Rogue Acts

by Molly O'Keefe

  I wait.

  “Come with me tonight,” she says in a rush. “I don’t have anything to hide. From you, or them. But this charity is important to me, and the family’s continued philanthropy toward them depends on my presence.”

  “So many strings,” I mutter. “I’m not sure I have an outfit that goes with blackmail.”

  She laughs. “Do you want to wear something of mine?”

  No. No I don’t. If I’m going to meet my latest hook-up’s extended, complicated family, it’s going to be in my own clothes. “I’m not some dress-up Barbie, thanks.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant.”

  “Are you always this unflappable?”

  “Yes.”

  I sigh into the phone as I turn in a circle, pointing myself toward Starbucks. I need a coffee, then I need to find something to wear to… “What is the dress code?”

  “Formal, but eclectic is fine. Any dress or suit would work.”

  “I can’t believe I’m saying yes to this. Will your ex be there?”

  “No. This isn’t his type of thing, and he’s in Asia right now anyway. But in the interest of full disclosure—to you, I mean—I will send him a text letting him know I’m bringing a date so he doesn’t hear that from his mother.”

  Full disclosure. “That’s…healthy and reasonable.”

  She laughs. “I try. Therapy helps.”

  I bet she tries. “Your brunch is going to be spectacular, isn’t it?”

  “Best lox in the city, I promise.”

  “Then I’m looking forward to that, and willing to drink expensive champagne tonight. I’ll come to your place at six, if that works.”

  Another exhale, this one breathier than the last. “That’s perfect. Camilla…”

  “Yes?”

  “I can’t wait to see you. For whatever that’s worth.”

  It’s worth a dangerous amount considering this will only be our second date.

  4

  Elizabeth

  My doorman announces Camilla’s arrival at ten to six.

  “You’re early,” I say breathlessly after I pull open the door to my apartment. My heart squeezes as I take in the sum total awesomeness of her. “And you are gorgeous.”

  She gives me a tentative smile as she steps over the threshold. She’s wearing a black velvet jacket over fitted tuxedo pants and a red top I can only catch glimpses of, but it looks clingy and sexy as sin.

  She’s also taller than last time, and I scan down to her feet. She’s got heels on. Thick, heavy boots, polished to perfection.

  “Wow,” I say, because…yeah. “You make me speechless, you know that?”

  She leans in and brushes her lips against mine. “Good.”

  “I’m not quite ready to go.”

  “Like you haven’t put on makeup, or underwear?”

  Uh… “Both.”

  This is how I find myself pressed against the wall as Cam’s hand slides up my inner thigh. “So it’s okay if I kiss you harder?”

  “You already are,” I pant as she presses her mouth to my neck.

  “I may have asked that question out of order. My brain was a bit scrambled by the promise of finding you wet and ready under this lovely scrap of silk you’re wearing.”

  I close my eyes and thump my head back as her teeth graze my clavicle. Her fingertips are brushing against the curls between my legs now, and yes, I’m slick for her.

  Is this why I invited her tonight? So I’d be horny and distracted all evening?

  Is that wrong?

  Instead of parting my slit, she cups my entire sex with her palm and squeezes. “Later, I’m going to get down on my knees right here, and lick up every drop of you,” she whispers. “But right now I want to watch you slide your panties up shaking legs. Can we do that?”

  We can do anything she wants. “Absolutely.”

  She’s grinning as she follows me back to my bedroom. I go to my closet and tug a pair of cotton boy shorts up my legs.

  “I like your choice of underwear,” she says from her observation post in the doorway.

  I glance over at her. “A little bit of normal under the costume is always a good thing.”

  “Is it a costume?”

  “Isn’t everything?”

  She glances around. “I guess so. Sometimes what we choose to wrap ourselves in is an expression of our inner self.”

  “Maybe that’s just a more authentic costume.”

  She rocks back on her heels and nods. “Maybe. Yep. Or maybe what we’ve got on underneath is all that’s real.”

  “Touché.” I close the gap between us and rub my fingers against hers before snagging her hand. “Almost done.”

  She lets me lead her into my bathroom, where I powder my face and put on lip gloss and mascara.

  “I really am low-maintenance,” I tell her in the mirror. “And yeah, what I’ve got on underneath, that’s the real me.”

  She winks and I remember her on top of me, the way I bucked and moaned as she got me off. That was real, and suddenly it’s important that she know that.

  I turn around and brace my hands against the bathroom counter. “I know we’ve just met, but there’s something about you that makes me want to strip naked and say, here I am.”

  “Indeed you are. I see you,” she murmurs.

  “Do you?” I don’t even know what I’m saying. Please see me. Because I want to see her, I want to find out more about the teaching, the comedy, the nose ring and the shaved side of her head.

  She pushes against me. “Yes,” she says softly as she kisses my neck. “I think I do. And I like what I see.”

  I’ve arranged for a car, and it’s waiting for us downstairs. We settle in the back seat, and once we’re under way, I rub my knuckles softly against the back of Camilla’s hand. “So as far as galas go, this one won’t last all night. Or at least, we don’t need to stay all night. Agatha—that’s my ex’s mother—will leave by nine.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “How would you prefer I introduce you? As a comic or a teacher, or both?”

  “Let’s stick with teacher.” She grins. “Nobody wants to talk about teaching.”

  “You may find that’s not true tonight. Where You Stand—that’s the charity—encourages board and donor involvement in the day-to-day delivery of services, so a lot of people there tonight care about teens. I mean, we all care about youth, of course, but—”

  “This is a fundraiser for Where You Stand?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the charity?”

  Her voice shifts, catches, and I turn more toward her. “Is that a problem?”

  She shakes her head, her eyes soft in the dimly lit car. “No. It’s wonderful. The youth shelter system is riddled with challenges and Where You Stand fills a lot of those gaps.”

  Of course she knows about it. As a teacher, she’d be knee-deep in the complicated politics. “I should have told you earlier, I was just so frazzled.”

  “It’s fine. How did you get involved with them?”

  “When I got married, I was asked what charities I wanted to get involved with. It was as surreal as it sounds.” I tell her about my search for an LGBTQ teen charity to support, and how horrified I was to learn about the duty for shelters to report minors to their parents. Add in fluctuating government grant money, and fear and resistance from youth who have all the reasons in the world to be wary of asshole adults, and you end up with teens on the street because it’s better than any alternative. I suck in a breath, feeling myself getting fired up. “And you know how Where You Stand makes a difference. They provide resources on these kids’ terms. No strings, no questions asked. Hot food, basic necessities of life.”

  “Yeah,” she says softly. She’s looking out the window, her brow furrowed. Before I can ask her if she’s okay, the corner of her mouth quirks and she glances back at me. “You surprise me, Lizzie.”

  Something inside me jolts. Lizzie. I like that. I return her little, pleas
ed smile. “Good.”

  The gala is in the ballroom of The Williamsburg, a funky hipster hotel we’ve hosted events at in the past.

  I’m not really sure how I forgot about the gala tonight. It had been on my calendar. But all week I’d been feeling restless and out of sorts. Then I met Camilla and I didn’t look at my calendar again.

  Now we’re walking into a charity event and she’s my date and she just called me Lizzie.

  Could it be this easy? After all this time, could I find a girlfriend just like that?

  Of course, I need to get through the hurdle of introducing her to my mother-in-law. “That’s the family table across the way,” I murmur as we stop just inside the ballroom doors. “The silver-haired woman is Agatha.”

  “Okay.” She glances at the bar.

  “Do you drink on non-school nights?”

  That gets a gentle laugh from her. “Yes, yes I do.”

  “Then let’s get something from the bar, first.”

  We don’t have to go that far, though. A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne flutes, and Camilla snags two. “These will do.” She holds one out for me, carefully, by the stem. “To good causes.”

  I take the glass and lightly tap the rims together. “And good friends?”

  She winks. “Sure.”

  I take a drink, then another. Then I take a deep breath and lead the woman I’m very much infatuated with across the room to meet the matriarch of a family I’m divorcing, but may never be rid of.

  “Hello, Elizabeth,” Agatha says, searching my face before turning to Camilla. “And you’ve brought a date?”

  “Camilla Thomas, this is Agatha Witmore. Agatha, Camilla.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Witmore. I was thrilled to hear of your family’s involvement with Where You Stand,” Camilla says. “I’m a teacher, and we see the benefits of WYS every day.”

  “A teacher?” Agatha raises one eyebrow. “Fascinating.”

  My date just smiles.

  “Will you join us?” Agatha makes the introductions around the table. One of the family lawyers, a few people from the Witmore Foundation, and an artist I haven’t met before. We sit and dive in to the usual small talk, which thankfully doesn’t last that long before Agatha is drawn into a conversation two tables over.

  I squeeze Camilla’s hand under the table. “Shall we go in search of some hors d'oeuvres?”

  “God yes,” she mutters under her breath.

  We move around the edge of the ballroom, stopping occasionally so I can exchange hellos with people I know and barely know. Spotting the waiters with the trays of food becomes a game, with each of us trying to slide the other person into the path of a waiter so we can casually be offered something to eat.

  When the speeches start, we go back to the table. Camilla gets sucked into a conversation about education theory, but she dances around old-school thoughts with diplomatic flair. As soon as the donation checks have been written, and the music starts up again, I lean over and ask her to dance.

  I don’t realize I’m holding a breath until we slide into the crowd together. “That went well, didn’t it?”

  She draws me close, our cheeks brushing as we turn on the dance floor. “I think so.”

  “Good.” I sink into her warmth, letting her leave. “I liked it when you called me Lizzie.”

  She smiles against my cheek. “Good.”

  “Do you ever go by Cam?”

  Her hand tightens against my back. “I could.”

  I kiss her jaw. “Good.”

  5

  Camilla

  We’re a little tipsy by the time we get back to her place. This time we don’t stop in the living room. She takes the lead again, stripping me out of my suit, but leaving me in my red blouse.

  “This is such a good colour on you,” she murmurs as she pulls my underwear down my legs. “The red. I like it.”

  “Lick me,” I growl.

  She laughs and dives in.

  I need to tell her my plans.

  I will.

  Tomorrow.

  We sleep in, and instead of making me brunch, Lizzie convinces me she knows a place so good it’s worth putting on pants.

  She’s not wrong.

  “This is great,” I tell her as I nibble on my second piece of toast.

  “We’ll have to come here again.” She looks so pleased with herself.

  I wince inside, but maybe we will come here again. Yeah. I want to. It’s just… I open my mouth to tell her about my travel plans, and I wimp out. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Do you want to sleep over again?” she asks, reaching over to steal a hash brown from my plate. “Because I want you to. Screw taking things slow.”

  “I mean…” I can’t seem to get my mouth under control. “Hey, something we haven’t talked about yet—and okay, we’ve only had two dates—”

  “Three dates. I count brunch as its own thing.”

  I grin at her. “Three dates. So…as a comic, I talk about my real life in my shows. Which means that whatever we do together may be manipulated and revised into super quality jokes.”

  “Manipulated and revised?” Her eyes crinkle up. “Because I’m not funny enough in the raw?”

  And doesn’t that make me shift in my seat because my thighs are suddenly hot? “Don’t say things like ‘in the raw’ when we’re out in public,” I mutter.

  She laughs.

  “It’s more that…” I grab her orange slice. “It’s never about telling one funny story. That’s an anecdote, a party trick. My job is to weave different stories together to get to a larger, funnier punchline, but also have lots of punchlines along the way.”

  “It’s not about being more attractive to a straight girl, but about standards being too low, about people consistently disappointing each other.”

  God, yes. “Exactly. And the lens through which I can hit the painfully funny notes in that reality is through my dating experience. But those stories need to be massaged a bit because they aren’t really the point.”

  “So I’ll be…what? A wild walk on the Upper West Side?”

  I frown. “No. Maybe a little West Side Story, though. Opposite sides of the track, culture clash…”

  “You fit in just fine last night.” Even when she frowns, it’s classy. Nothing like the twisted, angry slash I’m sure my own eyebrows are making.

  I don’t like how my mood rockets this way and that with Elizabeth. This can’t be healthy.

  She tilts her head to the side. “Was that the wrong thing to say?”

  “Little bit.” I pick up my coffee and take a sip.

  She mirrors the action and looks at me.

  It’s unnerving, letting someone really look at you. Letting them pick at the masks we wear and try to peer beneath them. Hey, stranger. Who the fuck are you really?

  “I’m sorry,” she says softly. “It’s not for me to judge if you fit in.”

  And zing, my mood rockets in the other direction. I grin at her. “You are pretty damn insightful.”

  “It’s one of my best features. My boobs are also great.”

  “They are.”

  “Stop looking at me like that.”

  “You started it. Let’s go back to your place and have a nap.”

  She puts her mug down and leans back, stretching her feet toward me under the table. Nudge. “Do you tell any jokes about your ex? The one whose couch you’re sleeping on now?”

  I take another sip of coffee and don’t bother to point out that I’ve slept at her place almost every day that I’ve known her so far. “Not yet.”

  “You will?”

  “In time.”

  “Why not now?”

  Because I’m still bruised from our weird non-relationship and newly formed friendship. “I’m not sure.”

  “Really?” Elizabeth asks softly.

  I carefully watch her over the rim of my mug, but she doesn’t say anything else. “No,” I finally say. “I’m not really honest about
much when it comes to Gretchen—mostly to myself, if that changes anything.”

  “Ah.”

  “I’m not okay with the way we broke up.” I laugh. “The way we got together. The whole thing. And we weren’t together long, so I don’t know why it matters.”

  She sighs. “I was with my ex for six years, and probably only thought I was in love with him for maybe one of those years. It was still gut-wrenching to part ways. Emotions are weird. Attachment is weirder.”

  “And here I was worried about you not being over him,” I say with a sigh. “And maybe I’m not completely over her? Did I just say that out loud?”

  She gives me a more understanding look than I deserve. “Should you be taking notes? This sounds like great material. But just in case you want reassurance—yes, I’m totally over him. Maybe it’s easier because he has the wrong parts for me.”

  “Good.” I pause. “Is this weird, talking about my feelings about Gretchen?” I frown. She started it, I think. I’m not sure. Suddenly we were talking about my ex-girlfriend, which is a totally not-slick move for our first brunch date. “Let’s change the subject.”

  “Let’s not.” More softness. More fathomless gazing, her eyes big and all-knowing. “Let’s loop back to the part where you think, already, you might tell jokes about me.”

  Oh. Oh! I lick my lips. “Yeah. I like you a lot more than I ever liked her. Uh…and I can see myself wanting to write material around you. Not about you, you get that, right? It’s about me? About the world? But you’re a good lens for…” I blush, my cheeks heating up, but fuck it, this is my life. “You’re a good lens for privilege, and using your money for good.”

  “Sure. I can see that. Will I have a made up name? I watched this comedian once who did this whole sketch about his wife, who’s name was Jen, and he called her Clo. It was clever. Except that doesn’t really explain how it was funny, but trust me—”

  “I trust you,” I say, and it’s like, whoa, yeah, I do, on a whole different level than what she means.

  I never trusted Gretchen. I wanted her not to break my heart, but she did and I saw it coming a mile away.