Sons of Angels

by Rachel Green

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Felicia held out her hand. “You have a unique perception.”

  He took her hand, his own surprisingly cool and dry, his grip firm but not overpowering. “That’s kind of you to say so, Miss–”

  “Turling. Felicia Turling. Your paintings echo a retrospective philosophy of the late sixties avant-garde combined with an ironic perception of the industrial movement of the early nineties.” She smiled. Seven years of gallery management on top of an MA in art history had given her a sufficient grounding in art theory to charm any aspiring artist.

  Michael smiled back, white teeth stark against a canvas of designer stubble and turpentine skin. “Do you really think so? I think it’s a load of pretentious bollocks, personally. These are old paintings. My new body of work is far more interesting.”

  Felicia raised her eyebrows and half smiled as Joseph flustered. “Keep it down, Michael, would you? How can you expect me to sell these if the artist himself is disparaging of them?”

  Michael did not reply but continued to focus on Felicia. “You must come to my studio and have a look. I think you’d like them.”

  “Perhaps I shall.” Felicia was non-committal. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, though, I’m neglecting my networking. I make my living selling paintings and this is a business opportunity to me.”

  “So was my proposal.” Michael gave her an easy smile and took out his wallet. “My card. Call me anytime. Day or night. I’m sure we could think of something to our mutual benefit.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.” Felicia nodded to both men and walked across to a well-dressed woman who owned a gallery–Neal Street. She kept, “If I ever sink that low,” to herself.

  * * * *

  The capital hosted a number of lesbian bars and, although Felicia was too old for the Candy Bar, there was still the Oak or the Drill Hall. Clubs exclusively lesbian were generally weekends only. While London clubs were trendier than those in the sticks, and far more likely to have available women, the morning reality of the walk of shame was tedious if it was local. Forty miles away was inexcusable. She drove back to Laverstone, which gave her the opportunity to change her dress and boots then take a taxi to a disused factory which had been converted into the town’s newest, trendiest night club.

  The Fishbowl was already heaving when Felicia arrived, despite the early hour. She paid the entrance fee, glad of the anonymity of a rubber stamp on the back of her hand, and went through the fire doors of the club proper, her eyes adjusting to the darkness after the brightly lit reception area.

  The music pounded out a mixture of trance and house, sampled punk rock interspersed with the melodies of Bach, backed with an incessant drum beat. Felicia wandered around the ground floor, eyeing up the talent before heading upstairs to the floors playing Goth, rhythm and blues and chill-out music. The crowd down here was mostly young, and offered little to pique her interest so, with a brief trip to the bar to buy a bottle of water, she headed up.

  The stairwell was blocked by a group of men–boys, really–who looked at her with raised eyebrows and wolf whistles.

  “Where are you going, gorgeous?” The leader, a youth in his mid twenties with the requisite long dark hair and stubble, barred her way. His two companions nudged each other and grinned.

  Felicia stopped and looked at him. In her boots, she was an inch or so shorter than he was. His eyes held humor and merriment, the dilated pupils betraying more than just the dimness of the lighting. “You have nice eyes.” She smiled softly and held his cheek in her palm. “You can call me Fliss but you’re really not my type.”

  “What type is that? You prefer your men with a few more muscles, maybe?” He flexed his arms, causing his chest to ripple under his tight shirt.

  Felicia laughed. “One less muscle, more like.” She smiled at him as she pushed past.

  The pickings in the Goth room were slim but more interesting–vampire wannabes and desolate maidens, salacious males dressed in Edwardian finery and pale Emos in torn t-shirts. Felicia sat alone in one of the booths and watched the display of posturing; the men pretending to be icy-cool while betraying their interest in the available girls–or boys–by the tightness of their leather trousers.

  Her gaze flicked across to a group of velvet-clad girls in their early twenties. A little young for her taste, they nevertheless elicited a primal response as she looked them over. In the semi-darkness Felicia could see only the perfect makeup and casual disdain they appeared to display toward the predatory males, but one of them, her typically dark hair falling past her shoulders, caught her eye and smiled before dropping her gaze to concentrate on the vodka soda she held.

  Felicia smiled to herself, feeling the familiar prickle of desire. The girl was an apple waiting to be plucked–bi-curious if not already a lesbian, though inexperienced. She mentally marked her as a possible if she found nothing better.

  She drained her water and left the bottle on the table, rising to check out the next floor. She skirted the area quickly, having little in common with the post-teens dancing to drum and bass and their assertions that BB King was a sample master. There was little available talent anyway–mostly boys and straight girls here. Any who would fit her tight list of requirements would drift naturally to another floor as the night progressed in any case.

  The stairs were softer on the topmost floor, muted carpet instead of the industrial metal rungs and walkways of the lower floors. The heavy bass faded as she pushed through twin sets of double doors into the chill out room.

  Felicia entered to Ella Fitzgerald at a low volume, the buzz of voices as muted as the wall sconces. This room was set out in a series of booths, perfect for private liaisons and quiet conversation. For intimate encounters there were private pay-by-the-hour rooms that could be hired on the restricted access floor above.

  Felicia ordered a soft drink from the central bar and browsed the area, taking note of two or three possible targets for her elusive affections. She picked a sofa that had line of sight to a group that interested her, sipped her drink and watched. She had to be certain the women were both lesbian and single, or at least up for a little anonymous loving. She wasted the whole of her first drink watching a redhead in a group of three women, assuming that she was a gooseberry to the two who laughed and fondled each other next to her, but when the redhead left to go to the toilet, the other two broke off and awaited her return, seemingly uncomfortable with horseplay if the third of the trio were not present to witness and offer silent consent.

  Her second target was more promising, a soft butch woman in a leather jacket with, but not with, a feminine beauty who was close to hysterical. Felicia couldn’t hear the conversation, but she could tell by the girl’s body language her trauma centered on an absent lover. The stabs at the table, the abrupt changes in mood from anger to hurt and the comfort of the friend all served to indicate the butch was single.

  A sudden stare in her direction from the distressed party told Felicia her attention had been noticed. She nodded and smiled, raising her bottle of fruit juice to acknowledge the attention. Their conversation wound down and the girl left.

  Felicia waited, locking eyes with the other woman as they fought a silent battle over who was the more aggressive. The butch looked away with a smile before picking up her drink and wandering over, sitting opposite Felicia without even an introductory May I?

  Perhaps Felicia hadn’t won supremacy after all.

  She pushed her empty bottle across the table and cocked her head. A raised eyebrow was her reward, but her new companion took the cue and went to the bar, returning with another of the same for Felicia and a whiskey for herself. “Have I seen you before?”

  “Maybe.” Felicia was non-committal. “Who was the girl?”

  “My sister.” She laughed. “Would it matter?”

  “Not to me.” Felicia raised the bottle in thanks before taking a sip. “What’s your name?”

  “Jenna.” There was a pause until the
butch chuckled. “Are you going to tell me yours?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I suppose not. I need to call you something, though.”

  “So that you can remember the notch on your bedpost?” Felicia smiled. “What would you like to call me?”

  “How should I know?” Jenna lowered her voice. “How about ‘slut’?”

  “How about ‘mistress’?”

  Jenna raised an eyebrow. “You’re a top? That surprises me. I thought all you chic girls were do-me queens.”

  “And I thought all you butches were desperate to please.”

  “Point taken. I shouldn’t judge by appearances. My apologies.”

  “Sometimes appearances are all the information we have. Conventions of form or dress connect us to the past and form an acceptable display of social mores. It’s often the only way we can recognize our own kind. You’re forgiven, for now.”

  “Thank you.” Jenna dipped her head, a wry smile teasing the corners of her lips. “And what kind are we? How do you see me, good lady?”

  “A lady now, am I?” Felicia smiled. “You’re a butch, tits bound under that shirt and packing. You’re charming, dependable and trustworthy, at least to your sister. You work out a lot, to judge from those muscles, and you’re probably in transition.”

  Jenna froze, the whiskey half way to her lips. “What makes you say that?”

  “The hair on your arms, the complexion of your skin, your bitten nails and your hair has been recently cut. Rather shabbily too, I might add, though it could be personal taste.” Felicia smiled and raised her bottle in a mock salute. “Good luck to you. I admire someone with the courage of their convictions. I could never contemplate becoming a man.”

  “I don’t like to talk about it.” Jenna took the aborted sip of her drink.

  “It can’t be easy.” Felicia put her drink down. “I need the loo.”

  Jenna sat back. “Of course.”

  Felicia stood and edged past her, enjoying the thrill of contact as their legs brushed. “Are you coming?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jenna followed her to the ladies’ room.

  Felicia offered the girl applying eyeliner at the sink a wink as she fled. She held open the door of the disabled stall, dropping her clutch purse onto the small shelf over the cistern.

  Jenna followed, and the click as the bolt slid home was a prelude to her pressing her lips against Felicia’s, their lips crushed between two sets of ivory. Felicia could taste the bitterness of the whiskey on Jenna’s breath as her tongue forced its way past the butch’s sharp teeth.

  Her breathing deepened as she felt the familiar rush of blood to her groin. “Hold on.” She pushed Jenna back. “Let me get more comfortable.”

  Jenna knelt on the hard tiles of the floor, sliding her hand up Felicia’s thighs to reach her knickers. “Stockings? Nice. Too few women wear them these days. They’re far sexier than tights. More hygienic too.” Her hands went higher, making Felicia shudder as the butch girl brushed across her satin-shrouded mound to reach the edges of the soft fabric and pull it down, releasing Felicia’s scent into the air.

  With Felicia’s knickers binding her ankles, Jenna drew the black dress up before leaning in closer.

  Felicia moaned. “Wait.” She bent her knees so she could rest on the hard plastic of the toilet seat. Jenna smiled and drew back, drawing her hand across the breast that was now within easy reach. She leaned forward as the nipple hardened to grasp it between her teeth.

  Felicia pushed her away, forcing Jenna to release her nipple then pulled her back. “Don’t stop.” She half-sobbed, feeling Jenna’s teeth graze against her neck. “Oh God, yes. Bite me. Just a little pain.”

  Jenna bit down hard enough to pierce the skin, making Felicia jerk. Her toes curled at the sharp pain and her pulse began to race. She could feel it pounding at her temples as she fought to control herself, holding her breath and quivering as the pressure mounted inside her. She felt as if her stomach and cunt were being twisted like a rubber band until she could no longer hold herself back, her orgasm rushing like a tsunami through her body, crushing her strength and self control like a sailboat on the leading wave. She soaked Jenna’s hand as her muscles went into spasm, almost crushing the younger woman’s fingers. “Oh gods! Oh, gods.” Felicia sobbed into Jenna’s neck as the convulsions ran through her, and Jenna slowed the rhythm down until she was barely moving, allowing Felicia to rock backward and forward over her hand.

  “Not my clit.” Felicia’s lips brushed Jenna’s ear. “It’s too sensitive now.” Jenna lifted her thumb away. “That’s better. Thank you. You can stop now.” She gave a small yelp as Jenna did as she was asked.

  “You’re quick,” the butch told her, bringing a hand to her face to appreciate the scent. She licked her fingers, which caused Felicia to laugh.

  “I’m not used to being so skillfully played.” She bent to pull up her knickers. Jenna’s hand on her own stopped her.

  “I think I earned these.” She slipped them off over Felicia’s boots. “You really are a slut, aren’t you?”

  Felicia laughed. “I know what I want, that’s all.” She stood and flushed the toilet for the sake of appearance, the noise drowning anything that Jenna might have wanted to say in reply. “I’ll go out and wash my hands. When I’ve finished, give me three minutes before you follow, all right?”

  Jenna nodded, a smile washing over her features. “You’ve had sex in a public toilet and suddenly you’re shy?” She laughed. “Have it your way then.”

  Felicia brushed her lips across the younger woman’s but yelped and drew back when she felt the tender skin catch on something sharp. She lifted Jenna’s lip. “Oh, you have a broken tooth. I’d get that seen to if I were you. It looks like the nerve is exposed.” She left, washing her hands and drying them under a blast of warm air. “Three minutes, remember.”

  * * * *

  Felicia sank into the back of the taxi with a sigh of contentment, giving the driver the address of the gallery where she’d left her Audi. She brushed her fingers over her tender nipple, reliving the sensations in her mind. That had been one of her more interesting liaisons, but she had no idea why she’d run away. It was more usual for her to spend at least part of the night with her temporary conquests. She looked up, catching the taxi driver looking at her and smiled, turning to stare out of the window instead.

  Chapter 5

  Felicia was glad when her phone alarm began beeping. Morning could not have come quickly enough for her to escape her nightmares. She groaned and reached to press the off button, resolving never to mix a gallery viewing with late-night clubbing and hot, sordid sex again. Any two, yes, but not all three.

  She felt an odd stiffness in her neck as she stretched and yawned. Felicia blinked her eyes free of sleep and touched the sore spot, feeling the dampness of a weeping wound before a stiletto of pain prodded her into full awareness. She winced and swung her legs out of bed, the morning need to relieve her bladder competing with her desire to investigate the wound.

  Despite her glasses, her reflection was blurred and she blinked several times to clear it but to no avail. Instead, she slipped her hand under the lenses and rubbed at the sockets. There was still no improvement.

  Felicia blinked. She was too tired to think. Why would she not be able to see more than a blur in the mirror, with or without her glasses? She knew she hadn’t left her contacts in because the plastic case containing them was on the counter.

  That surprised her. She took a step forward and they came into sharp focus. Her eyesight had improved by roughly half a degree. How was that possible? The optician had warned her that it would only degrade further with age.

  With another few inches her reflection came into focus in the mirror. Felicia ignored the pain from her neck and stared into her own eyes. They seemed grayer than they had yesterday, changing from the blue of a clear sky on a summer’s day to the sky seen through the London haze.

  She examined her ne
ck. The cow in the nightclub really had bitten her, though she hadn’t noticed during the heat of passion. The wound was inflamed, covered in a clear, gel-like fluid and was sore to the touch, although like anyone else she couldn’t resist probing it, gritting her teeth against the stabs of pain. She pushed a fingernail inside the weeping bite, wincing as it connected with a hard lump inside the wound. A twist of the fingernail provided the necessary leverage and the lump fell out into the sink and clattered against the steel rim of the plughole.

  Felicia grunted, relieved the foreign body was out. Remarkably, the spot already felt less sore, and she hunted through the bathroom cabinet for some antiseptic gel, taking off her glasses to read the label. She applied it sparingly and debated the need for a plaster, reluctant to wear a button-up shirt in the heat of the day. She elected to forgo the plaster and hoped no one noticed the wound.

  “Oh my God.” Felicia squinted at the object in the sink and used a pair of tweezers to pick it up. It was a piece of tooth, which explained why her twenty-minute lover had a broken canine. “What sort of skank leaves a piece of tooth in a love-bite?” She shuddered as she dropped it into the bin then switched on the shower.

  Once she felt clean again, which took longer than usual thanks to thoughts of what diseases could be transferred on a tooth, Felicia dressed conservatively and elected to wear her glasses for the day as her contact lenses were now the wrong prescription.

  Breakfast was normally a meal she skipped but today she felt as if there was an abyss inside that wouldn’t be filled by a cream-cheese cracker of cereal bar. She was still early for work, so she detoured into the kitchen and opened the cupboards, turning her nose up at every item until she came to the refrigerator.

  Meat. She had an absolute craving for raw, bloody meat.

  She began salivating at the thought, great gobbets of drool dripping onto the clean tiled floor. She wiped it off her chin with the back of her hand and pulled out the twelve-ounce fillet she’d bought the previous day. There had been no time to eat before heading to the gallery. The cellophane sliced cleanly under her fingernail and she pulled the meat out with her fingers, sniffed it and deemed it fresh enough.