Captain of Industry

by Karin Kallmaker

  Suzanne pushed her fingertips under the snug waistband of Jennifer’s jeans. “Have you ever?”

  “No.” It was a tight, high inadequate admission. “I mean—I’ve been—I’ve had boyfriends.”

  “It’s not going to be like that.”

  “I know.”

  Boys back home had used words like beautiful and hot, but never so that the words were breathed into her ear like prayers. None of them had feathered their lips along her jaw. Their worship had lasted minutes, done before she had scarcely felt what Cosmo so faithfully assured her was normal.

  But how could this be normal, this blinding ache to be touched? Her breasts felt swollen and the silk was burning hot across her chest. Another hint of teeth at her earlobe pushed all the air out of her lungs. She didn’t know what to ask for. The academic part of her mind had figured out how women could be together, but all of her sources about sex and her own experience—none of it said she would want her skin to melt, that she would be holding back hoarse, needy pleas, that the dignity she’d been trying desperately to cobble into her portfolio to build a career wouldn’t matter when another woman’s breasts moved against her own.

  “Show me,” Suzanne whispered. “Show me how strong you are.”

  “I don’t feel strong, I want…”

  “Taking is strong.” After a ragged breath, Suzanne added, “Please let me.”

  She cupped Suzanne’s face and kissed a fierce yes, felt Suzanne’s hands slide along her hips. Two backward steps and Suzanne lifted her onto the counter.

  Her wild hair was abruptly a nuisance, falling into her face when she wanted to see Suzanne. She shook it back over her shoulders as Suzanne unbuttoned her blouse.

  Jennifer helped part the ruby fabric and without hesitation unhooked her bra.

  A small green object tumbled out.

  Suzanne laughed with a touch of wonder. Then, “How can you possibly be real?”

  “Don’t step on it,” Jennifer said against Suzanne’s mouth and for a long minute lost herself in the pleasure of Suzanne’s delicate touch on her breasts.

  Suzanne shrugged out of her overcoat and Jennifer ran her hands down the front of the simple Oxford cotton shirt. Without consciously choosing to, her fingertips teased at the hard nipples she could feel under the cloth. Suzanne’s responsive shiver made her light-headed. A woman, she reveled. A mystery and known all at the same time.

  The zipper on her jeans caught on her panties. Their fingers tangled and Jennifer was thrown by the fact that the thin fabric was soaked. What would Suzanne think of her eagerness?

  The zipper finally gave and Suzanne’s hand cupped and played between Jennifer’s legs and then it all made sense. The heat in her shoulders, the clenched muscles in her back, the trembling along her thighs and calves all made sense. The sensation that she was turning to liquid no longer scared her.

  “Is this okay?”

  “Do what you want.”

  “I want to make you dissolve.”

  She gripped Suzanne’s forearm. “Go ahead and try.”

  Suzanne let out something between a gasp and growl as she eased her slick fingers inside Jennifer.

  Desperate for balance and some kind of control, Jennifer managed to get one hand braced behind her on the counter as she clutched Suzanne’s shoulder with the other.

  “Show me.” Suzanne’s jaw was clenched. “Stay with me.”

  She let out a trembling yes and lifted her hips and Suzanne yanked her clothes further down even as she pushed her fingers deeper. Though she tried to hold it back, Jennifer’s moan echoed in the small space. Suzanne kissed her to silence even as she stroked against nerves that made Jennifer want to cry out.

  “Quiet,” Suzanne warned.

  “I can’t.” Through gritted teeth she admitted, “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Enjoy it. Can you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look at me.”

  Suzanne’s eyes were shimmering and Jennifer kept her gaze locked on them as she seized a handful of Suzanne’s upswept hair. Almost too short to grip, Jennifer still managed to yank Suzanne’s head back, earning a fierce groan. Her gasps for air matched the rhythm of Suzanne’s hand.

  She saw Suzanne’s eyes widen as a jolt ran through Jennifer’s body. “Right there.”

  At the last moment Jennifer closed her eyes, it was too much, too intimate. The strain in Suzanne’s face, her plea for something Jennifer didn’t know how to do. She let go of Suzanne to clamp a hand over her own mouth and stifled the hard, sharp cries as she lost control. It felt as if she’d left her body and it would have been frightening except for the strong arm around her.

  Suzanne was repeating in her ear, “I knew, I knew.”

  The little room had gotten very warm. “Knew what?”

  “That you were strong.”

  “I feel a mess.” Her arms and legs were quivering. She was dizzy.

  “Beautiful. Jennifer, look at me.”

  She exhaled at the naked desire in Suzanne’s face, igniting a throb of more inside her. She knew it showed and she washed over with awkwardness.

  “Don’t do that,” Suzanne said. “It’s late to be shy.”

  “I just—I didn’t know I could be that way.”

  Suzanne kissed her softly. “I knew. Let’s talk about this somewhere else.”

  “Somewhere horizontal.”

  Suzanne let out a low chuckle as Jennifer slid down from the counter.

  “I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

  “Do you want to—?”

  “Yes.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Suzanne stretched her legs, sleepily realizing that she was taller than the bed was designed to accommodate. She wiggled her uncovered toes. Cold feet were going to make more sleep impossible unless she could change position.

  She pried open one eye. Jennifer’s bed was narrow but she’d hardly noticed the surroundings. An Uptown traffic jam had made turning the cab south a good idea. Where hadn’t mattered. Last night there had been only Jennifer.

  She was sleeping on her side, face half buried in the unanchored blankets, hair tumbled across the pillow in deep blue and black waves. Sometime in the night they’d taken a shower and the faint, clean smell of vanilla and cherry soap made Suzanne drowsy and hungry for food and sex both.

  A faint rustle from somewhere in the pile of her discarded clothes repeated. That’s what had woken her—her mobile phone. The tiny, streaked window over the bed let in little light but given how late they’d been up and how reasonably rested she felt, it was probably late morning.

  With a slow, careful twist she managed to get her feet under the edge of a blanket. Jennifer didn’t budge. Craning to see if Jennifer had a clock near the bed, she spotted the bracelet she’d given her draped over the lampshade so that I am Unforgettable was visible. From there her gaze was drawn to a large poster of Lauren Bacall—at least that’s who Suzanne thought it was. The luminous eyes promised that she could handle whatever the world put in her way, and she would not lose her cool.

  Below the poster was a bookcase that appeared to be upright only because there were so many books wedged into it. Biographies and memoirs of actors seemed to be a favorite choice, along with acting guides and movie buff compendiums. To one side of the bookcase a box overflowed with magazines, the uppermost featuring Jennifer on the cover. The door to the other room was partially blocked by a clothes rack tightly packed with garments in dry cleaning bags. Underneath, in a long, neat trail leading to a clearly inadequate closet, were pairs of shoes and boots.

  Suzanne figured if she were to count up every pair of shoes she’d ever owned from birth onward, she wouldn’t have half of what she could see just from the bed. Tools of the trade and Jennifer knew how to use them well. In spite of the overcrowded conditions, there was a sense of order. The shoes appeared to be roughly organized by color. One pair of high heels with some kind of grime on the toes sat atop the trash can. Everything on the clothin
g rack looked like it was black, with dresses on the left, blouses in the middle, pants on the right.

  Her phone rustled again and she decided that she probably ought to check it. She didn’t want to wake Jennifer, though. She had nothing but her shirt to use as a robe, and it helped fight down the shivers as she stealthily made her way to the bathroom. The old basket weave tile was covered by a thick, warm, foot-soothing mat that made her not quite as sorry she hadn’t grabbed her socks.

  Stranger in a strange land, she thought again. A behind-the-door rack was crowded with little pots and bottles of makeup, nail polish and palettes of eye shadow, a dozen tubes of mascara at least, pencils, lipsticks, gloss and an entire shelf of implements that might have been right out of the Inquisition. The sheer variety was mesmerizing. Yet again there was a clear organization by color and function.

  She caught sight of her awed and dumbfounded expression in the mirror and clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle at her own befuddlement. Around the mirror, held in place by a clever use of cup hooks, were two different sets of lights sharing an electrical power strip with items she was willing to bet had to do with hair but wouldn’t have looked out of place in an auto shop. She wondered how often Jennifer blew a fuse.

  The door wouldn’t close all the way so she made her use of the facilities quick. The calls to her phone were mostly from Annemarie but there were a half-dozen numbers she didn’t recognize. She pulled on her pants and overcoat and stepped into the hall, using a can of soup from a cupboard to prop the door open.

  “Where have you been?” Annemarie’s impatience was loud and clear.

  “Having a life. Is this important?”

  “Cute, young supermodel—that’s living all right.”

  “What?” She hadn’t meant to bark. “How the hell did you know?”

  “Men’s Pajamas and a Millionaire’s Loft Prove that a Woman’s Style is No Accident, by Monique DuMar. Here’s how it starts: ‘It is a photograph worthy of Marlene Dietrich, but most noteworthy for being completely unstaged—’”

  “Where the hell did that come from?”

  “Around Town Style. I was searching to see if there were any mentions of you and the merger and your name came up. This article is also linked to from AOL Business.”

  “I told that woman I was just being a good host.”

  “The model sleeps in them, did you know? Says so right here.”

  Not last night, she didn’t. Suzanne was devoutly grateful that Annemarie couldn’t see her face. “That’s what passes for business news these days? I give a guest something to put on after she ruined her dress?”

  “It’s a great picture. Whoever wrote the article is right. Casual, classic, stylish because all the parts are all those things, even if no one ever set out to deliberately combine them. So anyway, surprised you haven’t been getting calls.”

  “Maybe I have. I slept in.”

  “Up all night shooting bad guys?”

  “Legos,” she lied.

  “That’s your contribution to the gay agenda for the week? You are so scary.”

  “Go away.” Suzanne disconnected, then queued up her voice mails. Reporter. Reporter. Reporter.

  Not a reporter. She listened with a leap of exhilaration. Her folks would be thrilled. She immediately called Annemarie back.

  “Guess who’s coming to California?”

  Annemarie’s whoop made her pull the phone away from her ear.

  “I haven’t called back. Yes, yes, I’m doing it. Go away again.”

  She was grinning at her phone when she realized that Jennifer was now standing in the doorway of her apartment.

  Damn, a bare shoulder from a terrycloth robe… She got palm sweats. It took her a moment to find words. “I just got great news.”

  “You’re going home.”

  “Yeah—”

  “Now that you’ve done everything you wanted to do here?”

  “Not by a long shot.” She realized that Jennifer’s smile was forced. “This is bad timing, I guess.”

  “Is it?”

  “Of course.”

  “I thought you’d left and there was no note.” Jennifer turned her face away. “I’m glad you’re not like that—but you’re leaving anyway.”

  “Maybe. It’s looking like, yeah, maybe.” She glanced at the phone. She should call them back. She should talk to Jennifer. Be with Jennifer—last night had been—her phone was buzzing again, nobody she knew. Yet.

  She caught herself before she flipped it open. Instead, she dropped it into her coat pocket where its zzz-zzz was muffled by her gloves.

  Jennifer picked up the can of soup and let Suzanne back into the apartment. “I understand. It’s not like we’re actually dating.”

  “Legos until midnight? That’s a class A date.”

  Jennifer gave her a sideways smile. “Coffee?”

  “Sure. First, though…”

  She pulled Jennifer to her and buried her face in the curve of Jennifer’s neck. “You are amazing,” she breathed out and was rewarded by Jennifer’s shiver. “Only an idiot would leave without waking you.”

  “There are plenty of idiots in the world.”

  She studied the dark eyes, seeing a ring of bronze and gold for the first time. “Most people agree that I’m a smart girl.”

  Jennifer laughed. “Smart girls are apparently incredibly sexy.”

  “Let’s skip the coffee. Go out for lunch. In a little while.”

  “You have business. And I have an event tonight. Lucius’s ever-present arm candy. It’s possible I could run into those agents.”

  Glad that the decision to part ways for a few hours wasn’t entirely on her, Suzanne untied Jennifer’s robe. “Then something to tide us over.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  It took every ounce of effort Jennifer had to make small talk about Lucius’s dress. Another high-profile holiday party, this time in a SoHo brownstone with a frigid interior in shades of white and ecru. Every lull in conversation immediately filled with images of Suzanne. They hadn’t even made it back to the bed. She could still feel Suzanne’s soft cheeks against the insides of her thighs. Goosebumps erupted down her arms as she relived the chill of the floor under her while heat had flooded her body.

  But Suzanne was leaving New York—this is just a fling, she told herself. Some great sex, some laughs, it’s nothing more than that. She wasn’t even going to ask herself if she wanted it to be more. It couldn’t be, and that was Suzanne’s choice.

  “Miss Lamont?” A trim older man, so well-groomed the effect was almost fussy, held out his hand. She wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that a ruler had been used to fold his pocket square. “I had hoped we’d meet last night, but this will do just as well. Tomas Tilden.”

  “A pleasure.” She returned his firm, brief handshake and hoped her inner squirm of delight didn’t show. Of the two agents showing interest, T&T was the one that could also act as theatrical representatives. “I was going to call you first thing Monday morning.”

  “Let’s seize the moment, shall we? I believe that Tilden and Tilden can launch you into super stardom in the fashion world. For one thing, your present representation doesn’t have the kind of reach into international work that we do. We can triple your income in a few months.”

  As he spoke, Jennifer allowed him to steer her toward a quiet corner behind an opulent, flocked Christmas tree decorated completely in white ribbons, ornaments and lights. “Can I be equally blunt, since our time is probably brief?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She’d been rehearsing her speech for that Monday phone call. “I want to be clear that… What I’m looking for is representation as a model and as an actor. I’m in performance, improv, voice and diction classes and I believe I can succeed in the field well enough to make your efforts worthwhile.”

  The smile under his gray Napoleon mustache was smooth and practiced. “My colleagues and I have already discussed this as a possible path for you.�
�� This time a little noise of excitement did escape her and his smile broadened. “I think we might come to terms fairly easily. Would you have time free on Monday for a sit-down?”

  “Absolutely,” she assured him. “I’m committed to something in the late afternoon.”

  “Let’s say eleven then.” He tipped his head as if studying the brilliant smile she could no longer hold back. “Yes, we can do well for you.”

  After that the party seemed not nearly so dull. The thought that she might be earning a living without arm candy gigs and local photo shoots was incredibly appealing. More money, travel—could it be real? Don’t jump to conclusions, Jennifer warned herself. Every gift has a price. This is what you wanted—why are you afraid?

  The feeling lasted until she was changed back into street clothes befitting nine p.m. on a crackling cold night. Thick snow-laden clouds hid the stars, but the glittering skyline made up for it. Swedish base layer tights under her jeans plus silk and wool ankle socks under her boots made walking the few blocks to the subway bearable. The subway crowd and clatter was oddly charming and she kept hearing snatches of Sinatra in her head. She had made it here, she could make it anywhere—right?

  At the top of the steps at Madison Square Garden station she paused to get her bearings. A quiet little sushi bar, Suzanne had sent in a text. Skirting media vans and cameras reporting on some event at the Gardens, she spied Suzanne across the street, looking anxiously through the crowd.

  “Jennifer Lamont, right? Are you attending tonight’s event?”

  She blinked into the glare of the light atop a camera and had the sense to put her hand in front of her face. Though she recognized the bright-faced reporter as one she’d seen covering red carpet events on the local news, she didn’t appreciate being sandbagged. This was not a red carpet. “I don’t know what’s going on there. Just leaving the subway. Excuse me.”

  The reporter seemed desperate for any kind of comment. “What did you think about your feature from Glamour this morning? Do you like living in New York? What’s your next photo shoot?”