Femme Like Her Page 5

  Thinking about it still pisses me off, so when I pull open the door to Virtue and Vice, it flies back toward me with a harsh jangle of bells.

  The woman at the antique-looking roll-top desk in the front of what looks like a large, private parlor looks up with slightly widened eyes, though a smile immediately warms her face.

  “Good afternoon—welcome to Virtue and Vice.”

  “Uh…thank you.”

  I’m a little embarrassed—I mean, who wouldn’t be after nearly wrenching a stranger’s door off its hinges—but after taking just a few steps into the room, a sense of calm comes over me.

  Huh.

  It must be the perfume in here. The scent is cool with a hint of roses and drifts over me as the door sighs closed at my back. The parlor is spacious, decorated in warm shades of gold and deep reds, and has tucked away in a corner a semicircle of Victorian sofas and chairs arranged perfectly around a long coffee table. Large, soft exposure posters of artfully bared women and some men hang on the walls. Sensual classical music plays softly in the room. Three women, all sitting apart, are already waiting.

  The women barely glance at me before going back to what they’re doing. One is reading from a magazine spread across her lap, legs crossed, one hand easily holding a highball glass of some sort of liquor. Another is scrolling through her smartphone, occasionally smiling at whatever she’s looking at. The third woman drinks from what looks like a glass of champagne, her eyes trained on the shadowed hallway at the far end of the room.

  Just as I begin approaching the desk, a woman appears from the hallway with a tape measure draped over her neck. She wears a simple white blouse and a long, formfitting black skirt.

  “Good afternoon and welcome. I’m Ms. Rafael.”

  I take her in. Short hair, wide nose, narrow lips. She’s not someone Essence or Cosmo would have on their covers, but there’s something about her that’s both sensuous and briskly professional. Her makeup is flawless.

  “Are you here for a fitting?” she asks.

  With the Groupon burning a hole in my purse, I feel a little dirty. Dishonest. Like I’m about to rip money from this classy woman’s well-manicured hand.

  “Yes.” My purse feels canyon deep as I rummage around for the Groupon. “I called on my way here to see if you can fit me in.”

  “Of course.” She walks to the desk where the other woman sits quietly watching us and takes a note from her coworker. “Ah, Ms. Nailah Grant?” At my nod, she and her coworker exchange a few quiet words I can’t hear before she straightens and gives me another welcoming smile. “Please have a seat. Someone will be right with you. It’ll be just a few minutes while we finish getting your fitting room ready.” The sound of her high heels against the wooden floors is unhurried as she approaches one of the women already waiting and takes her down the hall.

  As I tuck myself into the edge of the sofa closest to the door, another woman comes into the waiting area. This one is younger and wearing a tighter version of the white blouse and black skirt outfit.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Grant.” She’s quietly efficient, refilling the glasses of the women waiting from the various drinks she carries on her heavy-looking tray. “Would you like anything to drink while you wait?”

  Why not? “Sparkling wine, please.”

  My only plans for my post-lingerie indulgence are to sit in the window seat at my place and read a book while Osiris rolls around nearby in the batch of catnip toys I just got for him.

  Sexy, I know.

  Just as I settle back into the burgundy velvet sofa with my glass of wine, no orange juice, the bells above the door chime. A couple walks in, a man and woman, holding hands. She looks happy and over-the-top bubbly, skipping into the shop ahead of her man, who’s looking over his shoulder and talking to somebody behind him.

  “Thanks for coming here with us,” he says. “Without you, we’d probably be lost in someplace near Alabama by now.” The loudness of his voice is jarring after the soft music, occasional whisper of magazine pages being turned, and the quiet of my own thoughts.

  His girl immediately reads the tone of the room. “Shh!” But she’s smiling and already letting go of her man’s hand to approach the desk.

  “There’s such a thing as Google Maps, you know, Patrick.” A woman’s teasing voice comes from just outside the door that the man—Patrick, apparently—is still holding open. “I’m pretty sure you can find your way around the city without your big sister chauffeuring you around.”

  “But you’re such a great chauffeur,” Patrick says with a laugh.

  Every single one of my body’s strings pluck tight. It’s her.

  Scottie.

  Of course, by the time she comes in, the women in the little waiting area are looking up in curiosity. The one with the magazine runs her gaze the length of Scottie’s body, up and down again, lips curving up with an appreciative half-smile.

  Eyes off, bitch.

  In red stilettos, high-waisted denim shorts, and a mint-green blouse, Scottie looks dangerously good.

  To ease my suddenly dry throat, I take a desperate gulp of my wine. Which, of course, goes down the wrong way. Soon, I’m choking like a landed fish. Sparkling wine sprays all over my shirt and the floor in front of me. Gasping for air, I press a hand to my throat, double over, and try not to die. If not from wine going down the wrong way, then from my face-scorching humiliation.

  Someone grabs the champagne glass out of my hand and another person starts to rub my back. A folded napkin appears under my nose and I grab it desperately, pressing it to my leaking mouth.

  When I finally manage to get it together, my eyes streaming with post-choke tears, I notice that everybody in the parlor is gathered around me. Her face stark with concern, the woman from the front desk presses a paper napkin into my hand while the one who’d been reading the magazine rubs my back. The woman who came in with Scottie kneels in front of me, a hand on my knee.

  “You all right, sugar?” she asks.

  I give a jerking nod.

  Public humiliation was not part of my plan today, but here I am. And in front of Scottie, of all people. My throat is raw from all the sexy choking I just did. After making sure I’m not really dying, everyone disperses and leaves me alone to sag into the couch with my eyes closed. I clutch the napkin to my mouth and pray for Scottie to disappear.

  “Nailah, are you sure you’re okay?”

  Of course Scottie is still here. Fuck my life.

  “Yep.” Please let me wake up from this nightmare when I open my eyes. “I’m still good. Just slowly dying of embarrassment, that’s all.”

  Shit. I almost jump back when I open my eyes and see how close Scottie is to me. On the couch, barely two feet away. Her brother and his woman sit on the couch opposite us, obviously only pretending not to watch us.

  I swallow my nervousness and lick my lips. Why does she have to be so damn pretty? I swear, the first time I saw her, I didn’t think much of her looks. Sure, she was nice enough looking, with her shoulder-length straightened hair, sly smile, and the imprint of her G-string showing through her tight dress. But she was barely “cute” compared to the hair-weave-wearing, camera-ready women scattered around Atlanta like leaves in the fall.

  Every time I’ve seen her since the night we met, though, she’s grown harder to dismiss. I’ve fallen asleep dreaming of licking her slightly crooked front teeth. The scattering of old acne scars along her cheekbone is actually cute to me. And her big-clit energy just makes my knees weak.

  She’s gorgeous to me now. And I hate it.

  Please leave me alone.

  I start to say exactly that when Ms. Rafael appears in an authoritative click of heels.

  “Your fitting room is waiting,” she murmurs. “Are you ready?”

  Against my wishes, my eyes slide to Scottie and her over-the-top sexiness. Then I look away, because none of that is for me. I nod. “Where do you want me?”

  5

  The experience of bein
g fitted for my new underwear is just about perfect. Soft music plays in the background while Ms. Rafael sizes me with warm hands and a tape measure that feels like silk on my skin. The conversation between us is natural and without any awkward pauses. It’s actually fun.

  At the end of it, I feel so good that when I step out of the back room with my receipt for the lingerie due to arrive in a week or so, I half convince myself that Scottie is long gone.

  But she isn’t.

  “Breast measuring sure does take a long time.” She sits in one of the plush armchairs facing the hallway, an e-reader in hand. A nearly empty glass of orange juice takes up space on the small side table with her purse.

  The magazine reader is gone, and I know the other woman went back into the fitting area. As I left, I heard her telling her husband how good he looked in the corset she’s having made for him.

  Scottie’s brother and his girl are nowhere in sight.

  “He went in with her. They’re close like that,” she says like she’s reading my mind.

  And just like that, I remember all the times during our very, very quick affair when she did seem to see into me. Deeper than anyone else. At night on the phone when I told her about my parents and wishing I had the kind of life they had. Happy. Married forever. That single time she made me come and forget every single worry in my life except getting the chance to please her too.

  The flush, when it comes, is scorching hot, blazing across my face and down my neck to settle in my breasts. Arousal floods me. I feel like an idiot.

  “Well, that’s nice for them,” I tell her, and adjust the purse over my shoulder, getting ready to walk out.

  The fitting was luxurious. Soothing music, warm hands on my skin, gentle questions that had nothing to do with trying to up-sell me something. All of it mellowed me. Prepared me for the long evening lounging around at home.

  But with her presence, Scottie sweeps all that mellowness away.

  I exchange goodbyes with the woman behind the desk and head for the door.

  “Wait, Nailah.” Already on her feet, Scottie closes her e-reader with a sharp snap of its magnetic cover and slips it into her purse.

  Seconds later, she’s pushing the door open for me to walk ahead of her and out into the unexpectedly warm fall afternoon. I slip past her and inhale the subtle scent of her perfume, something expensive and light. Like being at sea on an early morning.

  Oh, Jesus… Really? She’s got me writing poetry in my head and we never even properly had sex.

  The sudden sun is dizzying. Hand clutching tight to my purse strap, I head for the vague outline of my car at the edge of the parking lot. Absolutely not taking the hint, she’s following me.

  “Have a drink with me,” she says from behind me, like we all haven’t been getting genteelly drunk in the lingerie shop for the past hour. Then I remember her plain orange juice, the color much brighter than the mimosas Bridget generously poured for anyone interested.

  “Why, so you can ditch me again? No thanks.” But the uneven throb of my heart, the pulse between my legs, makes a mockery of every word.

  “Nailah, it wasn’t like that, and you know it.” Her stilettos click behind me as I rush toward my car.

  Why does the damn thing seem like it’s getting farther away the more I walk?

  “I actually don’t know that, Scottie,” I hiss over my shoulder.

  The night of our one and only date is scratched across my mind like a prison tattoo. Not just the quick, one-sided sex we had just before we left my apartment, but the way she’d been so damn nice. Just plain sexy and easy during the drive to the restaurant and then later when we sat down to drinks and appetizers. Everything she did eased my nervousness and helped me to relax into what was turning out to be one of the best dates I’d been on in a while.

  We’d flirted and joked, our feet touching under the table while my body tingled in anticipation of what we’d do at the end of the night.

  But what I really won’t forget anytime soon is that not long after our appetizers came, she got a phone call that had her flying out of there like a bullet after a grimaced apology. When she was gone, leaving a hastily thrown down hundred-dollar bill on her side of the table, I felt a little self-conscious. Embarrassed. The restaurant was a date place. And I’d obviously been abandoned.

  Before going out with her, I told myself it wasn’t going to lead to anything, since two femmes together just didn’t do it for me. And definitely it didn’t make sense according to what I knew.

  Being ditched dinged my pride, that’s what I told myself. But humiliation and disappointment cramped my belly the entire time I choked down the meal I was determined to eat. Under any other circumstances, I would have savored every bite of the perfectly cooked steak, and every sip of the delicious Bordeaux.

  Every mouthful was a torture, every sip of wine like acid.

  It wasn’t long before I gave up and took the meal to go, asking the waiter to wrap it all up then heading back to my condo. Alone.

  Scottie called me after that, apologetic. Though wary, I accepted her apology. Despite my previous doubts about getting involved with Scottie, I really liked her and wanted to deepen what we had growing between us. We chatted back and forth for a while, and I could feel her getting more emotionally distant but didn’t know how to pull her closer.

  Then, after one brief phone call a few weeks ago, she was suddenly gone.

  “Baby,” she says now. “It’s complicated.”

  “First, this isn’t a Facebook relationship status. Second, I’m not your baby.”

  I fumble in my purse for Earl’s key, but before I can unlock the door, Scottie grabs my hand clutching the fob, not hard enough to hurt, but gently enough to let me know she’s not ready for our conversation to end.

  My idiot knees tremble.

  Because nothing else gets my engine purring like a strong woman. I stumble back and almost land on my ass, but Scottie catches me with an arm around my waist and a hand on my hip.

  “Nailah. I had some messy personal stuff that started that night. It hasn’t really ended, but I realize now that it might actually never end.”

  Her hands on me are turning my mind to jelly. “So, what now? What does that have to do with me?”

  “Let’s try again. I still like you, and I’m reasonably sure you still like me too.”

  Seriously?

  “That is some bullshit.” My eyes narrow. “I bet if we hadn’t run into each other here, you’d never have called.”

  Her jaw goes tight and a lush fan of lashes drops low over her eyes. After an uncomfortable silence, she finally says, “I don’t know.”

  “Well, that answers my question.” It hurts, but at least she’s honest. “You don’t want me, and I don’t want to be a pity date that’s just going to go south with your next round of personal drama. I’m not a quarter you found at the back of your couch to slot into the next good time only because I happen to have been found. I deserve better, and obviously you want better, so don’t worry about”—I wave my hand to indicate the store and the parking lot and us—“any of this. You can just keep on forgetting me like you did last time.” I wriggle out of her embrace then fight my disappointment when her hands fall completely away. My skin feels cold.

  Scottie takes one step back and then two. The space separating us might as well be an entire galaxy. Her face a perfect blank mask, she stands with her hands in the pockets of her shorts, designer handbag on one shoulder, red heels making her legs look miles long. She looks like a perfume ad.

  Good Pussy, le parfum.

  “Anyway, thanks for…” What am I thanking for, exactly? Hell, I don’t even know. “I’ll see you around, Scottie.”

  When I pull out of the parking lot and pause, waiting to turn left with my blinker on, she’s still standing there. Watching me. I’d like to think the look on her face is regret, but I know better.

  6

  As pathetic as it sounds, I wanted to stay with Scottie in th
at parking lot yesterday.

  More than twenty-four hours later, I’m still thinking about her. Wondering what would’ve happened if I’d made another decision.

  Ugh. It sucks turning down something that I want badly enough that I can practically taste the sweet flavor of it dissolving on my tongue. But I haven’t let myself be anybody’s pity fuck (or date) in years, and I’m not about to restart that bad habit now.

  Which is why, on a Sunday afternoon, I’m on the couch with a half-finished glass of wine in one hand, Osiris in my lap, and a Law & Order marathon on TV. Dinner with my family is only a few hours away, but I already have the sweet potato pudding they asked for on the kitchen counter and ready to go.

  In the middle of Elliot beating up yet another perp, my doorbell rings.

  When I lift Osiris off me and deposit him on the couch, he meows. The yellow slits of his eyes tell me very clearly how annoyed he is with me.

  “Who is it?”

  “Edible Arrangements,” a voice says on the other side of the door. “I have a delivery for Nailah Grant.”

  Strange. There’s not a single person in Atlanta who would send me anything. My parents would just send me money, and all my exes should have forgotten where I live by now. Even though the woman said my name, I’m not hopeful that I’m the right “Nailah Grant.” I open the door anyway.

  A woman stands at the doorway holding a huge basket of fruit shaped into flowers. “Here you go, ma’am. Just sign right here.”

  One signature and two sets of polite smiles later, I have the fruit flowers in hand. They’re heavy. The arrangement is in some sort of bowl, and I two-hand it all the way to the kitchen counter. Osiris follows with a curious purr.

  “There’s nothing here for you, nosy cat.” I pluck the card from the middle of the flowers.

  * * *