Bell, Book and Dyke - New Exploits of Magical Lesbians

by Barbara Johnson, Karin Kallmaker, Therese Szymanski

  I felt her tighten and convulse and she almost dislocated my shoulder.

  I kissed her thighs and then, in the dim light... well, that wasn't right.

  Michele was a brunette, with thick, rich, gorgeous wavy dark locks. This woman was blonde.

  I lifted myself to my elbows and saw... not Michele.

  But she was familiar.

  "Stop brooding," Michele said, shaking me lightly.

  "Michele... Micky..." She was now so thoroughly distracting me that I felt like a high-schooler and then I realized how much younger than me she was, and she was straight and that vivid fantasy I'd just had was an enormously bad idea.

  "What?"

  There was no way this meant what I thought. Plus, if something happened here, now, I couldn't leave. And I knew I had to leave. Later tonight, I'd wake up again soaking wet from head to toe, fighting off demons in my sleep. The only safe place was mom's house. I had to get out of here before I completely lost my mind.

  And even when Michele left, I tried not to feel disappointed and really, I hoped she wasn't as disappointed as I was.

  Or maybe I was hoping she was every bit as disappointed as I was.

  Chapter 3

  Everything happened so quickly it was almost like magic. The folks died. Christie helped me pack up their place and sell it. Movers moved, I drove and next thing I knew I was sitting on my Harley in my driveway, staring up at my new home. I took off my helmet and looked up at the huge, old house looming at the top of a tree-lined drive in a quiet Royal Oak cul-de-sac.

  It was dusk and the sun was setting just behind the building, which looked the same as it had when I was a kid. It didn't feel the same, though. Maybe it was my trepidation at starting a new life, or maybe it was my road-weary ass, but something wasn't feeling right here.

  As I glanced around, I saw my new neighbor pulling into her garage. A few seconds later a petite blonde wearing a short skirt appeared. When she bent to pick up the paper her hair fell down to catch the last remaining rays of sunlight. She had wonderful legs and a great figure. The slight breeze wrapped her dress around her like a second skin.

  My tongue dropped out of my mouth and I was left panting like a dog running across Death Valley in the summer. During the hottest, longest day of the year. Without water. Or food.

  I gotta say, it was all like some perfectly scripted TV moment: She, nonchalantly walking out to gather her paper, me noticing her (in slo-mo, of course). She, glancing toward me whilst picking up the paper.

  The only thing missing was front lighting while swelling clouds of mist and fog came up from behind her.

  That and her actually noticing me.

  She walked inside without even glancing toward me. I studied her house for a bit longer, then turned my attention toward my own again. Everything suddenly seemed very right. Things were starting to make sense, because I realized I'd been pulled more than halfway across the country for Her.

  The One.

  My new neighbor.

  I investigated the house and started unpacking all the boxes the movers had left all willy nilly throughout it. The stereo was a priority—music always made everything better and easier. For instance, I could unpack faster to some good 70's tunes like ABBA.

  But there was already a little skip to my step, even without the music. I'd finally found The One. She hadn't noticed me, not yet, but she would. I just knew we were meant to be together. I couldn't believe that just a few weeks before I'd been thinking Michele might be The One. In retrospect, it was almost like Michele'd laid a spell on me or something—seducing me with her fame and fortune and all the trappings thereof. She'd tried to trap me in her trappings.

  I felt a cool breeze. But the back door was closed. I stepped outside to look around. It felt as if someone was watching me. I wondered if paranoia was one of the five or six stages of grief?

  Oh, for fuck's sake, I was an idiot. My neighbor was a hottie and I was overreacting to it. I didn't know her, and Love at First Sight didn't exist. I'd only just seen her.

  I double-locked the door behind me and finished putting the last of my kitchenware away, then faced the wall of boxes I had just emptied. I picked up the dagger I was using for such things, and quickly broke them all down.

  Some crazy collectors would probably pay quite a lot for some of the props I was using as regular household implements (this dagger had come from the set of The Good Die Young), but me and my folks had always walked away with some remembrances from all our movies.

  But I couldn't remember ever just seeing a woman and having the reaction I'd had with my neighbor. Just seeing her had done something to me.

  I went downstairs and started unpacking my swords. If I still lived in an apartment I couldn't be drilling and mounting things for display this late at night. But, also, the walls of my old apartment didn't seem to hum when I touched them. When I was twelve, I read Pet Semetary by Stephen King. It was late at night and I was all alone and wicked freaked. And I got more and more freaked with every page I read, yet I read on—pulling my feet from the floor so no nasties could grab them, running as fast as I could when I had to go from one room to another, and then leaping onto my bed from the doorway without turning off the light first.

  I was feeling just like that—that I was surrounded with something out to get me.

  It was spooky.

  But hell, I was able to get to sleep that night, and I'd do it again now. Fear was something to be overcome. Plus I was exhausted. Unfortunately none of the beds were made up, so it looked like it was the couch for me.

  I was accustomed to catching some Zzzzs whenever I could, whether it be in a trailer or in a chair, so with the exhaustion of my long ride, it didn't take me long to fall asleep.

  "Tyler Black, what is this?" Mom said.

  I was eight. "Umm, my backpack and bag lunch? Ooo, do I get Ho Hos today?"

  "No, I mean this?" She held out a videotape.

  "Oh, that." I reached for it. She held it up over her head.

  I ran up to her, bounced off the wall behind her to yank the tape out of her hand.

  "Wow! Ty! That was amazing!" Dad said, coming up behind Mom.

  "Hank! That is the wrong message to be giving Ty—though it was perfectly performed—because she'll have to wash the wall after school."

  "Which she'll do, right?" he glared at me.

  "Yes," I said, sticking the video down my pants.

  "And this isn't about that anyway," Mom said. "It's about the video. Ty was about to explain just what it was and why she needed to take it to school with her."

  "Tyler?" Dad said.

  I gave it to Mom. "I just wanted to show everybody at school that you guys do work in the movies."

  "Tyler, some people look up at movie people, so you saying that your parents are movie folk is bragging, and bragging isn't nice. Your Dad and I are just regular people. We just have certain talents and use them to our best advantage—it doesn't mean we're any better than anyone else. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Mom," I said, toeing the ground in front of me.

  "Tyler," Dad said, "You need to learn how to use and respect power and talents. Not everyone is equal, but that's no reason to flaunt what you have and others don't."

  "I understand."

  I knew I was asleep, and was dreaming, again. But I couldn't pull out of it.

  The boy stood across the common staring at me. He'd been older last time. I’d been younger.

  This much I knew. And this time I had the power to ensure next time I’d remember. Just as each time I built my power and played with the strings of fate to increase my chances as each life progressed, I was also stacking the deck to ensure my ultimate success.

  He'd been young. I’d been old. And we'd been Navajo. All three of us. He'd gotten her that time—but I’d used the time to develop my power...

  The dreams had stopped while I'd been road tripping and staying in motels while I dro
ve cross-country on my Harley. But now they were back. I wanted them to stop, but my mind was drenched with sleep and I fell back in.

  The first time I was ever on a set, Mom warned me to be very quiet. But when that man attacked Mom, I knew she could take him, and I kept my mouth shut, but so much of me inside was screaming as I jumped up and down (silently), waving my arms, knowing she could so kick his butt from here clean to the next room.

  And she did. Really.

  Much embarrassment abounded that day, ,cause she so didn't know how she'd kicked this guy like twice her weight across one room and into another—clear through a wall.

  I tried to wake up, but couldn't. I slept on.

  I was digging a hole. A deep hole... with my hands. I’d already bespelled the book I was putting into the earth, chanting as I did so.

  I touched my abdomen and found my hand was covered with blood. I had been stabbed in the gut. I was dying. I was burying this book as my last act. Burying it beyond the secret room even I might never find again.

  He might be able to find me, track me down here.

  But he'd never find the book.

  And I’d come back and someday, someday I’d win.

  I put my blood-covered hand on the upturned dirt, sealing the promise.

  He was behind me again, I felt him coming and I forced myself to run. It was more of a drunken stumble, but I tried my best to escape.

  I sat up gasping for breath, and peeled my sweat-soaked T-shirt from my body.

  I glanced out the front window at the quiet night and saw a figure standing at my curb, staring at my house. I jumped to my feet and pulled on my jeans.

  When I opened the front door to confront the person, he or she was gone.

  I don't know how I fell asleep again, but I do know the rest of my night was no more restful than the beginning, and when I awoke it was already noon, and I had a lot of work to do.

  After all, the movers might have unloaded everything, but I had boxes to unpack and things to arrange and a home to make. After food and a shower, I dove into my unpacking, starting with the basement, since you always got to start with the weapons.

  I hefted the swords Dad had used on Samurai Midnight, the dagger Mom mistakenly got stabbed with on Whirling Dervish (no big—it was just a flesh wound), the scripts, crossbows, armor, books, battle axes, boxes of weird and unidentifiable smelly herbs that reminded me of the day I walked in on mom humming, surrounded with a bunch of candles. I wished now more than ever that we'd come to the moment when we'd both known it was time for me to hear her secrets.

  She was dead now, and I could never be good enough. The scales had been balanced and I was found lacking. It was the only explanation—I hadn't been good enough.

  I never liked seeing my parents get their butts kicked. Especially since I had inside knowledge—they could kick the butt of any of their so-called foes.

  They rocked, after all.

  I hadn't been working too long when I first crossed paths with Patrick Peterson, the infamous director of Sometimes It's Tuesday and untold other classics. After a particularly difficult day's work, Patrice (as those of us in the know refer to him) looked at me and said, "Oh, honey-child, nobody's ever gonna have to DNA your cute ass—nobody but Frank and Hank Black could be your parents." (Mom's name was Francine, so everybody always called her Frank. When I was growing up it made me feel hip, like I had two daddies or something.) "What you all do for me is pure magic. Nobody but y'all could pull off the things you folks do and not only live to tell about it, but escape with nary a scratch!"

  I was eighteen when I did that film and even then I knew things weren't... quite right. I should have died from my stupidity during filming, but I lived to tell the tale. Less than a year later I heard someone calling me By-the-Book Black behind my back. He was making fun of me, but I took it as a compliment. I had learned to follow procedure and protocol, to practice and do my job well. I followed the rules and so got injured a lot less than many others.

  I now picked up the last sword Mom had ever used, needing to burn off some energy. I flipped it around and hurried outside to the backyard I'd envisioned using for just this sort of practice.

  All the while I was driving across country I'd been thinking about the great many stunts I'd been doing my entire life, from the first one to the most recent (perhaps last?). It was like I couldn't stop myself—it was a tape playing on and on in my head.

  I swung the sword around me, acclimating to its weight, and then danced across the yard, thrusting, parrying, flipping and high kicking. Then I got into it, using my entire body as a weapon, leveling any and all opponents in my way, throwing one foot against the railing and tossing my body into a neat back flip. I landed on my feet, then dropped to one knee to deliver the killing blow to my invisible opponent. "Yah!" I yelled, in a bold, brave voice, followed quickly with, "Aieee!" when I saw Her in front of me.

  "Gah!" she yelled as she stumbled backward.

  "Uh, who are you and what are you doing here?" I said, scrambling to steady her. Her hand was as warm and soft as Michele's.

  "I... I'm your neighbor and I saw you out here when I was coming home from work and decided to come over and say hello. I never knew real people could move like that."

  "Oh, god, I'm so sorry." She had the greenest eyes I'd ever seen, and she was standing so close I could feel her breath on my lips.

  "I'm Sydney Pierce. I live next door."

  "Ty. Tyler Black." She had fantabulously soft hands. I cupped them, just wanting to prolong the tingling.

  "All of us neighbors here have been talking about you, you know," she said. "I mean, the place has been vacant ever since the last tenant, who moved out a few years ago. Or so I heard. I just bought the place next door about six months ago myself." Her beige skirt was cut just above her shapely knees. Her silky long-sleeved brown blouse showed a bit of cleavage, with a gold cross nestled between her breasts. Her boots had three-inch heels and were not sensible at all. They were, however, sexy as hell, and I wanted her to use them to walk all over me.

  No woman had ever done this to me. I was Hollywood bred

  and knew how to hold my own. I was By-the-Book Black and never got distracted. Never. "Wow," I said, "so you're still moving in yourself, huh?"

  "Oh, I'm situated now. Took a while though." She looked down and glanced upward through her lashes. "But I understand how it is, especially when you're trying to do it by yourself. That's the real reason I came over, to tell the truth. I wanted to help you unpack."

  Nobody ever seriously offered to help someone else unpack unless they were dating. But she hadn't said, "if you need anything" or "call if you want help." She put it all in the active and I knew better than to question such help.

  Especially since it was the perfect opportunity to get to know her. Her hand had felt perfect in mine, as if it always had been there and always would be. Great, I thought. Leave Hollywood but start thinking like some stupid romantic movie.

  "I might not be the spiciest taco at the picnic," I said, "but I'm still not about to let such an offer go. I could use the help—so come on in!"

  "Have you had a chance to meet the rest of our neighbors yet?" Sydney's boots made a light tap on the hardwood floor as I led her inside.

  "No, not really."

  "Well, we seem to be the lone singles in the valley of the families. If you are single, that is"—she paused, looking into my eyes.

  "Very much so." She was going to be mine. I knew how to go after things with a single-minded enthusiasm, and that's exactly what I'd be doing with Sydney.

  In the basement she admired my weapons and I told her I was a stunt person. Ex-stunt person. In the living room she marveled at how well I'd set up the stereo. She liked my two-man Henckel knives. She caressed the spines of books. She went from room to room as we chatted, giving herself the tour and discussing where things would go as we walked. She even knew enough to ask if I'd like my CDs alphabet
ized, and how I was planning on setting up my books.

  "This is a nice space," she said. "Basement, kitchen, living room, family room, dining room—and four bedrooms with two-and-a-half baths ?"

  "Uh, yeah. Have you been here before?"

  "Oh, uh, no."

  I stopped. I tapped my booted foot on the floor and crossed my arms.

  "Okay, fine. I was curious. I had to check it out when I heard Hollywood folks owned it. It was just kinda exciting, you know?"

  "Oh, good grief. It's not like we—they—were famous or anything."

  "Ty, this is the Midwest. Anything to do with Hollyweird is exciting. Oh, sorry."

  "It's okay. We've referred to it as such."

  "I snuck in when that guy you paid to take care of it left a door open by mistake. I made sure to lock up behind myself, though! It's just, I was bored and curious and dear god, could I sound any more retarded and loserish?"

  I smiled at her and took her hand. "We're nobody. I'm nobody. They were nobody."

  "No—you and they were somebody. Somebodies. You still are." She led me to the bedroom and I was filled with trepidation, since it was the bedroom. My bedroom, and of course it was a shambles. "Your bed isn't made," she said, noting the bare mattress on box springs. "You don't strike me as the type to sleep on a bare mattress."

  "Uh, no, I'm not."

  "Then where'd you sleep last night?"

  "On the sofa."

  She was still looking at me when she opened the closet and walked into a black hole.

  I hadn't realized the house came with one of those.

  I launched after her, grabbing her as she screamed.

  We tumbled into cold unending blackness (it was a black hole— it's not like I had this much closet space), and I broke into a sweat and held onto her as tightly as I could and.. "Ooof!" We hit a hard surface and it was dark, but at least I could breathe and she landed on top of me keeping us together, and I'd been able to cushion her landing, so it was all good—except maybe that we could perhaps be on some other planet, or, even worse, we could be someplace frightening, like inside the brain of some truly terrifying right-wing politician.