Change of Pace

by Radclyffe

  “Well,” he said jauntily, his smile still in place, “the next scheduled flight is in an hour and it’s full, but I think...” His fingers danced on the keyboard and he made little humming sounds that made me want to choke him, “they’re adding another plane on that route because of the backlog. Hmm. Yes. Here it is.” He looked up, proud of himself. “I got you on that flight.”

  “Thanks,” I said, embarrassed by my earlier surliness. I took my new boarding card and hurried toward yet another security checkpoint. My luggage had been checked through from Philadelphia to Provincetown, and I only had a small carry-on with my computer and the newest Jessica Casavant. The tiny waiting area at Gate 33, the only gate servicing all of Cape Cod, was chaos. The last three flights to Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket had been canceled because of fog over the cape. The earlier storms had drifted off the mainland and now shrouded the ninety-mile, narrow finger of sand that was the vacation destination of tens of thousands of people this weekend. And it looked as if all of us were stranded in Boston.

  Feeling secretly grateful and a tiny bit superior, I worked my way through the crowd to the check-in counter for Provincetown, the last hurdle before I could complete my journey. I’d be in town by ten thirty, with plenty of night left still. As soon as I deposited my luggage at the Provincetown Inn, I was going to head out to the Pied, one of the hot dance spots for women. Stress always makes me horny. And it had been a very stressful evening.

  I passed my boarding ticket across the counter triumphantly. The young woman on the other side looked up sympathetically. Uh-oh.

  “Hi,” she said with a slightly less brilliant smile than the previous agent. “We just heard that the last two flights to Provincetown were diverted because of fog. We’re canceling the rest of tonight’s flights.”

  I heard a mournful groan and turned to see a blond about my age with a backpack slung over her shoulder and a frantic expression in her eyes.

  “Sucks, huh?” I muttered. “You headed to Provincetown?”

  “Yes, and I’m beginning to think I’m cursed. I’ve been trying to get three hundred miles for what feels like three days. God, I just should’ve driven.”

  “Me too. I would’ve been there by now.” I laughed and held out my hand and told her my name.

  “Kiera Jones.” She closed long, warm fingers around mine. Her hand, I noticed, was strong and very soft. A musician’s hands, or at least what I imagined a musician’s hands would feel like. I probably thought of that because a guitar case leaned against her blue jean–clad leg.

  “Vacation?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No, a weekend gig at the Crown and Anchor.”

  I knew the place in the center of town. It was best known for its drag shows and men’s bars, but there was also a small lounge in the front. “Playing tonight?”

  “No, thank God, or I’d really be crazy. Tomorrow and Sunday.”

  I turned back to the ticket agent. “Can I get on the first flight tomorrow?”

  “I’ve got three hundred passengers from the other canceled flights to reroute. I might be able to get you on a flight late tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Thanks, but forget it. I’ll rent a car and drive.”

  A man standing next to me at the Nantucket counter snorted. “Good luck. They’ve been canceling flights out of here all day. The last I heard, all the rental agencies were out of cars.”

  I glanced at the clock. Nine forty. The last ferry had already left for Provincetown. That left buses or limo services. I didn’t care if I had to walk, I wasn’t spending the night in Boston.

  “I have to get to Provincetown tonight,” Kiera muttered from behind me. “I’ve got sound checks and a run-through of the set first thing in the morning, and I’ve never played with these guys before. If I don’t show up, they’re going to think I blew them off.”

  I turned. “I’m going to see if I can get a private car. You want to share the cost?”

  Her eyes lit up fleetingly, but then she shook her head. “Thanks, but—”

  “Look,” I said. “I’m going to do it anyway. Why don’t you come along and just handle the tip.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “If you don’t come, I’ll be out the cost of the tip. Besides, I’d like the company.”

  She gave me an appraising glance, and it wasn’t hard to figure out why. It sounded like a come-on, and I suppose on some level, it was. She was easy on the eyes, with shoulder-length, sun-kissed hair, luminous green eyes, and a wide expressive mouth. Beneath a short Levi’s jacket, she wore one of those tight white tops with the thin straps that look like you should be sleeping in it and not wearing it outside on the streets. It barely reached the top of her low-rider jeans, and a small strip of tanned skin showed between the two. That narrow band of smooth belly begged for a touch, or at least that was the opinion held by all eight of my fingers.

  “No strings,” I said, too quietly for anyone else to hear. She had to know from looking at me in the Dockers and polo shirt I’d worn to work where my interests lay. Stereotypes come from somewhere, and I knew that my short dark hair and rangy build, along with my debonair style, spelled dyke. “Just a little friendly companionship.”

  “We can start there.” She grinned and hefted her guitar case. “Let’s go to P-town.”

  It wasn’t all that difficult to find a limo. The airport was crawling with drivers hawking private rides to just about anywhere at exorbitant prices. The trick was finding someone who looked reputable who wasn’t going to charge me my entire budget for the weekend. I could afford to rent a limo, but I couldn’t afford to buy one. We finally connected with someone who fit the bill, and as we followed him outside into the steamy, overcast night, juggling our bags, I glanced at Kiera. “Things are looking up.”

  “Things are definitely looking up,” she noted with a tilt of her chin.

  I followed the direction of her gaze and whistled. “He didn’t say it was a stretch limo. Well. Let’s ride in style.” I put down my luggage and beat the driver to the rear door, opened it, and gestured to the interior. “Ms. Jones. If you please.”

  She laughed in a wholly unself-conscious way, making her appear even more youthful than she was. I’d said no strings, but I hadn’t anticipated the little zing that my heartstrings gave at that moment. I climbed in after her and looked around. Wide leather seats, a minibar, and an honest-to-God live rose in a small glass vase tucked into a recessed niche in the door. Even better was the opaque Plexiglas that completely separated the driver’s compartment from ours. I’d been in one of these limos before, and I knew that he could not, in fact, see us. Suddenly, as I settled next to Kiera, that seemed very important.

  “This is wild,” she said, leaning forward to examine the contents of the minibar. She cast me a mischievous look over her shoulder. “Do think we can drink any of this?”

  “Why not?”

  She settled back with a bottle of fairly good champagne in her lap. “Now what?”

  I opened a small compartment next to the minibar and took out two glasses while Kiera popped the cork. As we headed out of Boston, we touched glasses and sipped champagne. I was definitely looking forward to the two-and-a-half-hour trip. We finished off the champagne at a leisurely pace and talked a little bit about the things that people do when they first meet. Then, on impulse, I asked, “Would you play something for me?”

  Once again, Kiera regarded me with a mixture of curiosity and caution. Whatever she was looking to find, or not find, must’ve been there. Wordlessly she nodded and opened her guitar case. I said nothing. There were times when the only answers came from listening, not asking.

  I watched her hands as they moved on the strings. I’ve always been fascinated by hands that create. Music, art, passion. Hers made much more than music, they made promises—or so I wished. But I contented myself with the beauty that filled the air. Sad, poignant notes, rich with stories of love and loss.

  “You play the blues.”
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br />   She looked up, her eyes dark and deep. “Surprised?”

  “You hide it well.”

  “Everywhere but here,” she observed, glancing down at her guitar.

  “Beautiful.” And I meant more than the music.

  She must’ve known, because she carefully set the guitar aside and edged closer on the seat. I sat perfectly still and let her choose the song. She slid under the arm I had placed along the back of the seat and turned against my side, her arm coming around my waist. I dipped my chin so she could have my mouth if that was her desire, and she explored my lips with the moist tip of her tongue and the soft brush of her lips. Her breasts pressed against mine, her nipples hard. I slid my hand up to rest my cupped fingers just below the swell of her breasts. If she wanted me to touch her there, she had only to shift the slightest bit into my palm. She didn’t, and I contented myself with what she offered. Her kisses were a feast unto themselves, long and languid and hot. She nibbled my lips, sucked my tongue, and teased the inside of my mouth with possessive strokes. She kissed me until I was dizzy and then some. At some point I felt her leg curl onto my thigh, and I felt the heat of her center where she pressed ever so gently against me in time to the thrusts of her tongue. I was going to soak right through my pants I was so turned on, and she still hadn’t moved her hand from my waist. I groaned softly, imagining I would die if her hand found my skin, or if it didn’t, and heard her laugh.

  “Excuse me,” a mechanical voice said from a speaker behind us.

  I groaned again, long and low, as Kiera moved away.

  “Yes,” I said hoarsely.

  “I can’t see.”

  “What?”

  “The fog is so thick I can’t see the road. I’m gonna have to stop soon.”

  “Jesus,” I muttered, trying to get my brain to function as Kiera repacked her guitar. “Where are we?”

  “I haven’t made very good time,” Mr. Mechano said. “Somewhere on the cape.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  Silence.

  I blew out a breath as I felt the car slow to a halt. I looked at Kiera. “We’ll have to get a room and wait this out.”

  “On the Friday of Fourth of July weekend? Good luck finding a vacancy.” She smiled ruefully and traced a finger along my jaw. “But I guess we’ve been lucky so far.”

  I nodded and spoke to the voice. “Hello?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Go ahead and find us someplace to stay. Will you take us the rest of the way in the morning?”

  “I’ll sleep in the car. As soon as it clears, we’ll go.”

  “Okay.”

  The limo moved on and miraculously, the driver did find us a place. We were too far from the bigger tourist attractions for the myriad of little motels dotting the cape to be full. Which is how I came to be in bed with Kiera. When we got to the room, whatever confluence of heart and harmony brought us together in the limo had drifted away on the fog. I could tell by the efficient way she went about stowing her gear and avoiding my eyes.

  “What now?” I asked, unable to hide my regret and being unable to think of anything else to say that wouldn’t sound ridiculous after what we’d just been doing.

  “I’m beat,” she said quietly, meeting my gaze. “I’ve been on the road since five this morning.”

  I nodded, standing on the far side of the bed.

  “And,” she added, “I don’t usually have sex with strangers.”

  “Kissing isn’t sex,” I pointed out.

  “No, it isn’t. Technically.” She glanced at the bed. “But this would be.”

  “I can sleep...” I glanced around. No sofa. There wasn’t even a bathtub. “Really far away.”

  Kiera laughed. “Let’s just go to sleep.”

  We stripped down, or at least I did. I didn’t look in her direction. There was no way I was going to be able to sleep, not with the way my body felt after the crazy day and the miraculous kisses.

  I crawled under the stiff cotton sheets, murmured, “Night, Kiera,” and closed my eyes. The next thing I knew I was awake again, and so, it seemed, was Kiera.

  I had no idea the time, or how long I’d been asleep. It might have been three hours or thirty seconds. Her breathing was shallow and fast, and I sensed, rather than felt, the sheet gently brush over my arm where it lay across my stomach as hers stroked rhythmically between her legs. She moaned again, very quietly, and I felt her leg tremble against mine. I didn’t even stop to consider proper etiquette in this situation.

  “Kiera, I’m awake,” I whispered.

  “I couldn’t sleep.” Her voice was thick and breathy. “Your kisses kept me awake. And I really need...to sleep.”

  “I can go for a walk,” I offered, since standing in the shower with the water running seemed stupid. “Or you can just finish now.” My own breathing had gotten a little short and my stomach was in knots. I hadn’t been sleeping long enough for the blood that had pooled in my pelvis to move out. I was still hard. Knowing that she was too only made me more so. “I’d...like that.”

  She turned on her side to face me, her eyes a mere glimmer in the dark room. “Would you kiss me again while I do?”

  I answered with my mouth on hers, and her tongue instantly filled me. Her leg came over my thigh again, this time with skin on skin, and she moaned softly. As I bit her bottom lip and tugged it with my teeth, I felt the back of her arm slide down my abdomen in the sliver of space between us and I knew where her hand had gone. Her body jerked, my head got light, and I realized I’d stopped breathing. I didn’t want any sound to compete with her song now. I touched her bare breast very lightly and she arched, pushing into my hand. I rolled her nipple under my thumb, and she rocked against me. I could tell from her frenzied kisses and the rapid, rolling motion of her arm that she was getting close. My ears began to buzz, and I was afraid I’d pass out from holding my breath, but her staccato cries tore through me like sweet daggers, and I didn’t want to miss a single note. I squeezed her nipple, hard.

  Back bowing, she tore her mouth away and screamed, “Oh, God!”

  “Oh, yes,” I murmured, straining to see her face. She trembled and kept touching herself, keening softly, and I wanted to weep from the beauty of it. At last she lay quiet and spent in my arms while my heart thundered and my blood raced.

  “You make such beautiful music,” I whispered, stroking her face. I kissed her forehead, and she laughed quietly.

  “I don’t usually perform that one in public.”

  “I’m honored.” I shivered, so aroused I was nearly sick with need.

  She pressed closer and I felt fingers circle over my belly.

  “Kiera,” I whispered. “What—”

  “Time for the encore,” she murmured just before the applause began.

  THE WOMAN IN THE SHADOWS

  She was there in the shadows—my virgin lover, my longtime friend. I thought I would be more self-conscious, allowing her to witness what I had before only let her glimpse through my words to her, to others. She knew me, the best of me—my secrets, my dreams, my desires—because I had given her my passion cloaked beneath the veil of my musings. I had given her my poetry, my prose, my stories. She knew me, but never in the irrevocable, immutable way she would know me after the moments to come—never through my actions, through the inarticulate voice and stumbling phrases of my inadequate body. So much less eloquent, so much less beautiful, so much less—me.

  I never asked why, in all the years of our companionship, she had never reached for me, nor I for her. Now I wondered only briefly what of me she would see that I had never meant for her to view, and what price those revelations might exact. I risked that she would turn from me, but I would not turn back. I could not lose what I had never had, and love without knowing is never love at all.

  Amsterdam—a business trip, a book signing, a late-night stroll into the infamous red-light district. Narrow streets, tall crowded houses fronting uneven sidewalks, women behind glass, beckoning with
gentle hands and secret smiles. There was a story behind every smile, and behind every window a bit of truth, if we dared to look. I tried not to, but as we walked, bare-breasted women posed within touching distance, warm and welcoming beyond the invisible barriers that might be breached for as little as the price of my latest book.

  After the third time I’d glanced for longer than a fleeting moment, too long to be casual interest, my companion asked, “Do they attract you?”

  I hesitated. She had never asked, and I had never told. “Yes.”

  “Why? They’re strangers.” She tilted her head, regarded me with soft curiosity. “Or is it only their bodies you desire?”

  “Yes,” I uttered, then quickly, “no.” I sighed and met her kind eyes. “I think...they know me, what I need.”

  “What you need from a woman?”

  Her voice was so soft, so gentle, and I feared I would hurt her, sooner rather than later. Knew without a doubt that she could hurt me.

  “No.” Afraid to touch her, I put my hands into my pockets. “What I need to give.”

  “And what is that?”

  I shrugged, grimaced helplessly. The wordsmith struck dumb. “You’ve read it, countless times.”

  “Yes, I’ve read it.” Her fingers were a whisper on my skin as she stroked my arm. “But I haven’t seen.”

  We’d stopped in the middle of the sidewalk beneath a large tree in full leaf that shattered the pale yellow glow from a streetlight at the end of the block and painted fractured patterns on our faces. Three feet away a woman watched from a pool of shadow in an arched doorway. I could not see her face, but I could smell her perfume. Sweet as a summer night. I ached for the distance between us all as we stood so close, strangers in an intimate ménage.

  “What do you want?” I murmured to my friend, to the woman in the door, to myself.

  “To have nothing between us,” my friend replied.

  “Anything you want,” the woman crooned.

  To feel, I thought. To give.

  “Together?” I asked uncertainly, afraid I had misunderstood. Afraid that I had not.