Any Other Love

by Elizabeth Barone

  Char stared after her. Her pulse throbbed in her veins. It was really happening. She was taking Amarie out. It might even be a date, since Amarie was dressing up for her. She glanced around the room in a panic. The only dressy thing she’d brought with her were the booties that matched her utility jacket—and those were Rowan’s. Her best friend had insisted she bring them, “Just in case.”

  She snorted softly. She knew Matt had helped Amarie pack. Those two had, from opposite ends, conspired. The corners of her mouth lifted. She had the best friends in the world.

  She dug through her suitcase until she came up with her stone-washed skinny jeans, a plain white T-shirt, and the booties. Not for the first time, she wished getting dressed was as easy as it was in The Sims. Amarie could walk out at any second. Her pulse sped.

  As she changed clothes, she considered what she was doing. It was not a date. It was just two friends, going out for a comedy special. Two friends who had once kissed. No big deal.

  The bathroom door opened just as Char donned her sunglasses. Even though it was getting darker by the second, they were the only jewelry she had with her—which was a stretch, and she knew it.

  Amarie stepped into the room. Char took the sunglasses off, her eyes appreciating the black chiffon shift dress that fell to Amarie’s knees. The high neckline and A-cut skirt highlighted Amarie’s shoulders nicely, and the fabric swayed around her figure. She wiggled her toes in her strappy sandals, the pale pink nail polish contrasting nicely with her tawny complexion. What did Char in, though, were her berry stained lips.

  “This is not a date,” Char managed, her voice husky.

  Amarie did a little twirl, her dress fanning out a little around her.

  “You’re beautiful,” Char whispered. She blinked. “I mean, you’re already beautiful. It’s just . . . We need to leave now.”

  Grinning, Amarie closed the distance between them. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she said in a low voice. “I like those jeans on you.” Her dark eyes drank Char in.

  The room definitely seemed warmer. “Thanks,” she managed. “Ro says I have way too many chef’s jackets in my closet.”

  “Well,” Amarie said as she twined her fingers through Char’s, “I like those too. But this is nice.”

  Charlotte grabbed the cane leaning against the dresser and handed it to Amarie. “Shall we?”

  She gave Amarie her arm, her entire body humming with anticipation. She could make a mean New York strip, but she also knew how to make people smile. That was her favorite recipe.

  That’s all she was doing: making Amarie smile.

  No more, no less.

  They waited in the lobby until the valet pulled up with the Sunfire. She had to admit, the night felt a little less glitzy driving around the city in a car that was almost older than she was. Still, she felt like a rock star when the valet held the passenger door open for Amarie and then the driver’s side for her.

  She dropped Amarie off in front of the comedy club on Broadway and parked at Eastway around the corner. Though their rates weren’t too bad, she still winced as she read the sign. It was a damned good thing that Rowan was only charging her for her half of the utilities. Two days in and she was already blowing through her latest paycheck.

  If she were to open her own restaurant, she reminded herself as she walked to the club, money would be even tighter. Hell, she’d probably have to sleep in the back storeroom just to make ends meet.

  She spotted Amarie in front of the building.

  “The teacher in me is annoyed that Carolines doesn’t have an apostrophe in its name,” Amarie said, gazing up at the lights of the club’s sign.

  “How will the children of this country ever become anything with a travesty like this?” Char held her arm out to Amerie. “Where would you like to eat?”

  “Don’t judge me, but the mystery meat hot dog carts are calling my name,” Amarie said, linking arms with her.

  She sniffed the air. The street was lined with vendors selling various foods, but Amarie was right. Nothing smelled better than the hot dogs. Her mouth watered. “Roasted weenies it is.”

  They got foot-long hot dogs at a cart only a few paces away, then seated themselves on a long bench.

  “¡Que bueno! Why is this so good?” Amarie breathed.

  Charlotte glanced over at her. Amarie held her hot dog with one hand, her other hand holding her curls out of her face. Ketchup and mustard dotted one corner of her mouth. “I know,” she agreed. “New York vendors must have some kind of exclusive contract with some kind of magic hot dog company.”

  “Maybe they’re roasted over the coals of dead pigeons.”

  “That’s dark,” Char said. Still, she had to admit there wasn’t much that Amarie couldn’t get away with, in her book. It wasn’t just that she was so damned adorable. What she loved—liked, damn it—most about Amarie was that she was real. She didn’t hold back her silliness. She didn’t put on an act of the composed twenty-one-year-old. She was one-hundred percent who she was, no apologies.

  “Maybe they’re boiled with the tears of taxi drivers,” Amarie said.

  Char shook her head, smiling around a bite of hot dog.

  “Maybe they’re marinated in the mascara of prostitutes.” Amarie paused. “The one I had in my head was a lot darker, but I’m trying to snag you, not scare you away.”

  “Under those spiral curls and wide brown eyes, there lies a dark mind.” Charlotte scooted closer to her. “But I kinda love that mind.”

  Amarie lowered the last bite of her hot dog. Their gazes latched.

  Face burning, Char wished a New York rat would drag her into its sewer lair at that particular moment. “I mean . . .” Her voice trailed off. She swallowed hard. “Sorry.”

  “I’m not sorry.” Amarie tossed the empty end of her hot dog bun into a nearby garbage can.

  “She shoots like Shaq, and she wastes bread,” Char said quietly.

  “I don’t waste bread.” Amarie brushed a strand of lavender hair out of Char’s eyes. “I just don’t eat the butt. But I love that you do.”

  Heart thudding in her chest, Charlotte chewed the remainder of her hot dog. The only people she’d ever dropped the L bomb on were her parents, brother, and Rowan. She cleared her throat and stood, offering Amarie her arm again. “Shall we head inside?”

  “That hot dog was so good,” Amarie said as she helped her up, “I need to bum a cigarette off a stranger.”

  “Come on, you.” Charlotte couldn’t stop grinning, though. No matter how much she liked Amarie’s gentle, free spirit, she’d never seen her so liberated. There was something about the city that did that for a person—or maybe it was the fact that they were together. She mulled over that as she walked Amarie inside. Maybe it was egotistical to think that she could have such an effect on her.

  Especially since she kept trying to convince herself and everyone else that she didn’t want to get together with Amarie.

  An attendant led them to their seats and the show began.

  Zelda bounded onto the stage, a leather motorcycle hat bouncing on her head, silver chain glinting underneath the lights. “What’s up, New York!” she greeted them. “During that little run there, twenty percent of my joints just completely gave up. And I’m now down to twenty percent of my battery. Show’s over! Goodnight!” She started toward the curtain.

  The crowd laughed.

  “But seriously, the reason I do this is because I want to bring awareness to an illness that’s often misunderstood or completely invisible—unlike this damn rash on my face.”

  Charlotte glanced over at Amarie.

  She watched Zelda, eyes wide and shiny with tears, her lips curled into a smile as she took in every word. Sure, Char had blown her paycheck on tickets that were maybe too expensive—but it was worth it.

  Even if they spent the rest of the night in bed, watching movies, Amarie was worth it.

  Maybe she didn’t have to choose between her dream girl and her dream ca
reer.

  Chapter 13

  Amarie tipped her head back against the seat, the wind from the open window teasing her hair. Her lashes brushed her cheeks as she closed her eyes. She wanted the night to never end. The show had been funnier than all of Zelda’s spoonie vlogs. She’d laughed so hard, her stomach hurt and tears flowed down her cheeks. Zelda got it. And thanks to her, people in the audience did, too.

  Charlotte’s fingers closed gently around hers and squeezed. “Tonight was perfect.”

  She squeezed back. It had been—and it could be even better. Just the brush of Char’s thumb across her hand was sending hot pulses through her. That one kiss left her aching for so much more than just holding hands. The spot between her legs throbbed, warm and wet.

  It was time.

  Maybe Char liked her and didn’t want anything behind their five nights together. Amarie was no stranger to one-night stands. As much as she wanted to be with Char, she would take whatever she got.

  Whatever kept Char from running away completely.

  Releasing Char’s hand, she reached across the center console, her palm resting lightly on Char’s thigh. She watched Char’s face for a sign that she should stop, that she’d completely crossed the line.

  A corner of Char’s mouth quirked up. “If we crash and die, it’s your fault,” Char said. She put her free hand on Amarie’s thigh, though.

  Game on.

  Though her joints throbbed even through the Percocet, she wasn’t dead. Giving up her last spoons to be with Char would be totally worth it. She just hoped those spoons would hold out long enough.

  Her sensitive fingertips slid over the soft denim of Char’s pants, climbing higher up her thigh. The entire time, Amarie watched her face. She didn’t have to, though. Char’s hand slipped upward. Her fingers stroked the hem of the shift dress Amarie wore. It wouldn’t take much for that dress to hitch up around her hips, Amarie mused. All that would remain between her and Char would be a silky black thong.

  A thong that she very much wanted off.

  More than anything, she needed Char’s hands on her. Inside her.

  She skimmed denim, caressing the Y crease between Char’s thighs and abdomen. Her hand became like a feather. Fingers splayed, she pressed the cool metal button of Char’s jeans, then glided over the rough zigzag carve of the zipper. There she hesitated, not sure whether she had the proverbial cajones.

  She dared another glance at Char.

  Char was looking at her, too, an eyebrow raised in question.

  She blinked. They sat in front of the valet service, the Sunfire thrumming underneath her. She hadn’t even noticed they’d arrived.

  The valet leaned on the ledge of her window. “Hot,” he purred.

  She yanked her hand away from Char, jerking her dress down into place. Blood started flowing through her body again. She gave him her best glare. “¡Vete para carajo! Perv.”

  He backed away, scowling.

  “I wonder if we can get a different one,” Char muttered.

  The valet walked around to Char’s window.

  “Tradesies!” Amarie yelled. “We want a gentleman.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Does she look like she’s kidding?” Char hit the lock button. “Find someone else. Now.”

  He stalked away.

  “You fetishizing cabron,” Amarie called after him. He kept walking, but waved a dismissive hand at her. She shook her head. “When does it end? When do they finally realize we’re not a porn prop?” She felt Char’s eyes on her, and turned in her seat. “What?”

  “Nothing . . .” Charlotte said. “It’s just, ‘we’?” She lifted a curious eyebrow.

  Amarie met her eyes, her own gaze steady. “Yeah. People act like bisexual people are just there for their entertainment.”

  “I don’t know what’s worse: the way people pretend bisexual people don’t exist unless they’re in a threesome, or how men call lesbians names unless they can watch.” Char rolled her eyes. “It’s disgusting.”

  Amarie nodded. “That’s why I don’t usually tell the guys I date that I’m bisexual. I mean, Lucas knows. Obviously.” She licked her lips. “I think that thing at the coffee shop . . . I don’t think he was being a jerk. I think he was giving us his blessing in a way. I mean, all of our friends are rooting for us.”

  A different valet approached the car, an apologetic expression on his face.

  “If you’re just looking for a fling, I can do that,” she told Char quickly.

  Char unlocked the car and pushed her own door open. “I don’t think I can do that,” she said.

  “Okay,” she said. “It’s just . . .” With a strength Amarie didn’t even know she had, she thrust her door open and got out. “I like you, Char. A lot. I think you can tell that by now. I’m just confused. Why would you invite me along on this trip and take me out on a date? Am I imagining you flirting with me?”

  Char joined her on the sidewalk, and the valet drove away. “No. You’re not imagining things.”

  “I just need you to be straight with me. Pun intended,” she added, in an effort to lighten the mood.

  Char looked down at her feet. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not? Is it because I’m bi? Because I’m sick?” She strode into the hotel without waiting for an answer. As much as she hated to admit it, the rejection stung. Maybe she shouldn’t have come. So far, all she’d managed to do was miss her appointment and make a spectacle of herself.

  She advanced on the elevators, curls bouncing as she shook her head at herself. She punched the call button with a finger, wincing as the joints in her finger jammed. “Damn it.”

  Charlotte joined her. “It is not either of those things,” she said. Blue eyes burned fiercely into Amarie’s.

  She crossed her arms. “Then what is it?”

  The elevator doors rolled open, but neither of them moved. Cold air pumped through the lobby, raising goosebumps on Amarie’s arms. Or maybe if was the force of the blood pumping through her veins. She’d never been so annoyed with herself.

  She walked into the elevator without glancing at Charlotte, her arms still wrapped around herself. She pressed the button to keep the doors open, though, staring hard at the panel while she waited.

  Char placed a palm on the frame, apparently not realizing that Amarie already had her finger on the open button. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I’m gonna run over to the packy and grab some wine before they close.”

  “Wine? What for?”

  “Think of it as my apology. Or a bribe.” Char grinned at her.

  Amarie’s mouth twitched against her will. “Well, damn. Fine.”

  “You have your room key, right?”

  “Yes.” She glared hard at the panel, still not looking at Char.

  “I’ll be back, then.” Charlotte stepped away from the elevator.

  Sighing, Amarie released the button and pressed the number to their floor. The doors rolled shut. There might be wine, but there needed to be a conversation, too. Maybe she couldn’t break through Char’s walls after all. They had to get on the same page before she got her heart broken.

  As the elevator opened onto her floor, she took deep breaths, steeling herself. She might not like the answers she got, and she was going to have to be okay with that. She changed out of the dress into shorts and an Audioslave tank top that had more holes in it than her head did, but it was so soft she couldn’t bear to throw it away. She touched her sapphire hair and shook her head at herself. Come Sunday, she was only going to have to dye it back. There was no way she could go back to work with blue hair.

  Flopping onto her belly on the bed, she buried her face in a pillow. All she was accomplishing was living a lie. She had no idea what she’d been thinking. Even if she somehow managed to make it to her appointment, there was only a slim chance that Dr. Warren would be able to diagnose her in one visit—even with all of the medical records that she’d brought with her. Most doctors barely had five
minutes, never mind the hour that Amarie needed from her.

  She blinked back tears. Though she was still upset about Char, it wasn’t what was troubling her. She had to admit to herself: it was the damned appointment. She always got anxious before doctor’s appointments—but since she’d missed her original appointment, of course her brain was going to be even more of an asshole.

  The door opened and Char eased inside. She held up a bottle of Barefoot. “Peace offering?”

  Amarie sat up and patted the bed next to her. “Come on, little Rhett. I’m sorry I freaked out on you.”

  “You didn’t.” Char kicked off her shoes and left her jacket slung over the arm of a chair. She grabbed the two plastic cups from the bathroom, then joined Amarie in bed with the bottle of wine. “Ah, shit. We need ice. I’ll be right back.” Without another word, she took the bucket and left.

  Amarie bit her lower lip. There was so much that she needed to say. First, though, she needed to comb through her own feelings. She remembered Char saying there was a rooftop bar and pool. She didn’t think she or Matt had thought to pack a swimsuit, though. Too bad, because she could use a soothing swim at the moment.

  “I’m back,” Char announced, swinging a bucket of ice by her side. “Okay, so, for the record, that ice machine kicked my ass but I fought back.” She held up a red finger.

  “What happened?” Amarie gently took her hand.

  “Go figure, I jammed my finger on the ice machine. I’ll just stick my hand in this convenient bucket.” Rolling her eyes at herself, Char took her hand back and shoved the bottle of wine into the ice.

  Amarie unwrapped the cups and added a few tiny cubes of ice to each. “You’re gonna have to open that, though. My hands suck at being hands.”

  “And now we’re down another finger.” With a wink, Char picked up the bottle. She closed her eyes, groaning.

  “What?” Amarie shifted in her spot to see Char’s hand. “Is it bad? Should we find an ER?”

  “No, no. It’s not that.” Char held up the bottle. “It’s a corked bottle.”

  Amarie’s mouth formed a small O. She squared her shoulders. “Maybe the concierge has a corkscrew.” Picking up the bottle from its icy nest, she cradled it in the crook of one arm. Then she scooted off the bed.