by Kim Pritekel
“You are a silver tongued devil,” Denny whispered, the slightest up curve of her lips showing her pleasure at Rachel’s words.
“That I am. But this devil speaks the truth.” Rachel leaned down, placing the softest of kisses to the brunette’s lips, just a brush for emphasis, then she was gone. She was silent for a few moments, pushing herself up to a sitting position again, nudging Denny to lay her head in her lap. The brunette grimaced slightly, the movement unsettling her easing headache. “Relax,” Rachel whispered, fingers finding her temples, and gently massaging, which initially hurt, but eventually began to ease the pressure in Denny’s head.
“That feels good,” Denny whispered, sighing in relief at the magic of Rachel’s cool fingers.
“I’m sorry you hurt,” the blonde whispered back. “I wish I could take it all away.”
“You are,” Denny sighed. She brought an arm up, snaking it around one of Rachel’s thighs, fingers lazily playing with the prickly skin she found there. It made Rachel slightly self-conscious.
“I can’t wait to shave,” she said, her fingers changing their position just slightly, still massaging the delicate bones of Denny’s face.
“Me, too.”
“Your rag is getting warm. Want me to refresh it?”
“Yes,” Denny said as she shook her head no, making the blonde grin, bemused. “Don’t want you to move. I’m comfy. Yet my head feels like it’s boiling.”
“I’ll be right back. Then you can have the best of both worlds, ‘kay?”
“’Kay.” Denny moaned in discontent as Rachel slowly slid out from underneath her, almost purring at the blonde’s return. Again, she gasped as the cold rag was placed across her forehead, Rachel inching it down so it covered her eyes, too. “Ohhh, that’s nice.” She turned her head, lips almost touching the blonde’s naked stomach.
“How are you doing? Need anything else?”
“Just keep talking,” Denny murmured. “Your voice is so calming.”
“You want to hear something crazy?” Rachel paused, looking out over the darkened night. “I can’t believe I’m actually going to say this out loud.” She paused again, running resuming her gentle combing of Denny’s hair. “There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to go home. I mean, sure, I miss all the comforts of home, I miss Reenie, and even Matt. But,” sighing heavily, she looked down at the woman who lay in her lap. The brunette’s breathing was even and slow, her body relaxed in sleep. Rachel smiled, leaning down and placing a soft kiss on slightly parted lips. “I don’t want to leave you guys.”
* * *
Going, going, almost gone… gone. Will sipped from his wine, one leg crossed over the other as he sat on the Italian leather sofa he and Dean had bought together three months before his partner boarded the doomed flight. Reaching to the table across from the couch, he grabbed the bottle, pouring what was left of the expensive red into his glass.
Had he done the right thing? Too late now, for certain, but it plagued him. Coming home from Reenie’s loft almost two months ago, he had stared at Dean’s picture for a long time, memorizing every single little detail of the man’s face, remembering the sound of his laugh, his voice, the way he smelled. He had to smile, even now, remembering the attorney’s aversion to anything dirty, or what he felt to be unsanitary. Even at the club, when they’d go play racquetball, Dean refused to talk barefoot in the locker room, his ever-present slippers there to cradle his feet.
The sun was going down, not only on the day, but also on the summer, a summer Will had prayed would bring joyous news, or at least some sort of closure. The other day he saw ads on television for school supplies; always the first indication that fall was, indeed, on the way. Another holiday season without Dean, the second of many to come. Truthfully, Will wasn’t so sure he could handle it again. Sure, he’d put on a happy, smiling face, even his Christmas bow-tie, but those closest to him knew better. Will never was a good liar. After all, Dean was the attorney, not him.
The wine had ceased to taste like anything anymore, the strong drink frosting Will’s brain, dulling his senses, but making his thoughts sharper, pain more acute. Alcohol was funny that way. Perhaps he should switch to something stronger.
Mind trailing back to Reenie’s loft, Will remembered the look on Keller’s face when he told them they were finished, would not be continuing the search. Hell, she’d looked almost more crestfallen than the architect had felt. He really needed to do something spectacular for the pilots. They’d put so much heart into the searching, not taking money for anything more than fuel and maintenance of their flying machines. Real troopers. He often wondered what Dean would think of the ladies, grease monkeys, both of them. More than once Will had seen a smudge of the black goo on Garrison’s cheek, and definitely the girls’ hands were more calloused than all the men in Will’s entire architectural firm put together. Though Dean would have turned his nose up at their rough and sometimes unkempt appearance, Will thought his partner would like those two.
Sighing heavily, Will continued to drink his wine.
* * *
Lizbeth Vinzetti hummed an old Italian lullaby her mother used to sing to her almost eighty years ago. She could recall her mother’s lilting voice singing to her nine kids, all hiding during the bombings in World War II. At twelve, Lizbeth had been second to the oldest, and she and her older sister, Rose, had been expected to help care for the other seven. Those had been hard times.
She had already vacuumed her granddaughter’s small apartment, trying to help as she knew Gloria worked so hard all day, working at the courthouse all day, then at night time she worked part-time at the diner. The young woman was even considering taking on a third job. Though she tried to say it was because they could use the money, Lizbeth knew better. Her Gloria was trying to not think, work herself to an early grave. The elder Vinzetti knew the trick all too well. When she and Paolo had lost Gloria’s mother thirty years ago, Lizbeth thought she would die right along with her. Somehow she needed to convince her granddaughter that life does march on, no matter how hard it’s fought. Gloria would not win.
Part humming and part singing the words, Lizbeth held the picture in her hands that she had found in the drawer. Smiling at the beautiful face of her great-granddaughter, Lizbeth placed the picture in its place of honor among the other family photos, arranging them so Mia would have a prime spot.
Lizbeth smiled, knowing they’d go through the same routine tomorrow. When Gloria got home at an ungodly hour, she’d put Mia’s photo away, and the next day Lizbeth would bring it out. She wasn’t going to let Gloria forget. She couldn’t let her forget.
* * *
Tiffany looked out the window as she sipped her morning coffee. She was trying to hard not to be angry, but her emotions were starting to get the best of her, starting to take over her rational, ultra logical side. It had been almost eight months, eight months! She promised Hannah she’d be patient, that she understood the researcher had to deal with all the radical changes in her life. She promised her she’d be there for her, support her, and be her friend first, girlfriend second.
Eight months ago. Valentine’s Day had been their first kiss, and Tiffany was fine with that. She’d kept the holiday a low-key event, not pushing anything onto Hannah that she wasn’t ready for. It had been nice, flowers, a nice dinner, a moonlit stroll. They had done a lot of talking that night, their dreams and hopes, what Hannah planned to do with her life now that she was suddenly a me instead of an us. When Tiffany had dropped the enigmatic brunette off at her house, she’d been surprised when Hannah had leaned over across the car, giving her a soft, yet wonderful kiss. Tiffany had responded, but all too soon it had been over.
Time had marched on, as it does, and Hannah was still somewhat remote, keeping Tiffany at a chosen distance. Understanding could only go so far, and the accountant was starting to plain run out. If Hannah wasn’t over Denny’s death, fine! Then don’t drag the redhead into the mess.
Last night Hannah h
ad opted to spend the night, a first time event. Tiffany had been surprised but elated. She hoped it would be when she would finally be able to show Hannah how she felt about her, that she was serious about her and wanted to give them a chance. They’d kissed, Hannah had even placed the accountant’s hand on her breast, outside her tee shirt, but it was something. The accountant had started to get into it, her body on fire when suddenly Hannah had stopped her, apologized, then quickly tugged her jeans on and left.
Another sleepless night. Tiffany had tossed and turned, weary and emotionally exhausted. She’d been a fool. The thing is, as angry at Hannah as she wanted to be, she couldn’t quite muster up the energy to get past the anger at herself. She should have known better. It was time for her to really evaluate this, decide if it was worth it anymore. She didn’t think Hannah was trying to play with her emotions, not at all. But she did think Hannah had bitten off more than she logically thought she could chew. She should have given herself more time, more time to grieve and truly put Denny’s memory to rest.
When everything had been final, the sell of DiRisio’s complete, and the shop emptied, Hannah had cried in Tiffany’s arms for hours, questioning herself, and wishing she hadn’t acted to rashly. She had explained that for her, it was the only way to move on with her life, she needed to not see Denny at every turn. Perhaps seeing Denny at every turn was what the brunette needed.
“Hell, I don’t know,” Tiffany whispered, sipping from her coffee, watching as the paperboy rode by on his bicycle, tossing a large bundle at her front lawn.
* * *
Jennifer Dupree sat in the idling car, waiting. Her grandmother had sent her to pick up Conrad from his weekly counseling session. Her little brother had always been a handful, but one word or look from their dad, and the kid had straightened right up. Grandpa was a lot like their dad was, but it seemed to make Conrad rebel that much more. Maybe he felt Grandpa was trying to take their father’s place.
The sixteen, almost seventeen, year old’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. She’d been so nervous to take Meredith Adam’s car, but the teenager’s mom’s car, which would be hers, was still in the shop. Her grandparents were having it painted for her for her seventeenth birthday, coming up in September. She was glad, and couldn’t wait to have her own car, though every time she got in she wanted to cry. She and her mom had been so close, and Jennifer could still see her mother’s sparkling eyes and hear her boisterous laugh.
Resting her head back against the seat, she began to daydream about her parents. It had been one year, one month and nineteen days. The only daughter of Michael and Melissa Dupree had been keeping a calendar since that day, only used for that, marking off the days with a red x. She missed them terribly. Her mother had started to teach her how to wear make-up, Jennifer finally allowed at fifteen. Her dad, the big ol’ dork that he was, had been pacing out in the hallway outside the bathroom, glancing in from time to time. The girl had asked her mother what his problem was, and Melissa had explained that he didn’t like the fact his baby girl was growing up.
Jennifer looked into the rearview mirror, studying the face that looked more and more like her mom’s. She had her hair color, her eye color, but her dad’s height. He had been a big man, strong and sturdy. A hug from him had been like nothing else in the whole wide world. Jennifer smiled at the memory, how warm and comforted he could make her feel. Yet, oh boy! If you made him angry… wow. Her father always made her think of that country song by Holly Dunn:
Daddy’s hands
Were soft and kind when I was crying
Daddy’s hands
Were hard as steel when I’d done wrong
Daddy’s hands
Weren’t always gentle but I’d come to understand
There was always love in Daddy’s hands.
That was her father to a tee. She could see his big smile, so handsome with his Stetson on.
“Hey, dork. Why are you crying?”
Jennifer was startled out of her daydreams by the voice of her brother and slam of the car door. Quickly wiping at her tears, she sniffled and got the car started.
“How was your appointment?” she asked, carefully looking in all her mirrors and over her shoulder before merging into traffic. She’d only had her license for nine months, and was still slightly nervous. Especially with a passenger in the car.
Conrad shrugged. “It was okay, I guess.”
Jennifer could tell her brother didn’t want to talk about it, so dropped it. “Grandma is making a big dinner for Alan’s visit,” she said conversationally.
“So?”
“Don’t be such a jerk, Con. They’re just trying to do right by mom and dad.” She glanced over at the boy, who refused to look at her, growing body slumped against the door.
“Yeah, well, they’re not mom and dad, and never will be.”
* * *
“Good luck, baby,” Keller said against Garrison’s lips.
“Thank you. I love you.” Turning to the back of the Cessna, Garrison reached around and squeezed Parker’s knee. “Love you, honey. Have fun today.”
“Thanks!” the teen gushed, happy to be flying with Keller. That was one great thing about summer vacation. Ignoring the other two women again, she turned back to her laptop, writing frantically on her newest story, this one a whole fifty pages!
“I love you, too.” The brunette watched as her partner climbed out of the Cessna, Duke Wingom waiting for her. “Call me and let me know what happens!” she called out. “I should be home by nine tonight.” She smiled at the blonde’s salute, then returned the blown kiss.
“Hello, Monk,” Duke said, slapping his fellow pilot on the back. “Good to see you.” He led her toward the hangar, where the G21-A Goose was already fueled and ready to go. They stepped into an office in the large hangar, Garrison shrugging out of her backpack and unzipping it to pull out the map.
“This is where we’ve been so far,” she explained, pointing to all the red marked areas I’m thinking here,” she ran her finger around in a circle on the smooth paper. This is our last shot, so we’ve got to make it count.” She met the grizzled man’s gaze, watching as he stroked his salt and pepper beard, brows drawn in deep thought.
“What’s your plan to get there?” Duke listened as Garrison explained her strategy to him, as well as the figures she’d made for fuel and time, the older pilot nodding his head in understanding and agreement. His mind began to wander back to a flight he’d taken with his uncle years ago, just the outline of a memory, so faded over time that he wasn’t even sure if it hadn’t been a dream. He shoved it into the back of his brain, focusing instead on what the blonde was saying.
* * *
Denny groaned slightly as she tried to move. Her headache may be gone, but now she had a whole new ache to keep her company throughout the day. Her back was screaming at her from sleeping on the hard stone all night.
“I thought those grass mats were bad,” she muttered, eyes blinking open. It didn’t help with the extra added weight, either. Rachel was lying practically on top of her, head tucked under the brunette’s chin, one hand tucked under Denny’s shoulder, the other resting on her upper chest. Dark brows drawing, Denny noticed something else, too.
Glancing down, she saw the side of Rachel’s breast, where it was pressed against her stomach. The other side produced the same result. Why the hell is Rachel half-naked? This thought led to another: it felt wonderful. Her hands, which had rested on the slight waist, began to move, wanting to feel the smooth skin of the entire expanse of the author’s back. The skin was warm, unbelievably soft. Rachel sighed in her sleep, her upper body adjusting slightly atop Denny’s as the fingers ran up her spine, making her body tingle. The brunette closed her eyes again, allowing her fingers to do the walking, a textile journey. Her fingers tips grazed up and over slightly pronounced shoulder blades, gently pushing blonde hair aside as they danced across the back of a neck, the smaller body beneath them shivering slightly as th
ey passed. Soft smile graced Denny’s lips at that. Her fingers continued on, over smooth, strong shoulders, down the warm skin of Rachel’s sides, ribs, barely brushing the sides of soft roundness before returning to the spine.
Rachel slowly rose to the surface of wakefulness, sighing at the sensation of being touched. She kept her eyes closed, just allowing the feelings to stream through all of her nerve endings, making her shiver. The hand that had been wrapped around Denny’s shoulder began to move, fingers squeezing and massaging the skin, letting the brunette know she was awake, and very okay with the exploring fingers. For a brief moment the blonde panicked, remembering she was topless, having used the material for Denny’s cool rag. She quickly shoved embarrassment aside as the magic fingers spread out into warm palms, running all over her back, gliding down to her hips before returning up towards her neck and shoulders, then coming dangerously close to the sides of her breasts.
Denny sighed at the feel of soft lips against her upper chest, where Rachel’s head lie. Her hands grew bolder, her mind filled with only sensation, nothing else mattered at that moment. She felt the soft material of the cotton sarong wrapped around Rachel’s hips, her finger daring to brush slightly underneath, making the author gasp slightly in surprise, which was quickly followed by a soft, almost sighed moan. Large hands cupped the blonde’s behind, feeling the muscles underneath tense in response.
Rachel lifted her head and upper body, resting on her elbows as she pulled herself up so her face was level with the brunette’s. Without thought, without a single stream of conscience, she leaned in, taking Denny’s mouth in a kiss that deepened quickly, her nipples hardening as they brushed against the material that still covered the brunette’s.
