You don’t want to go. You want to stay here with her, like this, for as long as time allows. The desire to be near her has been growing and growing. As if the seed was planted—by who, you’re not sure—but they took the time and cared enough to fertilize it, and water it so well that it’s now almost out of control. A full-grown plant, and it needs to be shaped, tamed, before it becomes a nuisance. You feel her eyes on you, so you pull your gaze to meet hers. “Everything is changing, isn’t it?”
She stands, holds out her hand, and smiles a smile you are positive was created solely to take your breath away. “Walk with me.”
You do as she asks, taking her hand and allowing her to pull you up. She doesn’t drop your hand until both sets of feet hit the sidewalk on Michigan Avenue. It’s three in the morning. By half past three, you’ll be in your dressing room. Four, you’ll have your makeup on. And at five, you’ll be on television, sitting next to this woman who you’ve grown to care so deeply for, who you’d do anything for, who you want so badly to make feel the same way you’re feeling.
When you cross Wabash and continue toward State Street, she hooks her arm through yours. This is the opportunity. Right here. The one you’ve missed so many times before. Well, two times, but who’s counting. Only you, and you were never a fan of math.
You’re approaching the studio, step by step, and when she stops, you turn to her.
“You can trust me,” she says, her eyes sad yet focused.
“I do.” Your answer comes out as a whisper.
She tilts her head and smiles. “Do you, though?”
It’s a fair question. Five or six months ago, you wouldn’t have trusted a single thing that came out of her mouth. Now? Now you’d gladly hand over your heart if you knew she wanted it. “I do, Madeline, I really do.”
She moves a lock of hair behind your ear. You don’t typically mess with your hair. It’s curly by nature, and any sort of jostling makes it frizz, but the familiarity of her gesture is something you’ve been craving, and it feels so very good. She’s so close now. Lean forward. Do it. Place your lips on hers. You know you want to. You want to kiss her, taste her, love her. And for half a second, you think she feels the same way.
But then a horn blows across the street, and reality slams into you both, pulling you away from each other and pushing you both through the revolving door of ABC’s studio.
The Fourth Time
Happens to be during Market Days.
One of the gayest celebrations in Chicago.
And you’re still not out.
And you’re trapped in a bathroom in an intern’s apartment.
Because a douchebag named Tim accidentally broke the door handle, and no none told you until it was too fucking late.
The bathroom is small, cramped, and sticky hot from the August humidity. Everything smells funny because it’s a party, and who knows if people have any sort of aim and actually make it into the toilet when they pee, vomit, ugh, whatever.
You’re not supposed to be at this party. Well, you’re not not supposed to be there, but your producer asked you not to go.
“It’s going to be a lot of young people, and the last thing you need is to get drunk around a bunch of college aged students.”
Yeah, well, fuck that, you said into the mirror before you took off, headed to North Halsted and this very crazy party. It really didn’t seem like a bad idea. You wanted to be out, even if for half a second. The interns are all so nice, too, which meant they’d never judge you. They were thrilled you graced them with your presence, actually. Sometimes, being famous is fun. And other times, it goes straight to your head and makes you do stupid, stupid things.
Including going to this party. Where you were pulled into the bathroom by none other than Madeline Barnes, so she can yell at you and tell you how dumb it is to be at a party like this when you’re at the level of importance you’re at now. A party that has way too much of everything going on, including drugs, sex, and yes, even rock and roll. Not to mention you’re in the middle of Boystown! Sigh. If only you could just tell her, tell everyone, things would be so much easier.
And when she was done scolding you…
“I can’t believe we’re locked in this bathroom.”
You groan. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d come.”
“You texted help. What was I supposed to do?”
Ignore me like you so effortlessly do every other second of the day. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“If you didn’t want help, you shouldn’t have texted me.”
You’re tipsy. You’re hot. You’re sweaty. And you’re so enamored with this woman who so effortlessly has seeped into every aspect of your life. “I’m really sorry, Madeline. I am.”
“Stop apologizing.”
The words I’m sorry sit on your tongue like a bad aftertaste. You are sorry, though. Really, really sorry. Not just for texting her tonight but for texting her at all. Drinking and texting are your downfall, and now she has the word, “help,” preceded by, “I can’t stop thinking about you,” on her phone. Aside from research, journalism classes taught you to never leave a trace if you didn’t want it to come back to haunt you. Well, you fucked that one up, didn’t you, Lucinda? No good can come of this. No good at all.
She sits on the edge of the claw-foot tub. For someone who, in the spur of the moment, was coming to rescue someone else, she sure looks fucking incredible. But of course. When would Madeline fucking Barnes be caught not dressed to the nines? “The interns, though? I mean, seriously?”
Her tone isn’t accusatory as much as it’s laced with concern. You shrug. At least she didn’t call you out for being at Market Days. Being completely closeted all the time if one of the hardest aspects of this job. You know you could come out, but you also know there’s a time and a place for everything.
“We need to get you some friends.”
“I have friends.”
“Friends your age.”
“I have friends my age.”
She stares, taps the toe of her nude colored flats on the black and white ceramic tile. “You could have hung out with me.”
The sound of a car alarm beep, beep, beeping outside is all you can hear in that moment. Not Lizzo singing “Truth Hurts,” not the thump, thump, thumping of the bass, not the shout, shout, shouting of twenty-five-year-olds singing at the top of their lungs.
“I asked you to, y’know.”
You try to swallow the lump lodged in your throat.
“But you seem to be avoiding me.”
“I have not been—”
“Luce,” she says, tilting her head. The familiarity of her using your nickname like that is almost too much for you. She’s holding on to the edge of the tub, her fingers curling around the lip. Her red top and cream-colored linen pants look fantastic on her. She should wear red more often because the color brings out all the good tones of her barely tanned skin.
Something about the way she’s looking at you forces you to move to the tub, sit on the edge next to her, and mimic her position with your hands on the edge. The lip of the tub is all that’s holding you back from jumping headfirst into an abyss. You are staring at your hand when, without warning, she moves so the edge of her hand is pressed against yours. Your breath catches. You’ve touched before. You’ve held her hand before. But this touch is so much more intimate. You tear your eyes from your hand, her hand, and look at her, into her blue, blue eyes. She’s biting her lower lip. Her face is so close. All it would take to finally kiss her is a miniscule movement on either of your parts. You want this so badly. You need this. You need to feel her lips, her tongue, taste her lip gloss, push your hands into her hair, smell her breath and perfume, and hope to whatever higher power that you survive because, at this rate, you might not.
She breathes out, and you’re leaning in and—
“Door’s fixed!” Comes a booming voice as the bathroom door is flung open. The sound and volume startle you, causing you
to jerk and fall from your precarious position on the side of the tub…into the actual tub. You tear the shower curtain off the hooks on the way down. And the entire time, all Madeline can do is laugh.
All you can do is hate whoever the fucking idiot is who fixed the damn door.
The Fifth Time
It was a lovely evening during Labor Day weekend. The Excellence in Journalistic Reporting event was a huge success. And Madeline Barnes now has a legendary golden microphone statue for her wall of awards. Well, you assume she has a wall of awards. She could just put them all in a box and not be proud of them. Oh, who are you trying to kid? You know she has them on display.
Everyone was so happy for her, for the network, and even for you. Their excitement for you seemed misplaced, but who knows? Maybe it will be good for you. You’re working with one of the best of the best of the best. You get to sit next to her every single weekday until they no longer want to see your face.
Exciting, isn’t it?
You swirl your bourbon in the tumbler and sigh. It’s not exciting at all. One wrong move and you’re toast.
The Chicago Hilton bar has almost completely cleared out except for a table off to the side with a group of older men. One of them keeps going on and on about gay people, and it’s honestly taking everything in you to not stand up, walk over, and slug him in the face. The bourbon has given you a false sense of strength and security. You can’t punch someone. Especially if you don’t want to lose your job.
“But these queers are everywhere these days. It’s just awful!”
His words, his hatred, make your spine stiffen.
“It’s honestly sickening.”
“Bartender?” You say, and when he rushes toward you, he grabs the bottle of Koval bourbon and smiles as he fills your drink.
“I’m sorry about them,” he says softly. “They’ll be finishing up shortly, I have cut them all off.”
You smile, and he flashes a grin and flips his wrist over to show you a rainbow tattoo. You lift your glass to him before you drink.
“Care for some company?”
You glance over your shoulder and there she is in all her glory. Madeline Barnes. She’s wearing a sexy as fuck fuchsia gown. It’s low cut and showing off her ample breasts. You couldn’t take your eyes off her earlier as she accepted the award, gave her beautifully written speech you sort of helped write, and now here she is. Standing by you, asking if you want company, and all you want to say is, no, what I’d like to do is take you upstairs and rip that dress off your body and spend the next however many hours mapping out your curves with my tongue. Instead, you settle on, “Some company would be lovely.”
She smiles, sits, orders her usual dirty martini, then swivels on the stool so she’s facing you. “Did you get a room?”
You nod. “I figured it’d be easier to get ready with the hair and makeup girls in my room than traipsing across town.”
“I did the same.”
You haven’t looked at her yet. But you can feel her gaze on you.
“Can I ask you something, Lucinda?”
The way she says your name is everything. It’s beautiful and elegant, and the tone is always airy with just the right amount of weight, and you cannot stop imagining her saying it, whispering it, moaning it, while you bring her to orgasm. Your crush on her has gotten entirely out of hand. “Of course,” you finally answer.
“Do you ever wonder what has been going on between us?”
You can’t help it now. You have to look. “Why?”
“Because I want to know.”
After you push out the breath you were holding, you shrug. “Yes. I wonder all the time.”
“Well, I, for one, can’t stop thinking about it.”
Her confession is shocking. It would be impossible for her to not think about you considering that you spend more time together than apart. But it’s shocking because it means you mean something to her. You mean something to Madeline Barnes. And you mean enough that she thinks about you and can’t stop.
Just as you adjust to this news, one of the older men seems to have realized who the two of you are. You hear him gasp and then his hushed whispers.
“We should leave.” Her voice is quiet.
“I just got another drink,” you say softly. “And you just got yours.”
“Let’s leave. I don’t want to deal with these old balls.”
You laugh because you never thought you’d hear her say something like that. She stands and takes your hand, pulling you from the stool and through the almost empty bar, past the old men.
The elevator dings, and you both board. She presses her floor, twelve, then looks at you.
“Oh, I’m on eleven.” You watch her nimble fingers as she presses that button. Her nails are a darker color, almost the same as a bing cherry, and you imagine her dragging them down your back. “Look,” you start, but her facial expression causes your breath to catch. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” Her response is quick. Too quick.
“You don’t look okay.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Madeline—”
“I’m fine.”
Oh, there’s the old Madeline. You knew it was only a matter of time. Your disappointment is only outweighed by the pain in your heart.
You exit when it gets to your floor. You don’t turn around. You don’t say a word. You just leave because this has all been too good to be true. When you get to your room and safely get inside, there’s a knock on the door the second it closes.
“Lucinda?”
What the hell? “What?” And as you’re opening the door, she’s pushing, and one hand lands on your side, the other on your cheek. She’s pushing you against the wall. Your back hits with a soft thud, and her lips land on your lips and oh holy fuck. Madeline Barnes is kissing me. She is kissing me right now. How is it possible that she tastes even better than I imagined? And her lips are so full, and her tongue is so slick and agile, and did she just put her hand on my breast?
The kiss is something you aren’t prepared for. Sure, you’ve been thinking about it for the better part of your career at ABC. The reality is a lot to handle. You don’t often get exactly what you want. In this case, though? You are and it is absolutely perfect.
Her mouth is exploring yours before you can form a coherent protest. Not that you would. You couldn’t. But you have questions. Lots and lots of questions and so far, no air or space to begin asking. You wanted this. You needed it. But you never thought you’d truly get it. You’d been playing this game for the past six months. And now here you are. With Madeline Barnes in your room. Her tongue in your mouth. Her hands on your tits. And it is the most amazing you have felt in maybe your entire shitty life. Your knees feel weak. You can barely hear. You’re fairly positive your heart has stopped beating. But Lord, take me now, because it is all so worth it.
You make a mental note to remember this. Remember every single sensation.
Her lips are so full and soft. She tastes like lipstick and desire and breath mints.
Her hands are gentle yet determined. She has pushed them into your hair, and she’s pulling ever so lightly. It causes wetness to pool between your thighs.
Her body is pressed into yours. She fits against you so well. Even in her heels. And her body is softer than you imagined, with curves and dips, and fuck, all I want is to strip her down and bury my face in her wetness.
As far as first kisses go, this one is fanfuckingtastic. You run your hands down her back, to her ass, where you grip, pressing her into you as much as humanly possible. She pulls from the kiss, bites your bottom lip, then goes right back at it. Her tongue glides against yours before you finally break away. You are both panting, breathless and sweaty. Holy shit, she’s fucking good at this.
“Jesus Christ,” you whisper.
“So you are interested in women then?” Her question is just as breathy as ever, and it causes you to chuckle. “Just wanted to make sure.”
“
You’re crazy.” You both laugh. “What happened that made you want to do this?” If you ask no other questions for the rest of the night, this one needs to be asked.
“I was sick of waiting for you to make the first move.”
And that’s when you decide to say fuck it, pull her back into you, and love every second of this because for the first time ever, you’re getting exactly what you want. So you let yourself enjoy it. She’s laughing into the kiss, and it feels so insanely good to be on the same page as her. She’s breathless and needy. You’re breathless and reckless at this point. Her kisses are filled with hunger, passion, and the ability to make your knees weak. It feels like she’s exploring your spirit.
None of this is making sense. Except that it is. All of it makes perfect sense. There has been a push and pull between the two of you since day one. And now here you are, her kissing you, you accepting every single nip and lick she can give. All of it makes the best kind of sense. It’s about time, honestly, because you were pretty sick of the missed opportunities. Thank God she was, too.
THE END
About Erin Zak
Erin Zak grew up on the Western Slope of Colorado in a town with a population of 2,500, a solitary Subway, and one stoplight. She started writing at a young age and has always had a very active imagination. Erin later transplanted to Indiana where she attended college, started writing a book, and had dreams of one day actually finding the courage to try to get it published.
Erin now resides in Florida, away from the snow and cold, near the Gulf Coast with her family. She enjoys the sun, sand, writing, and spoiling her cocker spaniel, Hanna. When she’s not writing, she’s obsessively collecting Star Wars memorabilia, planning the next trip to Disney World, or whipping up something delicious to eat in the kitchen.
www.erinzak.com
Insomnia Club
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Summer Loving Page 27