Slash and Burn

by Valerie Bronwen

  As I was about to learn, Dani Simmons always got what she wanted.

  And didn’t care what she had to do to get it.

  It seemed like the next thing I knew, we were a happy couple with an amazing sex life, who had amazing conversations about literature and pop culture. I let her read my first novel in manuscript form—my agent was looking for a publisher at that point, and when I landed a deal with one of the major houses in New York, it was Dani I celebrated with. She drove down from Baton Rouge every Friday afternoon to stay at my little house above Claiborne and woke up before dawn every Monday to drive back for her first class. And once she had her diploma and a job at the local ABC affiliate, she moved in with me. It was a good time—I’d just gotten tenure, the first Laura Lassiter novel had been released to critical acclaim and terrific sales. For the next few years everything was great—it seemed like I’d found my happily-ever-after. I had a great job, I had a great burgeoning career as a mystery writer, and I was madly, hopelessly in love. My parents adored Dani, and so did my older brother. We even were talking about having a child—either adopting or getting a sperm donor.

  I, of course, would have carried the child had we gone the sperm donor route. Dani was always worried about her figure. If I’d heard that tired old trope about the camera adding weight once, I’d heard it a million times.

  And then in just under a year, everything about my wonderful, happy life went straight to hell.

  My parents were killed in a car accident. They’d rented a condo on the beach in the Florida panhandle for a couple of weeks, and on their way home the driver of an eighteen-wheeler fell asleep at the wheel. They had called me before they started on their way. They’d been wonderful parents, loving and supportive of my brother and me. They never cared that I was lesbian—I was their daughter first and foremost, and my happiness had always been paramount in their minds. Their car was mangled and smashed so completely there was no question they might have survived.

  The funeral was closed casket.

  That was bad enough, but the Fates weren’t finished with me just yet.

  My older brother Clay, a sculptor, had moved to the north shore after splitting with his wife about the time I met Dani. The split was amicable, and Celia was still a friend of the family—but she’d remarried and moved away to Houston when her second husband was transferred. About three months after our parents were killed, Clay was diagnosed with cancer. Taking care of Clay fell squarely on my shoulders. I was still reeling from the loss of my parents, and the thought of losing my last living relative was more than I could imagine. I found myself spending more and more time on the north shore, and less and less time with Dani. Sometimes it seemed like we went days without seeing each other. Even when I was in New Orleans, I was so horribly depressed and upset that I pushed her away. I’d never been good with sharing my grief; I preferred to deal with it myself. I hated burdening other people with my drama.

  Unfortunately, Dani was the kind of woman who needed attention, and a lot of it. I was just a big bundle of misery, still in mourning for my parents, horrified I was going to lose my brother—the cancer was spreading really fast—and trying to keep my classes under control while writing yet another book. I just didn’t have time for Dani—and in the years since I caught her cheating on me, I have gradually began taking ownership of my own part in what happened. I shut her out, trying too hard to deal with everything on my own, trying to be strong and not burden her with my problems. I’d come to realize through three-times-a-week sessions with a therapist that it had been a huge mistake. I’d pushed her away, closed her out, and couldn’t place all of the blame on her the way I so passionately wanted to. I found out about her affair shortly before Clay died, and I was in no place to have a rational conversation or to try to salvage anything from the wreckage of my relationship. I threw her out, wouldn’t listen to her, wouldn’t talk to her—there was nothing she could possibly have to say that I wanted to hear. And when Clay passed away, I chucked my entire life in New Orleans. He’d left his gorgeous house in Rouen to me, and I sold the little house in New Orleans I’d loved so much and moved away. I resigned from Tulane once I landed a tenured position at the University of Louisiana-Rouen, leaving New Orleans for good and never looking back.

  And that was when I started writing lesbian romances in addition to the mystery series. That way I wouldn’t have time to dwell on anything that happened to me, how my life had suddenly gone off the rails or how alone I was. I didn’t want to look back, and by focusing on my students and my writing, I didn’t have the time anyway.

  Occasionally, in a moment of self-awareness, it would occur to me that I wrote the romances to satisfy my own emotional needs. It was a way of experiencing love and romance without actually risking the emotional damage that can come with the real thing. I made some friends on the faculty and of some of my neighbors, but for the most part I kept to myself, always saying I had to work, and avoided any emotional entanglements.

  Every once in a while, late at night when I was finished writing or grading papers or had finished reading a book, I felt lonely. The house was pretty big, and sometimes it could feel really empty. The cats helped some, but cuddling with them wasn’t always enough to make the ache go away for good.

  Mabel, my agent, often told me it wasn’t the healthiest way to live, but it worked for me. And why mess with something that works?

  “I appreciated the flowers,” Dani said after our waitress dropped off our drinks. She sipped at her coffee. “That was kind of you.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not that big a bitch,” I replied, stirring sweetener into my coffee. “And I got your thank-you card.”

  Mary Digby, the woman she’d left me for, died last summer. I didn’t even know she’d been sick; Jerry had emailed me after she died.

  “You know, I’m sorry about how all of that played out,” Dani said quietly, nervously twisting a lock of hair around her index finger. She always did that when she was uncomfortable and nervous. “I treated you like shit and—”

  “It was ten years ago.” I interrupted her. “All water under the bridge now. We were younger, things didn’t work out, it got ugly. I got over it. It’s okay, Dani. I appreciate your apology, but I really don’t want to hash this all out now.”

  It wasn’t entirely true, but I also knew what I wanted—her to get on her knees, weep and wail and pound on her chest as she begged me for forgiveness—wasn’t going to happen.

  I never said I was a good person.

  And she’d suffered enough, hadn’t she? I didn’t know what had killed Mary, but that horrible year of death and dying I’d experienced was something I would never want anyone else to go through. I wouldn’t wish that on someone I hated.

  And no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t hate Dani.

  And I also figured, hey—if there ever was a good time for someone to cheat on me and leave me for someone else, it was when all of my emotions and feelings were muted and numbed by the deaths of everyone in my immediate family.

  I reached across the table and patted her hand gently. “I am really sorry about Mary.”

  She wiped at her eyes and gave me a brave smile. “Thanks. That means a lot. I’d like for us to be friends again at least. I’ve missed you.”

  Let’s not get carried away here. I took a deep breath and asked her about her career, to change the subject. Dani always did like to talk about herself—and apparently widowhood hadn’t changed that.

  As she talked about station politics and her hopes for getting an anchor position on the early-morning news show, I looked past her and saw the young man from the book room sitting at the slowly rotating bar. He was shoveling appetizers into his mouth and nursing what looked like a Coke. As I watched, that publisher Jerry hated so much walked up and sat down at the bar next to him, and they started talking.

  Now, isn’t that interesting? Dani was still talking, and the sound of the massive televisions and other people talking created a wall of sound
so I couldn’t hear anything they were saying to each other.

  One thing I’d noticed in the past at writers’ conferences or fan conferences was that writers liked to drink. Writers liked to drink a lot. I took a sip of my coffee and regretted ordering it almost immediately. Even though the air-conditioning was turned down to meat locker-levels, the air was still a bit heavy and the coffee was too hot.

  “Your class was wonderful.” The woman from the coffee shop—the one with the dark pigtails—was standing there next to our table, fidgeting.

  “Thank you,” I replied, trying to remember her name. Pat or Demi? Which one was she? I am terrible with names, and the lanyard with her name tag in it wasn’t around her neck. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “I was wondering if I could speak with you?” she asked again, looking down and her face flushing a bit. “It won’t take long. Just a minute of your time?” There was a pleading note in her voice.

  Demi, I remembered, Pat was the other one. I gave Dani an inquiring look.

  She just sighed and waved her hand slightly. “Far be it from me to keep you from your adoring fans.” She sounded tired and maybe a little disappointed.

  But that was probably just wishful thinking on my part.

  “I won’t be long,” I assured her, and followed Demi out of the bar to a secluded couch near the entrance to the restaurant.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you,” she said hurriedly, her eyes darting around the lobby like she was afraid someone might overhear us. “But I have to talk to someone.”

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, mystified.

  “I can’t talk to my friends, they wouldn’t understand,” she said hurriedly, her eyes still darting around.

  Her behavior was making me nervous, frankly. “What wouldn’t they understand?”

  “I don’t know, maybe it’s a mistake to talk to you.”

  She was beginning to get on my nerves. I stood up. “Well, if that’s the case I’ll get back to my friend.”

  “No, please!” She grabbed my arm and squeezed it pretty hard. I winced, and she loosened her grip without letting go. “I’m sorry, I just don’t know what to do.”

  I sat back down. “Well, why don’t you just go ahead and tell me what it is. I’ll help you if I can.”

  “Thank you.” She let go of my hand and reached into her purse. She pulled out an envelope, which she looked at for a moment before looking at me, then back to the envelope. “I can’t tell my friends, you understand,” she half whispered, looking around again before leaning in toward me and lowering her voice yet again, so I could barely hear her over the noise in the lobby. “They wouldn’t understand. But…” She bit her lower lip.

  “Spit it out,” I said sharply. I was getting really annoyed now.

  “I’m staying at the Maintenon, and I was looking out my window, you know, right about the time she fell, and I was taking pictures, you know, of the view and things…and I caught something in the pictures…” Her voice trailed off.

  I didn’t have to ask whose room, of course. “Did you tell the police? You need to tell the police.”

  “I couldn’t.” She started trembling again, and she looked over my shoulder. Her eyes widened, and her face paled. “Oh no!” She tossed the envelope into my lap and ran, her flip-flops slapping against the marble lobby floor.

  What the hell? I turned to look over my shoulder in the direction she’d been looking and saw Kyle Bennett standing by a table in the restaurant, talking to a man with his back to me.

  Why did seeing him spook her so much?

  I sighed and shoved the envelope into my pocket before walking back into the bar. I slid back into my seat and took a big gulp of my now-tepid coffee. “Sorry.”

  “What was that about?” Dani’s coffee cup was practically empty. She gave me a crooked smile. “I didn’t think you were going to come back, really.” She lowered her eyes. “Not that I can blame you, after what I did to you.”

  “You don’t have to wear sackcloth and ashes,” I retorted sharply. “Snap out of it, Dani. It’s okay, really.” I put my hand on top of hers. “It is nice to see you again, you know. I thought about calling—to offer my condolences…after she died, but then I thought…”

  “You’re a good person—that’s more than I deserve from you.” Dani smiled at me, wiping at her eyes. It was amazing how her makeup never ran or smeared, no matter what she did to it.

  “Well, I like to think I’m a good person.” I looked over to where Demi’s friends had been sitting. The table was empty. I frowned. “But really…” I took a deep breath and realized how nice it was to be sitting with her, without rancor or anger.

  It had been ten years.

  Dani followed my glance and gave me a questioning look.

  “Do you know who’s investigating the death yesterday? The one I witnessed?” I turned back to her. She worked for a television station news division; odds were pretty good she had a good idea what was going on. I opened my backpack and fished through my wallet for the card the pompous asshole detective had given me yesterday. I found it, crumpled in the change pocket, and smoothed it out. “This Al Randisi guy?”

  “Randisi?” She made a face. “I’ve had to interview him before. He’s a pain in the ass, frankly, to interview. He hates reporters and doesn’t go out of his way to hide it. Why?”

  “That woman—Demi—I don’t know her last name. I think he should probably talk to her.” I started to mention the envelope she’d tossed in my lap, but changed my mind. It was probably nothing. I’ll open it later, when I’m alone, I decided. “It was really weird. She started to tell me something, but then she got spooked and ran out.” I unlocked my phone but frowned at the card.

  What exactly was I going to say to Randisi? That a woman whose last name I didn’t know might know something about Antinous Renault’s death?

  Jerry would know her last name.

  I opened the contacts app, found Jerry’s name, and sent him a text: Do you know the last name of a woman in my workshop whose first name is Demi? I put the phone back down on the table as I noticed Aphrodite and her entourage walking into the bar. She waved at me, and she and her little group sat down at the table where Demi and her friends had been sitting.

  I smiled at Dani. “I hate to cut this short, but I kind of made plans to meet someone for a drink, and she’s here. This was really nice.”

  Dani glanced over at Aphrodite’s group. “Are you going to be at the party later?”

  I nodded as I stood. “The opening reception? Yes, I’ll be there.”

  “Okay.” Dani touched my hand, delicately tracing her fingertips along the top of it. “Maybe we can talk some more?”

  “I’d like that.” Impulsively I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Thanks for the drink.”

  Chapter Six

  I saw Dani walk out of the bar as I slid into the booth across from where Aphrodite was sitting.

  “Tracy, this is Marty Winthrop and Brenna Abbott,” she said, nodding to each woman in turn, “and ladies, this is Tracy Norris, who writes the Laura Lassiter novels and lesbian romance as Winter Lovelace.”

  “I’m a huge fan,” the woman on my side of the booth, Marty Winthrop, said, shaking my hand vigorously. She was a butch, wearing a ribbed white tank top and a pair of faded 501 Levi’s with holes at the knees. Her dark hair was cut into wings that feathered back on the sides and was left long in the back. She had a barbed-wire tattoo around her muscular right biceps, and I could see a dolphin tattoo on her right shoulder blade. “I love Laura Lassiter, but I can’t help but think she just needs to come out of the closet and settle down with the right woman!”

  I laughed. “If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that, I’d own an island in the Caribbean and could retire.”

  “We wouldn’t want that!” Brenna Abbott smiled at me from across the table. She was a pretty redhead with almond-shaped green eyes and a heart-shaped face. Her red hair was cut into a cute bob that fl
attered the shape of her face. “I have to confess I haven’t read your romances.”

  “And if I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that…” I let my voice trail off and they all laughed.

  I ordered a vodka tonic and allowed myself to relax. I’ve always had problems dealing with exes. I wasn’t sure why, to be honest—I just always felt rather uncomfortable around them. Jerry told me once it was because I hated failure more than anything else, and my exes were a reminder that I’d failed at something. There might be some truth to that. I did hate failing, but I wasn’t the only person who’d failed at relationships—given the divorce rate for straight people, and I didn’t exactly know a lot of long-term queer couples. Jerry, as far as I could remember, had never really had anything that could remotely be considered a relationship; he always said he wasn’t interested in having one. I couldn’t help but wonder, though, if he actually felt that way or if that was simply his way of accepting that he didn’t have one?

  Although I also couldn’t be completely sure what it said about me that I was going from sitting with one ex to sitting with another. Was a weekend with someone enough to give them ex status? I wasn’t sure, but I’d always counted Aphrodite as one. As I looked across the table at her smiling at me, I wondered how she remembered our weekend together at that conference.

  The sex had been pretty terrific, as I recalled. But we hadn’t even tried to make anything out of it. We both went our separate ways afterward, I back to New Orleans and she back to Seattle. We hadn’t even stayed in touch via email and had been icily polite to each other on those rare occasions we’d been in the same place again. Jerry couldn’t stand her, but had never said why and waved away any questions.

  I smiled back at her. The waitress set my drink down in front of me, and Aphrodite told her to add it to her tab. I toasted her with my glass, and then Brenna asked while I was taking a sip, “So, you really didn’t know Antinous Renault before this weekend?”