“Love you, V.”
Work flew by surprisingly fast. Normally, an eight-hour day felt like twelve, but somehow, my nervous anticipation helped the clock tick faster on the wall instead of dragging it out.
I’d been with Stearns and Wilkes since I got out of college. I have a degree in business from the state university, but I hadn’t had a clue what I wanted to do with it when I graduated. I just knew I had to have one—a degree that is. The law firm was one of the largest on the East Coast, and I’d started as the receptionist. The guy who’d hired me hadn’t even pretended it was based on my potential—he flat out told me I’d appeal to their male clientele. That was seventeen years ago, which still did not put me at forty—close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades—and I still held that same special clout…appeal for the male clientele.
Only now, I was the Executive Secretary for one of the firm’s managing partners. That sounded fancy, but there were paralegals who did the actual paperwork and grunt research, and junior attorneys who worked the long hours, and another receptionist who answered all the phones. My job—make the best cup of coffee ever consumed by our clients and entertain them while they waited. I was there for them to look at but never touch—always appearing available but never actually being available. It paid well, really well, and came with a wardrobe allowance—so I wasn’t about to try to better myself or make my life meaningful. I’d remain shallow as long as they’d allow it.
Unfortunately, on slow days—or those my boss was in court, which were the majority of my week—the most I did was file my nails and paint them a new color. Today’s shade was “Pretty Posey.” I blew on my fingertips, waiting for five o’clock and the final coat to dry. I had about two hours to run by the liquor store for wine, get home to change and freshen up, and be at Beck’s by seven. I’d mentally picked out my outfit around 9:17 am, decided on my hair at 9:19 am, and started my first coat of “Pretty Posey” at 9:21 am. Beauty was a process—one I’d honed into an art form. But my entire day’s agenda had been completed twenty-three minutes after I’d clocked in. I expected the rest to drag, but my nerves had gotten the best of me and rounded it out in the blink of an eye.
I pulled up to the liquor store I frequented more often than I did the grocery store. It was owned by an older couple who actually knew their products. I respected that and rewarded their knowledge with my patronage. Often.
“Good to see you, Giselle.” Mrs. Grobin was a lovely lady. She and the Mister had traveled all over Europe and lived like gypsies for most of their twenties and thirties. When they’d finally decided to settle down with the knowledge they’d gained overseas, they ended up here with a quaint store less than a mile from my house. They took care of their regulars, one of which I’d quickly become. I wasn’t a lush by any means, but wine was a great way to curb the appetite and limit food consumption, which reduced the number of miles I had to log every morning before conquering the world at Stearns and Wilkes.
“Nice to see you as well.”
“Are you looking for anything in particular tonight?”
I stopped at the counter and tapped my freshly manicured nails in front of me as I pondered how to approach the need for the evening. “I have a date, and I’ve been tasked with wine. I’d like something that says ‘I appreciate your having me over’ but won’t break the bank or indicate I expect anything in return.”
“Aww, Giselle. You don’t need to take wine to a man. He’ll expect you to put out regardless. Save your money.”
I snickered. “True, but I offered. How about a spicy red?” I had no idea whether Beck liked red or white, nor what we were having for dinner, so I went for what tickled my fancy.
“Young lady, is that the message you want to send?” Only a seventy-year-old woman could consider another in her late thirties—we shall not use the dreaded F-word—a young lady.
“Absolutely. So, what do you recommend?”
She shook her head before leading me over to her first pick. “How about a pinot noir? Flowers Sea View Ridge is nice. It’s from a vineyard in Sonoma Valley.”
I quickly glanced at the price. Beck seemed like a nice girl, but I wasn’t spending seventy-five dollars on a bottle of wine I had to share. “How about something a little less…spicy?”
The elderly lady giggled at my innuendo before taking me farther down the aisle. “A Syrah should do the trick at half the price.”
I took the red she’d suggested and grabbed a bottle of sambuca on my way out. I’d had far too much time to think about Ronnie’s advice and concluded she was right. A shot or two would help me loosen up. I downed one when I walked in my front door and put a couple more in a flask to partake of before ringing Beck’s bell.
When I looked in the mirror, I was impressed with my reflection staring back at me. I’d decided appearing carefree would help ease my anxiety. If I weren’t concerned with my attire or my hair, then I could focus on other things—like not stabbing myself with a fork accidentally or knocking over red wine on her white carpet. I didn’t even know if she had carpet much less what color it was, but in my mind, it was a plausible scenario I wanted to avoid.
I’d stopped by the mall and talked to my favorite Sephora rep and tried to describe the gorgeous lip color Beck had worn the night we’d met, and while she couldn’t tell me with a hundred percent certainty what it was, she’d sold me what appeared to be a close match. I’d debated between shades of Bare and Undressed and decided to purchase them both. If nothing else, “Lippie Lingerie” had made my evening—God, I loved makeup. My mouth rivaled that of any porn star—prior to them sucking someone off—and when I wiped my hand across it, the color didn’t budge. No lip prints would be left on a wineglass or napkin…or anywhere else tonight. I grinned as I thought about my first sexual encounter with another woman. It still seemed so taboo and racy, but that might be the sambuca worming its way into my blood stream.
The second shot I took as I left the house in my dark, skinny jeans and embellished tee with pull-on ankle boots set the mood. A smile tugged on the corners of my mouth while I drove to Beck’s. I couldn’t believe the palatial mansion I pulled up to. I’d driven with the top down and my hair piled up on my head, and my glasses still sat on my face when I stepped out of the Camaro. A gorgeous, red Porsche 911 sat in the circular driveway, and I wasn’t sure which I was more intrigued by—the car or the house. Both were stunning, but since the 911 was closest, I stopped to drool before going in.
With the neck of the wine bottle in my hand, I tilted my glasses up to my forehead and circled the car like it was my prey. The brand-new Carrera was completely tricked out with every available option including the Carmine Red premium paint job. Someone had dropped a mint on this ride. I peered into the window, making sure not to actually touch them—fingerprints would be so tacky.
“Hey. Can I help you?”
I spun around so fast my glasses fell, covering my eyes, and I just about lost my balance. I barely had time to take in the man who must own the car now standing in front of me. “Oh, um. Hi.” I stuck my free hand out in front of me. “I’m Giselle.”
He didn’t bother to shake my hand, but he certainly stared at it like I might be carrying the bubonic plague. “Ah. My sister’s date. She’s inside.” Short and to the point…a man of few words.
“Nice car.”
“I know.”
Either this guy was the biggest prick that ever lived, or he’d had a really bad day. Either way, he wasn’t interested in small talk, even if it included stroking his ego. He stepped around me without so much as a pat on the ass and waited for me to move.
“I’m sorry.” I dropped my hand to my side and got out of his way.
He took off like a bat out of hell, leaving tire marks on the cobblestone. I’d be pissed if I were Beck. With her brother gone, I took in all that was Beck’s house. She’d indicated she worked in marketing, but I had no idea it was such a lucrative business. After the encounter with another douchebag male
, I opted for one more shot before knocking on the door. I felt like a boozer one step away from rehab turning up the bottle in her driveway. Not enough that I didn’t do it, but the thought crossed my mind just the same.
By the time my knuckles met the wood at her entryway, I’d forgotten about the dude with the car, and his memory had been replaced by nervous butterflies threatening to take flight in my stomach. When Beck answered the door, my mouth fell open, and what had been an abundance of saliva, dried up into the Sahara Desert. Apparently, I hadn’t understood what dinner meant or had missed the memo on just how casual this affair was. As I stood, jeans and a fancy T-shirt was overdressed. Clothes at all appeared to be optional.
My eyebrows rose on my forehead, and I managed to snap my jaw shut when Beck giggled. Maybe I was early, and she hadn’t finished dressing. I doubted she planned to cook in a silk robe that barely covered her ass, but maybe I’d caught her between preparing dinner and jeans.
“Come on in.”
“I met your brother outside. He seemed…less than happy.” I didn’t have a clue what to say to a woman I barely knew standing in the doorway with nothing on but a thin piece of fabric.
“Collier.” She didn’t hide her irritation with her sibling. “My twin.”
“Really? You’re a twin?”
“Yep.” She popped the P and turned around to walk into the house. I assumed I should follow and closed the door behind me. My boots echoed on the marble floors as I tried to take in all my surroundings without gawking. This girl had stupid amounts of money. “He was pissed I made him leave.”
“He could’ve joined us for dinner?”
“He can find his own dates. Come on in.”
Beck showed me to the kitchen, which was close to the size of my downstairs—the entire floor. I’d expected to see a meal of some sort, but all that sat on the counter was a pitiful excuse for a salad and two empty glasses waiting for my wine. When she turned her back to get a bottle opener, I peered closer at the bowls. I’d bet money if I dug in the trash I’d find the plastic containers and the Wendy’s bag they’d come in—she hadn’t even sprung for Chick-Fil-A.
I’d spent forty bucks on a bottle of wine, and this heifer had promised me dinner. There were two extra miles thrown in this morning to account for a caloric overload—not a damn salad. I wondered how I could dilute her wine with water and save the majority for myself without her noticing.
While I eyed the sink, she turned back to me. She went to uncork the bottle, and her robe gaped at her cleavage, then as she twisted the key, that divide became non-existent. The lapels of silk fell to the sides of her plastic breasts, which were still beautiful I might add. I didn’t have to touch them to know she’d paid a lot of money for the pair.
She took my curiosity as intrigue and purposely moved around the space, causing the fabric to flow behind her. Taut abs showed through, her tan didn’t have a line in it, and I quickly noticed she was naked as the day was long under that robe. There wasn’t a hair anywhere on her body outside of her scalp. Not one. My line of sight had traveled from her chest down the center of her stomach, straight to her bare-naked lady where it lingered in awe. There was no doubt about it—Beck had a porn-star vajayjay. It was tiny, perfectly prepubescent in its hairless glory. She had the vagina women paid thousands for with rejuvenation.
It took her seconds to fill both glasses with my spicy, red gift and take me by the hand to a custom-made couch in what I assumed was the living room. I didn’t have to worry about white carpet, there wasn’t an inch of the stuff as far as the eye could see. Marble floors lined every room in sight, and high ceilings made each step I took reverberate off the walls. This place was an acoustical nightmare. It was gauche in the truest sense of the word, and it wasn’t just jealousy marring my thoughts. The house was cold and in need of a decorator. Nothing but monochromatic tones on every surface. I couldn’t fathom why anyone with this much money wouldn’t want to be comfortable in their home. But c’est la vie.
“I’ve been so excited for you to get here.” She made no attempt to cover herself, clearly comfortable in her own skin.
I, on the other hand, was sweating like a whore in church who’d just been caught with my hand in the preacher’s pants. She relaxed on the sofa, and I wondered if her ass was sticking to the leather and if she’d have to peel her skin off to stand. The perspiration forming on the backside of my thighs made the denim increasingly more uncomfortable with each minute that passed. The tepid wine did nothing to bring my body temperature down and only served to heighten my already exponential anxiety.
This girl was to lesbians what I’d become to heterosexuals. She knew what she wanted—and it was me. We made idle chit chat as the wine mixed with the liquor already in my stomach. Nerves turned into desire, and when Beck took our glasses and set them on the coffee table that could seat eight comfortably, I knew it was go-time.
My mind focused on the parts of her that intrigued me—her eyes, those full lips, her professionally sculpted tits. Suddenly, I felt like a cat in heat, ready to push my ass in her lap just to get her to touch me. But the instant her fingers grazed the skin under my shirt, I erupted in childlike giggles. Her hand danced on my sides, but what should have been erotic turned into comedy central.
“Don’t be nervous, Giselle. I’ll be gentle.” That was the problem. Her touch was light as a feather, and I almost kneed her in the jaw when she came in for a kiss at the same time her palms cupped my breasts. I jumped back, unable to control my laughter—too much alcohol. I was giddy and suddenly immature. If she’d said the word penis, I might have rolled on the floor, clutching my stomach in gales of laughter.
I bit my tongue, trying to force myself to regain control. Beck took that as a green light to proceed. Her lips met my neck in soft kisses and trailed their way down to my collarbone. The laughter died when her teeth nipped at my skin just beneath my ear—normally an erogenous zone, I’d gone stiff as a board. Her attempt at foreplay did nothing but cause my heart to race—and not in a way that turned me on.
She took my hand in hers and lifted my fingers to her mouth. Those perfect lips showered my knuckles with affection. They were just as soft as they appeared from across the bar table. But when she opened her mouth and slid my pinky in to suck it like she would man-meat, I jerked my hand back. I fought against the creepy-crawly feeling her tongue left on the pads of my fingers, and in its place, came tears. I couldn’t help it. She’d pulled my tiny finger in and out of her mouth like she was sucking dick, and the emotions bubbled to the surface.
Maybe I just wasn’t ready for an intimate relationship with a woman. Maybe this truly was like learning to date all over again. Maybe I needed time to acclimate to a female’s touch on my body. Whatever it was—the warm fuzzy feeling I’d had when I knocked on the door was knotting itself up into a ball of emotional frenzy.
And there, on her couch, with her fine ass stuck to the leather and her perfect twat on display for anyone to see, I began to cry about the horrible things all the men in my life had done. Before I knew it, she’d tied her robe and gotten two pints of Ben & Jerry’s along with two spoons. We spent the rest of the evening regaling tales of lost loves over Chunky Monkey and Cherry Garcia.
3
“You’re such a bitch. Stop laughing.” I was about to throw my wine in my best friend’s face if she didn’t quit making fun of me.
“You realize you just committed the worst dating faux pas possible. No woman wants to hear about her girlfriend’s ex-lovers.”
“First of all, she’s not my girlfriend. And secondly, she ate just as much ice cream as I did and had equally horrible stories to share.”
“Did she ever get dressed?”
“I mean, she tied the robe. Nobody wants ice cream on bare skin. But no. She didn’t put any clothes on. Did I mention her brother’s ride?”
“If you didn’t have such a fine ass, Gizzy, I’d worry you might be a dude. What is with you and cars?”
&nbs
p; “This wasn’t just a car. This was a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of beautifully crafted steel. And it wasn’t an automatic.”
“Does it being a straight drive mean something I’m not aware of?”
“Um yeah. That he can harness the power of five hundred horses.”
“I’m sure that’s impressive if you’re sporting a dick, but what does that do for you?”
“Unfortunately, his appeal stopped at his car.”
“And his sister?”
“No. Just the car.”
“Giselle, you’re a mess. So how did you guys leave this disaster?”
“We’re going to get coffee on Thursday. Why?”
“Do you have an enchanted pussy?”
“Is that lesbian slang?” I didn’t know what the hell she was referring to.
“No. I’m trying to figure out why the hell this banging chick would want anything to do with your emo ass after you got drunk and cried on her couch. Are you sure you didn’t eat her out? Suckle her nipples? Finger her?”
“I didn’t touch her, Ronnie. Maybe she just likes me.”
“No one likes you, Giselle. Men tolerate you because you’re an incredible lay who doesn’t want a commitment. And your friends have known you too long to desert you without being cited by the county for child abandonment.”
“Ha. Ha. Laugh all you want. It is possible I could make some new friends, you know? God knows with the likes of you, I need them.”
“Nothing like a naked broad with a pint of ice cream to dub your new BFF. So, who else is on your dance card?”
“My what? Veronica, I don’t dance.”
“No, and you’re not an idiot, either. Wise up. I know you’re not betting the farm on one woman, so who’s up next to bat, because this chick just struck out.”
“She did not. She was just a tad forward knowing I was a newbie.”
Girl Crush Page 3
