Strokes Books

Introduction

Love is one of those rare, elusive states of being that defies definition, and yet is universal y recognized and often the object of lifelong quests. We

don’t understand it, but we write songs and poems and love stories about it. Love is not only “a many splendored thing,” it is also infinite in

expression and changes with us as we risk and lose and dare to love again. Twenty-three celebrated authors explore the hidden layers of love,

reminding us that no matter how many times we fal in love or how many years we’ve been in love, each moment has the potential to bring new

wonder and surprises. Romance is as varied as the individuals captured by it, and these stories reflect the diversity of our experiences with humor,

poignancy, and sometimes, by imagining whole new worlds entirely. Surrender to the unexpected, succumb to secret desires, and embrace the

hidden power of our most intimate associations…no matter how near we come to understanding the mysteries of love, there wil always be another

secret to savor.

Radclyffe 2009

With love comes secrets. There are the secrets individuals hide from the world, from forbidden love to hidden identities; the secrets couples hide

from others, from role reversals to secret fantasies; and the secrets lovers hide from each other. In the stories contained in this anthology, join the

authors as they explore—and celebrate—the secrets of love.

Stacia Seaman 2009

Colette Moody is a resident of southeastern Virginia. Her turn-ons are classic movies, witty banter, politics, and women with big sexy brains. Turn-

offs include rainy days, frowns, misogyny, and the blind renouncement of science or human rights. Her first novel The Sublime and Spirited Voyage

of Original Sin was published by Bold Strokes Books in March of 2009. Her second novel for BSB is The Seduction of Moxie, a historical

romance (September 2009).

Moonlight Serenade

Colette Moody

I had always been in love with Marjorie Stein—always. At least since eighth grade when her family had moved to town. Of course, I’d never

shared that with her.

There were two main reasons for that. One was that in the America of the early 1940s, lesbianism was not only never discussed in polite

company, but sex of any kind was completely taboo.

The young women of my generation seemed perfectly content to wait until they married to see what their “wifely duties” entailed. But it was the

women who didn’t wait—who were out late at night with their underpants around their ankles—who were my friends. I envied how easily their sexual

experimentation came to them, perhaps because they were straight. Had I known another lesbian in my town, I would have experimented too—until

my tingly bits just rubbed clean off.

The only “good girl” I associated with was Marjorie—which brings me to the second reason that I’d kept my love for her to myself. Marjorie was

profoundly and heartbreakingly heterosexual.

As the years passed and we both grew up, I stood by and longingly watched as Marjorie’s mother arranged dates for her with al the eligible

Jewish boys in town. I listened to her as she pined over the boys we went to school with who weren’t Jewish, lamenting that her parents would never

condone her seeing someone outside her faith. It therefore seemed utterly impossible to dream, knowing that not only was my family Protestant, but

that I had supple woman-parts where my circumcised penis should be.

With every crush that she shared with me through our high school years—every admission that she found some fel a handsome—I died a little

inside. In her senior year of col ege, when she told me that she and her steady beau Alan had gotten engaged, I wept on and off for two weeks. I

exerted a Herculean effort to appear happy for her, and when Alan was cal ed up into the Army to help fight the war and shipped off to Europe

before their wedding day, I tried just as hard not to feel elated…wel , maybe not just as hard, but I did try.

I, on the other hand, had not bothered with col ege, instead choosing to work at the hometown bar my father owned—which I was now running

single-handedly while he too was off at war. When I wasn’t consorting with the town sluts, or hanging on every breath that Marjorie’s magnificent

body exhaled, I was driving over two hours to Mo’s, a smal lesbian bar on the outskirts of the city. It was there that I was able to meet women like

myself, learn how to flirt with them, and experience my sexual education. But my sprees never amounted to more than flings to sate my hunger and

loneliness, because after al , none of those women were Marjorie.

One breezy spring night at Pop’s bar, I was busy wishing that I had closed early and gone into the city to sow my wild oats. It was the middle of

the week, and though everyone was stil deep into war rationing and penny-pinching, I can say with certainty that somehow people stil managed to

do plenty of drinking—except for this night. By 9:30, al of my regulars had gone home except for Mr. Brewster.

He remained perched on his bar stool, nursing what was his fourth scotch and soda. Because Mr. Brewster lived within walking distance of the

bar, he and I had an agreement that as long as he wasn’t driving anywhere, his cut-off point was a little higher than most patrons’. I had already

learned that he never wanted to talk, no matter how depressed or troubled he seemed. So I poured his drinks and, as was his preference, left him in

silence to wal ow in the pain that was his life.

I had reconciled myself to wait Mr. Brewster out, and so I sat on the glossy mahogany bar, listening to the Wurlitzer 950 jukebox I had

purchased and reading a smutty novel. Pop had been against getting a “coin-operated phonograph,” saying it would never pay for itself. But I knew

it would generate revenue, so I bought it while he was away—convinced that I’d show him what a moneymaker it was once the war was over. It

would stil be several months before I’d learn that Pop wouldn’t be coming home.

The book I was rereading was cal ed The Scandalous Spinster. Years later, lesbian-themed books would become a bit more commonplace,

though they would suffer from the same curse as this one—meaning that typical y any characters who so much as acknowledged that another girl

was pretty met some unspeakable fate. In The Scandalous Spinster, the protagonist engaged in some heavy petting with a few young ladies and

she was consequently kil ed in a freak thresher accident. Ironic, I thought, since she clearly didn’t live long enough to become a “spinster.” As this

was the fifth or sixth time I was perusing it, I chose to only read the dog-eared pages—which were, of course, the racy parts. I’l admit they got me

plenty hot.

The silver bel jingled as the bar door suddenly opened and in strode Marjorie. My breath caught in my throat as she stood for a moment

silhouetted by the blue neon of the sign in the window. She was amazingly beautiful.

“Hey,” I said. “What are you doing here so late on a school night?”

“I need a drink,” she said sul enly, sitting on the stool directly to my right.

“You don’t drink,” I told her, sliding off the bar.

“Wel , now I do, okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed, walking behind the bar and assuming my work stance. “What’l you have?”

She seemed caught off guard, as though she didn’t realize that there was more than one drink—just booze. “Uh…” As though conjured by her

bewilderment, the Andrews Sisters’ “Rum and Coca-Cola” started playing on the jukebox. “That’s what I want,” she said, seeming to take it as

divine inspiration. “Give me a rum and Coke.”

Curious, but wanting to frame my questions careful y, I nodded and made her drink—sliding it in front of her with flair. I looked over and saw Mr.

Brewster staring at us morosely, and found it somewhat unnerving. “Marjorie, this is Mr. Brewster. Mr. Brewster, this is Marjorie Stein.”

Though she was clearly distraught over something, Marjorie forced a warm smile anyway. “Nice to meet you.” God, it tugged at my heart when

she did things like that.

Mr. Brewster nodded back at her dismissively and then audibly belched. I smiled at Marjorie, giving her a look that I hoped explained that Mr.

Brewster never got any friendlier than that. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

I knew she was lying. I mean, why else would she have driven twenty miles from campus this late at night? She took a tiny sip of her drink and

was visibly repulsed by it. “You can’t even trust the Andrews Sisters anymore,” she sighed, propping her chin in her hand.

“Wel , they are singing about hooch and whores,” I muttered softly, lost in the amber flakes of her brown eyes. “Tel you what,” I said, taking back

the glass. “Let me make you something you’l like, okay?”

She nodded sadly and glanced over to my book. “What are you reading, Laney?”

I slid the hardback under the bar self-consciously. “Nothing. Just some smut that I got from Patty.” That was essential y a true statement. I had

learned long ago that there was no lying to Marjorie. One skeptical arch of her eyebrow had me confessing everything to her…and God knew I

didn’t want that to happen.

“Why are you friends with Patty, Laney? She’s not a very…nice girl.”

The truth was that because Patty was the town tramp, she was one of the only people I felt I could confide in about my sexuality. Patty didn’t

judge me because I didn’t judge her. It was a symbiotic relationship. “She’s not so bad,” I said, mixing Marjorie’s new and improved drink. “Maybe

I’m not a very nice girl either.”

She laughed, no doubt because in her mind I had never had a steady boyfriend, so how could I not be a nice girl? She had no way of knowing

how I spent my evenings at Mo’s. What’s more, if she had been aware that I’d had several sexual partners already, she would never have suspected

that as I made love to them, I always imagined they were her. I had dreamt so many times of the feel of Marjorie’s body, tongue, and fingers that I

had convinced myself that I knew it al by rote.

Mr. Brewster stood, wobbling only slightly as he took out his wal et and dropped a few bil s on the bar.

“Have a good night,” I cal ed after him as he started out the door.

“See you tomorrow, Elaine,” he slurred softly.

“He’s here every night?” Marjorie asked after he was long gone.

I nodded. “He’s a practicing alcoholic. It’s like a religion for him.” I set another drink in front of her.

“That’s sad.”

“Sad is that he lost his wife three years ago to cancer, and now both his sons in the war.”

“So he’s al alone now?”

“Unless you count Johnnie Walker, yes.” I leaned toward her on my elbows. “So are you ready to tel me why you’re here?”

Marjorie shook her head unconvincingly. “I don’t want to bother you while you’re working.”

I sauntered to the door and locked it, turning off the bright neon sign in the window and pul ing down the shades in the windows and door.

“There, now I’m not working,” I said, walking back, picking up Mr. Brewster’s cash and ringing it into the register. “Did you try your drink?”

“No, not yet.”

“Go ahead,” I said. “If you don’t like this one, you don’t have to drink it.”

She tasted it hesitantly at first, then took another, larger swig. “What is this?”

“It’s my own concoction. I cal it a Betty Grable. So you like it?”

“Maybe,” she replied, taking another sip.

“Okay, spil it, sister.”

She removed an envelope from her handbag, set it on the bar, and slid it over to me. I could tel by the return address that it was from Alan

overseas. At least he was stil alive, I thought reflexively, having known too many lost in the war already.

“Open it,” she said, not looking at me. “Read it.”

Pul ing the letter out, I was surprised at its brevity.

Marjorie,

There is no kind or simple way to tell you this, so I’ll just get right to it. I’ve met someone here in Italy, and fallen in love with her. I never

meant to hurt you, and I hope you are able to move on with your life. If you like, you can keep the ring.

I wish you the best,

Alan

“That son of a bitch!” I spat. I couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting Marjorie. I was angry and stunned. Then I remembered that she probably

was too…perhaps almost as much as I was. “Are you okay?”

“I’m not sure. I have…mixed feelings.”

I squinted at her. “How so?”

“Wel , part of me feels kind of…relieved, I guess. I mean, maybe Alan wasn’t the one for me.”

“I could have told you that when he gave you a waffle iron for your birthday. What the hel kind of a gift was that?”

Marjorie laughed—a lilting, spirited sound that tended to make my heart feel like it was about to explode.

“So how does the other part of you feel?” I asked.

“Destroyed.”

I walked around to the front of the bar and took a seat on the stool beside her. “I’m real y sorry. What did your mother say?”

Her expression became instantly contrite as she bit her lower lip. “I haven’t told her yet. I’m actual y considering letting her think that I’m stil

engaged for a little while.”

“Wow. How long can you keep that up?”

Marjorie took another sip of her drink and started to fish for the maraschino cherry at the bottom of the glass beneath the ice. “You just don’t

know what it’s like to have al your dates arranged for you.”

“True,” I admitted with a shrug.

“I mean, I’ve never dated a guy who hasn’t met my mother first. Everything is orchestrated at temple. I think part of the reason that I accepted

Alan’s proposal in the first place was just so I wouldn’t have to get fixed up with every available Jew within a hundred-mile radius.”

I put my chin on my fist. “So you’re saying there’s a couple of Hebrews out there somewhere who haven’t gone out with you yet?”

She laughed, which had been my intention. “There may be one or two who’ve not had the pleasure. What about you?”

“If I dated a Jew, I wasn’t aware,” I said, being purposely vague.

“Wel , are you seeing anyone?”

I winced, my discomfort plainly evident. “I go out. But I’m not seeing anyone in particular.”

“You never talk about your dates, Laney,” she said, finishing off her Betty Grable. “Do yours make you as miserable as mine make me?”

“I just don’t get serious like you do,” I replied weakly.

“On purpose?”

“I suppose so.” This line of questioning needed to end quickly. I hopped up and walked back behind the bar. “Do you want another drink?”

She seemed to stop and consider the question before nodding, so I started mixing the ingredients.

“You know,” I suggested, as I rattled the cocktail shaker in front of her, “I’m thinking that you didn’t real y love him.” I know that was certainly the

thought that I was consoling myself with.

“Maybe not. I don’t even know anymore. I can’t seem to tel the difference between what I want and what I’m supposed to want.” She blew her

bangs out of her eyes in what was patently the most adorable fashion I had ever seen.

I set the glass before her and watched her take a large gulp. “You real y should slow down,” I advised. “You don’t want to make yourself sick. I’m

probably not the best person to clean you up and see you home afterward.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said, squinting at me.

What the hel did that mean? Before I could even form the words to ask, the jukebox started playing part one of Benny Goodman’s raucous

“Sing Sing Sing.”

“I love this song,” she said. “Dance with me.”

Now before you get the wrong idea, Marjorie and I had jitterbugged about a thousand times before. In fact, we both learned how to dance by

dancing with each other. I won’t lie and say that those weren’t some of the happiest memories from my teen years, but we were young women in our

early twenties now. It had been years since we had danced together.

“I dunno,” I said sheepishly.

“Come on. It would make me feel better,” she replied, entwining her fingers in mine and tugging playful y. And since I was not genetical y coded

to tel Marjorie no, I came out from behind the bar, confidently took her in my arms, and we began to dance.

I had forgotten how wonderful it felt to hold her—spin her—fling her around. I know I was grinning like a Cheshire cat, but part of that was

because so was Marjorie. We were great together, I decided.

I real y could have danced like that with her for hours—relying on pure adrenaline and pheromones to cancel out what would undoubtedly

become exploded patel as and bloody stumps where my feet once were. But Wurlitzer would not have that. He had something else in mind for me,

that wily bastard.

Marjorie and I were spinning as the song ended, and to make sure that I didn’t send her flying headfirst into the wal , I had a very tight hold on

her. Our rotation slowed as the record switched, the thumping swing replaced by the lilting melody of Glenn Mil er’s “Moonlight Serenade.”

I contemplated letting go of her until I recognized that she was stil holding on to me. “This is my favorite song,” she whispered as she moved

her hands into position so that I was now leading her in a slow dance.

Feeling like I might never have this opportunity again, I started moving her lithely around the floor. My right hand settled on her hip—as I had

dreamt ten thousand times before—and it felt just as incredible as I had imagined.

“You’re real y good at this,” she said, sounding surprised.

“Thanks.”

“Do you go dancing a lot?”

Crap. Somehow we were back to me and my love life. “I’ve spent a little time on the dance floor,” I replied evasively. “But you’re by far the best

partner I’ve ever had.”

What the hel was I saying? Had I gone crazy? Was I actual y flirting with my best friend? The straight one? The one who up until this morning

was engaged to be married?

Before I chastised myself further, I fel into the dark chocolate of Marjorie’s eyes. She was looking at me in a way I could easily get used to.

Perhaps it was the romance of the song, I reasoned, or maybe it was her emotional state.

When her index finger slid slowly up the side of my neck to the base of my hairline, I got goose bumps. Approaching sensory overload, I closed

my eyes, afraid that I would not be able to hide the lust she was evoking in me.

“Laney, why can’t relationships with men be as easy as it is with you?”

Jesus, this was kil ing me. I opened my eyes, and the intensity I saw in her gaze stole my breath. “Because they don’t love you like I do.”

I had answered honestly without thinking. But her expression remained unchanged.

“And how do you love me?”

I was unable to even try and craft a cute, pithy response, which left me with nothing to fal back on but sincerity—something that had rarely

worked for me in the past.

“Completely,” I rasped, as our bodies continued to sway to the music. “Without limits or conditions.”

The words left my mouth and I was only partial y cognizant of what I was admitting. But that tiny sliver of me that was lucid was bracing for the

inevitable response from her of horror and rejection. I studied her face and none of that registered.

Her finger again lightly traced the back of my neck, and the realization began to dawn on me that she wanted me to kiss her. Before I could

rethink it and convince myself otherwise, I leaned in and brushed my lips softly against hers.

The music and our surroundings melted away as our mouths moved sensual y against each other. It was al I had ever fantasized it would be,

and so very much more. I would have been convinced that my heart had stopped beating were it not for the pounding pulse that was rushing through

every extremity of my body.

Her lips tasted like grenadine, coaxing my tongue inside to savor whatever other sensations awaited me there. Her mouth was warm and

sweet, and the kiss became deeper—hungrier. My hands framed her face as our dancing stopped. Marjorie grabbed a fistful of my hair, and the

feel of it consumed me with an ardor that, were I thinking clearly, I would not have al owed myself.

I’m not sure how long we kissed, but when we final y broke apart, we were both breathless—our eyes glassy with a smoldering, consuming

heat.

“You’re real y good at that too,” she final y said. A response that I had to admit was far superior to any that I had previously fictionalized on the

many lonely nights I spent imagining this moment.

“Marjorie, what are we doing?” I final y asked. I searched her eyes cautiously for any sign of remorse.

I waited for her answer, my hands sliding tentatively around her waist. Instead of replying, Marjorie—my unattainable Marjorie Stein—lifted her

hand to my cheek and brushed her thumb tenderly across my lower lip. And that was al the answer I needed.

I kissed her again, adequately convinced that I was not the only one who wanted this. My thumbs lightly brushed across her nipples, and I felt

them stiffen through her cardigan before my hands moved to caress the smal of her back and her sumptuous backside.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” I whispered near her ear as my tongue snaked along the lobe.

“I know,” she said.

“How long?” I asked, moving to her col arbone.

“I don’t know.” Her voice softly trembled. “I told myself that I should stay away from you. I should listen to my mother and get engaged to a nice

boy with money.”

“Look where that got you,” I said, my teeth grazing the skin of Marjorie’s shoulder.

“Of course, I had no idea that you would be so”—she moaned provocatively, and I made a mental note to keep doing everything that I was

doing at that precise moment—“damned…skil ed. Should I ask where you learned how to do al this?”

Was that what al her questions tonight had been about? “Nothing matters now but you. Come home with me.”

I pul ed back to gauge her response and was pleased to see her hunger unabated, her swol en, freshly kissed lips curving into a smal ,

somewhat naughty grin.

“Aren’t you worried that you’re taking advantage of me?” Her palms traveled down my chest to my stomach, and then around my waist. “I am,

after al , emotional y vulnerable.”

“Just how I like ’em,” I said glibly.

She chuckled, but her gaze looked as though she wanted to devour me. “And I am just the tiniest bit tipsy.”

“Doubtful,” I replied as I slipped my fingers inside her sweater and stroked the outside of her silky bra. “There wasn’t any liquor in that drink.”

Marjorie’s face registered shock, perhaps partial y from what I was doing to her under her clothing, and partial y from my admission. “No?”

“No. The Betty Grable is just like the Shirley Temple…just sexier-sounding.”

Our mouths met again, and I thought I would combust when she playful y nipped my bottom lip with her teeth.

“Then let’s go,” she murmured against me. “Because I’m al out of excuses, Laney.”

I nodded. “I am too.”

I closed my eyes and silently thanked that bastard Alan…and the planets that had somehow inexplicably aligned in my favor. And of course

Glenn Mil er, who created the most perfect love song there has ever been.

Lesley Davis lives with her American partner Cindy in the West Midlands of England. She is a die-hard science-fiction/fantasy fan in al its forms

and an extremely passionate gamer. Truth Behind the Mask from BSB is her newest romantic fantasy novel.

The Twelfth Rose

Lesley Davis

Danya registered her door opening but it was the strong aroma of coffee that drew her attention away from her computer screen.

“Cassie, you are a life saver,” she told her col eague.

“And you need to come out of this damn office,” Cassie huffed. “Stretch those legs, rest your eyes, maybe even fetch your own coffee once in a

while!”

Danya cringed under her friend’s wel -meaning advice. “I just need to finish this proposal and then I can relax a little.” Her attention drifted back

to her screen where the facts and figures swam before her eyes in a mass of charts and equations.

“You never relax, Dan, that’s your problem. You are too pretty to waste away behind your computer screen. Get out there! Meet Ms. Right!”

Cassie slipped back through the door with one final parting shot. “Find out who your secret admirer is!”

“Yeah, yeah, like that’s going to happen any time soon,” Danya grumbled, staring at the luscious red roses that sat in a vase on her desk.

Eleven blooms that had mysteriously arrived one a day to steadily fil the vase. She rubbed her temples, hoping to al eviate the headache brewing

there.

Sipping the coffee, Danya leaned back in her chair and deliberately ignored the screen. Her office was bright and cheerful. She enjoyed her

work. But it just wasn’t enough anymore. She wanted more from life than spreadsheets and projection forecasts. She shook her head, surprised by

her uncharacteristic musings. She wasn’t the kind of person to waste time worrying about what she didn’t have. After al , she was happy. Wasn’t

she?

Her computer chimed and a smal pop-up box appeared in the middle of her screen.

I have this indescribable ache for you.

“What?” Realizing she’d spoken out loud, she quickly checked to see if anyone had heard her. No one in the large office beyond her partial y

open door was looking in her direction. Another chime sounded.

I need to tel you how you make me feel.

“Oh,” she said softly, her skin tingling at the intimate words. Then she frowned, wondering if she was being set up by one of the office clowns.

She heard the chime again as she was casting a more critical eye over the people directly in her line of vision. No one seemed to be looking her

way.

This isn’t a joke, I promise you.

Danya laughed. “Oh, first you’re inside my computer and now you’re reading my mind. Who are you?”

Wil you accept these messages?

“Sure, let’s see who you are.” Danya moved her curser to highlight the “continue” arrow at the bottom of the box.

I’m the one who desperately wanted to send you roses on Valentine’s Day but couldn’t work up the courage. I’ve been making up for it

every day since.

Smiling, Danya reread the words and gently stroked the soft petals on an open red rose. Their appearance every day was a mystery to her and

a major cause of speculation through the office.

I like knowing that I’m the one who brings that beautiful smile to your face when you see the flowers on your desk. I watch you smel them

every morning.

Danya slowly lowered her hand from the bloom and again cast a wary eye around the office. She searched the faces of the people who could

see inside her office and who could have witnessed her delight at the flowers’ daily arrival. Her gaze fel on the oldest member of her team, but he

was staidly married and going on sixty. He was also so not her type. The girl next to him was too flighty to even work out how to switch her own

computer on, let alone send private instant messages. Just behind them, though, at a smal er row of desks sat the IT Specialists. Danya couldn’t

help but stare a little too long at Brynn, the tal , slender woman who could resurrect dead PCs with her capable touch and fix errant e-mail without

uttering a word. Danya had been undeniably drawn to her since she’d joined the IT team two months ago. Could it be?

Work pressures, her usual excuse, had kept her too busy to start up a friendship, let alone anything else. But that hadn’t stopped her from

looking, and she found Brynn very charming to look at. Her sandy-colored hair was cropped short and her lean body belied the strength she

displayed when moving office equipment around. Danya’s body tingled whenever Brynn was near her, yet they’d hardly spoken beyond the typical

formalities.

I’ve wanted to approach you for so long but I’ve been afraid. Stupid insecurity, I know, and I can’t hold it in any longer. I need to do more than

give you roses to show you how I feel.

Danya’s hand shook where it rested over the mouse. No one had ever said such things to her, with so much passion that the words reached out

from the screen to caress her. A hot shiver ran through her body. She liked how it felt.

Do you know you take my breath away when you come into the office every day? The scent you wear stays in the air only for a sweet while,

teasing my senses. I want to get closer to you, to discover your own even sweeter scent.

Danya swal owed hard as a rush of heat settled in her bel y. She could almost hear Brynn’s deep voice whispering to her, suddenly feeling

warm in places that had long been left cold.

Can I tel you that you dominate my dreams? You leave me breathless and aching for your caress. Then when I see you, the reality of you

makes my desire so much stronger. I have to struggle not to touch you whenever you’re near, to prove to myself that you are not just conjured

from my desperate longings.

Trembling, Danya surreptitiously watched Brynn rise from her desk and waited, holding her breath, for those dark eyes to look over and find her

staring. But Brynn just handed a folder to a neighboring col eague and sat back down. Danya’s chest ached before she final y let out the breath.

“What on earth is wrong with me, lusting after a woman in my office I don’t even know? Besides, she’s probably not the one sending me roses.”

But she didn’t return to her work. She stared at the computer screen, wil ing another message to appear.

I long to run my fingers through your hair and feel the curls wrap themselves around me. I want to lift it from your neck and press soft kisses

there, feel your pulse beneath my lips…hoping you want me as much as I want you.

Danya shifted on her seat, praying her face wasn’t as red as it felt. Her body was hot and every nerve sang in tune when the chimes rang from

her computer.

I find myself fascinated by your hands. While the other women in the office marvel at how pretty your nails are manicured, al I think about is

them raking across my back.

Danya found herself looking at her fingernails. Short and manageable to cope with the endless typing. She never paid much attention to them

other than to keep them brightly colored when she needed cheering up. Suddenly she saw them in a whole new light.

Would you be as taken with my hands? They’re not soft like yours, but would hold you so tenderly that maybe you could forgive their broken

skin and rough texture?

Closing her eyes, Danya imagined being held by strong arms, feeling her face caressed by fingers that were just rough enough to cause a

delicious friction. She shivered as she envisaged those hands going lower. She shot up in her chair and looked around, flustered.

“This is total y inappropriate behavior in the workplace,” she grumbled, although she was one of the few who hadn’t been caught up in an office

romance at one time or another. She kept watching the monitor, waiting.

I find myself watching you as you deal with the others here. Would you be as kind and considerate to me as you are with your col eagues

when they need assistance, or would you be passionate and forceful, as I’ve heard that you are in the boardroom as you drive a point home?

“Which would you prefer?” Danya asked as if someone might answer.

I would want al of you. Every facet, every emotion. I want to be a part of everything you see and feel and experience. And I would give you

the same—al of me. I want you to see me.

“I want to see you too,” Danya whispered longingly, desperate for more messages, savoring the connection with this invisible someone more

than any of the relationships she had blundered through recently. She’d tried so hard to find someone who saw her. And that someone had been

here, in this office, al along.

I want us to get to know each other. I feel I know so much of you already. Everyone here admires you. They share their confidences with you,

turn to you for a kind word and support. Do you need a shoulder you can lean on, someone who wil take your confidences and keep them

tucked away in their heart for safekeeping? I would hold you when you need to be held and let you go when you needed to be free, safe in the

knowledge you’d come back to me.

“I’m tired of being free,” Danya sighed, resting her chin in her hand. “It’s not al it’s cracked up to be.”

I wonder if you know who I am? Are you as aware of me as I am of you? I think you are. I catch you sometimes looking at me and it’s al I

can do not to race to your side and do whatever you wish from me. Do you miss me when I don’t come into work? I find myself pining for you in

your absence and then, when you return, al seems right with my world again.

Danya found her admirer’s honesty and sweetness irresistible.

I have noticed that whatever your mood, it’s reflected in your clothing. When you are ready to do battle, you wear the black pinstripe suit with

the white lacy shirt. The darkness gives you a projection of power while the lace shows that you are stil decidedly feminine in this male-

dominated office. When you are happy, you wear the vibrant blue dress that complements your bronze hair and sends my pulse soaring

because it fits your curves so beautiful y. It’s strange how, when you are happy, it lifts my day too.

Why haven’t you come to me sooner, Danya thought, astonished by the insights. She did indeed wear her pinstripe to try to look somber and

severe when going up against the good old boys of the business. And a friend had pushed her into buying the summery blue dress, saying it

complemented her unusual coloring and hugged her in al the right places.

What would you see in me, though? I am al dark clothes for business, and I’m not the least bit gregarious like your friends seem to be. I

come in, do my work, and then go home alone. My work used to be everything—al I had in my life. I wanted nothing else.

Danya waited. The chime was oddly quiet and for a long, endless minute she feared the writer had gone. She stole a look out of her office and

saw that Brynn was stil in her seat, head bowed before the computer.

And then I saw you.

Danya sighed, torn between getting up to search the office for the writer or staying put because each word was a treasure.

You make me breathe the air anew. You cause my heart to soar when I hear your laughter. There has truly never been a more beautiful

sound. I want to make you happy just to hear that sound directed at me. I want your hands on me, bringing me peace and love and hope.

Delivering me to you.

Danya leaned closer and closer to her screen, trying to get closer to the person behind the words. When she realized what she was doing, she

purposely pushed back.

I’m taking the coward’s way out tel ing you how much I adore you this way when real y I should just get up from my seat and come to you. I

should walk right into your office now, shut the door behind me, close the blinds against prying eyes, and push you away from that desk you

appear to be chained to. Then I would sink to my knees, resting my body between your legs, spread apart your thighs with my hands, push your

panties aside, and…

The words struck Danya like a caress. Her insides clenched at the bold and blunt words, her body al but ready to explode from the visions that

slammed through her head. She let out a strangled gasp, her arm jerked across the desk, and she spil ed her coffee al over the keyboard. Crying

out as the liquid soaked her desktop, she just managed to push herself away before being splashed.

Everyone in the work area turned to see what the commotion was. Cassie hurried toward Danya’s office, but Brynn appeared out of nowhere,

cut her off, and entered the office first.

Danya’s face burned with embarrassment. “Sorry, everyone, I just spil ed my coffee everywhere.”

Brynn pul ed tissues from a box to mop up the spil age, then said over her shoulder to the gathering throng, “Nothing to see here, people, just

another christening of a keyboard because you lot wil keep drinks on your desk.”

Suitably chastised, everyone began to drift back to their own seats.

“Have you burnt yourself?” Bryn asked quietly once they were alone.

“No, the coffee wasn’t al that hot. I’m fine, but my keyboard is swimming in mocha.” Danya realized that from where Brynn was standing she

could easily read the pop-up message stil open on her screen and hastily hit the Control-Alt-Delete keys to lock her screen.

“Secret admirer?” Brynn asked softly as she went about the business of detaching the ruined piece of equipment from the computer.

“Hopeful y not so secret for much longer,” Danya said honestly, watching as Brynn took her keyboard aside and careful y tipped it over the large

leafed plant that stood in a corner of the room.

“Not sure if your plant wil appreciate the caffeine fix, but hopeful y it won’t be too wired.” Brynn met Danya’s gaze steadily. “I’l get you a new

keyboard.”

Danya nodded then decided, secret admirer or not, she was going to do something bold for once. “Would you care to join me in a cup of coffee

away from my desk?”

“I’d like that very much.”

Brynn’s shy smile gave her courage. “Are you free now?” She gestured to her desk. “I have a good excuse to be away from that computer for

once.”

Brynn nodded. “Just let me go take this back to my desk, and I’l be right with you.”

Danya’s heart lifted as she watched Brynn walk away with her ruined keyboard in hand. She gazed at her screen, the instant messages hidden

by the company screensaver.

I should walk right into your office now, shut the door behind me…

“I hope my heart is right,” Danya said softly, “because the only one I want closing my door is the one who just walked through it.”

*

Brynn leaned the soaked keyboard against her chair and swiftly keyed in her password to exit the program that had been running and to lock

down her own computer screen.

“Geez, Brynn, I’ve never seen you move so fast!” Jeff, a tech seated nearby, grinned at her.

“Coffee in the keyboard, it’s a nasty business.” She handed him the item in question. “Here, you can dry it out.”

He whined pitiful y. “Why do I have to do it?”

Brynn shrugged while reaching into her desk for the twelfth long-stemmed rose she’d hidden there. She slipped it into a folded newspaper and

casual y put them both under her arm.

“Because I have a date…for coffee.”

Lesléa Newman is the author of fifty-seven books for adults and children, including the novel The Reluctant Daughter, the poetry col ections

Nobody’s Mother and Signs Of Love, the short story col ection A Letter To Harvey Milk, and the children’s books Heather Has Two Mommies, A

Fire Engine For Ruthie, and Mommy, Mama, And Me. Her literary awards include creative writing fel owships from the National Endowment for

the Arts and the Massachusetts Artists Foundation. Nine of her books have been Lambda Literary Award finalists. She is happily (and legal y!)

married to Mary Newman Vazquez and lives in Massachusetts. www.lesleanewman.com.

A True Story (Whether You Believe It or Not)

Lesléa Newman

This is a true story and it happened to me, Zoey B. Jackson, on the twelfth of May, whether you believe it or not. And to tel you the truth, it’s kind

of hard for me to believe it myself. It’s the sort of thing someone would make up to impress a girl they just met at a party or something. But believe

me, I could never make this up. I could never even imagine such a thing happening and least of al , happening to me. But it did, sure as I’m standing

here tel ing about it.

Wel there I was, in the Famous Deli (which isn’t famous for much except maybe its slow service) waiting for Larry, the kid behind the counter, to

make me two BLTs on rye. I was just standing there minding my own business, studying the different cheeses in the deli case wondering how they

make one cheese taste different from the next and why do they bother? I mean, cheese is cheese as far as I can tel . Cheddar, Muenster, Monterey

Jack, do they use different kinds of cows for different kinds of cheeses or what?

I guess my mind was a little fuzzy, sort of like a TV that’s out of focus. I had just spent two hours trying to get a cat down from a tree and I wasn’t

in the greatest mood of my entire life. When I joined the fire department two years ago, cats stuck up in trees wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. I

wanted to be a fireman ever since I was a little girl, only my mama said I couldn’t—little girls don’t grow up to be firemen or policemen or

businessmen or garbage men or any other kind of men at al .

But I didn’t care what my mama said. I used to dream about riding in a fire truck with al the lights flashing and the sirens screaming, wearing a

big red hat and racing through town with a black and white dog wagging its tail on the back. I got a piggy bank shaped like a fire truck for my

birthday once and I used to sleep with the thing. Stil have it too.

So when I turned forty, two years ago, I decided to come work for the FD as a present to myself. I didn’t want fame or glory or anything, but I did

have visions of myself on the front page of the Tri-Town Tribune, al dirty and sweaty, having worked al night putting out a fire and saving a couple

of lives. I was in the paper, actual y, but not for any heroic deeds or anything, but because of my size. I don’t know whether it’s something to be

proud about or something to be ashamed about, but I’m the smal est person in the history of the whole state to ever join the fire department and only

the second woman. Probably the first lesbian too, but you know they didn’t put that in the paper. I’m just about five feet tal when I’m not slouching,

and I weigh about a hundred pounds soaking wet, but it’s al solid muscle. I can whip that hose around like nobody’s business when I have to.

But that night I didn’t have to do anything fancy. I mean, whose idea was it to cal the fire department to get a cat down out of a tree anyway?

People watch way too many cartoons, that’s what I think. When we got there (we meaning me and Al) old Mrs. Lawrence was standing under that

tree crying and carrying on like it was her husband or one of her kids up there instead of her stupid old cat Matilda. She had Matilda’s dish out there

ful of food and al her favorite toys—a wiffle bal , a sock ful of catnip, and a tangle of yarn, and she was practical y on her knees begging that animal

to please, please come down. Mrs. Lawrence was promising her al sorts of things; she’d feed Matilda fresh fish every day, and she’d let her sleep

in bed with her and she wouldn’t yel anymore when Matilda sharpened her claws on the living room furniture if only Matilda would just get down.

I guess old Matilda had been up there for most of the day yowling and by this time it was ten at night and the neighbors were trying to get some

sleep. Half of them were out there in their pj’s in Mrs. Lawrence’s yard trying to figure out what to do. It was probably the most exciting thing that’s

happened in that part of town for about ten years.

So me and Al made a big show of getting the ladder out and climbing up there and getting Matilda down. Ornery thing she was too—sank her

claws deep into that branch, fluffed out her tail until it was fat as a coon’s, and hissed at Al fiercer than a rattlesnake. He final y grabbed her, getting

his face scratched in the process, tucked her under his arm, and climbed down the ladder with everybody cheering except poor Mrs. Lawrence,

who couldn’t even bring herself to look.

Once Matilda was safe in Mrs. Lawrence’s arms, everyone went back home to bed, and me and Al got into the fire truck to come back to the

station and make out a report. We stopped at the deli first though, for something to eat like we usual y do. For some reason, most food tastes better

at midnight than it does in the middle of the day. We usual y get sandwiches, sometimes coffee and a piece of pie. Al likes strawberry, I go for

apple or banana cream.

So Al was sitting in the truck outside waiting, and I was standing by the counter inside waiting, and I was beginning to think Larry was standing

behind the counter waiting too, for the bacon to be delivered maybe, or for the pig to grow old enough to be slaughtered or something, it was taking

so goddamned long. But then in walked this woman and al of a sudden I didn’t care if those sandwiches didn’t get made until half past next July.

She sure was pretty. More than pretty. Beautiful. Gorgeous. A real looker. Awesome, like the kids on Mrs. Lawrence’s block would say. I knew

she was a stranger around here because I know every woman in this town—those who do, those who don’t, and those who might. This one would, I

was sure of it.

She was wearing jeans that fit her just right—tight enough to give a good idea of what was under them, but loose enough to keep you guessing

just a little bit. She had on this red shirt that was cut straight across the shoulders so that her col arbones were peeking out a little bit. And I could

just see the edge of her bra strap, which was black and lacy. She had on these little red shoes that damn near broke my heart and a mess of silver

bracelets on her right arm that made a heck of a noise sliding down her wrist and al crashing into each other when she reached into her purse for

her wal et. There must have been fifty of them or more. Her pocketbook was red too, and so were her nails and lipstick. Not too red though—not

cheap red or flashy red. There’s red and there’s red, you know what I mean, and this red looked real good. She had silver hoops in her ears, to

match the bracelets maybe, and she was a big woman, which suited me just fine. I like my women big, you know, like those old painters like Renoir

used to paint. None of this Twiggy stuff for me. I like a woman you can hold on to. A woman you’re not afraid you’re going to break if you squeeze

too tight. A woman with a little meat on her bones.

Wel , I took al of this in in about two seconds flat and then I looked away because I didn’t want her to think I was being impolite. I know my

manners. My mama taught me it’s real rude to stare but I just couldn’t help it and before I knew it, I found myself looking at her again. Mind your

manners, I said to my eyebal s, but they just wouldn’t. I watched her unzip her little blue change purse and take out four quarters for a soda, and then

before I could say boo she was looking right at me with her deep brown eyes the color of a Hershey’s Special Dark which happens to be my

favorite candy bar. She smiled at me slow, a real sexy smile like she knew she was looking good and I knew she was looking good and she knew

that I knew that she was looking good and that made her look even better.

“Hey, Zoey, here’s your chow.”

Wouldn’t you know it? Just when things were starting to get interesting, Larry got my order done. I took my sandwiches, paid for them, and

would have tipped my hat but I’d left it out in the truck with Al. I just kind of nodded my head at her or made some such gesture that was meant to be

gal ant but probably looked foolish. I walked past her, catching a whiff of perfume that almost made me dizzy, and left the deli with another vision to

add to my fantasy life, which is about the only action there is around here for an old bul dyke like me. I don’t know why I stay in this town giving al the

PTA ladies something to gossip about. I could tel them a thing or two myself, but that’s another story.

Wel , we weren’t back in the fire house for more than ten minutes when the phone rang. I let Al get it since my mouth was ful of sandwich and he

had downed his in about three seconds flat.

“It’s for you,” Al said and I don’t know who was more surprised, him or me. I never get cal s at work. We’re not supposed to tie up the phone in

case there’s a fire or another cat stuck up a tree or something, and anyway, I keep my personal life, what little there’s left of it, pretty much a secret

though it’s crystal clear I’m queer as a three-dol ar bil even if I don’t wear purple on Thursdays. I think it was the first phone cal I got in the whole two

years I’d worked there. I wiped the mayo off my chin with the back of my sleeve, took the phone, and spoke in my most official-sounding voice.

“Hel o?”

“Hel o. Is this Zoey?”

I knew it was her. I couldn’t believe it, yet I wasn’t surprised. A little startled, a little shook up, even shocked maybe, but not surprised. She

sounded like she looked. Good. Sassy. Sure of herself. And hot.

“Yeah, this is me.” God, what a dumb thing to say.

“My name is Natalie and I was just in the deli a little while ago. I don’t know if you noticed me or not”—yeah, right—“but I noticed you and I was

wondering if you’d like to go out and have a cup of coffee with me sometime.”

How about right this second, I wanted to say, but I didn’t. Get a grip, Zoey old girl, I said to myself. Don’t rush into anything now.

“Uh yeah, sure, that’d be great,” I said, sounding about thirteen.

“How about tomorrow then, around four?”

“Sure,” I said, “you know where Freddy’s is?” Freddy’s is the only place in town that sel s a decent cup of coffee and doesn’t have a mil ion high

school kids throwing spitbal s at each other in the middle of the afternoon. It’s a little out of town, not sleazy or anything—it’s not far from my place,

as a matter of fact, but not smack dab in the middle of town either. I told her how to get there and then there wasn’t much left to say.

“See you tomorrow, sugar,” she said, and I swear I could feel her tongue licking the inside of my ear right through that telephone.

I hardly slept at al that night, I tel you. I was more than a little curious and more than a lot flattered, and hel , I figured that any woman with that

much sass deserved at least an hour of my time and hopeful y more. I wondered where she had come from and what she was doing out there by

herself, al spruced up like that in the middle of the night. But to tel you the truth, I didn’t real y care. I was just glad she was where she was when she

was and I was there too.

I tossed and turned, too ful of BLT and lust to sleep, but I must have dozed off sometime because the next thing I knew it was ten o’clock and

the sun was coming in through the windows heating up my eyes like they were two eggs cooking on a gril . My bedroom is tiny—one wal is mostly

al windows and the bed takes up almost the whole room. I don’t mind though; in fact, I kind of like it like that. Feels sort of like a nest, though why I

have a double bed at this point is beyond me. Nobody’s been in it since Sal y left over two years ago. Hard to believe it’s been two years already.

Time sure does fly, I guess. But it must have been because she left right before I turned forty, right before I signed up at the fire department. That’s

one of the reasons I did it. With Sal y gone there was this empty space in my life, this aching in my bel y I didn’t know how to fil , and I just couldn’t

face al those awful lonely nights by myself. So now I sit in the firehouse two, sometimes three nights a week playing poker with Al.

I sure didn’t want to be thinking about Sal y this morning, so I got up, plugged in the coffeepot, and went into the jane to splash some cold water

on my face. “Looking good, old girl,” I said to myself in the mirror over the sink, which I noticed was speckled with old toothpaste. “Who says Zoey

B. is over the hil , huh? Women are stil beating down your door, old gal.” I winked at my reflection—I am a pretty good winker if I do say so myself. I

can also raise one eyebrow at a time; it’s not as hard as it looks if you practice. I looked at myself and wondered what Natalie—God, even her

name was sexy—had seen last night standing in the deli that made her give me a cal . Your basic brown eyes, an ordinary nose, average lips,

nothing special.

Maybe it was the uniform. Some girls real y go for that sort of thing. Or maybe it was the gray hair at the temples, makes me look kind of

distinguished. Some girls like older women. I wondered how old Natalie was and if she did this sort of thing often. Maybe her buddies, whoever they

were, had put her up to it. Maybe a whole gang would be waiting at Freddy’s to laugh their heads off at the old bul dyke who’d been taken in by the

first pretty face that’s shown up in this pint-sized town since 1959. Or worse, maybe there’d be some guys waiting with chains and bil y clubs ready

to kick ass. Like I said, it’s no secret who I am and it’s no secret that some folks in this town don’t exactly like it either.

That was real y hard on Sal y, one of the reasons she left, I think. Nothing ugly’s ever happened, but we were always thinking it might. Sal y took

herself to San Francisco, where she says the streets are paved with queers and she can even hold hands with her new girlfriend al over town and

nobody bats an eye. Not even the cops because even most of the goddamn cops are queer themselves. Now that’s something I’d sure like to see.

I drank my coffee and messed around most of the day, cleaning up the house and doing chores. My place is smal , just the bedroom, the

kitchen, the living room, and a smal spare room where I keep al my stuff—my tools and papers and stuff. Used to be Sal y’s painting room—that’s

what she does, paint—watercolors mostly. She even had a show of them in San Francisco, sent me a postcard about it.

About three o’clock I started getting nervous. First of al , what the heck was I going to wear? Not that I had much choice. It was either jeans or

jeans. Jeans with a ripped knee, jeans speckled with white paint, or jeans with two belt loops missing. I could wear my black chinos but that would

look awful y funny, me so dressed up in the middle of the day. I put on the jeans with the belt loops missing and a white shirt I thought about ironing

and my sneakers. By the time I’d finished fussing with my hair, which is only about two inches long and not al that much to fuss about, it was time to

get my ass out the door. I sure didn’t want to be late—something told me Natalie wasn’t the kind of woman who liked to be kept waiting.

It only took me ten minutes to walk to Freddy’s. I got there at four o’clock on the nose and she wasn’t there. Wel , fine, I told myself. I don’t care.

Wouldn’t be the first time old Zoey B.’s been stood up, not the first time she’s looked like a fool. I sat myself down in a booth toward the back,

ordered a cup of coffee, and looked at my watch. Four minutes after four. Oh wel , I thought, ripping open a packet of sugar and dumping it into my

cup. I knew it was too good to be true. These things don’t real y happen. Not in real life anyway.

At exactly ten past four, the door to Freddy’s swung, and I mean swung open and in walked Natalie like she owned the whole goddamn place.

She was looking so good I almost dove right straight into my coffee. I held on to that cup for dear life as she stuck her hands on her hips and looked

around like she had al the time in the world. When she spotted me, a slow smile crept across her face that said, I knew you’d be waiting for me. I

smiled too, thinking to myself, fool, of course she’d be late. She didn’t just want to meet me here. She wanted to make an entrance.

I watched Natalie walk across Freddy’s slowly, giving me plenty of time to admire her as she weaved her butt in and out of tables and chairs on

her way over to where I was sitting. She was wearing this white, blousy kind of thing with a belt at her waist with these pink pants that had little black

designs on them al over the place that reminded me of slanty tic-tac-toe boards. She had on little pink shoes too, that knocked me out; round pink

earrings that looked like buttons; and hooked over her arm, a shiny black purse. It’s those little things that separate the femmes from the butches,

you know. Sal y taught me that. Accoutrements are everything, she used to say, and of course I had to ask her what the heck accoutrements were.

They’re just a fancy word for accessories, which is just a fancy word for earrings and pocketbooks and stuff. Sal y was always throwing those fifty-

dol ar words around when she was angry at me, or frustrated at being stuck in this peanut-size town.

Anyway, I don’t know a thing about accoutrements. I have an old leather wal et I stick in my back pocket, two pairs of sneakers, and earlobes as

unpunctured as the day I was born. But Natalie, boy, I bet she has a jewelry box the size of Montana and a closet ful of pretty little shoes that could

just about break your heart. She was wearing those same silver bracelets again that clattered down her arm in a fine racket practical y every time

she moved. It was like each one bracelet wanted to be the first to get down to her wrist and maybe win a prize. Her lipstick was one shade lighter

than yesterday, her smile one shade darker.

“Hi, honey, sorry I’m late,” she said in a voice that let me know she wasn’t sorry at al . “Have you been waiting long?”

Al my life, I wanted to tel her, just to hear a woman like you cal me honey. “Nah, I just got here myself,” I lied. Both of us knew I had been waiting

and would have kept waiting forever, and then some if I’d had to.

She slid into the booth, put her purse beside her and leaned back against the seat looking at me.

“Want some coffee?” I asked.

“I’l have tea,” she said and leaned toward me with her elbows on the table as if deciding to have tea was an intimate secret just the two of us

were in on. Her blouse moved when she leaned forward, revealing the top of her cleavage, and I almost forgot how to breathe.

“Hey Freddy, bring this lady a cup of tea,” I hol ered over my shoulder. Natalie smiled and settled back in the booth and her blouse settled back

over her skin and her cleavage disappeared to wherever it is cleavages go to when they’re not out there in the open cal ing to you practical y by your

own name.

We kind of looked at each other again, with me grinning like a fool because I just couldn’t believe I was sitting there in Freddy’s with this

absolute dol who had come out of nowhere, and she smiling that I-know-what-you’re-thinking smile and playing with one of her bracelets.

“So, uh, here we are,” I said, always bril iant at making conversation.

“Yes,” she said. Not yeah or yep or uh-huh, but yes. “Thanks for coming out with me.”

“My pleasure,” I said and I hoped she could tel I meant it. “I was very flattered that you asked me.”

Now she smiled a real smile and I could see her beautiful white teeth. She even blushed a little bit, which only made her prettier because I saw

that maybe she wasn’t as sure of herself as she thought she was.

“I didn’t know if you’d be glad or not. But when that boy behind the counter at the deli cal ed your name, I knew it would be easy to find you. How

many Zoeys could there be at the fire department of a town this size?” She waved her hand around like the whole town was sitting in Freddy’s, and

that sent her bracelets rushing back down toward her elbow this time, sounding like a mil ion tiny little bel s.

“I’l have to remember to thank Larry next time I see him,” I said.

“Yes,” she said again. It sounded almost like a hiss, like she had just run into the room and was a little out of breath when she said it. “I wanted

to meet you.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she said, staring straight into my eyes, “I’ve always been interested in fires. Ever since I was a little girl.”

“Real y?” I couldn’t believe it.

“Yes. And when I saw you in your uniform,” she lowered her eyes and lifted them again, “I knew I could ask you some questions about fires and

maybe you’d have the answers.” She leaned forward. “Now why, for example, do you sometimes fight fire with fire, and why is it sometimes better to

soak the flames until everything for miles around is wet through and through? Then I’ve heard that some fires,” she paused like she was real y

thinking this out, “some fires burn even hotter when you try to put them out. And some fires can burn for days, weeks, months even, and there’s just

no stopping them.” She started stroking my arm, which felt like it was on fire itself, and her fingertips were soft as feathers. “I thought maybe you

could explain,” she went on, “why some fires are just warm enough, some burn so hot they destroy you, some go out in a minute, some need to be

stoked to keep them going, and some wil just burn and burn on their own forever.”

“Let’s go,” I said.

We stood up and I threw two bil s down on the table. Freddy was just coming over with Natalie’s tea, but we just walked right by him without

saying a word. We didn’t say anything to each other either as we walked down the street. I just listened to Natalie’s little heels clicking and my heart

beating and thought about the fire burning deep inside my bel y and wondering how in the world it could ever be put out. I never wanted anybody the

way I wanted Natalie right that second and I didn’t care if the whole town knew who she was and who I was and what I hoped we were just about to

do. It was al I could do not to take her in my arms right there on the street. But hel , this isn’t San Francisco. The six blocks between my house and

Freddy’s seemed like five hundred miles.

Final y we got to my place, and my hands were shaking so bad I could barely get the key in the lock. There goes my suave bul dyke image, I

thought, if I ever had one to begin with. I kept fiddling with that door for what seemed like forever until it final y gave way and we stumbled inside. Or

rather I stumbled. I don’t think Natalie’s ever stumbled a day in her life. Natalie entered my place. She sauntered, sashayed, swished and swung

those big luxurious hips from side to side, checking out the place like it was something special, like Buckingham Palace. We were standing in the

living room, and she had her back to me, looking at this painting of a sunset that Sal y had done.

I didn’t want to tel her about Sal y. I didn’t want her to know I had ever been with another woman before or ever would be again. Nothing

mattered but this moment. Nothing mattered but her. She fil ed my house with al the longing I had ever known in my whole life, and I knew if I didn’t

have her that second, I would burst and maybe even die. With my heart beating in my throat like a big bul frog, I walked up behind her and cupped

my hands under her gorgeous behind. She leaned back slightly, letting her weight settle into my palms, like she was sitting in them, and I thought of

that song for a minute, cal ed “He’s got the whole world in his hands.” But just for a minute because Natalie turned her head and whispered into my

neck, “How about showing me where you live, baby?”

I turned Natalie around and put my mouth down on hers for an answer. She was about the most kissable woman I ever met in my whole life. And

even though I’m hardly a Casanova or Don Juan, I’ve known a few women in my time. None of them kissed like Natalie kissed. Natalie sucked,

nibbled, bit, chewed, licked, rubbed, stroked, caressed, and damn near danced with those lips. And the things she did with her tongue I don’t even

have words for. I was dying. My knees got al rubbery and I thought they’d give out on me for sure. Final y she, not me, led us to the bedroom, like the

tough femme she was.

But once we got there, she knew her place. She kicked off her shoes, slid al those damn bracelets off her arm, lay back on my bed, and let me

undo her buttons one by one, setting loose her glorious body an inch at a time. Her breasts were round and ful as the moon, the perfect size for me

to get my mouth around. She pressed my head into her harder and harder and I made love to her breasts for hours, weeks, years, it seemed and

that woman just couldn’t get enough. Final y she took my hand and put it where it belonged.

I took off her pants and her pink lace panties gently, and slid four fingers inside like a diver hitting the water in one clean, easy motion. She took

me in al the way, and inside there it was soft as…soft as…hel , she gave a whole new meaning to the word soft. Soft and sweet and wet and

wonderful. Oh I tel you she was al woman from those deep dark chocolate eyes down to the soles of her pretty little feet and I should know because

I explored every single inch of her. I felt like a kid in a candy store—my eyes just got bigger and bigger and bigger and I wanted everything. And

each kiss I gave her, each touch, each lick, would make her catch her breath in the sweetest little gasp, like that was the first time anyone had ever

touched her in that spot before. I tel you, some women are just made for loving and Natalie was one of them, that’s for sure.

Before I knew it, it was dark outside, with the windows al fil ed up with black and a little sliver of a moon peeking in. I could barely see Natalie’s

face though I could feel it an inch away from mine. Maybe that’s why I let what happened happen. It’s almost like I didn’t even know what was going

on until we were in the middle of it, but before I knew anything, there I was flat on my back with Natalie up above me, unbuttoning my shirt and sliding

my jeans down.

Now I’m usual y clear about who’s the butch and who’s the femme, and I like my women to just lay back and enjoy themselves while I give them

what they want. That’s how I always get my pleasure, from giving pleasure. That’s the way it’s always been and that’s the way it’s always going to be

and that’s the way I like it. But Natalie had me under some kind of spel . My whole body just wanted to leap into her mouth—breasts, bel y, legs,

elbows, you name it. So when she final y reached for me down there, I didn’t give her my usual, “No thanks, babe.” I let her.

Listen, I sure don’t want this getting around the PTA or even to my friends who are queer like me, because it’s a known fact, in certain circles

anyway, that Zoey B. Jackson is a proper, old-fashioned stone diesel dyke that doesn’t flip for nobody. I’ve never been a rol over butch but that night

stands apart like it was a whole lifetime by itself, or a dream maybe, or a visit to another planet. No one I knew had ever met Natalie or ever would.

My instincts told me that. And I was safe with her. And that for some reason beyond what I could understand, I needed her to do to me what no one

else had done, though more than a few had tried.

“Silky,” she whispered as her fingers stroked me. “You’re as soft as silk, see?” And she took her pink lace bra, which happened to be real silk,

and rubbed it al over my body. I went wild, I tel you. Then she kissed her way down from my breasts to my bel y and beyond, and when her mouth

landed down there, I thought they’d have to pick me up off the floor in a mil ion little pieces. I wondered why it had taken me forty-two years to lay

myself down for a woman. I sure hoped al the women I ever made love to had felt that good. Just thinking about it got me even more excited and

before I knew what was happening, my whole body exploded like the fireworks they set off down by the high school on the fourth of July and I was

gasping and moaning and carrying on like a banshee.

I felt a little shy after that but Natalie just laughed and came up to kiss me. I tasted myself on her lips and I tel you, that got me going al over

again. I’m usual y a once-a-night girl—I don’t need al that much to keep me satisfied—but that night I lost track of how many times I did it to Natalie

and she did it to me and we did it to each other.

What a night. I tel you we didn’t even think about getting any sleep until about six in the morning when the windows were a pale pink and the

birds were singing their wake-up song in the trees. I held Natalie tight and she laid her head against my chest and fil ed up my arms with al the

sweetness in the world. I fel asleep with one of her legs braided between mine and her soft breath tickling the base of my neck.

When I woke up hours later, the sun washing my face with heat, she was gone. Gone. I couldn’t believe it. Lock, stock, and pocketbook, gone. I

got up and paced around the house, fooling myself every two minutes. Oh, she must be in the bathroom, I’d tel myself, and go looking. Or maybe

she’s in the kitchen making coffee. Nope. Maybe she’s in the spare room looking at my stuff, spying on me. I wouldn’t mind. But it was useless. She

was gone. I climbed back into bed, forlorn as a big-pawed puppy whose owner just hol ered at him to go on home.

I stretched out flat on my back with my hands behind my head, thinking. I could stil smel her, hel , I could practical y stil taste her in my mouth. I

wanted her again so badly I almost touched myself. I don’t want this going any further than you, me, and the lamppost, but I even cried a little bit—

just a tear or two leaking quietly out the corner of my eye. I buried my face in her pil ow then, the pil ow she slept on, that stil smel ed like her fancy

perfume. And when I turned over and reached my hands up under my head again, I felt something cold, round and hard. One of Natalie’s bracelets.

She’d either forgotten it or left it under the pil ow on purpose, for me.

I put it on and a second later took it right off. It looked sil y, like an ankle bracelet on a dinosaur. I’ve never worn a bracelet or a ring or a

necklace in my whole life. But when I got dressed later, I surprised myself and put it on again, just to keep her near me. I pretended like we were

going steady and I liked the feel of that bracelet sliding up and down my arm like a kid on a water slide. I wished I had given Natalie something and I

probably would have if she’d stuck around a little longer. Or maybe what I had given her was enough.

So that’s what happened to me, Zoey B. Jackson, on the twelfth of May. It’s a true story and here’s the bracelet to prove it. Funny, I feel almost

naked without it, wear it al the time now, in case she comes back. Wel , that’s not real y why. I guess, I know Natalie isn’t going to pass through this

town again except in my dreams maybe. Hel , who knows how long I’m going to stay in this town anyway? Been thinking I might get myself to San

Francisco one of these days, see what Sal y’s up to. Bet I could get myself a job there, and wouldn’t that be something, riding up and down those

San Francisco hil s in a big red fire truck? I’m not real y a city person, but I don’t know, these past few weeks, this town has felt too smal al of a

sudden, like a sweater that shrunk in the wash one day and doesn’t fit right anymore. Al says there’s something different about me too, but he

doesn’t know what. Oh, he noticed the bracelet right off—said it looked real fine, and was I going to start putting out fires in high heels and skirts

now? I must have blushed real red when he said that. If only he knew what I knew. And don’t you dare tel him.

Meghan O’Brien lives in Northern California with her partner, young son, and gang of four-legged friends. She is a dog lover and a gamer who

lives to tel stories. She has two novels published by Bold Strokes Books, Thirteen Hours and the e-book The Three. She also has had selections

in Erotic Interludes 2–5, as wel as Romantic Interludes 1: Discovery. Her romance Battle Scars is forthcoming in 2009.

Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

Meghan O’Brien

The frigid rain plastered Coast Guard Executive Officer Erin Brooks’s hair against her face, where it quickly froze to her skin. Her uniform was

soaked through, and even with her free hand jammed in the pocket of her thick coat, her fingers had gone numb. The medium endurance cutter

Storis pitched and rol ed on the waves, tossing her this way and that on the wel deck. She had to clutch the ice-cold railing just to stay on her feet.

But Erin was oblivious to her own body, and to the fierce rocking of the ship that knocked a seaman onto his ass just to her left. She’d stopped

registering the cold an hour ago. Eyes narrowed, she struggled to keep sight of the seaman, just a yel ow slash bobbing up and down in the choppy

gray sea, and the woman who was towing him to the safety of the rigid hul inflatable boat. The storm raged around her, wind howling, but the only

thing she could hear was her own heartbeat, thundering in her ears.

“XO Brooks!” Petty Officer Jackson shouted from her right side. The tone of his voice made her suspect that he’d been cal ing her name for a

while. “Ma’am, you’re shaking.”

Erin said nothing. Katy final y made it to the RHIB and two other rescue swimmers reached out to pul the drowning man inside. Seaman Young

lay at one end of the boat, head lol ing against the side in time with the massive waves. If Katy hadn’t gone out there when she did, he would

probably be dead.

Until the chief warrant officer made it back on board the Storis with her charge, that thought was cold comfort.

“That’s the last one,” Jackson said. “Ma’am, why don’t you head to the bridge? You’ve been out here for two hours straight.”

“When they’re on board,” Erin answered. One of the sailors manning the RHIB caught the back of Katy’s suit and tugged her into the rescue

boat just as a particularly massive wave soaked al its occupants. Erin’s heart leapt into her throat and only started beating again when the water

receded and she could make out Katy clinging to the man she had just rescued, keeping him anchored in the RHIB. “I’l go in once they’re on board.

Thank you, Jackson.”

He nodded crisply and made his way across the deck, moving hand over hand along the railing. He took his place at the crane that would raise

the RHIB from the water. Erin leaned over the rail and watched Katy intently as the rescue craft approached the starboard side of the Storis.

Jackson was right, she was shaking. Hel , she was scared to death.

Katy and another sailor worked to attach the RHIB to the crane that would hoist it back aboard the Storis. The coxswain was clearly struggling

to keep them in position as the nearly ten-foot swel s battered the smal boat and its occupants. Erin held her breath as the stern line was ripped

repeatedly from Katy’s hands.

“Come on, come on,” she whispered.

Despite the coxswain’s efforts, the RHIB jerked sharply as rough water lifted it, then sent them riding down the face of the giant wave. Erin’s

stomach dropped. The rescue swimmers and the last of the survivors from the Merry Lady were in serious danger of capsizing. If they pitch-poled,

it could be al over.

A seaman brushed against her as he slip-slid purposeful y across the deck. Al around her, people went about performing their jobs, just as

their shipmates were doing in the sea below. Erin tore her eyes away from the RHIB for the briefest of moments to glance up at the bridge. The CO,

Atkins, was up there looking down on their efforts. What must he think of the vigil she was keeping?

A shout arose from the starboard side, and Erin refocused on the RHIB. Katy had managed to attach the stern line, and now the smal boat was

ready to be hoisted aboard. But first al its occupants would have to board the Storis using a rope ladder thrown over the side of the deck. Erin

hated this part. With the way the waves tossed about the RHIB in counter-rhythm to the Storis, the able-bodied would likely have to jump to grab on

to the lowest rung. They would lower a Stokes rescue basket for the injured.

Erin could barely stand to watch when it was Katy’s turn to scale the ladder. The waves pounded the ship relentlessly, and a large swel crested

just as Katy jumped for the bottom rung. To Erin’s horror, one of Katy’s hands was torn from the ladder and she dangled precariously for what felt

like an eternity before regaining her hold. Erin knew Katy was operating on pure adrenaline at this point. She should be too exhausted to hold on to

that ladder, or to power her way to the top. But somehow she did. Two seamen pul ed her onto the deck and supported her until her footing was

secure.

The boatswain’s mate assembled his crew to start the arduous process of hauling the RHIB aboard, but Erin’s only concern was Katy. Katy

shouted to the other members of her team, her words lost on the wind. Then her gaze shifted to Erin.

Erin knew she was showing more than she should when their eyes met. She felt open and exposed, raw and battered by the emotional tol of

the last hours. It took her more than a couple of breaths to regain her composure, and Katy’s face told her that she had just revealed everything in

those few moments of pure, utter relief. Erin broke their gaze first, and turned quickly to shout to the sailor who was helping carry Seaman Young,

the injured crewman, across the unsteady deck.

“Take him to see the corpsman!” It was a ridiculous order. He already knew what to do, but he gave her a polite nod anyway.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, never faltering in his quick transport.

Erin nodded curtly, then turned to make her way back to the bridge. Even though al she wanted to do was reassure herself that Katy had made

it back in one piece, she didn’t trust herself to hide her emotions from the curious eyes on deck.

“Ma’am!”

Swal owing, Erin stopped mid-step and swiveled. Katy stood no more than five feet in front of her. Erin’s knees nearly gave out at the sight.

Katy’s short, dark hair was a mess, stuck to her face, and rivulets of water coursed down her smooth, tanned skin. Her brown eyes burned with

some unspoken emotion, her lips tinged blue from the cold. Erin gripped the railing for support, and Katy did the same.

Erin pul ed herself together the best she could. “Yes, Chief Warrant Officer?”

“Ma’am—”

A wave crashed into the starboard side and soaked them both, knocking Erin off her feet and into Katy’s chest. A strong arm caught her there

and kept her from taking a header onto the deck. How could Katy be so warm when she had just been pul ed from the Bering Sea? For a moment

Erin al owed herself the pleasure of being held, then she pushed away from Katy with both hands on her chest.

“Report to the corpsman, Ms. Ortiz,” Erin said, forcing steel into her voice. She grabbed the railing again and concentrated on stopping her

legs from shaking. “Good job out there.”

“I’m fine, ma’am. I promise.” Katy took a step away from Erin, as if sensing she needed the space. “Seaman Young took the worst of it.”

“You were in the water for a long time. Two hours, seven rescued. Go see Doc right now. That’s an order.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Katy bit her lip, then searched Erin’s face. “I appreciate your concern.”

More than anything, Erin wanted to touch her, to reassure herself that Katy was very much alive. But that was impossible. With a tight smile, Erin

locked al her personal feelings away. There was no place for them here.

“That’s my job,” she said, and turned to go to the bridge.

*

An hour later, Erin stretched out on her bed, wrapped in a warm robe. A hot shower had her blood moving again, but her fingertips stil tingled

from the previous cold. She stared at her stateroom door, afraid of hearing the knock, hoping for it al the same.

As much as she needed to see Katy, she didn’t know how she would maintain a professional distance tonight. Though Erin had stood vigil

during perilous rescue situations before, never had it been so personal. Never had she stood watch as Katy’s lover. She was shaken by how

frightened she had been, and by how unimportant their secret had seemed in those moments when she wasn’t sure Katy would make it back to the

Storis alive. It had taken everything Erin had not to kiss her when that wave sent her crashing into Katy’s arms. She doubted she would be so

control ed in the privacy of her own stateroom.

Their one unspoken rule was no physical contact when they were at sea. It was just too risky, and it would be too easy to get carried away. If

they were discovered, they could both be discharged. No matter how much she hated denying what they shared, Erin wasn’t ready to give up the

Coast Guard yet. She didn’t think Katy wanted that, either.

Yet Erin couldn’t imagine not holding her tonight. Just one hug, maybe. Or was that too dangerous? Erin held vigil on the door, wil ing the knock

to come. Could she real y stop at one hug? If she had Katy in her arms, it would be so easy to kiss her. And then what?

No, it was probably better if she didn’t see Katy at al tonight. She needed to touch her so badly and if they were alone together, she was afraid

she’d give in. Erin sighed uneasily. Shouldn’t Katy be done seeing the doc by now? What if something was wrong?

Erin closed her eyes. Watching the door wouldn’t make Katy appear. And even though she didn’t know how she would sleep until she saw Katy

again, she needed to try. They would see each other tomorrow morning on duty. For now, that would have to be enough.

A knock at her stateroom door brought Erin upright, her heart pounding. If she were smart she would ignore the knock and hope that Katy would

go away. But what if it wasn’t Katy? Erin’s throat tightened. What if something had happened to Katy and this was someone coming to her with a

report?

“Just a moment,” Erin said, and glanced around for her uniform. Her head felt strangely light. “I’l be right there.”

“It’s me, ma’am,” Katy said. “Katy.”

As though Erin wouldn’t know her voice anywhere. For a moment she sat paralyzed, unsure what to do next. If she let Katy in, she wasn’t sure

what would happen. But she didn’t want to tel her to go away.

“Please, ma’am.” Katy’s voice wavered, so ful of emotion. “May I talk to you for a moment?”

Erin got to her feet and crossed the smal room in three steps. Though she knew she should get dressed before answering, she didn’t want to

take the time. She could hear the raw need in Katy’s voice, and her body responded. Throwing caution to the wind, Erin opened the door and tried

to keep her own voice steady. “Yes, Ms. Ortiz?”

Katy stood in the hal way wearing dry uniform pants and a navy blue Storis T-shirt. She squared her shoulders and gave Erin a sharp salute.

“XO, I just wanted to make sure that you were al right.”

Even having spent the past two hours battling the Bering Sea, Katy looked gorgeous. It had been three weeks since they last kissed, let alone

made love. Normal y a patrol lasted only a month, but this one had been extended because of repairs. Erin didn’t know how she would make it

another three weeks. Surely she would die of wanting before then.

“Ma’am,” Katy said quietly. “May I come inside?”

Erin’s face burned in a way that didn’t seem connected to either the cold rain or the hot shower. She poked her head out into the hal way,

checking to make sure it was empty, then gestured Katy inside. “Come in, Chief Warrant Officer.”

Katy stepped into the stateroom and closed the door behind her. Her posture was ramrod straight, but her expression was open and ful of

need. “Ma’am, I apologize if I’m being presumptuous.”

Too worn out to keep up the formalities in private, Erin murmured, “You can drop the ma’am stuff, Katy.”

Katy’s whole body relaxed. She leaned against the stateroom door and smiled, so unthinkingly beautiful that it sent an ache to Erin’s stomach.

In an instant, the chief warrant officer became the lover she cherished in port. And immediately Erin regretted letting her guard down. How was she

going to stay in control with Katy looking at her like that?

“I real y am okay, Erin.” Katy reached out, and after a moment’s hesitation, put her hand on Erin’s arm. “I promise.”

“You were out there a long time,” Erin said under her breath. The wal s were thin enough that she didn’t feel comfortable speaking at ful volume.

“You were in the water too long.”

“I’m tough.” Katy pul ed her hand away, leaving Erin empty with its absence. Grinning, she whispered, “You know that.”

“Tougher than me, I guess.” Erin blinked back the tears that threatened to escape and leaned close so she could whisper in Katy’s ear. “You

have no idea how hard it is not to kiss you right now.”

“I have every idea how hard it is.” Katy’s cold lips brushed against Erin’s earlobe, making Erin shiver. “But to be honest, at the moment I don’t

care much about keeping secrets.” Despite her words, she made no move to touch Erin.

Exhaling, Erin said, “We can’t.”

“Okay.” Katy drew back and gave Erin a sad smile. “I understand.”

“I’m sorry,” Erin mouthed. The tears spil ed over then and she turned away, embarrassed by her naked emotion. Resisting temptation was the

right thing to do here, wasn’t it? So why did it make her feel so bad?

“I’l see you tomorrow, ma’am.” Though Katy did a hel of a job keeping her voice steady, Erin could hear the sorrow in her words. “I’m glad

you’re okay.”

Erin closed her eyes, torn apart by the return of formality between them. She didn’t want Katy to leave, but it wouldn’t be fair to either of them to

let her stay. One of them needed to be strong, for both their sakes. No matter how much she needed to feel their connection right now, no matter

how strong her emotions, she had to let Katy walk out that door. There was no other option.

Erin jerked in surprise when Katy’s fingers touched her face, gently wiping away her tears. “None of that,” Katy whispered. “It’s al right.”

The tenuous hold Erin had on her control snapped. She opened her eyes and stepped forward without thinking, taking a fistful of Katy’s T-shirt

and pul ing her close. Their first kiss was clumsy, al passion and no technique. The second was perfect, familiar and life-affirming.

Erin struggled not to moan when Katy’s tongue dipped into her mouth. She sucked on it lightly, and felt Katy shudder. Erin broke their kiss and

released Katy’s shirt, shaken by her own weakness. She had promised herself she would never cross this line on duty, and yet al she could think

about now was kissing Katy again.

“You should go,” Erin whispered, not daring to meet Katy’s gaze. “Before we do something we’l regret.”

“Okay,” Katy whispered back, but she didn’t move. “You want me to go?”

Gathering her courage, Erin looked at Katy. What she saw made her legs shake. She could feel how much Katy loved her every time they

touched, and she had heard the words so many times she’d lost count. But right now Katy’s eyes said more than her mouth or hands ever had. Erin

placed her palms on either side of Katy’s face, wishing she could capture this moment and keep it forever.

“No,” Erin whispered. “Don’t go.”

Katy dropped her hand to the belt of Erin’s robe and tugged the knot loose. Slipping her hands inside, she grabbed Erin’s hips and walked her

backward until the corner of Erin’s desk dug into her back. Without missing a beat, Katy lifted Erin onto the desk and spread open her robe.

“Quickly,” Erin said, so softly she wasn’t sure Katy could even hear the words. “Quiet.”

Nodding, Katy ran both hands over Erin’s breasts. Her fingers were stil cold from the sea, and she left Erin’s nipples almost painful y hard. Erin

gritted her teeth so she wouldn’t cry out, it felt so good to be touched. Erin gripped Katy’s biceps, shivering when Katy pressed her bare thighs

apart.

Erin leaned her forehead on Katy’s shoulder and anticipated the first cool touch on her overheated pussy. Even expecting it, she jerked at the

chil of Katy’s hand. Stil she craved it. Needed it, more than she had ever needed anything in her life.

Katy’s fingers found her wetness, and Erin tightened her grip on Katy’s arms. She spread her legs as wide as she could, desperate for Katy to

go inside. Her heat warmed Katy’s fingers. She needed Katy to fil her, she needed the undeniable proof that Katy was alive. That she was right

here.

With one hand on Erin’s hip, Katy slipped a finger into her pussy, then two. Erin let her head fal back, soundlessly parting her lips and wishing

like hel that she could moan out loud. The emptiness she always felt when they were forced to be apart on patrol was gone. Erin squeezed Katy’s

arms and mouthed, “I love you.”

Katy nodded, curling her fingers to brush the spot that would make Erin come quickly. Erin already mourned the inevitable end of their

lovemaking even though she knew they couldn’t take their time—not here, not now. But as soon as Erin gave in to her orgasm, Katy would leave,

just as Erin had asked. Erin closed her eyes and concentrated on holding off as long as possible, not wanting to let Katy go.

But Katy fol owed orders, pumping her fingers hard, just the way Erin loved. The pleasure built rapidly in the pit of Erin’s stomach. Her limbs

growing heavier by the second, Erin grasped Katy’s arm as it worked between her thighs, marveling at her strength even when she knew she must

be exhausted. She could feel so much love in every stroke, and when Katy’s thumb landed on her clit and circled quickly, Erin was utterly and

completely lost.

Head thrown back, she came in a silent roar. Katy wrapped her free arm around Erin’s back in a fierce hug and held her close. Erin could feel

Katy’s rapid heartbeat against her bare breasts and she closed her eyes and savored the strong rhythm. Too quickly Katy kissed her cheek,

whispered, “I love you,” and withdrew. She walked to the sink on the other side of the room and washed her hands in silence.

Erin slipped off the desk, wobbling on unsteady legs. She pul ed her robe closed and tied the belt tightly. Too late for propriety, but she had to

pul herself together somehow. She watched Katy dry her hands then turn back to her, professional mask firmly in place.

“Thank you for your time, ma’am.” Katy saluted crisply, then smiled briefly. “I should be getting back to my rack.”

“I was proud of you out there tonight, Ms. Ortiz,” Erin said. In al her worrying, this was the one thing she hadn’t said. It just so happened to be the

most important thing. “Wel done.”

“I was just doing my job,” Katy said, but her smile grew.

“Doesn’t make me any less proud.” Erin took a deep breath and opened the door, glancing outside to make sure the hal way was empty. Coast

clear, she gave Katy a halfhearted smile. “Dismissed.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” With a curt nod, Katy stepped past her into the hal .

Before Katy could walk away, Erin murmured, “Ms. Ortiz?”

Katy turned back. “Ma’am?”

“Thank you for stopping by. I appreciate it.”

After glancing around to confirm they were stil alone, Katy grinned. “That was my pleasure, ma’am.”

Clifford Henderson lives and plays in Santa Cruz, California. She runs The Fun Institute, a school of improv and solo performance, with her

partner of seventeen years. In their classes and workshops, people of al genders and sexual orientations learn to access and express the myriad

of characters itching to get out. When she’s not teaching or performing, she’s writing, gardening, and twisting herself into weird yoga poses. Her

first novel, The Middle of Somewhere, was released by Bold Strokes Books in 2009. Her forthcoming novels include Spanking New (2010) and

Maye’s Request (2011), from Bold Strokes Books. www.cliffordhenderson.net.

Boiled Peas

Clifford Henderson

Penny’s heart had been trampled so many times she often thought of it as raw hamburger. Or an overripe persimmon pecked to death by birds

and then dropped—splat!—from a tree.

True, she was overly sensitive. Or that’s what her mom always said when she came to visit. Which she just had. And although her mom lived

4,915 miles away, her words had a way of sticking around after she left. They’d wrap around Penny like an itchy blanket. “You ask too much. Want

too much. Quit looking for the pea, princess.” The pea line was her mom’s favorite.

Penny ripped open the bag of frozen Safeway peas and let them tumble into the boiling water. It was her twenty-fourth birthday and she was

celebrating with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and boiled peas. She wanted to accept her fate. Swal ow it down. The too-picky princess who could

never be satisfied.

Her cat Screech looked up from his nest of pil ows on the couch. He was always interested when she was in the kitchen.

“Believe me, you wouldn’t like this,” Penny said to him, then went back to studying the dancing peas as if they were tea leaves.

It was sil y real y, to be obsessing over her mother’s words this way. She was twenty-four now. And had a good job as an intern at the Natural

History Museum. So why couldn’t she be more confident? Like her friend Kai.

Kai was a sculptor who taught yoga at a local spa to pay the bil s and didn’t even want to fal in love. “Why would I want someone to muck up my

perfect life?” she’d said to Penny just the other day. But it was different for Kai. Kai enjoyed one-night lovers.

Penny broke up a clump of frozen peas with a spoon while picturing Kai and someone equal y flexible contorting themselves into Kama Sutra–

like poses, and thought to herself, I could never do that with someone I’d just met.

It took Penny time to trust a person. She needed to feel loved.

She popped the cork on her bottle of Veuve Clicquot and held it over the sink to keep the froth from getting on the floor. What a waste, she

thought as she licked the expensive champagne from her fingers. She’d given up a haircut to afford it. Pouring the champagne into one of a pair of

etched champagne glasses she’d given as a Valentine’s gift to Phoenix, her last, and longest, love, she thought how sure she’d been that Phoenix

and she would be forever. They’d even moved in together.

Then Phoenix’s mental y unbalanced brother showed up and Phoenix told him he could stay until he worked something else out. It was pleasant

at first. The three of them would have dinner together, and once they’d al gone to bed, she and Phoenix would talk about how wel he seemed to be

doing. Then he began to leave raw egg in the pockets of Penny’s jackets. She’d reach in and her fingers would be covered in slime. She asked

Phoenix if maybe this wasn’t a bad sign but al Phoenix said was she’d talk to him. When he locked himself out and smashed the plate glass

window to gain entry, Penny was almost relieved. Surely now Phoenix would have to ask him to leave. But Phoenix hadn’t seen it that way. “He was

locked out, Penny. What was he supposed to do? I’l talk to his doctor about adjusting his medication.”

“But if he doesn’t take his medication, which he doesn’t, what difference wil it make?”

“Give him a chance!” Phoenix yel ed back. And so Penny had. Until he came brandishing the sewing scissors at the two of them, at which point

Phoenix final y admitted his being around was a problem. But by then it was too late. Penny’s trust was gone.

Before that there was her second-longest relationship, Mandy, who insisted her Great Dane sleep with them even though the flea-infested giant

kept pushing Penny out of bed.

Maybe she did ask too much.

She dipped a spoon into the pot of peas, scooped one up, blew on it, almost placed it on her tongue, then let it plop back into the boiling water.

She planned to eat a whole bowlful, every last one. Even if she did despise peas. She needed to accept the truth about herself. She’d never be truly

happy. Never.

She took a sip of Veuve Clicquot to wash the pea flavor from her mouth. Happy birthday to me.

There was a knock at the door. She glanced at the clock. No one ever dropped by unannounced. The only apartment she’d been able to afford

was too far away from the rest of her friends.

She tucked her pink fluffy robe around her and cinched it in so it wouldn’t accidental y slip open, and went to peer out the peephole. Screech,

who’d also been startled by the knock, glared at the door as if by sheer wil he could make it go transparent and see through to the other side.

The back of someone’s head was al Penny could see. Someone who had a lovely long black braid. No, two braids. One right on top of the

other. Penny set the chain and cracked open the door. “Can I help you?”

The someone with the long black braids turned around, revealing a sassy-looking dyke wearing a low-slung tool belt weighted down by a

hammer, tape measure, a few screwdrivers, and a bunch of other tools. In her hand was a toolbox decorated with vintage decals. She was tanned

with lean muscles and her mouth tipped up to one side. Her T-shirt said: Girl Scout Gone Bad.

“Sorry it’s so late. But you contacted management about a flickering light?”

Which Penny had. Almost two weeks ago. She scrutinized the woman. How old was she? Penny decided they were about the same age. “Um.

Yes I did. I most certainly did. Are you the new handyman—er, woman—they told us about?”

“I guess you could cal me that, although I’d prefer if you’d cal me Lil. I hope it’s okay I just came over without you returning my cal , but—”

“You cal ed?”

“Yeah.”

Penny glanced at her machine. Sure enough, it was blinking. “I must have been in the shower.”

“If it’s more convenient for me to come back…”

“No. No. This is fine.”

“Again, sorry about being so late, but Mrs. Dunbar’s drain in 6B was way clogged. Apparently she washes her Pomeranian in the sink.”

There was a pause in the conversation and Penny realized they were stil standing on opposite sides of the door with a chain lock between

them. “I guess I should let you in, then.”

“Only if it’s convenient. Like I said in my message. I’ve got a slot on Thursday I could plug you into.”

“Oh please. You’re here. Why don’t you just plug me now—I mean, in! Plug me in!” Blood flooded Penny’s cheeks. “I can’t believe I just said

that! I meant, you’re here, we might as wel get on with it. You know, fix the light.”

Lil smiled, her leprechaun green eyes flashing mischief, but Penny refused to be moved. She was not about to get sucked into another

disappointment. No way.

“My name’s Penny.”

“So what say you let me in, then, Penny?”

Penny thought for a moment, then unlatched the lock. She did need her light fixed. As she opened the door, she became ultra-aware of how she

must appear. It was a Friday night and here she was hanging around her apartment in her robe and holding a glass of champagne. Her hair was a

mess. “It’s…it’s my birthday and I was kind of…celebrating.”

Lil looked past her. “By yourself?”

Penny nodded toward Screech, who was cleaning his butt. “He may not look it now, but he’s quite the party animal.”

Lil set her toolbox on the floor and crouched down to massage Screech’s chin. “Hey, bud, you gonna help Miss Penny celebrate?” Screech

rubbed up against her hand. “He’s a real lover.”

Surprised to see her usual y suspicious cat taking to Lil so easily, Penny said, “Yeah, he is.”

After one final stroke down Screech’s back, Lil stood. “So why don’t you show me that light?”

“Oh, right. It’s in the bedroom.”

As Penny led Lil down the hal to the bedroom, she couldn’t stop jabbering. “It’s not that big of a thing, real y. I mean, it stil turns on. But about a

month ago it just sort of started to strobe.” She stepped into the bedroom and switched on the flickering light.

Lil placed her toolbox on the floor and looked up at the light. “I can’t believe it took you two weeks to cal . This would annoy the hel out of me.”

“Wel , I’d just had a problem with my dishwasher leaking, so it felt funny to cal again in the same month.”

Lil flicked the switch on, then off, then on again. “No one should have to put up with a light like this.”

Penny, suddenly overly warm and horribly self-conscious, blurted, “Especial y an epileptic,” and then to her horror, began laughing so hard she

snorted.

Lil looked away from the light fixture. “Hey, are you al right? You seem kind of keyed up.”

“I’m fine,” Penny said, pinching the top of her nose to regain her composure. “I think it’s this birthday thing. It’s got me kind of…I don’t know…

emotional.”

Lil sat on the edge of the bed and began unlacing her boots. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”

Why was this complete stranger taking off her boots—on her bed? Then Penny realized Lil didn’t want to get the bed dirty when she stood on it.

“Twenty-four,” she said, admiring the cleanliness of Lil’s socks.

Lil unscrewed the bulb. “Do you have a new one we could try?”

“In the hal closet,” Penny said and went to retrieve it. She couldn’t stop thinking how considerate it was that Lil had taken off her boots to stand

on the bed. Considerate and oddly intimate.

“Here’s a new bulb.”

Lil screwed it in. The flicker was stil there. “I’m going to need to turn off your breaker.”

“It’s in the—”

“Closet. I know. It’s the same for al the apartments.”

It was right then Penny smel ed the peas. “Crap!”

“What?”

“My peas are probably dead by now.”

“Your peas?”

“Long story,” Penny said as she bolted for the kitchen.

The water was al gone and it stank. She turned off the stove and poked at the bloated peas on top; those underneath were black. She sighed.

Of course she’d stil eat them, or at least skim a few off the top. She had to. Because while princesses in fairy tales always got their wish and lived

happily ever after, those in real life were invariably disappointed. And tonight was about accepting that—ful y.

“It’s about to go dark,” Lil cal ed from the hal . “Same breaker for the bedroom and the living room.”

“Do you need me to hold a flashlight for you?”

“Naw. I got a headlamp. You just sit back and enjoy your birthday.”

Penny took the pot of peas and bottle of champagne into the living room. She lit a candle. Screech stepped lightly onto her lap. She scratched

behind his ear. “Thanks for coming to my party.”

The sounds of Lil futzing around in the bedroom made her feel secure. She’d always liked people who could fix things.

She drained her glass and poured another, then another. There was no use rushing this concession to her mother. She had al night. And the

peas sure weren’t going anywhere. She peered into the pot, scooped out a spoonful of green mush and sniffed it.

A girl like her would never be satisfied. Her mother was right. She asked too much. Was too sensitive. She held the spoonful to her mouth

—Might as well—shut her eyes, and prepared to shove the spoonful of disgusting peas into her mouth.

“Just wanted you to know I’m about to turn the breakers back on.”

Penny opened her eyes and was dazzled by the spotlight of Lil’s headlamp. She blinked a couple of times, the spoon suspended in front of her

mouth.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing?” Lil asked.

“Me?”

Lil looked over her shoulder. “Is there anyone else here I should know about?”

Penny let the spoon drop into the pot and blinked back tears. She was buzzed, no two ways about it. “Nothing. I was just about to eat my fate.”

“Is that what’s so stinky?”

“You’ve no idea,” Penny said. Then something about being in the spotlight while seriously smashed on champagne uncorked Penny’s bottled-

up fears, and before she knew it she was spil ing out al over the place, tel ing Lil about never being able to be happy, and the raw eggs and snoring

dog, and her mother insisting that she was just like the princess who could feel a pea under twenty mattresses and twenty feather beds. Lil, who

flicked off her headlamp and settled in on the floor across from Penny, just listened, the candlelight casting lovely shadows on her face.

When Penny final y ran out of steam, Lil said, “I think you’re giving peas a bad rap.”

Penny was indignant. Was that al Lil had gotten from what she’d said? “I don’t see what that’s got to do with…”

Lil raised a hand to shush Penny. “Could I take you somewhere tomorrow? If you’re free, that is. I want to show you something. And then, if you

stil want to eat your gross peas, wel , fine, eat your gross peas. But I real y think you should see it before you go on with this.”

Penny peered into the pot. The peas looked even more revolting now that she’d scooped into them. And tomorrow was her day off. “Um. Okay. I

guess.”

“I have to work in the morning, but I could swing by at about one.”

Penny tucked a blond curl behind her ear. Should she be making this kind of commitment when she was on champagne? “Sure,” she said, not

at al sure that she was.

Lil stood. “Good. I’m going to turn the breakers back on.”

A yawn slipped from Penny’s mouth. She tried to disguise it with a smile. There was no way she wanted Lil to think the yawn had to do with their

date. Or was it a date? Her brain was so muddled from the champagne she real y had no idea. But she knew she had to say something. “You fixed

it?”

“Won’t know until the breaker’s back on, but I found some loose wires. If this doesn’t work, I’l come back tomorrow to check the switch. You

want me to turn off this switch so you’re not blasted by light when they come back on?”

Another yawn threatened to slip out, but Penny held this one back. “That would be nice.”

Once Lil was out of the room, Penny stretched out on the couch next to a purring Screech. His soft rumble made her eyelids heavy. She let them

close. Once again, she felt comforted by the sounds of Lil in the bedroom. She moved with such confidence, such self-assurance.

Penny pul ed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and tucked it in around herself and Screech. What was she doing making a date with

someone she’d just met? Again she wondered if it actual y was a date. Maybe Lil just felt sorry for her. That seemed more likely. Who’d want to

make a date with a sloshed crybaby obsessed with peas?

She woke briefly when Lil blew out her candle and slipped out of the apartment, clicking the door softly behind her. At some point in the night,

Penny made her way to her bedroom where she slept uninterrupted until noon.

She awoke feeling refreshed, and excited, and a bit nervous about her date.

Once out of bed, she checked the light. Sure enough, the flicker was gone. She made her way to the kitchen where Screech rubbed up against

her leg as if she might forget to feed him. “Okay. Okay. Hold your horses.” As she reached for the cat food, she noticed a note on her counter

weighted down by the pot of peas.

Miss Penny,

If you’ve changed your mind about today, call me. 335-3700. Otherwise I’ll see you at 1:00.

Lil

She smiled. No one had ever cal ed her Miss Penny before.

As a reminder not to get her hopes up, she dumped the loose peas into the garbage disposal, then fil ed the pot with water to soak the rest of

them out. You barely know her.

At one sharp there was a knock at the door. Penny glanced in the mirror. She’d been unsure how to dress so had chosen casual: jeans, her

favorite tank top that showed just a strip of midriff, and sandals. She was glad for her choice when she opened the door. Lil was wearing shorts, a

T-shirt, and work boots.

“You stil up for this?” Lil asked.

Penny picked up her purse. “If you promise it’l keep me from eating those gross peas.”

Lil laughed. “I can’t promise, but I have a hunch.”

As they walked down the stairwel , Penny couldn’t help but feel sheepish about the night before. “Thanks for fixing my light.”

“No need to thank me,” Lil said. “It’s my job. Besides, it was my pleasure.” She unlocked the passenger side of an old pickup. “And this is my

chariot.”

Penny slipped in. The interior was spotless and smel ed as if it had recently been wiped down with something slightly citrus. “Nice,” she said

when Lil came around the other side.

“Thanks. She might not be fancy, but she’s paid for.” With that, Lil turned the key in the ignition and pul ed into the light Saturday stream of

traffic.

A wave of panic passed through Penny. She barely knew this woman, and now here she was in a truck with her going to God-knew-where. She

tried to think of something to say. “So, what was wrong with the light?” was al she could come up with.

“The usual. A few of the wires were loose. It can happen over time.”

“Especial y when you have a guy upstairs who jumps rope.”

“In his apartment?”

“Monday through Friday. Six a.m. Right above my bed.”

“You shouldn’t have to put up with that.”

“What choice do I have? He pays his rent just like I do.”

As Lil seemed to be mul ing this over, Penny sat back, trying to appear casual, and observed her driving.

She moved through traffic with confidence, like she belonged on the road. And she stopped for pedestrians. This was something Penny

appreciated as she herself did not have a car so was often walking. And yet there was something about Lil’s confidence that also frightened Penny.

Where was she taking her? Just as she was about to ask, Lil said:

“I’m going to talk to Mr. Baratel i.”

“The landlord?”

“Yup. He and I have a pretty good rapport. I’l let him know that the reason your lighting fixture needed work was because of unnecessary

physical activity upstairs.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. I hate the thought—” Lil slammed on the brakes to keep from hitting a blue Mazda that ran a stop sign. Her arm instinctively reached

across to protect Penny. “You okay?”

Shaken, Penny said, “Fine.”

When Lil removed her arm, an unexpected longing passed through Penny. “My dad used to do that,” she said.

“He didn’t want anything to happen to his precious cargo.”

“I don’t know about precious.”

Lil glanced at her briefly before returning her attention to the sudden cluster of traffic. “I do.”

Penny looked out the window and said, “Thank you,” very softly. Who was this Lil? And why was Penny stil apprehensive?

A few minutes later they pul ed up to a row of Victorians that had been split into apartments. “Mine’s the blue and gray one,” Lil said. “I’d invite

you in, but one of my roommates is down with the flu. No need exposing you to that.”

Penny cocked an eyebrow. “So why did we come here?”

Lil smiled. “You’l see. Now fol ow me.” And before Penny knew it Lil was out of the truck and making her way down a smal dark walkway

between two Victorians.

Penny hopped out of the truck and trotted behind. What was this girl up to?

The walkway opened up onto a large community garden.

Lil stepped to the side of the entrance made of marvelously twisted wood, bent slightly at the waist, and swept her arm wide. “After you.”

Penny, acting al serious, pretended to lift a heavy ankle-length skirt, tilted her chin toward the sky, and stepped through the arbor, then stopped

dead in her tracks. The garden was stunning. Rows of raised beds, each meticulously kept up, fil ed the quarter-acre plot. And there were little

sculpted sitting areas here and there—and wind chimes.

Penny walked over to a bed lined with luscious green. “Is this butter lettuce?”

“The best in the world.” Lil grinned. “And completely organic.” She broke off an outside leaf. “Want a taste?”

Penny opened her mouth and Lil tucked the crisp leaf between her lips. The back of her hand gently brushed the side of Penny’s cheek.

Was that on purpose? Penny wondered. A slight shiver passed down her spine as, with great care, she closed her mouth around the lettuce

leaf. It would be the freshest thing she had ever eaten and she wanted to savor it.

“Oh my God. It’s so…”

“Buttery?”

“It is! Store-bought never tastes like that.”

“Taste this,” Lil said, ripping off a dark green leaf from another plant.

An impossibly sweet burst exploded in Penny’s mouth. “What is that?”

“Italian parsley.”

“Parsley? I thought parsley was just something you got on the side of your plate at a restaurant.”

Lil popped a sprig into her own mouth, “I use it for a breath freshener,” then walked over to a raised bed ful of beets and carrots. “Soon we’l be

putting in the summer stuff. You know, tomatoes, squash, eggplant.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Penny asked, suddenly praying it wasn’t a girlfriend.

“Our col ective. But I’m one of the main ones. I work out here almost every day.”

Penny watched as Lil tenderly inspected the underside of a broccoli leaf. “I had no idea broccoli grew like that,” she admitted.

“Isn’t it beautiful? The heads are actual y flowers.”

The thought of eating flowers delighted Penny. She brought her nose to the broccoli head and inhaled. It didn’t smel like a flower, but had a rich

musky scent. “Yum.”

“I’l make you up a bag of produce before you go,” Lil said, taking Penny’s hand. “But now let me show you why I brought you here.”

Penny let herself be led to the back of the garden, loving the feel of her hand in Lil’s. They fit so perfectly, Lil’s larger, stronger hand wrapping

around her smal er softer one. “Thank you for blowing out my candle last night.”

Lil gave her hand a squeeze. “Seemed like you were having a pretty rough night.”

They rounded a tal trel is covered in climbing green vines.

“Voilà!” Lil said. “My pride and joy.”

Penny laughed. The vines were covered in pea pods. Of course! She stepped in for a closer look and noticed threadlike tendrils reaching out

from the vines to curl around to the slender bamboo rods of the trel is. Along with the pea pods, each vine was sprinkled with the most delicate

white flowers. Apparently peas started out their lives as flowers.

“Now these are birthday peas,” Lil said. “Go ahead. Pick as many as you want.”

Penny glanced at Lil, her grip on Lil’s hand involuntarily tightening. “You expect me to eat these?”

“Why not? You were going to eat those crappy burned ones last night.”

“But they’re not cooked.”

“Don’t tel me you’ve never had fresh peas off the vine.”

Embarrassed, Penny shook her head. Until last night, she general y avoided peas altogether.

Lil let go of her hand and plucked a pod off the vine. “Promise to keep an open mind?”

Penny nodded. What choice did she have? This woman, who she was finding herself more and more attracted to, was offering up what she

cal ed her “pride and joy.”

Lil slid her finger down the seam of the slender pod and cracked it open, revealing six perfectly round peas. “Take one,” she said as she

stepped in close enough for Penny to smel her clean, parsley-scented breath.

Much as Penny was excited by the sudden intimacy and Lil’s obvious delight in the peas, she couldn’t help noticing a mild nausea heating up

her bel y. What am I doing? I hate peas. But she couldn’t refuse, not after al the trouble Lil had gone to. So she braced herself for yet another

disappointment, and said, “Okay. I’l try.”

She chose the plumpest one, right in the center, and tugged lightly. The round orb popped out easily. Now she’d have to eat it. Or at least put it

in her mouth. Lil’s hopeful gaze was giving her no choice. She slipped the pea between her lips. The smal hard bal rested on her tongue, so

innocent, so devoid of expectation. She rol ed it around in her mouth a couple of times, testing, then without another thought bit down.

“You like?” Lil asked.

Penny thought for a moment, and, to her surprise, found she wasn’t the least bit repulsed. It was sweet. Fresh. Nothing like the bland peas of

her childhood. She took the whole pod from Lil and, using her tongue, flicked the rest of the peas into her mouth.

Lil laughed. “I guess the answer is yes.”

Penny wanted to say the answer was more than yes and that this was the best birthday present she’d ever received—in her whole life—even if

it was a day late. But before she could put this thought to words, Lil pul ed another pod from the vine, popped it open, and let the peas tumble into

her palm; only this time instead of offering them up for eating, she just let them rest there. “It just blows my mind that inside each of these peas is the

beginning of a whole plant.”

“Kind of like people,” Penny said softly. “Each one of us is ful of so many things that nobody knows about. Like you with this garden.”

Lil picked up a pea and pressed it to Penny’s lips. “I’d like to know more about you. If you’d let me.”

Penny let her lips curl around Lil’s fingertip and linger for a moment, then took the pea into her mouth and circled it with her tongue before biting

down and swal owing. “I should tel you, I’m not always easy. I can be kind of like…”

“A princess. You told me. But from what I’ve seen, you’re the real thing.”

An icy wal inside Penny began to melt, releasing a single tear. She brushed it back.

Lil let the peas in her hand drop into the rich soil, then rested both hands on Penny’s shoulders. “What’s more, I think real princesses deserve to

live happily ever after.”

The warmth of Lil’s hands made Penny’s knees go weak. “I’d kind of given up on that whole notion.”

Lil cocked her head. “You’d given up on peas, too. So what do you say we give this princess thing one more try?”

Merry Shannon grew up a military brat. An avid reader with a deep love of language, Merry began writing at the age of seven and completed her

first novel-length story when she was thirteen. She graduated in 2001 with a BA in English and currently resides in Colorado with one very noisy cat.

Her Bold Strokes novels include the romantic fantasy Sword of the Guardian and the romantic adventure Branded Ann, a 2008 ForeWord

magazine Book of the Year finalist.

The Whisper

Merry Shannon

Yawning, Jordan Gray shuffled into the kitchen, reached for the coffeepot, and winced as the movement sent a bolt of pain through her shoulder.

Another tough night, she thought rueful y, and considered the glass pot in her hand. How easy it would be to send it floating over to the sink, to fil it

up and empty it into the coffeemaker without having to move another aching muscle. The idea was incredibly tempting, but Jordan pushed it away

with a sigh. She’d sworn long ago to never use her telekinetic powers frivolously. Frivolity was recklessness, and recklessness was how a person

got caught.

So instead, Jordan carried the pot to the sink herself and prepared the coffeemaker by hand. When it was ready, she even pushed the little

start button with her finger.

The scent of brewing coffee brought her roommate stumbling sleepily into the kitchen, curly hair wisping across her forehead.

“Oh, thank God.” Dana plopped onto a stool at the breakfast bar, eyeing the coffeepot with anticipation as she automatical y flipped open her

laptop. “Jordan, you’re an angel.”

Jordan felt her cheeks warm. She didn’t drink coffee herself, but her favorite part of every morning was the way Dana’s pretty blue eyes lit up at

that first sip. Not that she would ever tel Dana that, of course.

“Ah, she was at it again!” Dana shrieked delightedly.

“Who?” Jordan asked, though she already knew perfectly wel . Just once, she wished she could take care of business without every reporter in

the city clamoring about it the next day.

“The Whisper, of course! She’s al over the news again this morning. Looks like she saved a bunch of people from an apartment fire last night.”

Leaning closer to the computer screen, Dana read aloud. “‘At approximately two thirty a.m., a fire broke out in the Sage Hil Apartment Complex.

Several people, including three smal children, were trapped on the upper floors. Witnesses say the mysterious silver-clad heroine, known

throughout Twilight City as The Whisper, entered the blazing building through a window. She levitated al eight victims safely to the ground just

before the roof col apsed. No bodies were found in the debris, and authorities believe that The Whisper survived the col apse.’” Dana snorted.

“Wel , of course she did!”

Hiding a grimace as her sore shoulder protested, Jordan set a steaming coffee mug on the breakfast bar and retrieved her toast, Dana took

the mug absently and raised it to her lips, then closed her eyes with a look of bliss. “Mmm.”

Jordan was careful to quel her smile before Dana’s eyes reopened.

“Look, the Twilight City Gazette posted a picture!” Dana swiveled the laptop around to show the blurry digital image of a shiny silver silhouette

zooming toward the smoking apartment building. Jordan took a cursory glance and shrugged, and Dana let out a puff of exasperation. She turned

the computer to face her again and gazed at the photo dreamily. “Have you ever seen anyone so completely, utterly sexy?”

Jordan choked on a mouthful of toast. “What?”

“Oh come on, even under al that quiet butch stoicism, I know you have the same fantasies as every other lesbian in this city. Telekinetic

superpowers, heroic rescues, and wil you just look at that body? I mean, those thighs…that ass! Just makes a girl wanna strip that mask off and…”

Dana made a sexy noise in the back of her throat that raised goose bumps on Jordan’s arms.

“I never real y thought about it,” Jordan said, embarrassed.

“If you’d ever been in her arms, you’d get it. She’s so…damn, she even smel s good. And when she whispers in your ear it’s like warm honey

poured right down your spine.” Dana shivered, looking starstruck. “Best night of my life.”

Jordan stared at her. “You were almost assaulted that night!”

“And saved by the most delicious woman on earth!”

Jordan turned to put her empty plate in the dishwasher, hoping Dana wouldn’t notice the flush creeping steadily up her neck. “I gotta get to

work.”

“See you later,” Dana mumbled, already absorbed in the computer again.

*

“Mornin’, Gray.” Manny Lopez greeted Jordan with a friendly punch to the shoulder that made her gasp.

“Ow, Manny, watch it.”

“Oh. Sorry, I forgot.” He did sound apologetic, but there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “So tel me, how’d that little hottie you live with

enjoy the morning news?”

“Not in the mood today, Manny.” Jordan grabbed her hard hat from her locker and banged the door shut. She knew Dana would be attached to

her laptop most of the day, posting articles to the various Internet blogs she wrote for, and the majority would be glowing commentary regarding The

Whisper’s latest exploits.

“That bad, huh? Gotta be just kil ing you that you can’t tel her the truth. She start going on again about how the incredible Whisper saved her

from those punks?” He fluttered his lashes as they walked to the construction site. “Ooh, The Whisper is sooo strong and brave. Ooh, how I’d like to

get that yummy, shiny superhero between my—”

Jordan narrowed her eyes and sent a mental shove at Manny’s chest. It was scarcely more than a thump, but she knew her irises would flash

silver as she used her power, and that would be al the warning he needed. She was right; he shut up quickly.

“Geez, okay, I was just kidding.”

“Wel , it’s not funny.” Jordan kept her voice low as they passed some of the other workers. “What if someone hears you?”

“Hey, it’s no big secret that you’ve got the hots for her, Gray. Every guy out here knows that gorgeous roommate of yours has got you wrapped

around her little finger.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” Jordan gestured toward the large sign posted nearby, which proclaimed the construction site as a

forthcoming project of Wingate Industries, Inc. “You know what he’l do if he finds out.”

“Al right, al right.” Manny ducked under part of the framing and reached into a heavy tool box. He tossed her a hammer, his aim off by quite a

bit, but Jordan caught it anyway.

When he grinned, she rol ed her eyes. “Let’s just get to work.”

By midmorning Jordan had shed her jacket and long-sleeved shirt and was down to just her tank top and coveral s. She could have used her

telekinetic ability to make the work easier: the loads lighter to lift, the hammer strikes more forceful. But exertion was good for her. Her powers were

far more effective when she used them to amplify her own strength rather than just reaching out with her mind.

Besides, there was something sweetly ironic about using Wendel Wingate’s construction projects to empower herself—or rather, to empower

The Whisper. She’d sought a position on this construction crew in the hopes of getting close to the corrupt corporate development tycoon. With

incredible wealth and power at his disposal, Wendel Wingate control ed nearly al of Twilight City through a regime of intimidation and terror. The

fire at the apartment complex the night before was likely retaliation for the owner’s refusal to pay Wingate’s “security fee.”

Wingate had the police and the mayor on his private payrol , and The Whisper was the only force left in the city who could actual y protect its

citizens. Jordan fought back, donning the sleek silver bodysuit and mask and using her telekinetic abilities to thwart Wingate’s schemes. She’d

become a hero to the citizens of Twilight—and a much-hated adversary to Wingate Industries. Wingate would like nothing better than to get his

hands on her, which was why Manny, her best friend since childhood, was the only person who knew The Whisper’s true identity.

Her anonymity kept her alive, but there were times when the secrecy was nearly unbearable. Especial y when it came to Dana Davis. Beautiful,

bril iant, sassy Dana. Jordan hadn’t anticipated what a problem it would be, sharing living space with someone she had fal en so hard for and could

never, ever be with. The danger of her extracurricular activities negated any possibility of meaningful relationships. Before Dana had entered her

life, Jordan had always accepted that just fine. Now, though, it seemed torturously unfair.

A loud screech of metal broke into her thoughts, and she looked up to see one of the chains that dangled from a crane to support a twenty-ton

steel beam snap. Panicked shouts rang out as one end of the beam tilted downward, its immense weight easily breaking the remaining supports.

Manny was standing directly beneath the crane, seemingly frozen in place as the enormous metal girder hurtled toward him.

“Manny, look out!” Jordan was more than a hundred feet away and she’d never physical y reach him in time. Reflexively, she flung one hand

upward, stopping the heavy beam in midair for a split second. With the other arm she made a sweeping motion that knocked Manny nearly five feet

sideways. She released the beam quickly, and it crashed to the ground so hard she could feel the earth vibrate under her feet. Panting, Jordan ran

to her friend’s side.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Think so,” Manny wheezed.

Concerned team members surrounded them, al wanting to know what had happened. Jordan looked around nervously, hoping everything had

transpired so fast that no one noticed what she had done.

*

In his penthouse office downtown, Wendel Wingate took an urgent cal from his construction foreman. “This had better be important.”

“Oh, it is, sir. You have security footage of the Hampton project? Something just happened that you’re definitely gonna want to see.”

Wingate played the security video in slow motion on the big screen mounted against the far wal , taking in every detail as the support chains

broke and a steel beam dropped from the crane. Workers scattered, but one of them, a woman, ran toward the plummeting girder. She threw out

hers arms and almost imperceptibly, the fal ing beam stopped moving as the man standing beneath it was shoved violently out of the way, as if

propel ed by some invisible hand.

Wingate replayed the scene and zoomed in on the image. Closer…closer…and a little to the left…there. He sat forward in his chair and

advanced the tape frame by frame, holding focus tight on the woman’s face. She mouthed words, one at a time, and then suddenly, her eyes

changed. In one frame they were dark, and in the next…

“It’s her,” he snarled. “Under my nose the whole time.”

He snatched up the phone and punched a button. “Get me everything, and I mean everything, we have on this Jordan Gray. I want to know

where she lives, who her friends are, what she had for breakfast. Now!” He slammed the phone back down and stared at the screen again. “I’ve got

you at last, Whisper.”

*

Jordan’s keys clanked as she wearily unlocked the apartment door. Why did she ever let Manny and the guys convince her to go out after

work? It always resulted in loud, drunken carousing that ended far too late for her taste, even when they al knew they’d be getting up before dawn

the next morning. But after today’s near-disastrous accident, it hadn’t seemed right to deny her friend the chance to buy her a drink.

She pushed the door open and fumbled for the light switch. Her mouth fel open. “What the—?”

The living room was a mess: papers scattered everywhere, one armchair upended, the sofa upholstery slashed, sharp bits of china and glass

littering the carpet. Dana’s laptop lay in one corner, the screen cracked and flickering.

“Oh God.” She raced into the apartment. “Dana!”

She spied a piece of paper on the breakfast bar and grabbed it, her hands trembling.

Whisper—Be at Wingate Tower at midnight, or the woman dies.

Jordan slowly crumpled the paper. He knew. Wingate knew who she was, and he had Dana.

Closing her eyes, she extended her arms and rose from the floor. Fabric rustled and her work clothes disappeared. Her silver bodysuit

materialized from its hiding place and quickly slid around her body like a shimmering second skin. Boots leapt from the closet to encase her feet,

lacing and tying themselves securely. The hood came up around her face, covering her neck and hair, and a shining silver mask floated into her

palm.

Jordan turned to the window, which threw itself open, curtains blowing in the sudden night breeze. She lifted the mask to her face and The

Whisper soared out the open window and into the sky.

The doors to the main lobby were unlocked and Jordan glided into the building silently, scanning for any sign of movement. Wingate Tower was

a work of architectural bril iance. From where Jordan stood in the center of the ornately patterned lobby, she could see al the way up to the glass

paneled roof. Every one of the thirty floors wrapped around this central core, with the office spaces fronted by huge glass windows to al ow light to

filter in from above. The building was entirely dark save for one glowing ring of light at the very top—the penthouse office. It shone like the tip of a

lighthouse, beckoning to her, and Jordan gritted her teeth. Wingate was cal ing her—taunting her with the fact that he had something she wanted.

Anger, and a sharp prick of fear, heated her insides. Never before had her battle with Wingate Industries been this personal, or this dangerous

to someone she cared about. If she lived through this, she promised herself, Wingate would never, ever get such an opportunity again.

She soared upward, through the faintly glittering glass tunnel, and the shining ring of the penthouse above grew closer and closer. At last she

reached the top, and there he was, sitting smugly at his mahogany desk behind a huge wal of glass. Two masked men stood to his left with Dana

between them. One pressed a knife to her throat.

Jordan struck at the huge window that separated them, putting al her physical and telekinetic strength into the blow, and the window splintered

in a shower of crystal ine fragments. The impact sent cracks rippling al the way around the circular corridor, until every window seemed etched with

spiderwebs. She flew into Wingate’s office and surged toward him, but he calmly held up a hand. Dana’s whimper stopped Jordan in midair.

She touched down on the thick office carpet as a tiny rivulet of blood trickled down Dana’s neck, courtesy of the blade beneath her chin. Jordan

froze, glaring at Wingate, her blood boiling at the terror contracting Dana’s pretty features.

“Let her go,” she commanded in the harsh whisper that had inspired her name. Wingate smiled and beckoned to another man who emerged

from the shadows behind him. “I see even a glimmer of silver in those eyes, Whisper, and she dies.”

The masked man closed in on her and abruptly punched her in the stomach, quickly fol owing up with a second blow to her face. The strikes

were sharp and powerful, but Jordan didn’t dare use her powers to block them. Not when Dana was at risk.

She couldn’t use her powers, but Wingate hadn’t said she couldn’t fight back at al . She retaliated with a fist to the masked man’s jaw, careful to

use only her natural strength. He reeled backward, and she lunged at him. Something heavy hit her in the back, and she fel to her knees. A second

masked man joined the fight and kicked her solidly in the gut. She fel forward onto her hands, gasping for air. She tasted blood on her lower lip as

she painful y straightened. Without her powers, she was not strong or fast enough to protect herself against two opponents at once.

Wingate laughed. “You have a choice, Whisper. Your life, or hers.”

His men leveled handguns at her. Dana was stil held at knifepoint. She looked terrified, her breath coming in frightened gulps.

“What’s to stop you from kil ing her after I’m dead?” Jordan snarled.

“I guess you’l just have to take my word for it,” Wingate said smugly.

“You leave me no choice,” Jordan said. Wingate would never let Dana live, not after al Dana had witnessed tonight.

“No!” Dana thrashed in her captors’ arms.

“Dana, don’t move!” Jordan commanded, then raised her hands in surrender.

“Kil her!” Wingate ordered.

As the men fired, Jordan closed her eyes. She had only mil iseconds to push a burst of energy from her palms, deflecting the bul ets at precise

angles, hoping against hope that her hurried mental calculations were correct. Dana screamed, men grunted, and Wingate howled in fury. Jordan

opened her eyes.

The men holding Dana had col apsed, each one struck by a bul et meant for The Whisper. Dana appeared shaken but very much alive, the

knife lying harmlessly at her feet.

Wingate gestured furiously at the two remaining men. “Don’t just stand there, you morons, kil them both! Now!”

But now that the threat to Dana was gone, Jordan didn’t bother to hide her tel tale silver irises as she stretched out her hands toward the

gunmen and closed her fists. The guns in their hands crumpled, like paper wadded into bal s, and they dropped them with anxious yelps. Both men

turned and ran, leaving their boss to face The Whisper’s wrath alone. She turned her attention to him then, power crackling fiercely around her entire

body, fueled by her rage.

Wingate backed away as Jordan stalked closer. “You’ve won this time, Whisper, but—”

In his haste, he failed to notice that he was standing just in front of the shattered office window. He took just one step too many; his heel

dropped over the window edge and he lost his balance. For a split second his arms flailed uselessly in an attempt to right himself, and with a look of

shock, he dropped out of sight.

Without thinking, Jordan dashed to the window and reached down for him, but it was too late. Wingate struck the lobby floor with a faint thump.

Dana appeared at her side and looked down at the motionless body lying far below. “Did you—?”

Jordan shook her head. “No. He fel . I couldn’t stop it.”

“Fine by me.” Dana raised a hand to the cut at her throat. “Bastard.”

“Are you al right?”

Dana nodded. “Thanks to you.”

Jordan caught the adoration in Dana’s voice and shifted uncomfortably. “You should get home.”

Dana ran a hand lightly up Jordan’s arm. “Wil you take me?”

Jordan struggled to suppress the shiver that went through her at Dana’s touch. Frivolity is recklessness, she reminded herself feebly. Her

powers were almost tapped; it had taken every last bit of her concentration to redirect those bul ets so quickly and with such precision. Stil , Dana

was watching her with such hope, such admiration…such desire. Jordan’s stomach clenched. “Al right.”

With an expectant look, Dana slid her hands up Jordan’s shoulders and around her neck. Dana’s chest rose and fel rapidly and Jordan felt

each hot, electrified breath on her own lips. With a gentle pulse of energy, she lifted Dana from the floor and into her arms. Now Dana’s face was so

close to her own, her deep blue eyes gazing hungrily into her masked ones and her body nestled snugly against the silver bodysuit. Every inch of

Jordan’s skin tingled.

“Hold on,” she managed to say, then stepped through the broken window. They hovered for a moment as she sent another kinetic blast toward

the glass ceiling above. Dana cuddled close to Jordan’s neck as they soared upward through the shimmering, fal ing shards. Outside, the night air

was cool and the blare of approaching police sirens sounded far below them.

“When they find your blood in Wingate’s office they’l want to question you,” Jordan warned.

“Let them,” Dana replied vehemently. “I’m going to cal them myself as soon as I get home. You should see what they did to my apartment! My

roommate’s gonna be so pissed.”

Jordan would have smiled, but she couldn’t waste the strength. She was already straining to keep the two of them flying. But the exertion was

wel worth it. She relished the feel of Dana clasped tightly against her, her mere proximity making Jordan’s heart thud erratical y. As exhausted as

she was, and as much as she knew it was going to cost her tomorrow, she didn’t care. She would make these priceless minutes with Dana in her

arms last as long as she could.

Final y Jordan touched down on the apartment balcony. Reluctantly, she set Dana down.

“How did you know where I live?” Dana asked

Jordan couldn’t think of a suitable explanation, as mental y she chastised herself for her slip. She couldn’t reply, but Dana didn’t seem

concerned by her silence. She gently touched Jordan’s swol en lip. “You’re bleeding.”

Dana’s fingers sent a little electric jolt through Jordan’s body, tightening her stomach and thrumming abruptly between her legs. Jordan caught

her breath and dropped to the balcony floor.

“My God, are you al right?” Dana cried, her eyes widening.

“Fine. Just tired.” Jordan struggled to stand again, but instead just managed to flop awkwardly onto her side.

“Stay right there.” Dana disappeared into the apartment, and when she returned, she held a cup of water. Kneeling, she offered it to Jordan with

a worried expression.

Jordan drained the cup and handed it back. This time she was able to make it to her feet, albeit unsteadily. “I should go.”

“Not yet. Please?” Dana backed Jordan against the balcony railing, getting so close that their hips pressed firmly together. When Dana’s leg

slid, ever so casual y, between Jordan’s thighs, she closed her eyes.

“Whisper…you’re shaking.” Dana’s tone was a mixture of wonder and arousal, and Jordan fought to suppress a groan. But when Dana’s hands

came up and tugged at her mask, Jordan caught her wrists.

“Stop. You can’t.”

Dana kissed her. Jordan was utterly unprepared for the heat of Dana’s mouth, for the sweet, soft lips devouring hers. She gasped when Dana

licked lightly at her lower lip, drawing it slightly into her mouth and releasing it in a slow, tantalizing caress when she pul ed back. Jordan stared at

her, unable to breathe, her pulse pounding in her ears. Again Dana reached for her mask, and though Jordan stiffened, she was now powerless to

stop her. The kiss had left her head ringing, and nothing else mattered…nothing but tasting those lips again.

“Shh, it’s al right,” Dana murmured, removing Whisper’s mask. “Oh my God. Jordan?”

The shock on Dana’s face brought Jordan immediately back to her senses. What had she done? Jordan pul ed away from Dana and tried to

levitate from the balcony, but only managed to get a few inches above the ground before her powers gave out and she dropped again.

Embarrassed, off balance, Jordan slipped past Dana into the apartment.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” Jordan mumbled, keeping her head down as she headed for the front door. “I’m just gonna—”

“Wait! Jordan, wait!” Dana caught Jordan’s wrist. She pul ed back the silver hood and brushed her fingers through Jordan’s short dark hair,

tugging little pieces back into place around her ears. She ran her fingers down Jordan’s neck and across her col arbone. “I should have known.”

Feeling hot and queasy, Jordan repeated again, “I’m sorry.” She should get out, run, but she had nowhere to go.

“You saved my life.” Dana met her eyes intently. “Twice.”

“Yeah.” Jordan didn’t know what else to say. She couldn’t tel Dana what she felt, could she?

“And you sat here and listened to me go on and on about the incredible hotness of The Whisper every day, and you never told me.”

“I’m sor—” Jordan was cut off by Dana’s lips, pressed against hers once again. But this time, her kiss was softer. Deeper. Delicately she

explored Jordan’s mouth with her tongue and a light nip of teeth, slipping inside to tangle Jordan’s tongue with hers. Every movement was tender,

sweet, exquisite—and Jordan was stunned by the passion suddenly radiating from every line of Dana’s body.

Unable to contain a moan, Jordan drew Dana into her arms, returning the kiss with everything she had, with al the feelings that had been

hidden so careful y in her heart for so long. And though her powers were drained, some smal reserve must have remained. Bits of paper and

broken china rose into the air al around them. Then their feet left the floor and they floated blissful y in each other’s arms.

Born and raised in upstate New York, Erin Dutton now lives and works in middle Tennessee. In her free time she enjoys reading, photography,

and playing golf.

Her previous novels include four romances: Sequestered Hearts, Fully Involved, A Place to Rest, and Designed For Love. She is also a

contributor to Erotic Interludes 5: Road Games and Romantic Interludes 1: Discovery from Bold Strokes Books. Her latest novel, Point of Ignition,

came out in July 2009.

Better Than Fiction

Erin Dutton

We’d like to thank you al once again for coming. This afternoon’s readings wil feature sneak peeks at some forthcoming novels from some of

your favorite authors.”

As the facilitator went on to introduce the first author, the twinge in my stomach grew increasingly noticeable. I fought the urge to shove my

hands in the pockets of my jeans to hide the slight trembling in my fingers. Squinting against the bright sunlight, I regretted my decision to leave my

sunglasses on the table next to the chair I had abandoned minutes ago. But I hoped the heat would provide an excuse for the flush staining my

cheeks.

I stood off to the side of the makeshift stage, which was real y only a clearing on the aggregate patio around the pool. Around me, women

perched on folding chairs that had been placed between the already occupied umbrel a-shaded tables. At the moment their attention was riveted

on the dark-haired woman at the microphone reading from her upcoming espionage novel. When I’d read her last book I had been unable to put it

down. But today, I couldn’t concentrate on her words. I barely registered the accented voice I would normal y have found sexy.

Public speaking always made me nervous. And as I awaited my turn at the microphone, I surreptitiously glanced at the papers I’d been holding

so tightly that a crease bisected the passage. Since I was minutes away from delivering my own reading, there was little point in studying the words,

but scanning them helped calm my racing heart.

I swept my eyes over the audience, then stopped as I met a pair of calm blue eyes. Despite her casual posture there was a seriousness in her

expression that I knew was meant to reassure me. Her gaze was a silent reminder that I would do just fine, as I had during each of my other

readings in the previous two days.

At that moment she glanced down my body and even from a few feet away I imagined I could see her eyes darken when they paused near my

crotch. I felt the heat in my face ratchet up as I realized she was likely thinking about what lay beneath my jeans. The thin strips of leather hugging my

hips and ass provided sufficient distraction from the waiting spectators, but now my nervousness took on a new edge. My fingers tingled with the

temptation to discreetly smooth my hand over the fly of my jeans where I knew I would feel the ridge of the metal ring that for the time being

remained empty. The rest of my equipment nestled safely in her purse on the table next to her elbow.

Earlier, she had watched as I dressed for the afternoon’s events. When I had emerged from the bathroom unable to hide a shy smile, she

crossed the room and deftly unfastened the fly of my jeans.

“Sexy,” she’d murmured as she spread the soft denim. I glanced down and had to admit there was something hot about how the denim framed

the silver ring lying against smooth black leather. She’d caressed the metal circle, lightly then more firmly, and an imprint of pleasure lingered on my

skin long after she stopped.

She searched my eyes, as if trying to gauge my reaction to wearing the harness. I had put it on briefly before, right after we first bought it, just to

see how it felt. I certainly wasn’t a prude, but I had never felt comfortable confessing my curiosity about such things to any of my previous lovers. So I

was surprised when I found myself having the conversation with her far earlier in our relationship than I would have expected. She echoed my

interest as wel as my apprehension and we had tabled the discussion until we knew each other better, which turned out to be only a few weeks

later as we shyly wandered the aisles of a local adult shop. The rush of arousal and power when I first slipped on the harness had caught me off

guard, though I stil worried about my capability. I knew I could please her with my fingers, but would I be as adept at reading her needs without the

feel of her pulsing around me?

I can’t remember which of us first suggested I wear the harness during a reading, but we agreed the shared secret would be arousing. And as I

stood next to my fel ow authors gazing at her in the audience, I was quite aware that we’d been right. When I shifted my stance slightly, I could feel

how wet I was beneath the shield of leather covering my center, and the slight lift of one side of her mouth indicated she knew it too.

The sound of my own name startled me and I jerked my eyes from her face to that of our facilitator. Her expectant expression told me I’d missed

my cue to go to the microphone, so I hurried over.

I smoothed the papers in my hand and mumbled a greeting into the mic, praying I could get through the next eight minutes without completely

losing my composure. I made the mistake of seeking her eyes again and she was nearly my undoing. She pul ed her lower lip between her teeth in

a failed attempt to hide her smile and I was suddenly very aware that I was standing in front of a crowd of people wearing a strap-on harness. And

that I was both turned on and terribly out of my comfort zone.

I cleared my throat and began reading a scene involving a first kiss between two women. When the characters, who had been arguing only

moments ago, embraced just as passionately, I glanced up and my gaze crashed into hers. A quick look down confirmed the next sentence and I

resumed speaking as if directly to her—describing the way they clutched at each other and their hips ground together. As I told of one woman’s fist

tugging impatiently at the other’s hair, I swore I felt the sharp pul against my own scalp. I drew out the smoldering kiss, tel ing of one’s tongue

sweeping in the other’s mouth. And somehow, I kept enough composure to go on instead of melting into a puddle when the tip of her tongue swept

along her upper lip, even though for a moment al I could think about was the feel of that same tongue against my heated flesh.

I jerked my eyes away from hers and managed not to rush through the remaining two pages of my selection. Afterward, as I mingled among

readers and fel ow authors, I got the sense she was purposely staying away. When I circled in her direction, she sometimes let me close enough to

brush her hand or catch the subtle scent of her perfume, light and airy, before drifting slowly away. I made my obligatory appearances only as long

as necessary, al the while anticipating the moment when I could disappear with her.

When that moment final y came, I grabbed her hand and led her toward our hotel room, which luckily was less than a minute away. I pul ed her

inside the room and swung the door closed. She shoved me against it and my breath escaped, half gasp and half moan as my back met the door. I

barely had time to fil my lungs again before her mouth covered mine. Her teeth scraped my lips and her tongue drove inside.

“I take it you liked the reading,” I said when she let me breathe.

She grabbed my waistband and yanked me against her, then whipped open my fly. Shoving her hands inside, she growled, “Al I could think

about while you were reading was this.” She pressed the leather against my center and my clit twitched. “And what you might do with it later.”

I grasped her hips. “Is it later yet?”

“Yes,” she whispered, then louder, “Yes.”

She pul ed her shirt over her head and unhooked her bra as she moved toward the bed. She had dropped her purse in the chair by the door as

we entered and I reached inside it before I fol owed the trail of her discarded clothing across the room.

She now wore only pale pink cotton panties and she watched me watch her as she eased them off. I traced my fingers over her gentle curves

and along the sides of her breasts. She pushed her hands in the open fly of my jeans again, then impatiently shoved them down and I kicked them

away. Needing to feel her soft skin against mine, I quickly stripped off the rest of my clothes. When I eased her back and lay on top of her, she

sighed and wrapped her arms around me.

“Kiss me.” Her voice shook slightly and suddenly I was nervous and very aware of the harness tight around my hips.

I kissed her, pouring my need for her into each stroke of my tongue against hers. Slipping my hand between us, I caressed her breast and

elicited a soft moan that turned deeper, more desperate as I tugged firmly on her beaded nipple.

When I cupped the back of her neck and trailed my fingers through her hair, she leaned into my hand as if drawing comfort from my touch. I

pul ed back slightly and searched her face for hesitation. I wanted her—wanted to share this with her, but her pleasure was most important.

With a fistful of my hair she guided my face close to hers. “Please,” she rasped. “Touch me.”

Now was not the time for teasing and withholding, and I immediately stroked over her stomach. I would give her everything she asked for and it

would stil not equal what she had given me. She fil ed an emptiness, eased an ache I had grown accustomed to holding deep inside me. Heat

flooded me when I dragged two fingers between her legs and felt her moisture. She was ready and I knew I was wet too.

She thrust against my hand and I rubbed her more firmly.

“I need you inside.” Her warm breath feathered against my ear.

“Not yet,” I whispered despite the fact that my fingertips were already poised to enter her. I held back, fearing I wouldn’t be able to stop.

“Now.” She grabbed the straps at my hips and pul ed me closer, grinding harder against my hand.

“Wait.” I eased back, stil kneeling between her legs.

I slipped the silicone dildo into the ring as quickly as I could and reached for a smal bottle of lube on the nightstand. My heart raced as I pushed

my hips forward slowly, slid inside her, and paused. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back with a moan. I gently kissed the soft skin of her

neck. I was surprised at how comfortable I was, having expected to be more self-conscious, and I loved that she was wil ing to try this with me.

“Please.”

Her softly spoken plea sent spears of arousal through me. I pul ed back careful y before surging forward again.

“Oh, yes.”

Her fingernails on my back urged me on as I stroked into her over and over, ending each thrust pressed as tightly as possible against her body

in an effort to relieve the ache between my own thighs. Her legs came around me and she pul ed me deeper each time.

I watched her face as I careful y matched my pace to the lifting of her hips. But the pleasure building in me propel ed me on faster and harder. I

hadn’t thought I could come like this, with only the stimulation of leather against me, but the feel of her beneath me, meeting my sharp thrusts, hurled

me toward the edge.

When her hips began to jerk almost erratical y and she moaned with every panting breath, I hovered on the brink behind her.

“I’m so close. I’m going to go with you,” I said as I grabbed her hair and wrenched her head back even further. I closed my teeth on her neck and

plunged into her one more time. She cried out and wrapped her arms tightly around me. Unable to contain the pulsing tension that uncoiled like a

spring, I tumbled after her.

“Stay,” she said a minute later when I would have moved to her side. Her legs bracketed my hips and I remained inside her, holding her while

we trembled through the aftermath.

“Always.” I kissed her forehead, and smiled at our secret, a story much better than fiction.

Ali Vali lives right outside New Orleans with her partner of many years. As a writer, she couldn’t ask for a better more beautiful place, so ful of real-

life characters to fuel the imagination. Her works include the Cain Casey Saga (The Devil Inside, The Devil Unleashed, Deal with the Devil),

numerous romances including her most recent, Blue Skies,, and the Lambda Literary finalist Calling the Dead, a novel of romantic intrigue.

Hooked on Quack

Ali Vali

We got it!” Beth held the phone in one hand and pumped the other fist into the air. “We damn wel got it.”

“They sent Chili into a room ful of women and you had doubts about us getting the contract?” Paul shook his head. “Get real, Beth, she had

them eating out of her hand.”

Both laughed because, humor aside, the truth was, their boss’s personality was hard to resist. It was the reason there was hardly any turnover

on her team and a waiting list to come and work for her.

Christian “Chili” Alexander had come out of col ege with a head ful of ideas on how to conquer the world, just not an idea of which particular

world would be the subject of her conquest. On the way back to her home in New Orleans, a flat tire stopped her in a little town just east of the city.

Stumbling into the smal one-room campaign headquarters of Alvin Mil et to use the phone, she found her cal ing instead. Chili considered Alvin the

one candidate vying for a city council seat with the heart and drive to fairly represent the local constituents. What Alvin didn’t have was money or a

message, but after a thirty-minute conversation, what he did have was a new campaign manager. Chili stil had a lot to learn after Alvin took his oath

of office, but she’d found the one slice of the world she wanted to conquer—politics.

The Alexander team was the busiest and most effective unit in the Pel egrin-Morris Consulting Firm, handling campaigns from the local to the

national level. Chili’s offices took up two floors of Huey Pel egrin’s refurbished building next to the Mississippi River in New Orleans, and from the

moment you stepped off the elevators, you could feel the adrenaline flowing. Everyone there believed as Chili did—their efforts could change the

world, and change it for the better.

Their latest chal enge was Kathleen Bergeron, hopeful y the first woman who would sit in the governor’s chair in the state of Louisiana.

Bergeron’s campaign was the contract everyone in the business was hot for, and after two meetings with Kathleen’s top advisors, it was Chili’s to

see to the end.

As the buzz went through the office, the elevator doors opened and Huey Pel egrin stepped out to what he liked to cal his cash cow floor. His

daughter Samantha stood next to him, smiling at al the backslapping going on. Chili had done it again and her team was ready to fight the good

fight, each and every one confident of success with her at the helm. The hero of the day was stil at Mrs. Bergeron’s local office, but had cal ed

ahead so they could uncork the champagne.

“I see the jungle is going to be hopping today,” Samantha said as she swept an errant lock of blond hair behind her ear. “After she gets back,

they aren’t going to get any work done.”

“Honey, I think you’re the only one in the building who’s immune to the Alexander charm. You don’t care for Chili much, do you? I thought after

working with her on Senator Emory’s campaign you would’ve warmed up to her some.”

Samantha shrugged. “If other people think she’s the end al , that’s great. Hey, it’s that much better for our bottom line. Just don’t ask me to

explain or try to understand it—that I real y can’t do.”

At that moment the stairwel door opened and Chili stepped out. She took the eight floors of stairs every day, a couple of times a day, to burn

off energy and stay trim. “Huey, what brings you down to the trenches?” She shook his hand not expecting too many accolades from her boss. It

wasn’t Huey’s style and Chili wasn’t the type of person who needed much praise. Huey shared her deep love of the political game. For both of them

it was a passion whose fire would never go out. “And you come with such a lovely sidekick.”

Samantha rol ed her eyes at the comment but reminded silent.

“I came to remind you not to be late this Saturday. I expect you on the dock by five, Chili, no excuses.” Huey turned and started for the elevator,

looking back at her when the doors opened. “One last thing. Congratulations on Bergeron. Good job, kid.”

“What’s Saturday?” Paul asked as Chili made her way to her office.

“The Pel egrin-Morris annual duck hunting trip. There’s no better photo op for any politician, Pauly, than to be seen brandishing a firearm.

Makes them look tough on crime and strong to the ever-powerful gun lobby.” With a flip of a switch the unique boards in the room rol ed to fresh,

clean white paper. Chili always thought better with a pen in her hand, and it was time to start strategizing Kathleen’s campaign. Before long two of

the wal s in her office would contain the roadmap that would lead the woman who’d just hired them to victory.

“You’re wil ing to kil some helpless ducks for a photo op?”

“Pauly, I’m wil ing to kil you for a photo op,” Chili joked as she tossed a pile of messages in the trash. Most were from the other gubernatorial

campaigns looking for some election-day magic. “I don’t particularly enjoy spending my day in a duck blind freezing my ass off, but this event is

nonnegotiable as long as I’m here working for Huey. It’s his favorite event and I don’t want to disappoint him. Besides, you know how much he loves

dealing with the media.”

“Does that mean there’s a chance you’l be giving up duck hunting after this election, so to speak?”

The view out the two wal s of solid glass overlooked the churning brown water of the river and parts of the port, and as it often did, it captured

Chili’s attention. She was silent for so long, Paul was about to leave her to her thoughts.

“In this business no one would blame me for giving it up,” she continued his analogy. “The duck hunting, that is. But where I come from, you

dance with the one who brung you, buddy, and Huey was my dance teacher. As long as he’s leading the band, I’l be happy to duck hunt.”

“Yeah, but one day Samantha’s going to be sitting in the conductor’s chair. What then?”

“Then we’l be singing a different tune, won’t we?”

*

An eerie mist rose from the bayou as the guides put the smal boats in the water. A large group of people in camouflage stood around holding

shotguns and trying to stay warm while eager media personnel moved around getting pictures and sound bites for the Saturday night six o’clock

news.

Chili walked up with a beautiful y tooled weapon that looked almost too fancy to fire. She held it casual y and unloaded as she made her rounds,

introducing Kathleen and her husband to the group of mayors, senators, representatives, councilmen, and other elected officials. Kathleen’s

campaign assistant hovered, her hand on Chili’s arm. When the cameras were trained elsewhere, more than one bet was made along the way as

to who would bring back the most ducks. Chili’s record hung in the balance.

“Chili, you ready to go?” Jean Pierre, Huey’s groundskeeper, asked.

Jean Pierre was always her ride out to her blind, the blind he’d built to her specs when she joined the firm. The night before, he stocked away

the supplies she requested, probably laughing the whole time at the thought of what Huey would do if he ever found out how Chili spent her time out

there. Chili was the only person every year who hunted alone, never minding the silence and isolation of the area.

“Let’s get going before one of these guys fil s my ass with buckshot.”

They both zipped up their camouflage jackets when he pul ed the starter on the smal quiet outboard and pushed away from the dock. It was stil

dark, but Jean Pierre had grown up in the marshes they were headed into and could have gotten there blindfolded if necessary. Spending time with

him, Chili had come to appreciate the beauty of the wetlands and had joined the growing consortium of concerned citizens to fight to save them.

“Pick you up at ten, so stay put.” The pirogue glided into the bank and Jean Pierre kil ed the engine.

“Stay put, he says. Where in the hel do you think I’m going to wander off to? You afraid I’l go for a swim in the pond? The only way that’s going

to happen is if a Starbucks magical y surfaces out of the water.” The heel of Chili’s Timberland boot disappeared into the mud when she stepped

out onto the smal island where the simplistic structure stood. She pushed off the boat, trying to keep her boots clean, and warned, “I’l give you a

heads up, though. Ride clear of Councilman Smith’s blind if you don’t want an eye shot out. It’s not six yet, but he’s already sauced.”

*

Chili pushed aside the makeshift flap that formed the door to the blind and ducked inside to get out of the cold. She was sure this was the only

one on the property with a butane heater, crude wooden floor, cot, CD player, and a refrigerator stocked with champagne and orange juice. On top

of that sat a tray of fruit.

The place was warm since Jean Pierre had come by earlier and turned up the heat, so she left the muddy boots at the entrance, rested the gun

in the corner, and hung up her jacket. With socked feet, she headed for the cot and put on the headphones. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons lul ed her into

closing her eyes and crossing her feet at the ankles. She was as relaxed as she ever got and was stil in the same position when her visitor arrived.

Chili opened her eyes when she heard the footsteps getting closer. The intruder hadn’t bothered to remove her shoes. “If I get mud on my socks

I’m going to be pissed.” She removed the headphones and laced her fingers behind her head, wanting to admire the shapely derrière when the

woman bent over to unlace her footwear.

“It’l make us even, then.” A boot landed close to Chili’s with a thud.

“Even on what?”

“If Kathleen’s campaign manager had gotten any closer to you this morning, on the pretense of getting a look at your gun, I was going to have to

do something about it. You not doing anything about her flirting pissed me off, so we’re even.” The other boot was thrown with the same precision.

Chili chuckled at the straight posture and bal ed fists. Charm alone wasn’t going to defrost the mood. “I wasn’t flirting—”

“The hel you weren’t,” was shot back before Chili could finish.

Chili stood up, the headphones dropping forgotten to the floor, and moved behind her. “Flirting is buying a woman flowers and serenading her

from the street even though you can’t sing worth a damn.” That reminder caused the fists to relax and the rigid body to lean into her. “Flirting is

wanting to find ways to get the girl of my dreams to kiss me every time I have her within reach. Flirting is also al owing said woman into my inter

sanctum to enjoy the morning.”

“Do many women fal for this bul shit?”

“One bouquet of flowers got me a date for dinner.” Chili grasped the zipper on her visitor’s coat and pul ed. “The serenade outside her window

got me an invitation up to her place for a drink.” Chili unfastened a few buttons on the flannel shirt so she could slip her hand onto a smooth, warm

stomach. A little scratch elicited laughter and an arm snaked back around her neck.

“She sounds easy.”

“Easy?” Chili snorted. “She’s my boss’s daughter and it took me months to get her to notice me, so don’t blame me for resorting to some rather

corny dating maneuvers.”

“Ah, but you did look cute with the mariachi band playing behind you. Until you started singing, anyway.” Samantha pul ed Chili’s hand out of her

shirt and turned to face her. She looked around the smal space as if wondering how many other women Chili had brought here. “This isn’t just

about stolen moments with the boss’s daughter, is it?”

“Let me show you what this is about so there won’t be any doubts.” With ease, Chili picked Samantha up and carried her to the cot. Outside the

sound of gunfire started as the first fingers of dawn painted the cloudy sky. “I usual y spend this time listening to classical music to drown out the

barrage of gunfire and squealing water fowl, so stop your wondering.” She smoothed the frown line that had appeared the minute Samantha started

taking in the room. “Today, though, I thought I’d spend it showing you how much I care about you, and that has nothing to do with your last name.”

Kneeling, Chili finished with the buttons and opened the shirt to reveal a camouflage bra. “I see you dressed appropriately in case you have to

sneak up on a duck in your underwear.”

“I saw it in that stupid catalog you gave me and I thought you’d like it.”

Chili kissed the swel of one breast where it peeked enticingly over a demi cup. “I love it, sweetheart.” The button of the pants came next and

Samantha helped by lifting her rear so Chili could take them off. The matching bottoms with little flying ducks embroidered on the waistband made

Chili smile. “This is as close to any ducks as I want to get today.”

Chili kissed her, and Samantha felt the rush of passion that had been building since they’d first seen each other that morning. The mouth that

took possession of hers, like its owner, had a way of stripping away her inhibitions and awakening a need she hadn’t known she possessed. It had

been this way since she’d first let Chili through her front door, and the reason she had tried to resist her for so long. Given a chance, she was sure

this woman could make anyone a glutton for this feast of carnal desires.

“I want you to do something for me,” Samantha requested when they broke apart.

“What do you want?” Chili put a knee up on the cot and Samantha hooked her heels under her butt, pul ing her in. Fingers ran through her hair,

pul ing just to the point of pain, stopping her from claiming another kiss. She felt Samantha’s lips move against her own as she whispered one

simple word.

“Control.”

Simple, but control was something Chili never gave to anyone no matter how she felt about them. It was one of the reasons she was so

successful in business and had survived in her personal life so long with her heart intact. “What do I get in return?”

Samantha just placed one finger on Chili’s forehead and pushed her away until she was sitting on Samantha’s fleece-covered foot, then

pushed her back a little more by moving the same foot to Chili’s chest. The game had begun, and Samantha was so far ahead there was no

catching up.

“Take it off,” Samantha ordered, her voice husky.

Not wanting to give in too easily, Chili took her time with Samantha’s sock, smiling at how erratic Samantha’s breathing was becoming. If she

bided her time, she’d have Samantha begging before she knew it. Except she made the mistake of looking down as the last of the sock made it

past Samantha’s toes. The first time she’d seen the sight was in a late-night work session in her office when Samantha had slipped off her pumps.

The next morning Chili had found herself at the florist buying roses like a schoolgirl with a crush. Red toenail polish was her kryptonite, at least red

polish on Samantha Pel egrin. To Chili it was the epitome of femininity, and if giving up control was what she had to do to get her hands on it,

Samantha would get her wish.

“Whatever you want, it’s yours,” Chili said as she removed the other sock with more enthusiasm.

“Stand up.” Samantha leaned back with no intention of removing anything else just yet. “Take your shirt off.” She watched as long fingers flew to

the buttons and opened the first two in rapid succession. “Slowly,” she added, not wanting to cut her show short.

Chili’s nostrils flared and her hands stil ed. From the look in her eyes, Samantha could tel there was an internal war waging. There was only

one way to tip the outcome in her favor. She sat up again and reached behind herself to the clasp of the bra. The cups slid down a bit when the

back came undone, but Samantha held it in place. Chili’s nostrils flared again, but now it was from frustration of a different kind. Samantha had

never thought of herself as beautiful and desirable until the first time she saw this same raw hunger in Chili’s face. The sight had awoken the woman

Samantha wanted always to be, the only woman in Chili’s bed.

As slowly as she wanted Chili to go, Samantha reached for one of the straps and dragged it off her shoulder. Every movement was careful y

studied by Chili’s blue eyes, and she smiled at the way Chili’s fingers twitched almost as if she was fighting the need to touch her. The next strap

came down just as slowly and, naked from the waist up, Samantha leaned back and ran a hand from her stomach to the underside of her right

breast. Samantha pinched the already hard rosy nipple, then released a hiss of pleasure as she repeated the move on the left nipple.

Chili’s head fel slightly in defeat.

“I believe I asked you to slowly take off your shirt,” Samantha said, skating her tongue along her top lip.

Chili went back to unbuttoning her shirt, and it was agonizing to watch and keep her hands to herself. Chili final y finished, leaving the heavy

cotton garment hanging open. Underneath she wore a tight sleeveless T-shirt and with a flick of her wrist Samantha indicated she wanted it al off.

When the clothes hit the floor, Samantha licked her lips again. Chili’s need for her was obvious, since her nipples looked hard enough to chip ice.

“Tel me, baby, are you wet?” Samantha asked.

Chili closed her eyes and took a deep breath in an obvious effort to center herself. “Are you?”

“Do you want to stop?”

Chili’s eyes flew open at the question. Stopping now was most definitely the last thing she wanted, and she relinquished the last of the fight in

her. Whatever Samantha wanted, she was going to give it to her. “No, I don’t.”

“Then answer my question.”

“I’m very wet,” the admission came out as a whisper, “and it’s because of you.”

“Take your pants off and let me see.” Samantha wasn’t finished playing yet. “And don’t forget to go slow.”

Fol owing orders, Chili unbuttoned the hunting pants and let them drop to her ankles. It left her in a pair of tight white briefs, and for once she

saw Samantha’s breathing catch. She wasn’t the only one fighting for control. The underwear wasn’t coming down without help, so Chili bent over to

pul them off along with the pants and socks. When she straightened out, she faced Samantha naked, waiting for her next set of directions.

“Do you know what I’ve been thinking about since the last time we were together?” Samantha sat up again and set her feet on the floor. Her

lover shook her head, visibly bristling with energy, reminding her of a thoroughbred in the starting gate. Given permission, Chili would explode with

a burst of power.

“I’ve thought about how your mouth feels on me.” Samantha parted her legs and, with a crook of her fingers, cal ed Chili over. She ran her

fingers lightly along Chili’s sex, feeling her confidence grow at what she found. Chili was indeed wet and more than ready. “I’ve been dreaming

about your tongue right here…” Samantha leaned back on one hand and slipped the other into her underwear, mingling the evidence of their

desires together. When her fingers reappeared, they were glistening. “About how I can taste myself on your lips when you kiss me after, and how it

makes me want to do it al over again when I do.”

Rocking on her heels, Chili swal owed hard. “Sam, please.”

“Hold me,” Samantha said softly. She sighed when Chili leaned over to engulf her in her arms, the act so sweet, despite how turned on Chili

was, that she almost told Chili how she felt. But fear of Chili bolting kept her quiet when Chili reached to pul off the last barrier between them. “On

your knees, Alexander.”

This time there was no argument and Chili groaned when Samantha painted her lips with her wet fingers. When she was done, their lips came

together again and Samantha smiled fleetingly when again Chili ceded control, letting her lead this dance. When the need for air became

paramount, Samantha pul ed on Chili’s hair again, guiding her head lower.

Like she was presenting Chili with a gift, she lay back to give Chili what they both wanted. “Make my dreams a reality.”

Weaving their fingers together, Chili lowered her head and ran her tongue through the wet heat. Before either of them was ready, Samantha

held Chili’s head in place and gave her last order. “Now, baby, now.”

Chili’s fingers sliding easily into her sex took away the last of her resolve and she exploded against Chili’s mouth and fingers, yel ing loud

enough to scare the few ducks that had landed outside. The feeling of possession was so complete that Samantha was sure she’d never give this

part of herself to anyone else, even if Chili was too afraid to give in to her feelings.

“Wait,” she panted when Chili went to start again.

Chili rested her head on Samantha’s abdomen, and the position seemed to give her the courage to say what she had never even al uded to in

words up to this moment.

“Do you know what I think about?”

The quiver of uncertainty was so evident in Chili’s voice that Samantha ran comforting fingers through her hair. “Tel me, it’s okay.”

“I think about our stolen moments like this, and it isn’t enough for me.”

“What are you saying?” A tentacle of fear reached into Samantha’s chest and she thought the pain of it would constrict her lungs until she

couldn’t breathe. She looked down into Chili’s blue eyes.

“I want al of you, Sam. I love you and I want al of you for as long as you’l have me.”

“You love me?”

“So much that I’m going to talk to Huey today about my intentions for his little girl.”

The tease had its desired effect and Samantha laughed. “You’re going to talk to him while he’s holding a loaded shotgun? It must be true love.”

She pul ed on Chili’s hand, needing her to hold her. Chili moved up and pul ed her close and she tucked her head into Chili’s shoulder. “You know,

the first day I stepped into the jungle, I began my own campaign strategy.”

“Do tel ?”

“My father thinks I’m immune to your charm.”

Chili laughed and slapped Samantha gently on the butt. “You are. I’ve never had to work so hard at getting someone’s attention. For the longest

time, I thought it would take begging for you to have a cup of coffee with me.”

“I just wanted to make sure when I fel in love with you, you would be good and snagged, baby. This was one campaign with a lifetime term limit,

so I wanted to win in a landslide.” Samantha cradled Chili’s cheek and kissed her. “I love you and I’l have you as long as my heart beats.”

“Can we do something about that wanting me now?” Chili’s low voice cracked when Samantha’s fingers closed around one of her nipples.

“Only if you promise to leave this part out of your talk with my father.”

Six months later…

“The new sign on the building made the Post,” Paul dropped a copy of the Washington Post’s business section on the recently added partner’s

desk in Chili’s office, “and you received an invitation from the new governor to the mansion for dinner as a way of thanking you for al the help.”

“A sign is news now?” Chili glanced down at the article as she rol ed the last of Kathleen’s campaign plans away and replaced the boards with

fresh paper.

“Tel the governor we accept,” Samantha answered from the doorway. She threaded her arms around Chili’s waist, admiring the bouquet of

roses on her side of the desk—the desk that came with the position she’d inherited with her father’s retirement. “And of course the new sign made

the capital’s paper. Alexander, Pel egrin, and Morris is the hottest thing going in politics these days if you want to get elected.”

“I guess this means you won’t be giving up duck hunting anytime soon, huh, Chili?” Paul asked.

Chili pul ed Samantha into her arms and kissed her hel o. “After winning the heart of the most beautiful woman in the world, and Huey’s wedding

gift of a partnership, it’s safe to say I’m permanently hooked on quack.”

Carsen Taite works by day (and sometimes night) as a criminal defense attorney in Dal as, Texas. Her goal as an author is to spin tales with plot

lines as interesting as the true, but often unbelievable, stories she encounters in her law practice. Her first novel, truelesbianlove.com, was a pure

romance. Her second novel, It Should Be a Crime (August 2009), is a romance with a heavy dose of legal drama, drawing heavily on Carsen’s

experience in the courtroom.

Privileged and Confidential

Carsen Taite

“I want a divorce.”

She watched me closely as if trying to gauge my reaction, but years of practice kept me from showing my shock. I leaned back in my chair and

gazed at the woman seated on the other side of my desk. I never expected to hear these words. Frankly, I’d never expected Linda to marry in the

first place, but she had wasted no time after she announced she had fal en head over heels into blissful romance. Within two months of meeting,

she and Joan had dashed off to Toronto and acquired a marriage license. Many of our mutual friends predicted sure disaster for their rushed

relationship, but I’d known Linda for wel over twenty years and my perspective was quite different. In al that time, she’d expressed a reluctance to

dive into love, especial y the commitment part. I figured that whatever was driving her to hurry her relationship with Joan along was a strong and

powerful force, destined for longevity. Despite my personal history with Linda, I was stunned by today’s announcement, so stunned I forgot the fact

she had actual y cal ed my secretary to arrange this meeting. I reached across the desk and grasped her hand.

“What happened?”

“What hasn’t happened?” Linda said, looking oddly dispassionate. “She isn’t who I thought she was. She made herself out to be a caring,

responsible person. She is cold and careless. We’re not emotional y or financial y secure and she doesn’t seem to care. She doesn’t care about

anything. She’s not the person I fel in love with.”

Twenty years of love and friendship between us and I stil wasn’t sure what to say in response to this cut-and-dried summation of her marriage.

Part of me wanted to dig for detail and engage in familiar gossip, as friends often do, but this situation was different from al the other times we had

dished over our failed love affairs. Linda and Joan had become a singular entity to me and my partner, Sydney. Since marrying Joan, Linda had

transformed from the friend whom I went out with on girls’ night into merely a component of the happy foursome we had al become. To talk about

the failings of one of our group signified a destruction of the cohesive unit. I defaulted to what I knew best and delivered a professional assessment

on the status of her two-year relationship.

“You can’t get a divorce.”

“Why not?”

“Because you aren’t real y married.”

“The hel we aren’t.”

“Sure, you’re married in Canada, but that doesn’t mean a damn thing here in Texas. Texas doesn’t consider you married, so you can’t get a

divorce. One of you would have to establish residency in Canada or somewhere else that recognized same-sex marriage in order for you to get a

divorce, and you’d have to go through legal channels there.”

“Fuck,” Linda spat out, her opinion about my legal advice clear. “That’s no help. What am I supposed to do?”

“Does it real y matter so much to you if you’re married somewhere else? You can accomplish a separation without going through the hoops of a

divorce.” I delivered these rational statements without a second thought. I took a dim view of what I cal ed pseudo-marriage, much to the dismay of

my long-suffering partner. Sydney had final y stopped hinting we should elope to Canada, Massachusetts, or California when she realized I could

not wrap my mind around legal trappings that were anything but. I told her every day how much I loved her, and it was true. Sydney was my world. I

loved her more than I could ever show and more than words could ever express. But marriage, in its current hazy, “some places it’s real and some

places it’s not” state was out of the question to my logical attorney mind. There were so many ways I could show Sydney my love that I refused to

buy into the notion that marriage had to serve as the pinnacle of our romance.

Linda’s next words snapped me out of my reflections. “What if I want to get married again?”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed out loud. Certainly she was trying to add some levity to the situation. A blunt retort about not making the same

mistake twice wel ed up from my core and pushed its way toward the surface. The earnest expression on her face caused me to bite back a

lecture. I could almost hear Sydney’s soothing counselor voice in my ear: “Honey, everyone doesn’t have to share your opinion. It’s okay to accept

our differences.” She had a way with me.

I stifled my words and coughed away the laughter. “If you want to get married again, legally,” I forced myself to say the word, “then one of you

wil have to live in Canada for a while. If you’re serious about divorce, I can refer you to a barrister in Toronto so you can get the ful details. In the

meantime, you can take the necessary steps to separate your property, which is the gist of what you can legal y do to accomplish a split here.”

“Why haven’t you ever gotten married?”

The non sequitur caught me by surprise for many reasons, primarily because I thought she should already know the answer. But now that I

thought about it, I had tempered my rants about marriage in her presence, out of friendship mostly. She had been so giddy about the prospect of a

wedding it had seemed a shame to rain on her parade. And it had only been in the last few years that everyone began rushing off to obtain trusty

certificates and declare their vows in distant locales. We would have never had a conversation about marriage in our early days. It wasn’t even on

our radar.

Linda was stil waiting for my answer and I conjured up a vague response. “Just hasn’t seemed right.”

“Maybe you just need the right person to make it right,” she said quickly.

I’ve been told by many, Sydney included, that when I’m working on a case I have a singular focus. Meals, proper wardrobe selection, and a host

of other personal matters take a backseat to puzzling out the problem I’ve been hired to solve. Now might have been one of those times, but Linda’s

tone had become sultry and she held my hand in hers. I recognized the look on her face. Combined with the other signals, I knew she had her sights

on new prey. However, this time “new” was a relative term.

I drew my hand away, but she pressed closer to the desk.

“Seriously, Reed, remember how great we were together? Why didn’t we give forever a chance?”

Because we were practically children when we dated? Because you cheated on me? I had a long list of reasons Linda and I wound up being

no good together. Back then I thought our breakup was devastating. Ostensibly, we were the perfect couple. Young, good-looking professionals, we

were happy lesbians with bright futures. But we were too blinded by the shiny shel of our relationship to recognize the lack of substance between

us. If I’d known then what I knew now, we wouldn’t have made it past our second date. Despite my present knowledge that we’d wasted a year

together, each seeking something the other could never give, I couldn’t bring myself to burst the bubble of her memories with my cal ous

conclusions.

“That was a long time ago.” Lame, but the best I could do.

“It’s not too late.” She purred these words into my ear. In my trip down memory lane, I had missed her movement around my desk. Now her

hand was no longer in mine, it was sliding around my waist as she stood behind my chair leaning in. Vague wasn’t going to work. I wrenched away

and jumped up.

“Whatever the hel you’re doing, you need to stop it. Now!” I glanced at the door, half wishing my assistant would hear my raised voice and

charge in. Immediately ashamed for wanting rescue, I realized I needed to confront Linda’s overtures head-on. “You need to go.”

She looked as astounded as I had felt at her initial demand for a divorce. She had apparently expected me to melt in her arms and skip away

with her to an idyl ic ever after.

“You don’t have to be such a bitch,” Linda said. “I came here looking for advice and you’re going to throw me out?”

“Apparently, you came here looking for more than advice.” She was already setting up a plausible denial about her advances, but I was in no

mood to play along. “I don’t think I’m the one to help with any of your needs right now.”

“Wel , that’s rich. I’ve always been there for you, but now that I need a lawyer, you’re trying to turn me away.”

It was true, we had always supported each other over the years, both during and in between relationships, but Linda had never been so

inappropriate as to make an advance when she knew I was involved. There had been plenty of times, back when I was young and insecure enough

to take back a partner who had once betrayed my trust, when I would have welcomed her advances. That version of me no longer existed. I was

impossibly confident now, in part because of my rock-solid faith in Sydney’s unwavering love. I would sacrifice even a twenty-year friendship to

keep that bond secure.

“Yes. I’m turning you away.” I let my tone tel her that legal advice was not the only thing I was declining to provide. “If you want a referral, I’l have

my office cal you with a few names.”

She gathered her coat and purse and stomped toward the door. Just before she pul ed it open, she looked over her shoulder to me. “Reed, I

made an appointment to see you today.”

“So?”

“So, I’m here consulting you as a client. I trust that everything I’ve told you wil be protected by attorney-client privilege.” She smiled, the corners

of her mouth twitching. She had disguised her personal overture as a professional visit, knowing ethics would prevent me from tel ing either Joan or

Sydney about what had just happened. Perfect.

*

“Hard day at the office?” Sydney kissed me softly on the lips before reaching for my briefcase. I contemplated her question. Except for Linda’s

visit, it hadn’t been. Before and after she disturbed my world, I had been drafting pleadings for an upcoming hearing, the kind of dul work I tended

to embrace since most of my time was spent dealing with emotional crises and relationship ruin. Sydney, a licensed social worker, could read me

like a book. If I launched into a diatribe about the evils of paperwork, she would know something deeper lurked beneath the surface. If I said nothing,

she would think I was headed to the cave, my imaginary retreat from the day-to-day grind, where I became uncommunicative and unapproachable

until I was ready to emerge. Al I wanted right now was the comfort of her presence without having to share the reason I needed it so desperately. I

handed her my coat and opted for a tiny lie.

“New client. Pain in the ass.”

“Ah, I understand.” And I knew she did. The nature of our respective jobs meant we each had an appreciation for the resulting drain of dealing

with other people’s problems. We also had a healthy sense of respect for privacy. Both of us had a duty to keep the confidences of our clients,

which lent an interesting twist to the usual daily banter of dinner conversation about our workdays. We had developed a method of sharing details in

a way that didn’t compromise confidence, leaving out names, identifying characteristics, and even some pertinent facts just so we could share a

portion of our day. Keeping completely silent about the woes of the individuals whose troubles consumed our working hours was simply too much.

The situation with Linda was different. I couldn’t tel Sydney about Linda’s pass and leave it at that. She would want to know more detail,

deserved to know more detail, about the circumstances that led to Linda’s crass intrusion on our happy home life. I was about to suggest a physical

diversion to absolve me of the need to talk when Sydney’s next words sank in.

“Joan cal ed me this afternoon.” Sydney’s words were light, but I braced myself for the other side of the story. Did Joan know Linda had made a

pass at me? Of course, if Joan had told Sydney about their desire for a divorce, that would free me to discuss the details.

“And what did she have to say?” Even as the words left my lips, I felt foolish. If Sydney told me now that Joan was pissed about what had

happened, I would look stupid for not coming clean. I shrugged away the thought. My lover knew me better than that. She would understand why I

hadn’t told her, why I couldn’t, and she would know beyond certainty that I would never do anything to jeopardize the bond of love and trust that held

us together. Wouldn’t she?

“She wanted to let us know she settled on Mario’s.”

“Mario’s?” I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.

“For Friday night.” Sydney must have read my confusion. “Linda’s birthday dinner?”

I’m certain my jaw was hanging open. Sydney stared at my face as if trying to determine if I had lost my mind. It wasn’t like me to forget details

like friends’ birthdays, and Friday was only a couple of days away. I wanted to respond that I hadn’t forgotten about the dinner, I just didn’t think there

was any way it would stil take place. Of course, I couldn’t say anything, and now there was someone else I had to pretend around. Joan had no idea

that Linda wanted a divorce. I didn’t know Joan wel , but in the two years we had shared dinner dates, I had witnessed enough of her insecurities to

know she wouldn’t purposely expose herself to a celebratory dinner when the demise of her relationship lurked in the background.

“Sorry—I didn’t forget. But I’m not sure I can make it.”

“Honey, it’s just us four, we shouldn’t cancel.” Sydney’s eyes said she knew something was up despite my attempt to sound nonchalant.

“I have a lot going on at the office.” My excuse sounded feeble, even to my own ears. Sydney knew I didn’t work late on Fridays unless the world

was caving in. In this case, it would be me doing the caving. If nothing else, I wanted to avoid as much contact as possible with our friends’

diseased relationship. “Oh, okay. I’l make it, but can we just meet them there?”

“Not a problem. Swing by my office and pick me up and we’l meet them at the restaurant.” I could tel by her tone that she knew there was more

to my request than convenience, but she didn’t push and I didn’t offer. During the rest of the evening, we shared dinner, TV, and bed without the kind

of intimacy that invites sharing.

*

Margaritas can make a good time better or a bad time worse. Linda should have ordered iced tea. From the moment we joined them in the

booth, I felt a sense of dread. She leaned too close, taking every possible opportunity to touch my arm, grab my hand. Her animated bursts of

conversation were al aimed in my direction, and she was downright snarly at any interruptions from either Joan or the waiter, whom she deemed

incapable of quenching her thirst fast enough. I could feel the dul roar of Linda’s need to erupt, to use Sydney and me as witnesses to the

destruction of her relationship. Would she be so stupid as to declare her misplaced feelings for me in front of her wife and my partner? Part of me

wanted her to drink faster in hopes she would pass out. I spent my days dealing with confrontation, but none of it was my own. I excel ed at pushing

other people’s points of view, chal enging opposition, but not when my own feelings were at risk. In this case, if Linda decided to blurt out her

rejection of Joan and her attraction toward me, the person closest to me in the whole wide world would be hurt. The thought made me want to throw

down a couple of twenties and dash from the restaurant.

“You two may have outsmarted us al by never getting married.”

I shot a glance at Sydney and nodded at Linda’s frosty glass. Her fifth. Hoping to keep the conversation from unraveling if I could just hold up my

end, I shook Linda’s grasp from my arm and tried for an answer that wouldn’t invite discussion. “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Linda didn’t take the

hint.

“Look at al those people out in California. They ran off and got married and then months later, no one can tel them for sure if they’re stil legal y

married.” Linda smirked in my direction. “Of course, Reed doesn’t think these marriages are legal in the first place.”

I wanted to ignore her, but I couldn’t let her breezy summary of my stance hang in the air. I gave it weight. “I never said any such thing. Al I’ve

ever said is that until we al have the same rights, everywhere, we don’t real y have any rights at al .”

“Blah, blah. I don’t have a clue what the hel you mean by that.” She probably didn’t, but because of the alcohol, not due to any failing of her

intel igence. She turned to Joan. “But our marriage is ironclad, isn’t it, sweetie?”

“You bet it is.” Joan smiled indulgently at her smashed spouse.

“Because we can’t real y get divorced even if we want to.” Linda turned dramatical y to face me. “Reed says so.”

I felt Sydney’s strong but gentle hand on my thigh. She always knew when I was seething, and hers was the only touch that could calm my

swirling mind. I didn’t let my gaze leave Linda’s, but while I paused to temper my response, I placed my hand over Sydney’s and squeezed back my

thanks. The subject on the table was a sensitive one between us. Sydney and I had long ago agreed to disagree on the issue of marriage, and we

avoided further discussion as futile since there real y wasn’t any room for compromise.

“I never said that.” I turned to Joan and suppressed a wince at the raw questions scrawled into her expression. “I merely said that Texas doesn’t

recognize same-sex marriage and, as a result, they don’t recognize the right to same-sex divorce.”

“Reed says we would have to move away to get a divorce,” Linda pressed on. “Maybe even to Canada.”

Linda hadn’t looked at Joan the entire time she had been talking, instead directing al her comments to me. What could have been mistaken at

first for chummy conversation had dissolved into ful -on hostility. Her sarcastic tone and look of disdain were unmistakable. Sydney would notice this

detail and assign a meaning, but Joan merely seemed confused about the undercurrent of the conversation.

Joan leaned over to give Linda a kiss. “Wel , we aren’t moving anywhere, are we, babe?”

“No, dear.” Linda tilted her cheek toward Joan, accepting a smack on the side of her face with a frown. “I suppose we’re not.”

*

Sydney hung my coat in the closet and then pul ed me into an embrace.

“Reed? Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry Linda was such a pain tonight.” She couldn’t see my face, but professional habit caused me to keep my expression blank.

“You’re not responsible for her actions.” Sydney cupped my chin gently, love pouring from her eyes. “ Any of her actions. You know I know that,

right?”

She knew. She always knew. I felt the knot of tension I’d carried inside al week unravel and I relaxed into the solid security of her arms. I would

always be safe here. Actual y, more than safe, cherished. Often I wondered if her sixth sense was the primary reason behind her success as a

counselor. I knew it had to be a major factor. I nodded, tel ing myself that it took actual words to betray a confidence.

“I’m going to talk and you don’t have to say a word, okay?” Sydney held me even more tightly and again, I just nodded. I could feel warmth on my

neck as she breathed a sense of peace against me.

“Those two were never right for each other and they rushed into their relationship before they ever gave themselves a chance to find that out. I

imagine Joan had no idea before tonight that Linda was contemplating divorce and had even gone so far as to talk to you about it.” She paused

and I struggled not to respond. “If they knew each other even a fraction as wel as we know one another, surprises like that wouldn’t happen.”

Was that true? Were we so much a part of each other that surprise wasn’t possible? Did I know how Sydney would react in any given situation,

what she would say, what she would do? I knew the answer to each question was unequivocal y yes. I might not know the specific words or the

choreography of her actions, but I knew as surely as I knew anything on this earth that my lover’s actions would always be kind and loving. When it

came to me, or us, she would put my heart, my soul, first—before her own. Her love transcended any sense of selfishness. I had no doubt she loved

me.

Here in her arms, I wondered if she felt the same sense of security. Could I be counted on to deliver comforting constants? Did she view my

love as an unstoppable force, always present, always strong? I held her tightly, as if to squeeze out any doubt. She glanced up at me and when she

did, I saw the answers to my questions in her eyes. She had no doubts about my love for her, either its strengths or its limits. Gazing at the

unconditional love reflected back at me, I was overcome with the desire to shake her certainty, to make her question her wel -grounded knowledge

of al I have ever been. I wanted her to know that my love stil came with surprises.

“Marry me.”

VK Powell is the author of two novels of romantic intrigue, To Protect and Serve and Suspect Passions, and several erotic short stories, al

published by Bold Strokes Books. Her third novel, Fever, set in Africa, is scheduled for release in early 2010. www.powel vk.com.

Return to Me

VK Powell

Ty dropped her bags at the terminal doors, blew me three air kisses, and disappeared behind the tempered glass. Each step she took was a

blunt instrument gouging at my heart. She’d made me promise that I wouldn’t cry. What a stupid agreement. The minute she vanished from view the

tears started and wouldn’t stop. Why didn’t I try once more to tel her how I felt about her? Would it have mattered? “It’s just another trip,” she’d said.

But it didn’t feel like that. It felt like forever.

Three months turned into six and then twelve. Every place I went, every person I saw, and every sappy song on the radio reminded me of her.

Each memory dredged up a fresh deluge of tears, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. The truth that everyone else seemed to know

gradual y registered and I final y admitted it. I was in love with my best friend. A cliché, but true. The real issue was whether I could convince her.

She was coming back for a visit and I paced the same airport terminal like an expectant parent. As I trod back and forth on the hard tile floor, I

rehearsed a mil ion suave and lighthearted greetings, but I’d have been happy with anything short of a blurted confession of love in a roomful of

strangers. I’d glanced at the status board so many times, I felt like my head was on a swivel. Airport security was starting to regard me with more

than a modicum of curiosity. But her flight had landed ten minutes ago, and stil no Ty.

Eventual y passengers started to descend the escalators. My pulse ramped up as I stood rooted in place and watched each person who wasn’t

her pass by. It had to be some twisted universal game that caused time to pass in direct opposition to your desires. My insides twitched like leaves

in a stiff breeze as I waited—it seemed like eternity.

The first indication of Ty’s approach was her wel -worn UGG boots at the top of the platform, fol owed by faded jeans that hugged her muscular

legs, and her signature leather bomber jacket hanging open over a turquoise T-shirt. My eyes burned as tears clouded my vision. I blinked, unwil ing

to lose sight of her for one second after waiting a year for this. Her baby blond hair, tanned face, and ever-present smile final y came into view as

she ran down the steps toward me, shouting my name.

“Coop-a, Coop-a!” Her thick Australian accent made my name sound like it ended with a instead of er. “You’re here.”

She grabbed me in a ful -body hug and swung us in circles. I grew light-headed but wasn’t sure if it was from the merry-go-round greeting or her

teacup-sized breasts pressed so closely under mine that they felt fused. I inhaled the light scent of her jasmine perfume hungrily. I’d tried so

desperately to hold on to that fragrance after she left, whiffing everything that hinted at jasmine, but nothing approximated the combination of the

aroma with her skin. My body tingled with the physical, visual, and olfactory presence of her.

Ty stopped her happy dance, held me at arm’s length, and gave me a thoughtful appraisal. “You’ve lost a few pounds.” Then she threaded a

hand through my hair. “And gained more gray—gorgeous.”

My heart pounded erratical y. I tried to speak but my voice wouldn’t cooperate. The words I wanted to say backed up in my throat. Al those

months of living without her had been hel , but now that she stood in front of me, I realized just how much more I’d missed her. If I opened my mouth, I

knew my feelings would fly out. This was not the time or place.

“Aren’t you going to say anything? Didn’t you miss me?”

I managed to nod as the tears at last broke free. She cupped my face in her hands, brushed the tears from my cheeks with her thumbs, and

whispered, “It’s okay, Coop. Wait right here while I get my luggage and we’l get out of here.”

As I drove away from the airport, my voice returned. “Where to?”

“She speaks.”

“It’s good to see you,” I final y managed.

“So, what have you been doing? Or should I ask who?”

“Nothing and nobody.” Since she’d been gone, my interest in other women had dwindled to a priestly level. I went out with friends to pass the

time and to avoid becoming a complete shut-in. But my things-I-want-in-a-partner list had grown to voluminous proportions through the years,

making it almost impossible for anyone to measure up. Maybe that had been my unconscious goal.

“I can’t imagine the line of women at your door has gotten any shorter without me to cul out the unqualified.”

“I just haven’t found anyone I’m interested in.” The role of noncommitted serial dater didn’t real y suit me anymore since I hadn’t actual y had a

real date in over a year. But that was how Ty remembered me. I imagined it was the main reason she never took me seriously when I hinted at my

feelings for her. She joked that I’d miss the other flavors if I settled for just one.

She reached over to where my hand rested on the console between us, covered it with hers, and squeezed lightly. The dim green glow from the

dashboard must’ve concealed my blush because Ty didn’t comment. It felt as if no time had passed as we caught each other up on mutual friends

and family.

“How about some ice cream?” she asked. “You know where.”

It was the last thing we’d done on the day she left. I hadn’t been back since. We pul ed into Maxie B’s parking lot five minutes before closing

and exited the shop with two double-scoop cups of Moose Tracks and Cappuccino Crunch.

“A year without Moose Tracks is cruel and unusual punishment,” Ty lamented.

“I would’ve thought that alone was enough to bring you back sooner.”

“Now that’s the smart-ass Coop I remember.”

We sat in the car eating ice cream and giggling like two kids playing hooky. Ty dug the vanil a from around the chocolate-coated peanut butter

chunks and ate that first. She always saved the best for last. When she reached her favorite part, she stuck her spoon in my direction. “Want

some?”

“You know I don’t like to mix my chocolate with my peanut butter. It’s not natural.”

“It’s as natural as a stoic old Aussie like me and a drama queen like you being friends for twenty-three years and never sleeping together. Why

wasn’t I ever good enough, Coop?”

I nearly choked on a glob of Cappuccino Crunch, which fortunately keep my mouth closed. I couldn’t believe she’d asked the question. We’d

been friends since childhood, went to school together, came out together, and even dated each other’s exes. But neither of us had ever broached

that particular question. Any time I tried to bring up the possibility, she blew me off with jokes. I was so stunned, I had no idea where to start or if I

real y should.

If she only knew that she was the standard by which everyone else was measured. I felt for her the one thing missing with everyone else—a

heart connection. But how could I explain that to my best friend? What if she didn’t feel the same way? If I had to choose between sleeping with her

and keeping her as a friend, it was a no-brainer. The idea that I might have both never seemed a real possibility. So I erred on the side of caution. It

was late. She was tired and this wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have interrupted by yawns or pleas for a continuance.

“You were better than that, Ty. You were my best friend. Now, let’s get you home so you can get some rest.” If I could distract her momentarily

she would probably let it go. Ty wasn’t usual y fond of discussing relationships or feelings.

“Home sounds good.”

A feeling of warmth settled in my chest to hear Ty refer to my home as hers. Then a twinge of apprehension crept in as I realized that Ty didn’t

have a home here anymore and she’d be staying with me until she left again. Suddenly my three-bedroom home seemed too smal .

A few minutes later, we deposited her luggage in the guest bedroom and I tried to sound like a calm, cordial hostess. “I’ve set you up here with

the bathroom across the hal . If you need anything else, let me know. But you probably remember where everything is.”

“Thanks. I think I’l just have a quick shower and turn in. Jet lag, you know.”

Listening to Ty’s non-melodic hum as she entertained herself with old Aussie tunes in the shower, I replayed the evening. She looked like the

same person, smel ed deliciously the same, and sounded like my longtime friend, but her foray into sexual innuendo was very un-Ty.

Before she left I hadn’t thought of her in those terms since we were teenagers. A memory of two kids practicing kissing and ineffectively

groping each other washed over me like an information overload. I gripped the kitchen sink like it was a life raft and I was drowning. I bowed my

head and forced the trapped air from my lungs. Arousal swam through my system like an intoxicating drug.

“Are you okay?” Ty slid her arms around me from behind and hugged me to her freshly showered body. My shiver was involuntary.

“I’m fine. Are you hungry? Can I fix you anything?” I wiggled from her arms and opened the refrigerator, looking for quick distractions. Not now.

Not the right time, I kept repeating.

“You’re not okay. I know that frustrated sigh.” Those sapphire blue eyes dug into my soul like a sensitive excavation tool. “What’s up?”

“Nothing, real y, Ty. Let it go.”

“Al right, but you’re not fooling me. And I’m not letting you get by with it anymore. There are a few things we’ve let go between us. Starting

tomorrow we’re going to talk. I mean real y talk to each other. But now I’m going to bed. Good night, Coop.” She gave me a quick hug, went into her

bedroom, and closed the door.

I paced the kitchen for a while replaying her words and wondering what she meant. I thought we’d always been the best of friends, sharing

everything about everybody. The only thing we’d never talked about was us—how we real y felt about each other. But some things didn’t need to be

said. You just knew.

On the way to my bedroom, I placed my hand on Ty’s closed door and caressed it as if I were stroking her skin. I whispered I love you and went

to bed. I tossed for what seemed like hours, chasing sleep and fearing it. When I final y drifted into a restless slumber, my deepest desire and my

greatest fear came true.

A warm body spooned against my backside. I felt the thin layer of soft fabric between her breasts and my naked back as she pressed against

me. Her hand slid across my abdomen, soft and tentative. I grabbed it and pul ed it up between my breasts. When her hand started massaging my

breasts and tweaking my nipples, I realized it wasn’t a dream.

I sat upright in bed, clutching the sheet to my naked body. “Ty, what are you doing?”

“Nothing. I couldn’t sleep.” Moonlight through the partial y opened shades cast a series of lighter and darker lines across her boxer and T-shirt

clad body. She looked like a blond-haired minx. “I thought we could talk.”

“Can I get dressed?”

“Lie back down. I’ve seen you without clothes hundreds of times. Besides, you’ve got your trusty toga draped around you like a shield.”

I reluctantly lay back in the bed and turned to face her. “I thought you were tired. What do you want to talk about that can’t wait until morning?”

“I was wondering about that question you avoided earlier. Why was I never good enough to be your lover? Weren’t you ever attracted to me?

Didn’t you feel anything special for me? What was it exactly?”

“Ty, don’t do this.” She had no idea that every woman I had sex with was her in some way. And if the physical resemblance wasn’t there, I’d

close my eyes and conjure her up in my mind. But in the morning, there was just no substitute for the real thing.

“Do what? I real y want to know.” Her face took on a pained look as the light in her eyes faded and her smile disappeared.

I’d never been able to handle that hurt look. Anything that made her unhappy ripped at my heart like the talons of a wild beast. I could deny her

nothing. “You’re my best friend. I didn’t want to mess that up.”

“And sleeping with me would do that?”

“You see how wel it’s turned out with everyone else.” I knew immediately that was the wrong thing to say. Her ful lips pressed into a thin line of

consternation, and she looked at me like I was the dumbest woman on the planet.

“But I’m not like everyone else. Haven’t you figured that out yet? You’ve had a year to think about it.”

My insides felt like they were going to explode if I didn’t tel her the truth. It was now or never. She real y wanted to know and I didn’t think I could

contain it any longer. “I love you.”

“I know. And I love you, too.”

We’d said those words a mil ion times and they’d always meant like a friend or like a sister, never like a lover. This time I had to be clear. “I

mean I’m in love with you. I think I’ve loved you since we were kids. And yes, I’m attracted to you, so much that it hurts to be around you without

touching you. What I feel for you goes beyond special. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted, needed, or imagined rol ed into one blond-haired, blue-eyed,

compact gymnast’s body, mind, and spirit. I love you with al that I am.” I waited for the inevitable string of reasons why that was impossible or

unreasonable or my imagination. I waited for the joke that would let her laugh the whole thing off. But they didn’t come. She just grinned. “Why are

you smiling?”

“What part of being in love and having sex doesn’t work for you?”

“The part that comes after the sex, the leaving part. I couldn’t bear to lose you, Ty. Al the sex in the world isn’t worth it to me.”

Ty’s smile got bigger. “You think this is about sex?”

“What else?”

She reached for me and pul ed me into her arms. “This is about love, Coop. I’m in love with you too. Why do you think I came back?”

“You returned to me?”

“Only you.”

“Oh.” The words I’d waited my entire life to hear hung in the air between us and I wanted to let them linger and swirl around me like her warm

embrace. They sank into my brain and body one by one, releasing the hold I’d placed on my heart for years. The thread that had bound our hearts

together strengthened and tugged me closer to her. I started crying and couldn’t stop. “I’m sorry—” I tried to explain but the sobs robbed me of

words.

“It’s okay as long as those are tears of happiness.”

I nodded as another wave soaked her thin T-shirt. She stroked my hair and rocked me back and forth in her arms. “I have missed you so much,

Coop. I’ve had a year to think too and I know I never want to be without you again. We’re meant to be.”

“Real y?” My heart swel ed with hope in spite of the constant flood of tears.

“Australia is a beautiful country, but I can live anywhere. As long as I get to wake up to you every day I’m happy. But there is one condition.”

“Condition?” I raised my head from her shoulder and held my breath. Was this the part where she told me she was only kidding? “Anything you

want.”

“Sex. There has to be sex, and it has to start now. I think I’ve been very patient. Twenty-three years has to be a record.”

We kissed lightly, tentatively at first, as if unsure how to cross the threshold between friends and lovers. But that first intimate touch ignited the

years of suppressed desire. Her lips were softer than I imagined, her mouth hotter, her tongue more probing and demanding. I moved against her

and as our bodies entwined so did our lives—final y, completely, eternal y.

Julie Cannon, a native sun goddess born and raised in Phoenix, Arizona, is the author of six Bold Strokes Books: Come and Get Me, Heart 2

Heart, Heartland, Uncharted Passage, Just Business, and Power Play (November 2009). She has selections in Romantic Interludes 1:

Discovery, Erotic Interludes 4: Extreme Passions, and Erotic Interludes 5: Road Games. Julie and her partner Laura spend their weekends

camping, riding ATVs, or lounging around the pool with their two kids. www.JulieCannon.com.

Masquerade

Julie Cannon

What do you do when you are so entrenched in something you can’t even see the way out? So deep you have no idea even how to begin? Any

time you think about it you feel foolish and embarrassed. And that’s before anyone even knows you’re doing something different.

I’m in that predicament. My name is Elizabeth Beckett, but everyone cal s me J. No one knows my real name except me. I have no family, at

least none that claim me or would even recognize me if I introduced myself. I ended up in foster care when I was twelve, my mom in jail and my dad

long gone. But that’s another story altogether and I don’t dwel on things I can’t change. What I can change is me, and that’s my entire point here. I

know what I want to do, but I am more afraid of doing this than I ever was of any dark street or mean foster parent.

If you were to look at me what you’d see is someone in their early twenties, dressed in baggy Dickies, a tight T-shirt, and utilitarian black boots.

My hair is buzz short, #2 on the clippers if you know what that means, and I have a tattoo of a naked woman on my left bicep. You would have to look

closely to determine if the bumps under my shirt were breasts or simply wel -defined pecs. Most people think it’s the latter due to the number of

times people cal me sir or dude. But I’m not. My hard exterior is an effective armor shielding my heart from pain.

Remember that foster care I mentioned earlier? Wel , I was one of the unlucky ones who disappeared into the system. No one was there to

protect me, so I learned early on to protect myself, my body, and my emotions. You know the old saying “sticks and stones may break your bones

but names can never hurt you”? Wel , let me tel you, it’s bul shit.

Why am I tel ing you al this? Because I’m tired. Tired of the charade, tired of being what I’m not. Not real y. You see, I don’t want to be a bad-

ass-baby-dyke anymore. I do al the work, make al the advances. I want to be a lady. Courted, cherished, and eagerly taken home to meet

somebody’s mom.

But how do I do it? This is where I live, where I’ve made my home. My friends are here, I can have just about any woman I want anytime, I own

my own business that I can’t just pick up and leave. Believe it or not, my roots here are deep, and much as I want to live my life differently, I don’t

want to pul up stakes and sever al ties with these people.

I know, I’ve read al the coming-out books and articles that say your friends wil stil be your friends no matter who you are. I’m a smart girl; my

brain understands, but my gut and my heart can’t stand another rejection. You heard me right. I said coming out because that is how I look at it. I

would be coming out as someone very different than how everyone knows me. It’s the same thing, isn’t it? My friends might laugh at me, point their

fingers and say I look like a dyke in drag. That would hurt.

What do I want? It’s pretty simple. I want a woman to approach me, invite me for a cup of coffee, make meaningless smal talk as she gets to

know me. I want her to ask me out to dinner.

She picks me up at my front door with a little trinket—nothing serious, maybe a handful of daisies or something corny like that. She stammers,

stutters, and her eyes pop out when she sees me in my short skirt, cute top, and snappy sandals. I invite her in and we have a quick drink.

She helps me with my jacket. She opens my front door. Holding my arm lightly, she escorts me down the stairs and holds open the passenger-

side door of her car for me. Openly admiring my bare legs as I slide into her sleek machine, she can hardly breathe.

I want her to not be able to keep her eyes from sneaking another peek at my legs, exposed as my skirt rides up. When we arrive at the

restaurant, she jumps out of the car and hurries to open my door again. She offers me her hand to help me out, taking another look at my legs, this

time not bothering to hide it. She tel s me they’re beautiful.

She escorts me in, her hand lightly on my back, just above my waist. She walks beside me to the table, holds my chair as I sit down. She gazes

at me across the table, refil s my wineglass, makes warm, witty conversation intent on making me feel at ease.

She is dressed in a blue suit, impeccably cut to fit over her tal frame. Her hair is shoulder length, her eyes blazing blue, and her laugh deep and

sensuous. She is an attorney, a successful professional and drop-dead gorgeous. We have dessert, coffee, and an after-dinner cognac. She pays

the check with a platinum American Express card, her Montblanc pen boldly gliding across the bottom of the bil , without even glancing at the

amount.

I feel her eyes on me as we walk out, and I add just a little bit more sway to my hips. She stands behind me, so close that her warm breath

makes me shiver, and I feel her breasts press against my arm when she hands the valet the claim ticket. Not to be outdone, I brush by her as she

holds the car door, giving her a whiff of my intoxicating perfume. Intentional y I hike my skirt even higher than before, giving her and the valet a bird’s-

eye view of what they’ve only imagined.

We go dancing, to an upscale club where women share their desire for each other, not play pool or grope body parts in a dingy, dark hal way.

She asks me to dance, holding my hand, leading me through the throngs of people. We dance close, and I’m the one that dances backward. I fol ow

instead of lead. The beat of the music picks up and her eyes burn as she watches my body move. My body burns when it slows again.

Getting late, she holds me closer, more intimate. During one particular song, she lowers her head and kisses me. She’s gentle as if worried I

might refuse. Her tongue asks permission to enter, giving me the option to refuse. I don’t. The mating of our mouths and tongues symbolizes one of

the most intimate of acts. I’ve never told anyone that I think kissing is just about as intimate as two people can get. Sometimes I think it’s even more

intimate than the other fabulous place mouths and tongues go. There’s just something about it that makes me crazy. Quite a few times I come just

by kissing, but no one ever knows.

She asks me if I’m ready to leave, and I slide my arm through hers as we walk to her car. Back at my front door she doesn’t move to kiss me,

but lets me take the initiative. By then I’m hers for the asking. She doesn’t have to ask, I give wil ingly.

She sits on the couch in the living room while I make coffee. My hands shake so bad I spil the grounds al over the counter. I swear. I am way

out of my element here. I am not the aggressor, the butch, the top, or whatever else you want to cal it. I don’t know how to act. I desperately want this

to go right. I need this. This is who I real y am.

Taking a deep breath, I ask myself why I am even bothering with making coffee. She wants me. She has made that very clear, yet I don’t feel

pressured into having sex with her. It’s not payment for dinner at a swank restaurant, or dancing at an exclusive club. It isn’t even expected because

we’ve been dating for several months. I think that’s what’s so refreshing and frightening at the same time. Sex didn’t come first with us and then we

got to know each other. I know more about her than al of my previous girlfriends combined.

It’s then I realize something. By being secure in herself she is, in fact, letting me lead. Everything we have done has been on my terms, my

timeline. I’m not fol owing her. She isn’t in charge. But in some respects neither am I. I know I sound confused, like I can’t make up my mind on who

is doing what, and then the second revelation hits me like the frying pan that sits unused in my kitchen cabinet. It doesn’t matter. There aren’t any

games here. No one has an assigned role they must play without improvisation.

I thought that being feminine meant giving up control. On the contrary, you actual y have more control than if you were a big butch. You can be

soft, tender, and submissive one day—or even one moment—and rough, aggressive, and dominating the next. It is the utmost sense of freedom.

My date rises from the couch when I return to the room. She does that—stands when I come to the table, or when I get out of my seat. And who

said chivalry is dead? No one told this woman, and if they did she’d probably ignore them. With each step I take toward her, I feel more like a

woman than I have ever felt before. My confidence rises and I lead her to the bedroom.

Slowly and seductively she unbuttons my shirt. My lace bra peeks out from the opening, my breasts swel ing in anticipation. Lingerie makes me

feel sexy and sensuous, even if no one can see it. There is a big difference between lingerie and underwear. I used to shop at Victoria’s Secret for

what it would do for me, seeing the woman I was within the scanty scraps of fabric. I bought this bra and matching panties for just this occasion—

our first time together. Don’t ask me how I knew tonight would be the night, and not the dozens of other times we’ve been together, but somehow I

just knew.

She pushes my shirt off my shoulders and her hands shake when she slides my bra straps in the same direction. She licks her lips but doesn’t

move toward my breasts. Her eyes blaze a trail over my skin, the hardening of my nipples having nothing to do with the chil outside. It is warm under

her gaze and by the look of ravishing desire in her eyes, it is going to get much, much hotter.

As she reaches around me to the back of my skirt, her shirt grazes my nipples and I gasp in pleasure. My nipples are ultra sensitive and it

sends a jolt directly to my clit, not stopping anywhere in between. Her breath caresses my cheek an instant before she lightly kisses it. She is sweet

and tender.

Deftly she slides my zipper south, her hands lingering on my ass when it can go no farther. She whispers that I have a great ass and I smile

against her cheek. She steps back and I hold on to her shoulders as I step out of my skirt. Her hands leisurely trail their way back up from my

ankles, pausing at the vee between my legs before settling on my thin waist.

She tel s me I’m beautiful and I believe her. I’ve often said that myself to get a woman into bed. Most of the time it was true, but there is

something in her eyes, the tone of her voice, that tel s me loud and clear that it is not a line. She cal s me Elizabeth.

We move to the bed and she lies beside me. Her hands gently explore every inch of my body, paying particular attention to the places that

make me moan and laughing at the places that make me giggle. Her lips replace her hands and she smothers me with terms of endearment and

praise. She moves on top of me. Then I am on top of her. There are no rules or mandatory positions.

Her touch is gentle. She worships my breasts, my thighs, the curves of my hips. Her long fingers enter me slowly and gently, but not before she

looks into my eyes for any sign that I might not want this. Finding none, she fil s me and I moan with desire. With infinite patience she moves in and

out, each time sliding a bit deeper until I take al of her. Her thumb is on my clit, her fingers inside, and I have never felt so ful . Her kisses become

more passionate as my hips lift off the bed to match her strokes. Or is it the other way around? Her lips caress my neck, biting and nipping on the

tender skin, then soothing with her hot tongue. Her mouth is a wonder on my flesh and she takes me over the top not once, or twice, but more times

than I can remember. We make love. We don’t have sex, and we definitely aren’t fucking.

Satisfied, she holds me in her arms. My pleasure was her first priority, hers secondary. We cuddle, talking quietly about nothing and everything,

her fingers running through my long hair. Her skin is hot under my hands and it’s my turn to explore, discover, and please. She turns to me, and we

make love again and again. The sound of my name on her lips is everything I have ever wanted.

In the morning she is reluctant to leave. She doesn’t want to wear out her welcome or assume that we wil spend the day together just because

we spent the night together. I laugh at her shyness. Or is it politeness? Either way, she is endearing and I do want to see her again and again and

again. I tel her so. She leaves me with a soft kiss fil ed with promises of the future.

So that’s where I’m at. Wel , actual y I’m sitting in the back of my truck drinking beer with my fel ow butches. It’s what we do, what we’ve always

done. Fine food, expensive wine, and classy women are not on the menu tonight. My homegirl tosses her can into the empty box.

“Hey, J, let’s go get us some T and A.”

Suddenly I’m not very hungry, and for the first time in my life I answer, “Not tonight.”

Yolanda Wallace has written dozens of short stories which have appeared in multiple anthologies including UniformSex, Body Check, Bedroom

Eyes, Best Lesbian Love Stories: New York City, and Best Lesbian Love Stories: Summer Flings. In Medias Res from Bold Strokes in 2010 is

Yolanda’s first published novel. She and her partner of eight years live in beautiful coastal Georgia. They are parents to four children of the four-

legged variety—a four-year-old boxer and three cats ranging in age from five to eight.

Saturday Night at the Dew Drop Inn

Yolanda Wallace

The Bayou, 1932

The club wasn’t much to look at, nestled in a thicket of trees deep in the woods. The weathered exterior was in dire need of a fresh coat of paint

and the rusted metal sign on its roof was nearly il egible after years of exposure, but everyone knew about the Dew Drop Inn. A deeply rutted clay

road led to the front door, but few people were brave enough to take it on in a car or even with a wagon. When the rains came and turned the road

into more of a mess than it normal y was, you could break an axle on one of those ruts or maim a good horse trying to pry the animal from the grip of

al that mud. Besides, it was easier and safer to stagger home on foot. Those who didn’t walk arrived by boat, maneuvering their handmade skiffs

through the marsh with only the flickering light of kerosene lanterns lashed to the bows to il uminate the way.

The club might be smal , crowded, and hard to get to, but the Dew Drop served up the best food this side of Sunday dinner and the most low-

down, soul-shakin’ blues in the entire Mississippi Delta. Shirley Robinson, the owner and operator, loved to say that her customers came for the

food but stayed for the floor show. When the hooch started flowing, the sweat started pouring, and the rhythm worked its magic, it was no holds

barred. Fights occasional y broke out as jealous rivals came to blows over a woman, but Miss Shirley’s broad-shouldered sons Lonnie and Donnie

were quick to make sure the altercations didn’t last too long or go too far. And for the rare occasions that Lonnie and Donnie weren’t up to the task,

Miss Shirley kept a double-barreled shotgun behind the counter. Big Bertha was loaded and at the ready, but Miss Shirley had needed to make her

talk only a time or two. The sight of the massive woman with the butt of the long-handled gun resting on her hip was enough to cool most hot heads.

Neither Lonnie nor Donnie nor Big Bertha would be needed on this night, though. Not with Annie Simpson in town. Because when Annie took

the stage, everything came to a stop.

When Annie, a big-voiced singer nicknamed the St. Louis Siren, was first starting out, the Dew Drop had been one of the first venues outside

of St. Louis to put her on the bil . Miss Shirley had taken a chance by spotlighting an unknown, but the risk had paid off for both women. Annie

eventual y moved to New York in 1926 during the height of the Harlem Renaissance when Langston Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston, and Carl Van

Vechten began to make real names for themselves. She became a star not long after, and her records were known from New York to Los Angeles

and points in between. Despite her success—or perhaps because of it—the Dew Drop was one of her regular stops. Out of lingering gratitude and

respect, Annie returned to the Dew Drop each year for a week’s worth of gigs. During that week, she held the whole town in the palm of her hand.

People came to see her in droves, packing the club so tight that latecomers had to fight for seats in the rafters or crowd around peepholes

carved into the side of the building. Because it wasn’t enough just to hear Annie sing. You had to see her, too. Her dresses, short and sequined,

were custom made and fit her like a second skin. Beaded headpieces covered her short, marcel ed hair. In her right hand, she held an accordion-

style porcelain fan that she never bothered to unfold. She didn’t have to. No matter how hot it got on the tiny stage, she never seemed to break a

sweat.

The same couldn’t be said for the men in the audience, however.

“Mmm mmm mmm,” one said as he passed a damp handkerchief over his glistening forehead. “Look at the way she move. Like she got a

rubber band for a spine.”

“Yeah, man,” his friend agreed, reaching for the flask in his back pocket. He took a swig of the white lightning and wiped his mouth with the

back of his hand. “She can snap that thing on me any time.”

Watching from the kitchen as Annie performed her trademark bel y rol , Miss Shirley shook her head with such force that the pearl choker

around her neck rattled like dice in a craps game. “Thirty years and about as many pounds ago, I could do that, too,” she said to no one in

particular. She grabbed a freshly steamed crawfish off the prep table, snapped off the head, and sucked out the juice. “Annie is good for business,

but she’s bad for business, too.”

“What do you mean, Miss Shirley?” Cora Davis asked. Though she was the youngest of the three cooks on staff, she was the unquestioned

best. She had plenty of practice. “Blessed” with eleven children, most of them boys, Cora’s mother had long depended on her to lend a helping

hand in the kitchen. She had been tending to boiling pots and simmering pans since she was tal enough to see over the top of the stove.

“When she’s out there tearin’ it up like she is now, al the food and drink orders dry up. The people out there paid to get in, but al they’re doin’

now is takin’ up space. That’s not makin’ me any money.”

Cora smiled to herself. Though Miss Shirley constantly complained about how much things cost, everyone knew she had more money than she

knew what to do with. She was the one people went to see when they were in need. If she real y wanted to increase revenue, she would stop serving

free meals or offering half-price admission to every Tom, Dick, and Harry who was down on his luck. But Cora knew that would never happen.

Despite al her bluster, Miss Shirley was just too giving not to offer a helping hand whenever and wherever she could.

“That’s okay,” Cora said. “She can’t sing al night.” When the music stopped, the orders would come fast and furious again. It was just a matter

of time. This was the quiet before the storm.

“You sure about that? She’s on her fourth encore.” Miss Shirley paused as the crowd treated Annie to another deafening ovation. “And from the

sound of that,” she continued, “they ain’t gonna let her out of here any time soon. She might stil be singin’ when her train pul s out in the mornin’.”

Cora took a peek at the stage. She had to stand on her tiptoes to see over people’s heads and even then she didn’t get to see much, but the

little bit she saw was enough. It wasn’t every day she got to see a genuine celebrity in person. In truth, she and the rest of the kitchen staff were

enjoying the break. Before Annie began her set, they had been up to their elbows frying fish, baking pork chops, boiling shrimp, steaming crawfish,

cooking grits, and digging pickled pig’s feet out of a five-gal on jar fil ed with briny pink liquid.

Cora watched a handsome man in a gray suit and matching homburg back a woman in a low-cut red dress into a corner and whisper

something in her ear. Laughing at what the man said, the woman threw her head back, exposing her long neck.

“Nothing’s that funny,” Cora mumbled under her breath.

“Isn’t that your man sidlin’ up to Marie-Claire Boudreaux?” Miss Shirley asked, fol owing Cora’s gaze.

Cora frowned. “Lafayette Andrews ain’t my man.”

Miss Shirley bit the head off of another crawfish. “You could have fooled me.”

Cora continued to watch them. Lafayette with his flashy clothes and flashier smile. Marie-Claire with her lilting accent and sensual beauty. Part

Creole, Marie-Claire had green eyes, honey brown hair, and skin the color of lightly browned butter. Cora had to admit they made quite a pair.

“He’s Annie’s manager,” Cora said. “He only talks to me long enough to tel me what Annie wants to eat after the show. Other than that, he don’t

want nothin’ to do with me.”

She didn’t add that she didn’t want anything to do with Lafayette, either. At the moment, what she wanted was to be in his place. To feel what

Lafayette was feeling right now. She wanted the fingers sliding over Marie-Claire’s smooth skin to be her own. She wanted the lips brushing

against Marie-Claire’s delicate earlobes to be hers. She wanted to be the one rounding those dangerous curves. But that wasn’t the kind of thing

she could say out loud. Not if she expected anyone to sympathize with her plight.

She and Marie-Claire had grown up together. They had been as thick as thieves from the time they were born until they turned fifteen. They had

walked to school together. They had worked in the sugar cane fields together. They had done everything together. When they came of age, though,

they had drifted apart. Marie-Claire had discovered boys and Cora had discovered that she liked Marie-Claire. Cora had never said anything to

Marie-Claire. From the beginning, she had known that there was no point, but that hadn’t stopped her from feeling the way she did. Nothing could

do that.

As the years passed, they saw each other less and less as Marie-Claire went on date after date and Cora tried to insulate herself from the pain

of watching the woman she loved fal for someone else. For men who treated her badly and who didn’t appreciate her the way Cora did. Men who

were looking for nothing but a night on the town, a good time, and a ticket on the first thing smoking.

Marie-Claire thought Lafayette could be her ticket to the big time. Her ticket out of town. She had said so time and time again. She threw

herself at him each year when he arrived, but each year he boarded the train without her. Perhaps this year would be different.

As Marie-Claire and Lafayette ground against each other on the dance floor, Marie-Claire looked over her shoulder to make sure Cora was

watching. Cora was, but not for long. Dropping her eyes, she returned to the task at hand. Each year, it was her job to find out what Annie wanted to

eat after she finished performing, then prepare the requests, wrap up the plate, and deliver it piping-hot to Annie’s hotel room.

“What does she want tonight?” Bessie Johnson, the oldest member of the kitchen staff and by far the most easygoing, asked while dishing up

two plates of shrimp and grits for table number seven.

“The same thing she always wants—fried chicken, black-eyed peas, col ard greens, cornbread, and peach cobbler,” Cora replied. She

dropped chicken parts into a brown paper bag fil ed with flour and shook the bag to make sure al of the pieces were evenly coated. Then she

seasoned the chicken with black pepper, salt, and liberal dashes of hot sauce.

“For a skinny little thing, she sure can put it away.” Bessie half fil ed two Mason jars with moonshine, put the jars and the plates on a tray, and

prepared to fight her way through the crowd to deliver the order.

“This is probably the only week out of the year that she gets good meals,” Miss Shirley said, puffing up with pride. “She says nobody puts their

foot in it the way we do down here at the Dew Drop.”

“Then I guess we down here at the Dew Drop are due for a raise,” Bessie said, tossing a wink in Cora’s direction. She knew talking about

money was a sure way to get Miss Shirley’s goat.

“Yeah, wel , there’s a Depression on, you know,” Miss Shirley said, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her fingers were stained red from the

crawfish she had helped herself to. “Things are tough al over.”

“Not for me,” Bessie said, bumping the door open with her wel -padded rear end. “I ain’t had nothin’ to lose in the first place.”

Cora lowered the chicken into the frying pan, being careful not to crowd the pieces. She didn’t want to lower the temperature in the pan too

much. That would take the chicken longer to cook, making it soak up more of the grease. She wanted al her meals to be perfect, but this one

especial y so. It was Annie’s last night in town and Cora wanted it to be a memorable one for al the right reasons. She didn’t want Annie’s last

memory of her to be greasy chicken and watery col ard greens.

By the time Annie finished singing the last scandalous strains of Ma Rainey’s “Prove It On Me Blues,” a song that the married but openly

bisexual Rainey had written affirming her love of women, it was past one but the night was stil young. On Saturday nights, the party at the Dew Drop

didn’t end until three or four. By the time Cora usual y got home, it was almost time to get up for church. One Sunday a year, though, she was

excused from having to attend services—the Sunday after she spent the night with Annie Simpson, helping Annie close out her affairs in town and

pack her belongings so she could head to her next gig. On that day, Cora was al owed to sleep in as late as she wanted. Her family went to church

without her and let her get some rest. When they got home, though, they would pester her for details about her night with Annie.

What had Annie said? What had she done? Were her costumes real y as glamorous up close as they looked from afar?

Cora would dutiful y answer al their questions but she wouldn’t tel them everything. Some things—the most important things—she kept to

herself.

She had just turned twenty and Annie had been a worldly twenty-five when it began. Annie had been coming to the Dew Drop for six years at

that point and had been having her late-night meals delivered to the Rest Easy Motel for two. Three years on, Cora couldn’t remember how it had

started that first night, but she knew she didn’t want it to end. It was one of the few things she had to look forward to.

*

Annie hunkered over her plate as if she hadn’t eaten in days.

“There’s no way I can eat al of this,” she said, her voice slightly hoarse from al the exertions she had put it through. “Are you sure you don’t want

some?”

Draping a feather boa across her shoulders and doing a little twirl as she regarded her reflection in the mirror, Cora shook her head. Annie

said the same thing every year.

“I know,” Annie said with a wink. “You’re waiting for dessert, aren’t you?”

This time, Cora nodded. Annie said that every year, too. And every year it was true. Cora lived for this. For this one week a year when she

could express her desire for another woman freely and without fear of rejection.

One hunger satisfied, Annie pushed her empty plate away from her and wiped her mouth on the linen napkin Cora had brought. Rubbing her ful

stomach, she looked at Cora with a different kind of appetite. She could have anyone she wanted, man or woman, but there was something about

Cora that touched her soul. When Cora watched her perform, Annie didn’t just sing the lyrics. She felt them. She lived them. Afterward, when they

sat in the big claw-footed tub licking peach cobbler off each other’s fingers, she lived that, too. She took those moments with her everywhere she

went. If she had her way, she would take more than that.

Annie slowly extended her hand. Cora took it and they moved toward the bed. Their hands tugged at buttons, zippers, and hidden clasps until

nothing stood between them except gently yielding flesh.

“How I’ve missed you,” Annie sighed, final y able to relax now that the pressure to perform was over. Now that she had fulfil ed her commitment.

Now that she could be herself again, not the Siren. She licked her way from Cora’s throat to her waist and back again, pausing to linger at Cora’s

ful breasts. She loved to taste the salt on Cora’s skin. It tasted like hard, honest work. It tasted like truth. It tasted like love. “I love you,” she said as

Cora’s fingers slid inside her.

Cora stopped, even though she desperately wanted to move forward. Annie had never said that before. Before it had been about fulfil ing a

need. About satisfying an urge. About soothing an ache. Now it felt different. It felt like something real. Cora wanted to say, “I love you, too,” but she

couldn’t form her lips around the words. She had never thought she would ever have an opportunity to say them. She had said them in her head a

hundred times and in her heart a hundred times more, but not out loud. Not for someone else to hear.

“Come with me tomorrow,” Annie said. She’d been offered the lead in a musical. A two-reeler, not a ful -length motion picture, but it was stil the

lead. The film, the producers promised, would do the same thing for her that St. Louis Blues had for Bessie Smith—introduce her to a wider

audience. When she and Lafayette boarded the train the next day, they would head for the West Coast instead of returning to New York.

Annie moved her hips against Cora’s hand, waking it from its stupor. “Wil you do that? Wil you come with me?”

“Come with you to Hol ywood?” Cora matched Annie’s rhythm. She felt the heat build between them. Annie might not sweat onstage, but she

was certainly sweating now. “What would I do?”

Annie clutched at her, looking for purchase. “Anything you want,” she gasped.

Cora had never considered leaving town. Her family was there. Her life was there. But what kind of a life was it, real y? It was existing. It was

coping. It was getting by. It wasn’t living. Living was what she did when she was with Annie. She lived for only one week out of fifty-two. What if the

other fifty-one could be like that one?

“Don’t make me dream of something I can’t have,” Cora said as Annie’s wal s closed around her fingers.

“I’m not Marie-Claire.” Annie held Cora’s face in her hands and kissed her fervently. “You can have al this and more if you want,” she insisted.

“Just come with me.”

*

“So it is true.” Marie-Claire stared at the cardboard suitcase in Cora’s hand before the porter whisked it away. She was wearing the same

dress as the night before, though she and it both looked the worse for wear. The dress looked like it had been slept in and Marie-Claire looked like

she hadn’t slept at al . “You are leaving.”

“Good news travels fast.”

Cora looked up at the train as it idled in the station. Lafayette, his hat pul ed low to cover his eyes, had already boarded and was asleep in his

seat by the window. Marie-Claire’s eyes pleaded with him to wake up and take her with him, but he didn’t move. On the end of the platform, Annie

was saying her last good-byes to Miss Shirley. Cora had said good-bye more times than she could count. She didn’t know if she could take

another. Especial y not this one. Marie-Claire had meant so much to her for so long. Part of her stil held out hope that Marie-Claire might one day

feel the same way. She knew it was a pipe dream, but she’d already had one of those come true, hadn’t she?

“It should be me, you know,” Marie-Claire said.

The bitterness in her voice effectively put an end to Cora’s fantasy once and for al . Marie-Claire sounded like she hated Cora. And for what?

What had Cora ever done but love her and be there for her? How many times had she sat there miserable and quiet while Marie-Claire cried on her

shoulder about some man who had done her wrong when al Cora wanted to do was treat her right? Had that been for nothing?

Marie-Claire’s ful lips curled into a sneer. “It should be me and not you.”

Cora had stayed up al night trying to decide whether to go or to stay. Now she was certain she had made the right decision. “But it isn’t you. It’s

me. I always used to compare myself to you and come up short. Now I realize I was using the wrong measuring stick. You’re no better than I am. I

just let myself think you were. I won’t make that mistake again.”

Annie stood nearby but didn’t interrupt. When it became clear that Cora had said her piece and that Marie-Claire couldn’t formulate a

response, she offered Cora her arm and a reassuring smile. “Ready to go?”

They took their seats as the conductor shouted, “Al aboard!” Looking out the window, they watched the scenery rol by.

“Thank you for saying yes,” Annie whispered.

“Thank you for asking the question.” Cora felt suddenly shy. She felt like she had on the very first night she and Annie were together. Like she

was embarking on a journey she could never come back from. Like she could never go home again. Looking into Annie’s brown eyes, she realized

she was already there. And there was nowhere else she wanted to be.

Andrews & Austin are the authors of the Richfield and Rivers Mystery Series from Bold Strokes Books: Combust the Sun, Stellium in Scorpio,

and Venus Besieged; and the romances Mistress of the Runes, Uncross My Heart, and Summer Winds. Andrews began her career as a

broadcaster in NYC, moved into the advertising world as a writer/producer, and later became a movie studio executive. Prior to owning her own

production company, Austin was co-producer and on-air host of a shopping channel. She partnered with Andrews in developing movies for studios,

networks, and independents. Together, the couple owns a horse ranch in the Midwest and spends most of their time riding or writing. Strong, smart

women and insightful dialogue are hal marks of their work.

Madame Broussard

Andrews & Austin

Women of a certain age were intimate with the shop on Rue de LaSal e—the whispered solution to inattentive husbands, less amorous

paramours, and the sheer gravity of life that could weigh down one’s sizeable assets—because the shop’s owner, Madame Broussard, once the

French Quarter’s most notorious madam, knew precisely and to the hair’s breadth what interested men, and it began with elegant silk lingerie.

Rumor persisted that the money to support Madame’s luxurious lifestyle and lucrative business came from one royal client who had loved her

so desperately that he left his wife and son to be with her, despite Madame promising him only one night with her. After that night, true to her word,

she would have nothing more to do with him, and the thought of her with another man drove him mad and was rumored to be the reason he put a

bul et in his head…demonstrating just how entirely mad he had been driven.

Madame Broussard was a striking woman, her high cheekbones, exquisitely pale skin, and voluptuous cleavage the envy of her clients. In

addition to her slender creative hands and light brown satin eyes, she possessed a mass of red hair balanced atop her head in a huge swirl,

tendrils dangling like succulent vines down her neck as if the wanton hair could not be counted on to remain in place, as could not Madame

Broussard. She had traveled the world and met al manner of royalty, and the fact that she had chosen New Orleans’s Rue de LaSal e as final port

was hailed as a great coup for the wealthy women of this fine city.

In convincing me to shore up my marriage with a trip to Madame Broussard’s, friends had conveyed the shop’s lore. How each day, the smal

brass bel bearing the engraved initial B jangled on its sturdy metal post as the shop door swung open and Madame looked up, cocked her head

seductively as if each new entrant were a lover, and said richly, “ Bonjour, madame, I thought you would never come.” Her lifted eyebrow and rakish

smile suggested that the emphasized words might be a husband’s lament unless, and until, the visitor took Madame’s suggestions on how to

please a man. Her greeting kept her wealthy clients atwitter, and they no doubt stayed longer and bought more based on her talents and reputation.

And so today when the door swung open ever so slowly, instead of a woman’s voice, I was annoyed to hear the incessant and rhythmic

pounding of repair work taking place inside the boutique, a constant hammering. I nearly turned to leave.

However, moments later, the work stopped and I, the woman referred to in society columns as “the golden-haired wife of New Orleans’s

wealthiest banker,” shyly entered the shop. Having braved this new world only on the insistence of others, and having been told what to expect, I was

surprised by Madame Broussard’s slightly breathless greeting.

“Bonjour, Madame Le Doux. Je ne penser que vous n’arriverais jamais.” How did this woman I had never met, in a shop I had never entered,

know my name? I would have left had it not been for the look in Madame Broussard’s eyes—a hypnotic expression.

Madame excused herself from a customer for whom she was pinning a gorgeous train at the waist and, leaving the final touches to her

assistant, swept across the room, her dress trailing the floor, and extended her hand.

“Please stay.” She seemed to know that if she did not get a grip on me and block my path to the door, I would take wing like a frightened bird.

“So you look for something to—je ne sais quoi—enhance your already beautiful form.” The way her eyes covered my body made me blush with

pride. As if I’d been assessed and found to be desirable and, for some reason, that was pleasing—perhaps because Madame was a professional

appraiser, having once chosen women’s assets as a mainstay of her business success. And so to be deemed beautiful by Madame was a far

greater compliment than could be paid by a mere friend, for the value of the former was virtual y bankable.

“Yes. Uh, I’m going on a… I apologize. As you seem to know, I’m Emma LeDoux, Maxmil ian LeDoux’s wife, and we’re going on a cruise and I

want him to feel…” I want him to feel…interested? Feel sexual? Feel damned near anything. For my husband was a bit like an automated tel er. If

you fingered the right buttons, he mechanical y delivered exactly the amount you expected.

“To feel”—the lilt encouraged me to complete my sentence and then she finished it for me—“young again. He focuses on erection, she on

affection. Most often the issue.” Madame angled her right arm at a doorway, brushing aside thickly beaded curtains that jangled as I entered

through them and found myself in a completely mirrored room about the size of two normal dressing rooms.

“Ghastly.” My eyes moved furtively from one mirrored angle of my body to the next, not approving of myself as I sucked in my stomach, pul ed

my shoulders back, and lifted my eyebrows to pul the lines from my facial expression.

Madame reached over and took my chin gently in her hand and turned my face to her.

“I wil look at the mirror, you wil look at me.” Her voice was kind and I let out my breath. “A woman must love herself, without regard to

convention.” She winked at me and I blushed.

Madame appraised my figure as if deciding whether or not to purchase me, and prism-like images reflected in my peripheral vision: her eyes

moved down my stil -narrow waist to larger hips and back to my firm thighs. She stepped back and stared at my breasts. Al the while I kept my

eyes on the thick head of hair hypnotical y bobbing around me, moving in, pul ing back, until final y, Madame looked up and caught me by surprise

with her completely captivating smile.

“Like a sinful dessert, you are.” She disappeared through the beaded curtain, leaving me grinning at myself in the mirror, sucking in my breath

and making cheerful bargains with my psyche about how much, if anything, I would ever eat again. I would now rather be a sinful dessert than eat

one.

The curtain rattled again and Madame entered with several thin silk pieces of material over her arm. Without asking, she unbuttoned the smal

pearl-like clasps on the front of my sweater as I reached up to help but wasn’t quick enough to accomplish what Madame had already done, the

sweater fal ing open to reveal my bra. And for some unknown reason I began to question the quality of my bra—was it snow white or had it been

inadvertently washed with darker clothing, giving it a gray cast? Did it look new?

“Tournez-vouz, s’il vous plaît.” Madame pivoted me in the right direction and as I twirled, Madame unsnapped my bra and it fel into my hands.

What timing that took! How many women she must have undressed! My back to Madame, I felt the silk fal over my head and drape around my

shoulders. I turned to face her as Madame’s hand slid over the pink silk front and cupped my left breast, startling me. “That is the fit we want, I think.

Seductive, and yet it wil stil be comfortable in case you want to sleep in it.” She beamed as if she’d just invented sleep.

I angled my body to look at myself, just as Madame took a white braided satin rope and looped it over my head, catching under my breasts and

hoisting them slightly. Then she swiftly drew the rope up and back, holding me up against her chest, her chin on my shoulder, both of us looking into

the mirror that looked back at us.

“We are a charming duo, are we not?” She laughed.

A little thril rippled across my body, and I couldn’t be sure if the satin rope or the sensual look in Madame’s experienced eyes was caressing

me.

She seemed frozen, as if caught in some thought she wished had not interrupted her consciousness. Suddenly letting loose of the rope, she

swept her hands across my breasts in col ecting and coiling it, and I shivered, then smiled and tried to make light of the moment.

“This is a bit like bondage for the banker’s bride.”

“Bondage?” She made eye contact for the first time. “Bound by love is for me more satisfying than bound by shackles.” She glanced at my

chest. “It’s cold? I’m sorry. Fini, alors. I wil have the braid sewn to the garment and, if it suits you, perhaps you wil come back next week and we wil

try it on to be certainement.”

“We leave on our cruise in ten days.” My voice grew softer.

“And this beautiful garment wil leave with you, I promise.”

I smiled at her charming accent and Madame flashed her beautiful smile in return. “Merci, mon ami.” I tried out my French and she laughed.

“So you are French at heart. That beautiful body and gorgeous mouth, but of course. Your husband should count himself lucky. A banker with

such a prize.” Her emphasis on the word “banker” seemed to dismiss the entire financial community as unable to recognize value.

Madame exited the smal dressing room and I felt weak. The power of this woman was palpable. No doubt she could command kings and

courtesans. Why, with that power, was she here in this little shop on the Rue de LaSal e?

When I left the dressing room, Madame was nowhere to be seen. Her assistant stood nearby and I approached the young woman.

“Madame is such an interesting woman. Have you worked for her long?” I asked.

“I was a client at one time.” When I looked surprised, she said, “I believed in her talent and wanted to be around her. She’s like the pied piper.

You wil see.”

*

Al week I thought of her. That vibrant red hair, the elegant way she drifted into a room, her refined hand gestures, and her gaze that made me

feel there was no one else on earth, her focus so complete. Like a Raphaelian angel, she had blessed me and made me feel good about my body

again.

Of late, Max had put me in doubt, suggesting I might want to hire a personal trainer or go to Europe to one of the spas. Never criticizing me

real y, just drawing attention to places where women’s bodies could be overhauled like a Corvette, perhaps like re-stuffed upholstery and a new

paint job.

By day Max kept himself buried in electronic ledgers and financial pro formas. He no longer smiled, thus robbing me of his nicest physical

attribute. Romance was a nocturnal event scheduled much like a haircut and lasting far less time. I saw myself as diminished in his affection, no

longer a partner or mate but more like a paid performer who had to prove to him that he’d purchased the best seat in the house.

But Madame Broussard was on my horizon and I couldn’t wait for the days to pass. With each twenty-four-hour period, I became happier and

giddier. Ironical y, Max noticed and inquired as to my source of good humor. I said merely that I’d made up my mind to be happy and that alone had

made me so. My response obviously not interesting enough to warrant further conversation, he shrugged and left the room.

I had a secret that made me happy: Madame Broussard, who knew what beauty was, had pronounced me beautiful. And once named, my

beauty seemed unquestionable even to myself.

My hairdresser frosted my hair to even more golden highlights and I had a manicure. I took my husband’s advice and went to the spa for a facial

and massage. And on the morning I arrived at Madame Broussard’s, I stood tal er, my shoulders back and my head high. Madame, upon hearing

the tinkle of the bel at the door, glanced up, and I thought her head snapped toward me just a few degrees before she caught herself.

“Madame LeDoux, vous êtes exquisite,” she purred, in a tone that implied she did not greet everyone like this. She never looked up from the

fitting taking place on a woman whom I immediately envied for Madame’s fingers playing along her bodice. Looking into the mirror over the

woman’s shoulder, nearly as she had done with me, Madame spoke to her reflection, saying it now looked perfect, and then she directed her next

remark to another young assistant, obviously having needed help from more experienced hands. “Be sure it drapes exactly so.” Her hand made a

swooping gesture as she stepped away and the assistant took over.

I stood like a trembling fawn awaiting instruction from Madame Broussard. Draped in purple velvet that dove down to her breastbone revealing

just the interior edges of large and firmly supported breasts, she came forward and extended her hand in greeting. “You are back. My great fortune.”

Without thinking, I kissed her on each cheek, noting that she smel ed wonderful and wanting to know what tantalizing perfume she wore.

Perhaps it would help me as wel with my love interests, and I suddenly wondered if Madame had slept with many men or merely managed their

affairs.

Her arm swept to the side, indicating another dressing room, and on the way, Madame signaled yet another assistant, ordering, “Madame

LeDoux’s apparel.” The woman nodded and disappeared.

Inside the dressing room were two brocaded Napoleon chairs, across a table supporting a carafe and elegant crystal glasses, and at one end

of the room a three-way mirror. The clothing hooks on the wal appeared to be vestal virgins, their urns extended to hold the padded hangers.

“Ah, the mirror,” I teased, drawing back.

“The way you look, you should welcome the mirror. But for those who don’t, we drink first.” She smiled and I laughed lightly. “You are too

beautiful to need it but for loosening your inhibitions…and your tongue. Claret?”

I tensed at her tone and nodded that I would take the drink. Madame poured it expertly, never spil ing a drop, and then toasted.

“To al the men who’ve paid the price for al the priceless women.” Madame downed her drink and I laughed again, fol owing suit. As Madame

refil ed our glasses I was feeling warm from the wine, and emboldened.

“How is it that a woman of your charms and business acumen is here on the Rue de LaSal e dealing in lingerie?”

“I deal in dreams. Lingerie is merely the transporter. Some women use silk and lace to attract a mate, others to keep him, and some simply to

make themselves feel better about who they are and what they do. What are your dreams?”

From anyone else, I might have thought that question impertinent, but then I had started it, hadn’t I, asking why she was dealing in panties and

corsets?

“Like everyone else, I guess, I want to be loved and desired.”

“And Messer LeDoux does that for you.” She stated it like a question deserted in the air.

“To the best of his ability,” I said, as if no one could try harder than my husband.

Her eyes trailed across my drink glass to the overly large diamond that lol ed its gleaming head on my ring finger, too drunkenly expensive to

hold itself upright. “And he is a man who provides a comfort of sorts.”

“Of sorts,” I echoed.

“And so today, we improve your arsenal of weapons to further invade his heart.” She stood up as if she knew that there would be a knock at the

door, and at just that moment, there was. Her assistant arrived and hung the negligee on the vestal virgin, dimming the overhead chandelier upon

her exit.

The door had no sooner shut than I stood in the dim light and dropped the dress I was wearing in one swift zippered movement, standing only in

panties and hose, comfortable in the half-light. She froze as she had that first time. Perhaps she thought I sensed something in her look, because

she said softly, “Close your eyes.” At my puzzled expression, she continued, “Let me make it happen for you and then you wil tel me if I have

succeeded.”

I stood stil , hearing the rustling of her gown, which I recol ected as being far too dressy for daytime and yet seeming to suit her royal

personage. I had little time to contemplate the sound of her clothing as she stood in front of me slipping the garment over my head, and I struggled

to remember to keep my eyes shut. The energy field between us was electrical, as if wired from her shock of red hair.

“No peeking.”

Her hands smoothed the silk across my body, starting at the shoulder and running directly over my chest, and my face flushed as my breasts

responded to her touch. But her hands moved on to my waist where they clutched me slightly, then to my hips. Now she was behind me and the

rope pul ed back and tightened and hooked, and one more time her hands traveled al over me, smoothing things out, and I was so aroused I felt I

might lose my balance. She seemed to know and steadied me.

“You may open your eyes now.”

In the mirror, the image was glorious. She had enhanced every curve and covered every blemish. I felt like a princess.

“It’s exquisite. You’re masterful,” I said, twirling in the negligee and giggling over how elegant it made me feel. “Merci, mon amour!” I whirled

and hugged her, realizing as I did so, that I’d used the wrong noun and thanked her as my lover. She pul ed back and raised an eyebrow, giving me

a seductive smirk. European, I thought. Expressive and emotional.

“So we are fini. Our time together is unfortunately over until you need something more from me.”

“I do,” I said suddenly.

She cocked her head in inquiry and I struggled to say what I needed. “Pants, perhaps, with a jacket, something I could wear on deck but then at

the captain’s table.”

“I specialize in lingerie, and besides, you leave in only a few days.”

“I could come every day if need be. I would real y appreciate it if you would attempt it.”

“You are a persuasive woman.” Her eyes traveled over my body, taking in everything she had created. “I have memorized your size and it wil

take only one more fitting once we select the fabric. You wil come with me to the fabric room?”

I said that I would and hurried to put my dress back on and fol owed her out the door like a schoolgirl.

“Gisel e, please handle my next client.” The assistant seemed anxious to obey and pleased to have been asked. Madame swept past her and

we entered through a set of double doors at the far end of the shop. Before me stretched a glorious array of fabrics: every texture, color, pattern,

and I realized that this smal shop was just the front of a very large enterprise that Madame control ed. As we approached, several workers gave

way and in doing so asked if they might assist. She thanked them but dismissed them with a hand gesture and they disappeared from sight. She

slowed then, to al ow me to fal in alongside her.

“Linen wrinkles, but its texture is comforting. Much more inviting than brocade. Of course, we could do something in Egyptian cotton.” Her

fingers ran along the bolts of cloth as she spoke, and I found myself fol owing her fingers rather than looking at the material, and wondered why she

was so hypnotic. I was aware in the distance several women sat at drafting tables apparently sketching clothing.

“You show?”

“Providing ideas for famous designers. My label invisible, if you wil . They get the press and I get the money. Not unlike other businesses in

which I’ve been involved.” She grinned mischievously. “So what do you think?”

My head was swirling. I simply wanted to talk to her. Know her. “You pick the fabric and do the design. You’re the expert. And instead of

spending an hour in here, we could go somewhere and…sit and talk, perhaps. I would pay you. I apologize. I didn’t mean that like it sounded. I

meant we’re not friends, so why would you waste an hour with me otherwise—”

She placed her hand on my arm. “Please. Let’s go to my office and have tea.” She moved ahead of me farther into the warehouse. Through

another set of doors we entered an impeccably designed and decorated office. She quickly offered me a seat on the couch and poured tea. And

where did tea come from? Is it always sitting there waiting for her? I felt I was on a movie set and a prop master was seeing to her every need.

Answering my unvoiced thoughts, she said, “I am a woman accustomed to satisfying needs instantly and expertly. Therefore, I have high

expectations that my own needs be satisfied. My staff knows that the correct wine, tea, food must be in the exact place at al times.” She smiled at

me.

“Would you tel me about your other business? The one everyone speaks of?”

“That was a long time ago. Satisfied customers, isn’t that what everyone wants? Mine were simply satisfied more quickly and at a higher price.”

“It’s rumored that a prince was so enamored of you that he kil ed himself because you would only sleep with him once.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that repeated.” Her noncommittal response made me smile. “After I made money, I slept with no one. It was the very thing that

drove me to make money quickly. An empty bed was my reward. But you, your bed is not empty.” The way in which she careful y spoke the words

seemed to caution me that I was a married woman.

“I know you’re busy,” I said, stirring from the couch. “You’re sure the pants wil fit me? We haven’t measured.”

“I have a good eye, but if it wil make you feel better, I’m happy to do it.” She looked at me in a way that could only be described as seductive,

but merely for a moment, then she got up slowly, moved to her desk, and pul ed a pearled tape measure from a drawer.

“Should I take my dress off?” I asked, breathless.

“No, simply hold it up for me.” I bunched the skirt up. She dropped the tape from my waist to the floor and then moved to her desk to jot down a

number on a pad. Setting the pen down, she picked up a paper tape and, returning, wrapped it around my middle quickly and tightly, as if capturing

me rather than measuring me. She flicked my tummy with her middle finger, teasing me into letting the air out. “Don’t hold your breath or you’l be

cursing me from the cruise liner. The pants should hang natural y.”

She took the metal tape and dropped it down my inseam. “Do you like it here?” The back of her hand touched my upper thigh just below the

crotch. “Or do you prefer it just a little tighter?” The palm of her hand cupped my crotch just for a split second and I nearly lost the ability to answer

her question.

“Tighter,” I managed to whisper, not real y wanting my pants that tight but wanting that feeling again.

She cupped her hand there again without any emotion. “You might change your mind. Why don’t we split the difference?” She moved away and

jotted another number on the pad. “We’d best get you on your way.”

She held the door and I sailed through it as if running away. I bade her good-bye and hurried to my car, stil tingling between my legs. I drove

home not knowing where I was until I pul ed into the driveway and sat in the car stil gasping for air.

*

I had forgotten to find out what time we were to meet over the next few days. And when I cal ed the shop, I could hear repair work taking place

again and inquired of the slight hammering. Gisel e said they were in constant renovation and explained quickly that Madame had everything she

needed from me and would cal me when the garment was ready.

For two days I paced and fretted and checked with her assistants, but they said she was out.

The day before I was to leave on our cruise, a vacation I no longer wanted to take because it took me from her, a package arrived by

messenger. Inside were a gorgeous pair of gold silk pants and a jacket, along with a note: “Ma chéri, my apologies for being unavailable. This is

my gift to you. Bon voyage.”

We took the cruise, Max and I, our stateroom luxurious. I never told him about the elegant garments that reminded me of Madame Broussard. I

had them with me but kept them folded in my luggage where I looked at them and ran my fingers across them daily. I wanted nothing more of Max

and, in fact, found her memory more arousing than his presence. And he, only slightly less interested in me, remarked after my refusing to sleep

with him that he thought we should part. I was relieved because I had tried to form those very words but could not decide how.

When our ship came into port, I kissed him lightly on the cheek and told him my attorney would phone his. Then I hailed a cab and went

immediately to the Rue de LaSal e. It was past five and I worried that the shop had already closed. When I got out of the cab, the storefront windows

were shuttered, and I told the driver to wait.

Gisel e popped her head out as if she’d been expecting me and waved happily. “Madame is waiting. May I take your cab?” I nodded yes and

she hopped in. I thought how fortunate to have run into her and went inside, doing as Gisel e asked, locking the door behind me.

“How was your cruise, Madame LeDoux?” Madame Broussard stepped into the room once so bustling with people and now entirely empty.

She was wearing a strawberry-colored gown that matched her hair and looked breathtaking. “Was Messer LeDoux pleased?”

“No. Nor was I. We were not pleased with each other…and so I chose not to grace him with such gorgeous attire.”

“Ahh,” she purred. “Sometimes lingerie is not enough.”

“I’m filing for divorce.” I stepped closer to her and could smel her perfume.

“A step not to be taken lightly.” She seemed to be referring to the step I’d taken in her direction. “Please come to my fitting room.” She turned

and led me into a room that was tufted and comfortable like a parlor, although clearly designed for fitting clothing.

She handed me a glass of wine. “Why have you come directly here?” This time her eyes rested on mine and the light danced in them.

“Why were you expecting me?” I asked boldly.

“Because years ago a Cajun woman read the tarot cards and told me that I would meet a woman who would come in on a ship from across the

sea and we would be together. I took the shop on LaSal e so I could be near the ocean.”

My throat tightened.

“You wil need a place to stay. Wil you come here?” she asked.

“Like one of your girls?” My question didn’t seem to offend her.

“Not at al like that. By the way…” She leaned in and slid her hand between my thighs and held me there. “Were you happy with the fit?”

I grew weak as she pul ed me onto the long tufted ottoman and began to expertly untangle my clothing, her nimble fingers seeming to caress as

they undressed. Her lips, shimmering hot, covered mine and I moaned as her talented kisses liquefied me. Her hand expertly crested the top of my

panty hose and slid down between my legs and into me, causing my body to undulate in waves as the tight garment pressed her even farther inside.

“We hardly know each other,” I managed to whisper.

“How wonderful that is. Nothing to dislike and everything to love.”

And as she rocked on top of me, driving herself into me, and I moved in ecstasy beneath her, one end of the ottoman hit the wood-paneled wal ,

banging rhythmical y against it, and I remembered hearing that sound. Like a carpenter working, pounding something into the wal . And for one

alarmed moment, I realized it was me being pounded and that perhaps this very scene had taken place before on this very couch.

But Madame Broussard’s voluptuous breast was in my mouth and her hands were creating melodies inside my soul, and she whispered that I

was the one the gypsy woman had promised her. And so I chose to believe the rhythmic sounds of the ottoman banging into the wal were unique to

our lovemaking and unrelated to any more mundane hammering. After al , repair work went on constantly in New Orleans.

D. Jackson Leigh is a Georgia peach transplanted to North Carolina. She has worked the past thirty years as a print journalist and played an

endless parade of sports. A hopelessly romantic Sagittarian, she has a deep-seated love for anything equine, her Jack Russel Terror, her blue-

eyed partner, and women’s basketbal …not necessarily in that order. Her Bold Strokes novels include the romances Bareback and the forthcoming

Longshot (2010).

Box Full of Surprises

D. Jackson Leigh

“Sky, what are you so nervous about?” Jessica clamped a firm hand on Skyler’s bouncing knee and smiled at her partner. The long leg stil ed,

but Skyler’s brown eyes continued to dart around the room as though she were a long-tailed cat and the women waiting patiently along with them

were al sitting in rocking chairs.

“They’re al pregnant!”

Jessica chuckled. “Wel , that’s why they’re in Dr. Nichols’s office, you goof. What did you expect?”

“Wel , what if one of them squirts out a baby right here, right now?” Skyler’s whisper carried, and a dark-haired woman sitting near them smiled

into her magazine.

Jessica was having a hard time believing this nervous, apparently naïve, woman sitting next to her was the same six-foot, androgynous blond

charmer who ran a large equestrian breeding and training facility. She wasn’t even pregnant yet, and Skyler was a wreck. She was beginning to

think having Skyler as her demanding trainer when she had prepared for the Olympics might have been easier than living through nine months of

pregnancy with her.

“How can the sight of a pregnant woman throw you into such a panic? Is this what I’ve got to look forward to for nine months?”

“No.” Skyler scowled and clutched Jessica’s hand. “It’s just…wel …”

“Skyler, women, like horses, get pregnant every day. They carry babies ful term, then have a normal birth—every day.”

“But…”

“You’ve been watching Emergency Doctors on the Surgery Channel again, haven’t you?”

Skyler shrugged sheepishly.

“Honey, they only show the bad cases on that medical show. Every pregnancy doesn’t end in an emergency. This is not rocket science. We’re

just planning to have a baby.”

“Okay. I know, I know. I’l chil .” Skyler sighed and playful y bumped shoulders with Jessica. “We’l be fine.”

“We don’t have to do this, Skyler, if you’re going to have a stroke over it.”

“No. You know I want us to have kids. I love kids.”

“I know, honey. By the third or fourth, you’l be an old hand at this,” Jessica teased.

Skyler gulped. “Th-third or fo-fourth?”

“Kidding. I’m kidding.”

Skyler blew out a breath of relief, her confidence returning. “On the other hand, four would be enough to have our own polo team.”

Jessica gave Skyler a look. “Then you better be looking for maternity clothes in your size, too, or fil ing out some adoption papers.”

“Ms. Black?”

Saved by the nurse, Skyler thought. She stood when Jessica did, shifting uncertainly from foot to foot.

“Do you want me…uh, you know, to go with you?” Skyler asked. They had discussed talking to the doctor together, but Skyler wasn’t sure about

being in the room while the doctor examined her lover.

“We’re in this together, al the way.” Jessica pul ed her toward the waiting nurse, chuckling at Skyler’s wide eyes. “Buck up, stud. At least you

won’t be the one with your feet up in the stirrups.”

*

“So why aren’t we visiting our regular GYN for this?” Skylar frowned, uncomfortable knowing her lover was naked under a thin paper sheet and

some guy was going to be coming in at any moment to take a peek under it. Dr. Taylor Nichols. Sounded like some preppy frat boy who went into

gynecology so he could spend al day looking under women’s paper things. She tugged at the covering, trying to tuck it tightly around Jessica’s slim

hips.

“Because, honey, Dr. Nichols specializes in in vitro fertilizations and fertility cases. Anita referred us here to give us the best chance of getting

pregnant quickly.”

At that moment, a knock sounded and a petite fortysomething woman hurried into the room. Jessica sat up on the table and Skyler stood

protectively by her side.

“Hi, I’m Taylor Nichols.” The woman smiled and extended her hand to Jessica. “And I’m guessing you’re Jessica, since you’re the one modeling

our latest paper wear.”

Then the doctor turned to Skyler and her smile became a grin. “And you must be Skyler, the bodyguard…I mean, partner.”

Jessica snorted.

“Taylor is a woman’s name.” Skyler pointedly stared at the wedding rings on Dr. Nichols’s left hand and muttered, “A straight woman.”

“Isn’t that a stereotype, taking for granted that my wedding rings were put there by a man?” Dr. Nichols asked good-naturedly. “Although in this

case, you’re right.”

Skyler’s eyes narrowed. This woman better be straight. She was just too cute to be putting her hands in Jessica’s private places…places only

Skyler touched now. Jessica laughed and wrapped a reassuring arm around Skyler’s waist.

“Don’t mind her. She’s just a little—no, a lot—nervous.”

“Fair enough.” Dr. Nichols chuckled. “Now, lay back, Jessica, and let’s check things out real quick.”

The exam was fast. Fifteen minutes later, Jessica was dressed and they were al sitting in Dr. Nichols’s office.

“Your lab work looks good and the exam was normal. I’m glad you’ve already begun charting your cycle. It looks pretty regular, which is very

helpful. I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t be able to get pregnant.”

Skyler and Jessica smiled at each other.

“Now, are you planning to use a donor or a sperm bank?”

“I have a male twin,” Skyler explained, “and he has agreed to donate to the cause.” She was hoping, though, that the baby would have Jessica’s

dark hair and pale blue eyes.

“A twin? Excel ent. You two are very lucky. So, do you want to do this in the office or at home?”

“Wel ,” Skyler looked at Jessica for support, “my brother teaches at Princeton, but he’s agreed to ship us some sticks. We’d like to try it at

home. I think I know the fundamentals because I have artificial y bred horses many times. It’s basical y the same equipment, isn’t it?”

“Sticks?”

“Uh, that’s what we cal tubes of, uh, you know, when we breed horses. Popsicle sticks, because they come frozen.” She was having trouble

saying the word semen while talking about her brother.

“Wel , yes, it is basical y the same procedure. Your mission is to deposit the donated sperm so that it coats the cervix at the right time during

Jessica’s cycle. Orgasm at the time of insemination greatly increases the chances of fertilization by helping the cervix dip into the vaginal pool and

suck up the sperm. The sperm is deposited most commonly with a needleless syringe. That’s rather clinical, however, so one medical equipment

manufacturer has just released a device that al ows couples to simulate a more natural insemination if they wish. It is rather more expensive, of

course.”

Skyler didn’t comprehend what the doctor was trying to explain, but Jessica seemed to.

“Do you have equipment you can show us?” Jessica asked politely.

“We keep a few in stock, so you can take one home with you today if you want.” The doctor punched a few buttons on her phone and when the

nurse answered, said, “Could you bring us one of the home kits?”

“Do you know what she’s talking about?” Skyler murmured.

“I think so, honey.” Jessica squeezed Skyler’s hand. “Just wait, and we’l see.”

After the nurse delivered a plain brown shoebox-sized box, Dr. Nichols handed it to Jessica. She peeked inside, then closed it again, brushing

Skyler’s hand away when she reached for the box.

“The instructions are there if you need any. It’s pretty simple.” Dr. Nichols’s tone was total y clinical. “If you’ve handled livestock sperm, you’re

familiar with the basic precautions. This method is a little different because you have to remember to push the plunger slowly at the right moment.

The ideal time to start pushing would be as the orgasm begins to build. This requires good communication and a sure hand. You want the entire

sperm sample already deposited in the vagina when the orgasm hits its peak.”

“You can handle that, can’t you, stud?” Jessica teased softly.

Skyler was mute. Images of a naked Jessica, knees up, opening herself flashed through her brain.

“Of course, if you’re unsure, we can do this in the office,” Dr. Nichols offered.

Jessica tucked the box under her arm.

“No, no. I think we’l give this a try.”

*

Jessica had learned during their past year together that Skyler’s body language often screamed thoughts and feelings she couldn’t voice. The

flush on her cheeks and the faraway look made Jessica stop at the four-star hotel just down the road from the doctor’s office. She didn’t even mind

the wink from the butch desk clerk over the “no luggage.” She just smiled, grabbed Skyler’s hand, and headed for the elevators.

When they reached the room, Jessica pul ed Skyler inside, kicked the door shut, and pinned her against the wal . Their kisses were hot and

deep. She made quick work of the buttons of Skyler’s shirt, immediately found the clasp of her bra, and pul ed a tight nipple between her lips.

Skyler moaned and her knees sagged. Jessica tugged at Skyler’s belt buckle, then the zipper, before sliding the soft jeans and gray boy-shorts

down Skyler’s long, muscled legs. Her mouth watered at the scent of Skyler’s arousal. She dropped to her knees and dove in without ceremony.

Nothing turned her on more than this most intimate of acts.

Skyler’s strangled “oh” and trembling thighs gave Jessica a sense of power that fired the heat between her own legs. She felt the pulse of

Skyler’s sex when she pressed her lips to it, then ran her tongue the length of her lover’s clitoris to gather the growing moisture before grasping it in

her teeth and sucking hard. It never failed to bring Skyler to a quick, shattering climax.

Skyler slid down the wal , her orgasm robbing her of her remaining strength. “Holy Christ, babe. Where’d that come from?” Jessica’s stare was

stil hungry. “Not that I’m complaining, but you stil have al your clothes on and I’m naked as a jaybird.”

“Then we’l just have to fix that,” Jessica said, pul ing Skyler to her feet and dragging her to the bed. Skyler reached for Jessica’s shirt, but

Jessica grabbed her hands, stopping her. “No. You just stand there, lover. I’m in charge of this show.”

This was the only woman who could tel Skyler what to do, but command her she did. Jessica would always own her, heart and soul. Skyler

watched Jessica retrieve the box that she had dropped to the floor earlier and place it on the bed. Then Jessica slowly, very slowly pul ed her polo

shirt over her head. She ran her fingers over her lace-covered breasts and unclasped her bra, hook by hook. She pinched and pul ed her nipples

until they grew hard.

Skyler groaned when Jessica dropped her slacks to the floor, then turned her back to bend over and slowly lower her string bikini panties over

creamy white hips. Jessica knew her backside was Skyler’s prime trigger, and she used it often to torture her.

“I’ve been wanting to test-drive one of these with you,” Jessica said, her voice low and silky, as she handed the box to Skyler.

Skyler felt her face and chest flush with arousal when she looked inside and found a firm dildo of simulated flesh with a thonglike latex harness.

Unlike the ones available in an adult toy store, this one had a built-in syringe to load and ejaculate semen.

“Wow.”

“I thought since we didn’t have time to pick up any lube, I’d let you provide that for me,” Jessica whispered in her ear, drawing her close. Their

breasts brushed lightly, teasingly. Jessica pul ed Skyler’s head down for a heated kiss and then nudged her foot to encourage her to widen her

stance.

Skyler felt the dildo, warm and firm, rubbing between her legs and across her stil -hard clit. Her breath hitched. Her clitoris twitched at the

contact. But before she was too far gone, Jessica knelt and secured the dildo against Skyler’s throbbing sex. When Skyler reached for her, Jessica

stepped back.

“Uh-uh, babe. You have to come to me.”

When Jessica lay back on the bed and pul ed her knees up, Skyler didn’t know if she was going to faint or orgasm at the sight. Lord, what had

she done to deserve this woman? Whatever it was, she wanted to keep doing it. Forever. And ever.

Jessica ran her fingers between her legs and then held them up for inspection. “This is what you do to me.”

“My turn to show you what I can really do to you,” Skyler growled. She licked Jessica’s fingers clean before slipping her tongue deep into

Jessica’s mouth. She massaged Jessica’s breast and maneuvered the slick cock between Jessica’s legs. When she slowly slid it in, they both

moaned.

They coupled face-to-face, breast to breast. Jessica’s cry from her first orgasm stil echoed in the room when she flipped over onto her knees

and demanded, “Again.”

Skyler’s staccato grunts grew louder and her pace quickened. It was an erotic fantasy come to life as Jessica arched her back to meet her

thrusts. The dildo’s base rubbed the length of Skyler’s clit with each stroke, making it feel as though it was, indeed, a part of her own body

stretching her lover’s warm vagina.

“Yes,” Jessica hissed when Skyler rose up to her knees, pul ing Jessica’s hips upward to both increase and change the angle of penetration.

The tingling began building in Skyler’s groin and she drove faster, deeper, flesh slapping against flesh. Her legs began to shake at the sight of

the pliant prosthesis sliding in and out, fil ing and stretching, and she reached around to stroke Jessica’s engorged clitoris with the same rhythm.

“Oh God, baby. Come with me, Sky,” Jessica urged.

Crying out as one, they thrust together, riding out the last waves of their orgasms. Jessica final y col apsed onto the bed, exhausted. They lay

together, their hearts pounding in synch. Jessica moaned when Skyler final y shifted her weight to pul the cock free.

“Damn, babe. You are real y good at this,” Jessica panted.

Skyler’s chest puffed out at Jessica’s compliment. She quickly divested herself of the equipment and flopped onto her back to pul her lover

close. She loved the way Jessica’s smal er body felt resting on top of hers. She ran her fingertips down the lightly muscled back and rested her

hands on the firm buttocks. God, she loved Jessica’s ass. She loved al of this woman, this wonderful woman who had given her lost and drifting

soul an anchor. What had she given in return?

Skyler had only been at the bar to collect their drinks for a few minutes, but by the time she walked back to their table there was already a

very attractive dark-haired stranger leaning close to Jessica, crowding Jessica’s personal space.

“You seem to be conveniently alone.” The woman leaned closer than was necessary for Jessica to hear her speaking.

“My partner is at the bar, getting us a drink.”

The woman reached out, grabbed Jessica’s left hand, and held it up to look at it. “Must be a business partner, because I don’t see a ring on

this finger. Or else this woman doesn’t think much of what she has.”

She saw Jessica pull her hand back and frown. Time to step in.

“Here you go, love. Are you about ready to hit the dance floor?”

Jessica took the offered drink and rewarded Skyler with a quick kiss. Skyler wrapped a possessive arm around her and looked inquiringly at

the other woman.

“This is my partner, Skyler Reese,” Jessica said. “Sky, this is…” Jessica raised a questioning eyebrow at the woman, waiting her answer.

The woman bowed slightly. “I can see it doesn’t matter. Pardon my intrusion.”

Skyler scowled as the woman retreated. The ring remark bothered her. She needed to do something about that.

“A penny for those heavy thoughts,” Jessica said.

“Wel , these thoughts are worth more than a few pennies.” Skyler wiggled out from under Jessica’s comfortable weight and padded across the

room to retrieve her jeans. She real y had planned to do this over a romantic dinner, not in the nude in a hotel room. But the moment seemed right

just the same. It was the way she wanted to give herself to Jessica, exposed and vulnerable, emotional y as wel as physical y.

So Skyler knelt beside the bed. Her eyes brimmed with tears. After a long minute, she choked out what was on her heart.

“Jessica, wil you marry me, be my partner for life?” She opened the jeweler’s box to reveal a bril iant sapphire flanked by a pair of diamonds in

a warm gold setting.

When Jessica pul ed back in surprise, Skyler felt a surge of panic. That reaction wasn’t what she’d expected.

“I’m not asking you to change your name or anything,” she blurted. “It’s just, if we’re going to raise children together…no, that didn’t sound

right…” Damn it. She stared down at the bed. She could never seem to say what she meant.

Jessica smiled at her partner’s consternation.

“Oh, Sky, it’s so beautiful. Yes.”

“Yes?” Skyler asked hopeful y.

“Yes, I’l marry you…in front of the world, or in front of just a few friends. I could never love another like I love you, honey.”

Skyler slid the ring onto Jessica’s finger, tears final y spil ing over.

“I love you, Jess. I would be so lost without you. I want to wake up next to you every morning for the rest of my life,” she said, her voice cracking

with emotion. “I want to raise children with you…children who wil grow up knowing they, too, belong.”

“That’s exactly what I want, too,” Jessica replied, gently wiping away Skyler’s tears.

Skyler climbed back into bed and they held each other close, talking of the future between kisses, bonding gently, soul deep.

“You never told me you wanted to use…you know,” Skyler said after a while. “I’m never going to be able to drive past this hotel again without

getting horny.”

“Me neither.” Jessica blushed. “I wasn’t sure how to bring it up. I meant to ask, did you remember to push the plunger at the right time?”

Uh-oh. “Was I supposed to do that?”

“What’s the point if, when the time real y comes, you forget to push the plunger?” Jessica laughed. “I think you’re going to need a lot more

practice, stud.”

Skyler grinned. “I think I’m going to like this baby-making business even more than I thought.”

Nell Stark and Trinity Tam would like to blame Radclyffe for infecting them with vampirism. “Tenebrosidad” takes place one hundred years prior

to the events of the novel everafter (October 2009). www.everafterseries.com.

Tenebrosidad

Nell Stark and Trinity Tam

I had been sneaking out of Vil a Carrizo since my adolescence, but whereas before I had been running away from the drudgery of chores, the

monotonous pettiness of my sisters, and the oppressive henpecking of my mother, today I was running toward my future. Throwing open the

windows that led out onto my smal balcony, I al owed the rope in my hands to uncoil and secured one end to the railing. I nudged the other end with

my toe, sending it sliding off the edge and down through the leaves that crowned the quebracho tree growing in the gap between the side of the

house and the wal . Knotting my skirt, I expertly slid a few feet down the rope until my feet connected with a firm branch. I steadied myself against the

thick trunk before looping the rope around the branch and edging cautiously toward the wal .

Moments later, I had dropped down over the barrier that separated the vil a from the outside world and was walking briskly toward town.

Toward the smal white house that stood on its outskirts, overlooking a bend in the river. Toward her, and the peace that only her embrace could

offer. She had sent word yesterday of her return to Argentina, and final y—months after her sudden and secret journey across the ocean—we would

be reunited.

Even in my memory, the beauty of her stirred me, jagged arrows of heat igniting beneath my skin. She had captivated me from the start…

I stepped into the circle of light around the bonfire, silencing the rumbling murmur of masculine voices as effectively as if I had slit their throats.

The heads of five families stood in a knot close to the fire, as though it would afford them protection against the Others—their masters—who

formed their own group, silent and apart.

Not their masters. Our. I took my rightful place among the mortals, tucking my arms beneath my breasts to hide the shaking of my hands.

Some of the men regarded me with sneers of undisguised contempt. The others looked away.

“Solana Carrizo, we welcome you among us.” The voice was smooth, confident in its softness. I hesitated before dipping into a formal

curtsey. My father had neglected to instruct me on how to properly greet a vampire.

The meeting commenced with no further introductions. While the men discussed cattle, I discreetly examined the vampires before me.

There was one more of them than there was of us—seven to our six. They ranged in height and age, sharing only their distinctive porcelain

skin, untouched by the rays of the sun for God only knew how long. They were beautiful, as if by stil ing the hands of time they had also learned

to transcend the mortal aesthetic. A flicker of motion caught my attention. The seventh vampire had moved a few feet away from the others,

clearly distinguishing herself as an observer. I started. Herself. Her long, dark hair was the same hue as the fabric of her trousers and blouse,

and her pale, angular face rose above her high col ar like a three-quarters moon.

She was stunning. As though I had spoken the words aloud, she turned to look directly at me. Clear blue eyes caught my own and held me.

Legend had it that these creatures could bewitch with a glance, but I sensed no trace of devilish sorcery working within me—only the subtle

force of her beauty. When her eyebrows arched and her lips twitched, I realized I was staring. Heat crept into my cheeks, and I quickly returned

my attention to the meeting.

My father had told me—no, warned me—of their dangerous al ure. Barely a week ago, in a startling deathbed proclamation that overturned

decades of precedent, he had named me his heir. With his last breath, he had whispered the existence of a letter, tucked away in the hidden

compartment of his desk. My last moment of innocence.

No. Not innocence—ignorance. My family name was steeped in blood, had been for generations. How, how had I lived for twenty years

without perceiving the black bargain made between the landowning estancieros and the vampires of Buenos Aires? They gave us wealth and

patronage, security in these tumultuous days at the dawn of a new century. In return, they asked for the blood of our people. Blood that was now

my obligation to deliver.

“The Incas knew the wisdom of this kind of sacrifice,” my father had written. “For generations, this family has provided for the needs of the

one who cal s himself Romero, and he has rewarded us for our faithfulness.” I burned the letter after I read it, just as my father had asked. Only

one in each generation was al owed to know the secret. My father’s burden, and now mine.

I stole another glance at the female vampire. Her dark lips glistened in the flickering light of the bonfire. Who fed her, I wondered. A prickle

of jealousy crawled up my spine, surprising me. I thought of what it would be like to wrap strands of her hair around my fingers, tugging her

closer as she slid her teeth into my skin. The flood of heat returned, and I shivered at its strength. It wouldn’t be a burden to feed her.

The meeting ended just past midnight. There were a few quiet, terse conversations amongst the men as we mounted our horses. No one

spoke to me. I would not have al owed their reticence to bother me regardless of the circumstances, but now, I barely even registered the

silence. Her face remained imprinted on my mind’s eye, and as I wheeled my white mare in the direction of my estate, I could think of nothing

else.

So distracted was I that I didn’t perceive the oncoming surge of motion until the other rider was on top of me, seizing my horse’s bridle with

one large fist and wrenching at my arm with the other. Surprise and terror conspired to turn my scream into a low, choking gasp.

Diego Vargas, the leader of the estancieros.

In that moment, the irony that my attacker was not one of the monsters, but rather a man I had cal ed “uncle” as a child, was not lost on me. I

had underestimated al of them. I should have known that the other families would never stand for a woman who knew the secret. And now I

would pay the ultimate price for my lack of foresight.

But just as I felt him gather the strength to throw me to the ground, I heard a sickly thud, and he slumped forward in his saddle with a loud

cry. The movement almost pul ed me under his horse’s hooves, and I clung desperately to the neck of my mare, weaving my fingers into the

strands of her mane. Neighing shril y, she shied away, easily breaking his now-loosened grip…and I found myself staring in relieved horror at

the ornately gilded hilt of a knife sticking out just below his left shoulder.

With no smal effort, I reined my horse to a stop several yards in front of Vargas and sat trembling at the gruesome sight of him, now half

dangling from his lathered mount, contorting himself in an effort to remove the weapon from his own body. When another horse and rider

emerged from the dense foliage behind him, I gathered myself—whether to scream or to run, I did not know. But my mouth opened silently, and

my hand on the reins was nerveless.

Her.

Again, our eyes met—hers bril iant blue and mesmerizing. Slowly, she raised a single, elegant finger to her lips, inclining her head in

Vargas’s direction. I wanted to convey my assent—to assure her that this secret, too, would be safe in my keeping. But my limbs were heavy,

weighed down by fear. She final y looked away, breaking the spel , and withdrew a pistol from her waistband. I started in horror, but rather than

cocking it, she urged her horse alongside Vargas’s and dashed the gun against his head before he had even registered her presence.

Grasping the col ar of his shirt, she heaved his body backward. When the dead weight tumbled to the ground, the horse bolted. She let it go.

A long shudder ran through me then, returning the strength to my fingertips. I could only guess what she planned to do, and jealousy seized

me again.

Jerking hard on the reins, I fled without looking back.

*

She preceded me into the bedroom and bent over the nightstand. Seconds later, a match flared, and I watched as she lit two candles. She

raised her eyes to mine then, extinguishing the match by pinching it between her thumb and forefinger. The unquenchable flame at the heart of me

surged in anticipation at the thought of her touch on my skin.

If she heard the increase in my breathing, she gave no sign. She did not move. She did not speak. I felt her reticence for what it was—a gift.

The temporary relinquishing of control. But my lingering doubts had been turned to ash in the crucible of our separation. I wanted her. I needed her,

in my very soul.

My hands trembled at the buttons of my blouse, but not out of fear. She sighed as I pushed the fabric down my shoulders, revealing the light silk

camisole beneath. Without hesitation, I drew it over my head, and this time her breath caught in her throat.

I smiled, feeling powerful as I first slipped off my sandals, then slowly slid my skirt down the length of my legs. I wore nothing beneath.

“Solana.” My name on her lips was a prayer, charged with need.

“Your turn,” I whispered.

She undressed quickly, efficiently, laying bare her strong, thin arms and the nearly flat plane of her stomach before reaching back to unclasp her

brassiere. Her breasts were smal er than mine, their tips the color of coral. I wanted to kiss them.

In another moment, she too was naked. I watched the contraction of her leg muscles as she stepped out of her linen trousers…and then I

al owed my eyes to feast, fol owing the lines and curves of her, feeling my mouth go dry as I took in the dark patch of hair between her legs.

Desire propel ed me forward—one step, then another. With only a few feet separating us, I paused, uncertain not about my choice but about

what should come next. Sensing my confusion, she stretched out her hand, palm upturned, candlelight flickering off her pale skin.

I reached out to take it…

*

I sat atop the wal that enclosed the vil a, my location partial y obscured by the gnarled tree that I had been using to reach this very spot since I

was a child. It had been my first secret. I kept more now. Romero was a patient teacher and, I learned, a good master. He told me that he

preferred to hunt and would rarely require my services to procure blood. However, the previous night he had come to me, face gaunt and eyes

dark. I had known, without a word being uttered, that it was time for me to fulfil my end of the bargain. I led Romero down to the smal stockade

below the stables. We had caught a cattle thief three days before; he had tried to resist arrest and managed to break my foreman’s arm in two

places before we subdued him. I conjured up that image now, of the white bone protruding jaggedly from my man’s bloodied arm while the thief

pummeled him, foaming at the mouth like a rabid animal. Like an animal, I reminded myself as tears cascaded down my cheeks and I fumbled

with the key to let Romero in.

In an effort to banish the memory, I took a slow, deep breath. The fragrant aromas of jasmine and ceibo mingled to perfume the dusky air.

Strains of cheerful music wafted back from the courtyard, where my cousin would be celebrating her wedding until the dawn. I wasn’t in the

mood to celebrate. I turned toward the setting sun, al owing its last rays to soak into my cheeks. When it final y dropped beneath the horizon, I

felt bereft.

“Your face is even lovelier in grief than it is in joy.”

I started at the melodious voice that had interrupted my solitude, and looked around wildly for its source. She emerged a moment later

from behind the tree, wearing a blouse and trousers so blue they were almost black. Resting one hand on the stone wal , she looked up at me.

There was just enough light left in the sky to il uminate the slight curve to her lips.

“Take comfort,” she said, her smile growing more pronounced. “They say it wil rise again tomorrow.”

My heart was thundering in my ears and my palms were moist with sweat, but I refused to betray my fear. Or my excitement. “How long,

since you have felt it on your face?” I asked, fighting to keep my voice even.

The quirk of one eyebrow was the only indication that I had surprised her. “One hundred and fifty-five years.”

My breath left me in a sharp sigh, but I refused to cede more ground than that. “What is your name?”

She cocked her head, gazing up at me in frank curiosity. “Solana Carrizo, you are a bizarre and exotic creature.” She held out her hand,

then, and enthral ed by her compliment, I reached down to take it. Her skin was smooth and cool. “I am Helen Lambros.”

I smiled at her teasing tone. “Surely, there are many like me where you come from?” My eyes drifted downward over the swel of her

breasts to the smooth length of her trousered thigh. “A land where women are al owed to dress like men?”

She tugged lightly, and caught off guard, I had no choice but to descend from my perch. “I come from many places, but in the span of two

mortal lives, I have never met a woman such as you.”

“There is nothing special about me.”

Her arms slid around me as my feet met the grass, and I found myself pressed against her body. She leaned in closer and I felt the gentle

caress of her breath against my cheek. “You are the only female estanciero in al of Argentina. You walk in dignity, not fear, amongst the men.”

She paused and her voice dropped low. “For the first time in one hundred and fifty-five years, when you look at me, the way you look at me, I

feel the sunlight on my skin and I do not despise myself.”

An electric thril swept beneath my skin at the brief sensation of her breasts grazing mine, and I bit down on my lower lip to keep a cry from

escaping. These feelings were not new—I had experienced them often during my adolescence, always in the presence of women. I had been

wise enough never to speak of it, and had despaired long ago of finding anyone who shared my burden. My father would have cal ed me a

monster, had he known. How poetical y just, to find a kindred spirit among the real monsters.

Helen inclined her head, and when her lips grazed my ear, gooseflesh rose on my forearms. “Dance with me.”

Unable to speak, I nodded my assent. Wrapping one arm more securely around my waist, she gently took my left hand in her right and

twined our fingers together. My head felt light, and I struggled to tame my short, sharp breaths as she began to twirl us adeptly beneath the

boughs of the tree.

We didn’t speak—we didn’t need to. Overhead, the stars gradual y emerged, cal ed into existence by the death of the sun. What if she is

no monster after al , I thought up at them, but one of you instead?

Returning my attention to the earth, I dared to lay my cheek against the cool silk of her blouse and final y find a measure of peace.

I heard the curtains flutter gently against the wal s, compel ed into movement by the sultry night breeze, but nothing could distract me from the

storm that was rising in my blood. I knew that I would never forget this moment—my limbs pressed into the silky sheets by the body that hovered

above mine, lithe and smooth, a study in elegant curves. I cupped her cool face in my palms, thumbs careful y tracing the sharp rise of her

cheekbones, the delicate curve of her moistened lips.

I al owed my hands to coast up and down her arms, palms lingering on the subtle swel of muscle beneath smooth skin. When she bent her

head, my heartbeat stuttered—but her mouth was ghostly, tantalizing me with unfulfil ed promise. Her breath was cool against my face, and I arched

up shamelessly, not caring that she saw my need.

She shifted her weight slightly, freeing one hand to touch me. Those elegant fingers began at my throat, lingering to feel the artery pulsing

beneath, before trailing down, down so slowly, stroking with sure knowledge and gentle assurance. My back arched again, this time involuntarily…

*

Cobalt clouds scudded across the night sky, alternately masking and revealing a crescent moon. The hot breeze lifted the hair from the nape of

my neck and I sighed, leaning into Nature’s caress.

“You are exquisite.” The words came from behind me, borne on Helen’s husky voice. I flushed, simultaneously flattered by the compliment

and frightened to hear such a sentiment spoken aloud by another woman. Helen, I had realized, only paid lip service to local custom in order to

blend in. Beneath her façade, she was radical y different from anyone I had ever met, made alien by her perspective as one unchanged by the

passing of time.

After an initial glance over my shoulder, I forced myself to turn back to the view of the waves, sparkling fitful y as they reflected the weak

light above. Helen came up behind me, close but not touching. “This is a beautiful place,” she murmured. I wished that she would slide her arms

around me, or even simply rest her hands on my waist. I desired her touch with a ferocity that should have been disconcerting. We had seen

each other often in the weeks since the wedding, but Helen had yet to betray any hint of the thirsty demon that lurked beneath her veneer of

civility. She was disarming me. Lul ing me. I knew it, and welcomed her seduction.

“It is,” I agreed. “But its beauty is perilous. We cal this place Maidenfal Cliff for a reason. Some say the land here is haunted.”

Helen moved closer so that her breasts were subtly pressing against my back. My heart jumped within my chest. “The women who cast

themselves off this precipice and into the water—what are they running from?”

I imagined taking the five steps that remained between myself and open air; I saw myself fal ing, white skirts bil owing like the clipped

wings of a swan as I plummeted toward the choppy waves. Would I see the faces of those I had sent to Romero as I descended? Criminals, al

of them, sacrificed for the stability of our new nation. Would their eyes be accusing or forgiving?

“Who can say? The pressure of an overbearing father. The shame of carrying a child out of wedlock. The overwhelming burden of working

al day in the fields only to return at sunset to a cramped, dirty hut. Despair comes in many flavors.”

Final y, final y she touched me, molding her hands to the slight flare of my hips. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I felt her move until her

cool mouth touched the shel of my ear. “And what flavor is yours?”

I turned to face her then, slowly and deliberately. She clasped her hands behind my back and I rested mine against her chest, looking up

into the depths of her eternal eyes. “That I can never be more than the slightest ripple on the vast ocean that is your existence.”

She stared down at me unblinking, the intensity of her gaze freezing me exactly where I stood. I wondered what she was looking for, and

whether or not she thought she had found it.

“I am leaving on a boat tomorrow, for several fortnights. Perhaps even longer. But I wil return.”

I shook my head slightly as my body reacted—fear, loss, sorrow, even a tinge of aimless jealousy. Shifting my grip to the lean strength of

her arms, I steadied myself. “What cal s you away?”

She turned to look out over the ocean, and I feasted my eyes on the lines of her profile—strong yet feminine. “Business.”

I let my fingertips trace the curve of her col arbone, feeling simultaneously excited by and embarrassed at my forwardness. I did not press

her for more information. Her business affairs were none of my concern, unless Romero made them so. “Be safe,” I whispered, thinking of the

perils of the sea—of sudden storms and pirate attacks and treacherous shoals.

She unlaced her fingers, releasing me from her embrace—but before I could sigh in disappointment, her hands were cupping my face and

her lips were pressing against mine, softer than rose petals. My sharp, muffled cry of shock and desire startled birds from the nearby trees,

and as I felt the wind of their passage overhead, I wrapped my arms around Helen’s neck.

The world spun as she gently parted my lips with her tongue, touching hers to mine and then withdrawing again. I moaned and was not

ashamed. Gradual y, her tender strokes grew bold, and I trembled in her arms as the stars wheeled above us.

Final y, she eased us down from that unspeakable high, pressing kisses to my nose, my forehead, the corners of my mouth. I clung to her,

wanting more, ever more, certain only that I could never get enough.

“I wil return to you,” she said, breathing the words into my mouth.

And I believed.

As her palm skimmed across the curve of my hip, she final y kissed me. Her mouth was cool, and at the first soft touch of her tongue, I trembled.

“You taste like sunshine,” she murmured, and I shivered at the raw longing in her voice.

Again, her lips met mine. And again. I silently rejoiced when she began to lose hold of her restraint—when gentleness gave way to need and

tenderness to hunger. Her fingers were restless, and I moved like the ocean beneath her.

Her intimate touch woke fire in my blood. I thrashed in its grip, simultaneously begging for release and pleading that it would never die. Helen

kissed the entreaties off my lips, stealing the words from my mouth before they met air. Her breasts slid against mine, beads of sweat rising

between us to evaporate in the flames. She stroked me masterful y, but with an urgency that made me certain of her desire, her need.

Her need.

Even through the haze of the conflagration, I could sense her struggle. Her mouth refused to remain on mine, migrating repeatedly to the soft,

pulsing skin of my neck, where her tongue traced exquisite patterns that only stoked the inferno raging inside of me. I wanted her to ask, but she

hadn’t. And she had promised, earlier tonight, that she wouldn’t. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she had said, brushing her fingertips across my shoulders

even as her tongue betrayed her words by skimming hungrily over her lips. “I certainly would never compel you. And regardless, it would…disgust

you.”

I hadn’t argued, believing that after one hundred and fifty years of experience, she knew best. How, then, could I tel her now that I wanted to give

myself to her freely? That in this moment, the thought of being the one to slake her thirst made me shiver only in anticipation? That whatever pain I

felt would be wel worth the knowledge that I was fulfil ing the very essence of her?

I gathered my breath to implore her, but she chose that instant to slip inside me for the first time, her touch a cool counterpoint to the blaze

consuming me from within. Reason fled. My lungs contracted in a moan—her name, a guttural prayer.

When she stil ed her touch, my eyes snapped open and I struggled to focus. Her elegant face was a study in contrast—tenderness and ferocity,

love and thirst. “You are heartbreakingly beautiful,” she said hoarsely. “And you are mine. Final y mine.”

The possessiveness of her words roused a memory in me, but then she moved even deeper inside, and rational thought fled before the

gathering tempest. I shuddered in her arms, trying to force out the words.

“Take. Me. Helen…please…”

Her pupils expanded, black forcing the blue into the barest of rings. “You don’t know what you’re ask—”

“I do!” Cupping her face in my palms, I pul ed her closer—not to my mouth, but to my neck. “Please, let me. Let me be this for you.”

Her breaths ragged against my skin, she paused before suddenly shifting her fingers, wringing a sharp cry from my throat. Every single muscle

in my body tightened at once, a knot on the verge of becoming unraveled.

“Are you sure?” Helen gasped.

“Yes!” I urged, driving my fingers into her hair. “Take it.”

Her teeth sank into me, the sting immediately eclipsed by an ecstatic surge that spiraled up my spine. Her moan vibrated against my neck and I

clutched desperately at her wrist as her fingers moved inside me. Heat poured from my veins, warming her everywhere our skin touched. I felt an

unfamiliar twisting tension building low in my bel y as her movements became more frantic, more erratic. My need was insistent but unfocused.

More. I needed more.

“Helen,” I breathed, tangling my fingers into the dark strands of her hair, “oh Helen, please.”

Simultaneously, her teeth and her hand slipped deeper, molding my body into a taut bow. I could feel my heart pounding against my ribs as

every ounce of my being raced toward…something. Something glorious. She held me at the precipice for an eternal moment, her suction at my

neck pul ing my pleasure right to the surface. She bore down with her thumb as her fingers twisted inside me…and the world exploded with

impossible brightness, fire scorching along my limbs. Desperate to fuse myself with her, I slipped my thigh between her legs, glorying in the

sensation of her heat against my skin. She thrust herself against me wildly and I dug my fingertips into her shoulders as my pleasure crested

impossibly higher. Through the maelstrom, I clutched at my consciousness just long enough to feel Helen stiffen and then convulse against me as

the ecstasy in my bloodstream slammed into her system and pushed her too over the edge.

*

When next I could perceive sensation, Helen was leaning over me, holding a damp cloth to my neck. It stung slightly, but the overwhelming

sensation throughout my body was a profound sense of peace. And joy. I smiled up at her, and she mirrored my expression. Tenderly, she peeled

the cloth away, nodding slightly as though reassuring herself that she hadn’t seriously injured me. I reached up to caress her face, and she turned

her mouth into my palm, kissing it.

And then she pul ed away, eyes suddenly sparkling. “Wait. Just a moment.”

I watched her slide off the bed and cross the room to her desk, then extract something from its top drawer. The effortless grace of her

movements was captivating. Unbidden but not unwelcome, the fire wel ed up again from deep inside, and I caught my breath at the force of my

desire for her.

When she returned, I sat up to claim a kiss, but she pressed one finger to my lips instead. Careful y, she placed a rol ed parchment in my hand.

My mind was stil muddled and the letters were foreign to me. “What is this?”

Her fingers smoothed my brow and danced through my hair. “A deed. The deed to my estate in London. Tomorrow I shal exchange it for Vil a

Carrizo and the rest of Romero’s land. It seems that your old master has a thirst for adventure.”

“My old master?”

She pressed a kiss to my forehead. “I wil care for you, I promise—I wil spare you from the guilt sown into your heritage by Romero and his

appetites. You wil be free of the devil’s bargain. Free, as you deserve to be.”

Her tone was so gentle, her words so beautiful. Could they al be true? “What about your needs? I wil not have you suffer.”

Her smile was patient and tender. “I can take care of myself. You and your family are released from this charge forever.”

“But I want to feed you. I choose to sustain you. So long as my body draws breath, I wil be yours until the end of my days.” I caressed her face,

trailing my fingers lovingly over her smooth skin and ful lips.

“No one has to die, Solana.” She leaned in past my questing fingers and captured my mouth in a soul-binding kiss. “My love. No one ever has

to die.”

And I believed.

KI Thompson is the author of three novels, House of Clouds (2008 Sapphic Readers’ Award; 2008 Indie Book Award and 2008 Goldie Award

finalist), Heart of the Matter, and Cooper’s Deale. She also has short stories in Erotic Interludes 2–5, Fantasy: Untrue Stories of Lesbian Passion,

Best Lesbian Romance 2007, and Best Lesbian Romance 2009. She is currently working on her fourth novel, The Will to Wynne, a historical

romance set during the American Revolutionary War. KI lives in the Washington, DC, area with her partner and two much-loved cats.

Constant Companion

KI Thompson

“What time is it?”

“Late. Sorry to wake you.”

I gripped the phone with my chin and squinted at the bedside clock. 2:07. “No, I wanted you to. How’d the meeting go?”

A tired sigh drifted across the country and caressed my ear. “Not as wel as I’d hoped. About what I’d expected, though.” Another sigh.

I strained to hear something else in the silence. I’d been doing that a lot recently, unsure of myself, and her. That familiar knot, my constant

companion of late, settled uncomfortably in my stomach.

“It’s been a long day and I’m tired,” she explained.

“Yeah.”

“I miss you.” It sounded automatic.

“Me too,” I said automatical y.

“I real y do,” she whispered.

A remote corner of my heart began to beat again and I tried not to let the feeling spread. I stared up at the ceiling, noticing the old stain from

when she had tried to repair the upstairs toilet by herself. We had laughed about it at the time, then cal ed a plumber when the job proved too much

for her limited skil s. I’d never gotten around to painting the ceiling—too busy, I guess. In the dark, it took on a menacing, jagged appearance,

splitting the plaster like an earthquake’s chasm.

“You stil coming home tomorrow night?” I asked.

“Yes. There’s not much else I can do here. The client has made up his mind and I can’t stop him from making a stupid mistake. Jesus, why do I

keep doing this?” she asked for the mil ionth time.

“Because you care,” I said for the mil ion and first time. It was the same old conversation and the same circular reasoning.

“But lately it seems like I’m the only one who does.”

“I care,” I offered tentatively. It was a break from our usual routine, but she had opened the door first, and this time I didn’t want the moment to

pass.

“I know.”

“Do you?” I asked. “Do you real y? Because sometimes I’m not so sure you do.”

I was uncertain if her lack of response was a good thing, but I could feel her listening over the phone. I had her attention and that was enough…

for now.

“I haven’t been happy for a while,” she whispered.

I swal owed hard, unprepared for her bluntness. My stomach churned and I had trouble breathing. “I know.”

“This job is sucking the life out of me,” she hurried to explain. “It hasn’t been good for me and it hasn’t been good for you either.”

“It hasn’t been good for us,” I murmured. “You can quit, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“We’ve talked about this—”

“Yeah,” she said more forceful y. “It’s just that they pay me a ridiculous amount of money. It’s hard to give that up.”

“We can afford less,” I said. “We have before and we can again.”

“I don’t know. The bil s—”

“We can do it again,” I repeated. “We’ve gotten way too comfortable with the extra income, spending on extravagant things we don’t even need.

Remember our first apartment, the loft in the Vil age?”

“The kitchen was so smal only one of us could be in it at a time.”

“Which was usual y me.”

“Wel , you’re the only one who can cook,” she said.

“That’s only because you kept setting off the smoke detector. The neighbors complained about having to evacuate the building so often they

threatened bodily harm.”

“Oh, stop exaggerating.”

“Exaggerating?” My voice rose in pitch, partly because I was right and partly because I was happy to lighten the mood. “Hang up and cal Mrs.

Alvarez right now and ask her how much I’m exaggerating.”

“Mrs. Alvarez was crazy.”

“No, she wasn’t.”

“She walked around her apartment naked.”

“So did you,” I pointed out.

“Not when my apartment was on the ground floor on Sixth Avenue and al the blinds were open wide.”

I laughed. She had always been able to make me do that.

“It’s nice to hear you laugh,” she said. “I’ve missed it.”

“Me too.”

“I’m sorry—”

“It’s not your fault,” I insisted. “Neither of us has taken time out for the other. That needs to change, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

We drifted back into silence, though less strained than before. I struggled to think of what to say next; wanting to talk—needing to talk—but

unsure of the timing and unwil ing to reverse the fragile progress we had made. I could hear scratchy static on the other end of the line, a gentle

reminder of the tenuousness of our connection.

“I could go back to teaching,” she said hesitantly, speaking more to herself than me.

“You used to love it,” I said. “You always came home excited about your day and looked forward to the next.”

“But the pay—”

“Forget about that. Al that matters is that you’re happy. The rest wil come.”

“You’l wind up having to darn my socks or something like that,” she said.

“I don’t knit.”

“You could learn. You’re fairly crafty.”

“You could learn to cook,” I shot back.

“So, you don’t have to knit.”

I smiled and was surprised to feel a tear creep down the corner of my eye and trickle into my ear.

“I love you,” I blurted, and meant it so deeply, so unreservedly, I actual y hurt. I sat up in bed, turned the bedside lamp on, and hugged her pil ow

to my chest.

“I love you too, baby,” she said. “Don’t worry, everything’s going to be okay.”

“Wil it?” I asked, wanting her to believe it as much as I did, and needing to hear it in her voice.

“Yeah. I should let you get back to sleep. You’ve got to go to work in the morning.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“You wil be at six a.m., and I don’t want you blaming me for your lack of sleep,” she teased.

“Do I do that?” I was stil sensitive to my own complicity in our unhappiness.

“Sometimes,” she said softly.

“I’l be better.”

“I know. We both wil .”

“I don’t want you to go quite yet,” I pleaded. “Wil you stay with me until I fal asleep?”

“Anything you want.”

Her reassurance loosened the slipknot that was attached to her and had tightened over the last few months the further away from me she had

drifted. I hadn’t realized how tightly I had clung to that line, unaware that, like the hangman’s noose, it was suffocating us. For the first time in a long

while my body relaxed, and in that instant, I knew I’d be able to sleep. It could only have been better had she been in bed with me, and I ached for

her warmth. I snuggled into the down comforter, spooning her pil ow and inhaling deeply her fragrance.

“I’l come pick you up at the airport tomorrow,” I said.

“No, don’t do that. It’s insane getting in and out of LaGuardia. I’l grab a cab.”

“But I want to. Besides, I thought we might grab something to eat afterward—nothing fast, somewhere nice. Maybe Alfredo’s.”

“Mmm, that sounds good. I’m a sucker for their bread pudding.”

“I know,” I murmured. It was quiet again, and I thought of our first date at the restaurant, how she couldn’t finish her dessert and we took it home.

We fed it to each other in bed after making love.

“Let’s be sure and order dessert,” she said hoarsely, as though reading my mind.

“Okay.” I couldn’t stop the yawn that stretched the word into three syl ables.

“Go to sleep, baby, and I’l see you tomorrow.”

“I love you,” I whispered.

“I love you too. Good night.”

“’Night.”

I hung up and pul ed her pil ow tight against me. That familiar knot, my constant companion, rol ed over and went to sleep.

C.J. Harte was born in New York but lived in many places while growing up. After her family final y settled in the South, she attended col ege in the

Deep South, where she obtained her degrees as wel as a significant Southern accent and a unrelenting sense of humor. Her novels with Bold

Strokes include Dreams of Bali and the forthcoming Magic of the Heart.

Crossing Over, Jordan

C.J. Harte

Dinner conversation at Jordan’s sorority house had become so predictable. Like most Friday nights, the topics of discussion were dates for

the weekend and other social activities, things Jordan rarely participated in unless required to for an official function for her father. This particular

evening her sorority sisters were more insistent than usual on discovering her plans.

“Nothing,” Jordan answered. “I haven’t made any plans other than studying with a friend.”

“Who?” someone asked. Someone always asked.

Jordan shrugged. “A friend.”

“Not that dyke tutor of yours. Do you even feel safe around her?”

Safe? The only people Jordan felt comfortable around were Mark and Drew. Drew always made her feel safe, and cared about.

“I’m studying this weekend. No other plans.” She resumed eating, hoping her lack of an answer would cause the conversation to shift. She knew

al too wel that there was always someone who couldn’t wait to announce to the world what Jordan Thompson was doing. She had grown up in the

public limelight, her father’s political career having begun when she was only five years old. The higher her father climbed, the more her life, and her

brother’s, had become public, too. How much more exposed could her life be?

Tonight, however, Jordan knew she could no longer play their game. After months of struggling, she had made a decision. Now she just needed

to figure out what to do about it. As she looked around the table, she wondered if they would stil be as curious if they knew what she real y hoped

would happen this weekend.

As soon as dinner was over, she left for her own place. One of the advantages of being Harold Thompson’s daughter was that she didn’t have

to account for her coming and going. As long as she conformed.

Once home, she requested one of her security team drive her to Drew and Mark’s house. These two medical students, she’d come to realize,

were her only real friends. She instructed her driver to park someplace where the car wouldn’t be noticed and requested the same of her personal

security detail. Tonight she was hoping she would be staying, and she didn’t want to arouse unnecessary curiosity. Tonight she needed an answer.

Mark, Drew’s gay roommate, greeted her at the door. “Drew’s on cal until eleven. I’m due in then. Come on in. I’m heading to Miami tomorrow

as soon as my ER shift is over.” Mark headed back to his side of the house with Jordan fol owing.

“I’m guessing David is also planning on taking the weekend off.”

“I haven’t seen him in six weeks.” Mark was al smiles. “We aren’t planning on going anywhere or doing anything. Just spending time together.

And I’m going to catch up on my sleep.”

Jordan had long admired the relationship Mark had with his lover. What amazed her most was the comfort she felt around them. Their love was

obvious. It reminded her of her parents.

“Got a few minutes to talk?” Jordan asked.

“If you don’t mind talking in my bedroom,” Mark answered. “I’ve got to pack some things for the weekend.”

“Sure.” After a few minutes of smal talk, Jordan final y gathered her courage. “Mark, when did you know?”

“I’ve always known. I learned early to listen to my heart.” He sat on the bed next to Jordan, laughing softly. “We’re Latin, you know. My mother

believes in being guided by her emotions—I guess I inherited that from her. What’s your heart saying?”

Jordan was not surprised by the question, just how to answer. “I’ve lied to myself, denied what I felt, kept this a secret for so long I almost didn’t

believe it was real. Tonight, at dinner, I sat listening to everyone gossip about who they were going out with, who’s getting engaged, who’s sleeping

with what guy. I couldn’t stand it. I felt so out of place, especial y when they started asking me again about my plans. I don’t know what to do, Mark.”

“Tel her. Show her.” He took her hand. “Drew’s probably as nervous about this as you are.”

“She’s had a lot more experience with being gay than I have.” Jordan’s surprise had little to do with the fact that Mark had immediately known

Drew was the cause of her discomfort, but more with the idea of Drew being unsure about being involved with her.

“Yes, that’s true, but none of the other women were President Harold Thompson’s daughter.” Mark laughed. “Sorry, I was thinking about her

family. They’re not wild about her associating with you.”

“I know.” Jordan couldn’t hide the pain. “What am I going to do?”

“I…” The phone rang and Mark grabbed it. “Hold on a minute while I get this. Hel o.” Mark paled as he listened. “Not a problem. Be there in five.”

“What’s going on?” Jordan asked anxiously.

“Drew’s going to be late. There’s a multiple motor vehicle accident coming into the ER. Sounds like a long night. I gotta go.” He slipped his

shoes on and kissed her on the forehead. “Go ahead and watch TV until she gets home. I’m sure she’l appreciate you being here. I just don’t know

when that may be.” Seeing her hesitation, Mark added, “If you want to, that is.”

Jordan nodded and hugged him good-bye. He was such a good friend. After he was gone, she wandered around the empty house, final y

settling on his bed to watch TV and wait.

*

An obnoxiously loud commercial on the television woke Jordan from a restless sleep. Staring at the clock, she realized it was after two in the

morning. Disappointment fil ed her as she fought back the tears. The last few months had been difficult. She couldn’t continue to ignore her feelings

even though she wasn’t naïve enough to believe her family and friends would understand her involvement with a woman. The very public attention

she would expose her entire family to if her relationship was discovered would be the source of pain to people she loved. And the scrutiny the

relationship would receive was daunting. But Drew was in her final year and if Jordan didn’t make a decision soon, she might lose her and any

chance for the love they might share.

Jordan started to shake with an unfamiliar longing. Her indecision was crazy-making. She needed an answer, and the one night she’d final y

gathered her courage, Drew wasn’t home! Her courage was fading. Discretion, and fear of making a fool of herself, dictated she leave as quickly

as possible.

Jordan walked quickly through the silent house, not wanting to even imagine what could have happened. As she passed the door to Drew’s

bedroom, she stopped briefly and touched the door.

“Oh, Drew,” she whispered, resting her head momentarily against the closed door.

The door was open earlier. I’m sure of it. Her pulse increased. Could she have come home and I didn’t hear her? She hesitated. No sounds

emerged from behind the closed door. Jordan’s emotions were roiling, fear battling desire.

“I must know,” she whispered and turned the knob.

The light from the living room cast a long beam bisecting the darkened room. And highlighting the naked back of Drew Hamilton. She was

stretched across her bed asleep, light and shadow playing across her skin.

Jordan’s heart raced, her pulse pounded, warmth traveled up the length of her body. She wanted to touch the bare skin. In the dim light she

could see a scar on Drew’s left shoulder. She remembered when Drew had injured that shoulder in some bul riding contest and required surgery.

Jordan wanted to kiss every inch of the scar. A soft moan escaped before she could stop it. She had never wanted anything or anyone this much.

A sheet covered the lower part of Drew’s body but her bare feet had crept out. She was lying on her stomach, a pil ow clutched in her left arm.

As she turned to her side, she pul ed the pil ow tight against her chest, almost as if she needed to feel safe.

Jordan slipped into the room, shutting the door, like her life, behind her. She crossed into Drew’s bathroom and undressed. Seeing a T-shirt

hanging on the back of the door, she slipped it on, enjoying the familiar smel . The simple act of putting on Drew’s shirt warmed Jordan from the

inside and gave her courage.

“Here goes,” Jordan whispered, walking into the darkened room. She climbed into the bed and slowly moved up against Drew’s back. Her

heart raced. The reality was so much sweeter than her dreams of Drew had been. She buried her nose in dark, curly hair and smel ed Drew’s

shampoo. She gently placed her hand on Drew’s shoulder. My parents are wrong, she thought. How can anything this wonderful be a sin or

perversion? She took a deep breath and basked in sensual delight. She al owed her hand to slowly move down Drew’s arm.

Drew’s first awareness was the warmth against her back. As if her own dreams had been answered, she turned and pul ed Jordan into her

arms. The familiar delicate, sweet perfume was a safe smel . She kissed Jordan’s forehead, her cheek, her eyes.

The grin growing across Jordan’s face could’ve lit up the room. She felt at home. She felt loved. She could start to put the years of being lost

and awkward behind her. If Drew didn’t want to be in her future, she would survive, even though she would hurt for a long time. But at last she knew

she belonged in the arms of a woman. She whispered, “This woman.”

Jordan lowered her head to Drew’s shoulder and rested her arm across Drew’s bare waist. Drew’s arm pul ed her closer and she sighed,

al owing her body to relax into peaceful slumber.

“I’m home.”

*

Drew final y surfaced from her exhausted but trouble-free sleep. As she came ful y awake, she realized a woman was draped across her. The

woman moaned and cuddled closer. Jordan! Many evenings she and Jordan had fal en asleep on the bed watching TV, but they had both been

completely dressed. Drew’s breath caught as Jordan’s lips moved near her breast, sending a warm breath of air across the now aroused nipple.

She couldn’t help but respond and moaned softly.

“Mmm. Does that mean you’re in the world of the living?” Jordan shifted and kissed her. “Oh, God, Drew.”

Drew smiled and Jordan sought her mouth. Their legs entwined and Jordan held her breath as Drew’s tongue circled her lips. Jordan pul ed

back, gasping for air.

“Are you awake or asleep?” Jordan asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t care as long as this dream doesn’t end soon.” Slowly opening her eyes, Drew looked into Jordan’s eyes. “Jordan, do you

know what you’re doing? Are you sure?”

“I wasn’t sure until I was lying next to you and felt how wonderful this is. I don’t know what I’m doing.” Blushing, Jordan hesitated and rethought

what she needed to say. “I mean I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do, but I know what I want to do. Help me.” Then letting her heart lead, she said,

“I love you, Drew Hamilton. And whether you want me or not, I know I am a lesbian.” The familiar, dimpled smile encouraged her. “I’m just an

inexperienced lesbian.”

“Actual y, a virgin lesbian,” Drew stated. “But who cares about the details.” The pained look crossing Jordan’s face caused Drew to quickly

add, “But I’m sure you’re as fast a learner at this as you are at everything else you tackle.”

The addition did little to relieve Jordan’s fears. “I’m scared. Suppose I can’t…I mean what if…” The blush creeping up her neck quickly covered

her entire face and she tried to turn away.

Drew turned Jordan’s chin back, forcing Jordan to look at her. “I’m sure everything wil be fine.”

“I wish I had more experience now. I’m afraid I’l screw it up.”

Drew couldn’t control her laughter. Jordan’s obvious embarrassment was evident, but it made Drew want to protect her. “Oh, Jordan, whether

we make love or not, you’re my friend first and foremost, and you make me very happy. Come here.”

“But I want to make love with you.” Emboldened, Jordan kissed the breast beneath her lips and again heard a soft moan. Delighted at the

response, she blew softly across the darkened nipple and then kissed around its edge. “Mmm. This is wonderful.”

“Damn, that feels good. Are you sure you haven’t been taking lessons?” Rol ing her over, Drew slipped her knee between Jordan’s thighs and

leaned down for a kiss. “Have I told you how beautiful you are?”

“Not lately.”

Drew kissed along Jordan’s jaw, beginning at one ear and going to the other. When Jordan lifted her head to give easier access, Drew pushed

down to the col ar of Jordan’s shirt and planted tender kisses across her col arbone. “I’ve dreamed of this for such a long time.” Drew kissed her

way back up Jordan’s neck and to her ear. “I’ve wanted to kiss you and touch you for so long. I’ve wanted to feel you moving beneath me.”

The warm breath was an electric current sending pleasant shocks along Jordan’s aroused nervous system. Drew’s words turned up the current

and Jordan began to slide against the thigh gently pressing her crotch. She clutched Drew’s shoulders and kissed her. This time with more

intensity. With more urgency. “Drew, make love to me. Please.”

Immediately Drew straddled Jordan, pul ing her into a sitting position, never losing eye contact. The desire reflected in the gray eyes warmed

her. She smiled and lifted Jordan’s T-shirt, pul ing it off. Drew gazed down at the ful , lush body. She groaned with a rush of desire and Jordan self-

consciously crossed her arms across her bare chest. Drew leaned back and gazed into Jordan’s eyes. “Jordan, you’re so beautiful. Let me look at

you. Please.”

Jordan was startled by Drew’s soft words but she saw the truth and the desire on Drew’s face. No one had ever thought she was beautiful.

Slowly she put her arms down and leaned back, her elbows on the bed supporting her. She watched as Drew slowly caressed one breast.

“I never imagined anything as beautiful and wonderful as this. I’ve died and gone to heaven.” Drew leaned down and briefly sucked the ful

breast, feeling the nipple harden in her mouth. She leaned back to watch it darken.

Jordan tilted her head, her hair fal ing back. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the amazing feelings her new lover was arousing.

Whatever doubts and fear she might have had were quickly slipping away.

As Drew rubbed the one erect nipple with the palm of her hand, she softly stroked the other one. “God, you are so beautiful. I wish I were an

artist and could paint you.”

Jordan’s eyes flew open. Something was stuck in her throat. She tried to swal ow. Tears slipped from her eyes. She wrapped her arms around

her lover’s neck and pul ed them both down to the bed. “I…oh, God! Drew…”

“What is it?” Drew caressed Jordan’s cheek, wiping away a tear with her thumb. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

“I’ve never thought I was, you know…cute.” Jordan recal ed some of the names she had heard growing up, especial y when she had to wear

glasses, but always out of range of her parents’ hearing. “I…I’m overwhelmed.”

“Jordan, I’ve always told you that you were attractive.”

“Yes, but I…I had clothes on and thought I did a good job of hiding my body.”

Drew’s laughter brought a smile to the distraught Jordan. “Jordan, look at me.” She waited until Jordan final y met her gaze. “You are a

beautiful, sexy woman. I love your curves and softness.” To emphasize her words she placed tender kisses on each breast, the slightly rounded

stomach, the curving hips. “Even more, you’re beautiful inside. Your gentleness, your tenderness. I love you, Jordan. In spite of who your parents

are.” Drew laughed as she added the last statement, then slowly licked salty tears from the damp eyelashes. “I love you,” Drew whispered softly as

she placed her hand over her heart and then moved it to Jordan’s.

“I love you, Drew.” Jordan placed her hand on top of Drew’s. Tears, this time joyous ones, slid down her face. “I love you.” She ran her hand

through the thick, curly hair. “I.” She kissed one eye. “Love.” She kissed the other eye. “You.” She kissed the soft tempting lips, this time capturing

Drew in a deeper, harder kiss.

Drew felt the wetness as her thigh slid against Jordan’s center. She wanted to please Jordan. She slowly rained kisses down Jordan’s body,

listening to her breathing, gauging her level of arousal. As she kissed down Jordan’s stomach, she felt Jordan tense. She slowed her kissing and

pul ed herself up to enjoy Jordan’s warm mouth again.

“Drew, this is incredible, but…I…” Jordan hesitated. How did she ask for what she needed if she wasn’t sure what it was? “Please, I need you

to help me.”

“Whatever you want, or don’t want, don’t be afraid to tel me.”

“That’s the problem. I don’t know what to ask for.”

Smiling, Drew slowly moved her thigh and placed her hand over Jordan’s center. When Jordan pushed up into her, she ran a finger softly along

the length of Jordan’s clit. The rapid intake of breath encouraged her. “Let me know if there is anything that bothers you.”

“If you don’t do something soon, I wil definitely be bothered.”

“I thought you already were.”

Jordan pressed against Drew’s hand, closing her eyes, giving herself over to the arousal now growing within her. As Drew increased the

strength of her stroking, Jordan began to float. When one finger, then a second was slowly inserted, Jordan gasped. Her body began to quiver. She

was glad she was sharing this moment with Drew. With this woman, she reminded herself. With the woman she loved and trusted.

Drew increased the pressure on Jordan’s clit, her thumb circling and pushing, while she slowly slid in and out of her lover. For the first time in

her life, she felt truly connected, a deep, centered emotion. She wanted more than to just please Jordan. She wanted to be the one to arouse

Jordan, to take her to a place of incredible pleasure, to drown her in love. “Come,” she whispered.

Jordan pushed her hips against Drew’s hand, the tension within her body so taut she feared she was going to explode. Shaking with the onset

of her first orgasm, she wrapped her legs and arms around Drew and tightened around the fingers inside her. She gasped and let go, her body

soaring. When she was able to loosen her hold, Jordan fel back on the bed.

“Good heavens,” she struggled to get out, her breathing erratic, “I don’t know what happened, but I want to do that again.” She paused, panting.

“After I rest.”

Drew smiled, her heart ful . Jordan’s eyes glistened, love written al over her face. “God, I love you.”

“I love you,” Jordan whispered and tightened her embrace. “I want to show you how much.” Jordan rol ed to her side, pushing Drew onto her

back. Drew was lean and muscular, al angles and flat planes…and scars. She slowly touched the scar on Drew’s chin, the one she had caused

when they first met. She had felt so clumsy when she nearly tripped and banged into Drew’s chin, blood quickly spurting everywhere. “I’m so sorry

about this.”

Drew clasped Jordan’s hand. “And the one on the back of my head?” Jordan nodded. “And the one on my leg?” Jordan again nodded. Drew

placed Jordan’s hand over her left breast. “And how about the one in my heart?”

Jordan felt the nipple hardening under hand. She could barely swal ow. Her excitement grew as she squeezed Drew’s breast and heard her

groan. “It can’t be any bigger than the one in my heart.” Jordan took a deep breath, this time, easily gathering her courage, knowing Drew loved her.

“Help me to please you.”

Her eyes closed, Drew barely whispered, “You’re off to a great start.” She moaned. “I doubt,” she inhaled deeply as Jordan pul ed on her nipple,

“that there’s anything you can do that won’t please me.”

Jordan’s touches were tentative but grew bolder as she realized she was the one causing Drew’s plaintive pleas. Recal ing what Drew had

done, she slowly explored her body. Moving her hands over Drew’s stomach, she was amazed at the firmness of the muscles underlying the soft,

smooth skin. When Drew moaned, Jordan felt the wetness building between her own legs again. Aroused, she wanted to make love to Drew. She

wondered if Drew was as wet.

“Help me,” Jordan pleaded.

“I want you to touch me.” Drew pul ed Jordan’s hand down and placed it over her clit. “Here. Touch me here.”

Jordan loved the reaction to her stroking Drew’s center. Seeing and hearing the effects of her touches, Jordan’s reserve faded. She became

more adventurous, exploring the wetness and sliding into Drew for the first time. Her sharp intake of breath gave Jordan al the encouragement she

needed. She plunged deeper and quickened her movements.

“Yes, baby. Please, I want to feel you sucking my breast as I come.”

Jordan took the smal , firm breast in her mouth while moving her fingers in and out. When she final y brought Drew to orgasm, Jordan felt such

joy she could barely breathe.

“God, I can’t believe how wonderful you feel,” Drew uttered as she turned to see the morning sun peeking through the shutters. The love in her

heart was nearly as bright. “I love you, Jordan Thompson.” She laughed and hugged Jordan. “You are absolutely amazing.”

Jordan blushed. Her face a bright red, Jordan tried to bury her head in Drew’s shoulder.

Seeing this vulnerability, Drew instantly wanted to protect her. She lifted Jordan’s head so that she could see into her eyes. “You are the most

amazing woman I know and right now, I want to make love to you again.”

Jordan’s groan was al the answer she needed. Drowning Jordan in passionate kisses, Drew caressed the gentle curves and swel s of

Jordan’s stomach and hips, dancing around the curls covering her warm center.

“Please,” Jordan begged, wel aware of what pleased her. She grabbed Drew’s hand and moved it down.

“Anything for you.” Drew found the already firm clitoris and began to stroke it. Jordan’s hips joined the dance in slow, languid rhythm, an

overture, a waltz of enticement. Drew’s hand slipped to the warm wel and one finger dipped in, teased, and retreated. Two fingers moved to the

entrance. Breathing faster, the two dancers moved to the increasing beat. “You’re so wet. I can’t believe how good you feel.”

“Drew, please. Don’t stop.” The pace of the dance changed. Jordan’s hips thrust against her lover’s hand. A faster tempo. She kissed Drew’s

neck, then buried her face there. “Please. Oh, Drew…” Talking was difficult. “You feel so good.”

“Relax, baby. Just enjoy.” Drew stroked the swol en clitoris and slipped inside. She felt Jordan tightening around her fingers. The final

movement of the dance was set.

“Trust me?” Drew asked.

“Yes,” Jordan answered breathlessly.

Drew slid down, kissing Jordan’s stomach and thighs before sliding between her legs. She kissed Jordan’s swol en clitoris, then gently sucked.

Jordan had never known such exquisite pleasure. Moving against Drew’s mouth, she pushed, seeking more pressure.

“Drew, I need to feel you in me, too.”

Jordan grabbed Drew’s shoulders, her hips dancing to the melody her partner had set. Every nerve in her body was singing. Everywhere

Drew’s body touched hers, Jordan’s skin was on fire. Jordan danced until final y she felt an explosive release. Her legs tightened against Drew,

trapping her lover’s fingers in her orgasmic spasms.

“Enough, I need to breathe,” Jordan whispered. How can this be even better? Can I die from too much? When Drew crawled up next to her,

Jordan final y col apsed on the bed. She felt strong arms pul her close, safely wrapping her in their love.

Whatever happened after today, Jordan was sure she could handle. They would have to be discreet, at least for a while—her life was constantly

under inspection and this wonderful, new love needed to be sheltered and al owed time to grow. Despite the chal enges, she had faith that together,

they would work everything out. Until then, Drew loved her and that was al she needed.

Lisa Girolami is the author of Love on Location and Run to Me. She has been in the entertainment industry since 1979 and holds a BA in fine art

and an MS in psychology. She spent ten years as production executive in the motion picture industry and another two decades producing and

designing theme parks for Walt Disney and Universal Studios and is currently a counselor at a GLBTQ mental health facility in Garden Grove. Her

next novel, The Pleasure Set, is forthcoming in 2010. www.LisaGirolami.com.

Finding Grace

Lisa Girolami

I am going tonight. I have been both dreading and anticipating this evening for weeks. How I could ever have talked myself into finding love

where only sex exists is a mystery to my sense of logic and modesty. But where Grace is concerned, logic and modesty have flown right out the

window.

I am going tonight because I know she wil be there. She is there every Friday night. Le Spot sits in the Latin Quarter of Paris, in the fifth

arrondissement, and it is a sex house. Off Rue Mouffetard and down a smal , winding street, Le Spot serves as a lesbian sanctuary for clandestine

and anonymous sexual encounters. This private club offers seven themed rooms for women to frequent while seeking a lover for the night, away

from the pretense and negotiation that conventional coupling entails. Beds, couches, floor pil ows, and other furniture provide resting places for legs

and backs and pulsing bodies. Loud music throbs throughout, but moans and screams of orgasms manage to punch through the ever-present beat.

And I want none of that.

I have a membership there because that is the only way one can gain access. A two-week waiting period is required for membership in order

to verify the applicants’ references and to protect the club’s il icit existence. I got a membership to escape my life and my failed attempts at

relationships. There were too many communication struggles and misunderstandings and hurtful words. I wanted to be around women, but I didn’t

want to go through the technicalities of flirting or dating or even asking for a phone number. My first night there, however, I quickly realized that I

wanted none of the anonymous sex either, and had decided then that my first night would be my last.

Tonight marks the fifteenth time I have gone back.

I have been going to Le Spot for four months because I see Grace each time. I have never touched another woman there, only watched. I used

to watch many of the trysts and couplings through dark il umination and murky clouds of smoke, but now, al I watch is Grace.

I have fal en in love with this woman. I don’t know where she lives, what she does for a living, or even how she arrives at Le Spot. But she

captivated me from the first moment and I knew I had to have her in my life. I once paid the receptionist twenty francs to tel me about the woman

with the black hair and red dragon back tattoo, but al I got was her first name.

I have watched Grace watching other women. She never touches any of them either. I have seen her intently gaze at the intimate pairings but I

have also observed her, more often than not, sitting or standing by herself, deep in preoccupied contemplation. My attraction to her is not just from a

physical sense, though she is striking. There is something about the way she holds herself, with confidence and quiet certainty. It’s the way she

considers everything around her with meaningful regard that compels me to know more.

Each night that I come here, I learn something new about her. In every nuance of her expression, I see a different emotion. When she inhales

deeply, I sense her desire to experience life. When she elegantly lifts her fingers to glide a lock of hair behind her ear, I know that she is a gentle

lover.

Tonight, as I change into the requisite blue towel, my heart beats faster, for I know that this night wil not be for watching only. I have to talk with

Grace. I have to final y see if this woman is al that I have imagined. I know every inch of her body, for I have seen her from afar and, at times,

fol owed her from room to room. I have memorized her stances, I have her expressions and reactions committed to memory. But I have gleaned al I

can from her exterior. Now I must know what she holds on the inside.

I long to sit down beside her and let her know that I am not doing so for a physical connection. She’s too incredible for that. I want to know her

life story. I want to understand her fears and grasp her dreams. I find her in the cave room, themed after the catacombs, Paris’s vast network of

subterranean tunnels. One lightbulb with a metal cage around it gives off just enough light to make out shapes but not enough to see faces. She is

standing against the rockwork wal , a few feet away from two pairs of women who are too intent in their nameless union to notice her. Grace fol ows

the same pattern as always, watching but not advancing, contemplating but not open to involvement.

As I move around the opposite side of the room I notice that the writhing, naked bodies serve as an abstract canvas around her. She is

detached from the activities but enveloped in the ambience. I can feel her swathed in the enigmatic vibe because we both move to it in the same

way.

My desire to walk toward her is strong but it is too dark, so I must wait. Next, I go to the Versail es room, its soft candlelight il uminating elegant

gilded furniture and marble floors and wal s. There is only one couple lying on the large bed, so I make my way over to a love seat in the corner and

sit.

Closing my eyes, I feel the soft velour against my back and thighs. I picture Grace with her solid shoulders and beautiful neck. I have never been

close enough to detect the color of her eyes, but I imagine them to be brown. Her black hair makes that a likely possibility, and the exact brown I

picture is mahogany. Her face is slightly rounded and her mouth, though I’ve never seen it smile, must look exquisite when she is happy.

I open my eyes and blink suddenly. I am not prepared to see Grace standing in the doorway. Her attention is not on the prone couple. She is

now contemplating me. I draw in a breath, not sure what to do next. I have made a pledge to know Grace, but my gut now tel s me to stay where I

am.

And then I begin to understand why. She needs time to take me in. Like a bluebird that alights in your garden, Grace requires a slow means of

approach. As she watches me, I try not to change my expression. I do not want to show the craving, for I may scare her away, and I do not want to

show my apprehension, for it may send the wrong message. She is not objectively scrutinizing me, nor is she staring. She is absorbing me, my

body language, my soul. She is taking time to assimilate al that she has observed over these weeks and months of Fridays, and I am hopeful she

wil reach the same conclusion that I have.

As the bedded women begin an evident journey toward climax and their cries of pleasure begin to grow, Grace and I remain a distance away

from each other, but solely connected.

For the longest time, we look at each other, her blue towel wrapped around her chest and fal ing to just above her knees, and I in my blue towel

that hugs my waist. And then, with a slight lift of her chin, an almost imperceptible gesture but one that crashes into me with extreme significance, I

know that she has completed her assessment.

I lift off the love seat, as unsure as I am sure, and I cover the distance between us in six life-changing steps.

“Your eyes are not mahogany but chestnut,” I say, as if she were aware of my imaginings.

“And yours have been watching me.”

“Yes.” I want to tel her that I have fal en in love with her from the first day I saw her. She may think the notion is ridiculous given the fact that we

have never actual y met, but I cannot belie my heart. My secret truth has been at this club every Friday for four months.

“You’re here every Friday,” she says, piercing my eyes with hers.

I nod that she is correct.

Wil she think me a stalker? I have never made advances toward her, which in a sex club is the antithesis of what one could consider normal

behavior. I pray she doesn’t find me discomforting for that reason. I wonder if she thinks of me as a just another shadow among the sexual players,

a voyeur seeking some peculiar, solitary pleasure.

“You never talk to anyone or touch anyone.” Her observation is, again, accurate.

I wait, not knowing what she wil say next. My heart hammers again, just as it had when I arrived.

“When you first started coming, I noticed you right away,” she says. “You fascinated me. And that night I began to hope that you would not go off

with anyone. I knew that was not likely, but you didn’t. I was here that first night only because I wanted to see what it was like. I would not have come

back after that one visit, but then I saw you.”

Could this be possible? She had experienced the same as I.

She continues. “I came back the next Friday and you were here again. And again, you didn’t touch anyone.”

“And I came back for the same reason,” I say.

She smiles and I am right, it is exquisite.

Suddenly, we are more exposed than we have been for months. It has nothing to do with the meager towels covering our bodies. There are no

secrets between us. Our true selves are now revealed without pretense or disguise.

“I want you.” I am more sure than I’ve ever been.

“You mean my heart.” It is a statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

She takes my hand in hers. This first touch I wil always remember. She leads me to a hal way, away from the themed rooms that are now

beginning to fil up given that it is late. I know she wants to find a private place for us and I am more than wil ing to go anywhere with her.

We lean against the wal , face-to-face. The painted concrete is cold against my shoulder.

“I have been waiting,” I say.

“For me?”

“No, for me. To final y approach you, that is.” I know this conversation is profound and bordering on impractical, but I must continue. “You seem

so out of place here. But this is the only frame of reference I have of you. I have never seen you in the daylight. I haven’t seen you eat or run or laugh.

But what I have seen, I am drawn to.”

In her chestnut eyes I see welcome anticipation. She wants to see where this wil go. And then she says, “May I kiss you?”

Furtively and softly, we kiss. I feel her lips part and I open my mouth to hers. Our tongues touch chastely at first, and then we grow bolder,

dancing with precise harmony to the same rhythmic sonata.

I draw the warmth of her mouth into mine and I feel her from the inside. Her breath becomes mine, and our life forces merge. We offer ourselves

to each other through our kisses, inhaling each other’s essence, and in that moment I know more about her than a hundred coffee dates or dinners

could divulge. I see her as a child, playing in her parents’ backyard, and I see her in her teen years, excited about the new school year. I see al the

days that led up to the first night I saw her. In one kiss, I thoroughly comprehend this woman I’ve just met.

Our hands stay respectful y around each other’s backs, not venturing any further because a show of corporeal intent would ruin this moment.

And I don’t need to feel her breasts or anywhere lower because I wil have time later. We are joined right now in a complete way, face-to-face, nose

to nose, with the unbelievable rightness of our bodies offered to one another. Her tongue accepting mine is the deepest bond we can forge. Our

awareness of each other, body and soul, is absolute.

We part lips and pul back to check each other’s reaction. Her chin is down and she looks at me evocatively from under her eyebrows.

I suddenly laugh, realizing the paradox of the situation. “We’ve seen each other for months in a place where everyone is having sex, and yet we

have just now touched.”

“To do nothing al those Friday nights was to learn everything about you,” she says. “And now I want to live the rest.”

Could this be happening? How did it come about that a woman I had only gazed at turned into the woman I know I am to be with?

But as I look back over my weekly sojourns to this place, an incredible realization overcomes me. Simply, words and physicality did not get in

our way. We did not travel down the path of anecdotes and meaningless narratives, nor did we succumb to a physical imperative, resulting only in

orgasm. This total connection that we share comes purely from silent, unadorned observation. With only our eyes, we discovered our intimate truths,

unclouded by subterfuge and physical need. And when we final y did touch, we were already known to each other.

Finding Grace in a French sex house is my reason for being, and we wil now abide by our destiny.

Clara Nipper lives in Oklahoma and enjoys fine dining, bubble baths, long walks, and playing with her dogs, Virginia Woof and Bark Twain. Her

Bold Strokes novels include Femme Noir and the forthcoming Kiss of Noir. Kids, stay in school!

Sentimental Fool

Clara Nipper

I opened my grandmother’s refrigerator for iced tea. She made the very best iced tea I had ever tasted. I noticed a bowl of nectarines on the

bottom shelf.

“Grama?”

“Yes, honey?” She didn’t look up from her quilting.

“Why do you always buy fifteen nectarines?”

Grama’s head raised and she stared out the window with a smal , sad smile on her face. “Because I’m a sentimental fool, that’s why.” She

returned to her needlework.

“What’s that?” I thought I knew what a fool was; Todd always made a fool of himself during study period, but I wasn’t sure about the other. I

couldn’t imagine Grama acting like Todd. I loathed him. He was cute.

As I asked her, Grama’s eyes were sharp behind her glasses. She put down her quilt. It was for me when she finished it. She even put bits of

my favorite outgrown clothes into the pattern. Grama had told me the quilt was a double wedding ring design and I hated the sound of that, but she

assured me I would appreciate it someday. I sipped my tea. You couldn’t push Grama, not one inch.

“Lemons in a bowl on the counter if you’re of a mind,” she said.

“Okay,” I answered lightly. I slowly rol ed one of the plump fruit on the table to loosen its juice. I resisted the urge to add “ma’am.” Grama didn’t

respect suck-ups. I careful y carved a slice of lemon and squeezed it into my tea. Grama made this tea just for me. She never drank it. Claimed not

to like it. I waited.

“A sentimental is one who values romantic memories very highly.”

“What romantic memories?” Grama had once sneaked a kiss on someone like Greg’s delectable cheek during recess? Grama had once had

someone like Douglas give her his art project? Grama had had valentines stuffed in her locker? Grama had had her house papered by al the boys

on Hal oween? Just like a grown-up, speaking in riddles. Just say it! Just tel me!

“Romantic memories like…” Grama’s voice suddenly sounded like a choir of angels singing, as if they had final y been set free. “Romantic

memories like…” She stopped and looked hard at me. I never felt more like an adult than I did then by not squirming under her stare.

“I don’t know if you’re old enough to hear this, but here goes. I want to tel it. If your mom gets mad about it, send her to me; don’t let her yel at

you.”

“Okay.” I wiggled my rear deeper into the carpet. This would be good.

“I buy fifteen nectarines at a time because I once asked someone, as a favor, to buy me a dozen nectarines, and this person brought me a

lovely basket with fifteen nectarines in it. And this person told me I should always have more than I wanted.”

That was it? That was romantic? I stared at my tea disappointed. The cubes floated lazily. Frost drops slid down the glass. Should I conceal my

disinterest by asking questions?

Grama snorted. “That’s not al , come with me.” Grama shot out of her rocking chair. Grama was a tough old bird. My mother said she was stil

as strong as a man. I left my tea and fol owed her into the backyard. Grama had made it into a wildlife sanctuary. She started it years ago with one

bat house and a few bird boxes, and now, it was completely alive. On different visits, I had seen lightning bugs, ladybugs, horny toads, frogs,

butterflies, and hummingbirds. Grama cal ed them hummers. She tossed me out here whenever she was sick of me watching television when I visit.

Grama told me she made it into a habitat because there was nobody to mow the grass anymore. I told her about Paul, a boy in my neighborhood

who did it, but she smiled, patted me on the head, and said that wasn’t what she meant.

Sometimes, she let me help her weed and plant, but she was very picky. Occasional y, she was bossy and didn’t even notice. But she let me

eat her blackberries and strawberries as long as I left some for the birds and turtles. There is nothing like a sweet, sun-hot berry. Even with dust, it

was better than candy.

We came to an old apple tree. Grama caressed the smooth bark. “See that?” Her hands were bony and roped with veins. I squinted and raised

myself on tiptoes.

“Is that a heart carved there?” I looked at her in wonder. Grama smiled in satisfaction.

“Yes, that’s another romantic memory.”

I scratched the bark. “What’s that other thing?” It looked like an eight lying down.

“The symbol for infinity, or forever.” Grama’s voice sounded funny and I stared at her with my mouth open. Her eyes were soft and liquidy. I got

the feeling that she was pushing me to understand this. I could only drink it in gradual y. Grama looked up into the tree, staring fixedly at the leaves. I

was scared she would start crying. What do you do when your Grama cries? I didn’t even know what she would be crying about. I held my breath.

“We had thirty-five love-fil ed years together,” Grama stated at last. “Died the year before you were born. You, little one, helped me through the

worst time of my life and you didn’t know it. Your mother was generous enough to let me care for you al the time and ease my sore heart.”

I swal owed and leaned against the tree. “Was it Grampa?” I whispered. I had never had one; I sometimes wondered what that would be like. A

gnarled, wrinkly man with bushy eyebrows. Ornery and playful, but nice and gentle. One who taught me Old Secrets.

“No.” Grama smiled strangely. I felt confused and shocked. Grama must have had a grampa because she had Mom. Who was it if not a

grampa? White-haired people were supposed to be predictable and conservative.

“Who was it?” I never stopped to think I was too nosy. I had to find out.

“Sara.” Grama waited for me to catch up.

“Mom? It was Mom?” That was Mom’s name. My head was spinning.

“No, it wasn’t your mother. I named your mother after her. Sara was my spouse, Sara Kate.”

“Kate! That’s my name!”

“Yes, it is, punkin, and it fits you. Your mother also loved her dearly. Sara and I were your mother’s parents. I had a baby, your mom, with Sara.

We raised her together.”

I frowned. “But in Biology—”

“Yes, yes,” Grama said impatiently. “I know. I promise I’l explain al that later. Right now, I’m explaining why I’m a sentimental fool. Come inside.”

Grama took off for the house without looking back.

I was slow to move from the tree. I looked at the heart and the infinity symbol again. I felt Grama had purified me somehow. Blasted al my rust

off. Al my thoughts were new born. I felt different. I was excited. I was on the brink of an adventure. Grama felt about a woman the way I felt about

boys. That was okay. But I was richer now for knowing. Wiser and more textured. My heart felt bigger. I heard the back door slam. I hurried to fol ow.

I found her in an unused bedroom on the bed she kept impeccably made. She was examining the contents of a huge, dusty box. I sat down.

“What’s al this?”

“More sentiment. Beautiful memories.” Grama dabbed her nose with a wadded tissue. “Here.” She handed me a stuffed duck like a Beatrix

Potter character. “I have hundreds of ducks in every shape, size, and form. We cal ed each other names. Do you do that with boys?”

“Kind of,” I hedged with a smile.

“Wel , I was her Puddles and she was my Puddleduck.”

“That’s cute,” I said. Our eyes met over the box. I felt sad for her. I ached, wanting to fil some of Sara’s void so Grama wouldn’t feel so sad.

How could I comfort her?

“Here are some of our love letters.” Grama lifted out stacks of envelopes bound with grosgrain ribbons. “We were very prolific.” She laughed,

shaking her head. “Here are some souvenirs of trips we took…here’s a pair of earrings she gave me…here’s the shirt I wore the first time we

kissed…this ring,” Grama held out her hand, “is one she designed and had made for me. See that opal in the center? That’s older than your mother

or father. Sara gave it to me on our first anniversary.”

I studied the things eagerly, wanting to inhale it al . I didn’t want this story to end. I wanted to hear how they lived happily every after, and then,

see Sara sitting on the bed with Grama.

Grama sure was different than my other old relatives, who sported blue hair and wiglets and were always discussing il ness.

“Why is al this stuff put away?” I tenderly held a tiny, beautiful jade carving.

“Kate, when you lose someone, there’s an enormous amount of pain. Sara and I didn’t have nearly enough time together. When she died, it

was too hard to live with these things staring at me al the time. I cherish them, and would defend this box with my life, but it was just too hard. So I

put them away hoping I would go soon after her and be with her again. Then you were born. Maybe she sent you for me. But it’s evident I’m not

going to die soon, so I think it’s time to unpack her, don’t you?”

“Yes!” I felt I was discovering a long-lost sibling in Sara. Twelve years she had been waiting to come out of this box. Shyly, I said, “In Sunday

school, they say angels watch over us from heaven. Maybe Sara is.”

Grama put a shaking hand to her brow. “Yes, I hope so. I want to believe that. I have a talk with her every night. Sometimes, I ask her to pass

messages to God. At first, al I did was cuss her for dying, but not anymore. Now I just pretend she’s in bed with me, her head next to mine, and I tel

her I love and miss her and just talk.” Grama final y looked up and smiled. “That’s why I stil make tea. I’m glad you like it. Sara loved it. But do you

know what was her favorite drink?”

“No…” I thought of my other ancient family. “Coffee?”

“No, green Kool-Aid!” Grama’s cheeks were pink.

“Ick! Gross!” I laughed. Sara sounded cool. “My favorite is grape,” I told Grama, who already knew this.

Grama shrugged. “I don’t have a favorite.” Her eyes twinkled.

“Grama,” I took the plunge before I got scared and backed out, “isn’t it gross to kiss a girl?” I stared hard at my hands. My knee trembled.

Grama laughed and patted my hair. I looked up.

“Isn’t kissing boys gross right now too?” she asked.

I thought about it. The fun was in being chased, and the risk of getting in trouble, and the breathless excitement. The kisses themselves were

actual y tight little pecks barely touching hot cheeks. And they were al I wanted for now. Anything more was icky. “Yes, I guess so,” I answered.

“Wel , that’s natural. Later, you’l be attracted to someone and find pleasure in kissing him. So, don’t worry; you won’t always find it gross. And

for me, Sara was the only woman I ever kissed. And we were so happy to do that. It was good for us, like vitamins. We fit together like puzzle

pieces. As long as you do it with someone you love, it is never gross, always great.” Grama extracted an envelope. “Look how sentimental I am.”

She laughed. “I even saved her hair. I cut some before she was cremated.” Grama peered in the envelope. She put her nose to the edge and

sniffed. She touched inside with one long thin finger. “Oh, wel , that’s that.” She replaced the envelope.

I was scared to look at a dead person’s hair. I was curious about Sara, though. “What did she look like?”

Grama rummaged in the box. “Here’s one of my pictures.”

The photograph was of a woman and Grama many years before. Grama had been beautiful! I looked careful y at Grama, then looked at the

photo again. They had their arms around each other and the first thing that struck me was: Happy. They’re happy. Grama’s mouth was wide open in

the kind of smile I had never seen. Sara had wise, warm green eyes that calmly met mine. She was grinning big too, and hugging hard on Grama.

Sara seemed to have the strength of the earth and Grama the strength of water. They were blissful. I felt pul ed into the mystery and storytel ing of

that photo. “Can I keep this, please?” I held it to my chest trying to be closer to Sara and this new Grama. Grama smiled softly and caressed my hair

and jaw in a graceful circle.

“Of course you can. I’m glad you want it.”

“You are so pretty. Am I pretty like you? Wil I be when I’m finished growing?”

“Sweet baby.” I had never heard Grama’s voice so tender. Had she spoken to Sara that way? “You are. You are now and you wil be later. You’l

blossom into a hel uva heartbreaker. The trick to beauty is to keep a sense of humor and to keep your heart pure.”

This baffled me. But if I was pretty, okay. Everybody says Mom is beautiful; maybe it is, whatyoucal it, genetic. “Can I be a sentimental fool too?”

“Honey,” Grama stretched the word into three syl ables, “are you sure you want to be?”

“Yes,” I answered simply.

“Then count on it. You wil be.”

I tapped the picture. “Tel me some more?”

“Someday.” Grama closed the box and hefted it to carry downstairs. I stil sat on the bed, incomplete as yet.

“Grama?” I stared mesmerized at the photo. Looking at it hard enough and long enough might bring more mature understanding. Their joy

tugged at me. “Why did you save al this stuff?”

Grama turned and replaced the box on the bed. She held my chin in her hand. “Wel , child, to have proof that I once loved and was loved.”

Shea Godfrey is an artist and writer working and living in the Midwest. While her formal education is in journalism and photography, she has spent

most of her career thus far in 3D animation and design. Her romantic fantasy novel Nightshade is forthcoming from Bold Strokes in 2010.

’47 Cheval Blanc

Shea Godfrey

Finn Starkweather watched Cassandra Marinos step from the limousine, the shadow she cast along the pavement lengthened further by the

slant of the lights along Stockton Street.

Finn was fairly certain that should Ms. Marinos be in need of a weapon, most likely even her shadow, like the Prada heels that she wore, might

come in handy. Not that Marinos was known for her violence, but she’d certainly added a few names to the walking wounded roster while she’d

made her way up the food chain. The last of which was Terry Bannon, Interpol’s resident Ann Coulter with a dick. Finn smiled with more than a

touch of glee. Two weeks, maybe more, for those tiny glass marbles to drop all over again.

Casey spoke to the driver briefly and offered an easy smile, her blond hair brushing across her face in a cut that reminded Finn of Veronica

Lake. It spil ed onto the shoulders of the fawn-colored cashmere she wore against the night chil , looking sinful y soft despite the distance between

them. The driver nodded and closed the door as Marinos walked toward the Campton Place Hotel. Finn leaned against the railing of the fire

escape two flights up and one building over, her upper body tipping into midair as she tried to see Casey al the way in beneath the hotel awning.

“Maybe you’l fal down her dress.”

“Maybe, but I wouldn’t have time to see much on the way down,” Finn cracked, pushing back and spinning about.

“Are you sure this is going to work?”

“Of course not.”

Malik Kaseem smiled and pushed back the brim of his Manchester United hat. “Just another day of being dragged down the street in Texas.”

“Speak for yourself,” Finn replied, wanting to laugh but unwil ing to give him the edge.

“We could just step up the surveil ance, Finn, you don’t have to do this.”

“We need a better view of the game, plain and simple. When the deal goes down, at the very least we have to be within spitting distance. Even

with as much manpower as we can manage, we’l come up short. And besides, I can’t think of anything else on such short notice that might play in

our favor, can you?”

Something that wouldn’t compromise your principles would be nice, Malik considered for the hundredth time. Or that wouldn’t break your

heart. “Not real y.”

“Let’s just do it, then. I’m al grown up and tal er than you besides.”

“Yes, but are you wearing your clean knickers?”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you pick out the waiter?”

“Yes. He seems very practiced.”

“Why, because he’s French and knows a lot about cheese?”

“No, because he didn’t ask any questions.”

“How do I look?”

Malik took a step back from his partner of eight years and gave her the once-over.

A dark navy Jil Sander suit with bluish gray lapels worn over a pristine white shirt that he and his wife, Anna, had gotten Finn for Christmas. Her

matching trousers were cut low and pleated, her silver buckled belt offsetting the harness buckles and rivets on her low-heeled Gucci boots, which

she only wore when she was feeling cocky and out for blood. They had been babied over the years as al good leather should be, but they added a

rough edge that suited Finn completely. Her soft, black hair was short and spiky about her face and she was as handsome as al hel .

“Don’t make me repeat myself. You know I hate repeating myself.”

“Sex on a stick, love,” Malik answered and then felt a twinge of regret, watching several different emotions darken her eyes. She flashed her

trademark grin though and stepped into the punch, her right fist landing hard against Malik’s shoulder.

“Go with God, my little bird,” he said, wincing.

“Just don’t fuck it up,” Finn grumbled as she stepped from the fire escape and maneuvered through the open window. “Two weeks of

surveil ance and it al gets flushed because you can’t recognize a magnet the size of a brick.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” he protested beneath his breath.

“What was that?”

He smiled at Finn’s raised voice somewhere behind him as he watched the traffic move along Stockton. The plan was never going to work and

he knew it. Not because Finn couldn’t seduce Casey Marinos into slipping up or rushing her hand, but because he knew Finn would never go

through with it. It wasn’t her style.

He took his phone out and dialed. “It’s Malik,” he said in response to the voice on the other end. “Cal everyone in, we’re kicking ass from the

top on down. The deal fel through on this end.”

*

Finn stood just beyond the arch that led to the restaurant, watching Casey Marinos claim her reservation by one of the blue-tinted, etched

windows. Her dress was cut low between her breasts and sleek, draped along her body as if the black fabric had spontaneously combusted along

her skin in a burst of silk and sexuality. It was a Carolina Herrera original and Finn knew that it would somehow match Casey’s dark eyes, though

she’d only stared into their depths through the filter of a surveil ance camera.

The headwaiter caught Finn’s attention for a brief instant and she gave a nod.

Casey accepted the menu and ordered a drink, no doubt the 1998 Clos des Goisses that Finn knew was her favorite at the moment. The

waiter would bring a ’47 Chateau Cheval Blanc instead. It had cost Finn ten grand for the damn thing, and she’d cal ed in a very old favor besides,

but it would be worth it just to see her take that first sip.

Only the best of everything for one of the top ten thieves in the world.

Casey had never been caught and as yet, nothing had ever been proven against her. Years of investigations by private firms and Interpol as

wel , one after the other, and not a single scrap of evidence had ever been brought to bear. She had yet to make Interpol’s Red List, and barring a

disaster of epic proportions, Finn doubted she ever would. When a rare work of art went missing, however, any one of Casey’s chosen names

could be found on every short list in the world. Among certain circles it was no secret who she was or how she made her living.

It had started for Finn in December of 2002, and it had started with Van Gogh.

The police had captured the dynamic duo that had used a ladder splattered with old paint to break into the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam,

not long after the theft actual y, but they’d never recovered the paintings. And while Finn would not have chosen Scheveningen or Nuenen as

Vincent’s best, they were worth thirty mil ion col ectively and stil at large. Elysian Incorporated was on a very big hook for that money and they’d

issued a reward that was a dream come true for the safe return of the paintings. Every bounty hunter who could draw a breath had, in one way or

another, been on the scent for years.

That was when Finn had first become aware of Cassandra Marinos, though not under that name. She’d gone by Alyssa Stavros at the time and

her papers had been without reproach. It had taken Finn nearly six months to dig through the many layers of paint upon Casey’s elaborate canvas in

order to find the true masterpiece hiding beneath. She’d kept tabs from a distance for years now, patiently waiting for her moment. Eleven months

ago that moment had presented itself, and Finn had final y met Cassandra Marinos.

Not in the flesh, never that, though after ten months of intense surveil ance she knew more about Casey than she knew about her own blood.

She knew what Casey’s favorite breakfast food was, and how she took her coffee. She knew what movies made her laugh, and her favorite

authors. And she knew that when Casey was heartbroken, she would go to the sea and bide her time until her scars had healed. Finn knew she

liked Australian Blue dogs, but her real weakness was for fat cats that liked the sun and too much food. She preferred the Audi to the Lexus, but

when it came to speed she went with the Aston Martin, and she had a Vantage GT2 to prove her commitment to the edge. Finn even knew what

toothpaste she used.

But she’d never spoken to her face-to-face. She’d never looked into those eyes that were so dark they bordered upon black. She’d never

smel ed the scent of her hair or tasted the curve of her neck. She had watched her seduce more than her fair share of women over the past year.

They were unworthy for the most part, in Finn’s opinion. They were careless and shal ow in one way or another, and never a match for the depths

that Finn saw hiding within Casey, even if she was less than honorable about how she made her living. They were mostly femme and always

beautiful, and Finn had yet to see a look of genuine satisfaction upon Casey’s face when out and about with any one of them. She remained apart,

only giving them what they needed in order to be satisfied. And if they demanded too much, Casey would quietly disappear, though not without a

parting gift that might assuage any hard feelings her exodus might incur.

It was one of those gifts that had given Finn her best chance yet of proving her theory that Cassandra Marinos was in possession of what she

needed most. And it had put her on Casey’s trail in earnest.

A bauble of diamonds and white gold, but it was a trinket worth twenty grand that had been stolen in Amsterdam just two days before the Van

Goghs went missing. In Finn’s mind, it was no coincidence that a thief of Casey’s caliber just happened to be in Amsterdam at the same time the

museum job went down. A man named Eric Werner had fenced the remaining items of that wel -timed jewel heist, and Eric Werner was the conduit

through which Vincent’s lost children would have to pass. He was the number one fence in central Europe, not only for Van Gogh, but Picasso,

Monet, and Vermeer as wel . For the past twenty years he had dealt exclusively in the underground art trade, and Finn knew that for Werner to take

the time and energy to wash what would be for him a pittance in stolen ice, there had to be the deal of a lifetime waiting in the wings.

Werner was in San Francisco at that very moment, along with a veritable melting pot of possible buyers from around the world. Most were

private col ectors that were inclined to skate beneath the radar, but Finn knew exactly who they were despite their discretion.

As she stood there, however, it al seemed incredibly irrelevant.

She couldn’t pinpoint exactly when she’d fal en in love with Casey Marinos during the past year, but fal en she had. She didn’t need to be told

that it was an impossible situation and she didn’t stand a chance, even if the circumstances had been different. Casey might’ve been exactly what

Finn ached for within the long dark hours of the night, but she was fairly certain that Casey had other ideas. She’s not why you’re here, Finn, get a

grip. Eyes on the prize, Boy-o.

Finn straightened and walked with confidence into the dining room of the Campton Place Restaurant.

*

Casey Marinos watched the tal butch with a close eye, a smile pul ing at her lips. She had known that she was being watched but she hadn’t

returned the attention, biding her time for the right opportunity. She found the woman utterly gorgeous, though she supposed some might not agree.

Her features were strong and clean and from the stark cut of her suit, Casey could see that she had the lean, wel -built body to back it up. There

were a lot of women who would never find such a masculine energy appealing, but Casey hadn’t been so instantly attracted to another woman in

years. She seemed familiar, actual y, though Casey couldn’t quite place her. And I’m thinking that I would remember you.

She looked toward the window once more with considerable effort. Another time, another place, perhaps, she mused, and we might play. She

closed her eyes, the storm within her head seeming to ease at just the thought of finding a respite within the strong arms of such a lover. The soft

authority of the right top could sway her like nothing else, which was why women like that were far too dangerous.

Finn walked directly to the table and pul ed out the empty chair, Casey looking up in genuine surprise.

Finn favored her with a crooked grin and sat down smoothly, leaning back as she crossed her legs. The waiter arrived but a second later,

setting two wineglasses on the table as a second server placed the ice bucket beside Finn, the ’47 Cheval Blanc nestled within and waiting.

“It’s not what you ordered, I’m sure, but I have it on good authority that it’s just as good as anything you might find here,” Finn said, her heart

beating quickly at the dark brown of Casey’s eyes. I was right…Sweet Jesus, they’re almost black.

Casey couldn’t help but smile, her eyes fil ed with curiosity as they studied Finn’s face close up. Flawless skin with strong features and classic

lines. Her hair was a lovely, tousled mess of short, black strands and her dark caramel eyes were fil ed with warmth and more than a hint of

chal enge. It was their heat, however, that Casey found instantly compel ing, so much so that for a heartbeat, it threw her completely off her game.

Finn poured them each a drink and then lifted her glass with a genuine smile. “My name is Finn O’Connel .”

Casey laughed, her eyes lighting up at the sheer audacity of the scene. “O’Connel .” Their glasses clinked together. “Something about the

strength of a wolf, yes?”

“I don’t know, it’s al Irish to me,” Finn replied. “Al ’s I know is that me gran had a feud with an Angus Boyle across the fence. They used to throw

potatoes and curse in Gaelic.”

Casey took a drink, liking the hard, quick feel of her pulse. “Pog mo thoin?”

Finn laughed, a flush of heat moving along her neck. Kiss me arse.

“Good God!” Casey spoke in shock, eyeing her glass with pleasure. “What is this?”

Definitely worth it. “Tel me your name first.”

An eyebrow was raised.

“Too bold?”

“I’d say that train left the station without you.”

“Yes, but if I’d waited for you, I’d stil be standing al alone.”

“You think?” Casey asked, letting out a smal breath at the crooked grin that moved across Finn’s luxurious mouth. It seemed to be a somewhat

permanent fixture on her handsome face, aside from being one of the loveliest things that Casey had encountered in a very long time.

“Tel me your name.”

Samantha Drake, Casey thought but didn’t say. It was on the tip of her tongue, waiting and ready, but she couldn’t do it. She liked Samantha.

Samantha was always in charge and never at a loss, never in doubt. Samantha was always in control. Control is an illusion. I don’t want control.

But I’m thinking that’s not what you see, is it, Finn O’Connell.

“Okay, how about this,” Finn offered, setting her glass down and leaning forward. “I buy you dinner and we finish the wine… We could go

dancing then, if you’d like, or at least in search of some decent music. There’s a place not too far from here, Biscuits an—”

“Blues.” Casey smiled, finishing her sentence. “And if I were to tel you that I’m waiting for my husband?”

Finn considered the question. “I’d say…”

Casey waited patiently, wanting to laugh at the careful expression on Finn’s face. “Yes?”

“No.”

“No?”

“You’re so gay I could feel it from across the room.”

“And you’re never wrong?”

Finn smiled. “Frequently, but not about this.”

Casey sipped her wine, distracted by its taste once more and glancing at the bottle. The label was turned away from her, but the bottle was old,

sending part of her mind down a different path in search of a vintage.

“Are you ready to order?”

Finn heard the waiter wel enough, but she had no intention of looking away from those brown eyes, not now that she had them in her sights.

“The salt-crusted Mediterranean branzino, two, if you please.”

“Very good, sir.”

Both Finn and Casey smiled, Casey looking down to keep from laughing.

Bloody Malik, Finn thought, wishing that she had punched him harder. “Perhaps I should guess, yes?”

“Perhaps you should.” Casey’s eyes came back up, chal enging.

“I’d say Veronica, but that would be too obvious.”

“True.”

“And besides which, I can’t real y see you ending up as a bartender in some New York dive while fading into alcoholic obscurity.”

“Thank you, I think.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Perhaps you should just give me a name.”

“Rachel?”

Casey frowned.

“You’re right. I knew a Rachel once, it was very unpleasant.”

“First girlfriend?”

“No, that was Paula.”

“What happened to Paula?”

“Too much of a top for my tastes.”

“Ah. The age-old conflict of interest.”

“I like what I like, and besides, it al worked out in the end.”

“Real y?” Casey asked. “Don’t keep me in suspense, please. What happened to Paula?”

Finn’s eyes lit up but she said nothing.

“Top secret?”

“Highly classified. However, I can tel you that it involved bal s flying at her face.”

Casey stuttered in the midst of taking another drink, swal owing awkwardly as she choked back her laughter.

“She worked the pro tennis circuit.”

Casey cleared her throat and took up her napkin. “Of course.”

“Footbal was more my sport.”

“Position?”

“Tight end.”

Casey resisted the urge to lean forward, an unexpected desire to be closer wel ing up and sending a pleasant shiver along her spine.

“Tailback?” Finn offered instead.

“No, I’d say tight end is more than fitting.”

“Juliette.”

“Juliette?”

“Your name.” Finn spoke through her grin. “Tel me your name.”

“Is that what you want, Daddy?”

Finn almost groaned, reaching for her glass instead.

Casey chuckled and watched her take a drink, liking the tel tale blush of color along her neck, knowing somehow that Finn knew it was there

and disliked the knowledge. She leaned forward and reached for the bottle, wanting to turn it within the ice and reveal the label.

Finn caught her by the wrist before she could get there, gentle for the most part, but firm enough to establish control. Their eyes met and Finn

changed her grip, letting the tips of her fingers find the underside of Casey’s wrist. She could feel Casey’s pulse beating hard beneath the soft skin

and it made her smile. “Don’t be naughty.”

Casey pul ed her hand away slowly, her fingers sliding along Finn’s until they parted.

“It’s not such a high price to pay,” Finn said.

“It might be dangerous for you.”

“Your name?”

“Perhaps.”

“I was thinking the other might be more dangerous.”

“The other?”

“What if you do have a husband?” Finn said. “Here I am making my play, and the next thing I know, someone is punching me in the throat.”

Casey laughed. “It doesn’t seem like such a high price to pay.”

Finn sat back again. “Have you ever been punched in the throat?”

“Not that I can recal .”

“It hurts.”

“Wel , you know what they say, the trick is not minding that it does.”

“So you’re saying that you’re worth it?”

“Am I?”

Finn’s crooked grin slipped free. “I wouldn’t be sitting here if I didn’t think so.”

“You look as if you can take care of yourself.”

“It’s the boots, right? Too butch?”

“Butch, yes, but they work.”

Finn leaned to the left a bit and looked at her feet. “I just polished them, actual y. It felt like a betrayal of some sort.” She looked across the table.

“Al those years to break them in properly and cultivate some character, and then I go and ruin it.”

Finn, Casey thought, a start of recognition fol owing upon the heels of the name. Finn O’Connell. “Who punched you in the throat?”

“Rachel’s husband.”

Casey felt a pleasing ache within her cheeks, uncertain of the last time she had smiled so much. “Was he big?”

Finn’s brow went up. “How big do you have to be?”

“A big, bad daddy such as yourself? I’d say pretty big.”

Finn said nothing, but neither did she look away. The sounds of the restaurant fil ed the atmosphere around them, though it did very little to

invade upon their quiet connection. Several conversations could be heard, one about local politics and the other crucifying some poor bastard stil

trading in derivatives. The music was Bach, playing low, but it was stil loud enough to be heard should anyone care to listen.

“He wasn’t that big,” Finn responded at last. “But he caught me by surprise.”

“Didn’t know, or didn’t expect him?” Casey asked gently, thinking that perhaps Finn was tel ing the truth. Her eyes were too open and she had

no reason to lie, even if they were playing.

“Didn’t know, actual y.” Finn grinned rueful y. “I was stepping out of the shower at the time.”

“Ouch.”

“Not one of my better moments,” Finn agreed.

“Then my name shal not be Rachel.”

Finn thought she heard a tender inflection within Casey’s tone, and it made her blood run hot and smooth. “Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome, Finn.”

“Tel me your name,” Finn demanded with quiet authority.

Casey was about to say it, the letters tumbling and sliding together upon her tongue and pressing eagerly toward her lips. Casey, she thought,

wil ing them into life after sleeping for so very long. She was about to, but another name intruded before she had the chance. Finnegan.

“What?” Finn asked, seeing Casey’s eyes deepen in color.

“Finn…is that your ful name?”

“It’s short for Finnegan, actual y.”

Casey considered the name in silence, never looking away as the fingers of her right hand caressed the stem of her wineglass. Finnegan…

bloody hell. Finn Starkweather.

“I didn’t pick it,” Finn said, trying to decipher Casey’s expression.

I thought you were a man. “Don’t worry, I like it.”

“I wish I could return the favor.”

“Is this your usual scene, Finn?” she asked softly. “Because if it is, it’s very good.”

Finn considered the question and then looked down. She narrowed her eyes upon the fabric of the tablecloth, pushing a finger at a smal knot

within the weave. She hadn’t been sure how al of this was going to pan out before she’d made her play, but now, in the midst of it, she found herself

utterly certain. She could smel Casey’s cologne and it was subtle and earthy, her mind clinging to the wel -worn fantasy of how Casey’s skin would

taste. Only now that she could actual y smel her cologne, things had shifted and her curiosity had been reborn with different colors and intonations.

I’ve got to be the dumbest fucking idiot in the world, she thought, closing her eyes. She had wanted this for so long, just to look across the table at

such a complex and beautiful woman. Though it was not just any woman that she had been wanting, it was Casey. She wanted Casey. If they were

going to play, it would have to be fair.

When Finn looked up, her expression was completely without guile and the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. “No

scene, just you.”

Casey felt the warmth of the expression throughout her entire body, her pulse turning thick and moving south with surprising ease. Though it

wasn’t just warmth this time, it was pure heat, dark and liquid and delicious. And it was the truth, she could see it, though it didn’t make any sense

whatsoever.

Finnegan Starkweather, former Interpol and a private investigator who had given up the game about ten years ago, as far as Casey knew. It

was always a good idea to keep an eye on the other team, even if they were sitting in the stands, and they had never actual y crossed paths despite

being hunter and prey. She’d been a bounty hunter for several years, Casey remembered that much, but she had dropped off the grid and Casey

had stopped paying attention. Though I see I was remiss in that.

Showing her hand like this and stepping out into the open, it was completely il ogical. And though her guard was now firmly in place and the

game would change by morning, Casey could not deny that she wanted more. More of what exactly, she wasn’t sure, but more was definitely on the

menu. More of you, Finn O’Connell…or is it Starkweather?

“You’re wrong, I’m not very good at this at al .” Finn pul ed the wine from its resting place and set it on the table between them.

“I beg to differ,” Casey said, feeling an odd twinge of panic. Finn was throwing in her hand, and she had never been so disappointed or curious

in al her life. Finally, a woman worthy of the game, she acknowledged. Don’t give in so easily, Daddy.

“I don’t lie very wel .” Finn reached into her suit and pul ed out a business card. She placed it beside the bottle, a simple white card with nothing

but a phone number printed in dark blue ink. “Not about this.”

“This?”

“You.”

Casey blinked in surprise at her answer, though she pushed it aside as quickly as she could. “You’re not staying for dinner?”

Finn smiled at the playful tone. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because what I real y want isn’t on the menu,” she answered smoothly. “And the wine was for you, Casey Marinos.”

Casey was torn between pleasure and protest as Finn stood up and walked away, though it was her curiosity that won out as she leaned

forward and turned the bottle, final y revealing its label.

Her eyes went wide and shot up, focusing hard on Finn’s back as she disappeared beneath the arch that led to the bar. She didn’t know

whether to be more impressed by the vintage or by the fact that Finn knew her real name.

Casey took up her glass, staring at the wine label once more and trying to decide just how much danger she was actual y in, and how much

dancing might be required in order to get away clean with everything that she’d come for. She had never in her wildest dreams expected a ’47

Cheval Blanc to be waiting just for her.

But then I didn’t expect you either…Finn.

Her slow smile fil ed with mischief and chal enge in equal measure, her eyes finding the plain yet bold business card sitting in wait beside her

impossible bottle of wine. “Finnegan.”

Kim Baldwin, a 2008 recipient of the Alice B. Readers’ Appreciation Award, has published eight novels with Bold Strokes Books, including the

new romantic adventure Breaking the Ice, set in Alaska. Four of her books have been award finalists. She has also contributed short stories to six

BSB anthologies, including four in the Erotic Interludes series. Her next release is Missing Lynx, the third book in the Elite Operatives series co-

authored with Xenia Alexiou, in 2010. A former network news executive, she lives in a cabin in the north woods of Michigan.

Meeting My Match

Kim Baldwin

I’d always had a knack for matchmaking. Put me in a room ful of women and let me spend a few minutes with each, and I’d be pretty damn

good at selecting which pairs would be good fits. But I was completely clueless, of course, about how to find my own special someone.

My friends realized my talents early on, and word began to spread. Before long, I began getting so many requests for help from lonely women

that I started an online dating service in my spare time. Nothing big enough to compete with the major contenders out there—it was only a sideline

and I got al my clients from referrals—but my success rate was phenomenal.

I had the standard questionnaire like the big boys, detailing likes and dislikes, personality quirks, goals and aspirations. And those queries

certainly helped in red-flagging potential disasters in terms of who-fit-best-with-whom. No control freaks with disorganized, laid-back types. No die-

hard romantics with jaded playgirls. But once you’d gotten the basics covered, I’d found that the real key in narrowing the choices for my particular

clientele lay in finding compatibility in the one area that most dating Web sites don’t adequately address. And that’s in the answers to questions

#205—Describe in detail your sexual likes and dislikes, and #206—Describe in detail your ultimate sexual encounter with a stranger.

My motives for this undertaking weren’t entirely unselfish, you understand. While I took great joy in bringing two people together, I have to admit

I wasn’t averse to fulfil ing my own appetite for passion when the opportunity arose. If a cute femme answered #206 with a fantasy that set my blood

boiling, I’d find a way to make that dream come true. Personal y. Of course, she never knew it was her matchmaker she was hooking up with in a

dark bar or upscale hotel suite, and once the deed was done, I’d dutiful y find her a prospect with long-term potential. I viewed it as a slight detour in

their road to true romance. Cal it my “finder’s fee,” if you wil , because I never charged for my services. And I always delivered.

I’d never found anyone who shared my own ultimate encounter, but then again, I never real y expected to. It was a little out there, I admit, and

most women won’t confess to fantasizing about taking—and being taken—quite that way. But two weeks ago, I got an application from a blond

bombshel named Stacey, and her answers could have been my own. Just reading her detailed description to #206 worked me up. And as an

added bonus, she seemed in al other ways just the type of woman I was drawn to. Sweet, smart, and funny. We had a lot of the same interests, and

her honesty and openness were refreshing. I couldn’t wait to meet her.

Her profile told me she worked a day job as a personal trainer, so I swung by her gym the next day to get a surreptitious 3D look at her and

wasn’t disappointed. She was just my height, tanned and toned, with breasts to die for and a sexy smile ful of mischief. When she bent over to spot

a client on the weight bench, I was in the perfect position to get a long, lingering look at her high, round ass, and it was such a fucking turn-on that

my insides were already twisting in anticipation.

But it was several hours later before I was able to do anything about it. I waited patiently for the light in her bedroom to go out, then remained in

my car for another hour to make sure she was wel asleep. Lucky for me, she was serious enough about her fantasy that the details of her answer to

#206 proved to be accurate. There was no security system in her home, and the window to her bedroom was unlatched.

I slipped in and waited a moment for my eyes to adjust. The figure beneath the light sheet in the big bed was stil , and her slow, steady

exhalations assured me she was asleep. She stirred slightly when I gently eased her hands near the solid brass rails of the headboard, but she

didn’t awaken even when I fastened the padded cuffs to her wrists and locked her to it.

As I leaned over her and put my mouth beside her ear, I was enveloped by her fragrance. Her hair smel ed of vanil a and honey, and her body

had a musky essence that was entirely her own. Before I spoke, I put my hand close to her mouth. Even though I knew she wanted this, I was aware

that I would startle her, and a nosy neighbor cal ing 911 could put a definite crimp in my plans.

I gently stroked her cheek with the back of my hand to wake her. She murmured something unintel igible, rousing slowly from a deep sleep, and

there was just enough ambient light from a night-light in the corner that I could see when her eyes popped open. The moment they did, before her

flight response could kick in, I whispered, “Paradise.” It was her safe word; she’d even included that in her questionnaire, as though she knew

somehow that she was scripting her future.

I could tel the word registered, because she slumped back against the pil ow and didn’t fight the restraints. Even in the dim light I could see that

her eyes weren’t frightened, only curious.

“Shh, don’t make a sound,” I said, playing the role exactly as she described. I lit a single candle so that she could see me. Her fantasy stranger

wore a ski mask, but after much inner debate I decided to forgo that little detail. Women seem to like my dark eyes, angular features, and crooked

smile, and I didn’t want to be a total stranger to her. Maybe that was part of my fantasy.

Slowly, I reached down and lightly stroked the cock that strained to be freed from my skintight jeans. Her eyes widened, and she couldn’t

suppress a pleased smile. The way she was looking at me sent a sharp jolt of arousal to the pit of my stomach, making me almost dizzy with

anticipation.

“Are you…” She hesitated, and I knew she wanted to hold fast to her fantasy. She didn’t real y want confirmation that I wasn’t the intruder I

pretended to be. So I played along, feigning ignorance.

“Am I what?” I asked gruffly as I continued to stroke the cock. “Am I going to fuck you blind? Make you come so hard you can’t move?”

I could see the reaction my words were having in the rapid rise and fal of her chest as her breathing quickened. My recitation was scripted, so

she knew now with complete certainty that I was her fantasy come to life. Her words, but I felt as though she was somehow my own dream girl,

conjured entirely from my imagination. Too perfect to be real.

“I won’t fight you,” she said shakily, and I detected an almost involuntary lift of her hips against the sheet. “Don’t hurt me, and I’l do whatever you

want.”

I grinned my crooked smile at her and released the button at the top of my fly. Her eyes fixed on the cock, measuring its length and girth, and

she licked her lips. There was a clink of metal as she tested the cuffs.

“I promise I’l be good if you let me loose,” she whispered as I drew down my zipper with exquisite slowness. “These are hurting my wrists.” I

knew that couldn’t be true, but it was part of her scene, and so I played my part.

“No. You’l be good because I say you wil .” I freed the cock for her appreciative eyes. Her expression was smoldering now, and when I stripped

the sheet from her body, I caught the first scent of her arousal as her hips once again jerked upward.

She wore the sheerest of tank tops and string bikini briefs. From the pocket of my jeans I withdrew a sharp jackknife and careful y cut the

garments free, exposing rigid nipples and a honey-blond patch of hair already glistening with moisture. No further words were spoken, but her

breathing was loud and labored, and so was mine, in perfect synchronicity.

For what seemed like hours, I built her arousal to a fevered pitch, lavishing her body with slow sweeps of my tongue and teasing her with the

cock between her legs but never entering her. She writhed beneath me, and her loud moans were punctuated by the clinking sound of her strains

against the handcuffs.

“Please!” she begged, “I can’t stand any more. Please! Let me loose!”

I was so fevered by this time I would have given in long ago were the positions reversed. She must have held this fantasy for a very long time,

just like I had, and wanted it to last. With shaking hands, I withdrew the key from my pocket and released the cuffs, careful to leave the restraints

open and exposed on the pil ows. My voice was trembling too when I dutiful y warned her not to try to escape.

“I don’t want to, anymore,” she promised, rubbing her wrists, and the words didn’t sound as though she’d rehearsed them a hundred times in

her head. “I just want to touch you, too.”

I was straddling her, stil ful y clothed but for the exposed cock, and I could see a brief uncertainty in her eyes as she struggled with her choice. It

didn’t take long. Despite the temptation, she stuck close to her original script, easing slowly out from under me, eyes fixed on the cock.

“I’m not ready yet,” she said, clearly a lie from the visible pool of sweet-smel ing wetness at the juncture of her thighs. “Can I touch you?”

I nodded my assent with the proper wariness, and remained on my knees on the bed as she reached out to stroke the cock. Her eyes closed,

and an almost animalistic grunt escaped the back of her throat as she worked it. The push-pul action did wonderful things to my groin, and I had to

bite my lip to keep from coming.

She slipped her free hand beneath my black sweatshirt, and I heard her gasp when she found my bare breasts. I couldn’t contain a moan of my

own when she pul ed and twisted first one nipple, then the other.

After pul ing off the sweatshirt, she trailed her mouth over my throat and down to my breasts. She built me up so high I almost didn’t notice her

making her way around my body until she was snuggling up against me from behind, one hand stil working the cock while the other raked nails over

my flesh. She leaned against me, pushing me forward as she lazily guided my hands to grip the bedposts. It was al part of her pleasing me, and I

tried not to stiffen though I knew what came next.

In a flash, I realized she must have practiced this part, because she had the cuffs fixed on me before I could blink. As soon as the restraints

clamped shut, a surge of excitement shot through me and I soaked the crotch of my jeans.

“You’re my prisoner now,” she cooed into my ear as she pushed me down onto the bed and deftly removed my jeans. The harness fol owed. I

craned my head around to watch her put it on. There’s absolutely nothing sexier than a femme with a strap-on and I almost lost it right there.

When she was ready, her eyes met mine. And then, for a few seconds, she went entirely off script, leaning over to stroke my face with gentle

hands, and whisper, “Thank you.”

Our loud pants of anticipation seemed to echo off the wal s. She reverted back to the fantasy and pul ed me up to my knees, bent me over, and

took me hard, thrusting into me so deep I had to grit my teeth to keep from yel ing. I was so open and ready I couldn’t hold back, and I came with a

shout. Her nails dug half-moons into my ass as I heard her echoing cry of release.

Neither her fantasy nor mine included breakfast. Or being virtual y inseparable in the days to fol ow. I never expected that Client 451 would so

quickly capture my heart as easily as she fulfil ed my fantasies. But when I gave Stacey that key, I gave her control of more than my body. Lucky for

me, her secret fantasy was my dream come true. And I’m wise enough to know when I’ve met my match.

Lea Santos a.k.a. Lynda Sandoval has authored twenty-four award-winning books. Her first teen novel was an ALA Quick Pick for Reluctant Young

Adult Readers, a NY Public Library’s “Books for the Teen Age” honoree, National Readers’ Choice Award winner, and was nominated for the

prestigious Colorado Book Award. Her works have garnered more than forty awards and list placements and have sold foreign rights in thirteen

countries. She’s been featured in People en Español, Writer’s Digest, The Denver Post Book Review, , and more.

Lea’s a former cop and current 911 medical/fire dispatcher. In her spare time (ha!), Lea volunteers at Rainbow Al ey, a LGBTQ teen drop-in center.

The Lies That Bind

Lea Santos

Esme Jaramil o wiped her damp palms down the side seams of her slacks and wondered, briefly, if the taupe pantsuit her friends had insisted

she wear had been the proper choice for her first—and probably only—television appearance. They’d fussed through a mountain of clothes in her

hotel room that morning while she sat in the corner and reviewed her notes, amused by their fashion-plate antics. She supposed the tailored silk

ensemble they’d settled on exuded a conservative enough image to offset her controversial topic: human cloning.

Now, if only she could be cloned from Jessica Biel for this talk show appearance, life would be just peachy. A smirk lifted one corner of her

mouth as she glanced around the cramped makeup studio located backstage of the set of The Barry Stillman Show.

Four beige wal s adorned with framed photos of previous guests surrounded the beauty parlor chair she occupied. A filing cabinet claimed one

corner, with a CD player perched atop it. Rol ing metal racks behind her held a mishmash of garments, perhaps for guests who had fashion

emergencies before they were due onstage. Along with the rescue clothes hung a few smocks smeared with makeup streaks. Before her stood a

long countertop stacked with more pots and jars and bottles of cosmetics than she’d ever seen, and above the counter was a huge mirror that

framed the reflection of her un-made-up face.

The hot bulbs circling the mirror glared off the lenses of her supposedly hip wire-framed eyeglasses and melted the creamy cosmetics piled

before her. If the makeup lights were hot, Esme could only imagine what it would feel like beneath the strong stage lights in front of Al Those

People. She shuddered, suddenly nervous. At least her parents and her best friends, Lil y and Pilar, would be out there for moral support. She

reminded herself to look for their smiling faces in the audience the minute she got out onstage.

Speaking of faces—Esme pushed her glasses atop her head and leaned forward to squint at her own mug. Ugh.

Bland. Boring. That’s how she looked.

It was always how she looked. And her hair—she twisted her head from side to side and arranged the short wisps with her fingers. The close-

cropped style had looked great on Hal e Berry. Not quite the same effect on Esme. She sat back in the chair until her reflection was nothing but a

myopic blur and sighed. Oh wel . No one expected female scientists to be attractive anyway. Stil , she was grateful a professional would be applying

her makeup for the show. A woman could be vain once in her life, couldn’t she?

She glanced at her watch and wondered where the makeup person was. The producer had stuck her head in the room earlier and told Esme

she’d go on in fifteen minutes. That didn’t leave them much time.

As if on cue, the door opened, and in walked— Esme plunked her glasses back on the bridge of her nose and turned. Her breath caught. Lord,

this woman was sex personified. Broad-shouldered and bronze-skinned, the woman wore faded, form-fitting Levi’s, low-heeled black boots, and a

tight black T-shirt emblazoned with The Barry Stil man Show in red lettering. And if her mama only knew what images the woman’s shiny black

ponytail brought to her mind, there’d be a chorus of Hail Marys uttered in her soul’s defense within minutes.

“Dr. Jaramil o?”

“Yes?” Her hand fluttered to her throat.

“I’m Gia Mendez, your makeup artist,” said the woman, her husky voice smooth as crème de menthe. “You’re the bril iant scientist I’ve been

hearing so much about, yes?” She flashed her a movie star smile and extended a long-fingered hand toward her for a handshake.

Esme nodded slowly, ignoring the heated flush she felt creeping up her neck at Gia’s compliment. Disconcerted, she glanced from her face to

her hand, then back at her face before she did her part to complete the handshake.

“Dios mío,” she whispered more than spoke as the makeup artist’s warm palm slid against hers. If women like Gia Mendez were

commonplace in Chicago, she’d clone the whole darn city and become the hero of the lesbian population. The thought curved her mouth into a

smile.

Gia released her hand and asked, “Nervous?” She turned her back to switch the CD player on, fil ing the room with hot Celia Cruz tunes, then

began assembling brushes and pencils and pots of color, her focus on the tools of her trade.

“A-a little,” Esme admitted, content just to watch Gia move about the close quarters they shared. Her movements were skil ed and confident, on

the androgynous side, but graceful and definitely al woman. This was probably Esme’s one chance in life to have a woman like Gia Mendez lay

hands on her, and she was nothing if not thril ed by the prospect.

“It always seems to hit people once I come in to do their makeup.” Gia winked.

Esme’s heart plunged before snapping back up to lodge in her throat. That wink should be classified as a lethal weapon.

“You have my sympathy,” Gia continued, seemingly oblivious to her admiration. “I much prefer remaining behind the scenes.”

Esme pul ed herself out of the lust-induced stupor and cleared her throat. “I’ve, ah, never been on television before.” Esme chastised herself.

She probably knows that, silly. This focused sexy female attention was rattling her composure. She wasn’t used to it. “It’s not too often a scientist

has such an opportunity. I’m real y very flattered.” She nudged her glasses up with the knuckle of her pointer finger. “My parents and friends are in

the audience.” She cast her gaze down briefly, not wanting to appear too prideful.

Gia peered at her, her expression darkening for an instant before she turned away. Esme wondered if she’d said something wrong, but the

moment quickly passed.

“Tel me about your research, Esme—may I cal you that?”

“Of course.”

Gia faced her, crossed toned arms over her chest, then leaned back against the counter, a position that accentuated the sculpted muscles in

her upper body. The bright lights shadowed the curves of her jawline and glinted off the single diamond stud in Gia’s earlobe. Esme forced her

mind from its slack-jawed awe of this woman and back onto her question.

“Research? Research. Yes. Human cloning, that’s what I research.” She laughed lightly, shaking her head. “And, wel , it’s a touchy subject.”

“How so?”

“Lots of moral and religious implications. My grandmother prays daily for my soul. She thinks my col eagues and I are trying to play God. If I ever

actual y clone a human being, I’l probably be excommunicated from the church.” Esme ran her fingers through her pixie-short locks and shrugged

one shoulder.

Gia chuckled, holding several different colored lipsticks next to her cheek. “Sounds like my grandmother. Let me guess. Catholic?”

“But of course,” Esme told her, tone wry. “So, I continue to do the research, but I feel guilty about it.”

Gia leaned her head back and laughed, giving Esme an excel ent view of her long dancer’s neck, her straight white teeth. Talk, Esme. Stay on

track.

“We’re not necessarily trying to create people, though,” she blurted, averting her gaze from the seductive hol ow at Gia’s throat. “There are a lot

of other medical y plausible reasons to clone human beings, but it’s stil a little too sci-fi for most people to swal ow.” She wondered when Gia would

get to the part where those long fingers touched her face. She was prepped and ready to file away that particular sensory memory for frequent

replays.

“Wel , I’m sure there are medical reasons. But it is kind of a scary thought, having little duplicates of yourself running around,” Gia conceded.

She inclined her head. “Forgive my ignorance if that’s a misconception. I don’t know much about cloning.”

“Don’t apologize. There’s no doubt Hol ywood has put a skewed impression out there. It’l be hard for the stodgy science community to

overcome.”

Gia made a rumbly agreement sound deep in her throat, then said, “Take your glasses off for me, Esme.”

Anything else? she wanted to ask. Her cheeks heated. She didn’t usual y have such wanton thoughts in the midst of a normal conversation.

Then again, she’d never had a conversation with Gia Mendez before.

Esme watched, mesmerized, as Gia picked up a large makeup brush and dipped it into one of the containers. Poofs of face powder launched

into the air around the brush, tiny particles dancing in the light. Gia raised perfectly peaked eyebrows at her, reminding Esme of her request.

Request? Glasses. Oh, yeah.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. She removed her frames and folded them in her lap, then closed her eyes while Gia tickled her face with the powder

brush. The sweet fragrance reminded her fondly of playing dress-up as a child, back when she stil had hope she’d grow up beautiful. She wanted to

smile but didn’t, fearing she’d get powder-caked teeth.

When Gia finished, Esme put her glasses back on and waved her hands to fend off the cloud that stil hung in the air. “I just hope the audience is

open-minded about the topic and not hostile with me.”

Gia stil ed. “I…uh, yeah.”

A thick pause ensued, prompting a seedling of discomfort to sprout in Esme’s middle. Was she missing something here?

“Wel , you’l knock ’em dead, I’m sure.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Gia made careful work of capping the powder container and lining up the compacts before looking back at her. “Can I ask you something,

Esme?”

“Sure.”

“Do you ever…watch The Barry Stillman Show?”

“Oh, you would ask me that.” She twisted her mouth to the side apologetical y. “I’m ashamed to say that I’ve never seen it. I just don’t have much

time for television.”

Gia pressed her ful lips into a thin line and nodded.

“Why?” Esme asked.

“I’m… No reason. Just wondering.”

It sure sounded like there was a reason behind the “no reason,” but Esme didn’t want to push the woman. Maybe she was just having a bad

day. A fight with her undoubtedly gorgeous girlfriend at the breakfast table, perhaps. An ugly pang struck Esme at the thought, and her gaze fel to

Gia’s hands. No rings of any kind. No ring marks. She sighed with relief. As if it mattered. Get a life, Esme.

“I must say, I’m impressed, though,” she told Gia. “I didn’t know any of the talk shows stil dealt with legitimate topics these days.”

Gia didn’t comment, so Esme went on. “If it’s not people beating each other up or fake transvestites in love triangles, it never seems to make it

to daytime TV. At least, that’s what I thought until I was asked on the show.” Esme glanced at her reflection, which jolted her back to the matter at

hand. She pressed her fingers to her cheeks and pul ed down slightly. “Aren’t you going to do something with my face? I look awful.”

Gia moved in between her and the mirror and spread her legs until she’d lowered herself to Esme’s eye level. Esme folded her hands in her lap

as her heart thunk-thunked in her chest at the proximity. Wasn’t breathing supposed to be automatic? she wondered, as she reminded herself to

pul in air.

Gia reached for her face slowly. Long, warm fingers danced along her cheekbones, her temples, then she smoothed the pad of her thumb over

her chin. “No, Dr. Jaramil o, you don’t look awful. You look anything but awful.” Her voice was a gentle caress. “You look beautiful just as you are.”

Her heart triple-timed. “Wel …thank you, but—”

“Remember that.” Gia touched the end of her nose, the gesture infinitely intimate. “Okay?”

Esme frowned, a little confused by Gia’s words and spel bound by her touch. “I—sure. But I don’t get it. Does that mean you aren’t going to

make up my face?”

The look Gia gave her seemed almost apologetic, Esme decided. “Right. I’m not going to make up your face. But it’s okay. You don’t need war

paint.”

So much for her moment of vanity. Disappointment drizzled over Esme before she shrugged it off and decided Gia was tying to tactful y tel her

it wouldn’t make much difference. Splashing color on her features would have probably just drawn attention to their plainness. Eh, wel , it didn’t

matter, and she wasn’t going to pout about it. At least Gia had touched her face. She inhaled the heady mingled scents of makeup and heated

feminine skin, and decided a change of subject was in order. “How long have you done this kind of work, Gia?” Was that relief she saw on the other

woman’s beautiful face? Why?

“Three long years I’ve worked on this show.” Gia leaned against the counter again, hands spread wide and braced on the edge, and crossed

one foot over the other.

“You make it sound like a jail sentence.”

Gia tilted her head to the side in a gesture of indifference. “It pays the bil s, but my first love…” Doubt crossed her impeccable features. “You

want to hear al this?”

“Of course,” Esme assured her. “Your first love?”

“Is painting,” she finished.

Esme watched in wonder as the smile lit up Gia’s face. Her gaze grew distant, dreamy. She hadn’t thought Gia could get much better looking.

Boy, had she underestimated the woman. “War paint?” she teased, glancing back at her bare face in the mirror.

Gia chuckled. “No, not face painting. Oil painting. Art.”

“An artist. Hmm. I’m not surprised.” The woman had the hands of an artist, hands that made her wish she were a fresh, new canvas ripe for

Gia’s attention. She could almost feel the brushstrokes…

She swal owed. “It’s wonderful, Gia. What do you paint?”

“Later.” Esme watched a muscle tic in Gia’s jaw for several moments as her dark eyes grew more serious. With a quick glance at the door and

back, Gia squatted before her and sandwiched one of Esme’s hands between her own. “Esme, listen to me. About the show—”

Before Gia could finish, the harried producer knocked sharply, then opened the door a crack and poked her head in. Tendrils had sprung free

of her lopsided French twist into which she’d stuck two pencils and apparently forgotten them. “Dr. Jaramil o, time to go on.”

Gia stood and moved away from her, sticking her hands into her back pockets. Regret socked Esme in the stomach, and she pinned the other

woman with her gaze. What had she been about to say? Absurd as it was, she didn’t want to leave this room, this woman. Gia was so comfortable

to talk to, and so easy on the eyes. Women like Gia didn’t usual y give Esme a second glance. Or a first, for that matter. “I—”

“Now, Dr. Jaramil o. Please,” the producer urged.

“Go on, Esme,” Gia told her, treating her to another devastating wink.

“What were you going to tel me?”

“Nothing. Just, break a leg,” she said, her voice husky. “That means good luck.” She flashed her a thumbs-up. “I’l see you again in a few

minutes.”

She looked at Gia curiously as she got out of the chair and smoothed down the front of her suit. A few minutes? Hope spiked inside her. “You

wil ?”

“I mean, I’l watch you on the monitors.”

“Oh.” Long awkward pause. “Wel . Thank you,” she told Gia, fluffing her own hair with trembling fingers and stuffing back the wave of

disappointment. What did she expect from the woman, a pledge of undying love? With one last smile for Gia and a deep breath for courage, Esme

turned and trailed the producer from the room.

*

“Damnit!” Gia exclaimed as soon as the slim, soft-spoken professor was out of the makeup studio. She slumped into the chair and held her

forehead in her hands as guilt assailed her gut. When the door squeaked open, she looked up to find the stage manager, Arlon, peering in at her.

Arlon raised a brow. “What’s up?”

“That poor woman has no idea what she’s in for,” Gia muttered. “She honestly thinks she’s going to talk about human cloning.”

“Ah, you soft touch.” Arlon snorted, leaning against the doorjamb with his clipboard cradled in his beefy arms. The remote radio headset

nestled on his bald head looked like it had grown there, it was so much a part of the man. “Anyone who agrees to come onto The Barry Stillman

Show deserves what she gets. You’d have to live in a cave to think this show bore any resemblance to legitimacy.”

“She’s never seen it, Arlon.” Gia lunged to her feet and stalked across the smal room. She punched the stop button on the CD player, then

braced her palms against the wal and hung her head. Esme Jaramil o had infiltrated her domain al of what—ten minutes? And already the music

reminded her of Esme. Gia could stil smel her lavender scent in the air.

God, she felt like a heel.

That sweet woman with the heart-shaped face and trusting eyes didn’t deserve this. Gia’d expected a renowned young scientist to be arrogant

and aloof. Haughty at the very least. Instead, Esme Jaramil o had turned out to be one of the most down-to-earth, reachable women she’d met in a

long time. From her inquisitive brown eyes hidden behind those endearing spectacles, to her joking manner and wide smile, Esme was nothing if

not genuine.

Arlon’s skeptical voice cut into Gia’s thoughts. “Sure she’s seen it. Everyone’s seen The Barry Stillman Show.”

“Not everyone spends their days propped in front of the boob tube, Arlon. She’s a scientist. She has a life.”

The stage manager whistled low. “She’s got you al worked up, Mendez. Must’ve been some looker. No, wait”—the man turned his attention to

the clipboard he held—“she couldn’t be a looker if she’s on this particular show. My mistake.”

“She looked great.” Gia growled, whirling toward her col eague. With effort, she stopped and ran her palms down her face, wil ing herself to

relax. “Doesn’t it ever get to you, Arlon?” Gia blew out a breath. “Lying to these people just to get them on the show?”

Arlon shrugged. “It’s just a job, G. Television. Mindless entertainment. Besides, you were just the makeup woman. She can’t blame you.”

“But she wil . She’l think we al lied to her, and we did. To her”—Gia pointed in the general direction of the stage—“this wil be a public

shaming.” She clenched her jaw, fighting back those familiar bul y feelings from her past. If anyone in this world did not deserve to be bul ied, it was

Dr. Esme Jaramil o. “We’re sending an innocent lamb to the slaughter. How can we live with ourselves?”

“Don’t be so melodramatic. So she gets embarrassed on television. Big deal. She’l get over it.”

Gia burned him a glare. So jaded. So cavalier.

“Besides, there’s nothing we can do about it now,” Arlon added, pressing the earphone tighter to his ear. “Looks like the good professor just

went on.”

*

The whoops and hol ers from the audience surprised Esme as she walked onstage and took a seat in one of the two chairs centered on the

carpeted platform. She’d expected a more demure group for a show about cloning, but at least they seemed welcoming. Behind her, an elaborate

set gave the appearance of a comfortable living room. Lights mounted on scaffolding glared in her eyes, but she could vaguely make out the faces

in the tiered crowd seated in a semicircle before her.

After settling into her chair, she gazed around the audience searching for her family and friends. There they were, front and center. Mama,

Papa, Lil y, and Pilar, al in a row.

She smiled at them, but they looked odd.

Pilar’s hands were clasped at her ample bosom, her eyes wide and serious. And Lil y? Esme could swear she looked flaming mad. Come to

think of it, her father looked a little angry himself. Was Mama crying?

Perplexed, Esme squinted out at them. Yes, Mama was definitely crying. She hoped nothing bad had happened since the last time she spoke

to them and fought the urge to traverse the stage and go to them. Her adrenaline level kicked up a notch. Before she could worry further, the

raucous died down and Barry Stil man smiled at her from the aisle where he stood.

“Dr. Jaramil o, welcome to the show.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, pushing up her glasses with her knuckle. Laughter rippled through the audience, which confused her.

“Tel us a little about your research, Doctor.”

She crossed one leg over the other and leaned forward. Her confidence always jumped when she could discuss her studies. She favored her

host with an enthusiastic smile. “Wel , I’m a professor of genetic engineering at a private col ege in Colorado. We’re leading the country’s research

into cloning. Particularly human cloning, though the procedure is stil not approved in the United States.”

“Sounds like a job that could keep a woman pretty busy.”

Apprehension began to claw its way up her spine. She glanced at the empty chair next to her and wondered who should be sitting there. They

hadn’t told her she would be part of a panel. And what was with Barry’s inane questions? She licked her dry lips, wishing for water. “Yes, it’s

exhausting work.”

“Probably doesn’t leave you too much time for pampering, Dr. Jaramil o, does it?” More laughter from the crowd.

Suddenly defensive, Esme sat back in her chair and crossed her arms to match her entwined legs. Her skin flamed, and a rivulet of

perspiration rol ed down her stiff spine. “I thought we were going to discuss human cloning.” This time the audience remained silent, but the pause

seemed packed with gunpowder and about to explode.

“Wel , Dr. Jaramil o, we aren’t going to discuss human cloning. We actual y have a surprise for you.”

Esme blinked several times, trying to grasp what was happening to her. She glanced off into the wings and saw Gia standing there, her dark

eyes urgent and pained. Their gazes met momentarily before Gia hung her head and turned away.

What in the hel was going on?

“A surprise?” Esme final y croaked out. “I don’t understand.”

“Maybe we can help you understand. Listen to this audio tape, Doctor, for a clue about who brought you on today’s show.”

Everyone fel silent, and soon a deep, accented, patronizing voice boomed through the studio. “Esme, I know you want me. But I’m here to tel

you, before we have a chance, your bookworm looks have got to go. I’m doing this for your own good.”

Realization filtered through Esme’s disbelief like acid burning through her flesh. The phone sex voice belonged to none other than Vitoria

Elizalde, her barracuda Brazilian coworker who refused to take no for an answer. Esme covered her mouth with her hand as the words slithered

through her brain. I’ve been duped!

Esme had gone for coffee with Vitoria twice in the past months as a gesture of friendship. The woman was a visiting researcher from a

different country, and though Esme found the woman arrogant and conceited, even predatory, she?d tried to make her feel welcome on the team.

Of course Vitoria would assume a few cups of coffee meant Esme wanted more. Typical.

As the audience roared their approval, the host asked her, “Recognize that voice, Doctor?”

She couldn’t even nod, let alone speak. Bookworm looks? Mortification spiked Esme to her seat as her heart sank. Hot tears stung her eyes,

and as her chin started to quiver, the audience burst into applause, chanting, “Bar-ry! Bar-ry! Bar-ry! Bar-ry!”

She glanced out at her supporters, who looked as horrified as she felt. Lil y mouthed the words, “I’m so sorry.”

Stil man’s obnoxious voice cut in with, “Audience, what’s your vote?” after which a hundred or more black placards were thrust into the air. she’s

a bookworm, most of them read in neon yel ow lettering. Belatedly, Papa lifted his sign to its neon yel ow flipside with shaky, liver-spotted hands.

she’s a beauty, spel ed the stark black lettering. Esme was so ashamed for putting her parents into this position. If only she’d known it was al a trick

—

“Audience? What do you have to say to Dr. Jaramil o?”

A hundred col ective voices yel ed at her, “Don’t worry, Bookworm. We’re going to make you over!”

Esme saw stars and gripped the chair arms so she wouldn’t faint. This was a nightmare. No wonder Gia didn’t make up her face. She wasn’t

beautiful, like the woman had claimed. Rather, Gia wanted her to look her very worst when she walked onto this stage. Esme choked back a sob.

For some reason, Gia’s deception cut to her core. The beautiful makeup artist had seemed so sincere. Fooled you, Esme.

“Welcome Professor Vitoria Elizalde to the show!” Barry hol ered. From out of the wings opposite where she’d seen Gia sauntered smug,

pantherlike Vitoria, her black hair perfectly coiffed. She raised her arms to the audience like a reigning queen as they clapped and cheered for her.

She even took a bow.

How could she do this?

How could she bring Esme on national television, in front of God and her parents, friends? Everyone. Her staff, their col eagues. What the hel

was wrong with this psycho bitch?

Before Esme could stop them, hot tears burst forth behind her glassesand blurred her vision. As Vitoria took the empty chair next to her, Esme

lunged unsteadily to her feet and backed away, smearing at the tears rol ing down her makeup-free face. She laid her palms on her flat, trembling

abdomen.

“How could you?” she rasped, before wheeling on her stupid sensible heels and running from the stage trailed by the audience’s loud booing.

Offstage, the producer with pencils in her hair caught Esme by her upper arms and held her back. “Come now, Esme. They’re going to give you

a makeover. It won’t be so bad.”

Her tears had escalated to sobs, which had prompted hiccups. Were these people for real? “Leave me”—hiccup—“alone, I’m not going back

out”—hiccup—“there.”

She tried to push past the woman when another man arrived to assist. The producer glanced at the man for help. “Arlon?”

“Don’t, uh, cry now, miss,” the man said, his stilted words proving him il at ease with the role of comforter. He patted her upper arm and cleared

his throat. “It’s not so bad. We’l just get you some ice for your puffy eyes and—”

“Let. Her. Go,” Gia’s dead-serious voice said from behind Esme. Both the producer and the man cal ed Arlon diverted their attention to Gia,

and Esme took advantage of the moment to push between them and run through the cables and scaffolding to the hal way that would lead her out.

Behind her, she heard the producer say, “Stay out of this, Mendez.”

Esme wept freely, never so embarrassed in al her life.

She’d worked so hard to make her parents proud. They’d brought her to this country from Mexico when she was a toddler, hoping to provide

her with better opportunities. They’d given up everything familiar—their family, friends, the language they both spoke so eloquently, the country they

loved—for her. Her entire life was geared to show them she was grateful, that she’d made the most of her opportunities to become a success, a

daughter they could be proud of. Now this.

Sure, she was a wel -educated woman, a leader in her field, but she couldn’t help thinking Mama and Papa had seen her in another light today.

As a homely thirty-year-old woman who didn’t even merit a date with an overblown, arrogant woman she’d never be the least bit interested in.

She shoved against the bar spanning the metal door and pushed her way into the exit hal way and wondered how she’d ever live this down,

how she’d ever make it up to the parents who so valued their dignity.

“Esme! Wait!”

Gia. Esme tried to keep running, to get away before she ever had to see the woman’s face again, but Gia caught her and snaked a hand

around her forearm.

“Let me go,” she said, staring at the ground as she tried to pul free. Part of her wished Gia would just hold her and tel her everything would be

okay. The stupid part of her.

“Esme, please. I’m so sorry. Listen, let me ex—”

“Sorry?” Fury mixed with her humiliation as she hiccupped again. “Leave me alone, Gia, okay?”

Gia had pretended to be nice to her, when al the while she’d been part of the lie. She lifted her chin, pushed up her glasses, and glared at the

other woman, trying her best to mask the hurt with a look of indignation. She wrenched her arm from Gia’s grasp and rubbed the spot she’d held

with her other hand. Her chest heaved as she stared up at the woman who’d been a major part of her humiliation.

“Just, let me go. After al this, can’t you”—hiccup—“at least do that?” She turned and stumbled down the long, stark corridor slowly. Her limbs

felt leaden, like al the energy had been leached out of her. She just wanted to go home and put sweats on and curl up with a glass of—

“I meant what I said, Esme,” Gia cal ed after her. “You are amazingly beautiful.”

Her heart clenched. Another lie.

Esme never even turned back.

*

Tel ing the Barry Stil man people to take their job and shove it hadn’t been difficult for Gia. But packing up her worldly goods and driving across

the country in search of a woman she’d met but once, a woman who haunted her dreams—and probably hated her guts—was the biggest risk

she’d ever taken.

No matter. It felt good. She’d been on the road for at least twelve hours, and as the evening skyline of Denver loomed into sight, Gia glanced

down at the directions she hoped would lead her to Esme. The doctor deserved an apology, and for once, Gia would have a chance to make things

right with a person she’d hurt who hadn’t deserved it. Gia steered her black pickup onto Speer Boulevard South, and moved to the center lane. She

rol ed down her window and breathed in the cool, dry summertime air that was so different from the stifling humidity in Chicago where she’d grown

up. Then again, everything about growing up had been stifling for her.

It was almost as hard for Gia to remember herself as an angry young bul y as it was to remind herself she wasn’t one anymore. She’d

transformed, and she had her high school art teacher, Mr. Fuentes, to thank for her changed demeanor. Though rail thin and none too masculine,

Fuentes wouldn’t be bul ied. He’d never flinched when he faced the angry young Gia toe to toe, and yet he never made her feel worthless. On the

contrary, Fuentes made Gia believe in her painting, in her talent. He’d showed her how to channel her pent-up rage into art and made her

understand that true happiness came from inside a person, not outside. And even though Gia hadn’t gotten to the point where she could ful y

support herself with her painting, she’d had a couple of shows, made a few sales, and at age thirty-four, she stil believed in herself.

Fuentes had won Gia’s respect, and later her admiration. She’d thanked the man on more than one occasion over the years, but she’d never

gone back and told any of the people she’d hurt that she was sorry. Perhaps a turned-around life was penance enough, but the open-ended guilt of

her youth hung around her heart like a lead weight. She might not be able to assuage it with one apology, but at least it was a step in the right

direction. And any steps that carried her closer to Dr. Esme Jaramil o were ones she definitely wanted to take.

If she was honest with herself, it wasn’t just the chance for an apology that led her to the slight professor with the short, silky hair that just begged

a woman to run her fingers through it. Something far more instinctual pul ed her as wel . It had taken one fitful night of remembering her gentle

lavender scent, seeing images of her bright, dark eyes behind those glasses, hearing her wind-chime laughter, before Gia knew she had to see

Esme again. If she didn’t, Esme’s memory would be with her forever, like a war wound. Reminding her now and then, with a stab of pain, what could

possibly have been.

She glanced back down at the crinkled map in the passenger seat, brushing aside the wadded Snickers wrappers covering it. If her navigation

was correct, she should be knocking on Esme’s door in no time. And if fate was on her side, the doc would be wil ing to hear her out.

*

Three hel ish days had passed since the il -fated appearance on The Barry Stillman Show. Esme—bundled in voluminous sweatpants and

feeling like lukewarm death—slumped cross-legged on the floor of her living room across from her best buddies, Lil y Lujan and Pilar Valenzuela.

Between them, on the dark brown carpeting, sat serving dishes fil ed with various comfort foods: enchilada casserole, mashed potatoes, chicken

mole, and a Sara Lee cheesecake. Not to mention the pitcher of margaritas. Their forks hung limply from their hands as they took a col ective break

from gastronomical y comforting themselves.

Esme leaned back against her slipcovered sofa and laid her hands on her distended abdomen with a groan. If only Gia Mendez could see her

at this moment, she thought. How beautiful would the makeup artist claim she was now?

Esme’s eyes were stil tear-swol en, and she’d broken out in a rash on her neck from the stress. Her hair was smashed on one side, spiked out

on the other, since she’d spent most of the last two days lying listlessly on the couch channel-surfing to kil time between her crying jags. Now she

was bloated, and she just didn’t care. The entire universe already knew she was ugly. No sense trying to hide it.

Oddly enough, a memory other than being humiliated on television kept popping into her mind, squeezing her heart. She’d been just a little girl,

one who loved playing dress-up and watching Miss Universe on TV. She would close her eyes during commercials and picture herself accepting

the crown for the USA in English, then thanking her parents in Spanish. At that point, she stil believed it could happen. At that point, she stil wanted

it to happen.

But one summer afternoon, her aunt Luz and her mother were sharing iced tea on the front porch, while Esme played with dol s in her room. Her

window was open, inviting a breeze that carried the voices of mama and Tía Luz.

“Look, Luz. Photographs of the children from the church picnic last week.”

The sounds of Tía thumbing through the prints came next, and Esme’s ears perked when she heard, “Ah, there’s little Esme.” A pause. “Such a

smart girl.”

“Gracias,” murmured her mother, and Esme could hear the smile on Mama’s face.

“Thank God for her brains. She certainly didn’t get the looks. With those skinny chicken knees and thick glasses, she may never find a husband,

but she’l always find a good job.”

Esme froze, a crampy feeling in her stomach like when she’d eaten too much raw cookie dough the week before. She set down her dol s and

curled up on her side on the floor, hoping her tummy would stop hurting. It made her want to cry. She tried to stop listening, but she couldn’t help

herself.

Her mama tsk-tsked. “Don’t be cruel, Luz. Not everyone can be beautiful, nor does everyone need a husband. She’l grow into her looks.”

“We can only hope she’s a late bloomer,” Tía Luz added.

But she hadn’t bloomed at al , no matter what Gia claimed about her looks three days earlier. If she had, she wouldn’t have ended up as a guest

on Barry Stil man’s horrific bookworm makeover show. Pushing the painful memory from her mind, Esme scratched at the red bumps below her ear

and hiccuped.

“You stil have those?” Pilar asked.

“I get them when I’m under”—hiccup—“stress.” She nudged up her glasses, then took to scratching the other side of her neck. “They’ve come

and gone since the”—hiccup—“fiasco. I’m probably just gulping”—hiccup—“down my food too fast.”

Pilar got up, stepped over the smorgasbord, then plopped herself onto the couch behind Esme. “I’m gonna plug your ears, and you drink your

margarita. It may not get rid of ’em, but after al that tequila, you won’t care.”

Esme let out a mirthless chuckle, then did as she was told. It worked. She smiled up at Pilar, who’d begun playing with Esme’s unruly hair, and

absentmindedly brought her fingernails to her neck again.

“Honey, don’t scratch your rash. You’l make it worse,” Lil y told her softly. “Did you use that cream I gave you?”

Esme nodded and rested her hands in her lap. If anyone knew what being judged for your looks felt like, it was Lil y. She and Esme understood

the concept from different perspectives, though. Lil y, a natural beauty with wavy, waist-length black hair and huge green eyes, had gone on to a

great modeling career after being named Prettiest Girl in high school. At thirty, she was one of America’s most recognizable Chicanas, having

graced the pages of Cosmo, Vanity Fair, Latina, Vanidades, and Vogue, to name a few. In looks, she and Esme were polar opposites, always

had been. But in their hearts, along with Pilar, they were soul triplets.

If only she’d looked like Lil y onstage. Maybe then Gia would have felt something for her other than pity. Lil y never lacked in attention from

gorgeous women. Esme closed her eyes against the wave of embarrassment she’d relived repeatedly since the filming in Chicago. On the

airplane, she felt like everyone was staring at her. Look! There’s the ugly professor!

She’d medicated herself with several tiny bottles of cheap, screw-cap wine during the flight, and had final y convinced herself she was being

overly paranoid. Stil , it had taken every ounce of her courage to walk through Denver International Airport with her head held up, even with Lil y and

Pilar flanking her for much-needed moral support. Of course people had seen her. The Barry Stillman Show had 30 mil ion viewers, she’d since

learned via a Google search. She just wasn’t sure who had seen her, and that’s what scared her most.

It had felt so good to final y walk into her comfortable home in Washington Park and deadbolt the door behind her. And after a half an hour of

quiet, she’d started to feel better, thinking maybe no one had seen the show. Then her phone had begun to ring. It seemed everyone she’d ever met

in her life had seen the goddamn show. Her answering machine had been clogged for two days with uncomfortable messages of sympathy and pity

—just what she needed. A local ful -service beauty salon had even sent a courier bearing a gift certificate, much to her utter dismay.

The phone rang again, and Esme glared at it. “I could die,” she whispered to her friends, chugging down another healthy dose of margarita.

She wiped salt from her lips and added, “Who could that be now? The president? I think he’s the only one who hasn’t sent condolences for the

untimely death of my dignity.”

Lil y clicked her tongue and cast a beseeching look at Esme while Pilar reached over and switched off the ringer. “When we realized what they

were doing, we tried our hardest to get backstage to warn you, Esme, I swear,” Lil y told her.

“They wouldn’t let us,” Pilar added, digging her fork into the cheesecake. “Rat bastards. Your mama laid into them with a barrage of Spanish

cuss words. Made my hair stand on end. I think they didn’t know quite what to do with her.” She popped the bite into her mouth and chewed, her

eyes fixed apologetical y on Esme’s face.

“I don’t blame you guys. It was my fault for walking into their trap.” She furrowed her fingers into her hair and laid her head back against the

couch. And what a trap they’d set, with a juicy enticer like Gia Mendez to lure women in. Or men, for that matter. She couldn’t imagine a soul on

earth who wouldn’t find Gia Mendez sexy. God, I’m so stupid.

“It’s unconscionable what they do to people, Esme. You should complain,” Lil y said, dishing up another serving of enchiladas.

She shook thoughts of Gia from her mind and graced her friend with a wan smile. “Eh, it wouldn’t do any good. Besides, I just want to forget it

ever happened.” To forget that I entertained even one thought that a sex goddess like Gia Mendez would look twice at a woman like me.

Miss Universe, she wasn’t.

“How much time off do you have before the new semester starts?” Pilar asked.

“A little over a month.” A little over four weeks until she had to face Vile Vitoria again. The thought of Elizalde made her want to fistfight. “God,

that arrogant woman,” she growled. “Who does she think she is, anyway?”

“That’s right,” Pilar said, wrapping her arms around Esme’s shoulders from behind for a hug. “As if you’d ever give her the time of day anyway.”

Esme didn’t think she’d go that far, but she only said, “I’ve got to think of some way to get back at the jackass.”

“Oh, revenge.” Lil y nodded her head. “That’s always a good, healthy way to recover from trauma.”

Recognizing the sarcasm, Esme rol ed her eyes. “In any case, I’m hoping by the time I go back it wil be old news to everyone and my own

embarrassment wil have waned. I want absolutely no reminders of that debacle.” Especial y none of a brown-eyed artist with fingers that made a

woman scream for edible body paints.

The doorbel chimed. Twice.

Esme looked from Lil y to Pilar and frowned. “Who could that be? TMZ?”

“Very funny. It’s probably your mama,” Lil y said, standing. “I’l get it.”

“No, wait.” Esme groaned to her feet. “Let me. It’l probably be the only exercise I get al week.” Padding across the brown carpet in a tequila-

induced zigzag, Esme made her way to the dark front hal leading to the door. Lord knew, she needed some fresh air.

July in Colorado heated right up, but the temperature dropped with the sun, bringing cool breezes in with the moon. Maybe she’d sit with Mama

on the porch instead of bringing her in. The darkness would hide some of the puffiness around her eyes, and staying outside would prevent Mama

from witnessing their little pity party on the living room carpet. The woman would be aghast that they were eating so much food from dishes set right

on the floor. Mama was nothing if not proper.

Esme stopped in the dark hal way, leaned against the wal , and pul ed in a long, deep breath. Just the thought of seeing her mama brought on

renewed feelings of shame. Oh, her parents had handled everything much better than she had. It didn’t matter—she stil felt guilty. She knew, deep

down, they had to be embarrassed that their daughter was known nationwide as an ugly wal flower. No matter how long it took, she was going to put

the incident to rest for al of them, just as soon as her anger at Vitoria Elizalde dissipated.

Esme flipped on the porch light before she threw the deadbolt back and pul ed on the heavy, carved wooden door. She started speaking as the

hinges squeaked.

“It’s late, Mama, you shouldn’t be ou—” Her words cut off as her mind grasped the realization that the lean, muscular woman looming larger

than life on her porch bore no resemblance whatsoever to her mother.

She wasn’t sure if her heart had stopped or was beating so fast she couldn’t feel it. Either way, she looked like hel and had a guacamole

smear on her sweatshirt, and here she stood face-to-face with—“Gia”—hiccup—“w-what are you doing here?” Amazingly calm question

considering her life had just passed before her eyes. Esme hoped she wouldn’t fal down, because she could no longer feel her feet. And,

physiological impossibility aside, she’d just proven that a person could exist without a heartbeat or the ability to draw air into the lungs. Gia

Mendez? Here?

“Esme. Forgive me for…just showing up.” She spread her arms wide and let them drop to her sides, as if searching for what to say next. Her

long, silky hair hung free of the ponytail Esme remembered, and the yel ow glow of the porch light made it shine like a sheet of black gold. Gia

looked just as good in dark jeans and a wel -worn University of Chicago sweatshirt as she had the day Esme had met her.

Looking at her, Esme fought the ridiculous urge to sit on the floor. Instead, she stood stock stil and bunched the avocado-stained front of her

sweatshirt into her fist. With her other hand, she poked her glasses up on her nose. “I…I thought I made it clear you should”—hiccup—“leave me

alone.”

To her dismay, Gia flashed a devastating, sweet smile that pul ed a dimple into her left cheek. Esme hadn’t noticed that the other day. “Don’t

tel me you’ve had those hiccups since you left Chicago.”

She shook her head and hiccuped again.

“Esme, we need to talk.” Gia took a step forward, and Esme eased the door partway closed, hiding half of her body behind it. Gia stopped,

stared at her.

Her gaze dropped to Esme’s neck as she swal owed. “No,” she said. “We don’t need to talk. I want to”—she held her breath for a moment and

staved off a hiccup—“forget everything about that day.” God, she wanted to be angry at Gia Mendez. She didn’t want to feel her heart beating in

anticipation at the mere sight of her, or worry that Gia had noticed her disheveled hair. She didn’t want to smel the woman’s pheromones on the

night air or yearn to feel Gia’s strong arms around her for comfort. “Denial is my drug of choice. I’m going to pretend it never happened.”

“It shouldn’t have happened, Esme.” Gia laid her palm high up on the door frame, leaning toward her. “I feel just—”

“Don’t.” Esme held out her hand. Attraction or not, Gia had been a part of the trick; Esme couldn’t forget that. “Don’t apologize now, after the

fact, because I real y, real y thought you were a nice woman, Gia Mendez. An apology wil only make me want to slug you, and I’ve had too much

trauma and too much”—hiccup—“tequila to resist the urge.”

“It’s a risk I’m wil ing to take,” Gia said, after pausing to chew on her ful , sexy lip.

Her pointed gaze, fil ed with inexplicable affection, flamed Esme’s cheeks. She expel ed a sigh and hung her head. How much could one

woman take? It had been a long time since Tía Luz had pointed out her flaws, and though her glasses weren’t as thick these days, her knees were

just as knobby. She couldn’t let a woman like Gia, a woman solidly out of her league, affect her. It would only bring her more pain. After a moment,

she looked up. “Look. You were only doing your job, okay? I understand.”

Gia opened her mouth to speak, but Esme waved her words away, reminding herself to be angry. Gia had tricked her. She’d shamed her.

She’d left her face bare, even knowing what kind of trap Esme was walking into. “It’s fine, Gia, please. Just…leave me to my life and go back to

yours. There are a lot of other ugly women whose faces you can ignore, too.”

“Esme?” cal ed Lil y from the front room. “You okay?”

“Fine,” she yel ed back, a little too sharply, her eyes never leaving Gia’s face.

“Slug me if you want, but I am sorry, Esme. More than you’l ever know. You probably don’t believe that.”

“Did you come here to convince me or yourself? Because you’ve already told me one lie. You’l have a tough job on your hands if you’re working

on me.”

“Esme,” Gia breathed her name, a pained gaze imploring.

The tal artist didn’t try to touch her. Esme didn’t try to move away. Time stil ed between them as they stared at one another. Gia dipped her

chin, Esme raised hers. Crickets chirped from the darkness beyond the porch. A gust of wind rustled the leaves on her old grand cottonwood tree

and lifted a lock of Gia’s long hair across her face.

“Why are you here?” she whispered. “You live in Chicago.”

“Not anymore.” Gia tucked her hair behind one ear as she added, “I don’t work for the Stillman Show anymore.”

“You don’t?”

“You are an attractive woman, Esme.” The words came out husky. “A beautiful woman. I mean it.”

Esme ignored that. She had more pressing questions. “Did you get fired?”

“Quit.”

Surprise fluttered through her and she let go of the door. “Why?” she asked, moving closer to lean against the jamb.

“Because I never again wanted to see hurt on a person’s face like I saw on yours as you left the studio. I can’t stop the show from bringing

people on under false pretenses, but I can sure as hel remove myself from the situation.”

Esme sighed and broke eye contact, focusing instead on Gia’s low-heeled black boots. Why did she have to be so nice? So sincere? Why

couldn’t she leave Esme to her sulking instead of invading her doorstep with her stature and warmth, fil ing Esme’s nostrils with the feminine scent

of her skin and her ears with that silky-husky voice? “I can’t feel responsible for you losing your job, Gia.”

“I’m not blaming you.”

She raised her gaze back to Gia’s. “What wil you do?”

Gia shrugged. “I’l get by. It’s time to give my painting a chance, and…who knows?”

Esme shook her head slowly and reached up to scratch her neck. Gia’d quit her job. She’d quit her job and packed up her life, and now she

was standing on Esme’s doorstep hundreds of miles away trying to convince her she wasn’t ugly.

Why?

Feeling another bout of hiccups coming on, she whispered, “I have to go.”

“Can I come in?”

“No.” She started to shut the door.

Gia held it open. “Esme, wait. I want to see you again.”

“To assuage your own guilt? I don’t think so.”

“That’s not why.”

So she said. But, real y, how would Esme ever know?

Gia reached out and ran the backs of those lovely fingers slowly down her cheek. “You have a rash.”

“Adds to the whole beauty package, wouldn’t you say?”

“Don’t, querida.” Gia’s hand slid from Esme’s cheek to her shoulder and rested there.

Esme’s eyes fluttered shut, and she choked back another wave of tears. This woman could break her heart if she al owed it. “Leave me alone,

Gia. Please.”

“I can’t.”

“Esme?” Lil y and Pilar peered into the hal way, then looked from their friend to Gia, their eyes widening in surprise. Neither moved.

Esme glanced over her shoulder. “I’l be right there. Ms. Mendez was just leaving.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You are now.”

“We aren’t finished.”

“We never even started.”

Gia pressed her infinitely kissable lips together and lowered her chin. Her somber gaze melted into Esme’s for excruciating seconds before a

smile teased that dimple into making an appearance. She winked. “Tomorrow, Esme? Can I see you then?”

“No.”

“Just coffee. No pressure.”

“No.”

Gia shifted from boot to boot, then crossed her arms over her chest. “Need I remind you that you said you thought I was a nice woman?”

“I also said I wanted to hit you,” she countered, in as haughty a tone as she could muster.

“But you didn’t.”

She faltered and bit her lip, which had started to tremble. “Don’t do this to me. Please.”

“I’m going to keep trying until you give me a chance, Esme.”

Shoring up her resolve, Esme wrapped her arms around her stomach and sniffed. “You’l be wasting your time.”

Gia brushed Esme’s trembling bottom lip with one knuckle, then stepped back. “Ah, but you see, I’d rather waste my time on you than spend it

wisely on anyone else.” She nodded good night to Lil y and Pilar, who stil hung behind Esme, then stepped off the porch and disappeared into the

night shadows.

The standoff was only temporary. A sort of drawn-out foreplay. Though she’d never admit it, she couldn’t wait to see what would come next…

L.L. Raand has always had a fascination for the dark side—and those who dwel there.

When Hearts Run Free

Radclyffe writing as L.L. Raand

I’d only been a Werewolf for a few weeks, but I knew enough to know I shouldn’t even be looking at the Alpha of the Adirondack lupus pack, let

alone lusting after her. Then again, I’d never been very good at fol owing protocol—probably if I had been, I wouldn’t have found myself in a moonlit

clearing deep in the mountains of upstate New York about to undergo my first ful y conscious shift. If I’d been fol owing the rules, I probably wouldn’t

have tried to sedate the teenager in the throes of Were fever, but by the time the police had found her in an al ey she was so far gone she was

seizing. She was going to die without treatment, and there wasn’t time to wait for the Were medic on cal to get to the ER. As it turned out, I was too

late, and the girl died. But not before she bit me.

I don’t remember much of what happened after her teeth sank into my wrist like two rows of razor blades, sharp and bright. Even when the flesh

tore and my instruments slipped through my fingers on a river of red, I didn’t feel the pain. The burn came later, at the same time as the fever. Then

the dreams. Fragments of images flickered through my rioting brain, scattered patches of light and dark like broken bits of sunshine littered over

the forest floor—chasing me while I ran, the hunter and the hunted. My muscles screamed, my bones shattered, and in the back of my mind always

the low, throaty growl urging me to run. Run. Run.

When I woke, my head was clear, my stomach hol ow with hunger, and everything was different. Beyond the closed door of my hospital room, I

heard the staff conversing at the nurses’ station at the other end of the floor as clearly as if they were standing beside my bed. I gasped and

instantly gagged on the miasma of hospital smel s deluging me—cafeteria food, antiseptic, disease, the living and the dead.

“Breathe slowly through your mouth for a few minutes,” a voice as rich and lush as dark chocolate said from somewhere in the shadows of my

room. “After a while you’l learn to filter out the sounds and smel s, when you want to.”

“What happened?” I asked, my memory stil patchy.

A woman appeared beside my bed. She was about my age, late twenties or early thirties, and a few inches above average, putting her near

my height. Blond, lithe, and on the muscular side of lean. She wore a faded green T-shirt tucked into blue jeans, and beneath the smooth skin of her

exposed arms the muscles were etched and taut. “You were turned four days ago by an insurgi, a rogue werewolf.”

“Werewolf,” I said, a statement more than a question. She nodded.

“You?”

“Born and bred,” she said with a hint of a grin. “My name is Sylvan. Your sponsor, Roger, wil be by later. He’l help you through the transition.”

“So, what’s next?” I said, pushing myself up in bed and taking stock. For someone whose system had just undergone a violent, rapid mutation

at the genetic, subcel ular level, I felt pretty damn good. In fact, I felt terrific. I was hungry. And I was horny. I took a deep breath, and smel ed female. I

took another look at the blonde, noting the thrust of her smal breasts beneath the green cotton, the smooth, flat plane of her abdomen, the gentle

flare of her hips, the tight length of her thighs. The hunger in my bel y moved lower, mutated like my cel s into something fierce and untamed.

“Should I breathe slowly through my mouth now, too?” I said, barely containing the urge to vault over the short metal railing on the side of my bed

and take her to the floor.

“That probably won’t help.” She didn’t move back, but held my gaze steadily. “You’re not human anymore. What you’re feeling right now is

perfectly normal for a wolf.”

“How many female wolves want to mate with other females?”

A growl came from the other side of the room and I realized we weren’t alone. Somehow I knew it was a bodyguard. A gravel y voice

murmured, “Alpha.”

I sniffed and smel ed male, and my vision hazed with red. I shuddered, my spine tingling, my vocal cords quivering with a barely audible snarl.

“Alpha, please. This is not advisable,” the male said, more urgently this time.

She waved her hand as if to silence the cautionary voice, and grinned again. The rims of her irises narrowed into a deep indigo band around

flat black pupils. Her breasts rose and fel faster beneath her T-shirt. “More females than you might think.”

“That’s good to know.” I clenched my fists, fighting to hold stil , to force down the flames that scorched me from the inside out. Dimly, I registered

a different kind of burning sensation in my palms, and when I glanced down, saw that my fingernails had elongated into short, curved dark claws. My

hands bled from a series of crescent lacerations, but I felt no pain. Only want. “I think maybe you should leave. Something’s happening to me.” I

sucked in a shaky breath. “I think I might be dangerous.”

“It’s your wolf,” she whispered, leaning over me slightly. Her scent, a mix of burning autumn leaves cut through with cinnamon and sweet clover,

grew heavier, darker. “She wants to be free. You can’t hurt me.”

I panted, twisting beneath the sheets. “I think I might…Jesus, I want—”

“But it’s too soon for you to control her.” She straightened and drifted back into the shadows. The pressure in my chest eased a fraction. “You’l

learn. You have two weeks until the next ful moon. Welcome to the Adirondack Timberwolf pack, whelp.”

I hadn’t seen her again, but I thought of her every spare minute when I wasn’t being poked, prodded, and psychoanalyzed by the human

physicians or being poked, prodded, and indoctrinated into Werewolf society by my sponsor. Her scent lingered like a haunting refrain, keeping me

always on edge.

Tonight the moon was ful .

“Ready?” Roger asked as the moon climbed to its zenith.

“Sure,” I said. I wasn’t. I hadn’t had nearly enough time to adjust to the physical changes, let alone incorporate al the hierarchical social rules of

the pack. But instinctively I knew that any show of weakness would be a mistake. I felt like I was coming out of my skin, and I guess I was.

I tried to appear casual as I fol owed Roger toward the pack. The whole pack, I’d been told, numbered several hundred and was spread

throughout New York, Vermont, and New Hampshire. The Adirondack Pack’s territory butted up against that of the Maine Silver Ridge Pack, the

largest Northeastern U.S. pack.

Maybe thirty or forty males and females gathered beneath the trees, moving restlessly in the slanting shafts of silvery moonlight. Al of them,

male and female, moved with the powerful glide of predators. Some of them were already nude, others in the process of undressing.

“Mutia,” a statuesque redhead growled as I passed.

Mutt. To the regii, the purebreds—the natural born Weres—I was less than a second-class citizen, I was a genetic blight. The U.S. Order of

Were Affairs had agreed to sponsor, i.e. indoctrinate, any human turned accidently, as a condition for getting the Preternatural Rights Law passed.

The Law granted non-humans protection from discrimination, among other more fatal things—like being shot on sight. Not everyone in the Were

population was happy about being forced to accept “genetic inferiors,” but living in a society is al about compromise. So they cooperated, on the

surface.

I was a physician. I knew I wasn’t inferior, not on any level. Once the mutation was complete, I was physiological y no different than any other

lupus Were. Once trained, I would be able to shift at wil , and I was already as fast, as strong, and potential y as deadly as any other lupus female

my size. Maybe more so—before my turning, I’d been a trained martial artist. I could fight. I loved competitive sparring. I loved winning.

But genetical y, I was different in one critical way. My somatic DNA might have mutated, but the chromosomes in my ova were stil 100%

human, and if those ova remained fertile, they would always be human. So my offspring at best would be half-breeds, assuming I mated with a

Were male and not a human one. Assuming the offspring lived, and since the live birth rate for Weres was very low, that was a big if. Assuming a lot

of things, such as my desire to mate with any male, human or lupine. I could have told the pack bitches who saw me as a threat that they had no

worries, because I had no designs on their studs. None whatsoever. But I wasn’t going to crawl on my bel y to be accepted, or to avoid a fight.

I hadn’t been at the bottom of the pack, any pack, since I was an intern a decade before, so keeping my gaze down when the redheaded bitch

chal enged me, as Roger had instructed I do when the situation arose, took al my self-discipline. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood up

and I couldn’t completely suppress the growl that resonated in my throat. She snarled and took a step closer, and if I hadn’t caught a flicker of gold

in the moonlight and seen her just at that moment, I probably would’ve done something stupid—like answered the bitch’s chal enge right then and

there and gotten my ass chewed up. Literal y.

Sylvan, a phalanx of Weres behind her, stalked out of the woods into the clearing. She wore skintight black jeans and nothing else. Her breasts

rode high and proud, the muscles in her chest and abdomen rippling seductively beneath moon-kissed skin. I could smel her across the clearing,

her scent so heady my mouth literal y watered. My sex tightened and desire choked my senses.

“Sylvan.” I whispered, but a whisper among Weres might as wel have been a shout.

Utter silence fel over the pack.

“No,” Roger said harshly as he gripped my arm, but it was too late.

She was al I could see, al I could smel , al I could sense, and I took a step forward, my eyes fixed on her face. I barely registered a blur of gold

slashing through silver before my legs were cut out from under me and I fel hard, face first to the forest floor. The weight on my back crushed me

into the rich loam, and I tasted blood where a tooth had cut my lip. A knee in the center of my back kept me pinned, and one iron-tight thigh rested

alongside my hip. An arm bar on the back of my neck prevented me from raising my head, but I didn’t need to see. I could scent her, sense her, feel

her heat—some part of me beyond words, beyond thought, knew her.

“You forget yourself, whelp,” Sylvan rasped in my ear.

I’d worn only a T-shirt and sweatpants in preparation for shifting, and I felt the hard points of her nipples against my shoulder blades as she

leaned close. Flame surged from deep in my core and poured into my chest, driving my breath out on a moan.

“I’m sorry, Alpha. I’m sorry,” I gasped, suddenly burning up. A soul-deep ache tore my muscle from bone, shattering my mind. A thousand knives

scored my skin, flaying sanity along with my flesh. “I…oh God…I can’t breathe…hurts…”

“You’l be al right,” Sylvan whispered, her mouth soft against my ear. “Let her come.” Then she rol ed away, cal ing, “Roger!”

And I screamed. My world disintegrated in a fury of agony and al I had to cling to was her scent, the sound of her voice, the weight of her flesh

on my flesh. When I came into myself once more, I was surrounded by wolves. I shook my head, took a step, and fel . A nose nuzzled my neck, as if

urging me to rise. I focused on the black muzzle and large dark eyes of the hovering wolf and recognized Roger’s scent. He lifted his lip in a wolfy

smile, and I tried another step. Then another. I felt powerful in a way I never had before, my body and mind intimately attuned. I laughed and heard

myself growl. Roger shouldered me forward. He was bigger than me, longer and tal er, but glancing around, I realized that I was bigger than most of

the females and some of the males. I stumbled again when I saw her, and this time, I kept my head down, stealing glances when no one was

looking.

She was almost pure silver with only a few fingers of black in her thick ruff and along the ridge of her powerful back. Larger than almost al the

wolves in the pack, she stalked the clearing, nosing some, growling at others, playful y nipping a few. I trembled as she drew near, but I did not drop

my tail or my head as many others had done. I kept my head lower than hers, but I could not take my eyes away. She was too beautiful.

She was the pack Alpha, the leader of hundreds of Weres, not just when they were in wolf form, but in every aspect of their lives. She led not

simply by might, but also by intel igence. She commanded loyalty and was given it, because she was trusted, and because she had earned it. She

was my Alpha, just as I was her wolf, and even though I was there not by divinity, but by accident, I felt like I was hers.

Then with a flurry of snapping teeth and rumbling growls, she struck. And though I had never yielded in a battle, never run from a chal enge, I did

not fight back. Within seconds, I was on my back, her legs straddling my exposed underbel y, her teeth buried in the thick fur of my neck. I tilted my

head back and gave her my throat, a soft whine escaping me. Her scent was overpowering now, enveloping me, drowning me, and stil the fire

inside me burned. Snarling with my throat in her jaws, she shook her head from side to side, reminding me, reminding every wolf within sight or

hearing, who ruled the Adirondack pack. Then she released her vise-like grip on me, and I instinctively licked her face. Her blue eyes gleamed in

the moonlight, and for just an instant, her chest and bel y settled onto mine. Then she vaulted off, loped into the center of the clearing, raised her

head to the moon, and howled.

Dozens of voices answered, and my heart stirred, my soul singing with them. I jumped up, shook myself, and answered her cal . Then we were

running, legs pounding, muscles stretching, hearts pumping. The pack broke into the forest and although I couldn’t see her, I knew where she was,

just as I knew how to decipher the sounds and scents of the forest. I fol owed her trail along with a few others, joyful y, freely, with no sense of time,

no beginning, no end. Only the thril of the hunt and the feel of her ahead, cal ing me. I don’t how long I ran or how far, but I gradual y became aware

of the silence descending upon me. I caught a glimpse of silver slipping between the trees ahead, and realized that she and I had outrun the pack.

We were alone in the forest. I slowed and cautiously padded forward into a smal clearing. She appeared like a whisper of smoke and I halted,

waiting.

She circled me, sniffed me, bumped her shoulder against mine. I waited stil , shivering not from exhaustion, but excitement. She rose and set

her chest on my shoulders, tel ing me my place—beneath her. I trembled under her weight, my heart pounding. Her hot breath teased my ear and I

rumbled in pleasure. With a powerful thrust of her haunches, she dismounted and, gently setting her muzzle on top of mine, rubbed it back and forth.

Then she dipped her head, but not her gaze. She would never lower her gaze to anyone—Were or human. Tentatively, I stroked the underside of my

jaw over her nose. She al owed the contact only for a few seconds before backing away. Then she turned and raced toward the forest, glancing

once over her shoulder, one ear flickering. An invitation. This time when I rushed to fol ow, she slowed until I ran by her side, and together we hunted.

When the moon slipped down and the night edged toward dawn, she led me to a shelter of fal en pines. She rested her head on her forelegs,

studying me solemnly as I curled up by her side. Careful y, cautiously, I edged closer. When she didn’t move away, I settled my head on her

shoulder. She arched her neck over my back, and together we slept.

*

“I need to leave,” Sylvan murmured, “before the pack sees us.”

I’d awakened with nude women I barely knew before, but never on a soft bed of pine needles beneath a crystal clear sky. And never had I fit so

perfectly with anyone. I lay on my back with her head on my shoulder. Her hand rested in the center of my chest, her thigh over mine. I stroked her

shoulder.

“How many rules are we breaking?”

“Too many for me to count.” Sylvan pushed away and sat up, running her hands through her hair. “Can you find your way back?”

“I’l fol ow you.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I can smel you.” I ran my hand over my chest, down the center of my abdomen, and watched her eyes fol ow the motion. They were blue,

rimmed in silver, and I remembered her wolf shimmering in the moonlight, a great shining beast. “Everywhere I go, I carry you on my skin.”

Her face was completely expressionless. “Don’t let anyone hear you say that.”

I sat up, my skin stil warm where she’d lain against me. “Is there an alpha male in the wings? Is that the problem?”

“That’s not for you to know.” She stood quickly, her jaw set, the word whelp hanging unspoken in the air.

“I know I have a lot to lear—”

“Yes, you have a lot to learn.” She stared down at me. “And a place to earn. You’l be chal enged.”

“Why?” I rose and took a step toward her, watching her muscles harden as she reacted to the threat of me in her space. I shook my head. “I’m

not chal enging you.” I dipped my head and said softly, “Alpha.”

“You’re not submissive. You’re not Wereborn, and…”

“And what?” I feathered my fingers over her cheek and she let me touch her for a few seconds before she edged back, a tight frown eclipsing

the brief tenderness I’d glimpsed.

“And you carry my scent,” she said sharply.

“Why? Why do I?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. But…” She gestured to the ground where the faint indentations of our bodies lingered. “This can’t happen

again.”

I was powerless. I wasn’t even capable of shifting at wil yet. She could tear me apart if she wanted, and she would be wel within her right. The

pack would demand it if they knew. But I didn’t care. I crossed the distance she’d put between us, cradled her face in my hands, and kissed her.

After a heartbeat, her lips parted and her tongue swept over mine, strong and unhesitant. She flooded me with her wild scent, her raw power, her

deep hidden tenderness. I felt her cal in my deepest reaches, and I moaned, aching to answer. She grasped my wrists, forced my arms down, and

broke away.

“This can never happen again,” she repeated, her voice hoarse.

I touched my chest, over my heart. “I am your wolf to command, Alpha. But you cannot rule what I carry in here.”

I watched her race toward the trees, as graceful and strong in human form as wolf. There would be other nights, other hunts. Until then I would

carry her on my skin, in my senses, in every part of me. I would find her again, when our hearts ran free.

About the Editors

Radclyffe is a retired surgeon and ful -time award-winning author-publisher with over thirty novels and anthologies in print. Seven of her works have

been Lambda Literary finalists, including the Lambda Literary winners Erotic Interludes 2: Stolen Moments ed. with Stacia Seaman and the

romance Distant Shores, Silent Thunder. She is the editor of Best Lesbian Romance 2009 and 2010 (Cleis Press), Erotic Interludes 2 through 5

and Romantic Interludes 1 and 2 ed. with Stacia Seaman (BSB), and has selections in multiple anthologies. She is the recipient of the 2003 and

2004 Alice B. Readers’ award for her body of work and is also the president of Bold Strokes Books, one of the world’s largest independent

LGBTQ publishing companies. Her latest releases are an al -Radclyffe erotica anthology, Radical Encounters (February 2009), the romantic

intrigue novel Justice for All (April 2009), and the romances Secrets in the Stone (July 2009) and Returning Tides (November 2009).

Stacia Seaman has edited numerous award-winning titles, and with co-editor Radclyffe won a Lambda Literary Award for Erotic Interludes 2:

Stolen Moments; an Independent Publishers Awards silver medal and a Golden Crown Literary Award for Erotic Interludes 4: Extreme Passions;

and an Independent Publishers Awards gold medal and a Golden Crown Literary award for Erotic Interludes 5: Road Games. Most recently, she

has essays in Visible: A Femmethology (Homofactus Press, 2009) and Second Person Queer (Arsenal Pulp Press, 2009).

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