Girl Crush(7)

“God, you’re such a pervert. No. Just on the cheek when we were leaving. Right after she shot down a rather good-looking man in the bar.”

“She’s so attractive men approach her? I love women who don’t look lesbian. The ones made for all of us to enjoy regardless of which way we swing.” My friend had gone into some dopey trance on the other end.

“Veronica…”

She grunted to remind me she was still listening.

“What do I wear to her house? What kind of wine do I take? And we’re back to this same question—condoms or no?”

“She knows you’re a newbie, right?” She kept talking after I uttered my agreement. “Dinner at her house is casual. Jeans and a cute tee. But nothing complicated. It all needs to be able to come off with ease. No woman wants to fumble with clothing when they’re already going to be fumbling with you. Secondly, take a nice bottle since she paid for drinks and she’s cooking.” She paused, likely waiting for me to say something, but when I didn’t, she asked, “Are you really ready for this?”

“I’ve never been one to shy away from something new in the bedroom. I’ll be fine. Do I bring my own dildo?”

She snorted. Legitimately snorted in my ear.

“I’m serious. People don’t share sex toys, right? Lesbians still like penetration—you’ve said so yourself.” The thought of another woman’s rubber dong in my twat was reason enough to bring condoms.

“Goodnight, Giselle.” She was blowing me off. Right in the middle of a terribly important conversation.

“Veronica—I need your help.”

“Just have a few shots before you go to her house. It’ll loosen you up enough that the details won’t matter, and you’ll just go with the flow. You better call me afterward.” I could hear Trish whining in the background about how late it was and knew I had to let my friend off the phone…even though it was just after nine. “Love you, Gizzy.”

“Love you, V.”



*

Work flew by surprisingly fast. Normally, an eight-hour day felt like twelve, but somehow, my nervous anticipation helped the clock tick faster on the wall instead of dragging it out.

I’d been with Stearns and Wilkes since I got out of college. I have a degree in business from the state university, but I hadn’t had a clue what I wanted to do with it when I graduated. I just knew I had to have one—a degree that is. The law firm was one of the largest on the East Coast, and I’d started as the receptionist. The guy who’d hired me hadn’t even pretended it was based on my potential—he flat out told me I’d appeal to their male clientele. That was seventeen years ago, which still did not put me at forty—close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades—and I still held that same special clout…appeal for the male clientele.

Only now, I was the Executive Secretary for one of the firm’s managing partners. That sounded fancy, but there were paralegals who did the actual paperwork and grunt research, and junior attorneys who worked the long hours, and another receptionist who answered all the phones. My job—make the best cup of coffee ever consumed by our clients and entertain them while they waited. I was there for them to look at but never touch—always appearing available but never actually being available. It paid well, really well, and came with a wardrobe allowance—so I wasn’t about to try to better myself or make my life meaningful. I’d remain shallow as long as they’d allow it.

Unfortunately, on slow days—or those my boss was in court, which were the majority of my week—the most I did was file my nails and paint them a new color. Today’s shade was “Pretty Posey.” I blew on my fingertips, waiting for five o’clock and the final coat to dry. I had about two hours to run by the liquor store for wine, get home to change and freshen up, and be at Beck’s by seven. I’d mentally picked out my outfit around 9:17 am, decided on my hair at 9:19 am, and started my first coat of “Pretty Posey” at 9:21 am. Beauty was a process—one I’d honed into an art form. But my entire day’s agenda had been completed twenty-three minutes after I’d clocked in. I expected the rest to drag, but my nerves had gotten the best of me and rounded it out in the blink of an eye.

I pulled up to the liquor store I frequented more often than I did the grocery store. It was owned by an older couple who actually knew their products. I respected that and rewarded their knowledge with my patronage. Often.

“Good to see you, Giselle.” Mrs. Grobin was a lovely lady. She and the Mister had traveled all over Europe and lived like gypsies for most of their twenties and thirties. When they’d finally decided to settle down with the knowledge they’d gained overseas, they ended up here with a quaint store less than a mile from my house. They took care of their regulars, one of which I’d quickly become. I wasn’t a lush by any means, but wine was a great way to curb the appetite and limit food consumption, which reduced the number of miles I had to log every morning before conquering the world at Stearns and Wilkes.

“Nice to see you as well.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular tonight?”

I stopped at the counter and tapped my freshly manicured nails in front of me as I pondered how to approach the need for the evening. “I have a date, and I’ve been tasked with wine. I’d like something that says ‘I appreciate your having me over’ but won’t break the bank or indicate I expect anything in return.”