Love Times Two

by Cindy Rizzo

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  Love Times Two

  A Double Dose of Romance for Valentine’s Day

  By Nikki Busch and Cindy Rizzo

  Table of Contents

  Pistachio Heat by Nikki Busch

  V-Day 1978 by Cindy Rizzo

  About Nikki Busch

  About Cindy Rizzo

  Other books from Ylva Publishing

  Coming from Ylva Publishing in 2015

  Pistachio Heat

  by Nikki Busch

  Miri Rahimi looked in her freezer and sighed. Out of gelato again. It was the deciding factor. She’d go to the Meetup group’s Valentine’s Day pinball party. If she couldn’t sit home, nursing a pint of creamy pistachio goodness, she might as well check out the group. Hell, it was practically in her backyard. Worse comes to worst, I’ll play a few games, grab a late dinner, and hit Shop-Rite on the way home. Gelato goes on sale at midnight.

  Not only was it her first time visiting Silverball Pinball Museum, on Asbury Park’s newly reconstructed boardwalk, it was her first time attending a lesbian Meetup. Her expectations for the group—GirlUp—were ridiculously low. At thirty-five, Miri was a late-bloomer lesbian who’d never had a girlfriend. She pictured a neon sign on her forehead, flashing the words “Out Too Late: Do Not Date,” and wondered if she even stood a chance.

  “I just know everyone’s terrified I’ll go running, screaming back to dick!” She’d Skyped her old high school friend Jackie in a last-ditch attempt to talk herself out of attending the party.

  “Give it time, Miri. You’ve been out for what, three months? Talk about impatient. Just go to the party and have fun.” Sitting in her living room back in northern New Jersey, Jackie looked much more relaxed than Miri felt.

  Miri passed the flat iron through her short, chocolate-brown locks. “I’ve only wasted more than a decade having bad sex with the wrong gender. What’s twenty years of celibacy going to matter?” Her voice was almost a snarl, but her hair was finally straight and spikey.

  Armed with more encouragement from Jackie, Miri ended the Skype call. As she applied plum eyeliner, followed by a smoky eye and black mascara, she reflected on how far she’d come.

  Her father, an Iranian-born physician, and her mother, a Jewish-Italian college professor, had certain expectations for their only child. Growing up, Miri caved in to their demands on the outside—excelling in school, staying slim, and bringing home presentable dates—but what went on inside was another matter.

  Once she stopped smoking grass—which she’d done on the down low since high school in order to tolerate the boys and later the men her parents expected her to date—she found her truth. She was attracted to women and had been since that day Kara’s knee first grazed hers, as they huddled on the bleachers watching a seventh-grade soccer match.

  She’d stuffed down her desire for years…stuffed it down like the chips and candy she’d put away in college before purging in a bulimic rage…stuffed it down the way she’d stuffed her thirty-year-old body into Spanx, in order to look oh-so-thin for the men she dated.

  But now, Miri knew why her libido sucked all those years. It wasn’t because she was frigid, as several ex-boyfriends claimed. She wasn’t one of those “50 percent of straight women who cannot achieve orgasm during intercourse,” as the researchers described it. She knew she craved women with a hunger that had remained hidden far too long. And she knew it was perfectly fine to satisfy her sweet tooth with a pint of pistachio gelato on occasion without shame. Miri now had the curvy, mermaid-like hips to prove it. She just needed to meet the right woman to show them off to.

  It wasn’t easy escaping her parents’ grasp, but she’d done it—moved away from her home town, quit her marketing job to start her own business, and came out to them—and somehow the roof hadn’t caved in. With a girlfriend on her arm, the climate back home might change. But first she had to get the girl.

  * * *

  As if on cue, Miri’s cell phone rang. Looking at the caller ID, she debated whether to answer. Yep, it was her mother.

  “Miri, this is your mother.” Did her mother truly not know this was obvious? “We haven’t heard from you this week.” Guilt. Always the guilt. “Is everything all right? It’s Valentine’s Day. Do you have a date? Do lesbians even celebrate Valentine’s Day?”

  “Yes, Mom, I’m fine. Yes, lesbians celebrate Valentine’s Day. No, I don’t have a date. But I am going out.” Finally, she could say she was going somewhere. Would that shut her mother up?

  “Where are you going? I hope you’re not driving far.”

  “I’m staying right here in Asbury Park, Mom. Going to the boardwalk for a pinball party. There’s this neat place, Silverball Pinball Museum—”

  “You’re spending Valentine’s Day in a museum?” Her mother cut her off with a huff.

  “It’s an arcade, Mom—with working antique pinball machines.” She punctuated each word with impatience. “They might have Heat Wave. You know the one I played at the bungalow colony when I was little? With the lady in old-fashioned bathing trunks and the kid with the melting ice cream cone? Or perhaps they’ll have Pop-a-Card. Remember?”

  “How could I forget? You were always raiding your father’s coffee can for quarters.” Her mother’s voice sounded warmer, and a laugh bubbled beneath the surface. “Well, have fun, sweetie. Maybe you’ll meet someone. Do lesbians play pinball? That counts as a sport, right?”

  “Good-bye, Mom!” Miri sang into the phone. She tried to hide her annoyance. “I’ll call you next week. Sorry I haven’t been in touch. I’ve been slammed with projects.”

  * * *

  Van Wallace wandered into her mother’s kitchen, hoping to find something edible: without mold and with no more than a two-months-late expiration date. Moving back home after her breakup with Char had been nothing short of disastrous. Between her mother and her brother, she was ready to tear out her short, blonde hair.

  Her thirty-two-year-old kid brother, Frank, had beaten her to the punch—moved home before she did, after his divorce. Van marveled at how he lived the same way he had as a teen: drinking beer, dating and dumping women, eating junk food, riding motorcycles, and never cleaning his room. The haven she’d hoped to move back to was no different than the shitstorm she’d left fifteen years earlier when she’d moved in with Char. The only difference was that her drunk of a father had moved on to parts unknown.

  As Van entered the kitchen, a combination of dismay and uncontrollable laughter overwhelmed her. Frank stood in front of the open freezer practically naked, a Budweiser in his hand and a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was dressed as Cupid, complete with an adult-sized cloth diaper—made out of a sheet—and a bow and arrow slung over his shoulder. His humongous, hairy stomach rolled over the top of the diaper. Multiple piercings and tattoos completed the ensemble.

  “Ma, where’s the ice cream?” Frank never grumbled; he just shouted. “Tell me there isn’t any left. Dammit!” He punched the freezer door closed.

  That answers that question. Van knew there’d be no gelato in her immediate future.

  “Going out?” She quirked an eyebrow at her baby brother, the operative word being “baby.”

  “Yeah. Got a Valentine’s Day costume party. Melanie’s picking me up.” Frank made an art out of speaking while hanging on to his ever-present cigarette.

  “Good thing. Can’t imagine you’d survive on your Harley in that getup.” Van let loose a giggle.

  “Ha, ha, very funny. Did you eat the last of the ice cream?” Frank asked.

&nb
sp; “No, knucklehead, you did. And it was my pistachio gelato, which you finished after you ate your own ice cream. Or don’t you remember?”

  “Fuck it. I can always hit the store later. I’m outta here.” He grabbed his biker jacket from a kitchen chair and headed for the front door.

  “Is the coast clear?” Van’s mother peeked over the banister a nanosecond after he left.

  “Yeah, Mom. He’s out for the night. You’ll probably see him at dawn. Do you need anything at Shop-Rite? I’m going there when the sale starts at midnight.”

  “Well, you’d better get some ice cream and that fancy pistachio stuff you like, or your brother will have fits,” she said.

  “Gelato, Mom. It’s creamier than ice cream. I’ll get Breyer’s for Frank. It’s cheaper, and he won’t know the difference. Save the gelato for us. What flavor do you want?”

  “You know what I like, honey. Get me the coffee flavor.”

  “Sounds good. I’m heading out myself.” Van grabbed her leather jacket. “There’s a Valentine’s Day party on the boardwalk.”

  “Have a good time. Maybe you’ll make a new friend.”

  Van chuckled to herself. She’d been out of the closet since time began, and still her mother, a staunch churchgoer, referred to her potential dates as “friends.” When it came to family, some things never changed. Hell, it had taken Van years to get the nerve to change her own life and leave Char. She could kick herself when she thought of the time she’d wasted.

  Taking one last glance in the mirror that hung crookedly in the dust-filled, cluttered living room, Van determined she was ready. Ready to move on. Ready to meet someone. She smoothed her hair, added a dab of gel, and was ready to roll. She’d eat at Silverball. Dinner would have to be hotdogs and popcorn.

  * * *

  Miri sat in her parked red Mini Cooper and sighed. As usual, she’d arrived too early—a bad habit held over from working in corporate. Much as she loved playing pinball, there was no way she’d be the first GirlUp guest to show her face at the party. She sat in her car, freezing her ass off because she didn’t want the engine to idle. Her stomach grumbled in protest. She’d skipped dinner, so a hotdog would have to do until her midnight gelato foray at Shop-Rite.

  A few more cars pulled into the spaces near hers. Miri watched an assortment of women leave the warm comfort of their cars and head up the icy boardwalk steps in the direction of Silverball. Six…seven…eight. Yep, that was the lucky number. Eight guests had arrived before her. It was safe to go in.

  She wrapped her purple scarf around her neck and left the cold car for the even colder outdoors. A gust of wind threatened to throw her already-spiked hair into further disarray, but Miri kept her head down as she hurried, nearly slipping, before she reached the snow-encrusted boardwalk.

  The brand-new glass entrance door at Silverball swung open—no doubt replaced after Hurricane Sandy had ravaged the Asbury Park boardwalk. A blast of buttered popcorn filled Miri’s nostrils—she could practically taste it. But her hunger for other things took precedence. Not only did she crave the company of a woman, her fingers itched with the anticipation of the game. It had been way too long since she’d last played pinball, and just the sound of the machines was enough to entice her fingers.

  * * *

  Van floored the gas pedal, zipping her Jeep towards Ocean Avenue. Her pulse raced, and her mind was consumed by a quickly inflating balloon of self-doubt. What kind of woman wants to date a grease monkey? Do I even have a right to be here? Last Meetup group she’d attended, a couple of seemingly eager women had quickly moved on when they learned Van was an auto mechanic.

  She hoped tonight’s group would be more diverse. Just because she loved cars and knew how to keep them running didn’t mean she was less intelligent than the women with degrees and white-collar jobs. She relished the soft, gray cotton and predictability of the mechanic’s shirt she wore each day, the smells and rhythm of the shop, the chitchat with her customers and fellow mechanics, and the chance to get her hands dirty on a regular basis.

  By the time she snagged the last available space near Silverball, Van’s thoughts had settled down. She was determined not to let anyone make her feel small. She had just as much right to be there as the next woman.

  * * *

  After paying her admission, Miri asked the manager where she could find Heat Wave. He shook his head, a wistful look on his face. “I’m afraid that one got taken in the storm,” he said. “But we’ve got several others from way back. Pop-a-Card perhaps?”

  “Ooh, I remember that one, yes.” Miri tried to hide her disappointment. The manager pointed to the aisle with machines from the seventies, their lights flashing and bells dinging an invitation. Miri headed that way, checking out the women as she approached her second-choice machine. To her dismay, most of the guests seemed to know each other and were clustered in little groups around a few pinball machines. How the hell do I infiltrate that? She sighed, deciding to satisfy her second craving—pinball.

  Miri snatched up the Pop-a-Card machine as quickly as she could, shoving her bag and parka beneath it to stake her claim. Granted, with 120 machines, the chance of someone else wanting the same one was slim, but she was not about to relinquish this connection to her childhood anytime soon.

  She quickly immersed herself in the game and proceeded to win four in a row, giving her a convenient excuse not to socialize. Her eyes caught a blur of blonde hair hovering nearby, but she ignored its owner. Instead, Miri slammed at the flippers with her fingers. She used her hips to gently nudge the machine without throwing it into tilt mode and dropped the occasional F-bomb when the ball didn’t go her way. Her choppy bangs partially shielded her eyes, but she didn’t dare stop to push them back, not when she was winning…again.

  “How many fingers do you use?” A wise-cracking butch suddenly invaded her space.

  “What the—?” Miri stopped herself from letting out a string of curses. She glanced up at the woman who’d interrupted her game and found herself staring into the clearest blue eyes she’d ever seen; they were accompanied by a wicked grin and blonde, boyish hair. “Hi,” she managed to stammer out. Are those eyes real? She doesn’t seem like the type to wear tinted lenses. Shit, her eyes really are that blue.

  “Looks like you got to one of my favorites first,” the woman said. “They didn’t have my first choice—Heat Wave—so this was the runner-up.”

  “Heat Wave?” Miri’s voice was a squeak. “Heat Wave was your first choice too?”

  “Damn, girl, you know that machine? Thought I was the only one. My grandpop used to have it in his luncheonette. It was my first…first machine that is.” She winked and gave her a mischievous smile. “I’m Van, by the way, and no I don’t drive one.”

  Do people shake hands at these things? Miri held out her hand. It was the usual way to greet colleagues in her former life. “I’m Miri,” she said. Van looked surprised at the offer of a handshake. See? Corporate life has ruined me. I look like an idiot. “It’s my first time at one of these Meetup things.” Miri hoped her explanation would make up for the awkward moment.

  Van politely accepted her hand, and a sudden jolt of something warm traveled up Miri’s arm. Had this decades-old machine just given her a shock? Or did Van’s electric-blue eyes transmit another kind of power?

  * * *

  Van felt heat the moment she touched her, as if every pinball machine in the place had been unplugged and the only energy in the room was the pulsing current that extended from her hand to Miri’s. A slow blush crept up Van’s chest, threatening to extend above the unbuttoned opening of her red pinstripe shirt. She held on to Miri’s hand, enjoying its warmth for just a little longer than she had a right to.

  “Wanna play me?” Van asked. Her winning combination of charm and sarcasm just might do the trick, she thought. She was the first to find the hot group newbie, and she wasn’t about to let her get away that easily.

  “Game on. But we should play for something, don
’t you think?” Miri’s hazel eyes glimmered with challenge.

  Van smiled at Miri’s spunk. She admired her shock of shiny, dark hair that seemed to have a mind of its own and her cleavage, well displayed in a plunging, purple V-neck. Does she even realize how adorable she is? Miri’s full lips curved upward, slyly challenging Van to the contest. “The competitive type, huh?” Van said. “Sure. I’ll play you for a hotdog, how’s that?”

  They agreed to three games—two out of three for the win. Tied after two games, Miri furrowed her brow in determination as she took her turn. She slammed the buttons, alternating between four flippers to keep the ball in play.

  Van checked out Miri’s well-rounded ass and the way it filled her jeans. Inching closer to the machine, she watched Miri’s fingers flutter with precision over the buttons and groaned inwardly as she imagined those same strong fingers somewhere else. It had been too long since she’d been with a woman, and everything about Miri screamed arousal.

  Van came closer and stood just behind Miri; she peered over her shoulder and let her breath feather on Miri’s neck. I’m going to buy this woman dinner before I leave if it’s the last thing I do. And with that, Van’s fingers gently, protectively covered Miri’s.

  “Thought you could use a little help with the flippers,” Van whispered in her ear.

  * * *

  Miri tensed for a moment and then relaxed. It was just a pinball game. What did it matter if this saucy butch, who was obviously flirting with her, let her win? Van’s hands felt good on top of hers. It was as if they belonged there.

  Unsurprisingly, Miri won the third round.

  “May I buy a lovely woman dinner now?” Van asked.

  Miri nodded, smiling, and they made their way to the concession area.

  They sat side by side on a bench, munching hotdogs, drinking soda, and discovering that despite entirely different circumstances, they shared a love of books and music. The bench was small, presumably made for younger patrons, and their thighs touched and stayed that way. Miri breathed in Van’s smell and savored it: a combination of leather, patchouli…and the heady scent of maybe.