Whitney’s laugh this time was more sincere. Andrew had always been pretty cool about her sexuality. Few of the other Marines had given a shit, although some acted like they were personally offended by it. “No, I wouldn’t.”
“Are you still with the girl you used to talk about? The one you were planning to marry?”
“No,” Whitney said quietly. She traced her fingers over the profile on the medal. “That ended as soon as I got back. She couldn’t deal with dating an amputee.”
“Shit, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“What about you? Was there any particular girl on your deployment?”
“Too many to count,” Andrew said with a full-bodied laugh.
“Nice, nice. Anyway, I’ve got to make some dinner. Good catching up.”
“You, too,” Andrew said. “Take care of yourself, Whitney.”
“Stay away from landmines.” Whitney’s tone was joking, yet bitterness seethed underneath.
“That would be a good thing to do,” Andrew said.
They hung up, and Whitney set the phone down on the table. Her hand trembled a little as she put the Purple Heart back in the drawer. She got up on her crutches and made her way to the fridge. Tonight was definitely not a night to make anything fancy. She pulled two slices of bread out of the fridge and slapped some mayonnaise and deli meat on top. She topped it off with a few slices of cheese, then sat down again and started to chew.
The food was dry and too cold after having been in the fridge. It was definitely less pleasant than some of the other meals Whitney had enjoyed lately. With no one here to talk to, the silence was oppressive.
Whitney would have gone and gotten her book, but it was all the way in the other room, and she didn’t feel like going that distance on her crutches. Same with the TV. So she sat there in the deafening silence, eating by herself.
This would have been a completely different experience if Yolanda was here to eat with her.
But she had cut off any possibility of that happening again.
Twenty-Five
As Yolanda got off her bike, she looked around the parking lot. Whitney’s Toyota wasn’t here yet. She would have liked to see her, if only to say hello. She knew that a real conversation between them would need to happen later, if Whitney even let it happen. Whitney had been pretty firm when she told her it was over.
Yolanda walked inside, and Ron pulled her aside before she got to the DJ booth. The club manager looked more harried than usual.
“You know the wet T-shirt contest is in two nights, Yolanda?” Ron asked.
Cutting straight to the point. “Yes, I know,” Yolanda said. “I’ve put up enough posters that the date of April twenty-seventh is emblazoned into my mind.”
“Great,” Ron said, nodding. “We just wanted to confirm that you know about your role for the night.”
“Which is?”
“You’re going to commentate on each of the contestants,” Ron said. “Talk them up. Point out something sexy about each of them. Emphasize their good points.”
Yolanda sighed. That was exactly her idea of a good time, talking about random girls’ hotness… especially at this point in her life, when she really wasn’t sure what was going on inside her head.
“Yeah, sure, I can do that,” she said.
“Be sure to make them sound good,” Ron said seriously. “Figure out what each of them has going for them, and really hype them up. We’ll get you a few details on each contestant. Just make something up.”
“Okay, I get the idea.”
“Let’s just do an example,” Ron said. “Tell me what you would say about…” He looked around, his eyes settling on Whitney as she walked toward the bar. “That bartender.”
Yolanda nearly choked. Ron had to be joking. But he sure looked like he was serious.
“I would say, uh, ‘Look at this former Marine, coming straight out of the service and onto our stage,’” Yolanda said. “‘Those big blue eyes don’t lie. She served our country, and now she’s going to serve all of you tonight. Her name is Whitney Dixon, everybody!’”
Yolanda’s throat was still tight by the end. The mental image of Whitney onstage was tantalizing. She wished she could see Whitney get wet for real—although she would have chosen to be the only member of the audience.
Ron shrugged. “A little over-enthusiastic, if anything, but it’ll do.”
Yolanda grunted a response as she walked into the DJ booth. She set up her laptop, tapping a little too hard whenever she had to click. Her mood was only going to get worse from here, she expected. She was going to be able to see Whitney all night without being able to talk to her. She intended to stay away from her until Whitney approached her. Whitney was the one who was angry this time, so she should be the one to make the first move.
And that happened sooner than she expected. She was still setting up when she saw Whitney’s drawn face appear just above the divider.
“Hey,” Yolanda said. “I see you’ve decided to talk to me.”
“Look,” Whitney said, her voice nearly a whisper. “I didn’t mean for things to go the way they did the other day. I don’t want to leave this on bad terms.”
“I’m listening,” Yolanda said. She turned away from the laptop, looking Whitney in the eyes. Too bad those piercing blue eyes left her unable to form coherent thoughts.
“It’s nothing to do with you, okay?” Whitney said softly. “I just… I’m not ready for a relationship right now. You’re great. You’re amazing. And I’m happy if I could help you figure out your sexuality or whatever happened. But I can’t go forward with this.”
Yolanda struggled to understand, caught off-guard by what she was hearing. “So you still don’t want to date me?”
“You didn’t even want to date,” Whitney said. “We were just hooking up. At least, that’s what it felt like. I was never looking for a casual thing.”
Yolanda’s heart felt like it was about to break. “I didn’t want a casual thing,” she murmured. “It was just too soon. I’m just figuring this whole thing out, but I… I really like you.” She shut her eyes, unable to even look at Whitney after making that kind of admission.
“I like you too.” The longing in Whitney’s eyes made it clear that she was telling the truth. “But I can’t do this right now. Maybe not ever. I wish I could, but it’s not going to work.” She gave Yolanda one last lingering, pained look and walked away.
Yolanda stared after her, wishing that she could understand. There was something Whitney wasn’t letting on about. Yolanda still wanted to know every part of Whitney, even the parts that hurt, but Whitney wasn’t letting her in.
The irony was evident. The one girl she was into—the one who had finally dragged her out of the closet she hadn’t known she was in—that girl didn’t want to date her.
The night began, and Yolanda lined up the first few songs as customers began to straggle in. One group came in after another. It felt like there were a few more people every night. If things kept going like this, the club was going to be bursting on Friday.
Things were definitely looking up for Heat Wave. But as Yolanda sat in her booth beside the stage, controlling the beats the waitresses danced to, she couldn’t bring herself to feel good about this whole thing.
The one person that she wanted to get along with was acting so distant. And even if they supposedly weren’t on bad terms, she didn’t have what she wanted from Whitney.
An hour passed, and then another. Yolanda played the music that people wanted to hear, speaking over the songs with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. She was fairly sure that she came out sounding half-hearted, but she couldn’t help it. Her heart wasn’t in this, not tonight.
Every time she glanced over at Whitney, her own words to Ron echoed through her head. This former Marine… those big blue eyes…
At last three-thirty came. The lights turned on and the club closed down. Whitney walked out the door before Yolanda could catch up with her. She supp
osed Whitney had probably done it on purpose. They had already had their talk, and there was nothing more to be said.
She made her way to her bike. Whitney had been driving her most of the past week, and sadness came over Yolanda as she climbed onto the bike alone. She made her way home and opened the door.
As soon as she went inside, a little face appeared at the top of the stairs. Oh, no.
“Jessie, you didn’t stay up late for me, did you?”
Jessie tumbled down the stairs, her hair flying everywhere. She looked as bright-eyed as if she hadn’t been to bed in the first place. “I wanted to see you, Mama.”
“And I want to see you too, Princess, but in the morning. You’re supposed to be in bed right now.”
“Don’t want to sleep,” she said, shaking her head. “Want to play with Barbies.”
“Barbie’s upstairs,” Yolanda said tiredly. “And so’s Ken.”
“I don’t want Ken,” Jessie said. “Can we can play with two Barbies?”
Yolanda sighed. Jessie had accepted the idea so readily. Why had she been so different? How much had she missed out on because of her own stubbornness?
“Yes, we can, but not now.”
She picked Jessie up, resting her on her hip as she began the walk up the stairs.
“Is Mama like Barbie?” she asked as Yolanda pushed the door open to her room.
Yolanda blinked, letting go of the handle too soon. It let out a creak that would probably wake up Truman and Ella. “Like Barbie?”
“You know what I mean, Mama. Like Daddy told me about how one Barbie can love another Barbie. Do you have another Barbie?”
Yolanda set the girl down on her bed and covered her with the blanket. She looked down at her little face, so sweet, so innocent. She wished the answer she was going to give was different, but it didn’t look like it was going to change.
“No, Princess. I don’t.”
Twenty-Six
The club had never been so packed. As Whitney looked around from behind the bar, she pondered on how much of a success this had been. Who would have known that wet T-shirts were so appealing?
Maybe it was because of the posters they’d put up. If the others had done half as many as her and Yolanda, those flyers would have blanketed the town. Everyone in Bridgehaven would have seen them, and even if a small percentage of those people came out tonight, it was going to be their busiest shift by a long shot.
The memory of those nights with Yolanda made her bite her lip. She glanced over at the DJ booth. Yolanda was busy, of course. Whitney couldn’t be hurt that she wasn’t helping her set up. She had her own stuff to do. It was just nice when she had done that. Whitney had to admit that she missed having the help.
She deposited another empty bottle in the recycling bin and stood up straight. From back here, she could watch all of the performances—not that she really cared. The only woman that she wanted was off-limits, and it was her own doing. She would never be with another woman again. There was no way she was going to reveal her freakish injury.
As the customers settled into their tables, a line-up formed at the bar. One customer after another wanted a drink, and many of them wanted the fancy kinds that took extra effort to make. Whitney flipped bottle after bottle into the air. She was on her game tonight, and she didn’t intend to break any glass.
It was eleven-thirty by the time the competition started. By that point, customers were squeezed into the room, too many of them to fit at the tables. It was standing room only. Whitney had to rise onto her tiptoes to get a good view of the DJ booth, although she could see the stage perfectly fine from where she was.
As Whitney watched the line form behind the stage, she heard Yolanda announcing what was happening.
“Everyone, prepare to see the hottest women Bridgehaven has to offer… in wet T-shirts. You may want to take out your wallets in advance, because you’re going to be throwing dollar bills at the stage in just five minutes.”
Hearing Yolanda talk about sexy women sent a surge of jealousy through Whitney. Yolanda wasn’t supposed to see any other women as hot or sexy. Whitney was the one who had brought her out of the closet.
A customer cleared her throat noisily, and Whitney looked over to find a line had formed. People were crowded around the bar, many with wads of bills in their hands. They didn’t look happy.
“I’m in a hurry,” the throat-clearer snapped. “I don’t want to miss the beginning of the show.”
“Sorry,” Whitney said. “What would you like?”
Whitney served as many of them as she could for the next few minutes, doing her best to maintain a balance between speed and flair. She still stopped short when she heard Yolanda’s voice cut across the room. A bottle was in midair, and she jerked to grab it before it shattered.
“It’s that time you’ve all been waiting for,” Yolanda said. “I hope you have your ballots with you, because we’re all going to vote on the best wet T-shirt in this town. The first beautiful lady who’s going to strut her stuff goes by the name of Kylie Jordan.”
Whitney poured orange juice into a glass, staring daggers at the woman stepping onto the stage. She knew nothing about this woman except that Yolanda was looking at her. For that, she hated her.
“Kylie hails from the sunny land of California,” Yolanda said, her voice far too enthusiastic. “She’s a Pilates fanatic, which explains her amazing body.”
Where was this coming from? A week ago, Yolanda would never have said things like this. Now Whitney wondered if she meant what she was saying. Her appreciation of Kylie Jordan certainly sounded genuine.
Yolanda blessedly stopped talking as men chosen from the audience threw buckets of water on Kylie. Why did Whitney even care if Yolanda was talking? She passed the mixed drink to the customer, but she couldn’t manage a smile. She was jealous, which was ridiculous. She had already turned Yolanda down. Yolanda was into her, and she had set her free. Yolanda had every right to look at other women if she wanted. She could even date them.
Hearing her talk about them made Whitney’s hackles raise. And the night was only halfway over! She almost wanted to take a drink to make this easier. Maybe she should take a shot of absinthe. She snickered to herself. That would be strangely appropriate.
“I think we can all appreciate what we just saw,” Yolanda said as the song ended. “Give it up for Kylie, and then give it up again for our next contestant of the night.”
Kylie Jordan got off the stage. The next one up was a tall, slim type—the kind of girl that everyone wanted. Whitney paused, a beer glass in her hand, and stared up at the stage with ice running through her veins.
“Ms. Nicki Hart is from Texas,” Yolanda announced. “Ladies and gents, I’m told everything is bigger in Texas. Look at those huge… brains.”
Whitney rose onto her tiptoes to peek at Yolanda in her booth. Her headphones shielded her face, and Whitney couldn’t begin to guess what she was thinking. Yolanda was doing her job, though. Nothing more. So why was Whitney taking it so hard?
“My beer, please?” the customer waiting said nastily.
“Just one minute,” Whitney said. “You wanted a Heineken?”
“I said a Guinness! Pay attention, please.”
Whitney turned on the tap and held it down as she stared at Yolanda.
“I think every man here is about to move to Texas,” Yolanda said as the music swelled. She finally shut up as water poured over dumbass Nicki Hart.
Whitney shook herself, realizing how hard she was clenching her jaw. Something cold splashed over her hand, and she let go of the beer handle. Unfortunately, she let go of the glass at the same time. It dropped to the floor.
“Ugh, never mind!” the customer snapped.
Whitney was making a mess out of this—literally. She had to get herself in order. She needed to stop thinking about Yolanda’s enthusiastic approval of the contestants. It was irrational, but as the next few women went onstage, her feelings wouldn’t go away.
Her idea from before came back to her. Fuck it. It might not have been professional, but this was no normal night. One shot of absinthe wouldn’t hurt her. She glanced over to the DJ booth, then made her way to the far end of the bar, where the bottle sat barely visible on the highest shelf.
With her hands shaking slightly, she pulled it down. She stood with her back to the rest of the room, shielding what she was doing from sight as she poured out a shot. Hunching over the cash register, she took a sip—and gagged. It was ridiculously strong. Figures. She turned back and glanced around, making sure no one was around before grabbing a few ice cubes out of the bin. That was better.
A friendly face appeared at the side of the bar. “Hey, Whitney.” Rochelle gave her a sympathetic smile, and Whitney immediately put down her glass. “Busy night?”
“Busy enough,” Whitney said. She was surprised Rochelle had come to see the wet T-shirt contest. Wasn’t she straight? “What can I get you?”
“I just came by to chat. My friends are having too much fun watching the show.”
Whitney glimpsed her group of lesbian friends in the crowd. The two couples had their arms around each other as they clapped and cheered. Whitney and Yolanda could have been like that if Whitney hadn’t gone and ruined it. Well, her body had ruined it. Yolanda wouldn’t have wanted to be with her if she knew the truth, anyway.
With another sigh, Whitney leaned on the bar. She wished she could finish her drink, but in the meantime, the Green Fairy was already giving her the courage to bring this up. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
Debra appeared behind Rochelle. “What are we talking about?”
That girl had to be the most immature of Rochelle’s friends. There was no way Whitney would talk about this with her around. She shook her head. “Nothing.”
Defective Page 13