The One That Got Away (17 page)

“Is it stuck? I'll get it, honey,” Ellen said.

As I walked back from the kitchen with a beer in each hand, I felt a quick poke between my buttocks. I would have jumped in any case, but since I wasn't wearing any underwear I felt especially vulnerable. I whirled around.

Robin giggled. “I just had to do that, B.D. I've always wanted to goose a nun.” She scurried ahead of me and I watched as she whispered in Bridget's ear. Bridget looked at her and then at me, with a look I'd never seen on her face before. I knew then how the hundredth harem girl felt when the sheik finally got around to singling her out. Tonight was my night, but I was having none of it.

I handed Bridget one beer and put the other one on the end table, then turned and walked away.

“B.D.? Is something wrong?”

I didn't answer; I just kept walking toward the door. Bridget followed me all the way outside the house, then put her hands on my shoulders. “B.D., what is it? What's the matter?”

“Did Robin stay with you last night?”

“Yes. Sometimes she comes over, we order pizza and watch a couple of DVDs, and she spends the night.”

“Do you make love with her?”

Bridget smiled, a secretive smile that I couldn't interpret. “She sleeps on the sofa. I told you, B.D., I'm monogamous.”

“You've never asked me to sleep over your house.” I heard the petulance in my voice and despised myself for it.

“We do other things together, B.D.”

“Well, it's none of my business anyway.” Dead leaves rattled as the wind pushed them along the cement, while voices only I could hear told me that I wasn't pretty enough, thin enough, smart enough, good enough. “Look,” I said, “I really have to go. Angel's waiting for me.”

“Hey! Not without a hug,” Bridget said, making me feel like a child. Grudgingly, I uncrossed my arms, but I wasn't prepared for the way she scooped me up and mashed me to her—so hard my breasts hurt.

Slowly I walked on down the driveway by Angel's house, pausing to acknowledge the moon. “Hello, Goddess,” I said. I could hear Betty Boop barking, heralding my return, and I knew Angel would be saying, “All right, Betty, all right, thank you for letting me know, now cool it.” When I opened the door, Betty was calm and Sarah Vaughan was singing “Witchcraft.” The music drew me
up the steps to the bedroom, and I stopped short at the doorway. Angel had put black satin sheets on the bed and a vase of blood red chrysanthemums the size of grapefruits on the bureau. Votive candles glittered in the darkness like jewels in a treasure chest, and the air smelled of cinnamon. Angel was wearing black silk boxer shorts and a sheer black tank top. “You know what I want,” she said.

I shed the nun's robe and left it puddled at my feet. It was only a couple of steps to the bed, but by the time I reached it, I felt as though I had forded a river and emerged cleansed.

Maybe it was all that candy corn, but I also felt fidgety. And although I knew perfectly well what Angel wanted, I wasn't sure I wanted to give it to her just yet. I pushed Angel down onto her back and straddled her legs. Then, with a little cooperation from her, I guided Angel's arms above her head, holding them there. She regarded me with surprise, amusement, and a little indulgence.

“Can I tie you up?”

“How thoughtful of you to ask,” Angel said.

“Right over left, left over right, makes a knot neat, tidy and tight,” I murmured, remembering the rhyme from my Girl Scout days.

“Ah, B.D.? You might not want to make the knot too tight.”

“Good point, Angel.”

“There are some Ace bandages in the medicine cabinet,” Angel said.

The bandages appeared to be well used. “You've been tied up before, haven't you?” I asked, as I bound Angel's right hand to a handy spot on the headboard of her bed with the stretchy strip.

Angel nodded. She lifted her free hand and ran her thumb across my cheekbone, and her fingers along the
curve of my jaw. “But I have never had the pleasure of being tied up by a beautiful woman in feathered stockings.”

I kissed her palm and the tip of each finger before wrapping her hand.

Once I had Angel in place, I regarded her briefly, then sighed.

“What?”

“Oh, I don't know. The sheets, the candles, the flowers—it's all so beautiful. These Ace bandages don't do anything for my esthetic sensibilities. I want to tie you up artistically, like a Japanese gift.”

“Next time,” Angel said.

I began by teasing and tickling her with the feathers. It was a little awkward, since they were part of the stockings on my legs, and at first I worried about what I must look like. But as Angel arched and twisted, gave little grunts and cries, I thought less about my limitations as a contortionist and more about what else I might do and how I might do it. I tried dragging the feathers across Angel's nipples and belly, then sweeping them up and down her body. Sometimes I followed the feathers with my lips, other times with my soft, wet cunt. I made Angel ask me three times to finish her off because, as I told her, three is a magical number.

After I untied her, Angel favored me with a slow, steady storm of feathery kisses over every inch of silk, then deep tongue kisses. Then she told me to close my eyes. I heard a drawer open and close, and it seemed like a very long time before I heard Angel say, “You can open your eyes now. And your legs, while you're at it.” She moved toward me in the soft candlelight, the glitter in the dildo glimmering faintly as stardust.

“Angel!” I said. “I have one exactly like that.”

She grinned; a wide, impish, jack-o-lantern grin.

In my mind I saw my child self at the top of a slide. I
sat down on the very top step, grasped the shiny metal sides, and held my breath. I slid slowly forward till my arms were stretched behind my back. And when I was ready, I pushed, let go, glided down.

Chapter 20

The invitation to Dana's annual New Year's Eve champagne potluck called for “BLACK attire.” Since she was the owner of Basic Black, a boutique specializing in black clothing and household articles, I wasn't surprised.

When I showed the invitation to Angel, she said, “I've been meaning to talk with you about New Year's Eve, B.D.”

“Oh, no. Angel, you can't, you absolutely cannot have any P.I. business on New Year's Eve.”

“It's not business business, it's more like a convention.”

“A convention? On New Year's Eve?”

“Maybe it's more like a retreat,” Angel said.

“What are we talking about?”

“I'm going to be in San Francisco.”

I just looked at her.

“Once a year I get together with a couple of dykes from the San Francisco Police Department and the Los Angeles Police Department, plus some West Coast-based P.I.s and a mystery writer.”

“Wonderful, but why do you have to get together on New Year's Eve?”

“I don't know. We've never met on New Year's Eve before. Someone suggested it, and we all thought it might be fun. I didn't even know you when we made the plan, B.D.”

“I can't believe this,” I said. “I've never had a date for New Year's Eve in my entire life, and now that I'm finally in a relationship my girlfriend is going to be out of town for the big night.”

I was convinced that I was going to die without ever having had a date for New Year's Eve. The more I thought about it, death seemed just around the corner. Every building façade was a potential killer, waiting to fling a brick down onto my head. And those sports utility vehicles that every self-respecting young urban professional absolutely had to have to traverse the rough, potholed terrain from the Pottery Barn to the Apple store—I'd seen a
60 Minutes
segment on how unstable those monsters were. “There's a Range Rover waiting out there for me,” I said to Angel. “And when it turns the corner and goes out of control and runs me over, you'll be sorry we didn't spend my last New Year's Eve on earth together.”

“It'll probably be a Land Rover,” Angel replied. “And if my plane crashes tomorrow, you'll be sorry you sent me off with so little affection.”

“Y'know something?” I said. “You're right.”

We didn't bother with the eleven o'clock news. At one point Angel rolled over, looked at the clock, and mumbled, “B.D., it's nearly two. I've got to get some sleep.”

“Oh, but you're going to have that nice long plane ride tomorrow,” I whispered. “You can sleep then.”

“B.D., I really don't think I have the energy—”

I didn't let her finish. “Sweetheart, you don't have to do a thing. Just leave everything to me.”

The alarm went off at 5:30. Even after a shower, Angel still looked a bit pale and frayed at the edges. She kissed me goodbye warily, as if she feared I might waylay her yet again and cause her to miss her plane. I had no such intention.

As she closed the front door, I saw it all so clearly: the slow wending through the long security line, the narrow coach seat, all of the space in the surrounding overhead bins already taken. Angel could be in the dreaded middle seat, and the person in front of her could put their seat all the way back. Then there would be the indignity of having to pay for a bottle of water, a sandwich, and a snack. Not to mention screaming infants, out of control children, and ill-tempered adults. The possibilities for a miserable travel experience were endless.

I scissored my legs beneath the sheet and redistributed the pillows. There are times when being single in a double bed is positively luxurious. I decided that after a couple more hours of well-earned sleep I would treat myself to breakfast at Dumpling, the local “comfort food” restaurant near Angel's house. Pancakes, perhaps, or scrambled eggs with crisp bacon, hash browns, and rye toast.

The day went so perfectly that I was sure there was a Goddess, and she was definitely a femme.

Breakfast was delicious. I softly hummed “Just you wait, 'enry 'iggins” while I drizzled maple syrup over the not-too-dark, not-too-light pancakes. The waitress was an utterly delectable gamine with shower-spiky black hair. I left her a very generous tip and headed for the subway to Manhattan and the stores on my mental list. They would be crowded, but there would also be after-Christmas sales.