Barring Complications

by Blythe Rippon

  “Count on it.”

  “Your lips are doing too much talking and not enough kissing.”

  “And you think you’ve changed the subject. You can stay here as long as you like. Hell, if you never wanted to leave, that would be okay by me. But I’d like to go with you when you go home for the first time.”

  Victoria’s heart swelled. “Okay, tough girl. But we go at my pace.”

  “For our relationship? That hardly seems fair.” Genevieve pouted, and Victoria had to stop herself from nibbling on her lower lip.

  “No, nimrod, for our trip to my house. Tomorrow. We’ll go tomorrow.”

  “Deal. Kiss on it?”

  The fact that Genevieve Fornier was asking to kiss her—that Genevieve, the sexiest human rights lawyer in the country, the person in the world who had the most reason to be angry with her, was asking to kiss her…well, Victoria was just glad that she didn’t swoon or do an embarrassing dance, or both. Wild horses couldn’t have dragged her away from those beautiful, delicious lips.

  “Ew, Mama, they’re kissing again. Can we put them in timeout?” Tommy asked.

  They smiled through their kisses.

  “Diane,” Victoria called out, never moving her mouth more than an inch from Genevieve’s. “Your son’s movie is over.”

  * * *

  Victoria and Genevieve stood on the front stoop, arms around each other’s waists, and watched Diane finish fussing with the straps on Rebecca’s car seat. She closed the car door and called out, “You two are coming for dinner next week, right?”

  “We’ll be there!” Victoria answered.

  Diane blew them a kiss, hopped into the passenger seat, and buckled up while Will backed the car out.

  Victoria followed Genevieve back inside. “So, we’ve got dinner with Will and Diane on Friday, brunch with Bethany on Saturday, and the wine bar down the street with Tara, Sonya, and Bethany on Saturday night. That’s a lot of Bethany in one day.” She trailed behind as Genevieve walked up the stairs.

  “You can handle it. Just mention Jamie Chance’s name, and she’ll stop talking and start fantasizing.”

  “Jamie Chance? She knows he likes guys, right?”

  “Bethany refuses to let such things limit her imagination.”

  “So she’s into gay boys? No wonder she’s still single.”

  Genevieve walked into her room, crawled onto the bed, and dropped face-first onto the mattress. Victoria crawled over and gently lowered herself on top of her.

  “Tired? Today was…”

  “Not what I expected,” Genevieve finished.

  “Me neither. I think after last night, I expected some big coming out to our friends and family.”

  “They seemed dead-set on denying us the opportunity. Is that okay?” Genevieve turned, easing out from under Victoria and lying next to her.

  “That they think we’re a couple? As long as you don’t dump me tomorrow.”

  Genevieve kissed her, and Victoria got that lightheaded feeling she associated with Genevieve’s lips. She pulled her closer until the lengths of their bodies were touching. Genevieve’s mouth fit so well with her own, their bodies molded to each other’s, and Victoria marveled at how perfectly happy she felt—relaxed yet charged, completely at home and yet in totally foreign waters. The conflicting emotions made it impossible to focus on anything but the feel of Genevieve’s skin, the mint smell of her hair, and the pressure of her lips. “I can’t believe you’re here,” she whispered, between kisses.

  “I live here.”

  “Smart ass,” Victoria said, and nibbled on those full lips that sometimes haunted her dreams. Everything felt so good in that moment: forgiveness, and her body, and the silencing of her always-racing mind. “I’ve been in love with you for forever too, you know,” she breathed into Genevieve’s ear before nibbling on it.

  Genevieve pulled back and looked at her. “About that…”

  All of Victoria’s fears came rushing back, and the world stopped as the air left her body.

  “…thank God,” Genevieve said. And she took all of Victoria’s doubt away.

  * * *

  “French press coffee is good. Really good. Do you drink this every morning?” Victoria asked, leaning her elbows on Genevieve’s breakfast table.

  “I don’t think one o’clock still qualifies as morning. And you’re stalling.”

  “I want you.”

  “You want to avoid your house.”

  Victoria got up and walked to the kitchen window. Looking over the small backyard, she noticed the early afternoon sunshine glinting off the windows of neighboring townhouses. “It’s such a beautiful day,” she said. “Let’s go to the zoo!”

  “You’re impossible. I’ll be right there with you.”

  “Fine. Steal my sunshine.

  “Oh, please. I don’t remember you being so dramatic.”

  “Oh, well, you know. I’ve changed in so very many ways. We should sit here, at your breakfast table, and catalog all the ways we’ve each changed over the years. We could even make a chart. Then we can make sure these changes are things we can live with.”

  Genevieve stared at her. “Get in the damn cab.”

  Victoria pouted, but grabbed her travel mug of French press and walked out the door.

  The cab dropped them at the Harbour Club, where they retrieved Genevieve’s car. As she was pulling out of the parking space, she turned to Victoria. “You’re going to give me directions, right?”

  Victoria thought about lying and directing them to the zoo instead.

  “Never mind, I remember the cross streets.” Genevieve circumvented her by programming them into her GPS. Before long, they pulled in front of Victoria’s house.

  She expected vans from media outlets camped in front of her yard, but the whole block was empty. They parked in her driveway.

  The front door was locked, and Victoria was glad the federal agents had grabbed her purse for her before the ambulance departed for the hospital. She pulled out her keys, fit them to the lock, and took a deep breath. They entered her house.

  Chapter Eight

  Genevieve

  Tori moved aside, and Genevieve could see more of the first floor. Evidence of fingerprinting and the agents’ investigation dominated her view. Books and binders had been pulled from the built-in shelves that lined the living room. A vase of flowers was sitting on the floor beside the dining room table, the chairs were on their sides, and the placemats were askew.

  She looked past the disorder to the living space underneath. Tori’s tastes were more understated than hers, incorporating neutral colors as opposed to her own bold color palette.

  “Well, do you want to clean up down here first, or survey all the damage and head upstairs?” she asked.

  “Let’s get this in order first,” Tori said. She began picking up books from the floor and returning them to the built-in shelves in her living room.

  Genevieve walked through the dining room and into the kitchen. Clearly the rooms had seen a lot of activity, but nothing was broken. She guessed from the heavy amount of fingerprint dust and disarray near the kitchen’s sliding glass door that the assailant had gained access there. The door was still slightly ajar, and the locking mechanism was disassembled.

  She pulled out her phone and did a quick Internet search for a locksmith. Then it occurred to her that maybe Supreme Court justices couldn’t just call any old locksmith. Putting her phone back, she added this to the list of things she’d need to learn to navigate if this thing between her and Tori worked out.

  She righted the stools around the kitchen island and wiped off the black powder from the glass door. Testing the door, she discovered that it could close, it just couldn’t lock. It certainly didn’t leave her with a sense of security.

  A thorough search of the closets near the kitchen yielded a broom. She unscrewed the head and set the pole in the slider, jamming the door so that it could only open about six inches. At least a person couldn’t sque
eze through that.

  She turned next to the dining room, where she repositioned the placemats so that they were squarely in front of each chair around the table. While returning the flowers to the center of the table, she took a moment to appreciate that Tori was the kind of person who kept fresh flowers.

  Thirty minutes later, she was satisfied that the kitchen and dining room were cleaned and straightened. She headed back to the living room to check on Tori’s progress and found her staring intently at her living room bookcase. All of the volumes had been returned to the shelves. “Oh, great. All done?”

  Tori held up a hand. “Not yet.”

  “Oh? What’s left?”

  Tori pulled a book out and swapped it with another. She repeated the process again with another book.

  Genevieve read the spines and ascertained that each of the three columns of books had a theme: on the left was philosophy, the middle was history, and the right was law. Within each column, the books were in alphabetical order, mostly. Tori was fixing the books that the agents had returned to the wrong place.

  “Tor? Is it really important to do this now?”

  “Hmm? Do you see where they put Henry V? It goes right here, with Shakespeare’s other history plays.”

  Genevieve rolled her eyes. “And what if I told you I’m going to take off all my clothes and ravish you right here on the couch?”

  Tori grabbed the play and repositioned it. “Aristotle’s Republic next to The Michigan Affirmative Action Cases? So wrong.”

  Genevieve gave up and walked back into the kitchen. Hopefully Tori would feel better—more in control—after meticulously re-alphabetizing her bookcases.

  She nosed through the wine rack, the cabinet with the vodka and gin, and the chardonnay in the fridge. Even though it was only mid-afternoon, the occasion seemed to call for a martini. The door of the fridge contained premium olives, and the cheese drawer held some gorgonzola. She stuffed six olives, poured vermouth into the glasses, and located the shaker. A few minutes later she had two perfect martinis prepared and was reclining on the sofa, watching Tori still hard at work.

  “Tori.”

  No answer.

  “Victoria, are you about done?”

  “What?” Tori glanced over her shoulder, startled. “Oh, Genevieve, I’m sorry. Yes...” She moved one more volume. “Done.”

  “Then get your OCD ass over here and drink this martini,” Genevieve commanded.

  Tori crossed to the couch, leaned down and kissed her, long and slow. When she pulled back, Genevieve had a hard time catching her breath.

  “God, how do you do that?” Genevieve asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Alphabetize your books one moment, and make me completely weak the next?”

  “I’m very high-functioning,” Tori answered. She kissed Genevieve’s neck and sighed.

  “So I’ve noticed. Here, drink your martini.” She pulled Tori down to the couch.

  They drank in silence for a while, just unwinding. Genevieve peered at the bookshelves. “Your collection seems heavily skewed toward ethics and history.”

  “And your collection seems to still be in boxes. Haven’t you lived here for almost a year?”

  “Were you snooping around my home?”

  “When would I have had time to snoop?”

  “Good point,” Genevieve acknowledged.

  “Are you not committed to staying in DC?”

  She put the glass down and took Tori’s hands in hers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Tori sighed with relief. Then she smiled slightly. “Moving in already? Doesn’t that seem a bit soon?”

  Genevieve opened her mouth to reply and then closed it again. Bested, she thought.

  Tori finished her martini and stood. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you to invite me to your bedroom.”

  “You’ve been waiting, huh?”

  “Ever since our pool dates started.” She stood and touched Tori’s cheek. “Ready to find out what’s upstairs?”

  “I guess.”

  Tori looked at her with such open vulnerability that Genevieve’s heart broke for her. She squared her shoulders and asked, “Want me to go first?”

  When Tori nodded, Genevieve led the way up the stairs.

  The upstairs was in worse disarray. The comforter and sheets were on the floor, books littered the carpet, and broken glass sparkled from atop the bedside table. A phone cable snaked over the nightstand and to the floor, but the phone that had been attached to it was no longer there. The easy chair across from the bed was on its side.

  Tori was still standing in the doorway, her arms crossed. Genevieve’s heart broke a little more when she wrapped her in a hug and felt her begin to shake. She let go just long enough to right the chair, sit down on it, and pull Tori into her lap.

  The shaking turned into hard sobs, and tears dripped onto Genevieve’s neck. She kissed Tori’s hair and rubbed her back, murmuring, “It’s going to be all right. They got him. I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”

  Holding Tori—either in the throes of passion or in the heartache of sobs—was addictive. Feeling the woman who had shattered her heart so long ago surrender to her so completely, well, Genevieve knew there was no greater gift.

  The late afternoon sun was casting shadows around the room when Tori lifted her head. Her eyes were red, and her lips swollen. Genevieve remembered that she always bit her lips when she cried.

  “I must look like a disaster,” Tori said, rubbing the moisture from her cheeks.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “I’m a lawyer.” Genevieve kissed the wet tracks on her cheeks. “I love you.”

  Tears formed in Tori’s eyes again, but she wiped them away. “Thank God,” she said, and Genevieve laughed.

  Tori extracted herself and stood unsteadily. “Let’s get this over with,” she said, and began gathering up the sheets.

  Genevieve turned on the lights and opened the windows. Snooping around, she found an iPod in a docking station and scrolled through until she found George Michael’s “Faith” album. She sang and danced and helped clean up the mess, hoping that she was helping Victoria cope. She managed to make her laugh a few times, which she considered a small victory.

  They threw the sheets and duvet cover in the laundry, disposed of the broken glass, and vacuumed up the fingerprint dust. When they had remade the bed, Genevieve went to Tori’s home office and used her laptop to order another vintage phone. She came back out to find that Tori had made a second round of martinis. Genevieve reached out to take one, but Tori held it away.

  “Don’t I get some kind of thank you first?” Tori asked. “I did just mix a knock-your-socks-off martini.”

  “I thought it was customary to tip afterward?”

  “Fine. Since you’ve helped me all afternoon, I’ll thank you.” Her lips found Genevieve’s neck. “Mmm, salty.”

  “Your tears, my dear,” Genevieve said.

  Tori pulled back. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Here.” She took one of the martinis. “Let’s take these to the backyard. We can watch the sunset.”

  On the back patio, they scooted two ice cream chairs together so that they were sitting shoulder to shoulder. Genevieve held Tori’s hand and basked in the setting rays of the sun, thinking about how lucky she was. As the sun dipped below the horizon, she imagined it setting on their breakup, and the violence Tori had just endured, and the other baggage Genevieve hoped to leave in their past. She looked forward to the sunrise with Tori, and everything that might happen before then.

  Chapter Nine

  Victoria

  A week later, Victoria sat in a conference room situated in the bowels of the Hoover building. FBI agents, US marshals, and Supreme Court Police officers surrounded her. She took a sip from her tea and told herself for perhaps the thousandth time that day that she had nothing to fear. Part of her wished she�
��d taken Genevieve up on her offer to come, but she needed to do this alone. And she didn’t want to have to answer questions about Genevieve’s presence.

  The conference room had florescent lighting and no windows. Agents bustled to and fro, dropping off files, whispering to each other, or taking phone calls. It was five minutes after ten and the meeting still hadn’t started.

  Her tea was warm, and she took comfort in knowing that her girlfriend had made it for her before they left Genevieve’s townhouse that morning. Genevieve had offered to drive her as well, but the FBI insisted on sending a car.

  Finally, Pollard entered and closed the door. The room fell silent as he took a seat next to another SC police officer. A woman Victoria didn’t recognize but assumed was FBI stood and walked to the front of the room.

  “We’ve been aware of the organization known as Marriage’s Sacred Protector for about seven years now. They’re mostly a bunch of skinheads—young, high school dropouts. They’ve issued blanket warnings against anyone supporting same-sex marriage, but since they’ve never actually engaged in physical violence, we had no actionable intelligence that they were a real threat. It would appear that Damien Fitzpatrick, Byron Turner, and this man, Franklin Cooper, were all members of the organization.” The woman clicked the remote control in her hand, and a slide appeared behind her with an image of Cooper. Victoria’s heart pounded at the sight of him.

  He looked small in the photo. Skinny. She recognized the skull and crossbones tattoo on his neck. His eyes were tiny and watery blue, and she remembered the way they had rolled back in his head when she hit him with the phone. She shuddered.

  “Madam Justice, this was your assailant. He gained access through your sliding glass door, and waited in your first-floor hallway closet for you to come home. He doesn’t appear to have gone through any of your things. We believe he was singularly focused on you, personally.”