“Looks good,” Charlotte murmured, arms winding around her waist again. Amarie’s curls tickled her cheek and neck.
“Thank you.” Amarie nestled into her.
“I was thinking, we could order pizza.”
“Pizza?”
Char tucked away stray curls out of both their faces. “Yes. It has sauce and cheese and sometimes a topping or two.”
Giggling, Amarie turned in her arms, their noses brushing. “I know that. I just figured you’d be sick of it by now.”
“Never!” They’d spent the past week packing up both her room at Rowan’s and Amarie’s bedroom at her parents’, which had required a lot of pizza. Then they’d had Matt, Lucas, and both their dads help move in the furniture—of which there wasn’t much, but they’d still paid the guys in pizza and beer. “I guess we have been eating a lot of it lately,” Char admitted.
“My mom sent rice and chicken, with some plaintains.”
“You mean real food?”
“Yes, love.”
The endearment sent tingles shooting throughout Char’s limbs all over again. She sighed contentedly. “The only problem is, we don’t have a microwave yet, and no pans to use on the stove.”
Amarie sighed dramatically. “I guess it’s pizza again, then.” She went limp in Char’s arms, poking her tongue out of her mouth and crossing her eyes.
“Oh no, she’s dead! I guess she doesn’t need pizza.” Char pretended to drop her, and Amarie perked up.
“Can we get McDonald’s instead?”
“Anything for you, love,” she said, enjoying the way the word caressed her lips.
“Why thank you, Rhett!” Amarie pecked her cheek and dashed inside.
Charlotte leaned on the square wooden railing, glancing out over their new home. In the parking lot below, a man got out of his car. He glanced up, and she waved. “Hi!”
The man scowled at her. She took an involuntary step back, her hand dropping to her side. He wasn’t glaring at her specifically, she realized. His eyes bore into the flags on their porch. His eyebrows still furrowed, he spat onto the pavement. Then he went inside.
Her fingernails dug into the wood.
The screen door opened and Amarie pulled the front door shut behind her. She bounced her keys in her hands. “I’m driving,” she called as she started down the stairs.
Charlotte stared at the dark spot on the pavement where their neighbor had spat.
“You coming?” Amarie asked, looking at her over her shoulder.
“I just met our new neighbor,” she said, still staring at the spit.
“Oh? What were they like?”
“A complete bigot.” Her hands curled into fists. “He glared at our pride flags, then spat on the ground.”
Amarie rolled her eyes. “Shocker. Come on, little Rhett. Don’t let him get to you.”
She shook her head, her eyes meeting Amarie’s. “It made me uncomfortable.”
“I know, babe.” Amarie climbed the stairs, returning to her side. “Unfortunately, not everyone has been reborn in the warmth of the queer light.”
Charlotte lifted an eyebrow at her. “You make us sound like some kind of religious cult.”
“According to them, we are.” Amarie giggled. “The ‘gay agenda’?” She made air quotes with her fingers. “Come on. You can’t take them that seriously when they say such ridiculous things. Did he say anything to you?”
“No. He just drilled holes in my face with his eyeballs.” Charlotte rolled her own eyes.
“Don’t sweat him, then. Vente, mi amor. My fries are getting cold.” Slipping her hand into Char’s, Amarie tugged her toward the stairs.
With a sigh, she let herself be led. Brooding about some stranger spitting on the ground wasn’t going to make things any better. Besides, saliva was hardly a threat. He hadn’t even spit on her. As she slid into the passenger’s seat of Amarie’s car, she forced herself to put it out of her mind entirely. After all, they had plenty of other neighbors.
∞∞∞
McDonald’s paper bag in hand, Charlotte climbed out of Amarie’s little Hyundai. “We’ll go shopping for some things in the morning, if you’re up to it,” she said. Moving in spurts throughout the week had been tough on her body. She was positive that Amarie had to be sore.
“That sounds good,” Amarie said, her voice trailing off. “Where are our flags?” She pointed up to the porch.
Char craned her neck. Not that she had to. The bright pride flags were clearly gone. She clamped her teeth together. “Hold this.” She passed the bag to Amarie, then stomped up the stairs to the second floor apartment. With a closed fist, she banged on the door.
“What are you doing?” Amarie whispered. She hovered by Char’s elbow, glancing around the property.
“Getting our flags back.”
“What if they just blew away?”
Char knocked again. “How? I mean, there is a nice breeze, but it’s not that strong.”
“Come on. Let’s just go eat. We can always get more flags.”
“That’s not the point.” Raising her voice, she banged harder. “I know you’re in there, and I know you have our flags. I want them back.”
Amarie tugged at her arm. “Please. Let’s just let it go.”
Charlotte whirled on her. “Why? So he can do worse? No. This stops right here.”
Amarie took a deep breath. “I understand,” she said in a low voice, “but you can’t make him come out and hand them over.”
“I’m sick of this shit!” Char threw up her hands. “All my life, kids teased me. They called me ‘Char-les.’ Little motherfuckers knew even before I did.”
Nodding, Amarie took her arm and steered her toward the stairs. “Kids called me ‘I’m-a-Freak,’ as in, ‘Hey, I’m-a-Freak.’” She rolled her eyes. “I give them credit for that one. At least it was clever.”
They headed up the stairs together, Char’s shoulders deflating with each step. “I hate this place. All I’ve ever wanted was to move somewhere like P-Town or New York City, somewhere people like us are accepted—where there’s so many of us, people have to accept us.”
Amarie unlocked the door and pushed it open. “There are bigots everywhere, love.”
“That’s unacceptable,” Char said. She stalked toward the counter and grabbed the stack of paper plates they’d been using.
“We can do things like start pride groups to create more acceptance.”
Char scowled. “Why is it always up to us to teach people how to treat us like human beings?”
Amarie bit her lower lip, nodding. “I know. I just mean . . . Maybe we can find other queer people in town, band with them. Safety in numbers and all that.”
She rubbed her temples. “Maybe. Or maybe assholes like our neighbor would just crash our parties.”
“Well, they can try all they want, but they can’t crash this party,” Amarie said, wrapping her arms around her.
Amarie's hands skimmed up and down Charlotte’s ribs. “I think I need a shower before I can eat.” She cupped Char’s chin and brought their lips together.
It was too hard to say no to her, Char mused. Even with a gurgling stomach. She kissed her back, forcing away her stomach’s growling and the adrenaline pumping through her system. Tugging Amarie’s shirt off, she dropped it to the floor, then wrapped her arms around her again.
“Wait,” Amarie said, giggling. She grabbed the bag of food and stuffed it into the oven. “To keep it warm,” she explained. She padded into the bathroom. A second later, Char heard the water running. Amarie’s shorts, bra, and panties hit the floor in the hallway.
She grinned.
Pulling off her own clothing, she left a trail behind her and moved into the bathroom. Thankfully, Amarie’s mom Paloma had given them a gift basket full of bathroom things. Water splashed the clear plastic inner curtain but stayed off the floor as Amarie turned underneath the hot spray. Char padded across the fuzzy copper-colored rug, admiring the desert-inspired pal
ette Paloma had chosen for the small room and the way the soft strands of yarn nuzzled between her toes.
She pulled back the curtain.
Amarie stood under the stream, indigo curls flattened against her head, cascading down to her mid-back in waves. Hot water sluiced down her body, leaving dewy droplets on her breasts, nipples, belly, and thighs. She opened her eyes, lashes blinking against the water, making her look wide-eyed and innocent. The sight took Char’s breath away. She still couldn’t believe her life.
An apartment with this beautiful, funny, and smart woman.
The woman she was about to please.
Eyes locked on Amarie’s, Char stepped into the shower. She drew the curtain closed behind her. Then she advanced, pinning Amarie against the cool tile with her arms and body. She nipped at Amarie’s earlobe.
Amarie uttered a moan that was half sharp pleasure, half giggle. “Oh, it’s gonna be like that?”
“Yes,” she said, latching her mouth to Amarie’s. She tasted sweet and cool, like the Coca-Cola she’d been sipping on. Emotions swirled inside of her. She pressed every inch of skin together: breasts and nipples grazed each other, heartbeats thudded in time, slippery thighs ached for more contact. Amarie’s tongue winding around hers was a rope lassoing her heart.
She cupped the swollen mound between Amarie’s legs. Amarie had the prettiest vulva she’d ever seen—a sweet rise of flesh around her labia and entrance. Char traced it without breaking the kiss. Already she’d memorized so much of Amarie’s body, mapped every single spot that made her sigh or call out Char’s name.
Since they were in the shower, she wanted to try something. Bracing Amarie’s back against the tile, she supported her weight with one arm. With the other hand, she stroked the tender vulva, Amarie rocking against her.
Between the cascading water and Amarie’s arousal, Charlotte’s fingers were slick and slippery. She found the sweet bundle of nerves, drawing slow circles around it. Amarie’s hands gripped her shoulders, her kisses turning fevered.
“Hold onto me,” Char whispered into her mouth, and plunged inside of her.
Gasping, Amarie bucked against her. Charlotte pressed her tighter against the wall to keep her from slipping, her fingers working in slow, deep thrusts. Amarie clung to her, then suddenly went limp, her body spasming. With a grin, Char held her tightly while the climax rippled through her.
“Okay,” Amarie said after a few minutes. “I can eat now.”
∞∞∞
As the days passed and blurred into weeks, Char found herself settling into a comfortable routine with Amarie. Their little attic apartment slowly began to look like a home, thanks to tag sale finds, Target runs, and strangers getting rid of perfectly good furniture for free in local Facebook groups. The only shadow on their happiness was Amarie’s illness.
More and more, Char hated feeling so helpless. There would be days when Amarie seemed relatively okay, like the new meds were doing their job, and then bam—she’d be asking for her cane or bedridden altogether. Even though summer vacation was just around the corner, Amarie was missing more time at work than ever. There’d been a few times when Char had called out, too, for fear of Amarie falling and getting hurt when she wasn’t around.
She cupped her chin in her hand, her elbow propped on the glass display case that housed Elli’s confections of the day. Amarie had been up all the night before with painsomnia, a vicious pain storm that kicked in sometimes when she tried to lay down for the night. With her like that, Char could hardly turn her back on her and go to sleep. They’d stayed up binge-watching Gilmore Girls and snuggling on the couch.
“Earth to Charlotte,” Matt said, snapping his fingers in front of her face.
She jerked to attention. “Yeah. Right here.”
Rowan floated in from the kitchen, humming and carrying a tray of finger foods. She plunked them down in front of Char. “Taste test. Go!”
Char picked up what looked like it might be an egg roll, and held it up in front of her for inspection. Corn, cheese, and what looked like spinach oozed out of it, and parts of it the egg roll wrapper were darker. “Your fryer oil is too hot,” she said.
“Damn,” Rowan said. She plucked one from the tray. “Really?”
“Yep. What are they supposed to be?”
“Southwestern egg rolls. Matt and I are on a kick after going to Chilli’s this weekend. We were thinking about expanding Elli’s menu anyway, so I figured I’d give it a shot.” Rowan bit her lower lip.
“Well, practice makes perfect.” Charlotte popped the cooled bite into her mouth and chewed. Her eyes teared as searing spicy flavor assaulted her taste buds. “Water,” she said.
Matt handed her a cold bottle.
“Too spicy?” Rowan asked.
She gulped the entire thing down. “You think?” she croaked.
With a sigh, Rowan picked up the tray. “Back to the drawing board.”
“Please stick to dessert,” Charlotte begged as she followed her to the kitchen.
Rowan faked a pout. “Have a little faith in me.”
“You’ll get it,” Char promised. She drummed her fingers on a stainless steel counter. “Speaking of food . . . That con was sort of a bust, but I did learn about grant writing. After Am crashed around five this morning, I looked into some in our state. Did you know women business owners can apply for all kinds of grants? They’ll essentially help fund your entire startup.”
Rowan raised her eyebrows. “That’s amazing, Char. What kind of restaurant would you open?”
She took a deep breath. “I’m still just thinking, but Della—the woman I talked with about grants—has a coffee shop slash smoothie bar slash café in SoHo. It’s also part gallery for local artists. What if I did something like that around here? Watertown is super artsy. Wouldn’t it be perfect?”
The smooth skin between Rowan’s brows creased. “It would,” she said slowly. “Where would you open it?”
“So there are actually a couple of options right here on Main Street,” Char said. “I called the numbers on the For Lease signs. They’re not as expensive as I thought they’d be—and if I got a grant, it’d be a snap.”
“Cool,” Rowan said. She turned back to her tray. “I guess I should kill the experiments now. Your place will crush us.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just mean there’s no point in expanding if you’re gonna open up shop with all your delicious foods. Elli’s can stick to the dessert market.”
Charlotte tapped her chin. “Wait, what? You think we’d be in competition?”
“I know we’d be in competition,” Rowan said.
“But you’re Elli’s,” Char said. “You’ve basically got the entire town wrapped around your fingers. If anyone’s going to get crushed, it’s me,” she joked.
Rowan merely shrugged in response.
“I don’t want you to be mad at me,” Char continued. “I can do something else.”
“All’s fair in business and war,” Rowan said. “Besides, this is your dream. Elli’s just kind of fell into my lap. Don’t let me stand in your way.” Though she smiled, her words weren’t convincing.
Char smiled back, but her shoulders slumped. Opening up her own place in town might not be as simple as she’d thought. “I’d better get going. I picked up a second shift at The 545 today. Amarie’s missed a few days of work and I don’t want to fall behind on bills.”
“Shit,” Rowan said. “I’m an asshole. How is she?”
“She’s okay. It’s going to take some time for the meds to get working. The Prednisone should start helping any day now, but the Plaquenil . . .” She lifted her hands. “It could be months. Anyway, I’ve gotta go.”
Without waiting for a response, Charlotte fled Elli’s. Though she understood where Rowan was coming from, it still stung. If she wanted to open up her own place, she needed her best friend’s support. It didn’t seem like she had it, though.
Chapter 17
Amarie eme
rged from the bathroom with a groan, grateful Char was at work and missing the least sexy moment of her life—not to mention the lowest. She glared at the bottle of pills on the counter—the round, white pills that were supposed to change her life. They were supposed to make her better. Instead, they gave her hours of diarrhea every day and forced her to call out of work.
Taking a deep breath, she grabbed her iPad and eased onto the futon that served as their couch. For the next half hour, she Googled side effects of Plaquenil, reading through forum threads and blog posts. Apparently, Plaquenil and dairy didn’t get along. She mentally retraced her meals. For breakfast, she usually had cereal—which she ate with whole milk. If not cereal, then she had toast—with a glass of milk. Then she had coffee with a healthy splash of half and half, and spent the rest of the day running to the bathroom. At her dinner dose, though, she was fine.
Because she rarely had milk products with her dinner.
She sighed and scrolled through a few more posts. Several users recommended waiting twenty minutes after meals. She could do that. She needed Plaquenil to work for her.
She was two weeks into daily Prednisone doses and already her joints were a little less stiff, but all of that meant nothing if she couldn’t push through the Plaquenil side effects. Resolving to go to work in the morning and put off her Plaquenil dose, she put the iPad to the side.
She’d already missed a week straight. Though her boss was being cool about it, she knew she was pushing her luck. The position only lasted until the end of the year. She doubted that her boss would tolerate her absences much longer.
Kiiara’s “Gold” blared from her phone—her current ringtone. Amarie grabbed the phone. It was her rheumatologist’s office. She swiped to take the call and pressed the phone to her ear.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” said Dr. Warren. “May I speak to Amarie Locke?”
Her blood all but halted in her veins. Doctors never called personally unless it was something important. She straightened. “Speaking.”
“Hello, Amarie. How are you feeling?”
The vocal chords in her throat were like strands of spaghetti that had fused together. She tried to clear her throat but her voice came out scratchy anyway. “Okay,” she croaked.
Any Other Love Page 16
