by Carsen Taite
“Who, Charla?”
“No, Jordan. I brushed her off, but she wouldn’t leave.
She stayed and started asking Charla questions. I practically had to tell her to get out.”
“How embarrassing.”
“Yeah. Jordan was the one pushing me to make a date with whoever I met online. I took her advice and it’s almost like she was mad about it.”
“Interesting.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I think it’s interesting that Miss I’ll Date Anyone Hot Who Looks My Way thinks your dates need to be screened, and she’s the person to do it.”
“Jordan’s always been protective about who I date. Come to think of it, no one has ever measured up to her standards.”
Mac sighed. “I shouldn’t give her a hard time. I’m sure she means well.”
“Are you?” When Mac didn’t answer, Aimee said, “I have some advice. You aren’t going to like it. Find your own love life, on your own. Do your own searches, chat with someone you pick out entirely on your own, and make a date. Decide if you enjoyed the date before you ever compare notes with anyone else about it. And that means Jordan, in particular.”
“Damn, that’s harsh. What are friends for if I can’t ask for advice?”
“Your friends will support your decisions and trust your judgment. If they don’t, then what kind of friends are they?”
“Are you saying Jordan isn’t supportive? She’s been pushing me to find someone.”
“I know Jordan loves you and wants to help,” Aimee said.
“But I’m saying give this a chance and who knows what you might find. All by yourself.”
< Malibu > You sure know how to show a girl a good time.
< Skin Deep > Right back at you. What are you doing right now?
< Malibu > Doing a little good-night surfing when I saw you online.
< Skin Deep > I see. Looking for another hot date?
< Malibu > Maybe. I found your friend the restaurateur.
< Skin Deep > I see. Well, if you want to know more about her I can dispel the mystery.
< Malibu > No, that would take all the fun out of imagining her. I love fantasizing.
< Skin Deep > Well, if you want any help with your fantasies, you know where to find me.
Rereading the chat from last night, Jordan frowned.
Rebeca’s curiosity about Mac was getting under her skin and she wasn’t sure why. Funny she should care. It wasn’t as if she expected anything more than a few good times with Rebeca.
She wasn’t looking for something more serious than that. The sex had been incredible on both their dates, but there was no shortage of beautiful women in this city who would be more than willing to join her for a romp. All the same, it bothered her that Rebeca had joked about fantasizing over Mac. Somehow, that felt off-limits.
Jordan closed her laptop as her office manager tapped on the door. With obvious displeasure, Grace announced, “There’s a Ms. Blixen here to see you. She doesn’t have an appointment, but she’s very persistent.”
Jordan grinned at her tone. Grace Cunningham, RN, had served as Jordan’s assistant, office manager, and sergeant-at-arms since the day she’d entered private practice. Grace had spent years working for Jordan’s dad, Dr. Jacob Wagner, and had been indispensable to his practice. When Jordan’s mother died of breast cancer, Grace became even more indispensable, helping him get a distraught Jordan through her tortured high school years by trying to fill in some of the gaps left by her extremely dynamic mother. Jordan knew she held a special place in Grace’s heart and when she finished her fellowship at Presbyterian Hospital and opened her own practice, she stole Grace away from the elder Dr. Wagner without a qualm.
Grace was fiercely protective, and that was one of the reasons they worked so well together. She guarded Jordan’s time from distractions, allowing her to focus on her clientele.
“It’s okay,” Jordan said. “I know Ms. Blixen. Send her in.”
Amoment later, Rebeca sashayed into the room and slowly turned, taking in the large office and its furnishings. Jordan’s wasn’t a typical doctor’s office, with diplomas, certificates, and a few anatomical models here and there. Hers was more like a luxurious living room, complete with a plush sofa and love seat, fine art, a plasma TV, and a fifty-gallon aquarium.
A well-stocked granite wet bar replaced the usual sterile sink area.
“I was in your neck of the woods and thought I would stop by and see where the good doctor works,” Rebeca said. “This is downright opulent. Are you sure this is your office?”
“Not your standard clinic digs, huh?” Jordan kept her tone casual, unwilling to show irritation at the unexpected visit.
“One of the most important rules of sales is dress for success.
Think my office makes me look like the most successful plastic surgeon in Dallas?”
“Is that important to you?”
“Well, cosmetic surgery is different from most other fields of medicine,” Jordan said. “Most of my clients are people who’ve chosen to have surgery, not out of a life-or-death need, but out of some emotional need. They need to feel comfortable talking about those emotions and this atmosphere helps. It’s not medicine-y. It’s more like a plush therapist’s office. Second, since most of the surgery that I perform is elective, therefore not paid for by insurance, people tend to be pretty picky when they’re paying out of their own pocket. They usually want a good-looking doctor with an upscale practice.” She waved at the room. “I think I convey that, don’t you?”
“Complete understatement.”
“What are you doing here?” Jordan asked, surprised that she wasn’t happy to see her. “I thought you weren’t into cosmetic surgery.”
“I guess I was curious. What would you suggest if I wanted something done?”
“Why mess with nature when she’s been so good to you?”
Jordan shrugged. “I suppose I could squeeze you in if there something special you had in mind.”
“Darling, I may need something special, but surgery won’t be necessary.” Rebeca slid her bottom onto Jordan’s desk and crossed her long legs, revealing an expanse of firm thigh. “You know, I almost went to the wrong office. There’s another J. Wagner doing plastic surgery in Dallas.”
“I had no idea,” was Jordan’s clipped reply. Of her friends, only Mac and Aimee knew that Jacob Wagner was her father.
Since Jordan barely acknowledged his existence, out of respect for her they rarely brought up the other Dr. Wagner.
“You don’t know him?” Rebeca failed to sense a change in her demeanor. “It seems like you would have crossed paths since you’re both in the same profession.”
Jordan dodged the question. “You’d be surprised how many plastic surgeons there are in Dallas.”
“Well, I am sure that’s the case. It seems odd that your names are similar and you’ve never even heard of him.”
Jordan stood and started walking around her desk. “I don’t get why it matters to you. My next client will be here in a moment. Do you mind leaving this way?” She pointed to a fairly well disguised outline of a door near the wet bar. “It’s a private hall. Grace’s office is at the end and she’ll see you out.” Ignoring the brush-off, Rebeca asked, “Are you free for lunch? I have a few errands to run in the neighborhood and I’ll be close by around noon. We could eat in if you like.” Her expression suggested food would not be the only item on the menu.
Jordan shook her head. “No, thanks. I keep a tight schedule on Mondays.”
Rebeca seemed to detect the coolness in her mood and tried to rally her with a flirtatious smile. “Kiss to get you through the day?”
The newly formed layer of ice was not to be broken. “I think I can make it without. Thanks and have a good afternoon.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“This is such a lame way to spend a Thursday night,” Mac growled into the phone. She tried to do something relaxing on Thursday nights since s
he usually worked long shifts on Fridays. Surfing the Internet for love didn’t fit her idea of relaxing.
“Do you want me to come over?” Aimee asked. “I’m in my nightgown, settled in to watch a Charlie’s Angels marathon, but I’ll gladly throw on a pair of jeans and head your way.”
“No, I don’t want to tear you away from your sweethearts.
I called Jordan, but she has to work late.”
“Thanks, pal,” Aimee griped. “You’re not supposed to let a girl know she’s second choice. Are you sure Jordan had to work? I think she secretly likes the online dating and has probably amassed a long list of women she’s working her way through.”
“I won’t even dignify your speculation with a response.”
Mac felt that twinge again. Was she jealous of Jordan burning up the Web with her quest for new flames? “Maybe you’re right,” she told Aimee. “Judging by the lack of good prospects, Jordan’s probably had her way with most of these babes, and now they’re off swooning somewhere in the aftermath.”
“Say, why are you calling me? I thought you were going to try this on your own for a while, relying on your own instincts.”
“My instincts are telling me to run and hide. I called you for a pep talk, now let’s have it.”
“Okay, let’s pick someone for you to meet. Who are the top three candidates?”
“There isn’t a top three. There isn’t one woman on here I am interested in having an online chat with, let alone meeting in person.”
“Oh, you are a lost cause. Quit being so damn picky. Read me a profile, anyone’s profile,” Aimee encouraged.
“Yeah, okay. Then you’ll see how hopeless this whole exercise is. Here’s one, she goes by NoBonesAboutIt, which already gives me the willies on several different levels. No, wait. I just got a new e-mail. It’s from FanningtheFlame. I haven’t seen her profile online, but listen to this.”
Mac reviewed most of the e-mail in silence, but selected a couple of the best lines to read aloud as she went along.
I’ve been reading your profile every day this week and today I finally got up the courage to subscribe to this site so I could write to you. I, like you, have spent my life working hard for many things, but none of the things I’ve acquired have made my heart beat faster than it did when I read your feelings about love and relationships. I agree that a strong relationship requires nurturing and that passion and commitment will fan the flames and keep the fire alive. I’d like to meet you and see if our first glance ignites feelings that will burn forever. I invite you to read my profile and contact me if it sparks your interest.
“Whew, it’s getting hot in here,” Aimee sassed. “Does she look as good as she sounds?”
“I can’t think of a better word than ‘hot’ to describe her.
Where the hell has she been hiding?”
“Honey, she’s been sitting in the wings, waiting for the right moment to come out and play with you.” Aimee adopted a begging tone. “Please tell me you’re going to play with her.”
“You’re hopeless. I promise I’ll write her back. And if she can keep up her end of the conversation for a couple of rounds of chat, I swear, I’ll make a date with her.”
“Good girl. Now, if you don’t need me for anything else…”
“Go back to your Angels. Tell Kelly I said hello.”
“Will do.”
Mac was already rereading the e-mail from FanningtheFlame before Aimee clicked off the line.
Composing her response in her head, she spoke her most pressing thought out loud, “Are you for real?”
“Where the hell is she?” Jordan muttered as she typed “Malibu” into the search directory for the third time.
She stared in disbelief at the message: No Results FouNd.
That was weird. Jordan felt bad about the abrupt way she’d ushered Rebeca out of her office earlier that week. Rebeca had called several times since, but Jordan had been meeting with patients or was in surgery on each occasion. Composing an apology in her head, she’d spent a good half hour online looking for her. She reached for the cordless phone near her bed, then realized she didn’t know her phone number. She’d made a point of “forgetting” to ask for it. But she knew where Rebeca lived.
Jordan contemplated making a personal appearance to convey regret for her actions. She’d been a shit this week, snapping at a woman she barely knew, for no good reason, and getting irrationally impatient with everyone she spoke to.
She’d tried to contact Mac, wanting to smooth things over, but Mac had been distant all week, surely on account of Jordan’s disapproval of her dating choices.
Placing the laptop on her nightstand, she slid her feet into the worn Gucci loafers resting at her bedside. She wasn’t going to sit here all evening feeling helpless. It was always easier to smooth over hurt feelings face-to-face. She moved to the mirror and gave herself a quick once-over. Her slightly wrinkled pale green cotton shirt and weathered Lucky jeans would be fine for a casual late-night visit. Besides, Jordan remembered, Rebeca liked the Luckys.
Nosing the Beemer out of the parking garage adjacent to her building, Jordan noted that the traffic was light, even for a late Thursday evening. She attributed the nearly barren streets to the misty rain starting to fall. On weeknights, the Deep Ellum bars featured live local color that drew alternative music junkies from the entire metroplex, usually in droves.
But inconvenient, uncovered parking meant it took only a little rain to ward off all but the die-hard fans.
Heading west on Main Street the few short blocks to Rebeca’s apartment, she contemplated what she was doing.
I’m dropping in to apologize for being a jerk earlier this week.
I was pretty abrupt and I know it’s because Rebeca mentioned dad. Of course, Rebeca couldn’t know that the other Dr. Wagner was her father. How was Jordan going to explain her reaction without explaining what was behind it? She had no desire to get into a discussion about her father. Did she even owe Rebeca an explanation? It wasn’t like they were dating.
They’d gone out twice. Their conversations were little more than foreplay. She didn’t know the woman. Hell, she didn’t even know her phone number.
As she approached Pearl Street, her musings turned to resolution and she abruptly changed lanes, choosing right over left. Right led to Oak Lawn and all the promises of the Dallas lesbian nightlife. Hoping the rain hadn’t deterred all the beautiful women from coming out, Jordan decided to start the evening fresh, no apologies, no regrets. Leaving Rebeca’s building far behind, she drove directly to Sue Ellen’s.
The usual suspects were all in residence. Stepping into the shadowy bar, Jordan paused to take stock of the room.
The place was crowded with women jockeying for the best position to order the drink special from one of the three female bartenders. One beautiful, one foxy, one tomboyish, they rushed around each other trying to keep up with the demands of the women vying for their attention. Holding back from the crowd, Jordan enjoyed watching the dance. The choreography never changed no matter the composition of the audience.
Though she was standing a couple of rows back from the crowded bar railing, her status as a regular came with perks. After she placed her order, the bartender walked out from behind the bar to make a personal delivery. Sidling up close, she wrapped an arm around Jordan’s waist and placed the longneck Miller Lite in her hand. “Haven’t seen you on a school night for a while. How’ve you been?”
Jordan took a long draft from the bottle and appraised the woman attached to her hip. Short, spiked brown hair with sandy highlights, slim hips, tiny waist, and a perfect round ass all showed out nicely on her small frame. She wasn’t Jordan’s type, but her androgynous, edgy, ageless looks certainly turned heads. A group lining the front row of the bar glanced back at them, torn between enjoying the picture they cut and mourning the loss of their drink maker.
Noticing the glances, Jordan warned her hipmate, “If you don’t head back soon, I fear the ma
sses will come looking for you.”
“Promise me a dance before you leave?”
“I may not be staying long.”
“Well, if a beautiful woman hasn’t whisked you away by the time I get my break, you’re all mine.”
“Deal,” Jordan replied, knowing it wasn’t. The banter was safe and meaningless since they both knew they would never hook up. Though the bartender would probably be a willing participant in any extracurricular activity Jordan offered, Jordan came here often and wasn’t going to risk losing one of her playgrounds over a one-night stand and possible hurt feelings.
Leaving her spot near the bar, she wandered by the dance floor. Apparently Thursday nights were made for drinking, not aerobics, so there weren’t too many women gyrating to the music. Jordan pushed through the patio doors and settled into one of the wire mesh chairs that lined the outdoor room.
Angling her seat to give her a balanced view of the patio and the nightlife on the street, she took another deep draft of her beer. She remembered the first time she and Mac had come here, fake ID’s at the ready. Seniors at East Dallas High, they’d ditched their homecoming dates, changed into club wear, and struck out to the bar they’d read about. After Jordan’s mother died, her father never paid much attention to what she did, leaving her free to explore all she wanted. Somehow she and Mac, both questioning their sexuality, had been lucky enough to find each other in the sea of students at EDH. Together they’d learned about gay life on the sly, reading books and magazines that confirmed that it was okay to feel the things they felt.
Their first night at Sue Ellen’s had been like a child’s first trip to Disney World, full of glitzy attractions, wild rides, and tasty treats. The strong beat of the music, the flashing lights, and the few drinks they’d managed to get women to buy them animated their newfound sexual feelings. Jordan imagined familiarity was the reason they’d turned to each other. She recalled the moment Mac had leaned in and kissed her full on the mouth. The taste of her tongue was sweet but the effect was searing. At first they’d melted into an embrace, but then Jordan’s initial response was replaced with fear, causing her to push Mac away. Mac, still woozy from the effect of the passionate kiss, seemed slow to realize the rejection wasn’t temporary. Eyes hazy with longing looked deep into Jordan’s, and she’d sensed an intensity of feeling in Mac that worried her. By contrast, her own feelings seemed too shallow. She felt almost numb.
