by Alex Owens
She bit my lip, drawing blood. The metallic taste had a familiar tang. I nipped her bottom lip in return and her blood tasted so much better than mine— full-bodied and complex like a fine wine. Pressure was building in my abdomen and it was almost more than I could take. With both my hands, I grabbed her by the butt, lifting and pulling and pushing, positioning her leg closer to where I needed it.
We kissed, our bodies grinding with such focus that anybody could have been standing right beside us, completely unnoticed. Compared to our earlier encounter, this was a whole new game. I wasn’t being passive at all and it felt fabulous.
A fresh flow of Bette’s blood filled my mouth and I swallowed it greedily. I shuddered, every muscle fiber in my body contracting violently. Every cell in my body was humming. I felt like a faulty light bulb, flickering on and off.
Dazed and panting, I looked to Bette, hoping to understand what had just happened. But she was still reeling from the encounter as I was and it took a minute for her to focus on me.
While I watched her inky eyes coming back into focus, I realized that as weird as my life had become, it didn’t worry me as much as before. Whatever was happening didn’t appear to be all bad, and I was hopeful that I’d be able to make some sense of things soon.
When Bette had recovered enough looked at me quizzically, I smoothed her mussed up hair and straightened her shirt. She returned the favor. When we both looked presentable and not like two grown women that had been groping in the service hall, I quickly kissed her and walked away.
Over my shoulder I called out, “See you at five!”
Chapter 8
Entering the main floor of the convention center, I squinted against the modest amount of light spilling in from the oblong skylights far above the main floor. No doubt the architect had thought that letting in a small amount of natural light would help combat the yellow-orange cast from the fluorescent fixtures, but they really didn’t help. Still, the light seemed brighter than it had the day before.
As if on cue, I felt a headache coming on. Was it possible to have a time-delayed hangover? Probably not, I decided.
I checked my phone, remembering that it had vibrated a few minutes earlier while I had been, uh, occupied in the hall with Bette. I blushed at the already fading memory, not quite sure what to make of the whole situation. I was, after all, a life-long man-fan. I’d loved, and made love to, a handful of men.
And not only had I enjoyed the opposite sex, but I’d never considered being anything more than friends with a woman. I’d never even had the obligatory drunken college experiment.
As I listened to the first voice-mail, from Pete, it occurred to me that I was being unfaithful. I still had no idea what had happened the night before, but that morning in my room and a few minutes ago in the hallway had been, mostly, under my own volition. I felt the shame wash over me. I didn’t want to be “that woman” who runs to the arms of another the minute that her marriage gets rocky.
The guilt subsided slightly upon hearing the voice-mail from Pete, and was replaced by quite a different set of emotions. Namely, anger and fury. A mood swing that fast usually calls for a hot bath and copious amounts of chocolate.
“Claire...uh, I’ve been seeing someone...a therapist. She’s really smart and I think you’d like her. Anyways, she says our relationship is toxic to me. That it’s not healthy for me.” Silence stretched out in the message, like Pete was trying to figure out what to say next. Or possibly find his place on a cue card.
I’m sure I looked like a mad woman, mouth agape, staring at my phone and standing in the middle of the aisle. Streams of people passed around me. I was just an obstacle in their path. Just like with Pete.
He continued, “A marriage is a partnership, not a dictatorship.”
God, he sounded so rehearsed that I immediately wondered where Pete had found his so-called therapist and if he was sleeping with her yet. If not, it was only a matter of time.
The irony of his last statement wasn’t lost on me either. If we were supposed to be partners, then how was it that I did all the cooking, the cleaning, and the bringing home of the bacon, while he contributed absolutely less-than nothing? If the person who worried over everything and tried to hold it all together was a dictator, then perhaps he was right. If I was the dictator though, he was just a dick.
“So, what I’m saying, Claire...” Pete faltered, coughing to clear his throat. “Is that I’m moving out. Saturday. When you come back.”
The voice-mail ended abruptly, like Pete had been afraid I’d respond so he’d hung up quickly. Yes, my husband was a coward and an ingrate. He was so hung up on himself that he completely failed to see how he’d made me the overbearing woman he was trying to escape from. Pete had created this monster, and for once, I was looking forward to showing him exactly what his creation could do.
I quickly listened through my other messages. The first was from my boss, letting me know that he’d already heard of the SheRawks! deal. He promised a bonus for all of my hard work, which lifted my mood a little. I always needed the money and I doubted Pete would be of any help once he moved out.
Which begged the question, where in the hell had he gotten money to rent a place? I made a mental note to check our online account statements the first chance that I got. So help me, if Pete thought I was going to finance his little bachelor pad, he was delusional.
The second message was from the head of the PTA at Quinn’s school. At some point, I’d signed up to help with a fundraiser and would I mind helping out on their upcoming project? Specifically, she wondered if I would help coordinate a blood drive to be held at the school, targeting parents and other family members of the children. Why couldn’t she have asked me to do something Bake Sale-ish?
I disconnected, locked the screen on my phone and slipped it into my bag. Scanning the booths in my immediate vicinity, I mapped a plan for the next hour or so and set to work. I moved through the motions as I won over vendor after vendor, but my heart, or rather my mind, wasn’t in it.
I wondered how I was going to break the news to Quinn. I wondered how life was going to be, day in and day out, as a single-parent. I thought of the man I married and wondered how he’d changed so much from the version of him I fell in love with, to the man he’d become—which led me to think of how much I’d changed from the girl of my youth, to the assertive woman in control of everything.
At least, that’s how I appeared to everyone. Inside I was still the sensitive, self-doubting woman that barely made it through high school. I’d gotten so used to maintaining the facade, that others rarely got a glimpse of the real me.
“Claire!” boomed a voice from behind me. I turned to see Vera ambling toward me with a zealous smile plastered on her face. “Ready for that lesson?”
I returned her smile, actually glad to see her.
“I guess now is as good a time as any,” I said.
She clapped me on the shoulder, steering me down the row towards the SheRawks! booth.
“Great! Now, the first thing you have to remember is to treat the guitar like your lover. Stroke her with passion, and she’ll sing like an angel for you.” Vera winked at me, like I wouldn’t get the double-entendre without her clue.
“Good to know.” I said.
As we approached the booth, I saw the rest of the ladies from the dinner except the sales manager, Maggie. That was a little bit of a relief. I wasn’t up to her appraising eyes at the moment.
The booth itself was perfect for the company and I made a mental note to compliment Ophelia when I had the chance, since the decor had young and spunky all over it. Freestanding half-walls made of planked lacquered wood were artfully arranged throughout the expansive rectangle. Each wall held a separate line of guitars that varied in options and finishes. They’d kept the products within reach and inviting, which was sure to increase the sell-through. Multi-hued spotlights angled down on the guitars, so each gleamed and sparkled under the hot lights.
To c
omplement the large zebra-print area rugs, all the ladies were dressed in what I would call rocker-chic: edgy basic black with a kick of femininity. Joni, deep in conversation with the parents of a young girl, was clad in dark washed jeans, a black peasant top, and black heeled boots. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, allowing her silver and teal beaded necklace to stand out.
Vera, not surprisingly, had on all black, though her fitted t-shirt did have a pink cat on the chest. I leaned a little closer to read the phrase at the bottom. Vera chuckled, and when I finally read her shirt I realized why she’d laughed.
The shirt read, “Real Women Like Pink.”
I laughed too, as the tongue-in-cheek humor suited Vera perfectly.
“Choose your poison, Claire,” said Vera, sweeping her arm out to all the guitars I could choose from. There were so many, I took several minutes to wander through the display. One guitar called out to me above the others. It was baby blue and decked out with chrome, except for the neck which was made of rosewood and inlaid with delicate pearl butterflies.
“Ah, good choice,” Vera said coming up behind me and taking down the guitar. “C’mon. Let’s fire this baby up.”
I followed her to the center of the booth, where a small platform had been set up, with a couple of stools, a microphone, an amplifier and two towering speakers. I backed away, shaking my head.
“No way,” I said. “I can’t play the guitar Vera, putting me in front of people won’t help that!”
“Do you trust me?” she said.
I guess I did. Vera seemed like a trustworthy person and not the type to make an idiot out of me in front of half the convention goers. Still, I shrugged.
“You’ve got to have more faith in people, honey.” Vera patted the stool on the right and I sat down. She handed me the guitar and then stepped away to grab one for herself. She came back with striking all-black guitar with bright pink strings. Vera hooked long cables to both of our guitars, then sat beside me and showed me how to hold the instrument. She was so close that I could hear every intake of breath, close enough that I could swear I even heard her heart beat.
She gave me a quick overview of chords, guiding my fingers into the proper positions. Finally, she settled on one chord that she wanted me to play, only varying in how quickly I strummed the guitar for different effects.
“Okay, good. Now do it fast three times.” she said.
Careful to keep my fingers in their proper place, I did as Vera asked, and within minutes I was making music! It was a good feeling. Not as good as when I’d held the violin, but in a way this was better. Probably because it felt real in a way playing the violin had not.
“Now, put one foot on the floor and tap it to keep time with me. Keep the rhythm, one strum for one tap of the foot,” she instructed, “then, every time I wink at you, do the three. If I shake my head, stop. And when I nod wait three beats and start again.”
That sounded simple enough. Now, if I could just keep it up without looking like a fool.
Vera leaned over to the amplifier and adjusted the knobs. An electronic hum filled the air. “You ready?”
I gulped, then nodded, and watched as Vera began. Slow, sultry notes filled the area and conversations around us quickly died down. At least a hundred pairs of eyes turned to us. In my peripheral vision, I saw movement coming my way. Cassidy, with her fiery hair and short purple tutu skirt sauntered up on the little stage, claimed the stool to my other side and produced a second microphone. She gave me a you-can-do-it smile before singing the opening line to a Joan Jett classic. Her voice was deep and dangerous, and I almost forgot that I was supposed to be playing an instrument at all.
Vera nudged me with her foot, prompting me to look at her. At the appropriate time, with Vera’s nod, I began my rhythmic strumming. It was a little odd, having to stare at Vera so I’d know when to triple-strum. It felt more personal, more intimate than it should. Eventually though, I relaxed and let the notes take over.
Cassidy crooned, “We’ve been here too long...” while I kept an eye on Vera. Finally, she gave me the wink I’d been waiting on. I did just like Vera instructed, providing a little pick-up right before Cassidy belted out, “Do you wanna touch...” and Vera chimed in with a seriously wicked sounding guitar lick. I was just fine playing background and I seemed to be doing an okay job of it.
Of course, whenever things seemed to be going good lately, they just had to take an abrupt left turn into Weirdsville. The fingers I had on the correct strings began to feel hot and twitchy. I fought to control them as long as I could, but when Vera was halfway through a guitar solo, I lost all control over both of my hands. I looked at Vera for help, but she was too busy looking at the audience we’d accumulated to notice my distress.
It wasn’t until my guitar solo took off that Vera turned to me with a look of surprise on her face. And just like with the violin, I kicked some serious guitar-playing ass. Vera joined back in, while Cassidy sung her little Irish heart out, “Won’t you please, run your fingers through my hair...”
A drummer from a few booths down joined in, taking the performance to a whole new level. The crowd started filling in the “Yeah...Oh, yeah” parts and it felt like every person in Florida was focused on our performance. I felt like a Rock Goddess and it was flipping fantastic!
When the music stopped, cheers erupted from the entire convention hall, all the way back to the stairs. I was a rock-star, beaming out at the crowd. Then I saw Bette standing off to the left of the stage with a smug look on her face. In hindsight, I should have known from the moment that my fingers went AWOL that Bette was nearby. It was disappointing to know that my performance, at least the part that had people cheering, wasn’t one of my own making.
As soon as the crowd began to disperse, I propped the guitar against my stool and hurried over to Bette.
“Why did you do that?” I gasped once I reached her, frowning.
“Do what, love?” Bette did look honestly confused by my question, I’ll give her that.
“Make me play all great! Like you did with the Violin?” I argued.
“Clara,” Bette took my shaking hands into hers, and I let go of some of my anxiety. What can I say, since I knew she had that effect on me, I decided to let her use it.
“We do have a lot to discuss,” Bette said, nodding to the stage, “but I assure you that I had nothing to do with that. You have more than one gift it seems. But we will have to figure all of that out later.”
I didn’t want to believe her, but the opposite of that meant believing that she’d somehow used magic or something to make me play, and that didn’t make a whole lot of sense either. I was thinking of how to respond when an arm draped over my shoulder.
“Dang, you little tease!” Vera said, shaking me playfully. “With finger skills like that, you could teach me a thing or two.”
I decided to let her double-meaning go and offered up a weak smile. “Nah, you’re just a great teacher.” I said weakly.
Vera wasn’t buying my bull, but she was more interested in Bette at the moment, so she didn’t press me any further.
“Who’s your friend, Claire?” Vera offered up her handsomest smile to Bette, who only nodded politely.
“This is Elizabetta. She’s got the best collection of antique instruments here,” I said, wishing Vera would take her arm from around my shoulder. I had a suspicion that it was irking Bette. That or she just didn’t like Vera in general.
“Cool,” said Vera, looking from me and back to Bette, clearly trying to decide what we were to each other. Maybe once Vera figured it out, she could clue me in as well.
The three of us stood there for a full minute, smiling politely without either of us coming up with something to say. It quickly moved beyond the acceptable silence rule, and I couldn’t take it. Awkward silence makes me say stupid things and this time was no exception.
“Bette’s great with her fingers too!” I said, realizing how that must have sounded a bit too late. My f
ace flushed with embarrassment. “I mean, uh, you should hear her play the violin. It’s magical.”
Bette looked to me with amusement, clearly enjoying seeing me squirm.
Vera, always with a few brain cells in the gutter, said, “I’d love to watch you two play together sometime.”
I’d thought my face couldn’t get any redder, but I had been wrong. Bette had mercy on me finally and leaned in to caress my cheek.
“We’ve only an hour left before the car comes, so finish up your business here soon, mi dolce.” Bette quickly kissed me, the kind of kiss that skirted the line between culturally customary and sexually charged, before turning her attention to Vera.
“Don’t tire my Claire out; I have plans for her later.”
With her claim laid down, Bette glided away, leaving me with Vera smiling like the Cheshire cat. She slapped me on the ass, saying, “I just knew you were a Sister. Where’s Cass, she owes me five bucks!”
Great. One naked groping session and I was already giving out the “L-Vibe”. If I ever actually had sex (that I could remember) with Bette, would it become transparent to everyone? I didn’t even have it in me to protest. I wasn’t sure that I could do it with a straight face, so I just shrugged.
Vera left me to seek out Cassidy and I stood alone in a sea of thousands. It seemed I was the only person for miles who was still unclear which side of the sexual fence I was on. At that point, I wasn’t interested in love, or even romance.
The bitter taste in my mouth from Pete was still going strong and I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready to commit to someone again. It just didn’t seem worth the inevitable trouble later. Sex, on the other hand, wasn’t forever and didn’t have to be complicated unless you let it. In theory, that is.
Chapter 9
Two hours later, I was back in my hotel room with some time to kill. Bette said she was taking care of some business, and that she’d swing by to pick me up at nine. That left me with more than enough time to shower, dress, and flip through all thirty channels available on television, oh, about a million times.
