Loving Liz Page 7

  A week from now? Tomorrow? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know how many days separated her from tedium. The show was stagnant. There was no music to learn, no dance numbers. Nothing outside of her lines would tap her creative energy, but two hours alone on stage would surely drain her. Words. The play was words. Could she make the words play?

  Audiences loved Marty. She was their siren and a topic of conversation at their dinner tables. With a simple rumor that she had something new in the works, folks clamored to find out where and when. The final presentation had little to do with their anticipation of seeing her perform and there was no such thing as a papered audience for a Jamison show, musical or otherwise. Her name alone sold tickets and filled theaters. Stress? She had damn well better make the words play.

  “That’s a lot of pressure for an average show.” She groaned, but wasn’t ready to say no to the theater proposal. “When does ‘immediately’ happen?”

  “September thirteenth. Just two weeks earlier.”

  “Oh. I thought you meant something outrageous like next week. Okay, I’m in but I’m exercising my contract and bringing in a writer. Find out who wrote this show and maybe we can work out an ‘adapted from the story by’ deal. We can do better.”

  “I’ll get right on it. Thanks, Marty. You’re the best.”

  “Yeah,” she sighed. “I know.” She hung up the phone. “I just hope Liz is available.” She dialed Nina’s number.

  “What?” Nina asked when she answered the phone. “You leave in the middle of the night and now you want to talk at the peak of my siesta?”

  “Yup.”

  “Good. That means you have something juicy to tell me.”

  “Not too juicy.” She heard Nina’s Bic flick.

  “Well? Let’s have it. We’re not getting any younger. By the way, I picked up some dye for your hair.”

  “Thanks for the reminder, but I don’t want my hair dyed.” Already she wanted to preserve things Liz liked about her. “We stayed at the Marriott Marquis last night.”

  “No kidding? Great. Then it won’t piss you off when I tell you I suggested red satin for your teddy instead of yellow. I know. Don’t say it. You prefer wearing yellow.”

  Marty grinned. “Red is perfect, Nina.”

  “You did get lucky. How nice.”

  “I didn’t. We didn’t.” She relayed much of their evening.

  “Really?” Nina said. “I think that’s great, not taking advantage of the situation. Have you had the time to digest any of this? Do you think it’ll work?”

  “I’ve had no time to think about it. I just walked in the door moments ago. There’s something more pressing than my love life, though. Production for the new show begins September thirteenth. Is that good for you?”

  “Sure, but when we set up your dressing room, wardrobe needs to take your measurements again. You’ve put on a couple pounds.”

  “I’m not getting fat. I’m due for my period.” Marty pulled her shirt up and looked at her belly. She poked at the soft tissue and poked again. Maybe Nina was right.

  “You’ve looked that way for weeks now. Try fitting into your black pants. Then try on your blue bra with the white butterflies. You’ll see.”

  “I’ll do just that, but I think you’re crazy.”

  “No. You’re getting fat. Now tell me more about Liz. Yesterday you said you wouldn’t want to be her first time.”

  Marty curled up on the chair. “I feel differently now. With the love scenes she writes, sex with her sounds promising, not to mention intriguing.”

  “Writing and performing are two different things. The best sex is in our heads, or in paperback.”

  “Yeah, but the love scenes in her last twenty books were written about me. Anyway, we’re nowhere close to physical intimacy.”

  “Right. A day ago, she didn’t want your attraction to her to come between your friendship. Just take care of you, sugar. Rachel broke your heart so badly it nearly killed me, too. I didn’t like seeing you that devastated.”

  She scowled, hearing Rachel’s name. “I’ll be careful. Thanks for caring.”

  “We’re friends. Caring is my job and I like it. Now go and grab those black pants and check out your gut. Call me when we’re ready to set up shop. Bye.”

  “Good-bye, Nina.”

  Marty hung up the phone and went into the bedroom. She stripped and then grabbed her black pants and the blue bra. When she stepped into her pants, she pulled them up with ease.

  “I haven’t gained an ounce.” Her pride quickly diminished when she tried buckling the pants and couldn’t bring the fasteners close enough. “Shit.” She tried zipping them first, but the zipped pants were too tight. “Damn it.”

  She grabbed the blue bra, slipped her arms though the straps, and fastened the back. The tops of her breasts pushed upward and outward, and that bra wasn’t a push-up. “Shit,” she said again. “Nina knows my body better than I do.” Marty looked at her reflection in a full-length mirror. She let the bra fall to the floor. “Maybe I’ll start smoking again. Liz likes the taste.” She watched in the mirror while she slid the pants down her legs. “I wonder what went through her mind every week when she came to the show.” She ran her hands from her hips to breasts. “Not so bad. I can feel a little more weight.”

  Then she remembered embracing Liz’s breast before they slept. Her breast formed perfectly into Marty’s hand. She slid her hand over and cupped her right breast. There was more than a handful, and her breast was larger than Liz’s.

  “Her nipple was hard.” She teased hers to life. “Like that. I wonder if she felt the same tingle I’m feeling.” She teased her nipple again and followed the path her pleasure had taken. With two fingertips, she traced a line from her breast, down her tummy, and stopped at her thigh. She kept her eyes on the mirror. “The feeling stops right here.” She pressed her fingers against pink silk bikinis. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

  With fluid, sensual motion, she bent at her waist and touched her ankles. She moved her fingers along the inside of her legs. Midway, Marty unlocked her knees and eased herself to a sitting position. The mirror reflected the slow motion of her legs as she spread them at the knees to frame her torso and face. She leaned back on her palms and viewed what Liz might see.

  “Creamy thighs.” She brought one knee to her chest and let the other drop closer to the floor. She moved her hand down to rest on the pink cover. Her fingertips grazed the soft labia underneath, and she closed her eyes in response to a heightened tingle. She raised her pelvis in greeting. “The feel of sex.” She imagined Liz’s cheeks against her thighs. Her hips moved in rhythm against an envisioned tongue. She whimpered.

  Pressured internally and on the verge of orgasm, Marty removed her hand and lowered her legs. She listened to her erratic breaths that missed their final gasp. Her chest heaved and she ached for an earth-shattering spasm. As she reached to satisfy her need, she stopped again.

  “No.” She pounded the floor with her fists and stood.

  Marty finished dressing and pulled her hair into a thick ponytail. She washed her face and decided against wearing makeup. Liz had commented that she looked cuter than hell without makeup.

  “Cuter than hell. Not a big step, but she meant well. Cuter than hell,” she repeated and blew a kiss to her reflection, just because. The house phone rang and she grabbed the bedroom extension. “Hello.”

  “Hi.”

  “I was just thinking about you.” She sat on the bed.

  “Good thoughts?”

  “I’ll keep you guessing.”

  “Maybe you’ll tell me later?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re teasing me again.”

  She was happy that Liz couldn’t see her grin. “No, there was no accent.”

  “I’ve called to tell you I have to wait for my ex to come over for some things. Can we change our schedule? I’ll come to your place and I can sign your books while I’m there.”

  “That’s
fine with me. When can I expect you?”

  “Around six?”

  “Okay. I’ll see you then.”

  They hung up and Marty dropped back onto the bed. A few dishes were in the sink and the carpet could use a quickie from the Hoover. That sounded like fifteen minutes of work and left her with an additional three hours before Liz would arrive.

  She went into the living room, grabbed No Business, Show Business from the bookcase, and then nestled among soft pillows on the window seat. Years had passed since she’d last read the book. The first thing she noticed was Liz’s use of first person. Marty had read the entire catalogue of novels, and this was the only one written from a single point of view and in first person. She opened the book to the dedication page.

  “Dedicated to my woman in red.” Marty smiled. “I’ll be damned,” she said, turned to page one, and read aloud.

  “From the moment Abby McNair sauntered onto the stage, she captured me, and she’s never let go. Dressed in red silk so tight the fabric became her flesh, each step Abby made, each slide of her hand, each twinkle of her devastatingly blue eyes left me breathing in such an agitated state that my husband asked if I felt ill. Holy shit, I’d said out loud while Abby seduced my mind and body. I’d have given myself willingly to her, on that stage and in front of that audience. Who knew an evening at the theater would drape me in a state of continual desire that would control nearly every movement I would make? Somehow, Abby knew.”

  “Wow,” she whispered and turned to a random page.

  “Abby’s lips burned through to my soul. Driven by need, I pulled her against me and whimpered as her tongue sliced through my labia. Slowly, her stroke carved a path and she pushed through until her tongue teased my clit with loving kisses.”

  The words renewed Marty’s need for release. She closed her eyes and Liz was against her mouth. Liz tightened her legs around Marty’s neck and Marty smothered within the embrace. She opened her eyes, closed the book, and exhaled audibly.

  “I better wash the dishes.”

  *

  Liz rang the door buzzer at six fifteen and then greeted Marty with a smile and a small plastic bag from the local drugstore.

  “I like when you come over. I always get presents.” She peered into the bag and laughed when she pulled out a box of cotton swabs. “Q-tips?”

  “Why not? People always get flowers.” She pointed to the vase of daisies on the table. “See. They’ll be dead in another day. Q-tips are practical.”

  Marty loved Liz’s way of thinking, along with her smile. “I might need them one day.” She looked at the box again. “Q-tips. I like that.” She set the package next to the daisies.

  “I have another gift for you.” She reached into her shoulder bag and handed Marty a paperback novel.

  “Taylor Rock. Your new book. Thank you.” She accented her thanks with a kiss to Liz’s cheek.

  “I’ve already signed that one for you. So where’s your mountain of books I need to autograph?” When led into the living room she instantly headed toward No Business, Show Business on the floor near the window seat. She looked at Marty. “Did you read anything interesting?”

  “I thought so. It got a little steamy and I stopped to do some housework. Did you seriously have me in mind when you wrote the book?”

  “No one else.” Liz picked up the paperback and handed it to her. “Turn to page twelve.” She sat and waited while Marty searched for the page. “Find the first full paragraph from the bottom of the page.”

  She scanned from the bottom up. “Got it.”

  “Read the first two sentences.”

  “Wanting the alluring Abby, but sealed into marriage, I chose to see her show twice a week until it closed. When the final curtain came down, I whispered good-bye through a choke of streaming tears.” She closed the book.

  Liz winked at her. “Told ya.”

  “You really whispered a tearful good-bye?”

  She took the book. “Yes and no. I whispered good-bye to you, but there were no tears choking me. That was creative license. Which parts were you reading today?” Her eyes were lethally devilish.

  “The glossary,” she said, feeling equally playful.

  “There’s no glossary.”

  She nodded. “Oh, yes there is. You defined everything to perfection.”

  “Some things. I had to invent much of your body. I gave you a firm ass and curves that would make gods weep in utter joy.”

  “You definitely write fiction. My assistant is ready to release me into pasture for my sagging ass.” She pulled five books from the bookcase and stacked them beside Liz.

  “It isn’t important, you know,” she said as she took a pen from her bag.

  “What isn’t important?”

  “A firm ass.” She opened the first book and signed her name.

  “What is important to you?”

  “Honesty. Togetherness. I’ve been so dishonest with me that I need honesty mainlined.” She signed the small stack of books and handed them back. “Next lot. You had my number the day we met, and I still lied to myself and to you.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry for that. You deserve better from me, and that means you could be in for some trouble.”

  “Right here in River City.” She placed the remaining books on the sofa. Waiting patiently while Liz finished signing the novels, she was confused when Liz tucked No Business, Show Business under her leg.

  “Why won’t you sign it?”

  “I’ll take it home with me. That’s the one book I’ll personalize for you, and I’d rather take my time with it.”

  Marty agreed and returned all the books to their shelves. “Let’s see,” she said. “Twenty-two signed lesbian novels from the great Chandler. I can get upward of forty bucks a pop for those on eBay. Maybe more.”

  Liz looked offended. “How dare you!” Then she cocked her head and squinted. “That much? Really?” She opened the book. “Imagine what I could get for one of these.”

  Marty grabbed the book. “No way.” She sat on the sofa. “Of course, we could flaunt our relationship and I’ll sign the book, too. Every admirer of Liz Chandler and/or Marty Jamison will bid on this baby. We’ll buy copies cheap, sign them, and…” She set the book to her side. Liz sat quietly with tenderness in her eyes. Her cheeks were a little rosy. “No?”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “While you rambled on about capitalism, I was thinking of you on stage and comparing what I see here.”

  “What do you see so far?”

  “You’re larger than life and in full control on stage. From what I can tell in the real world, you’re self-conscious and you babble.”

  Marty grabbed a pillow and hugged it close. “I’m nervous. That’s when I blather mindlessly.” She rested her chin on the pillow. “Let’s see if I can relax. New topic: What prompted a straight, married woman to write lesbian fiction?”

  “I thought you’d never ask. A friend told me I was too anal to write anything outside of technical manuals. She went through my bookshelves, found a dusty Danielle Steele novel, and tossed it to me. She challenged me to write a romance novel, but there was a catch. The romance had to be between two women and I had to submit it to a publisher.”

  “Interesting. So you wrote a novel and a publisher liked the story.”

  “I thought that was the end of it until the publisher asked if I had anything more. I came up with a quick idea and my lesbian fiction career was born.”

  “You were an overnight sensation.”

  “The books were fun to write, and somehow the words flew from my fingertips.” Liz reached for Marty’s hand. “Then seeing you at the theater changed my writing style.”

  “Your books became steamier.” She let go of the pillow. “What did your husband say about your creative persona?”

  “Nothing much. He read No Business and looked at me funny, but never questioned me. He was too busy with his girl-of-the-month club.”

  “And you liv
ed with that? I literally threw my last girlfriend out with nothing but a blanket wrapped around her.”

  “Really? That’s a story I need to hear. Anyway, I lived with his philandering because I didn’t care. I was Mrs. Doctor when he needed a wife and I lived comfortably. I was surprised when he eventually asked for a divorce, but I was also relieved.”

  “Isn’t it funny how things happen?” Marty said.

  “It would have been nice if things had happened twenty years ago.”

  “All things in due course. With close friends as the exception, I was in the closet back then. I might have run the other direction if you’d stepped one foot near me. Tell me something. Does anything about me disappoint you yet?”

  “Not yet. Should I be worried? Be honest.”

  “I’m impatient at times, especially if things aren’t happening quickly enough.” She snapped her fingers three times. “I’m overprotective of what happens in the theater. I’ll get mouthy and have to apologize to everyone between Chelsea and Columbus Circle.”

  “At least you know when you’re wrong.”

  “Yeah, but I wish I had better control of my anger. These days I get nuts only once during a show’s run and then everyone breathes freely again.”

  “Why was it so bad before now?”

  “I let my personal life interfere with my professional half. I was living with a woman who cheated on me. Her proclivities for other women went on for about a year, and I couldn’t prove it. One day I walked into our bedroom and saw her face first in the crotch of a good friend. I went ballistic.” She shuddered. “I still don’t like thinking about that afternoon.”

  “You aren’t over her, then?”

  “It’s been two years. I’m over her, but I don’t like thinking about how I’d lost control.” She suddenly remembered the new production date for the show. “Oh! There’s been a change in our production schedule. We begin mid-September and I need a writer. Would you be interested in some theater work if we can strike a deal with the show’s author?”

  “Absolutely. Speaking of productions, did you see The Daily News today?”