| Chapter 3
Angie squinted against the bright light bouncing off her bathroom mirror and fumbled with the faucet, filling a nearby cup with cold water. She reached into the medicine cabinet for the near-empty bottle of Vicodin, balancing precariously on her good leg. She popped a couple of pills and gulped the cool liquid, sighing, hoping the medicine would kick in soon and wipe away the searing pain that seemed to throb all the way from her toes to her hip. She leaned against the counter, taking deep breaths, willing the pain to seep away. Minutes passed slowly. Finally, she looked up at herself in the mirror, preparing to brave the trip back to the bedroom where her lover was softly snoring. Angie caught sight of her disheveled appearance — tufts of her short blond hair sticking out in every direction — and snorted bemusedly, shaking her head even as the corners of her lips curled in a tiny smile. She made a silly face at her reflection, but suddenly stopped to take a closer look, leaning forward with her hands resting on the sink. The dark circles under her grass-green eyes that had made her look so hollow and stressed over the last few years had all but disappeared in the last month. She supposed it was because of the extra rest she’d gotten while she’d been on leave from work. But she preferred to think that it was the warmth and safety she’d felt with Lauren that had erased the constant tension. Then Angie’s eyes fell on the angry red, silver-dollar-sized scar that painted a sharp contrast against her pale skin half a hand’s width below her left breast. Her look lingered there as a familiar icy feeling flooded her chest, forcing her breath out in painful bursts as her heart-rate sped up. A few inches higher ... Well, she wouldn’t be standing in the bathroom, or anywhere else for that matter. She forced her eyes shut and counted to ten, viciously shutting out the image and memories attached to it. She felt slightly faint and swayed before catching herself, shaking her head as though it would help clear her mind. Angie cursed under her breath — sick with helplessness and a touch of self-loathing for allowing her emotions to run amuck. Again. It had been a clean through-and-through — straight through the back, out through the front. With time, she knew, the matching scars would whiten and she wouldn’t feel like passing out when she saw them anymore. But the thought didn’t make her feel any better or less horrified. And the reporter didn’t want to feel like this, not at that moment, not when she’d just spent half the night making love to the most amazing woman she’d ever met. No, her eyes still shut, she struggled against the tide of fear, summoning the overwhelming feelings of satisfaction and love that had consumed her until she’d fallen asleep, that had spread through her dreams until she’d awoken and come into the bathroom. It didn’t take long for the images to flash through her mind, flushing color back into her cheeks and along her neck — sweat-dampened skin, ravenous lips and teeth, Lauren’s dark, beautiful eyes and knowledgeable hands. Slowly, through the haze of unpleasantness, a smile surfaced. Angie clung to the images like a lifeline. She lifted her hand to her face, touching her flushing cheeks, and could smell Lauren’s sex on her fingers. Her eyes fluttered shut as she inhaled the musky scent and let it fill her mind completely. A wave of desire crashed through her so hard she couldn’t stifle a desperate moan. Her eyes snapped open with fierce determination and she recklessly made her way back into the bedroom, not caring that she jarred her throbbing leg, ignoring the lightning-hot pain that ripped through her. She slid into the bed, spooning her naked body around the taller woman, her eyes half-lidded as she took in the smell of lavender and sex — the back of Lauren’s neck slightly salty on Angie’s exploring lips. She ran her hand along her lover’s side from shoulder to hip, dipping suggestively, casually, seeing if Lauren would awaken and be interested. The soft snoring stopped abruptly and she heard the raven-haired woman let out a startled gasp. Encouraged, Angie dived her hand between the woman’s breasts — more forceful than patient, just the way her lover liked it. Her initial tentativeness had died away over the last month, when they’d explored each others bodies at length, charting the differences and preferences. Angie ran her teeth along Lauren’s neck, dipping her tongue into the hollow behind the woman’s ear, delighting in the tremble that shook her lover’s body when she wrapped her lips around the soft earlobe and gently bit down, rolling the flesh between her tongue and teeth. The reporter’s insides tightened with frantic urgency when her lover moaned under her touch. She slid her hand away from the full, beautiful breasts, down along her lover’s taut abdomen, past the wiry dark curls, fingers slipping through slickened folds to find her lover’s center with practiced ease. She swirled three fingers, coating them on all sides, returning again and again to tease her lover’s swollen nub, while Lauren trembled and bucked, crying out in sweet desperation. “Angie,” she moaned hoarsely. “Please ... please ... please ...” Angie’s breath was becoming as erratic as her lover’s, her resolve to draw out Lauren’s pleasure crumbling with each gasp for air. She bit her lover’s shoulder hard and plunged her fingers through the aching entrance. Lauren cried out in satisfaction, her hips thrusting against Angie’s hand. The reporter held her fingers still for several seconds, savoring the feeling of entering her lover, of being inside her, surrounded by trembling muscles, and having Lauren at her mercy. Her lover cried out and struggled, gasping, unable to demand what she wanted. Angie inched her face closer to her lover’s ear, pressing in, and murmured, “I can’t hardly stand not to touch you like this, not to be inside of you, not to feel you quivering around my fingers or hear you moaning my name. I love you ...” and she thrust her fingers into her lover hard, and then again and again — Lauren’s moans a continuous melody in her ears — until she could feel the rhythmic tightening that meant her lover was close. The dark-haired woman groaned and fought not to thrash around, feeling the reporter’s rough cast pressed against her mutinous legs as she jostled the bed and kicked at the covers. “Let it go,” Angie demanded, her fingers punctuating the commanding words with sharp plunges. And Lauren finally let go, crying out, her body shuddering as a thin sheet of sweat broke out across her back where their bodies pressed together. Angie murmured soft nothings in her lover’s ear, her heart racing with unquenched need but a deep satisfaction filling her regardless. As the seconds passed, the silence filled only by Lauren's calming breaths, her body began to tremble and Angie ground her teeth, trying to will herself to lay still. She couldn't do it. A muffled whimper escaped her lips while she tried to suppress it by pressing her face against her lover's back. Seconds later, she found herself pinned on her back — the taller woman not bothering to waste time on foreplay — those long fingers sliding straight to Angie’s core in one swift move. The reporter let out a startled cry, her eyes wide with surprise and pupils shot through with desire. Her lover’s fingers seemed to touch the very center of her body, felt like they’d crawl up through her insides and burrow under her heart, squeezing — a tantalizingly slow rhythm that made a voice in Angie’s head begin to scream, unable to surface, the echoes prickling along her skin like mutinous armies of marching ants. More, she needed more. The blonde tried to buck with her hips, pushing up with both legs, and pain ripped along a cord from toe to groin, the fingers seemingly driving it in deeper, tears sliding hotly down her cheeks. The movements stopped, and Angie’s eyes snapped open, catching a bleary look of dismay on her lover’s moon-lit face. “No!” she shouted and grabbed the retreating hand, throwing an arm around her lover’s neck and pulling her forward with such strength that Lauren collapsed on top of her, the woman’s trapped hands pressing roughly against Angie’s swollen clit. “Don’t stop,” she pleaded, her voice thick and scratchy, eyes unfocused. Lauren’s penetrating eyes searched her own as seconds passed. The dark-haired woman’s tongue slipped out and traced the path of tears, clearly torn between her concern and her lover’s need. The reporter cupped her lover’s face and crushed their lips together in a forceful kiss, her tongue demanding entry, moaning into the dark-haired woman’s mouth with surprising ferocity. Her lover whimpered and the blonde released her at once. Lauren stared down at her with wide eyes and licked her lips, clearing her throat. A series of unreadable emotions crossed her face, her lips forming a protest that wouldn’t come out, half-hearted or not. Finally, she gave a gentle thrust and then another, the palm of her hand grinding Angie’s center. The blonde’s arm was still firmly locked around her lover’s upper body, keeping them close as the rhythm picked up speed. Angie’s eyes found those dark, beautiful orbs and she lost herself, overpowered by the emotions reflected there. Tiny explosions erupted from deep within where those fingers impacted with each driven plunge, a blazing fire scorching her skin inside and out as she screamed and went limp — the desperation quelled at last. She collapsed, her arm sliding off her lover’s shoulder and hitting the bed with a thump. Her heart pounded in her ears so that she could hardly hear anything else, the beat thrumming along her sensitive folds and down her broken leg painfully. “Are … are you okay?” Lauren whispered, softly kissing her neck, the words laced with fear. “Yeah,” she half-lied. Truth was, she felt both beautifully sated and horribly jarred. But the pain was receding quickly and she suspected the Vicodin had finally kicked in. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.“ She cleared her voice and closed her eyes. “You did what I wanted you to do. More, in fact.” And she felt a tingle run along her spine and released a shaky breath. “Your leg ...” Lauren began but was shushed with a finger on her lips. “No, I said don’t worry. My brain was focused on things other than remembering that I can’t push up with my broken leg, okay? It’s not like this hasn’t happened before.” Silence. Lauren’s eyes dropped for a few seconds as she turned her head and studied the cast, before returning to patiently-waiting, grassy-green eyes. Her right hand reached to touch and trace the bullet scar carefully, softly trembling. Angie could see her lover’s jaw muscles clenching and unclenching, her breath forcefully even. Angie grasped the lingering hand and drew it away from the scar, pulling her lover close, the dark hair tickling her neck as the woman snuggled closer and the trembling began to calm. The reporter clenched her eyes shut, fighting the sickening feeling that came with thinking about the whole mess, tried to force out the visions that would give her nightmares. Her eyes burned with unshed tears but she'd be damned if she ruined the night for the both of them. She drifted off into an uneasy sleep, listening to her lover's deep breaths. * * * On Monday afternoon Angie stepped out of the physical therapist’s room, fighting the urge to scream and break something. She felt like she’d spent the entire hour squelching a myriad of stinging words, along with tears of frustration and pain, as her therapist pushed on her foot — toes toward the shin — and forced her to do still-agonizing, upper-body stretches. Everything felt stiff and abused. When Lauren met her in the waiting room, she said nothing, limping on her crutches instead toward the door, a deep scowl cutting across her face. The taller woman followed silently, carrying Angie’s purse. When they made it out to the parking lot and into Lauren’s car, the blonde let off a string of profanities that made her lover cringe and grit her teeth. And to think that the reporter had to leave work early every other day for this shit. She sat in the passenger seat, fuming. Lauren didn’t dare say anything. She’d learned that Angie would not listen to reason or encouragement after these sessions and had given up trying to help in any way other than driving her lover to and from the hospital. Angie would cool down in an hour or so, after she’d gotten home and had a piece of cheesecake bought for that very reason. An hour passed. Then two. Finally, after Lauren started to seriously debate breaking the silence first, the reporter opened her mouth and said, “I have to do something about this. I mean, she said I wasn’t making very good progress. I can’t go limping around forever, Lauren. I just can’t. The worst part about this whole thing is that I can’t go running anymore to blow off some steam. She said I may never run again.” Lauren got off the easy chair and slid into a spot next to Angie on the couch, wrapping her arm around the reporter’s shoulders, trying to keep the worry out of her voice the best she could. “It has only been a few weeks. We’ll practice at home. They gave you exercises, right?” Angie nodded. “So we’ll do the exercises. Plenty of people beat the odds. So don’t give up.” The reporter sighed and stared at the empty plate where a fat slice of cheesecake had sat before she’d wolfed it down in huge, furious bites. She was getting weaker, she could feel it. She’d been so fit for so long. And now, well, she felt like shit half the time and it pissed her off. But she couldn’t continue to just sit there and fume. Lauren didn’t deserve it and a familiar stab of guilt bore straight through her chest. “Sure,” she said and forced a smile. She snuggled closer to her lover, her mind racing for a topic that would steer them away from the unpleasant conversation. A smirk erupted across her lips and she said, “So, you’re going to be old soon.” Lauren snorted and shook her head. “Twenty-nine is not old, you know.” “Sure it is — one year away from thirty, one year away from being over the hill.” “Over the hill!? At thirty? You’re so full of shit sometimes ...” But she never got to finish the sentence because Angie’s nearest hand shot to a well-known spot between Lauren’s ribs that was dangerously ticklish, hitting her mark with calculated accuracy. Her lover screamed and giggled, gasping for breath while threatening a counter-attack when the phone rang. Reluctantly, the reporter allowed her prey to get up and go get the damned ringing thing. Lauren handed the cell phone over with a smirk and whispered "saved by the bell." Ha-ha. “Hello?” Angie grumbled. “Hey, ditch your lady friend and meet me at the coffee shop,” an urgent voice whispered loudly, laced with scarcely contained laughter. “In twenty minutes.” “Hi, Jimmy. You’d better be kidding ...” “Just do it, okay?” he spoke in a normal voice. Lauren tried to snatch the phone away, but Angie swatted at her hands and shook her head. “Fine. Twenty minutes. I’m assuming you mean the one across the street from your apartment?” “That’s the one,” and he hung up without waiting for her response. Angie sighed and pushed herself off the couch, reaching for her crutches nearby. “I don’t know what he wants, but it had better be good,” she grumbled in her lover’s direction. “I love seeing him, but I really don’t feel like driving right now.” “I could give you a lift and then go take care of some things,” Lauren suggested and got up to go grab her keys. “Sounds great,” the reporter said with more than a little relief. Driving had become a bit of an effort with the knee-high cast — her seat needed to be pushed back a little more than was comfortable, forcing her to stretch for the pedals with her right foot — but she managed because she had to for work. You can’t have a crime reporter who can’t drive to crime scenes. But it had helped that she’d broken down and purchased the Mitsubishi Eclipse with an automatic transmission instead of a manual gear-shift the way she usually preferred. But she couldn’t very well use the clutch with a broken leg. Imagine hitting stop-and-go traffic ... No, the automatic was just fine. It was just the extra trips that weren’t work-related that got on her nerves and made her leg ache in anticipation of the extra jostling from potholes and speed bumps. Exactly twenty minutes later, Lauren dropped her off at the Starbucks on Beach Street, where Jimmy rushed out to help her and shooed Lauren away. The dark-haired woman pretended to pout but finally gave up when she couldn’t get a word out of Jimmy about the impromptu rendezvous. With a quick kiss good-bye she hopped back into her car and sped away. “This had better be good, Mr. Has-No-Understanding-Of-Other’s-Needs,” Angie grumbled as she hobbled off toward the coffee shop entrance. Her friend raced ahead and held the door open for her. “It is good, you’ll see,” he said with a quick bow, ushering her inside, where he insisted on pulling out a chair for the reporter and bought her favorite coffee. Angie stared across the table while her friend made pleasant chit-chat. She began to seriously frown while he went on about his computer tech business. She scowled by the time he started babbling about the weather and finally cleared her voice, pinning him hard with her eyes, her fingers drumming an irritated rhythm on the table. “Er, right. The reason I called you out here,” he finally noticed and smirked. “Patience is a virtue, you know.” He avoided an across-the-table smack and leaned back in his chair, checking that he was out of reach. “Sorry, been cooped up all day. I’ll cut to the chase.” “It’s about damned time,” she mumbled, wishing they’d at least picked a table outside so she could wile away her boredom by smoking cigarettes. As the thought crossed her mind -- that she was bored -- she suddenly realized how unusual it was for her friend to beat around the bush. Wasn’t he usually the frank one? “Come on, let’s go find a table outside so we can smoke,” she said, her tone much less aggravated than before, “and you can tell me why you’re pussy-footing around whatever it is you want to discuss.” She caught a sheepish grin before Jimmy turned away and collected her purse. They sat down at the far end of the building, at a rickety table rather worse for wear. Jimmy lit two of his own cigarettes and handed her one -- a gesture that reminded her distinctly of the first time they’d ever had a personal conversation. “Basically, I’ve done something and got cold feet,” he began, took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled dramatically. Angie sucked back a bemused laugh. “It’s about Lauren’s birthday.” Ah. Her curiosity flared, wondering what he could possibly have done that his long-time friend might disapproved of. “You didn’t hire a stripper, did you?” “Nothing like that, no.” He chuckled, his eyes crinkling with mischief. Perhaps she shouldn’t give him any ideas. “No, it’s something a bit less likely to get me in trouble with both of you. Don’t worry. You see …,” he paused, steeling himself. “I kind of booked a show for her, thought she might want to let loose for her birthday.” “You what?” Angie nearly shouted, dropping her cigarette. Her friend lunged for it, nearly knocking the table over, and handed the half-smoked thing back to her. “That bad?” he mumbled, frowning. “Well …,” she thought hard. Would her lover freak out? It wasn’t like she didn’t enjoy performing with her band, Fearless. But the woman did have some control issues, especially when it came to performances. To Angie’s knowledge, she usually spent a week or two rehearsing nearly every night. “I don’t know. Tell me the band knows about the gig.” “Of course they know. Do you seriously think I’d pretend to be the band’s manager, schedule a gig, and not tell anybody about it? What if they weren’t in town or something?” He gave her an incredulous look, to which she responded with a shoulder shrug. “They know. They think it’s cool. They have some minor worries about her freaking out. Dammit, I thought this would be a good thing. She hasn’t had a gig since you went to the hospital and they’re getting restless. It’ll be good for her, don’t you think?” Angie gave a reluctant nod. Lauren had to get past the whole mess as much as she did. And performing just might do the trick. “When is it?” “Friday night at 10 p.m. at the Art Bar in Deep Ellum,” he said with flare. “Shit! That’s a big deal, Jimmy. She’s gonna freak.” “It’s just a small bar …” he began, his voice lowering to a whisper. “In Deep Ellum on a Friday night! And don’t give me that ‘it’s just a small bar’ crap. I know that place. On Friday’s it’s freaking packed. Bands perform on the roof. Everybody can hear them. How the fuck did you get her band in that place?” “I did some work for the management for free, brought them some video footage from her last concert,” he muttered, his voice strained. “It will be really good for the band. Maybe we should tell her. I was going to ask that you lure her down there, but I guess that won’t work.” “No, it won’t.” She sighed and lighted another cigarette. He had meant well and that’s all that should matter. Of course, if Lauren refused, the Art Bar was highly unlikely to ever book Fearless again and it was a big break. “I’ll talk to her tonight. I’ll make her agree to it. They still have a few days to rehearse -- maybe she won’t freak out.” They smoked in silence for a few minutes. Her friend was muttering something about “unreasonable” and “if only she’d recognize her own talent.” Angie agreed, but didn’t say anything. “Hey, when did you book it anyway?” she broke the silence, sincerely curious. “Four weeks ago.” “Don’t you dare tell her that,” she warned, coughing on smoke inhaled too quickly. “I’m not going to give her a time frame. If she knew she could have been obsessing about vocals for the past month, she’d flip.” “Deal.” * * * The talk didn’t go well at all. Jimmy had driven her home, and the second Angie got inside, she’s joined her lover on the couch and told her everything. Lauren had jumped up and cursed for five solid minutes. Then she’d ripped her cell phone out of her purse, furiously punched her lead guitarist’s number, and yelled into the phone for another ten minutes. By the time she’d hung up -- voice hoarse and dark -- she’d already picked up her things and headed out the door with a brusque, “Gotta go rehearse. Don’t wait up.” To Angie’s relief, she hadn’t turned down the gig, but only because the reporter had shouted about what a great break it was over her lover’s string of furious ranting. She sat on the couch and sighed into the silence, rubbing her throbbing upper leg absentmindedly. Well, hell. The mess would make for an interesting week. At eleven o’clock, she wondered if Lauren would come back at all that night. “Jimmy and his ideas,” she grumbled to herself, hobbling into the kitchen to fix herself a sandwich. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she continued as she slopped a heaping pile of raspberry jam on the white toast. “He doesn’t have to put up with her while she freaks out all week,” she muttered while slapping on a generous amount of peanut butter. She continued to mumble around mouthfuls while she made her way to the porch. The reporter flopped down on a plastic lawn chair and sighed, munching silently. She stared at the horizon, watched the twinkling plane lights head toward DFW International airport. The air was stale and muggy; the humidity clung to her skin and hair most unpleasantly. A car alarm went off nearby and a neighbor’s dog started barking. Angie thought about lighting a cigarette when she finished her sandwich, but the air was so stiflingly hot that the thought made her feel almost nauseous. Her cell phone rang. She dug the buzzing thing from her pocket and flipped it open. “Yeah?” she said, pulling out her pack of cigarettes out of habit and set it aside. “What’s up?” a vaguely familiar voice nearly shouted in a way very reminiscent of that silly Scary Movie flick. Angie checked the caller ID and didn’t recognize the number. “Er … not much,” she said after several seconds passed. “How’re you doing?” Bright laughter filled the phone line that reminded her of that awful crime scene. It couldn’t be … “Detective Key?” she asked, slightly incredulous. “Yup, and call my Jay,” he chuckled into the following silence. “I was just calling because we’ve collected some new evidence you may be interested in. Who’d you think it was?” “I … well, I just didn’t expect you to be so …,” she hesitated, searching for a descriptor. “Goofy?” he suggested. “Yeah.” She paused. “What’s the new info?” “Well, several people came forward after reading your article and gave us some leads.” He paused. “Looks like our killer might have been out to find a poor sucker with a good heart.” * * * The following days were a blur of business such as Angie hadn’t known for months. She’d rushed to the office early Tuesday morning to type up the info she’d received the night before -- a bizarre follow-up piece based on witness accounts from patrons of a Fort Worth gay bar. They’d called the Crime Stoppers hotline and told police that they’d seen Whittaker at the Funhouse, a hole-in-the-wall bar off Lancaster Avenue, at about eight o’clock the previous Wednesday. Apparently, he’d come alone and had been chatting with the bartender for a while before he was approached by a red-headed man he didn’t seem to have known. “Now, some of the guys said that redhead wasn’t hitting on him or anything,” the detective had told her. “They said he was polite and kept his distance, sat a couple of barstools down. It doesn’t seem like our vic was looking to pick up some guy, and the redhead wasn’t looking to hook up either. That’s what they say it looked like.” He’d paused then and let out a long sigh. “Angie, we have three guys telling us they heard the redhead say something like, ‘So can you help me?’ And then our vic nodded, paid his tab, and they left together. The guys think his first name was ‘Chris’ but couldn’t be sure. He paid his bill with cash, so there’s no record. The guys told us that they were eavesdropping but not too closely. And they said the guy who asked for help was talking to Whittaker for about an hour or so. They left around 9:30 p.m., which gets us a hell of a lot closer to the time of death window.” Of course, investigators couldn’t be one hundred percent certain that he was the last person to see Whittaker alive, or that this Chris guy was the killer. But the detective was right about their meeting being conspicuously close to the "late Wednesday night or early Thursday morning" time of death. Or maybe the redhead took some money in the parking lot or had his car jumped and left, leaving Whittaker to go somewhere else. Who the hell knew? She was extremely careful in the crafting of her article, writing very diplomatically that “the man is being sought for questioning.” As soon as she’d completed the piece, just in time for lunch, a factory caught fire and exploded in the industrial district. Black smoke had billowed from the building full of chemicals, and even though it was miles away, the emerging smoke had blown straight into downtown. She’d rushed to the scene, joined half an hour later by six other Tribune reporters who fanned out to collect information and witness accounts from nearby business managers, hysterical workers, police, firefighters and city leaders. She’d been stuck late into the night. The next day, a Wednesday she’d hoped would be nice and quiet, turned out to be a day filled with a crazy carjacker and wild police chase and the arrest of a major crack dealer in the seedy Stop Six neighborhood. Thursday wasn’t much better, and Friday followed hot on its heels with a terrible six-car pileup on Loop 820 and an underground gambling business bust in Parker County. She’d spent her nights recuperating -- miserably alone -- after hard days of standing around crime- and accident scenes for hours. But there was no way in hell she’d have told her boss how much it hurt and that she couldn’t do it. No, she would as soon have jumped in front of the Trinity Railway Express train. As per her predictions, her lover wasn’t around much to help her relax. But she couldn’t really blame Lauren. The woman was rehearsing like mad at night and attending classes at the university for her graduate program by day. The singer could barely keep her eyes open when they did manage to find an hour here or there, and Angie contented herself with early-evening naps and cuddling. She told herself that the hectic week was almost over, and the singer’s anxiety should pass after her gig was over. The reporter stepped into her quiet apartment at seven o’clock and frowned. She was late and had expected to be admonished by her surely-nervous lover. Angie checked the bedroom, and finding it empty, pulled out her cell phone to see what was going on. She called Lauren and got her voicemail. Then she called Jimmy. “I’m so glad it’s you!” he shouted and she held the phone a couple of inches farther away from her ringing ear. “We’ll be over in about twenty minutes. You have to talk some sense into her.” He hung up before she could respond and she groaned. The reporter hurriedly ran a quick bath and gingerly got in the tub, her cast hanging over the edge as she scrubbed herself clean and washed her short hair in record speed. There was no time for her usual ritual of sprinkling bath salts in the steaming hot water and playing some nice classical music while she enjoyed her bath if she’d have to spend time “talking sense into” Lauren, whatever than meant. She heard them unlocking the door just as she’d put on a few finishing touches on her makeup. One last check of her appearance -- rather punk with her hair styled in a wet spiky look, wearing a low-cut, tight black shirt, matching black skirt and a knee-high boot, her cast covered with an oversized black sock -- and decided it’d do. Not bad for twenty minutes, anyway. She put on some silver hoop earrings and added a thick, chainlike choker necklace -- a present from her lover. Angie hopped into the living room and sat down next to Lauren, whose face had taken on a grayish pale tinge and whose hands were shaking. Jimmy had taken the liberty of raiding her fridge and handed them each a bottle of Shiner beer. The reporter slid onto the couch cushion next to Lauren and pulled her in for a long, demanding kiss -- her hands tangling in her lover’s windblown, jet-black hair. The singer’s eyes grew wide and she struggled at first, but Angie persisted, softening the kiss, her tongue dancing on her lover’s lips. If she could get her to respond, Angie thought, pressing her upper body in close, maybe she could break through this fit of anxiety. Lauren’s eyes fluttered shut and after several seconds, her lips finally parted. Angie dove in for a searing kiss and didn’t let up until her lover moaned into her mouth. They both gasped for air when the reporter broke contact, moving to nuzzle the singer’s neck. “Happy birthday,” Angie whispered into her lover’s ear, pleased to see the slight tremor than ran through the singer’s body. “If you’re this freaked out, don’t go. I don’t care what anybody thinks.” She paused, nibbling on the nearby earlobe. “But I was looking forward to seeing you on stage again.” She closed her eyes, remembering the last time she’d seen the raven-haired woman demonstrate her vocal abilities. “Hey, do you remember that night at Division One?” Lauren nodded silently, her hands beginning to fidget again. Angie trapped them with her own and squeezed. “You were so sexy in those leather pants. In fact,” and she lowered her voice so their friend couldn’t hear, “right before I came up there, I was fantasizing about you in those leather pants. I imagined your teeth on my neck, your hands running up my back, your …” The balcony door clicked shut as Jimmy stepped outside. The reporter continued to whisper in her lover’s ear, saw the color flush back into Lauren’s cheeks and didn’t stop until she felt the taller woman’s hands run up her bare thighs and slip below her skirt. And by then it was too late to protest the skillful hands and tongue dipping into her cleavage. Her body wouldn’t have allowed it. Angie struggled, torn between the spreading warmth between her legs where Lauren’s hand had disappeared, and the knowledge that their friend was on the balcony waiting. But the internal debate ended when Lauren’s fingers slipped beneath her panties and teeth closed over a still-covered, taut nipple. She gasped, her head thrown back in complete surrender, hands digging into her lover’s scalp, pushing her closer. The singer slid off the couch and spread the blonde’s legs wide, trailing hot kisses up the reporter’s inner thighs, strong fingers massaging the woman’s hips as they slowly began to move in anticipation. Dark hair disappeared under Angie’s skirt and she sucked in a sharp breath of air when she felt her panties pulled aside and tongue run the length of her folds. Angie opened the balcony door twenty minutes later, a lopsided grin plastered on her face. She flopped down in the lawn chair and lighted a cigarette. Jimmy took one look at her and burst out laughing. She just shook her head and took a drag, exhaling slowly. “She’ll do it,” she said, smirking at her friend who immediately fell silent. “She’s getting ready right now. Give her half an hour or so. I told her to take her time.” “Damn …,” he said and snorted. “Well, if I’d have known that’s all it took to calm her the fuck down, I’d have dragged her butt over here sooner.” “That’s not all it took,” Angie said, mischief sparkling from her grass-green eyes. His smile crumbled and a frown slowly spread, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What do you mean?” he demanded. “You pretended to manager, now you get to be manager. Guess who gets to announce Fearless on stage and entertain the crowd while they take a break?” His eyes grew wide and he stood up abruptly. “No, no, no,” he squeaked. “I don’t do well on stage. You can’t be serious.” “You do it or she stays here and we take our fun to the bedroom,” she deadpanned. Jimmy started pacing, stopped to light a cigarette, and resumed pacing. He muttered something about “damned freaking girls” and “make a fool of myself” and “have no choice.” Finally, he stopped, by which time Angie had finished her cigarette and started to get out of her chair. They stared at each other for a full minute. Finally, “Fine. But we’re talking about what the hell I’m supposed to say all the way there.” “Fine.” She repressed a giggle at his stern expression and added, “She was going to do it either way, but since you so readily agreed, you’re stuck.” And this time, it was Angie who got smacked in the shoulder. She yelped, surprised, and raised a hand to return the favor when the devilish gleam returned to his eyes. “Don’t touch me with that, I have a pretty good idea where it’s been.” And with an agility she’d never have expected of her friend, he slipped by and shut the door, locking her out before she could even blink. She frowned at the door for several seconds, tried the doorknob again. She still couldn’t get inside. The reporter sat back down in the chair and laughter slowly bubbled up from her stomach and burst through her lips, her shoulders shaking as she closed her eyes and drew in lung-fulls of rich, summer-scented air with each hearty guffaw. Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 4 Feedback? E-mail me at kimberlylafontaine@yahoo.com. |