Best Lesbian Romance 2010

by Radclyffe

  One week, Pixie-Face is absent, and instead there’s a man behind the counter. Tess takes her coffee outside that day, sits on the patio in the March sunshine.

  But the next week Pixie-Face is back. “You weren’t here last week,” Tess blurts out, and then blushes, aware that she sounds accusatory, stalkerish.

  The girl smiles. “Vacation. I was mountain biking in Moab. Me and a friend went down and camped.”

  “Oh.” A vague precursor of disappointment seeps into Tess’s blood. “I hope you had a good time.”

  The girl gives her a slight smile. “I did, yeah. But Marlie—my friend—broke her collarbone. Here’s your coffee.” And she turns away to serve the next customer.

  Tess puts a dollar in the tip jar and takes her coffee to one of the slouchy couches that ring the room, and tells herself that her decision to sit where she can see the counter is because otherwise the light would be in her eyes.

  The next week, as she’s walking to work, she sees Mary leaving a diner on Colfax, laptop beneath one arm, the other around the shoulders of a girl. Tess sees them kiss in the doorway, sees the way their mouths move together. She squeezes her eyes tightly shut against the pain and keeps walking, and when she jolts down off the curb and her eyes open, she sees Mary looking straight at her, a slight frown of irritation creasing her brow.

  “Hi Tess,” Mary says evenly, her arm holding the other girl tightly to her.

  “Hi.” Tess keeps walking, but her eyes remain open this time, and she concentrates on her feet, marching in even beat along the sidewalk.

  Five paces to the corner, five blocks to work, five days to her birthday, five weeks to her vacation—not that she has decided where to go.

  That evening, she contemplates her couch and the DVDs she’s rented for the week, and then she sees how the evening light falls across the polished floorboards, and hears the trill of an early spring bird. Throwing aside her slouchy pajamas, she reaches for a pair of gym shoes and some jogging pants. They hang on her hips from all the weight she’s lost.

  Outside the door, she turns her face up to the sky and heads for the park. It’s a mild evening, and the park is full of couples strolling and joggers circling. There’s a boisterous touch football game happening at one end, and Tess stops to watch. A scruffy dog appears and joins the game, tripping the players and eventually making off with the ball, to the players’ dismay. Tess smiles into the setting sun, watching the dog evade attempts at capture. Eventually, a compact woman in red shorts is able to grab him as he goes by, and the ball is recaptured. With a start of surprise, Tess recognizes the girl from the bagel cafe.

  She finds a tree to rest her back against and watches as the game resumes. Pixie-Face’s team loses, although she manages a touchdown. As the game winds down, Tess sets her feet for home and treats herself to Pad Thai and a glass of wine from the new noodle place for dinner.

  “I saw you last week,” says Pixie-Face, when Tess orders her cranberry bagel. “Watching the game.”

  “Hmm,” says Tess, noncommittal, even though there’s a warmth in her chest knowing that Pixie-Face noticed her among the hurly-burly of an energetic game.

  “I looked for you when we’d finished, but you were gone. I was wondering if—”

  “Hey, Morag! Snappy with that two percent. Customers are waiting!”

  Morag’s boss’s yell cuts off whatever she was going to say, and Tess resists the urge to reach out and grab her by the shoulder and demand she finish the sentence.

  “Later,” says Morag, and with a flick of nutmeg hair, she’s gone, scooping up the carton of 2 percent and a cloth for wiping tables.

  Tess takes her coffee to the slouchy couches and pretends to read the Westword. Even though she hangs around for longer this Sunday, Morag is busy and doesn’t return. She walks home through the park, watching the dogs chase squirrels, and enjoys the sun gleaming on the snowcaps in the distance, way, way over the city.

  Slowly, the real world grasps her again and she starts going out with the girls from work. She joins a book club, takes a class in kite making and goes with her classmates down to Cherry Creek Reservoir where they hoist their gaudy creations aloft so they dance on the breeze like sailboats on the ocean. She still goes to the bagel cafe on Sundays, and if Thursday evenings often find her wandering the park in search of a touch football game, well, what of it?

  Five months, she thinks one day. It’s been five months since Mary left. Five times five pounds of fat she’s lost. Five weeks since her vacation in Hawaii, and five years, five months, and five days since her first date with Mary. She sits carefully on the couch to analyze that. Head: still okay, still sane. Body: still working. Heart: still beating, maybe a little bit hollow from being alone but still in one piece.

  She’s determined the next Sunday. She’s going to trap Morag against the pastry counter, ask her for a date. Maybe she likes Thai food. Maybe she likes Sushi. Dinner, a nice restaurant. Wine.

  She goes earlier than usual, hoping it will be quiet. As she approaches, she can see Morag’s cap of hair behind the counter, sees her chatting to a customer, who turns and saunters out, holding a takeout coffee.

  It’s Mary, and she’s alone.

  For a moment, Tess thinks of ducking into an alley, turning around and going back the way she came, but that’s pointless, as Mary’s seen her, and she’s slowing to a stop, a smile—a genuine Mary smile—on her face.

  “Hey, babe. Been too long! How ya been?”

  “I’m fine. Busy.” She studies Mary, who is studying her appreciatively. A frisson of pride surges through her at the appreciation in Mary’s eyes.

  “You look great! Lost a ton of weight. You started running or something?”

  Tess shrugs. “Walking, healthy eating. A good vacation.” There are dark smudges under Mary’s eyes, and Tess sees the extra chubbiness in her face.

  “You got time for a coffee? There’s a place just here where I get takeout. Very cute waitress.”

  “Not really,” Tess hedges. “I need to be getting along.”

  “Okay.” Mary hesitates. “You seeing anyone? I’m between dates at the moment, so if you wanted to meet up sometime, for old time’s sake…?”

  A spurt of irritation. Mary wants a quick fuck until someone better comes along?

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Pity. We were always good together, and you look very hot now you’ve dropped those excess pounds.”

  Tess doesn’t answer, holds herself still on the sidewalk, resisting the urge to shuffle her feet, waiting to see what Mary will do. The pause stretches uncomfortably.

  “Well, see ya around sometime.” Mary nods and strides off, flipping the top of her coffee to take a mouthful.

  Tess waits until she’s turned the corner then paces the remaining few steps into the bagel place. It’s still early, and Morag is putting the muffins onto trays.

  “Hi,” she says when she sees Tess. “Cranberry bagel and a latte?”

  “Actually,” says Tess, “I have to ask you something before I lose my nerve.”

  She didn’t plan that. The words were out of her mouth before she thought. But once they’re out, hanging in the coffee-scented air, she knows it’s the right time.

  “Oh?” Morag cocks a hip on the side of the counter and waits.

  “I was wondering if you’d like to come out for dinner one night. Sushi, Thai, whatever you like best.”

  Morag chokes a laugh and Tess dies a little inside.

  “Sorry,” says Morag. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m chuckling at the timing. It’s been months since anyone noticed me in that way, and now in ten minutes I’ve been asked out twice. Did you see the woman with the bleached hair who left just before you came in? She asked me out as well.”

  Mary. Tess wilts. How can she compete?

  “Did you accept?” she asks.

  Morag smiles. “No. I was tempted, but I put her off. And now I’m glad I did.” Tess dares to hope, jus
t a little.

  “Thai is my favorite. I’d love to go with you.”

  Relief courses through her veins. “In that case, I’ll have a toasted cranberry bagel with cream cheese and a latte.”

  Morag’s eyes crinkle. “What would you have had if I’d said no?”

  “I’d have left,” confesses Tess, “and consoled my broken heart with eggs Benedict at Pete’s Diner on Colfax.”

  “Bagels are better for you.”

  “Thai it is then. How about Friday night?”

  “Friday is fine.” Morag gestures to the end of the counter. “I’ll bring your coffee out.”

  The end of the counter is hidden from casual eyes in the cafe or the street. Morag places the latte down and her hand reaches for Tess’s, lacing their fingers together. With a tug, she pulls Tess a pace toward her. Soft lips brush Tess’s check for a second, whispering over her lips in a breath of espresso.

  “I’m looking forward to it.” And Morag is gone, back behind the muffin counter to serve the boys who have just walked in.

  Tess takes her coffee to the couch and sits so that her eyes can follow Morag.

  Five hours until the bagel shop closes, five sections of the Sunday paper to read. Five days in the working week and five days until her date with Morag.

  Five days until her new life.

  THE OUTSIDE EDGE

  Sacchi Green

  Suli was fire and wine, gold and scarlet, lighting up the dim passageway where we waited.

  I leaned closer to adjust her Spanish tortoiseshell comb. A cascade of dark curls brushed my face, shooting sparks all the way down to my toes, but even a swift, tender kiss on her neck would be too risky. I might not be able to resist pressing hard enough to leave a dramatic visual effect the TV cameras couldn’t miss.

  Tenderness wasn’t what she needed right now, and neither was passion. An edgy outlet for nervous energy would be more like it. “Skate a clean program,” I murmured in her ear, “and maybe I’ll let you get dirty tonight.” My arm across her shoulders might have looked locker-room casual, but the look she shot me had nothing to do with team spirit.

  “Maybe, Jude? You think maybe you’ll let me?” She tossed her head. Smoldering eyes, made even brighter and larger by theatrical makeup, told me that I’d need to eat my words later before my mouth could move on to anything more appealing.

  The other pairs were already warming up. Suli followed Tim into the arena, her short scarlet skirt flipping up oh-so-accidentally to reveal her firm, sweet ass. She wriggled, daring me to give it an encouraging slap, knowing all too well what the rear view of a scantily clad girl does for me.

  I followed into the stadium and watched the action from just outside the barrier. As Suli and Tim moved onto the ice, the general uproar intensified. Their groupies had staked a claim near one end, and a small cadre of my own fans were camped out nearby, having figured out over the competition season that something was up between us. Either they’d done some discreet stalking, or relied on the same gaydar that had told them so much about me even before I’d fully understood it myself. Probably both.

  Being gay wasn’t, in itself, a career-buster these days. Sure, the rumormongers were eternally speculating about the men in their sequined outfits, but the skating community was united in a compact never to tell, and the media agreed tacitly never to ask. A rumor of girl-on-girl sex would probably do nothing more than inspire some fan fiction in certain blogging communities. That didn’t mean there weren’t still lines you couldn’t cross in public, especially in performance—lines I was determined, with increasing urgency, to cross once and for all.

  But I didn’t want to bring Suli down if I fell. That discussion was something we kept avoiding, and whenever I tried to edge toward it she’d distract me in ways I couldn’t resist.

  Suli’s the best, I thought now in the stadium, watching her practice faultless jumps with Tim. You’d never guess what she’d been doing last night with me, while the other skaters were preparing for the performance of their lives with more restful rituals. She’d already set records in pairs skating, and next year, at my urging, she was going to go solo. It was a good thing I wouldn’t be competing against her.

  I won’t be competing against anybody, I thought, my mind wandering as the warm-up period dragged on.

  It had taken me long enough to work it out, focusing on my skating for so many years, but the more I appreciated the female curves inside those scanty, seductive costumes, the less comfortable I was wearing them. Cute girls in skimpy outfits were just fine with me—bodies arched in laybacks, or racing backward, glutes tensed and pumping, filmy fabric fluttering in the breeze like flower petals waving to the hungry bees—but I’d rather see than be one.

  I’d have quit mainstream competition if they hadn’t changed the rules to allow long-legged “unitards” instead of dresses. That concession wasn’t enough to make me feel really comfortable, though, and I knew my coach was right that some judges would hold it against me if I didn’t wear a skirt at least once in a while. This year I’d alternated animal-striped unitards with a Scottish outfit just long enough to preserve the mystery of what a Scotsman wears under his kilt, assuming that he isn’t doing much in the way of spins or jumps or spirals. I knew this for certain, having experimented in solitary practice with my own sturdy six inches of silicon pride.

  So why not just switch to the Gay Games? Or follow Rudy Galindo and Surya Bonaly to guest appearances on SkateOut’s Cabaret on Ice?

  If you have a shot at the Olympics, the Olympics are where you go, that’s why. Or so I’d thought. But I was only in fifth place after the short program—maybe one or two of the judges weren’t that keen on bagpipe music—and a medal was too long a shot now.

  I knew, deep down, what the problem was. Johanna, the coach we shared, had urged me to study Suli’s style in hopes that some notion of elegance and grace might sink into my thick head. Suli had generously agreed to try to give me at least a trace of an artistic clue. But the closer we became, the more I’d rebelled against faking a feminine grace and elegance that were so naturally hers, and so unnatural for me.

  This would be my last competition, no matter what. Maybe I’d get a pro gig with a major ice show, maybe I wouldn’t. If I did, it would be on my own terms. “As God is my witness, I’ll never be girlie again!” I’d proclaimed melodramatically to Suli last night.

  “Works just fine for me,” she’d said, kneeling with serene poise to take my experimental six inches between her glossy, carmined lips and deep into her velvet throat.

  Ten minutes later, serenity long gone, I stood braced against the edge of the bed and bore her weight while she clamped her thighs around my hips and her cunt around my pride, locked her hands behind my neck, and rode me with fierce, pounding joy. I dug my fingers into her asscheeks to steady her, and to add to the driving force of her lunges. Small naked breasts slapped against mine on each forward stroke. When I could catch one succulent nipple in my mouth her cries would rise to a shriller pitch, but then she’d jerk roughly away to get more leverage for each thrust.

  My body ached with strain and arousal and the friction of the harness. My mind was a blur of fantasies. We’re whirling in the arena, my skates carving spirals into the ice, her dark hair lifting in the wind…

  “Spin me!” Suli suddenly arched her upper body into a layback position, arms no longer gripping me but raised into a pleading curve. Adrenaline, muscles, willpower; none of it was enough now. Only speed could keep us balanced. I stepped back from the bed and spun in place, swinging her in one wide circle, then another, tension hammering through my clit hard enough to counter the burn of the leather gouging my flesh.

  Suli’s voice whipped around us, streaming as free as her hair. I held on, battling gravity, riding the waves of her cries, until, as they crested, the grip of her legs around me began to slip. In two lurching steps I had her above the bed again, and in another second she was on the sheets. I pressed on until her breathing began t
o slow, then covered her tender breasts and mouth with a storm of kisses close to bites until I had to arch back and pump and grind my way to a noisy release of my own.

  When we’d sprawled together in delirious exhaustion long enough for our panting to ease, I raised up to gaze at her. The world-famous princess of poise and grace lay tangled in her own wild hair, lips swollen, skin streaked with sweat, and most likely bruised in places where the TV cameras had better not reach.

  “And you lectured me about never jumping without knowing exactly where I was going to land!” I said. “How did you know I wouldn’t drop you?”

  “Aren’t you always bugging me to let you try lifts?” she countered drowsily. “You’ve spun me before, on the ice; you’re tall and strong enough.” She rolled over on top of me and murmured into the hollow of my throat, “Anyway, I did know where I was going to land. And I knew that you’d get me there. You always do.” Then her head slumped onto my shoulder and her body slid down to nestle in the protective curve of mine. In seconds she was asleep.

  I always will, I mouthed silently, but couldn’t say it aloud. Giving way to tenderness, to emotions deeper than the pyrotechnics of sex, was more risk than I could handle. Wherever I was going to land, she belonged somewhere better. How am I going to bear it? How can we still be together?

  I shook my head to clear it. Suli and Tim were gliding with the rest of the competitors toward the edge of the ice, and I realized suddenly that it was time to take my seat in the stands. The final grouping of the pairs long program was about to get underway.

  Suli and Tim skated third, to music from Bizet’s Carmen. Somebody always skates to Carmen, but no one ever played the part better than Suli. The dramatic theme of love and betrayal was a perfect setting for her, and today the passionate beat of the “Habanera” was a perfect match for my jealous mood.