Authors: Ronica Black
She combed through her wet hair and decided to focus on the evening at hand. Perhaps she could get herself interested in some female company. She rifled through her closet and decided on a pair of Lucky Brand jeans. They appeared weathered, with their worn gravel wash, and she chose a featherweight charcoal-colored tee to go with them. The shirt was soft and fit her snugly, hugging her breasts and broad, strong shoulders.
She sprayed on her favorite cologne, laced up a pair of well-worn black Dr. Martens, and gave herself the once over in a full-length mirror. Her hair was still clinging to the skin of her neck in wet whisks. Her eyes were dark and clouded, mixing with the charcoal gray of her shirt. She turned abruptly at the sound of ringing, and snatched up the phone.
“Adams.”
“I got your girl,” Shane Wilson said proudly.
“Where?”
“She’s with your old flame.”
“Patricia? Are they…” A knot formed in her throat.
“Fucking?” the PI finished for her with a chuckle. “I don’t know, Liz, they look pretty cozy.”
Liz ended the call and sat in silence for a moment as her face rushed with heated jealousy, a feeling that had never before coursed through her veins. Its effect was instant and devastating, like tiny shards of crystals invading every cell. She rested her head briefly in her hands, gathering herself. She could not allow herself to think about this tonight. Running her fingers through her bangs, she headed out the door, leaving her troubles behind her.
*
The VIP room was dimly lit and as her eyes adjusted, she inspected some of La Femme’s patrons. The club had a strict policy regarding admittance to the VIP room. A woman had to be one of three things: famous, unbelievably successful, or unbelievably gorgeous. Of course, Liz preferred the guests who were all three.
She passed a few who lacked at least two of the requirements, shook off her disappointment, and made her way to the rail so she could overlook the entire club.
A hand lightly stroked her arm. “Hey, stranger.”
Liz turned and a familiar face smiled up at her. “Hey yourself,” she greeted Angie, who pulled her in for a warm, lingering kiss.
The kiss was tender and unbelievably soft. But then again, Angie’s kisses usually were. The famous woman’s lips were undeniably the best she had ever kissed. With one exception: there was one woman who had felt better under her lips. She shook the thought from her mind and leaned in next to Angie to survey the crowd below, seeking out an attractive, fuckable woman to take her mind off Erin McKenzie.
“I thought you had a movie to shoot.”
“I fly out tomorrow.” Angie took a sip of her beer. She was dressed similarly to Liz, in worn jeans and black boots. But instead of a T-shirt, a very tight black tank top fit like a second skin across her large breasts, showing off the black Celtic band tattooed around her bicep.
“Shouldn’t you be at home, getting your beauty sleep?”
“Why sleep, when I could be here…fucking.”
Liz glanced down at her dancers, the ones she paid to strut their stuff on the raised platforms. It was Firefighter Night and all of them wore yellow firefighter bibs, the wide suspenders covering their bare, toned torsos, barely hiding their full breasts.
Bikini Kill thumped in through the gigantic sound system and the dancers thrust suggestively at the large fire hoses riding between their legs. The scores of women below them screamed, their arms raised in the air as the firefighting dancers turned the valves on their hoses and doused them with water. The cold spray soaked their white shirts, causing the wet cotton material to cling to their erect, dark nipples.
Liz knew she could have any of them. The trouble was, she saw no one she wanted; the woman she wanted was elsewhere. With an ex of Liz’s.
“So how bout it, hot stuff?” Angie traced a finger down Liz’s strong jaw to her neck. “Wanna fuck?”
Liz turned her head and held her gaze. The woman was gorgeous and damn near irresistible, but she had already had her. Many times and in many different ways. Angie wasn’t going to be enough for her tonight, and she began to wonder if anyone would be.
“Maybe later,” she said, returning her attention to the crowd, her quest to find another woman not yet dead in the water.
*
Less than an hour later, Liz found herself still alone and being eaten up by the ravenous green monster of jealousy. She dug in her pocket for her car keys, suddenly anxious to leave the pulsating club and all that it held. But a large, thick muscled body stepped in her path.
She knew immediately by the look on Tyson’s face that something was wrong. “What is it?” she asked.
“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but the police are out front demanding entrance to the club.”
“I don’t have time for this. They’ve harassed me enough.” Liz walked briskly down the stairs, Tyson alongside.
“They’re insisting you come with them, ma’am.”
“What?”
They hit the ground floor and she could see a crowd forming at the door. She slowed her pace and walked with stoic confidence. Agitated or not, she still had to give the impression of being totally in control. A few of her patrons stopped in their tracks to stare after her. She gave them her sly grin and continued with Tyson out to the front entrance. The guards gave way, leaving her to come face-to-face with Patricia Henderson.
Liz should’ve known. The large-bellied man standing next to her former lover took it upon himself to shove his police badge in her face.
“Relax, detective, I believe you,” Liz said softly, almost as if she were talking to a child.
He looked away, momentarily embarrassed, and quickly tucked the badge back into his breast pocket. “Elizabeth Adams?’ he then asked loudly.
“Gentleman…and lady.” Liz shifted her gaze to Patricia and slowly looked her over, knowing she was steamed. “You know who I am.”
She took several steps forward then, moving the group further from the club. The last thing she needed was the cops creating another scene in front of her paying patrons.
The two detectives and several uniformed cops moved along with her, confusion and alert showing on their faces. All except for one. Patricia continued to bore holes into her with her eyes. The plump male detective started to speak but then fell silent.
“Put your hands behind your back,” Patricia demanded, her tone heavy and firm. Her face remained stern, but Liz still sensed the fire that brewed under her professional veneer. Something was up, and this time it was personal.
“Now what’s this all about?” Liz asked, keeping her cool but in no way doing what she’d just been told to do.
“You’re coming with us.” Patricia took a step toward her then, but Liz refused to back down.
Patricia had been harboring anger at her for years and now it seemed she was finally going to enjoy bringing her down. Liz’s heart raced at the realization. It was finally happening. She knew why they were here, and she knew she had to go. But she was determined not to show fear or weakness. Especially in front of Patricia Henderson.
“And why, gentlemen…and lady, would I want to do that?” She returned the detective’s stare, her breath and body tensing as she felt her wrists tugged roughly from behind. She countered quickly and without thought, yanking her arms down and away from the arresting cop’s thumbs. His grip was lost in a flash, and Liz bounced on the balls of her feet like a caged tiger. “Is this what you want, Patricia?” she accused. “To throw me to the ground and rough me up?”
“If we have to,” she responded coldly. “You’re resisting arrest, after all.”
“Arrest? You never said anything about arrest.” She grinned again, knowing she was right and relaxed her stance.
“You know damn well why we’re here.”
“You have a warrant?” Liz asked, acting once again like a very cooperate subject.
“Yes, we do.” Patricia smiled then, and its chill crept through the air and seeped its way into Liz.
She shuddered inwardly, having never seen Patricia so cold. Ever. Doing her best to hide the anxiety that was creeping in along with the chill, she turned to face her head of security.
“Call my attorney. Tell her I went politely with these officers and I’ll see her downtown.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tyson eyed the group warily before turning to head back into the club.
“Shall we, then?” She extended an arm, indicating they should lead the way. The uniformed cops forming a loose circle around her and the group began to move. “I see you brought the entire department with you tonight,” Liz chided, knowing Patricia was directly behind her. “Afraid to do your own dirty work?”
“Oh no. I’m not afraid.” Patricia corrected. “In fact, I’m very much looking forward to getting down and dirty.”
Once again, Liz felt the chill, this time creeping up her spine. She clenched her jaw and willed herself to keep her temper in check for now. She knew she had a long night ahead of her.
Erin hunched over the bathroom sink, splashing cold water on her face. She gasped as its chill seeped into her skin, forcing every pore to awaken and then to shrink into submission.
She straightened and turned off the water. The mirror over the sink told her grim tale. The nightmares held her once-sparkling eyes prisoner, leaving them clouded and obscure, those of a stranger.
It was four a.m., and sleep had refused to visit her. Instead, it had toyed with her and teased her, allowing her to just drift off before attacking her with nightmares. She stared at her weary reflection as the last nightmare replayed in her mind, the latest having been the most disturbing of them all.
It had started off the same as the others, with her in Patricia’s bedroom the night of the shooting. But this time she saw a hauntingly familiar face. The blue eyes were icy and fierce, just like Liz’s. The hair was as black as midnight, but cut shorter than Liz’s. Yet the beautiful stranger was not Elizabeth Adams.
The worst part of the nightmare replayed in her mind. The mysterious intruder attacked Patricia, striking her hard on the head, knocking her unconscious. Then she raised her gun, aiming it at Erin.
Exhausted and frustrated, Erin reached for a towel and patted her face dry. Dreams were almost always fragments of strange and unusual subconscious thoughts or memories. What was the buried truth behind her nightmares? How could she distinguish between a real memory and a figment of her imagination? Her mind had, in recent weeks, become its own worst enemy, and who was to say whether this was another of its cruel tricks?
She padded into the kitchen and made herself a mug of coffee. Then, hugging herself against the early-morning chill, she made her way over to the sitting room, where she wrapped herself in a throw blanket and sat on the couch with her knees pulled up to her chest. She sipped her coffee and picked up the book she had been reading the day before, one of Patricia’s. She thought about the woman who had written the beautiful words, and inhaled deeply as she remembered the kisses they had shared, Patricia hot against her skin, burning into her, searing right through her, going straight to her center.
Patricia hadn’t said much to her since their brief but heated encounter and Erin had spent every waking hour wanting to go after her and take her in her arms. She wanted to apologize for her behavior, to explain to her that somehow a new sense had invaded her body like a ferocious virus. She was attracted to Patricia in a way that was almost purely animalistic. Of course, Erin would avoid discussing why her libido had become a ravenous monster. It would only hurt Patricia to hear that since the encounter with Elizabeth Adams, she’d been feeling as if she would implode if she didn’t have another woman, and soon. That woman had been Patricia.
Erin was drawn to her words, her beauty, her body. But as attracted to her as she was, she knew for certain that Patricia could never take the place of the one woman who still invaded her dreams as well as her nightmares.
Christ, she was going insane.
She turned the book to the page she had last read, marked with the top corner folded down. To help ease her tortured mind, she focused on the words and allowed herself to be drawn into a world full of sexual innuendo, budding romance, and raging passion.
*
As if in a trance, Patricia stared through the two-way mirror into the interrogation room. The coffee in her hand had lost its edge long ago, sitting cool and useless in the mug. The woman who had caused her so much pain sat alone at the table, tapping her long fingers against the faux wood.
Patricia winced as she watched those familiar hands. Since Erin’s confession, the vision of the two women making wild, passionate love had corrupted her mind, torturing her to no end. It was almost worse knowing firsthand what Elizabeth Adams was like in bed, how powerful and amazing sex was with her. And hearing Erin confess as much had killed her inside. Killed not just her heart, but the hopes and dreams she had for a future with Erin. The worst of it was the word she had used:
wonderful
.
Patricia had slept with Liz many times during their brief courtship, and
wonderful
was not a word she would ever have chosen to describe the sex between them.
Wonderful
made it sound beautiful, even
tender
. And the way Erin had said the word…so soft, so full of obvious yearning.