Slash and Burn

by Valerie Bronwen

  She gave me an air-kiss on both cheeks, putting her hands on my shoulders. Her nails were lacquered the same shade of green as her eye shadow, and the index fingers had rhinestones embedded in the nails. She was wearing long dangly gold earrings with rhinestones at the bottom that swung with even the slightest motion of her head. She had a strange habit of tilting her head to one side or the other when she was talking or listening that always reminded me of a canary. She had a rather high-pitched breathy voice that was definitely an affectation for public consumption (her actual speaking voice was much sexier, in my opinion—especially when she was groaning in it while I brought her to orgasm).

  “So lovely to see you,” she whispered in my ear while the other women stayed a respectable distance from us. “It’s been far too long. Are you busy later?”

  I bit my lower lip. Surely she wasn’t suggesting an assignation? “I don’t have any plans, no.”

  “Maybe we can have a drink in the bar.” She tilted her head to the left in that birdlike way. “I heard you were the one who found the body.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Darling, that must have been so awful.”

  I inhaled sharply. The Aphrodite I knew wasn’t really very concerned about other people. She was a bit of a narcissist, to be kind about it, and the rest of us really only existed to her as we related to her. That ridiculous weekend I’d spent with her at that writers’ retreat in Santa Barbara was something I’d regretted for years. Now it was just something I remembered as part of my foolish youth—the kind of thing a young lesbian who was desperate to fall in love would do. And yes, I’d been desperate to fall in love. I was still finishing up my PhD then, working on my very first novel, and a writers’ retreat with instruction and classes from lesbian writers in Santa Barbara sounded almost too perfect to me. I finished maxing out my credit cards to pay for the trip, and having read some of Aphrodite’s books—at that point, she’d only published three or four, I couldn’t remember—I was rather excited to meet her. I wasn’t interested in writing romance novels—I’ve always wanted to be a mystery writer—but I admired her work and thought she might be able to give me some advice that would be useful.

  Instead I’d wound up spending a weekend in bed with her and heading back east with some scars that took years to heal.

  “You didn’t know her, did you?”

  It was her turn to inhale sharply. The phony smile she usually wore when I saw her appeared. “Leslie MacKenzie is actually a friend of mine.”

  I was puzzled at first until I remembered that Leslie MacKenzie was the young adult author Antinous had gone after so nastily. “Really?”

  Aphrodite nodded, the smile still plastered on her face. “Our kids were in school together. She asked me for some advice about writing, and I helped her with her first book. She’s actually quite good, you know—not like most of these poseurs writing queer lit.” Her blue eyes flashed angrily. “The bitch got what she deserved.” She stepped back from me and glanced at her watch. “Darling, it’s almost time for your class. I’ll see you in the bar around five?”

  Without waiting for me to say yes, she turned on her heel and clacked out of the book room, her entourage trailing along behind her.

  Typical.

  Chapter Five

  Despite being slightly unnerved by the prospect of having a drink with an ex from a little less than twenty years ago, I managed somehow to suck it up, and my workshop went extremely well.

  I am nothing if not a thorough professional.

  Of course, I do teach writing and literature for a living. When and if the day ever comes that I can’t give a good workshop on creating character, well, that’s the day I need to sit down and reevaluate my life and my career.

  My class had twenty attendees, including the four I’d met in the coffee shop, who sat in the very front row and took voluminous notes of almost everything I said. I had some fun exercises that were tried and true successes every time I’ve used them, whether in a writing class or in a workshop. They certainly worked this time. Once the hour and a half was up, several attendees let me know in the most enthusiastic manner that I’d really helped and inspired them as I gathered my materials and shoved them into my shoulder bag. They also asked more questions, and not just about creating characters—I’d been surprised no one had asked the tired old question about making a living as a writer during the question-and-answer period at the end of the workshop.

  I hate being asked that question.

  Remembering my own horrible experience with Dr. Dixon in college always made me reluctant to come across as anything other than encouraging to my students. Yet at the same time I didn’t want to give anyone false hope either. The truth was it was incredibly difficult to make a living as a writer—I kept hearing things, through social media and other places, that the new “do-it-yourself” ebook model was the way to get published and maximize your profits. But no one had ever made a convincing case to me about it—all I could go by was what I saw on my own royalty statements and what Mabel shared with me whenever we had one of our boozy late-night phone calls during which we both drank a lot of wine. So I always said that it had always been difficult to make a living solely from writing—every writer dreams of being self-supporting, but lightning struck only a very select few, and there was no rhyme or reason to it. I’d certainly dreamed that I’d hit it big—and the Laura Lassiter mystery novels did very well for me indeed, but certainly not well enough for me to give up my steady paycheck, my health insurance, and all the other perks that came with my job—like retirement. I couldn’t see myself ever not writing, but the thought of having to write for the rest of my life so I wouldn’t have to live on cat food wasn’t exactly a pleasant one.

  My writing career could dry up tomorrow.

  But you don’t want to say that to eager students.

  So I’d come up with a standard shtick: Well, obviously it takes hard work and dedication to be a writer. But to make a living also requires, unfortunately, a lot of luck and being in the right place at the right time with the right book—and that cannot be taught. But I truly believe if you work hard and always do your best, you’ll be able to make money writing. It also depends on how well you want to live. I teach because I enjoy it, and I write because I can’t imagine not writing, and between the two I’ve put together a really nice life. But if you become a writer because you think you’re going to get rich, you’re only going to be disappointed in the long run.

  It’s a realistic look but not a dream killer at the same time.

  I never wanted any student of mine to send me a copy of their first novel with a note like the one I’d sent Dr. Dixon.

  Never.

  I pulled my shoulder bag on and followed the stragglers out of the room, still answering questions about character creation. “It’s always really important to remember that even your nastiest, meanest, most hateful villains—in their own minds they aren’t villains,” I said as we walked out into the mezzanine lobby. “To the villain, your hero—or heroine—is the villain. Always remember that, and that behavior always comes out of who the character is as a person.”

  “That’s really excellent advice, Winter,” a female voice said from behind me.

  I stopped and closed my eyes as my stomach turned over and my heart started racing. Stay calm, I told myself.

  I knew that voice, but it couldn’t be.

  You knew she’d turn up if you came to New Orleans, Tracy. Isn’t that why you really came?

  I hate that little voice in my head. It’s always right, and it’s always smug.

  I opened my eyes and forced a smile on my face. I excused myself from my students and turned around. If it was indeed her, I couldn’t escape anyway without looking completely insane, and the last thing in the world I wanted to do was make an ass of myself.

  Especially in front of my evil ex.

  “Dani,” I said, managing to keep my tone even and friendly, if not warm. “I was wondering if I’d run into you this weekend.”<
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  Just saying her name left a bad taste in my mouth. It was like somehow I’d made the mistake of mixing Italian salad dressing and milk together in my mouth.

  My palm itched to slap her face, but I managed to stand there and keep the smile frozen on my face.

  She glided across the marble floor toward me with a smile on her beautiful face. I hadn’t seen her in person in nearly ten years. Sometimes I had to rip the scab off and watched her on the news with the sound off, and she was still just as beautiful as she was the day I first met her all those years ago. She was almost six feet tall in her bare feet, but she liked to wear what she called “killer heels” and I called torture devices, and today she was wearing a particularly steep pair that made her look absurdly tall. She’s always towered over me—and I’m not short at five-eight—Jerry cattily said she used her height to make other people feel inadequate. Jerry had never really cared for her that much, even when we were together. Once we’d gone our separate ways, he gave full rein to his venom. He was actually the one who came up with the term “evil ex” for her.

  Today she was wearing a dove-gray skirt that hugged her hips lovingly and a pearl silk blouse. A matching jacket was draped over one of her arms. She looked amazing, if a little too thin—but then she’d always claimed she needed to keep her figure slim for the television cameras. “The camera,” she always said, “doesn’t add ten pounds—it adds twenty.” Her black hair was cut in an asymmetrical wedge that heightened her enormous dark-brown eyes and her perfectly shaped eyebrows. Dani had long ago mastered the art of wearing just enough makeup to flatter her features without overdoing it. Her breasts were still high and firm, even though she was now pushing forty. She put both arms around me, but I just stood there, not responding and not moving. She brushed her cheek against mine and stepped back, that smile still on her face. “You look amazing,” she said softly, “like you haven’t aged a day since I last saw you.” She smelled of some expensive perfume, and I noticed a diamond tennis bracelet draped gracefully around her left wrist.

  “You were never a good liar,” I replied, amazed that my voice wasn’t shaking.

  “You do look wonderful.” She stepped back and smiled at me a little hesitantly. “Do you have a moment for coffee?” The smile faded and shrank a little bit, the dimples in her cheeks smoothing out a bit. “We haven’t talked in forever.” She had the decency to blush as she said it.

  Not since the night you left me for another woman, I thought. But instead of turning and walking away, I gave a halfhearted shrug. “Beats working on my book.”

  “A new Laura Lassiter?” Her smile grew and her eyes danced. “How exciting! I’ve been following your career. I’m so proud of your success, you know. And I didn’t know you were writing lesbian romances until I saw it in the paper the other day.”

  “It was in the paper?” Damn you, Jerry! That’s the only way they could have known. To be fair, though, I hadn’t told him not to tell anyone Winter Lovelace was really Tracy Norris. And he was trying to sell tickets. “I didn’t know.”

  “I’ll have to read some of them—I bet they’re wonderful.”

  “Well, they’re fiction,” I replied in a somewhat nastier tone. “After all, a romance novel has to end with a happily-ever-after, and I don’t know anything about those, do I?”

  That gave her a bit of a pause, but just for a few seconds. Then her on-camera smile was firmly back in place and she gestured for me to follow her down the steps to the hotel’s main lobby.

  I’m just small enough to admit that I really enjoyed being recognized by several people as we crossed the lobby to the doors to the Carousel Bar, while everyone looked right through Ms. Television News.

  She found us a small table for two next to one of the enormous windows looking out onto Royal Street. The Carousel Bar was one of my favorite places in New Orleans to have a drink, and I hadn’t had a chance to stop in there yet since checking into the hotel the day before. The round bar rotated in the center of the room—legend had it that it was the old carousel from a long-defunct New Orleans amusement park. The horses had been replaced with ornate chairs anchored firmly in place. I sat down on the banquette with my back to the wall, so she had to take the chair, and let my shoulder bag slide down my arm until it rested on the floor as I took a long look around.

  The place had been completely renovated in the years since the last time I’d sat at the rotating bar swilling vodka gimlets with Jerry. With a pang I remembered that was my last night in New Orleans before fleeing to the north shore; Jerry’s way of saying good-bye to me was to get me rip-roaringly drunk. I’d had a horrible hangover the next morning as I drove across the lake, I remembered. But the renovation was amazing. The bar had been small before, and very dark in the corners, almost gloomy. Now they’d expanded it so that it took up that entire side of the building, and giant tinted-glass windows looked out onto Royal Street all the way to the corner. I can’t believe I haven’t been here in that long, I thought when a harried-looking waitress came up and smiled at us. “Can I get you something to drink, ladies?”

  “I’ll just have coffee.” Dani turned the full brilliance of her smile onto the young woman, who didn’t seem to notice.

  “I’ll have the same, only put a shot of Baileys in mine,” I said when she turned her attention to me.

  Dani’s eyebrows went up. As soon as the waitress moved away from our table, Dani said, “I don’t remember you ever drinking during the day before.”

  “A lot has changed in ten years,” I replied evenly. The tone was sharper than I’d intended, so I added, with what I hoped came across as a carefree shrug, “Besides, I’m done for the day. What’s a little Baileys in the afternoon?” I forced a smile on my face and inwardly chastised myself. Seriously, get over it! It was ten years ago!

  But I wasn’t over it, was I?

  Over the last ten years, the pain had subsided into a dull ache, and then only on the rare occasions when I was reminded of her or felt the need after too much wine to catch her on the news. But seeing her in person? Sitting across a table from her in a bar? It felt as fresh and new as if it had happened only yesterday. It was taking all of my willpower not to scream “How could you do that to me?” at her.

  We were together for a little less than five years.

  Daniella Simmons and I had met at a wedding, of all places. The daughter of one of my colleagues in the English department at Tulane, Dr. Melanie O’Connor, was getting married. Melanie’s office was next door to mine, and the two of us got along well. On my first day she’d come over with a thermos of coffee to welcome me to the university and had helped me navigate the treacherous waters of the political games played in the department. She was one of the few colleagues of mine there that I actually admired and respected—the majority of them were pompous and pretentious old, straight white men right out of the nineteenth century. Melanie had written and published several amazing critiques of women writers, and Trashy Books: Best Selling Women’s Fiction from 1950–1980 was a text I actually taught in my Modern Fiction course. By the time of the wedding, I still hadn’t earned tenure yet but was coming up for review, so attending the wedding—which most of the rest of the department was also attending—would have been a politically and professionally wise move even if I didn’t like Melanie and her daughter Nicola. I thought Nicola’s fiancé was a bit of a smug fratboy douche in the absolute worst sense of the words. He’d been born to a wealthy family in Ascension Parish and was currently studying for the bar—but he always liked to point out that due to his trust fund, he didn’t really need to work. For some reason I couldn’t quite fathom, Nicola was crazy about him. I didn’t get the impression that Melanie was too fond of him, but she never said anything negative about him…though I always thought I could see her grinding her teeth sometimes when he was talking, which was often.

  The man did like the sound of his own voice.

  I met Daniella at the reception. I was standing at the dessert table, trying
to decide between strawberry cheesecake and a brownie (or both). I was wearing a nice sky-blue Ann Taylor dress I’d found at a lovely consignment shop on Magazine Street—why pay ridiculous prices for designer clothes when you can get almost-new stuff at a fraction of the cost? Besides, what were the odds the original owner of the dress would be at the wedding? It was probably the nicest dress I’d ever owned—I’m not much of a dress wearer, to be honest. I’d also just gotten my long blond hair cut to a manageable shoulder length—I’d decided I was getting a little too old for the ponytail I’d been wearing most of my life. Anyway, I’d just decided to have a slice of the cheesecake and the brownie when she came strolling up in a pair of black slingback stilettos. I was a little awed by the ease with which she navigated through the grass in those heels—I always wore flats, never mastered the art of wearing shoes with heels no matter how hard my mother had tried to teach me. Dani was wearing a gorgeous gold skirt and jacket suit with a pale-blue silk blouse, and her dark hair curled and fell around her face in ways I’d prayed my straight blond hair would when I was a little girl. She was quite beautiful, and my most recent relationship had just ended, having lasted a whole whopping three weeks from start to finish. She started flirting with me and I responded—and she wound up going home with me after the reception ended. She was a senior at LSU School of Journalism and had interned at one of the local New Orleans stations that summer…and was hopeful they would hire her once she had her diploma in hand.