Connected Hearts - Four Lesbian Romance Stories

by Joan Arling

  A man’s wristwatch sat on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. Next to it, clothes were piled on a white-leather-and-chrome chair: socks, a Los Angeles Lakers sweatshirt, and a pair of boxer shorts.

  Amanda’s gaze darted back and forth between the Harley print, the watch, and the boxer shorts. Her nose caught another whiff of men’s cologne. Oh, shit. What did I do? No way in hell did I go home with that guy from the bar ... did I? Not even half a dozen of those Mind Erasers could turn a gay woman straight. Stupid maybe, but not straight.

  Her gaze darted down her body. Air whooshed out of her lungs. Thank God. At least she was still wearing her panties and bra. She massaged her hammering temples, hoping it would jog her memory of what had happened last night.

  No such luck. The last thing she remembered was drinking at the bar and pulling her blouse down from her shoulder to show off the scar from that commercial with the camel.

  Her red-haired drinking companion had clapped and hooted.

  Everything after that was a blank.

  God, I hate Valentine’s Day. And Mind Erasers. And if I slept with a man, I really, really hate myself. Even as a teenager, she had known that her interests lay elsewhere, and she had never succumbed to Hollywood’s pressure to date men. She had always been proud of that, but now ...

  When the pounding in her head lessened for a moment, she became aware of the sound of a running shower. Someone whistled a much too happy tune in the bathroom.

  Amanda’s stomach lurched. She didn’t want to even imagine what had put the guy in this postcoital mood.

  The water stopped. He would be out in a minute.

  Time to make a quick escape. Ignoring the drum roll in her head, Amanda jumped up. Her feet got caught in something soft, and she nearly fell. She looked down.

  Her slacks, blouse, and socks were strewn around the bed as if ripped off in the heat of passion. When she bent down and picked up her slacks, the world started spinning. She waited until the merry-go-round stopped before she shoved first one foot, then the other through a pant leg and struggled to pull up her slacks.

  A sound made her look up, half in, half out of her pants.

  Clouds of steam drifted through the now open bathroom door.

  Amanda froze and took in the figure in the doorway. Her gaze trailed up muscular legs clad in worn jeans. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut but forced her gaze to rove over a black muscle shirt clinging to still damp skin. Next, she encountered—

  Breasts! They weren’t overly large, but that definitely wasn’t the chest of the red-haired guy or any other man. Only her pounding head and the slacks trapping her feet prevented her from doing a dance of joy. I knew it! I would never sleep with ... Her gaze wandered farther and took in short hair and a strong face. ... a butch?

  She had never dated, much less slept with, a butch.

  With her feet still tangled in the slacks, she fell backward.

  The bed broke her fall, and she lay still, staring at the ceiling.

  Concerned brown eyes appeared in her line of sight. “You okay, Mandy?”

  “Mandy?” Amanda croaked. Only her grandmother was allowed to call her that.

  One knee next to Amanda on the bed, much too close for Amanda’s liking, the butch looked down at her. “Yeah. Last night, you told me to call you Mandy.”

  Dear God. What else had she done last night? She didn’t dare ask.

  “Why?” the butch asked when Amanda stayed silent. “Isn’t that your name?”

  “Yes, it is. But ... ah, you know, it doesn’t matter. I have to go.” She rolled to the side and got up, careful to avoid stumbling over her slacks again.

  “Like this?” The butch moved away from the bed and gestured at Amanda’s state of dress ... or rather state of undress. “You’re welcome to take a shower first, then I’ll drive you back to your car.”

  So at least she hadn’t gotten behind the wheel drunk last night. Not that getting into a car with a complete stranger was much better. Amanda hesitated, but the thought of a hot shower was tempting. “All right.” She pulled up her slacks, picked up the blouse, and clutched it to her chest as she passed the woman on her way to the bathroom. As if she hasn’t seen it all already.

  “I put clean towels and a toothbrush out for you,” the butch said. “Do you need something to wear?”

  “Uh, no, thank you.” Boxer shorts and muscle shirts really weren’t her style. Amanda quickly closed and locked the bathroom door behind her and sank onto the edge of the tub. She rubbed her face with both hands and moaned into her palms. When she pulled her hands away, her gaze fell on the mirror above the sink.

  Her reflection looked as bad as she felt. Good thing she didn’t have an acting job lined up today. Not even the world’s best make-up artist could have covered the shadows beneath her eyes or the greenish tint of her skin. Her hair looked as if a bird had made a nest in it—or an entire flock.

  She gave herself a mental shove. Hurry up before she thinks you’re in here rooting through the bathroom cabinets, or she comes in to save you from drowning in the tub. She slipped out of the still unbuttoned slacks, kicked off her panties, and unhooked her bra before she stepped into the shower. The hot water felt heavenly.

  While she washed up, she took stock of her body. Other than the hangover from hell, everything seemed normal. No hickeys. No scratches on her back. No sensitive body parts. Nothing that indicated a night of passionate, intense sex—and with the athletic butch, it probably would have been intense. Maybe you weren’t up for more than a quickie, as smashed as you were.

  She squeezed shampoo into her hand and sniffed at it. Instead of the honey and cream she was used to, her hostess’s shampoo had a minty herbal scent. When she scrubbed her scalp, she flinched. Even the roots of her hair hurt.

  As the soapy water ran down her back, an image flashed through her mind: the butch’s muscular arms wrapped around her, pulling her against a warm, tight body. She buried her fingers in short, silky hair. When two insistent hands slid down her ass, she lifted her head and captured the butch’s lips in a deep kiss.

  Despite her killer headache, her body reacted to the memory. Stop it. You’ve never been attracted to butch women. Vodka just makes you horny. She shut off the water, stepped out of the shower, and struggled back into yesterday’s clothes.

  As promised, a toothbrush still in its package waited next to the sink.

  She’s probably used to having overnight guests. But when she fiddled the toothbrush out of its package, she realized that it was smaller than usual. Tiny panda bears dotted the handle. She gave me a toothbrush for children?

  She shrugged and squeezed toothpaste onto the pink-and-white-striped bristles, eager to get rid of that old-sock taste in her mouth. Finally feeling halfway human again, she stepped out of the bathroom.

  “How many pancakes do you want?” the butch called from one of the other rooms, probably the kitchen.

  What is it about lesbians and their instant domesticity? Had she stumbled across a butch version of Val? Her stomach roiled at the mere thought of food. She found her shoes beneath the bed and padded toward the kitchen. “No pancakes for me,” she said from the doorway.

  The butch stood in front of the oven, barefoot. Her dark brown hair was tousled and still damp from her shower. Amanda usually preferred women in skirts to women in jeans, but even she had to admit that her hostess had a sexy ass. With a quick flick of her wrist, the butch flipped the pancake. It landed back in the pan without a splash.

  Amanda lifted a brow. Most butches she knew were helpless in the kitchen. Not that she knew many.

  “You’ll feel better once you have something in your stomach,” the butch said. She turned and leaned against the counter. “Let me make you some toast. Or do you want oatmeal?”

  “No, no. That’s not necessary. I can eat when I get home.”

  The butch reached back and turned off the stove without looking. Her biceps flexed as she crossed her arms over her chest an
d regarded Amanda. “It’s Saturday. You’ve got somewhere urgent to be?”

  Amanda glanced at her watch. It was barely eight, so she had more than seven hours before her shift at the juice bar started. “Um, no, but ...”

  “But ...?”

  What could she say? No, thanks, I’m not in the habit of letting people make me breakfast when I don’t even know their name? She sighed. After she had spent the night with this stranger, she couldn’t refuse to have breakfast with her. “All right. Then I’ll have toast if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all.” The butch moved smoothly through the spacious kitchen and popped two pieces of bread into the toaster. “Come in and sit down. I don’t bite.”

  Amanda flushed. What was she? A fifteen-year-old? Women usually didn’t fluster her like this. She sat at the far side of the breakfast bar, careful not to get in the butch’s way. When the toaster ejected the toast, Amanda jumped and then scolded herself.

  The butch placed two perfect, golden-brown pieces of toast in front of Amanda. “Butter?”

  “Um, no, thanks.” Amanda wasn’t even sure her stomach could handle the toast.

  After one long glance at Amanda, the woman put a kettle of water on the stove.

  While they waited for the water to boil, the silence seemed deafening. Amanda fidgeted, but even if she had been in the mood for a chat, she didn’t know what to say.

  A few minutes later, the butch set a steaming mug down in front of Amanda.

  “Thank you.” Amanda took a careful sniff. The fresh, spicy scent reminded her of her favorite Chinese takeout. “What’s this?”

  A smile deepened the laugh lines around the butch’s eyes. She couldn’t be much older than Amanda’s thirty-one, but the lines in her face already showed that she liked to laugh. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna poison you. It’s fresh ginger tea. My grandfather always made it for me when I felt a bit ... under the weather.”

  Under the weather. Amanda couldn’t help returning the smile. That’s what her grandmother also called it when someone had a hangover. She clutched the mug in both hands and let the warmth soothe her rattled nerves.

  The butch took a seat next to Amanda at the breakfast bar and got started on her stack of pancakes. Her knee touched Amanda’s, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  Under the pretense of reaching for her toast, Amanda pulled her knee away.

  In the silence between them, the crunching of the toast sounded overly loud. Should she say something? But what? As far as she could see, they had nothing in common. Finally, Amanda thought of something. “You’ve got kids?”

  The butch swallowed a bite of pancake and looked up. “Oh, you mean because of the toothbrush? Sorry about that. It was the only new one I had. I keep it for when my nieces and nephews stay overnight. I don’t have kids, but I’m a highly sought-after babysitter.”

  “Oh.” Somehow, she hadn’t thought of the butch as the motherly type. Amanda rolled her eyes at herself. Stereotyping much?

  “You sound surprised. Butch women can be great with kids too. We also have a fully functional uterus, you know?” She didn’t sound offended, just amused.

  Amanda’s cheeks heated. She hid behind the mug of tea. “I know. It’s just ... This ... you ... It just caught me off-guard.” Oh, great. If her acting coach had heard her, he would have lost what little hair he had left. Years of voice training and now one night with this butch made her stammer like a fool. “I don’t usually ... You’re not ... I mean, normally, I go for the more ...”

  “Feminine type,” the butch said with a nod. “I know. That’s what you said last night.”

  “Oh. I did?” Was that before or after I examined her tonsils with my tongue?

  The butch put down her fork and turned to face Amanda. “You don’t remember a thing about last night, do you?”

  Amanda nearly spat ginger tea across the breakfast bar. Her coughing made the hyperactive preschooler start the drumming behind her temples again. Wheezing, she peeked at the butch out of the corner of her eye. What now? Lie through her teeth or come clean? She decided to go with the truth. Sort of. “Everything after the first drink is a bit fuzzy.”

  The butch lifted one perfectly arched eyebrow.

  Was she tweezing them, or did they naturally grow like that?

  “Define ‘a bit fuzzy,’” the woman said.

  “Um.” Amanda nibbled on her toast to buy herself some time. Finally, she wiped the crumbs off her chin and turned toward the woman next to her. “I don’t remember a thing.” There. It was out. She gulped down ginger tea as if it were liquor.

  “Nothing? Not even ...?”

  “What?” Amanda asked when the butch trailed off. “What happened?”

  The butch shook her head. “Nothing.”

  Amanda wanted to believe that, but she remembered a pretty hot kiss. Maybe the butch thought nothing of kissing strangers on a regular basis, but in Amanda’s book, that wasn’t “nothing.”

  “Honestly. We didn’t sleep together.” The butch looked at her with her brown Teddy bear eyes. Either she was a damn good liar or a better actress than Amanda.

  “But you kissed me.”

  “No.”

  The half-empty mug nearly toppled over as Amanda stabbed her finger at the butch. “Liar. That’s the one thing I remember. You kissed me, and it wasn’t a little peck.”

  “No,” the butch said once more. “You kissed me.”

  “Why would I do that?” Only after she had said it did Amanda realize how that sounded. Christ. She was acting as if the butch woman was the most repulsive creature on earth, and that certainly wasn’t true. “I mean ...”

  “That red-haired guy just wouldn’t leave you alone, no matter how many times you told him to clear out. After you shot him down for the umpteenth time, he slurred, ‘What are you, a lesbian?’ By that time, half of the club was eavesdropping on your conversation.”

  Amanda groaned. As much as she appreciated having an attentive audience at work, she normally avoided making a spectacle of herself in her spare time.

  “You looked him right in the eye and said, ‘Yes.’” The butch shrugged. “That idiot didn’t believe you, so you set out to convince him.”

  Something tickled the edges of Amanda’s memory. Not quite a flashback, but the words rang true. “What did I do?”

  “You emptied your drink, turned, and laid the kiss of my life on me.” Grinning, the butch fanned herself with both hands.

  “I didn’t.”

  “You sure did. And it was very convincing too. After he stopped salivating, the guy finally got lost.”

  Amanda covered her burning face with her hands. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

  Gentle fingers tried to pull Amanda’s hands down, but she resisted. “You certainly don’t need to apologize. Even three sheets to the wind, you’re a great kisser.”

  Still feeling as if her face was glowing ketchup red, Amanda peeked through her fingers. For the first time, she really looked at the butch’s face. Despite the short hair, it wasn’t as androgynous as she had first thought. The square jaw and strong forehead were gentled by luscious lips and long eyelashes that every actress in Hollywood, including Amanda, would kill for. A small scar at the corner of her left eye made her look as if she were constantly winking. Somehow, it seemed to fit her easygoing personality.

  The woman gave her an encouraging smile.

  Amanda took her hands away from her face and took a deep breath, determined to be an adult about this. “Okay. So I kissed you, and you didn’t suffer too much. That still doesn’t explain how I ended up in your bed.” She tried to keep her voice neutral, without an accusing undertone. The woman next to her didn’t seem like the type who took advantage of a drunken person.

  “People were staring at you, so I dragged you out of the bar before you could order another one of those drinks.”

  “I wish you’d had that idea before I drank enough to put down a rhino,” Amanda mumbled and
rubbed her temples.

  An impish grin flashed across the butch’s face. “Sorry.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I offered to drive you home or call you a taxi, but you refused to tell me where you live. Now I’m not so sure you even remembered your address. So it was either let you wander about the parking lot in the middle of the night or take you home with me.”

  That sounded plausible. Amanda wasn’t proud of drinking so much that she lost her memory and all sense of orientation, but at least she hadn’t slept with a complete stranger. “And why didn’t I sleep on the couch?”

  “Because that’s where I slept,” the butch said. “My grandfather would turn over in his grave if I let a lady sleep on the couch.”

  Amanda sighed. “I didn’t behave like much of a lady last night.”

  The butch chuckled. “Um, no, you didn’t. Your wandering hands almost landed us in the ditch twice before we finally made it to my apartment.”

  “Excuse me?” Amanda squinted at the woman. She was kidding, right? With her constant wink, Amanda couldn’t tell.

  “Nope. You really, really seemed to like my thighs and ... um ... well, a few other body parts.”

  Amanda wanted to sink under the breakfast bar and never come out again. Her gaze fell on the butch’s thighs. She normally liked her women not quite so athletic, but she had to admit that this was a fine pair of legs. Cut it out! She jerked her gaze upward. What the hell was going on with her? Never, ever in her life would she drink those Mind Erasers again. That drink was really messing with her head, even now, on the morning after. “But when we got to your apartment, I behaved myself, right?”

  “Ah, well, you tried to undress me, but ... Don’t get me wrong, if we had met under different circumstances, I certainly wouldn’t push you out of bed,” the butch flashed a grin that showed off even, white teeth, “but sleeping with a drunken woman is not my style. I just led you to my bedroom, where you struggled out of your clothes, fell face-first on my bed, and started snoring like a lumberjack.”

  Okay, it’s official now. I’ll be the one to die—of embarrassment. Amanda sent a pleading gaze at the butch. “I’m really sorry.”