by Jae
Amanda pulled Michelle’s card from the pocket of her slacks and trailed her finger over the name. “I don’t know.” Part of her was fascinated by Michelle, but another part was sure that it’d never work out.
“Oh, come on. Finding an honorable woman in Hollywood is about as rare as finding a virgin in a harem. Why don’t you give her a ch—?”
The ringing of Amanda’s landline interrupted.
Saved by the bell. “Sorry, Kath, I have to go. It’s probably my grandmother. I promised I’d come over after my shift at the juice bar.”
“All right. Say hi to my favorite actress for me.”
“I thought I was your favorite actress?”
“Uh…” Kathryn cleared her throat. “Shouldn’t you pick up the phone?”
Laughing, Amanda said good-bye and pressed the end button on her cell phone.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” her grandmother said instead of a greeting. “I just read on the Hollywood Insider blog that they gave your role to that horrible Sleazy.”
Amanda suppressed a giggle. “Her name is Lizzy, Grandma; you know that.” Her grandmother wasn’t all that far off, though. Amanda had the sneaking suspicion that Lizzy had gotten comfortable on more than a few casting couches, even during their short-lived relationship.
“They don’t know what they’re missing. Now the scariest thing in that movie will be the acting.”
Ice clinked on the other end of the line, and Amanda could imagine her grandmother setting down a glass of bourbon on the coffee table next to her iPad. “The doctor said you’re not supposed to be drinking.”
Her grandmother huffed. “What does that kid know? I’m eighty-two. It won’t be the bourbon that kills me.”
Amanda hated to even think about her grandmother dying, so she quickly changed the subject and said the first thing that came to mind, “I met a woman yesterday.”
“I know,” her grandmother said. “I was the one who encouraged you to go out on Valentine’s Day instead of watching reruns of The Golden Girls with an old woman.”
“I like watching The Golden Girls with you. Besides, I’m not talking about Val, the woman Rob and Kathryn set me up with.”
“You aren’t? So you met two women in one night? Ooh la la! You’re clearly taking after me.”
Amanda snorted. “Grandma, you never even looked at a man other than Grandpa.”
“True,” her grandmother said in a dreamy tone. Ice clinked as if she were swirling her glass. “So who was this woman you met?”
“Her name is Michelle.”
“I once played a honky-tonk girl with that name,” her grandmother said.
Amanda chuckled as she imagined Michelle in a frilly dance hall dress. The mental image seemed all wrong. She liked her much better in jeans and a tight muscle shirt. The thought surprised her, but then she shrugged and admitted to herself that Michelle was a good-looking woman.
“So?” her grandmother drawled when Amanda stayed silent. “Tell me more about her.”
What could she say about Michelle? “I don’t know her that well. I just know that she’s a photographer. A really good one. She’s got good manners, a big family, and a kitchen that could house my entire apartment.”
“That’s more than I knew about your grandfather when I married him.”
“I’m not gonna marry her.”
“I’m not talking about marriage,” her grandmother said. “But she sounds nice. Will you see her again?”
Why did everybody keep asking her that? She didn’t have an answer yet. “I don’t know. She’s nice, but…” Amanda shrugged. “She’s not really my type.”
“What do you mean? You said she has good manners and a career of her own. Isn’t that what you want in a partner?”
“Yes, but…” Amanda tugged on her hair with her free hand. “I like feminine women, and Michelle is… Well, she’s not. She looks pretty butch, actually.”
Her grandmother seemed to consider this for a moment. “And that’s why you won’t go out with her again? Mandy, for a gay girl, you sound pretty prejudiced.”
Amanda gaped at the photo of her grandmother on her bookshelf. “I’m not prejudiced.” Or was she? Admittedly, some of her ideas about butch women had turned out to be pretty stereotypical and didn’t fit Michelle at all. But still the fact remained that she’d never been attracted to a butch before. “I just know my type, and it’s not butch women.”
“Your grandfather wasn’t my type either.”
“What? I always thought it was love at first sight.”
“It was—for him. But it took a day or two for me. When I was young, I mooned over James Dean and Marlon Brando. I liked those tough, brooding rebel types, and God knows, your grandfather wasn’t like that.”
Amanda’s gaze wandered to the next framed photo on her shelf, which showed her grandparents on their silver wedding anniversary. They were holding hands, looking into each other’s eyes, ignoring the photographer. She studied her grandfather’s work-worn hands and the deep laugh lines around his eyes. What she remembered most about him was his gentleness and his unconditional honesty—so different from the partying, phony Hollywood actors swarming her grandmother when she had been young.
“You hit the jackpot when you met Grandpa,” Amanda said. “But that doesn’t mean that I’ll be as lucky. Lately, all of my dates seem like the auditions I go to—I hope for the big relationship break, but all I get are short-lived bit roles.”
“That’s because you’re typecasting,” her grandmother said.
Amanda frowned, even though she’d been the one to start using acting metaphors for her love life. “Typecasting?”
“You keep dating gals like that Sleazy—”
“Lizzy.”
The ice in her grandmother’s drink clinked again, as if she had just taken a big sip of bourbon. “Yeah, her and those other ladies you dated.”
“Christ, you make it sound as if there’d been a string of them.”
“No. That’s not what I’m saying. But they’re all the same type: all of them dazzling beauties and most of them fellow actresses. And you know how actresses are. They’re after fame and fun, not after love and loyalty—present company excluded, of course.”
“Of course.” Amanda had to admit that her grandmother was right. “So you think I should stop typecasting my dates?”
“It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
Amanda fiddled with the card in her pocket. “Maybe I’ll call her,” she finally said. “She’s a fan of yours after all, so at least she’s got taste.”
“Ooh, she’s a fan? Then bring her over. I’d love to meet her.”
“So you can get out that photo album and show her embarrassing nude pictures of me? No, thanks.”
“Nude pictures? You were an adorable three-year-old reenacting Flipper in an inflatable pool!”
“All right, but still. If I really go out with her, I don’t want to scare off the poor woman by introducing her to my family on the second date.”
Her grandmother hummed her agreement. “I suppose that would be too fast, even for two lesbians.”
After finding out Amanda was gay, her grandmother had watched every lesbian movie and TV show ever made—even though she loudly complained about the acting in most of them—and she constantly baffled Amanda’s friends with her knowledge of pop culture references to toaster ovens and U-Hauls.
“I have to get going,” Amanda said. “My shift starts in an hour. I’ll come over after work and bring you some juice.”
“Drive carefully. And call that woman.”
“I will,” Amanda said, not knowing which of her grandmother’s requests she was referring to. She stared at her grandparents’ photo for a moment longer and then kicked herself into motion and hurried to the bedroom to change.
Amanda lay with her knees pulled up to accommodate the cat curled up at the bottom of her bed. The phone in one hand, she rubbed her thumb across the battered card in her other hand. Was Michel
le even still expecting her call? It had been a week since Valentine’s Day after all.
“What do you think, Mischief? Should I call her or not?”
At the sound of her voice, Mischief lifted his head and blinked sleepily. “Meow.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Mrrrauw.”
“Guess it is, huh?” She played with one of the card’s bent corners. Not that she really needed the card anymore. After calling Michelle three times in the past week—and always hanging up before she could pick up—she knew the number by heart. She hesitated with her thumb hovering over the first button. “Come on. Do it.”
The worst that could happen was that she’d discover that Michelle wasn’t her type at all and the attraction she had felt last week had been just a fluke, caused by too many mind erasers.
Determined, she typed in the number and, with her heart in her throat, lifted the phone to her ear.
After just one ring, her insecurities crept up again, and she moved her thumb to end the call, but the phone was picked up before she could do it.
“Hello?”
Amanda froze with her thumb over the end button. Why hadn’t she rehearsed what she wanted to say? Some actress you are. “Uh, hi. This is Amanda.”
“Hi, Amanda.” Michelle’s voice was warm and welcoming. “I wasn’t sure you’d call.”
Her frank honesty startled Amanda again, but she decided she liked it. “I wasn’t sure either.”
“I’m glad you did,” Michelle said.
Silence filled the line while Amanda debated whether she should say the same.
“So, how’s the acting biz treating you?” Michelle asked before Amanda’s inner debate came to a conclusion. “Any big, mean camels in your professional life right now?”
Amanda laughed and relaxed back against her pillow. “No. There’s a Chihuahua in my immediate future, but thank God, no camels.”
“A Chihuahua? Is this for a dog food commercial?”
“No, it’s a movie.”
“Wow, that’s great. Congratulations.”
Amanda scratched her neck, embarrassed at the enthusiasm in Michelle’s voice. “Nothing to get too excited about. It’s just a bit role, and I die a horrible death five minutes in.”
“Still, it’s a start, right?”
“Guess it is.” Amanda liked Michelle’s positive attitude toward life. She cleared her throat and wondered how to ask out a butch woman. Wasn’t the butch supposed to do the asking? Finally, she decided to toss all her preconceived notions overboard and just ask. “Listen, I’d really like to invite you to dinner as a small thank-you for all you did for me.”
“You don’t owe me anything.” Chuckling, Michelle added, “But, of course, that doesn’t mean I’m saying no to having dinner with you. Just tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.”
Strange how eager she was to get a date with Amanda. Hadn’t she said she would never date another actress? Amanda wanted to ask what had happened to that resolution but chickened out. Instead, she heard herself say, “How about Friday? Would seven work?”
“Seven sounds perfect.”
Amanda mentally flipped through the list of restaurants Michelle might like. There wasn’t exactly a shortage of restaurants in LA. “How about the Mexican restaurant on Oxnard Street? Do you like it spicy?”
“Oh, yeah. The spicier, the better.” Michelle laughed.
The low, sensual sound sent a shiver down Amanda’s back, as if Michelle had trailed a finger along her spine. “Food,” she said, glad that they were on the phone, so Michelle couldn’t see her blush. “I’m talking about food.”
“Of course. What did you think I was talking about?” Michelle was still chuckling. “But seriously, Mexican food is fine. Do you want me to pick you up?”
“Since I invited you, good manners dictate that I be the one to pick you up, don’t you think?”
Michelle hesitated for a second, as if not used to being the one picked up. “I’d like that,” she finally said. “Do you still remember where I live?”
“I think so.”
“Are you sure? You didn’t exactly pay much attention the last time we drove to my house—at least not to your surroundings.”
Heat crawled up Amanda’s neck. She still couldn’t believe she had groped Michelle in the car—even though she had to admit to being curious about how those muscular thighs would feel under her soft-looking, worn jeans. She cleared her throat. “I’ll find it.” She still had Michelle’s card with her address, so she would look it up online, just to be sure.
“Good,” Michelle said, a smile in her voice. “I look forward to Friday, then.”
“Me too.” It wasn’t one of the little white lies used so often in Hollywood. For the first time in longer than she cared to admit, Amanda found herself looking forward to a date. Long after they had said good-bye, she lay on her bed, smiling, the phone pressed to her ear.
CHAPTER 4
Michelle was sitting on the top step of her white front porch when Amanda pulled up in front of her house half an hour late. Oh, shit. Not the way to make a good first impression. But then she remembered that Michelle’s first impression of her had been that of a drunken stranger grabbing and kissing her.
As soon as she stopped her fifteen-year-old Mazda, Michelle jumped up and rushed down the stairs toward her. “I was beginning to worry,” she said as she got in on the passenger side. “I thought you got lost after all.”
That hadn’t been the problem. Thanks to Google, Amanda had found the place without any difficulties, but it had taken her forever to get ready for their date. She had obsessed over her hair and tried on five different outfits—only to end up wearing the first one she’d tried on. “No, sorry, I just…uh…lost track of time.”
Michelle studied her with one raised eyebrow. A slow grin spread across her face.
Amanda crossed her arms and gave her a faux strict look. “What’s that grin for? Don’t you believe me?”
“Grin? What grin?” Michelle tried to wipe the grin off her face and look innocent—without much success.
“You’re not trying to out-act an actress, are you?”
“Me?” Michelle touched her chest. “No, never.”
“Good, because you’re not fooling me, Michelle Veronica Osinski.”
Michelle winced at the use of her middle name. Then the grin left her face, and she regarded Amanda seriously. “I’m not trying to fool you. With me, what you see is what you get.”
Their gazes met and held for a few seconds.
“Before I forget to mention it,” Michelle finally said. “You look beautiful.”
Tugging at the hemline of her dress, Amanda shrugged. “Thanks. My grandmother always says you can’t go wrong with a little black dress if you’re a blonde.”
“Wise woman. Shall we?”
As Michelle reached for the seat belt, Amanda used the moment when she was distracted to study her. In a pair of black dress pants and a black vest, she looked sleek and elegant. Her ivory-colored shirt contrasted with her tanned skin and made her eyes look even darker. When she had the seat belt on, she tugged on her cuffs and touched her short hair as if to make sure it wasn’t sticking up at crazy angles.
Amanda grinned. Good to know that she wasn’t the only one who was a bit nervous.
“What’s that grin for?” Michelle asked as she turned toward her.
“Grin? What grin?” Amanda drew heavily on her acting skills to make herself sound innocent, doing a much better job than Michelle had.
Michelle reached over and nudged her arm. “Uh-huh. You’re not fooling me, Amanda I-don’t-know-your-middle-name Clark.”
At the touch, a tingle ran through Amanda’s arm. “Good.” For once, she wanted to have dinner with someone without having to pretend. After one last glance at the woman next to her, she started the car and pulled out of the driveway. “It’s Josephine, by the way.”
“Uh, what?”
“My middle name. I
t’s Josephine.”
“Oh, cool. After your grandmother, I assume?”
Amanda nodded. In later years, her parents had cursed themselves for that decision, since her grandmother was such a bad influence in their opinion. Sighing, she decided to focus on the present and leave the past in the past.
“Have you decided on something to drink?” the waiter asked.
Amanda considered it for a moment. On her date with Valentine, she had chugged down red wine as if there were no tomorrow, hoping it would help her survive the evening. Tonight, that wasn’t necessary. Michelle was pleasant company. During the drive to the restaurant, she had regaled her with funny anecdotes about her customers until Amanda’s sides and face ached from laughing so hard.
“They have a great peach and mango margarita,” Michelle said when Amanda hesitated.
Amanda shook her head. “Just some sparkling water with lime, please,” she said to the waiter before turning back to Michelle. “I’m driving after all, and I have a feeling that drinking around you is dangerous.”
“Me? Hey, the last time you were drinking, I was the one being grabbed and kissed senseless—not that I’m complaining, mind you.”
The waiter cleared his throat next to them. “And what can I get you, sir?”
Amanda blinked and stared at him. Was he blind? Yes, Michelle had short hair and preferred more masculine clothes, but with her sensuous mouth and her long lashes, she couldn’t be mistaken for a man.
Before Amanda could tell him to open his eyes and get a clue, Michelle said calmly, “It’s ma’am. And I’ll have what the lady is having.”
Mumbling an apology, the waiter hurried off.
Amanda reached across the table to touch Michelle’s hand for a moment. “I’m sorry.”
Michelle just grinned. “Don’t worry. I’m used to it. People see what they want to see.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?” Few things seemed to bother Michelle, and Amanda decided that she liked her calm energy, so different from many of the high-maintenance Hollywood divas she knew.
