Departure from the Script
Page 3
“I wish you’d had that idea before I drank enough to put down a rhino,” Amanda mumbled and rubbed her temples.
An impish grin flashed across the butch’s face. “Sorry.”
“What happened then?”
“I offered to drive you home or call you a taxi, but you refused to tell me where you live. Now I’m not so sure you even remembered your address. So it was either let you wander about the parking lot in the middle of the night or take you home with me.”
That sounded plausible. Amanda wasn’t proud of drinking so much that she lost her memory and all sense of orientation, but at least she hadn’t slept with a complete stranger. “And why didn’t I sleep in the guestroom?” From what she had seen of the house, it was big enough to have at least a second bedroom.
“I don’t have one. I turned the second bedroom into a studio when I first moved in.”
So her rescuer was an artist. Or was she talking about a recording studio? Amanda shook her still pounding head and curbed her curiosity. They’d never see each other again, so it didn’t matter what she did for a living. “Then why didn’t I sleep on the couch?”
“Because that’s where I slept,” the butch said. “My grandfather would turn in his grave if I let a lady sleep on the couch.”
Amanda sighed. “I didn’t behave like much of a lady last night.”
The butch chuckled. “Um, no, you didn’t. Your wandering hands almost landed us in the ditch twice before we finally made it to my house.”
“Excuse me?” Amanda squinted at the woman. She was kidding, right? With her constant wink, Amanda couldn’t tell.
“You really, really seemed to like my thighs and…um…well, a few other body parts.”
Amanda wanted to sink under the breakfast bar and never come out again. Out of the corner of her eye, she peeked at the butch’s thighs. Even though she liked her women not quite so athletic, she had to admit that this was a fine pair of legs. Cut it out! She jerked her gaze upward. What the hell was going on with her? Never, ever in her life would she drink those mind erasers again. That drink was really messing with her head, even now, on the morning after. “But when we got here, I behaved myself, right?”
“Ah, well, you tried to undress me, but… Don’t get me wrong, if we had met under different circumstances, I certainly wouldn’t push you out of bed,” the butch flashed a grin that showed off even, white teeth, “but sleeping with a drunken woman is not my style. I just led you to my bedroom, where you struggled out of your clothes, fell face-first on my bed, and started snoring like a lumberjack.”
Okay, it’s official now. I’ll be the one to die—of embarrassment. Amanda sent her a pleading gaze. “I’m really, really sorry.”
“Again, you’ve got nothing to apologize for. Well, the snoring wasn’t half as pleasant as the kissing, but it was kind of cute.” The butch chuckled.
Amanda made a face. “No, really. You went to a lot of trouble to get me out of a bad situation, and all I do when I wake up is treat you as if you did something wrong.”
“It’s okay. I’d freak out too if I woke up in a stranger’s house, not knowing what happened.”
For a few minutes, they sat next to each other without talking, Amanda busy digesting what she’d just found out and the butch eating her pancakes, which had probably gone cold by now.
“So,” the butch said when she carried the dishes to the sink, “anything else you want to know about last night?”
“I’ve got one more question,” Amanda said. “But it’s not about last night.”
“Oh? What is it, then? Come on, out with it.” The butch turned and winked with her right eye, the one that didn’t have the scar. “After doing the tonsil tango with me, there’s no reason to be shy.”
Ignoring her blush, Amanda finally asked, “What’s your name?” She still didn’t know this stranger, but thinking of her just as “the butch” didn’t feel right anymore.
The woman chuckled. She piled the dishes in the sink, wiped her fingers on her jeans, and held out her right hand. “Michelle Osinski. Nice to meet you.”
“Amanda Clark.” She shook Michelle’s hand. “And what do you go by?”
Michelle’s brows pinched together. “Go by?” Then her expression cleared. “Oh, you thought… No, it’s just Michelle.”
“Oh. Okay.” For some reason, Amanda had expected a more tough-sounding nickname. One more stereotype bites the dust.
Michelle laughed. “You thought all butches have names like Chris, Mel, or Sam? Sorry to disappoint.”
“Um, no, of course I didn’t think that.” Amanda rubbed her cheeks. They were burning, as were her earlobes.
Michelle patted her arm. “Relax, will you? I’m just teasing.” She put her hands in her jeans pockets.
Amanda couldn’t help watching the muscles play in her arms. Normally, she didn’t like buff women, but on Michelle, it looked natural. She wrenched her gaze away and rubbed her eyes. I’ll never drink vodka again. Ever.
“Now that you’ve got something in your stomach, I’ll get you a Tylenol,” Michelle said. “Let’s go get comfortable while we wait for the painkillers to kick in.” She put her hand on the small of Amanda’s back as if she wanted to lead her to the living room.
Her touch made Amanda’s skin heat up. Uncomfortable with her body’s strange reaction, she pulled away. “No, thanks. My headache is a lot better already.” She was ready to escape this embarrassing situation and go home.
After studying Amanda more intently than most casting directors, Michelle shook her head and said, “You really don’t like me, do you?”
“W-what?” Amanda stood and white-knuckled the edge of the breakfast bar. “What makes you think that?” Had she really given Michelle that impression? If anything, she was grateful for her help. Grateful and mortally embarrassed.
“You keep looking at me like you’re afraid I’m going to try and lure you back into bed and have my way with you.”
“No, that’s not—”
“Listen, I got the message. You don’t go for butch women. And that’s fine with me because I,” Michelle tapped her chest, “promised myself to never, ever get involved with an actress again. Two of my exes are actresses, and no offense, but I could do without the drama that comes with being in a relationship with a Hollywood diva.”
Wow. Amanda sank against the breakfast bar. “Are you always so direct?” In her world full of flatterers, opportunists, and professional pretenders, no one ever came right out and told her what he or she thought of her. Well, no one but the camel that let her know in no uncertain terms that it didn’t like her—by biting her.
“Usually,” Michelle said, shrugging. “It saves time.” With a rueful smile she added, “It also got me slapped a time or two.”
Her expression made Amanda laugh. “Your actress exes?”
“No. Throwing dishes was more their style.”
Oh, yeah. Amanda had once shared a trailer with a soap opera diva like that. “Is that how you got your scar?” She pointed at the corner of her eye and then jerked her hand away. She normally wasn’t one to ask such personal questions the first time she met someone. Guess being direct is contagious.
Automatically, Michelle’s finger came up to touch the scar. “No. I got quite good at ducking the occasional flying plate. I had that scar long before I met my exes. But the story of how I got it is not quite as spectacular as what happened with your scar.”
Amanda groaned. “Did the whole bar see my shoulder?”
“No, not the whole bar. I was sitting right next to you when you showed off that scar.”
Even now, Amanda’s memory remained blank. She hazily remembered sliding onto a barstool. Yes, a woman had been sitting next to her, but she hadn’t paid her any attention. “Are you trying to change the topic? We were talking about your scar, not mine.”
“Guilty as charged, ma’am.” Michelle lifted both hands. “Okay, here’s the story. When I was four or five, my brother and I
were fighting over some toy. I tackled him, and when he tried to crawl away with the toy, I held on to his leg. That’s when he kicked out.”
“Ouch.” For once, Amanda was glad to be an only child. “Who got the toy in the end?”
Michelle chuckled. “Who do you think?”
“I have a feeling you always get what you want.”
A grin tugged up the small scar. “Does that mean you’ll come to the living room with me?” Michelle sobered. “Listen, I’m really not trying to get fresh with you or anything, but you look like hell. You should really take a Tylenol and wait for it to kick in before you get behind the wheel.”
Her honesty was disarming. And she was right. Driving with a hangover was almost as bad as drunk driving. Waiting a few more minutes before they left wouldn’t hurt, especially now that they both knew where they stood. “All right. You win.”
Michelle’s living room made Amanda’s small apartment seem like an emergency shelter. Two recliners were angled toward a cozy fireplace that made the stylish room look more inviting. A red fleece blanket had slipped off the leather couch, where Michelle had slept.
As in the bedroom, framed prints dominated this room too. Next to the TV hung a large photograph of two gnarled, age-spotted hands cradling a tiny baby. In another print, half a dozen kids between the ages of two and twelve piled onto Michelle, hugging her. All of them shared the same hair and eye color, like rich Swiss chocolate. Michelle, who was crouched to be at eye level with the smaller kids, looked as if she was about to be toppled under the onslaught, but instead of catching herself, she steadied the youngest child with both hands, preventing him from falling.
“That’s a great picture,” Amanda said, pointing.
Michelle turned and regarded the photo with a fond expression. “Yeah. That’s my brother’s brood.”
Amanda stared at her. “Your brother has six children?”
“What can I say? Marty never knew when to stop.” Michelle set the bottle of painkillers and a glass of water on the coffee table. She bent, picked up the blanket, and folded it. Sweeping her arm, she invited Amanda to sit.
Amanda took two steps toward her and then stopped when the largest DVD collection she had ever seen caught her attention; even her own paled in comparison. There had to be at least one thousand DVDs, filling shelf after shelf in a ceiling-high bookcase. “Wow. Apparently, you don’t know when to stop either.”
Michelle laughed. Not the polite little laugh or dainty giggle that was so common in Hollywood circles, but a full-out laugh that seemed to fill the air with joy.
At the loud sound, Amanda’s headache flared up, making her wince.
“Sorry.” Michelle stopped laughing and pressed her fingers to her full lips, but her eyes still twinkled. “Yeah, I go a bit overboard when it comes to movies. Would I have anything that you’re in?”
Amanda had long since learned to expect that question whenever people found out she was an actress. “Do you tape commercials or bad soap operas?”
“Um, no.”
“Then no, you don’t have anything I’m in.”
An understanding smile spread across Michelle’s face. “Ah, so your career hasn’t yet taken off. Don’t worry; it will. You’ve got the face for it.”
Amanda eyed her. Was Michelle one of these smooth-talking butches who complimented women left and right? After almost five years in Hollywood, Amanda was immune to that kind of flattery. “Thanks, I think,” she said and crossed the room. “At least your lines are much better than those of my red-haired drinking buddy.” She winced as soon as she had said it. Being hungover sure didn’t improve her tactfulness.
“Lines?” Michelle shook her head. “Nope. I leave delivering lines to you actresses. I really meant it. You know, you remind me of my favorite actress of all time. I thought so as soon as I saw you last night.”
“So who’s your favorite actress? Sandra Bullock in Twenty-Eight Days?” Amanda couldn’t remember most of last night, but her behavior must have been just as embarrassing as that of the movie’s alcoholic main character. She took a step toward the coffee table to pick up the Tylenol.
Michelle laughed, though not as loudly as before. “No. It wasn’t the fact that you were drinking like a fish that reminded me of my favorite actress. It’s the way you move and those earnest, big blue eyes of yours. You really look like a modern-day version of Josephine Mabry.”
Amanda crashed into the coffee table. She flailed her arms in a desperate attempt to regain her balance.
Only Michelle’s quick reflexes kept her from falling. “Careful.” She still held on to Amanda’s arm but gentled her grip. “You all right?”
“Yes. Thanks.” Amanda knew she was gaping, but she couldn’t help it. Was Josephine Mabry really her favorite actress, or had Michelle just said that to flatter her? No. She couldn’t know. And Amanda believed her when she said she wasn’t one to use pretty lines just to flatter people. She sank onto the couch and swallowed two Tylenol. “You mentioning Josephine Mabry just caught me by surprise.”
Michelle sat next to her and finally relinquished her hold on Amanda’s arm. She leaned back and chuckled. “What, you thought I just watch movies like Terminator and Rocky, maybe with a bit of sports and porn thrown in?”
Heat shot into Amanda’s face. Michelle wasn’t the stereotypical butch—if such a thing even existed—so she really had to stop making stupid assumptions. Ignoring her blush, she held Michelle’s gaze. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just that you’re not exactly in the typical age group for a fan.”
Michelle fluffed her short hair. “I’ll have you know I’ve got two gray hairs already. And I’ve been a fan for twenty-five years.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
“God, you Hollywood people are a mistrustful bunch. Twenty-five years, I swear.” Michelle held up three fingers in a Scout’s honor gesture. “I watched all her movies with my grandfather when I was a kid. I think he had a crush on Ms. Mabry. Well, and maybe, just maybe I had a tiny crush on her too. Who could blame us? She was quite the looker in her day.”
“Yes,” Amanda said, “she was.”
“Are you a fan too?” Michelle asked.
Amanda smiled. “Well, I guess you could say that. She’s my grandmother.”
Michelle’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”
Amanda nodded.
The leather creaked as Michelle turned toward her on the couch. Her knee almost touched Amanda’s thigh, but by now, her proximity wasn’t as uncomfortable as before. “Wow, that’s amazing. I feel a bit starstruck all of a sudden.” The slightest bit of color dusted her cheeks.
Cute, Amanda thought and then shook her head. “I’m not the star. My grandmother is.”
“Yeah, but you’re an actress too, and I bet given the chance, you’d be just as good. What did she think about you becoming an actress?”
“I guess she’s got conflicted feelings about it,” Amanda said.
“Really? I’d have thought she would be as proud as a peacock of its tail feathers.”
Amanda chuckled. “She is. If there were an Oscar for commercials, she would try to get me nominated.”
The laugh lines around Michelle’s eyes deepened. “So where do the conflicted feelings come in?”
“She knows the business,” Amanda said, surprising herself with how willingly she answered this stranger’s questions. “Most actresses never make it in Hollywood, and if they do, it’s at a price. If you want to make a living as an actress, you’ll have to take parts you don’t want, work with people you don’t like, and smile through it all. Some people even say you have to sell a piece of your soul to make it in Hollywood.”
“I never got the impression that your grandmother did that.” Michelle turned a bit more so that she was fully facing Amanda and laid her left arm along the back of the couch. “I mean, she made some movies that were highly controversial in their time, and she refused to let herself be typecast as a demure damsel or a seductress.”
“So she knows you’re gay?” A blush crept up Michelle’s neck. “I mean…if you are gay. Just because you told that guy in the bar you’re a lesbian and couldn’t keep your hands off me when you were smashed, I shouldn’t assume that…”
For once, Amanda wasn’t the flustered one. She smiled. “Relax. I’m gay. And yes, my grandmother knows. She was the first person I came out to.”
“And she’s fine with it?”
“She says if that’s what makes me happy, then she’s all for it.”
Michelle casually touched Amanda’s shoulder. “That’s what my grandfather said to me too. It’s a shame those two never met. They would have made a great couple.”
Amanda considered it for a moment. If Michelle’s grandfather had married her grandmother, that would make them siblings or cousins. She shook her head. The longer she talked to Michelle, the more she liked her—but it wasn’t in a sisterly way. The thought took her by surprise. You’re not attracted to her, are you? No, of course she wasn’t. Besides, she was too hungover to feel anything but nauseated. “I bet they would have liked each other,” she said, “but I really can’t imagine my grandmother with anyone but my grandfather.”
“I know what you mean,” Michelle said. “I can’t imagine my grandfather with anyone but my grandmother either.”
Silence spread between them, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable.
After a while, Michelle pointed at the wall of DVDs. “Do you want to watch one of your grandmother’s movies? I have them all.”
Amanda glanced at her watch. She had more than enough time, but was it really a good idea to hang out here for much longer? After everything that Michelle had done for her, she didn’t want to overstay her welcome.