The Lovers (5 page)

Patrice and Kenneth exchange a glance, but I have no idea what the meaning of it is. Audrey just looks excited, and Leo looks a bit disappointed that she's no longer paying him any attention. She's leaning across the table now, toward Viviane.

“I hope it's soon,” she says. The light of the candle in the middle of the table is reflected in her black pupils. It makes
her look as if her eyes are glowing with some kind of fire. Maybe they are. “It's been too long.”

Viviane nods her head and smiles, but there is something vague and distracted in the way she does it. What is going on here? But another pitcher of margaritas arrives, and everyone is drinking and laughing again. Audrey flirts with the waiter while Leo visibly pouts, then she shifts back to him once more, but she keeps an arm around the back of my chair in an almost possessive manner.

I'm really a little drunk by now and I don't care about any thing as much: what Audrey is doing, what it might mean. Or the tequila has made it easier to pretend this is true, anyway.

The drive home is short. We're all quiet, a bit sleepy from the alcohol. Kenneth's soft snores accompany the classic rock on the radio. Audrey's head is resting on my shoulder, and my body is in a warm simmer. A bluesy version of “Ain't No Sunshine” comes on, and I find myself quietly humming to it, thinking of Audrey. She's like the sun, bright and shining and dynamic like no one I've ever met before, making you feel lighter. And when her brilliant light is turned away, it leaves you feeling empty. I feel it now. And I've seen Leo affected in the same way. What is it about her?

I'm anxious suddenly to get back. To get into my bed in the cozy cottage, to crawl beneath the covers and read. To sleep away this strange anxiety I can't seem to escape, gnawing at the pit of my stomach. My odd need for Audrey's attention, her touch, her scent.

Obsession is a strange thing. I've read about it over and over in the novels I have always devoured, as vital to me as food. But I've never experienced it myself, until now. I don't think it's a healthy thing. It doesn't feel healthy. It's excruciating in between those moments when the object of my obsession is
focused on me. But in those moments I feel so amazing, as though I am lit up from inside with some powerful force.

Audrey shifts, her face turning toward mine. She mumbles sleepily, and I can't hear what she's saying, but I can smell her margarita-scented breath, and it is sweet, tempting. If we were alone I might dare to kiss her, to press my lips to hers. To open her up and taste. But I can't do it here, wedged in the car with the others. I squeeze my thighs together to ease the ache there, a beating pulse of desire. It doesn't help.

Finally we reach Viviane's house and spill out of the SUV, everyone wandering off to their rooms. Audrey gives my hand a fleeting squeeze, and I hold on a moment when she tries to pull away. She stays there for several seconds, long enough to smile at me, her smoky eyes watching me. I am burning for her, her hand hot in mine. But what can I do about it? I want to send her some mental message:
Come with me.

Her brows draw together, as though she almost hears me. Then she says, “Good night, Bettina.” She squeezes my hand again and pulls away.

In my cottage I turn on all the lights. My heart is pounding, and I am far more awake than I should be. It's late, I'm at least halfway drunk, and I should just put myself to bed. But if I do, I know I'll only lie there and think of Audrey.

Instead, I plug in my laptop, open the manuscript I'm currently working on. It's a sad story of abused children. My stories are always sad. I'm okay with that. I think I use my writing to work out some of my own issues, even when the particular issues I write about are different from my own. The feelings are the same. Abandonment. Loss. Fear.

I manage to do some editing, write a few paragraphs, but I can't concentrate, and eventually I shut my computer down and get ready for bed. I take a little comfort in my bedtime ritual: brush teeth, floss, wash face, braid hair. I love ritual,
love the familiar. It comforts me. I pull on my short cotton nightgown and get under the covers, turning out the light.

Outside, all other sound is obliterated by the surf crashing on the shore. There could be a stampede of elephants out there and I wouldn't hear it. It is almost as if the sound of the ocean insulates me from the world. I love this idea. I only wish it could insulate me from the thoughts inside my own head.

They are all of Audrey.

I have been in a mild state of arousal all evening, and it's no different now. I force myself to do some yoga breathing, to calm my beating heart. I don't want to masturbate tonight. I don't want to give in. But when I turn over to lie on my stomach, even the mattress pressing into my mound is too much for me, and I can't help but grind my hips into the bed.

Audrey…

Her lips are so damn soft. And tonight she would taste of citrus and tequila as my tongue slides inside…

With a groan, I give up, flop over and pull my vibrator from the nightstand drawer. I coat it in lube. I want it fast and easy tonight. Lying back, I open my legs wide, slip the vibe into my pussy, gasping. No time for any complicated fantasies tonight, just her face, her mouth, as I thrust my hips, taking the vibrator in, then sliding it out, rubbing it against my G-spot while I pinch my clit between my fingers. And soon I am coming, my body shivering with waves of pleasure. Still trembling, I slip the vibe from my wet slit, my body still tense, needy. I press the vibrator to my swollen clit, harder and harder, desire building once more, cresting, my hips pumping. And I come again, more fiercely this time, crying out, challenging the roar of the ocean with my pleasure.

It's not enough. And even though I am panting, breathless, my muscles tense and aching, I do it again, holding the vibrator to my clit, shoving two fingers into my pussy, pumping,
deeper and deeper. And once more I'm coming, shaking, my body almost too weak now to ride it out. But I do.

After, I am exhausted, too tired to come again, even though I want to. I want to work this need out of my system. I want to work Audrey out. But I know damn well that's not going to happen.

Finally, sleep claims me, and I dream of Audrey, of being mermaids in the ocean, our hair streaming, our mermaid tails twining as we fuck in some lovely, mysterious, sea-creature way, her arms around me as we float out to sea.

 

It's Sunday, and Patrice and I get up early and go to the small Goleta farmer's market with Viviane to buy produce for the week. Everything is so beautiful, the colors of the fruits and vegetables laid out in orderly pyramids or piled in enormous tubs. There are flowers everywhere. We're all quiet as we browse the aisles. I feel as though I can't quite wake up today. I slept deeply after all those orgasms last night. Maybe the alcohol helped.

We buy steaming lattes from a vendor and taste peaches and strawberries as we move from booth to booth, and there is a quiet camaraderie between us, even with Patrice. She is enjoying herself, her face more relaxed and open than I've ever seen it as she spies a particularly beautiful cluster of tomatoes red on the vine, a ripe honeydew melon, a bunch of purple grapes gleaming in the morning sunlight.

On the way back to the house we stop at the grocery store for supplies, and I wander off to buy a bestselling suspense novel I've heard a lot about. One of Jack's books is there, too, his latest thriller. I always love seeing books on the shelf from authors I know. Except that I don't really know him yet.

In the car we talk about unimportant things: movies we've loved, movies we've hated, the transvestite with a day's growth
of beard we spotted at the farmer's market, bits and pieces of publishing industry news. It strikes me for a moment that what Viviane has told me about Patrice is true: that her bark is worse than her bite, and I'm glad I'm getting to know her. I think she may have some of the fears that I do, and I wonder if some of the things I feel are more universal than I thought. It makes me feel a little narcissistic, as though all this time I thought my pain was so unique, that I've spent too much time focused on
me.
But there is also a sense of relief, of community with the human race, which is something I don't feel often.

Back at the house it's chore day. The guys have been cleaning off the patio furniture, preparing lunch, and the rest of the afternoon is spent doing laundry, writing on the patio, then everyone in the kitchen making dinner together. The evening is cool and cloudy. Kenneth has built a fire in the double-sided fireplace that opens on both the living and dining rooms, and we eat inside.

The change in weather seems to have gotten to everyone, and they all retire to their rooms soon after the meal, leaving Audrey and me alone on the big sectional sofa in front of the amber glow of the fire.

“What should we do now? Are you tired?” she asks me.

She is sitting only a few feet away, Viviane having just vacated that spot. There is no way I'm going to bed while she's still here. She is sitting with her legs crossed, her long cotton skirt spread around her. She's wearing a white thermal top with her bohemian print skirt, but somehow it looks great on her. And she's not wearing a bra, her full breasts outlined by the soft, clingy fabric, her nipples dimly visible if I look hard enough.

“I'm not tired,” I tell her truthfully. No, my insides are warming up, alive, simply being alone with her.

“We should have our slumber party,” Audrey says, her eyes
sparkling in the firelight. “Do you want popcorn, or maybe just some wine?”

“Wine,” I decide. “I don't know why, but being here makes me want to drink wine. Like I'm in the Italian countryside or something.”

Audrey grins at me and we get up and head into the big kitchen without turning on the lights, but we can see our way around by the firelight coming through the doorway from the dining room. Audrey opens a bottle of Cabernet and I grab a large bar of dark chocolate from the well-stocked pantry. Viviane always has plenty of chocolate on hand; it seems to be a universal staple for writers.

“Are we going back to the living room?” I want to be alone with her, but I can't seem to say so.

“Let's go to your cottage. I don't want to wake anyone up. Do you have some nail polish? We can make it a real girls' night.”

“I do, but it's pink. Don't you usually wear red?”

“I don't mind. Come on.”

We go outside, and the air is chilly, making goose bumps rise on my skin. Or maybe it's knowing I will finally be alone with her.

Once inside my cottage, I turn on the lights and head into the bathroom.

“I have some polish remover, too,” I call over my shoulder. I look through the drawer where I've placed most of my toiletries, everything lined up in neat rows, and come up with the polish remover, a file, some cotton, and bring it back into the main room.

“Perfect,” Audrey says, and I feel unaccountably pleased.

She opens the wine and pours it into two glasses she brought with her from the house. I arrange all the nail supplies on the table and sit on the edge of the bed.

“I'm not very good at this,” I tell her, taking a long swallow of the wine. It's rich and dark on my tongue. I swallow some more.

“Oh, I'm sure you are,” she says, her tone throaty, flirtatious.

But that's Audrey, isn't it? I shouldn't read too much into it, no matter how much I want to.

“No, really. I'm not that much of a girlie girl. I don't wear much makeup. Keeping my toes painted is one of my few nods to being female.”

“Don't sell yourself short, Bettina. You're very female,” she says, sipping her wine, watching me over the rim of her glass.

A small flutter starts in my stomach.

Don't be foolish. This is just Audrey being Audrey.

I take a breath, forcing my pulse to steady. I drink some more of my wine, finishing off the glass. It helps a little.

“Can I do your toes?” she asks me as she refills both our glasses.

I am not going to say no.

“Sure.”

“Here, scoot up and sit on the bed against the pillows.”

She shakes the polish, and I wait with my breath held in my lungs as though I am waiting for her to bend over me, to undress me, kiss me.

Stop it.

She leans over my toes and strokes the old polish off with a ball of cotton. I can feel her fingertips around the cotton ball. I drink some more of my wine, trying not to watch the way her hair falls around her face, like dark satin.

“So, tell me what kind of guys you like,” she says to me. I laugh uncomfortably. “What?”

“We can't have a slumber party without taking about boys!”

“I've never actually had a slumber party before.”

Audrey pauses to look up at me. “You're kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Pardon me for saying so, but that's a little weird, Bettina.”

“I know. I've had a weird life, I guess, but not in any sort of interesting way. I've just missed out on a lot.”

“Well, it's an awfully good thing that I came along then, isn't it?”

She's teasing me, but it's true, I think.

“Yes. It is.”

She grins at me, and I smile back, and she empties her wineglass before bending her head to her task once more. I swallow the rest of my wine in a few gulps. It goes down easy, and my body relaxes.

“So. About the boys,” she prompts.

“I don't know if I have a type. Guys are so…they're a mystery to me. I don't like that I never seem to know what they're thinking.”

Audrey laughs as she opens the bottle of polish and begins to paint my nails. “I can tell you what they're thinking. They're thinking they want to get in your pants.”

“Yes,” I say a little too quietly.

She looks up then. “Hey. Are you okay?”