Dancing With Venus Read online

  “How I feel about you?”

  “Me? No, not me. You don't even know me.” Jessie got a death grip on the steering wheel. “Women. I'm guessing I'm not the first woman you've…”

  “Kissed?”

  “Well, kissed…all of it. How do you know?”

  “Kimmie says your father can croon a country tune that'll melt the moon. Why don't you sing country?”

  “I…that's different. That's just—”

  “Music? Sure. I bet you've got pigs that fly around here somewhere. Don't forget, Jessie. I've seen you perform. I saw exactly where your heart is at Red's two nights ago.”

  “And what the hell does that have to do with, well, being a lesbian?”

  “You think you're a lesbian just because you kissed a woman a few times?” Marci unsnapped her seat belt and scooted closer. “Or do you think you're a lesbian because you liked it?”

  When Jessie looked right and the truck swerved, Marci said, “Keep your eyes on the road, Psycho Woman.”

  Marci's hand fell on Jessie's knee, and her leg jerked. The same hand slid up the inside of Jessie's jeans until her fingers pressed against the soft folds of her crotch. Jessie looked down, the truck swerved again, an oncoming car honked, and she looked back up at the road in a panic.

  Marci said in a husky whisper right into her ear, “What is a lesbian, anyway? Am I a lesbian because there's nothing I'd rather be doing right now than driving you crazy?”

  Jessie pulled her legs together when Marci pushed and slid her fingers across the seam of her jeans.

  “No fair. You asked.” Marci scolded and pulled on Jessie's knee until she opened her legs. “Maybe I'm a lesbian because I can feel how wet you are through the double-stitched seam of your Levi's and that pair of cotton-crotch granny knickers you put on a while ago. Or maybe I'm a lesbian because I like how wet you are.”

  Jessie blushed and tried to watch the road. One part of her cursed when she scooted forward an inch or two on the seat. Someone she didn't know, another part of her, begged her to scoot forward some more.

  “Maybe I'm a lesbian because if I thought you wouldn't wreck and kill us both, I'd have my hand down the front of your jeans where I could do some real damage.” Even through a pair of jeans, Marci had found her sweet spot and wasn't letting up. “That's right, Psycho Woman. I'd have my finger on your button so quick it would make your head spin.”

  She's going to make me come. A woman is going to rub me off. Right here in front of God and everybody. In a fucking pickup!

  Jessie could feel it happening and was in a panic. The sweet, slow rocking of her hips into Marci's fingers had started unbidden. The burning tingle at the top of her thighs wasn't far behind. A light sheen of sweat appeared on her forehead. Her toes curled up and spread when she pushed on the floorboard of the pickup to pull her thighs tight…

  Through a haze of lust and desire, Jessie caught a glimpse of red and stood on the brakes. The pickup stopped less than a foot from the back bumper of a car behind a line of traffic waiting at the first stoplight into town.

  Jessie was embarrassed, her body was shot full of adrenaline and lust, and her foot was shaking on the brake pedal. She stared wide-eyed at the guy in his rearview mirror. Then she stared wide-eyed at Marci. Then she realized Marci's hand was still trapped between her thighs.

  “Will you get away from me? Get to your side of the seat,” she yelled. Marci jumped. Someone honked. The light had turned green, and Jessie was still standing on the brake. “You're dangerous. You know that?”

  Marci looked duly chastised, but that didn't stop her from saying in the most casual way possible, “Only when I'm around you, Psycho Woman.”

  “And will you stop calling me that?”

  * * *

  Jessie kicked her cowboy boots to the corner of the changing room and got out of her jeans. She could hear the debate in her head. Are my legs still trembling because I nearly wrecked the truck or because I let a woman touch me? And I liked it.

  She heard Marci talking to a clerk on the other side of the door. She couldn't decide what was crazier—Marci putting her hand between her thighs or her letting Marci put her hand between her thighs.

  When the levered door opened, she shied off to the corner.

  “I'm using—”

  “I know you are,” Marci whispered just before the door closed.

  “Did you come to see if we could wreck the changing room too? Maybe we can burn the store down?”

  “There's an idea.” Marci started pulling Jessie's T-shirt over her head.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “You can't try that dress on without getting undressed, can you?”

  “Be quiet!”

  “I sent her to find something else. It will take her at least five minutes.” Marci kissed Jessie's neck while her hands fumbled with the hook on Jessie's bra.

  Jessie could recall being chased many times before in her life. Up stairs. Into bedrooms. Across beds. Around the insides of showers. They were always chasing her. But this was different. This smelled different, acted different, looked different, but most of all, felt different. Not just the noncallous hands and plump, soft lips. This felt different in a place Jessie didn't want to think about.

  She shied away from looking down when Marci sucked her nipple into her mouth. Jessie slumped with a thud against the wall of the confining cubicle and closed her eyes.

  She had slept less last night than the night before. She'd lain on the edge of her bed staring down into the dark hole where Marci slept. She'd tussled with enough what-ifs to shut her mind down. Then her heart had weighed in, and she'd decided the what-ifs were easier.

  Jessie chanced a glance in the dressing room mirror and cringed. Marci was on her knees, trapping Jessie in an awkward half crouch against the wall. The woman's hair was dark and wavy, beautiful against Jessie's white, freckled skin. She caught sight of her own hair, limp and listless, and pushed gently on Marci's head. When she saw the ugly bruise on her swollen cheek, she became persistent.

  “Marci.” Jessie pushed with her hands and made Marci stop. “Marci!”

  “What?” Marci kissed up Jessie's neck and pouted when a kiss on the lips was refused.

  “I better try this dress on before someone comes in to check on us.” The words came out in a whispered mumble as Jessie pushed off the wall and tried to shoo Marci out.

  “What? You didn't like the way I—”

  Jessie turned away and mumbled again. “I liked it just fine. That's the problem.”

  Yes, that is the problem, isn't it? You're a woman. I'm a woman. If I let you…

  “That's it? You just liked it?”

  Jessie shoved Marci out the door and pulled until it latched. Then she slid the lock across for good measure.

  Marci is vibrant and beautiful. And a woman.

  Jessie saw herself as plain and uninteresting. No man had ever told her otherwise. They just wanted to sleep with the songbird. The reflection in the mirror brought that image into sharp relief.

  I'm just me. And she's still a woman.

  Jessie thought the dress hung on her frame like a rag. She stared at her image and tried to see herself as others did. She blushed when she realized she wasn't trying to look through other people's eyes. She was trying to look through Marci's. She wanted to know what another woman thought. Not just for a second opinion. Jessie wanted Marci to like her.

  To want me. Another woman. I want her to look at me and think, “Wow, hot.”

  “Argggg!”

  “You say something, Jess?”

  “No. No.” Jessie opened the changing room door and gave in to subjecting herself to scrutiny from someone she wanted to think she was hot.

  Right, like that's gonna happen.

  She endured the seamstress pulling and pinning, every minute filled with hums of apparent disapproval. Little clicks and ticks timed with smoothing and bunching. Struggling to get it right with this crappy body of mine.
r />   Marci sat off in a corner watching, a rather evil smirk tattooed on her face.

  “That'll do you, dear. Just give the dress to me on your way out.” The woman picked up her pincushion and left them alone.

  “Here. I want you to try this on.”

  “Let's just get out of here.” Jessie had enough humiliation for one day. She just wanted to cut and run.

  Marci looked around and pushed off her chair. She stepped into Jessie's space and put her hand on Jessie's arm. The movie of Marci's lips, flush with excitement, pulling on her nipple played in Jessie's head. She shifted uncomfortably, but Marci wouldn't let her retreat.

  “I want to ask you something, Jessie. Something personal.”

  More personal than fingering me until my underwear is soaking wet? That kind of personal? Jessie felt like some teenager about to be grilled by Mom. The feeling wasn't pleasant.

  “I like the way you look. Well, maybe like isn't the right word. You fill out a pair of jeans like nobody I know. I get wet just watching you walk across a room.”

  Jessie blushed furiously and felt a little light-headed. The abstract of disconnected acts, stolen kisses, and forbidden caresses had been defined by an outcome.

  I make another woman wet.

  “And you can wear jeans and cowboy boots the rest of your life if you want, and I'll still stop whatever I'm doing every time I see you just so I can watch you walk by. But I want to know if you don't like dresses or if there's some other reason your duffel bag was full of jeans and T-shirts when you got here. Well, and granny panties.” Marci smiled and chuckled and waited for an answer. Then she added, “I saw the clothes your mother left stacked on the bed after she washed them.”

  Between her father and Marci, Jessie felt she didn't stand a chance. She didn't know where this game of truth or consequences was going, but Marci's soulful brown eyes weren't about to let her duck the question.

  “You're beautiful, Marci—”

  “I'm attractive and I know it. I know that I turn more than a few heads. Men and women. And I'm flattered that you find me attractive too because, frankly, you're the only one that matters. But I'm not the one hiding out in a pair of old Levi's all the time.”

  “And you're not the one with a kazillion freckles all over her body.”

  “That's it? That's the big secret?”

  “Look at your hair.” Jessie laughed nervously. “Hell, look at your body. You're some kind of Greek goddess, and I'm just some stringy-haired skinny kid from the Midwest.”

  Marci shoved the hanger into her hand and tried to push her toward the changing room. Jessie didn't budge. Marci stepped close and pressed her body into Jessie's. Jessie couldn't stop herself from leaning into the warm softness of Marci, teetering on the woman's next words.

  “I'll be gone soon. The wedding is Saturday. I have to go back Sunday. I want you to know that if you don't want to do this, that's okay, but I would really appreciate it if you would.”

  Do what? Steal another kiss? Shove you to the floor and… Jessie tried to breathe.

  I can't! Can't you see that? I'm a woman. You're a woman. I'm a psycho bitch who gets chased around. Never chased after.

  “Listen, Jessie. I'm a lesbian. I like women. And I like everything about women. The way they feel. The way they smell.” Marci followed the line of Jessie's face until her mouth was right over Jessie's ear and whispered, “The way their nipples swell with excitement. The way their cunts get sopping wet. The way they taste.”

  Marci paused. Jessie tried to swallow.

  “And knocking around in jeans is okay, but I also like my women dressed in dresses. I like to see miles of bare legs and think about what might be waiting for me.”

  Jessie couldn't breathe. She thought she'd pass out.

  Marci's lips brushed Jessie's ear, and her verbal seduction continued. “I like to think about touching those legs. Running my fingers up the inside—”

  Jessie bolted for the dressing room.

  You're going to hurt me. I know you will. Just like the rest of them.

  She slammed the door shut behind her.

  And I'm going to let you.

  * * *

  Jessie pulled on the hem of her dress for the third time since they'd been seated at the elegant table. She tried not to look down at her legs sticking out below her very short summer frock. The only things she saw when she did were white skin and freckles. She grabbed the linen napkin off her plate and draped it over her legs so she couldn't see them. She shifted on her chair, trying to get comfortable in the white thong that had replaced her sensible cotton underwear.

  She almost had to sit on her hands to keep from pulling on the halter of the white cotton dress Marci had picked out. Between Marci's lips and several sly caresses in the truck as they'd driven from the beauty parlor to the restaurant, her body was in a permanent state of arousal.

  What the hell have I let her do to me?

  “I'm starved.” Marci was all smiles with a few furtive glances thrown in at odd moments.

  Jessie stared over Marci's shoulder into the mirrored wall of Pierre's, the restaurant they'd chosen for a late lunch. The parlor visit was on the schedule for all the bridesmaids. The pedicure, wax, trim, and highlights weren't. The bikini wax had been a whole new experience. And not a delightful one. After being made up and made over, she didn't recognize the woman who stared back. The bruise was still there but much less noticeable. Her hair fell with a pale strawberry hue in a feathered tier that brushed past her shoulders. Shiny lip gloss made her mouth look wet.

  Aroused. Kissable.

  No, Jessie amended. Fuckable. Even her legs felt different. Every long stride was a salacious caress as silky soft skin brushed together.

  Would I? Could I?

  Their waiter arrived and smiled while he handed out menus. A wine list was left on the table, and he disappeared. Somewhere someone was playing jazz on a piano. The lunch crowd had come and gone. Jessie and Marci had a corner of the restaurant pretty much to themselves. She stole a glance at Marci.

  Will I find Marci on the menu too?

  They sat in silence looking at the day's selection, and Jessie caught herself giving as many furtive glances as she received.

  Pussy à la mode?

  Jessie perused the lines of Marci's face and looked away when she got caught. The woman's eyes were big pools of brown so dark that at odd moments they looked black. They seemed to ripple each time the woman smiled or laughed. The nose that Marci had made fun of when dishing was strong and prominent with a slight ridge, and Jessie couldn't imagine Marci's face with any other.

  Mediterranean to match the dusky hue of her skin.

  Jessie shifted on her chair and willed her thoughts to wander someplace else. They refused.

  A birthmark shaped like an apple on the inside of her thigh… Strudel for dessert?

  She thought Marci's hair was a fascination in and of itself. Thick and luxuriant. A cascade of waves that invited Jessie's hand to reach in and take a swim. Mahogany auburn that had a deep oxblood glow in the sunlight and draped around Marci's shoulders like a cape reaching to the middle of her back.

  Yes. A swim. A long wet swim.

  Peering over the top of her menu, trying not to get caught, Jessie followed the line of Marci's bare arm. Long delicate fingers, sculpted hands, and a buffed manicure of transparent nail polish on short sensible fingernails.

  She's a musician.

  In spite of knowing that, for the first time Jessie contemplated the idea.

  How do you define world-class?

  Jessie went back to her menu and let the lines of the rest of Marci's body dance across the selection of soups and entreés. Her glimpse of a naked Marci standing in the middle of her bedroom like some Greek statue floated above the salads. A laughing, smiling Marci coming out of the edge of the old quarry like Venus rising shimmered over dessert. Soft and voluptuous. Glistening and wet…

  Edible…and not a hair on her…

 
Jessie shifted and cleared her throat. She squeezed her thighs together, then crossed her legs.

  Marci looked over the top of her menu and smiled.

  Jessie blushed for the umpteenth time.

  The waiter arrived, and Marci ordered soup and a parmesan salad. Jessie felt like a pig when she ordered a filet, steamed vegetables, and a baked potato. Then Marci ordered house wine for both of them. In response to Jessie's look of disappointment, Marci leaned across the table and asked in a conspiratorial whisper, “See that busboy over there? The one with the really nice ass?”

  The question was so far from Jessie's mindset she choked on a swallow of ice water. “What?”

  “He looks about twenty. Probably a college kid home for the summer making a few extra bucks.”

  Jessie took a look and wondered what the tight ass on the busboy had to do with Greek statues and Venus rising.

  “It's still early. You're looking really hot. How about we get a room at the Madison before everyone shows up and we invite him up? Just the three of us.” Marci stared across the table expressionless, daring Jessie to answer. When Jessie didn't respond, Marci added, “We could make his day.”

  What? Is that it? You're just kinky? You spruced up the psycho woman and put her in a dress so you could pick up some guy neither one of us knows? And here I thought… I've got enough faceless names in my little pink book already, thank you very much.

  Jessie realized she was actually disappointed, and her mind locked up. Not at the invite to get a room but that the busboy was included. She was speechless.

  “We could—” Marci was smiling salaciously.

  “What the hell have you been doing all day? I thought you wanted to”—Jessie leaned across the table and whispered—“get into my panties. Not get some stud—”

  “There's a thought.” Marci added a husky chuckle.

  “I can't believe this! And I was actually entertaining thoughts of letting you. Of letting you get in my panties.” Jessie grabbed her linen napkin, threw it on her plate, and started to push away from the table.”

  Marci grabbed her hand and pulled her back to the table.

  “I wanted to explain something. Please, Jessie, sit back down.”