This story is longish and romantic-ish and lesbian-ish. Abandon ship if that’s not what you’re looking for.
If you’ve read my other stuff you’ll see this explains one side of a love triangle. If you haven’t read my other stuff, well, you’re probably still a lovely human being and productive member of society.
All characters in this story are over eighteen. So’s the author.
*~*~*~ Part 1 ~*~*~*
Half an hour into my first office party and I already wanted to go home. Almost everyone was wearing black so I stuck out like a dufus in my stupid blue satin wrap dress. I’d worn it to my cousin’s wedding last spring.
The dress matched my eyes, but I’d picked it that night more for its maximum coverage up top. I’m a smidge on the chesty side and even as a teenager, I had the feeling that swinging cleavage around at a work party would be tacky.
What I didn’t count on that night was not having a single person to talk to. Sure, I was just a little filing clerk that worked a day or two a week at their fancy accounting firm, but everyone was usually superfriendly. Well, okay, mostly the accountants. And they were guys.
Here’s the thing: I’m young, skinny, blonde and friendly. As far as boys go, I’m a hot fudge sundae. Ever meet someone that doesn’t like hot fudge sundaes? Me neither.
So I usually flirted with the office guys a little. Just jokes and stuff. It never got gross. They were well-behaved professional types and old enough to know better.
There was zero flirty chitchat that night though. Just me standing awkwardly by myself. I never know what to do with my hands when I wear a dress. There’s no pockets or anything. Folding my arms under my chest wasn’t an option either. That would push things up and the goal was to avoid drawing attention there. Besides, it was bad body language if I wanted anyone to talk to me.
Not that anyone was going to.
“Great idea, Dad,” I muttered. He’d been the one urging me to come to the stupid party. I’d been moping around the house for weeks.
We both knew the real reason he ushered me out the front door was a tad more selfish. My brother was away for the weekend visiting our cousins. With both of us out of the house, there was no telling what sort of weird sex acts my parents were performing on each other right now.
I had to stick it out here for at least another hour or two just to give the old folks some time to work it out of their systems. I tried not to dwell on the fact that my fifty year-old mother had a better sex life than me these days.
I started fiddling with my hair, wrapping a lock around my finger. It was a bad habit and I needed to stop. It makes me look like an airhead.
Oh yeah, this was shaping up to be a titanically shitty night. Certainly not the kind of night I’d expect to meet the love of my life anyway.
About the time I finally managed to quit twisting my hair, I smelled cologne. A lot of it.
Ramon. He’d come after all. Thank god.
“Lo siento, senorita.” He slid up next to me. “Trouble at home.”
“‘Berto’s jealous again?”
Ramon shrugged and smiled even as he pulled me onto the dancefloor being used mostly by tipsy secretaries.
“Let’s just say he hates when I leave him alone on Saturday nights. And I can’t bring him here. Tan… derechista. Entiendes?”
I nodded. My Spanish sucked but I knew his problem. Ramon dressed better than any guy I’d met and he lisped like a leaky tire valve. He was incredibly, epically, flamingly gay. And he was one of my best friends at work. Everyone knew he was gay but bringing his live-in boyfriend would be rubbing his lifestyle in people’s faces more than he dared. The firm was too “derechista,” whatever the heck that meant.
For the next twenty minutes, Ramon made me forget about being ignored by the rest of the office crowd. We danced and made funny sexy faces at each other and laughed. His gayness made everything feel safe. When one of the secretaries finally tugged him away, I let him go. Everybody liked Ramon.
And that’s when I met the love of my life. Okay, technically I’d met her before since she worked at the office too. But that didn’t count. It was different. That night, I met the real Samantha.
The girl who would steal my heart forever tapped me on my shoulder softly. “Looks like we’re all out of boys. Wanna dance with me?”
I turned. And I stared. With my mouth open. Like an airhead. Dammit.
During the normal work week, Samantha, the miniature ice queen of marketing was already dressed to kill. That night, she was dressed for genocide.
Her tiny black halter dress was silky, slinky and mind-numbingly sexy. It was a dress for someone brave and beautiful. She wore it like a second skin. It fell low up top, exposing just a hint of the inside curves of breasts cradled in a delicately laced black bra. Her bronze chest was partly hidden by her gorgeous dark hair that fell all around her in long, loose deep chocolate waves.
And of course the shoes. Always the shoes. Sam was a well-known shoe junky. Her three inch heels that night were sleek and black and made her already amazing legs look insane.
The best part of Sam that night? Her eyes. How had I missed them before? They weren’t just green. The were perfectly green. The deepest, truest green I’d ever seen. When I looked in them, they closed around me. It was like getting yanked into a tropical rainforest where everything around me was really, really thick and dark and, well, green.
She was standing perfectly still too. Like she knew she needed to just let me look at her a little bit before I’d be able to talk. It didn’t come off as vain. It was more like a self-awareness — a recognition of the effect she could have on people.
Samantha let a few heartbeats go by before she tried her invitation again. She started with my name this time and talked slower, enunciating clearly. In the way you would talk to someone with a mental handicap. Which was about right — I was kind of handicapped at that moment.
“Heather, we are all out of boys. Would you like to dance with me?”
It worked. My brain rebooted. “Uh yeah. Sure.”
She stepped in closer than I expected and took one of my hands in hers. Her other one went to the small of my back, like a guy’s would.
“So can you actually dance, girlie?” she asked.
“Sort of. A little.”
It wasn’t a complete fib. My parents were pretty good ballroom dancers. Waltz. Charleston. Foxtrot. The classics. I watched them practice on the back porch. My Dad had even taught me a few steps.
She smiled. “Awesome. I’ll lead. You follow. Ready?”
She stepped forward a step and a half then back the same way. I copied. We did it again, faster.
We were soon moving smoothly and I risked a little extra hip swivel for some style. “This is fun. What is it?”
“Salsa. Hey, you’re doing pretty good for a jock. Field hockey and lacrosse right?”
“Yeah,” I answered looking down at our feet.
She squeezed my hand gently. “Hey, don’t look down, girlie. Stay up here with me.”
I looked up into her eyes again and felt butterflies pitch a fit in my stomach.
“Heather, I want you to spin in towards me now. And keep your hands high.”
She stepped aside as I came in, then caught me and snapped me back the other way. It felt so good it made me giggle out loud. The butterflies pitched another fit. My junior prom date hadn’t made me feel this way.
We kept dancing. The real Samantha, the one who came out that night, was an amazing dancer. Her tiny gorgeous body twisted and rolled to the music. Some of her hair fell across her face and her eyes went smoky. Jesus, she was sexy.
Before I realized it, I’d slid in a little closer. She didn’t seem to mind. We were tight enough now that I could smell her and that turned out to be a very good thing.
I’ve been a sucker for smells ever since my first girlfriend. Samantha’s wasn’t like Stacey’s simple strawberry or my own funky bubblegum. No, Sam was sweet like most girls are but she was also darker, richer, deeper. A honey scent. And some kind of fragrant wood. Not cedar. Something else. Something exotic. I was trying to figure it out when Samantha tugged me off the dance floor.
I followed her without arguing. I’d have followed her anywhere.
“C’mon blondie, I need a drink and I bet you do too. What would you like?”
Hallelujah, I already liked Samantha. Now I really liked her. “Glenlivet. Double. One ice cube.”
She cocked her head and looked at me for several seconds, green eyes drilling away.”You uh, drink scotch?”
“Yeah, why?” I smirked. “You expected me to ask for a white wine spritzer or something?”
“Kinda. You’re—”
“I’m what?” My eyebrow went up on its own.
“I dunno, take your pick: Young. Cute. Blonde. Young,” she repeated.
“I’m a little more than what I look like, Sam.” I met her eyes for a long second before looking away.
“I guess so.” Samantha chuckled. “When I get back, we’re going to drink to that.”
She turned and walked towards the bar. I watched her go. That was a good thing too.
It was generally agreed at the office that Samantha had, hands down, the sexiest walk in the firm. It was almost a runway strut. Her feet followed a single straight line and it made her hips rock in a sensual way as she went. There was an easy, confident rhythm to it too. I don’t think it’s the kind of thing that can be taught. A girl has it or she doesn’t. Samantha had it. By the truckload. Probably from birth.
When she came back, we clinked glasses and I had a long sip. The single malt’s smoky warmth gave me a little extra courage, so when I saw one of the accountants I was chummy with walking towards us, I smiled brightly. “Hiya Jerry.”
“Hey.” He nodded, but he kept right on walking.
“Jerry,” Sam acknowledged him as he went by.
“Sam.”
I looked at Samantha but she didn’t seem surprised he’d given us the cold shoulder. “Okay, what the hell? Why is everybody avoiding us.”
“The wife factor.”
“Wife factor?”
“Mmmhmm. All these guys that are friendly and chatty with you normally? They’re going to ignore you tonight. You’re too pretty.”
I could feel my forehead crinkle up. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Nope, their wives are here. They can’t be seen talking to you. They’ll catch hell at home for it later. It’s okay, I’m too pretty to talk to too. Frankly, it’s the reason I’m dressed up all vampy like this. I like to drive the guys a little extra nutty since they can’t get anywhere near me tonight. Someday I’m going to show up to one of these parties in my underwear.”
“And heels?” I grinned and started laughing.
“Yep, cherry red, five-inch, fuck-me stillettos,” she eked out between laughs. We were giggling hard enough that people were glancing over.
“Yeah,” Sam sighed finally, “these parties are usually pretty boring. I only come because I’m expected to. I’m the one who puts them together. Not sure why, but somehow the cruise director responsibilities usually fall on marketing.”
“Accountants lack social skills. Bummer for you.”
“Meh, it’s not so bad. The booze is free and I get to pick what gets stocked at the bar. Besides, now I’ve got you.”
I liked the sound of that last part so I clinked her glass with mine again. “Yeah Sam, now you’ve got me.”
We talked for the rest of the night. We even did some more dancing. Sam had me all right. The question was, did she want to do anything with me?
*~*~*~ Part 2 ~*~*~*
I told myself that I needed to play it cool with Samantha. Maybe swing by her office just before lunch and ask her if she’d done anything interesting on Sunday.
I couldn’t wait that long. I made it to 9:02 am Monday morning. So much for playing it cool. By 9:06, I was begging her to go to lunch. Worse? She said no. And, for the first time, she mentioned that she had a boyfriend, Danny.
Huh?!
The game had changed. That first day I invited her out to lunch, Sam said she had to meet with some clients. The second day, she said she needed to run errands. The third day, she said she was leaving work early and had to work through lunch. The fourth day, she said she had a conference call.
I’d have given up, but each time she turned me down, she did it with a smile.
It was almost two weeks before she said yes. I don’t give up easy.
We had a nice lunch. She opened up a little about personal stuff. Not a lot. But enough. When I asked her about boyfriend, she told me about Danny but didn’t talk about him for long. She shifted the conversation to her boyfriend before, Stephen. Such a sad story. Killed by a drunk driver.
When Sam talked about Stephen, she wasn’t her normal confident self. For the first time, she looked just as small and delicate as her body seemed.
Samantha may have been a little cool to the people at work, but she wasn’t a bitch. She was just a little bit broken. I think we had that in common. I was still having a hard time getting over my last girlfriend.
Sam and I had a few more lunches. Soon, I was tagging along with her for shopping trips on weekends.
I met Sam’s boyfriend, Danny, when we stopped at her apartment to drop something off. Ewww. I didn’t want to hurt Sam’s feelings but he was not the guy for her.
He stared blatantly at my boobs the entire time we talked and I wasn’t even wearing anything particularly revealing. I barely managed to keep from just giving him a long, hard look and a reality check: Yeah genius, they’re real. And you’re never going to see them.
I kept quiet though.
Sam didn’t say anything either and that was interesting. It was another clue. Another dot to connect. Sam didn’t care about Danny. If she did, she would have been pissed at his behavior.
One Friday night, after a particularly good girls’ night out — dinner, more shoe shopping, and then ice cream — we stopped at her apartment again. That’s when Samantha and I had our kind of turning point. It’s when she figured out how I felt about her. And it all happened right under her boyfriend’s nose.
It was late when we got to her apartment. Danny had his friends over. A quick glance around the room told me what I needed to know. They were equally douchey. They were hooting over their X-box and had already cruised through a case of Budweiser and were halfway through a second one. In cans no less. Seriously? Budweiser? Cans? I guess somebody has to drink that shit.
Not Sam though. She liked wine, Italian reds. She led me into the kitchen where she pulled out a Barolo I’d had before and I’d loved. I told her so while she rummaged for wine glasses.
“You’ve got a great year here,” I peeked at the vintage.
“You know Italian wine too? Exactly how long have your parents been letting you drink?” She shook her head and smiled. The smile twisted into a frown when a piece of the bottle’s cork snapped off in her corkscrew. She carefully threaded the corkscrew in again only to snap off another piece of cork.
She smirked and looked at me.
I giggled. “You’ve got the rot, girlie.”
I laughed harder at her reaction: the way her mouth fell open and her face flushed pink. “Sam, I meant the cork, not you.”
“Oh, right,” she chuckled, “so what now smartie-pants?” She slid the corkscrew across the counter at me.
I nibbled my lip and contemplated, then yelled into the family room, “Hey Dannyboy, do you have a pump for your basketball?”
“Yeah, in the closet on the top shelf,” he answered. Sam fetched it and handed it to me.
I wiggled my eyebrows goofily as I plunged the pump’s needle through the cork and started pumping air into the bottle. “Somebody kept this bottle standing up for too long. The cork dried out and dry-rotted.”
“Huh, so wetter corks are better?” Sam asked just as the pressure built up enough in the bottle to pop the cork free in one complete piece. I grinned, pleased with myself.
“C’mon Sam, wetter is always better right?” I answered her in a way that I hoped was clever and naughty and flirty. But I was so pleased with myself that I took it too far. I winked at her too.
Whoa. That was incredibly cheesy. I wished I could take it back. I winced then glanced away and tucked my hair behind one ear.
Just when I was sure I’d fucked the whole thing up, Sam chuckled and the guys in the room next door starting howling and cursing over their video game.
“Come on Heather, let’s go outside and get away from their racket.” Sam nudged me through a sliding glass door onto their little back deck. There was room for two lounge chairs and a small table.
“So, you been on any dates lately?” Sam asked casually as we sat down.
Here we go. Sam was guessing at my flirt but she wasn’t sure. And like smart girls do with delicate issues like this, she was coming at her real question sideways. With any luck, she’d get the answer she was looking for without making either of us look stupid.
“Nope. No dates. I’ve had an idea or two along those lines though. ” I shrugged and sipped her wonderful wine, swirling it around on my tongue. Blackberries and leather filled my mouth. The wine was fantastic and I forced myself to savor it. If this went crummy, it might be the last time I ever drank with Sam.
“So, we’ve talked about my disastrous love life,” she smoothly moved on, “tell me about yours.”
I nodded. It was another sideways question. She was getting closer now.
I told her what there was to tell about my experience with guys, down to the gritty details. We’d gotten close enough to talk openly.
I described my awkward romantic blunders. The begging, pleading boys in their back seats. How, for a handful of polite, respectful ones, I had taken off my shirt and let them stare at my bra-covered boobs while I made them happy with my hands. The braver ones had asked if they could see my breasts. The bravest had even asked to fuck them. That had been kinda fun. And a couple of guys had even felt the warm, sucking insides of my mouth when I got curious about that too.
Finally, I told her about my first time actually sleeping with a guy — about how painful and awkward and disappointing it was with “fumbling” Danny Ferguson.
After a throaty chuckle, Sam asked her last question, “Any other dates?” She was eyeing me carefully over her wineglass again.
I froze. Bingo. She’d angled her question perfectly. I could tell her I dated girls too or I could play dumb. It was up to me. A lifetime passed as we looked at each other.
Oh hell, I’d already come this far. “Other dates?” I asked coyly to stretch it out. My lip curled up into a half-smile all by itself.
“Mmmhmm, other dates.” Now Sam was smiling too.
“Oh, those dates. Right.” I took a big breath, said a quick prayer in my head. Then I just let it all come rushing out. I’d never told anyone the story before. It was time.
I told Samantha about Berry, my last girlfriend. I told her about falling in love with another girl for the first time. About how wonderful she smelled and how tenderly she kissed.
I told her about the long afternoons Berry and I spent together as friends when people could see us. And the long nights we spent together as lovers when they couldn’t. I let the love I still felt for Berry ring in my voice. We had been more than a “tee hee, lesbi-friends” kind of thing. I’d loved Berry. And I always would. It felt like Sam should know. It felt right telling her.
When I finished pouring out my heart, Samantha didn’t disappoint. She did just the right thing. Her eyes were large and soft as she reached over and put her small, warm hand on top of mine.
“I’m sorry it ended. It sounds like you two had something very special.”
It was all she said. It was all she needed to say. Sometimes, fewer words really are better. Her hand stayed on top of mine though, her palm on the back of my hand. I had to fight the urge to lace my fingers through hers. I was so hungry for just that tiny bit of extra closeness.
