by Sandy Lowe
“Whoa, you okay there?”
Breath coasted against Emma’s cheek when the woman spoke into her ear. Emma shivered and every ounce of sense she’d ever possessed evaporated. Her purse landed sideways on the floor, spilling paraphernalia. The grilled cheese flew from her grasp as she struggled to compose herself, landing a foot away on the floor that hadn’t had more than a cursory mopping in ten years.
Diagnosis: not okay. Possible mental instability characterized by loss of motor control, inappropriate shivering, and head swirlies.
Could this day get any worse? She righted herself and turned to glare at the unhelpfully helpful perpetrator. Her swirling head had only just caught up with itself when she fell into the soft gray eyes of Lauren West. Well, there was her answer. The day could definitely get worse, and she’d just boarded the express train. Destination: mortification.
“Sorry.” Lauren let her go quickly, as if prolonging their contact might cause Emma to spontaneously combust this time. She bent down to scoop Emma’s stuff back into her purse. To her credit, she didn’t even blink at the prescription bottle for Valium or the tampon still in its flowery paper. She just shoved it all back in and handed the purse to Emma. “I was actually trying to help and ended up making everything worse. Story of my life.”
Lauren’s smile was all I’m-so-charming-please-forgive-me.
Emma had no idea what to say. She couldn’t ever seem to say anything to Lauren, even when she wanted to. She just stood there like an idiot with her mouth open and the imprint of Lauren’s body along her side embedded with enough heat for a branding iron. Her cheeks grew steadily warmer and sweat broke out across her forehead. Say something. Don’t just stand there. But the voice inside her head was all bark and no bite, a drill sergeant with no authority. Emma managed a halfhearted smile but couldn’t make words around the lump ballooning in her throat. Story of her life. She turned back to the door that had caused all the trouble in the first place, preparing to flee.
“Wait.” Lauren’s hand was back, preventing the door from opening this time. “Emma, right? How are you?”
Surprise had Emma spinning around, words popping out of her mouth before she had time to think about it. “You know who I am?”
Lauren shrugged. “Yeah. How are you?”
“I’m fine.” Emma drew out the word so one syllable became three. How was she? What kind of a question was that? No one went around asking people how they were.
“Good,” Lauren said. “I’m not. But then you probably already knew that. That’s why you can barely look at me. You and everyone else in this town.”
That was so not why Emma couldn’t look at Lauren. But she wasn’t about to tell her the real reason, not when she was still all tingly. Now that she’d managed actual words, others came a bit easier, even if she did deliver them to the floor. “It sounds like you’ve had it rough. I’m sorry. I’m not going to judge you. I mean, we all make mistakes.” Lauren’s mistake had been quite a bit heftier than your average screwup, but Emma only knew what she’d heard, and hearsay wasn’t always reliable. She wasn’t going to judge Lauren until she knew if there was something worth judging.
Lauren opened her mouth like she wanted to say more, then closed it again.
“What?” Emma asked. For some reason, Lauren censoring herself bothered Emma. Yeah, right, because someone as beautiful as Lauren is going to confide all her deep, dark secrets standing by the exit of a bar with greasy cheese at her feet.
“Do you want to dance?” Lauren asked.
“What?” She really had to expand her vocabulary beyond that word. Finally getting up the courage to talk to Lauren was a level of awesome she never thought she’d achieve. Gaping at her like a carp, though? Totally ruining it.
Lauren gestured to the dance floor like Emma needed the visual to make sense of her invitation. “Do you want to dance? I promise not to step on your toes.” She smiled her charming smile again.
Emma frowned. Lauren grabbing her so she didn’t faceplant, she could buy, but dancing? They’d known each other for years. Well, she had known who Lauren was anyway, but Lauren had barely spoken to her before tonight. Now she wanted to dance with her? It made no sense.
The silence hung expectantly between them and Lauren’s smile wobbled. “Never mind. Let’s get this mess cleaned up at least.” Lauren grabbed a stack of napkins from a nearby table and managed to scoop the sandwich back into the Styrofoam container, then three-pointed it into a trashcan. “Sorry I ruined your dinner. Can I buy you another?”
“Doesn’t that line have something to do with a drink?” Emma asked.
Lauren stepped closer, and the door behind Emma became less of an exit and something more enveloping. The air grew heavy, pressing in on her, implausible humidity in the middle of winter. Lauren wasn’t touching her, but she was so close Emma barely had to use her imagination to feel the weight of Lauren’s body against hers again. Her blood heated and she bit her bottom lip. This was bad. This was really, really bad. She focused on her breathing.
“Okay, can I buy you a drink?” Lauren asked.
Emma didn’t need one. Not with the way her head was spinning and her stomach was dipping. “Why? I mean, you barely even know who I am.”
Lauren paused as if giving the question an honest evaluation. “Maybe I want to know who you are. You’re beautiful and I’m having a pretty lousy week. I’d like some company from someone who won’t judge me.”
Emma scoffed at that. “I’d say lousy is an understatement, and I’m not beautiful, anyway.”
“Have pity on me then.”
Lauren thought the only way Emma would have a drink with her was out of pity? Was she insane? “Don’t do that,” Emma said.
“Do what?” Lauren asked.
“Put yourself down. You don’t need a pity drink. Half the girls here would love to drink with you. Or dance with you.”
Lauren touched her lightly on the shoulder. The gesture wasn’t the least bit sexual, but it spoke volumes. “But I want to dance with you.”
Emma swallowed. Apparently, this had nothing to do with other girls. She didn’t get what was going on here and that wasn’t good, not with the way her imagination was always running away with itself. But, on the other hand, did that really matter right now? Unrequited crushes were the most painful kind. Hope and hopelessness in constant tug-of-war, and the outcome never quite certain. For whatever reason, drunk, or lonely, or just having a bad night, her unrequited crush wanted to dance with her. Was Emma really going to turn her down because… There was no because except her own inner monologue. Damn if she was going to get in her own way this time. That settled the argument that had never required settling in the first place.
“Let’s dance,” Emma said.
Lauren led her to a token dance floor some enterprising soul had wrestled into an unused corner of the room. The lighting was low and the music was old school country. Emma was relieved that when Lauren had said dance, she hadn’t meant anything with actual steps. They fell into the swaying shuffle typical of people who’d never learned anything more. Dancing was one of those skills that had gone the way of letter writing, so old-fashioned as to be quaint.
“You’re so beautiful,” Lauren murmured against her ear as she pulled Emma in closer than was friendly.
Emma fought a bubble of panic when Lauren’s arms came around her. Her heart pounded against her ribcage like a violent inmate. She was holding herself too stiffly and telegraphing her awkwardness. Why didn’t she just hold up a sign that read this is a really big deal to me. They were barely touching, but she was so aware of Lauren they may as well have been stuck together like Post-it’s. Why in God’s name did she think she could dance? She could barely breathe.
Emma shook her head. “Please don’t do that. I know I’m not beautiful. You don’t have to pretend. I’ll still dance with you.”
Lauren pulled back and stared directly into her eyes. Emma felt herself blush, yet again. It had been a ve
ry long time since anyone had really looked at her, and never quite the way Lauren was.
“You’re beautiful,” Lauren said. “So what if you’re not some cardboard cutout, California Barbie doll princess bikini model.”
With that little declaration out of the way, Lauren settled Emma back into the bend of her body and moved them in a lazy circle. She willed herself to relax. Every time she got even halfway there Lauren’s thigh would brush hers, and distracting sparks of heat would make it impossible to focus on anything else. How was she supposed to have a good time while simultaneously ignoring the rush of Iwantyoubad taking over her body? Somehow, she had to manage not to make a total idiot of herself.
“I’m not sure anyone is all that.”
“You know what I mean. Some fucked up version of femininity gracing the cover of Insecurity magazine. You’re unique and quirky, and you have curves for days.”
Wow. Lauren West thought she had curves. She seemed to think this was a good thing. If this was a dream, Emma never wanted to wake up. “Thanks.”
“Thanks for dancing with me.” Lauren trailed her fingers down Emma’s spine one vertebrae at a time like the rungs of a ladder she was descending. The lower Lauren’s fingers went, the weaker Emma’s knees grew. If she made it all the way to her tailbone, Emma was going to fall to the floor in her version of a swoon, kind of like dropping a sack of potatoes from a great height. Lauren stopped respectably mid-waist and Emma was simultaneously disappointed and relieved. Her fantasy brain wanted Lauren to keep going, to cup her ass, bringing their bodies together, and kiss her senseless. But that was the thing about fantasies, they weren’t reality for a reason. If Lauren had cupped her ass and kissed her, Emma’s reality brain would’ve thought it was mightily presumptuous, because what kind of person gropes a woman on the dance floor? The gross lecherous kind, and that would’ve ruined everything.
Emma shook her head slightly, as if she could dislodge the thoughts. This was exactly the kind of thing that made her different from other people. She finally had the opportunity to spend quality time with the girl of her dreams, and instead of enjoying it, she was pondering the inexplicable meanderings of her own brain, forever getting in her own way.
The music wound around them, a crooning melody of love everlasting and they swayed to it with no particular rhythm or skill. Lauren caressed her back every now and then, and Emma’s lips were only an inch from the tantalizing column of Lauren’s throat. Her skin lit up, sensitive and tingling wherever Lauren touched her, until she had to close her eyes and focus on her breathing. Her palms were sweating so much she didn’t dare touch Lauren. She wanted to stop dancing. She wanted to dance the night away. She wanted time to compose herself. She wanted to lose herself in the moment. She wanted to be cool and sophisticated and witty. She wanted Lauren to see the real her and like her anyway.
Undecided, she hung limp in Lauren’s arms, breathing like she needed a paper bag. Her anxiety had to be sexy as all fuck.
The music eased to a finish and Lauren stepped back, looking into her eyes again. “Are you okay?”
She wanted to sink to the floor, then curl up in a ball and never move. “I’m sorry. I’m…” Certifiably ridiculous, and also kind of in love with you.
But she couldn’t finish her apology because the look in Lauren’s eyes wasn’t mocking, not even close to that irritating brand of concern most people adopted in the face of her unease—all pity, wrapped in sympathy, and sprinkled with condescension. Lauren was looking at her like…like it’d been the best dance of her life. Lauren ran a hand through her chestnut hair calling attention to the way her chest rose and fell, not exactly steadily. Huh, that was interesting.
Lauren touched her fingers to Emma’s cheek. “You’re so pretty when you blush.”
Emma groaned. “Stop. You’ll make it worse. I look like a clown.”
“It’s pretty.”
Emma shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve been sitting on my ass all day, my clothes are wrinkled, and I can’t remember if I brushed my hair this morning. I must look like a street urchin.”
Lauren’s fingers curved around her jaw, caressing her face. “You look sexy, like I’ve just fucked you.”
Emma blinked. Every drop of blood, every cell in her body, every everything she had, rushed between her legs and began to pound madly.
But, also, what?
Lauren jerked back, her expression going from sensual to horrified in a nanosecond. “Oh my God. I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that. I would never…I…oh my God.”
Lauren closed her eyes briefly. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe I said that.”
“Neither can I,” Emma said, then burst out laughing.
She wasn’t sure why she was laughing, it wasn’t funny, but the tension that had been building since the moment Lauren had cornered her by the door escaped out her mouth in uncontrollable giggles until she was gasping.
Lauren smiled slowly. She started laughing too, and they stood there, in the middle of the dance floor, laughing like loons and holding each other up.
“I’m so sorry,” Lauren said again.
Emma grinned. For some reason Lauren saying something so undeniably inappropriate made her feel better about her own inexhaustible list of embarrassing qualities. “It’s okay. I mean, my blushing makes women lose their minds. It’s a thing. I’m used to it.”
“It does,” Lauren said right as she got control of herself and her giggles died.
It does. It did. Her laughter melted away as that mind-blowing little fact pulled out a chair and made itself at home in her brain. Lauren thought she was pretty. And not just pretty, but sexy. She thought Emma looked like a sexily rumpled after photo in a makeover. Or maybe, the after shot in a porno, depending on Lauren’s preferred level of dirtiness. Emma really, really wanted to know what level of dirtiness Lauren preferred. Was she slow and romantic? All candlelight and rose petals. Or was she impatient and demanding? Shoving her lover up against the closest vertical surface and making her forget about comfort. Was she vanilla or kinky? Dominant or submissive? Vocal or quiet? Emma’d wondered these things for years, but knowing that Lauren found her attractive turned the wondering into obsession.
She should be annoyed, offended even, that Lauren looked at her and thought about sex. Emma was smart and nice and kind to animals. All those things should matter a hell of a lot more than being sexy. She knew this. She believed this. But she was still ridiculously flattered.
The pulsing between her legs that had started when Lauren said, “like I’ve just fucked you” wasn’t going away either. She was wet. This wasn’t a news flash under the circumstances. She’d been wet around Lauren countless times in her humiliating high school years. Lauren’s endlessly tan legs in running shorts, her perfect breasts in tight T-shirts, her mouthwatering wicked grin—they could all make Emma wet. But she was shy. This was a fact she’d lived with since preschool and it didn’t really bother her that much, except that unfortunately, her shyness escalated to king-size proportions around Lauren. Her shyness was linked to her hormones in some masochistically destructive fashion that ensured she never got laid, least of all by the person she desperately wanted to notice her.
And now, here they were, a handful of years later, with Lauren admitting her attraction in the most awkward way possible, and making Emma so damn wet she was going to faint from all the blood that wasn’t in her head. The idea that maybe Lauren was just as self-conscious as she was made Emma like her even more.
Lauren took her hand, and Emma realized they were still standing in the middle of the dance floor. “We should—” she started, but Lauren cut her off.
“Come home with me.”
Emma swallowed back the fuckyesanywhere that was her first instinct. Home. To a house with a bed, or a vertical surface, or any surface that wasn’t public. “Lauren—”
“I know it might be the last thing you want, considering what a moron I just was. But I like you.”
&nbs
p; Emma raised her eyebrows. “You like the way I look. You don’t know me.”
Lauren opened her mouth to argue but closed it again. “Yeah, okay. I like the way you look. It’s hard to deny that now. Is that so bad?”
Good was the opposite of bad, but good didn’t come close to describing how much of a dream come true it was that Lauren wanted her. She bit her lip. She wanted Lauren more than she wanted oxygen right at this second. But…
She shook her head. “It’s not bad. There’s nothing wrong with having sex because you’re attracted. But that’s not me. I’m just not cut out for one-night stands. I’d feel weird having sex with someone I didn’t really know.” That last part was a little bit of a lie, but Lauren didn’t need to know that. She didn’t need to know that Emma was afraid that if she had sex with Lauren she’d never want to stop, that she’d want more, and that Lauren wouldn’t. She’d get hurt, and doing something you know will hurt you was just stupid.
Call her crazy, but her fantasy brain wanted to hold on to this moment. She wanted to keep it safe in one of those snow globes protected by heavy glass. Something she could pull out every once in a while to shake up her boring life. No amount of mind-melting sex was worth the I’m-done-with-you-now that would surely follow and break her fantasy to pieces. Going home with Lauren would result in the world’s most satisfying orgasm, but the morning after would destroy her heart. Not going home with her would leave her wondering just what might’ve been for the rest of her damn life. She wasn’t sure which was worse.
Chapter Four
At nine in the morning, Lauren and Roxie were ensconced at a table at Down Home Diner, smack-dab in the center of town. Roxie’s eyes were so huge she looked as if she were imitating a stuffed animal. “You said what?”
