Connected Hearts - Four Lesbian Romance Stories (2 page)

The little red hearts dotting the flyer made her tighten her fingers, about to crumple it up. But at the last moment, a picture of Cupid caught her attention. Instead of shooting arrows of love at potential lovers, he lay face-down on a blood-stained floor. An arrow pierced his back right between his little white wings. Below the picture, bilious green letters announced, “Anti-Valentine’s Day party.”

Amanda laughed and continued to read, “Are you sick of mushy cards, cheap chocolate, and the pressure of finding a date?” Her head bobbed up and down as she nodded vigorously. “Christ, yes!” She threw a glance at her wristwatch.

Just after nine.

According to the flyer, the Anti-Valentine’s Day party had started at eight. And it was right around the corner.

Amanda hefted the keys in her hand, then put them back into her purse.

After her date, she could use the company of a few people not looking for love—especially if the crowd was mostly straight people. She had enough of women searching for their soul mate. One drink, then she’d take a taxi and go home. After having two or three glasses of wine with dinner, she shouldn’t drive anyway.

Decision made, she crossed the street, whistling
No More I Love You’s
.

* * *

Amanda slid onto the last empty stool at the bar and turned to let her gaze wander through the club.

Broken hearts, black roses, and posters of the movie
The War of the Roses
decorated the walls. A mixed crowd of men and women, mostly in their twenties and thirties, danced to
This Is Not a Love Song
. Amanda realized that no one was wearing red or pink. Instead, some of the guests wore T-shirts that said “love stinks,” “happy to be single,” or “cupid is stupid.”

Someone cleared his throat behind her.

Amanda turned.

The bartender, a guy with tattoos on nearly every visible inch of skin, gave her a nod. “What’ll it be?”

Eyeing the cocktail menu behind the bar, Amanda rubbed her chin. The menu listed drinks with names such as “one-night stand,” “breakup,” and “free love,” along with some more traditional choices. She wasn’t much of a liquor drinker. Usually, she stuck to red wine. But after a day like this, she could use something stronger. “Any suggestions?”

“How about a
Witchy Woman
?” the bartender asked. “That’s a mix of Campari, rum, orange and lime juice.”

“
Witchy Woman
? No, thanks,” Amanda mumbled. “I’ve had enough of that for one evening.”

“Pardon me?”

“I said it’s too sour for me. How about something sweet?”

A barrel-chested guy in an “It’s not me, it’s you” T-shirt sauntered over to the bar and squeezed in between Amanda and the woman on the bar stool to her right. “I think the lady needs a Southern Screw,” he drawled in a fake southern accent.

The bartender looked at Amanda, his hands hovering over the shaker.

Amanda turned to face the barrel-chested guy. With his red hair and pearly-white smile, he could have been Val’s brother. “That’s a very lame pick-up line, even for an Anti-Valentine’s Day party.”

He shrugged. “You could teach me a better one.”

His grin wouldn’t have worked on her even if she were straight. “No, thanks. I think you’re beyond help.” She turned back to the bartender. “Now I need something strong.”

“Whatever she wants, it’s on me,” the red head said.

Ignoring him, Amanda laid a ten-dollar bill on the bar.

The bartender shoveled ice cubes into a glass. “How about a mix of vodka, coffee liqueur, and tonic water? It’s called
Mind Eraser
.”

Amanda shrugged. “Why not?”

As the alcohol burned down her throat, making her cough, the thought
famous last words
ran through her mind, but then the red-haired man gestured the bartender to keep the drinks coming and she forgot everything else.

* * *

Whoever had said vodka didn’t induce a hangover was a goddamn liar. Amanda’s head pounded like a bass drum being beaten by a hyperactive preschooler. Groaning, she pressed her hands to her temples, but the movement only made it worse. Her stomach roiled like a washing machine with a turbo spin cycle, and she lay perfectly still until the wave of nausea ebbed away.

Oh God,
she wanted to say, but her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth. She smacked her lips and grimaced. Her mouth tasted like five-day old socks—and it was just as furry.

Blindly, she reached out one hand for the water bottle she kept on her nightstand.

It wasn’t there.

Neither was the nightstand.

What the ...?
Was she caught in some alcohol-induced nightmare, like the one in which she had won an Oscar, but when she wanted to accept it, she couldn’t find her clothes? She opened her eyes.

Sunlight made her wince. The crazy preschooler was now stomping on her head.

She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled the pillow over her head to shut out the sunlight. The smell of men’s cologne clung to the cotton pillow cover.

Nonsense.
How much of that hellish stuff had she drunk last night? Now not even her sense of smell was working. There was no way men’s cologne could cling to her pillow. Her bed was a man-free zone.

Wait a minute? Cotton?
Just a few days ago, she had put the satin sheets that Kathryn had given her for Christmas on her bed.

She jerked upright, then clutched her head. Through half-open eyes, she peered at the unfamiliar bedroom. To her left was a floor-to-ceiling window. Her head spun as she stared at the neighboring high-rise buildings. Large black-and-white prints covered the rest of the walls—a Harley with a half-naked woman straddling the bike, a close-up of a growling tiger, and the weathered face of an old man squinting into the sun.

A man’s wristwatch sat on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. Next to it, clothes were piled on a white-leather-and-chrome chair: socks, a
Los Angeles Lakers
sweatshirt, and a pair of boxer shorts.

Amanda’s gaze darted back and forth between the Harley print, the watch, and the boxer shorts. Her nose caught another whiff of men’s cologne.
Oh, shit. What did I do? No way in hell did I go home with that guy from the bar ... did I?
Not even half a dozen of those
Mind Erasers
could turn a gay woman straight.
Stupid maybe, but not straight.

Her gaze darted down her body. Air whooshed out of her lungs.
Thank God.
At least she was still wearing her panties and bra. She massaged her hammering temples, hoping it would jog her memory of what had happened last night.

No such luck. The last thing she remembered was drinking at the bar and pulling her blouse down from her shoulder to show off the scar from that commercial with the camel.

Her red-haired drinking companion had clapped and hooted.

Everything after that was a blank.

God, I hate Valentine’s Day. And Mind Erasers. And if I slept with a man, I really, really hate myself.
Even as a teenager, she had known that her interests lay elsewhere, and she had never succumbed to Hollywood’s pressure to date men. She had always been proud of that, but now ...

When the pounding in her head lessened for a moment, she became aware of the sound of a running shower. Someone whistled a much too happy tune in the bathroom.

Amanda’s stomach lurched. She didn’t want to even imagine what had put the guy in this postcoital mood.

The water stopped. He would be out in a minute.

Time to make a quick escape. Ignoring the drum roll in her head, Amanda jumped up. Her feet got caught in something soft, and she nearly fell. She looked down.

Her slacks, blouse, and socks were strewn around the bed as if ripped off in the heat of passion. When she bent down and picked up her slacks, the world started spinning. She waited until the merry-go-round stopped before she shoved first one foot, then the other through a pant leg and struggled to pull up her slacks.

A sound made her look up, half in, half out of her pants.

Clouds of steam drifted through the now open bathroom door.

Amanda froze and took in the figure in the doorway. Her gaze trailed up muscular legs clad in worn jeans. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut but forced her gaze to rove over a black muscle shirt clinging to still damp skin. Next, she encountered—

Breasts!
They weren’t overly large, but that definitely wasn’t the chest of the red-haired guy or any other man. Only her pounding head and the slacks trapping her feet prevented her from doing a dance of joy.
I knew it! I would never sleep with ...
Her gaze wandered farther and took in short hair and a strong face.
... a butch?

She had never dated, much less slept with, a butch.

With her feet still tangled in the slacks, she fell backward.

The bed broke her fall, and she lay still, staring at the ceiling.

Concerned brown eyes appeared in her line of sight. “You okay, Mandy?”

“Mandy?” Amanda croaked. Only her grandmother was allowed to call her that.

One knee next to Amanda on the bed, much too close for Amanda’s liking, the butch looked down at her. “Yeah. Last night, you told me to call you Mandy.”

Dear God.
What else had she done last night? She didn’t dare ask.

“Why?” the butch asked when Amanda stayed silent. “Isn’t that your name?”

“Yes, it is. But ... ah, you know, it doesn’t matter. I have to go.” She rolled to the side and got up, careful to avoid stumbling over her slacks again.

“Like this?” The butch moved away from the bed and gestured at Amanda’s state of dress ... or rather state of undress. “You’re welcome to take a shower first, then I’ll drive you back to your car.”

So at least she hadn’t gotten behind the wheel drunk last night. Not that getting into a car with a complete stranger was much better. Amanda hesitated, but the thought of a hot shower was tempting. “All right.” She pulled up her slacks, picked up the blouse, and clutched it to her chest as she passed the woman on her way to the bathroom.
As if she hasn’t seen it all already.

“I put clean towels and a toothbrush out for you,” the butch said. “Do you need something to wear?”

“Uh, no, thank you.” Boxer shorts and muscle shirts really weren’t her style. Amanda quickly closed and locked the bathroom door behind her and sank onto the edge of the tub. She rubbed her face with both hands and moaned into her palms. When she pulled her hands away, her gaze fell on the mirror above the sink.

Her reflection looked as bad as she felt. Good thing she didn’t have an acting job lined up today. Not even the world’s best make-up artist could have covered the shadows beneath her eyes or the greenish tint of her skin. Her hair looked as if a bird had made a nest in it—or an entire flock.

She gave herself a mental shove.
Hurry up before she thinks you’re in here rooting through the bathroom cabinets, or she comes in to save you from drowning in the tub.
She slipped out of the still unbuttoned slacks, kicked off her panties, and unhooked her bra before she stepped into the shower. The hot water felt heavenly.

While she washed up, she took stock of her body. Other than the hangover from hell, everything seemed normal. No hickeys. No scratches on her back. No sensitive body parts. Nothing that indicated a night of passionate, intense sex—and with the athletic butch, it probably would have been intense.
Maybe you weren’t up for more than a quickie, as smashed as you were.

She squeezed shampoo into her hand and sniffed at it. Instead of the honey and cream she was used to, her hostess’s shampoo had a minty herbal scent. When she scrubbed her scalp, she flinched. Even the roots of her hair hurt.

As the soapy water ran down her back, an image flashed through her mind: the butch’s muscular arms wrapped around her, pulling her against a warm, tight body. She buried her fingers in short, silky hair. When two insistent hands slid down her ass, she lifted her head and captured the butch’s lips in a deep kiss.

Despite her killer headache, her body reacted to the memory.
Stop it. You’ve never been attracted to butch women. Vodka just makes you horny.
She shut off the water, stepped out of the shower, and struggled back into yesterday’s clothes.

As promised, a toothbrush still in its package waited next to the sink.

She’s probably used to having overnight guests.
But when she fiddled the toothbrush out of its package, she realized that it was smaller than usual. Tiny panda bears dotted the handle.
She gave me a toothbrush for children?

She shrugged and squeezed toothpaste onto the pink-and-white-striped bristles, eager to get rid of that old-sock taste in her mouth. Finally feeling halfway human again, she stepped out of the bathroom.

“How many pancakes do you want?” the butch called from one of the other rooms, probably the kitchen.

What is it about lesbians and their instant domesticity?
Had she stumbled across a butch version of Val? Her stomach roiled at the mere thought of food. She found her shoes beneath the bed and padded toward the kitchen. “No pancakes for me,” she said from the doorway.

The butch stood in front of the oven, barefoot. Her dark brown hair was tousled and still damp from her shower. Amanda usually preferred women in skirts to women in jeans, but even she had to admit that her hostess had a sexy ass. With a quick flick of her wrist, the butch flipped the pancake. It landed back in the pan without a splash.

Amanda lifted a brow. Most butches she knew were helpless in the kitchen. Not that she knew many.

“You’ll feel better once you have something in your stomach,” the butch said. She turned and leaned against the counter. “Let me make you some toast. Or do you want oatmeal?”

“No, no. That’s not necessary. I can eat when I get home.”

The butch reached back and turned off the stove without looking. Her biceps flexed as she crossed her arms over her chest and regarded Amanda. “It’s Saturday. You’ve got somewhere urgent to be?”