Tag Archives: Vashti

Plaster of Paris; chapter eleven, part two

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Lyle went to see Ursula this morning, and she was gracious enough to receive him into her house.  He promises he’ll tell us about the interaction, but he has something else to relate first.  After his meeting with Ursula, he’s about to get into his truck to leave when this tall, leggy blond clamors out of a red BMW and slithers over to Lyle.  She looks Lyle over lazily, wondering if he’s Mom’s latest.  Because if he is, she tells him, he’s a definite improvement over hubby number three.  The blond laughed throatily, leaning forward so he could look down her low-cut sweater.  Despite the chilly temperatures, she wasn’t wearing a jacket.  Her cranberry-colored sweater clung to every generous curves, while her white jeans left little to the imagination.  Her blond hair draped seductively down her back as she batted her lashes at him.  Apparently, she thought of herself as a modern-day vamp.  Owing to her young age—late teens—and Lyle’s proclivities, she came off as more pathetic than sexy.

He simply said he’s not Ursula’s lover, and there’s a flicker of disappointment in the blond woman’s eyes.  She didn’t back down, however, as she introduced herself.  She’s Lois, the prodigal daughter, the one who gave her mother so much grief.  As Lois talked, she laughed deeply, thrusting out her hip at the same time.  Lyle stared at her for a long minute without saying a word.   Mistaking his stare for interest, Lois winked, moving closer to Lyle.  He felt her fake breasts pressing against his chest, but didn’t move away.  She rubbed against him for a few minutes, a patented lascivious look on her face.  Lyle continued to stare at her without smiling.  Unnerved, she backed off.

When Lyle was sure that he had her attention, he told her that he was Paris’s lover, adding that he was sure she knew who Paris was.  Lyle watched Lois carefully as he pronounced Paris’s name.  She started, unable to cover a flicker of surprise which crossed her face, then tried to cover by saying it was a city in France.  Lyle continued his silent stare.  Either she was the kind of girl used to men talking to hear their own voices, or she’s merely uncomfortable with silence because she babbled about ‘the Greek god who stole Helen of Troy.  Or was he Roman?  I always get them mixed up.’  She smiled again, but there’s a tinge of nervousness this time.  Lyle and Lois locked eyes.  For a minute, it looked as if Lois would just leave, but she caved.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter nine, part two

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“If I am not knowing better, I would think you were avoiding me.”  Vashti’s husky voice causes the anger inside of me to melt into something much nicer.  I am practically deliquescing on the street.

“Sorry, Vash,” I say lamely.  “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“I understand.  How is Paris?”  Concern laces her tone, and I’m grateful.  I know she and Paris aren’t the best of friends, but she’s a kind-hearted woman.

“The same,” I say, my throat tightening.  “He’s still in a coma.”

“Oh, Rayne, I am so sorry,” she sighs.  “Is there anything I can be doing for you?”

“I’d like to see you,” I say impulsively.  I can’t spend all my time working on the case or at the hospital, or I’ll go mad.

“I cannot see you tonight, but how about tomorrow?  I’ll make you dinner.”

“Sold.”  Vashti is a fabulous cook, and I have no qualms about letting her cook for me.  We agree on seven o’clock, then I click off.  Immediately after, the phone rings again.

“This the cunt roommate of Paris?”  The voice is hoarse and ugly-sounding, not the same one as the one who’s been calling my home number.

“How did you get this number,” I demand, like an idiot.  Why on earth would he tell me that?

“Don’t worry about it, bitch.  Back the hell off before someone else gets hurt.”  Before I can respond, he hangs up on me.  I immediately press *69, but with little hope.  Just as I suspect; it’s scrambled.  I call Lyle.

“Hello?”  His voice is low.  “Rayne?  Let me call you right back.”  He must be in the hospital; they don’t allow cell phone conversations in most parts of hospitals.  He calls me in five minutes.  “What’s up?”

“That bastard or one of his friends called me on my cell,” I fume.  Lyle doesn’t ask which bastard, for which I am profoundly grateful.  “Told me to back off.”

“Your cell?  I wonder why he switched?”

“To show that he can get an unlisted number,” I say impatiently.  “There are very few people who have this number.”

“We’ll talk about it and more when you come here.  I talked to Bil—Matthews.  I cannot in good conscience call a guy over twelve Billy.  Anyway, get here as soon as you can.”  He clicks off before I can tell him I’m on my way.  I’ve run out of steam, so I hail a cab to take me the rest of the way.  The cabbie is an older white gentleman who calls me, ‘doll’ and ‘babe’.  I find it oddly enduring and don’t jump on his shit as I normally would.  He tells me about life as a cabbie, something he’s been for over thirty years.  He doesn’t believe the city’s become more dangerous—we’re just more aware of it.  He has a high school diploma, but never went to college.  Didn’t really see the point.  Got out of being drafted for ‘Nam because of his fallen arches.  He is sympathetic when I tell him about Paris.  Turns out he has a friend in St. Luke’s, too—a fellow cabbie.  The guy was driving his shift one day when he had a heart-attack.  He managed to drive to St. Luke’s since he was in the neighborhood before passing out.  Zachary, my cabbie, says his friend had to have a quadruple bypass, and wasn’t that a bitch?  I agreed that it was.  I give Zachary a healthy tip when I exit his cab in exchange for him cheering me up.  I stride to the ICU waiting room where my happy band of fellow sufferers are waiting for me.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter two, part two

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“I think that’s our job, Ms. Liang.”  A woman’s voice, husky, informs me.  I sigh heavily.

“Hello, Inspector Robinson.”  I don’t have to look up to know what I will see.  A tall, slender woman with blond hair that falls to her shoulders and light gray eyes.  Cheekbones to die for.  A woman I’m attracted to, but could never date.  I don’t even know if she dates women, but we have too much history to be bed partners.  She holds herself responsible for not preventing both attempts on my life, though there really was nothing she could have done.  When I do look up, I’m struck again by her fragile beauty.  She is much too delicate to be a homicide inspector.  “How are you?”

“I’ve been better,” she says levelly.

“We must stop meeting like this.”  My attempt at jocularity falls singularly flat.  “What are you doing here?  This isn’t a homicide.”

“Attempted, Ms. Liang,” Inspector Robinson says wearily.  “In addition, because of Mr. Frantz’s involvement in previous homicide cases, we are taking every precaution to ensure that this attempt is not linked to the prior ones.”  Sounds like faulty reasoning to me as both the previous murderers are indisposed of, but it’s not my place to say so.

“What can I do for you?”  I am less cautious with Inspector Robinson than I would be with another cop, but I’m still on my guard.

“I would like to have a few words with you in private,” Inspector Robinson says, glancing at Lyle who is paying no attention to us.  He is more interested in staring at the back of his hands.  Inspector Robinson motions with her head, so I stand up and follow her a healthy distance away.  She gestures for me to sit, and I do so reluctantly.  She angles a chair so it’s facing mine, then sits.  She stares at me for a minute before starting her questioning.  I have the uncomfortable feeling that my blouse is buttoned crookedly; the inspector has that effect on me.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Vashti walk over to Lyle and sit next to him.  She must have been waiting for an appropriate time to approach us.  What a thoughtful woman.  I’m so intent on watching her, I miss what Inspector Robinson says.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”  I wrench my thoughts back to the inspector who doesn’t look pleased with my request.

“Where were you this evening?”  Inspector Robinson asks, her voice brisk.  I stare at her uncomprehendingly.

“You’re asking me for an alibi?”  Unreasonably, I’m wounded.  After the last two cases, I would think I’d be above suspicion, but obviously not.  I take a minute to compose myself before replying.  “I was at Vashti’s apartment.”  I nod at Vashti, and the inspector follows my gaze.  “She made us dinner.”

“Then what?”  Inspector Robinson is scribbling notes, but doesn’t miss the blush that spreads to my cheeks.

“Um, we were getting to know each other better when Lyle called me on my cell.”  I am strangely reluctant to give the inspector the gory details, though they’re fairly tame.  “Vashti drove me over.”

“How have you and Mr. Frantz been getting along?  Things tense lately?”

“You have to be kidding me,” I exclaim.  “I just gave you my alibi!  You still think I might have,” I stop as my eyes flood with tears.  My best friend is in surgery fighting for his life, and I’m being questioned by the cops.  “I love Paris.  I would never hurt him.”

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Plaster of Paris; chapter one, part two

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“Rainbow!”  She greets me warmly, using my given name instead of Rayne which is what I prefer.  She and my late father were hippies and named me Rainbow Freedom Liang and my sister who is three years younger—almost to the day—Liberty Moonbeam Liang.  Or is that Liberty Justice Liang?  I can never remember her middle name, but I think it’s Moonbeam.  She goes by Libby.  She was also a birthday gift, but not a welcomed one.  She is three years and one day younger than I, and I used to think my parents did it on purpose.  “How are you?”  My mother has given up many of her hippie ways since I was almost killed the first time, but she refuses to compromise on my name.  We speak in English most of the time with Taiwanese interspersed in the conversation.  When we don’t want people around to know what we’re talking about, we switch to Taiwanese.

We chat in a laidback sort of way because that’s the kind of person my mom is, though she’s been more engaged with me the last few months.  She calls almost daily, and I see her once a week.  She lives in Berkeley, of course, which makes communication easy.  We talk about Libby—Liberty, as my mother calls her—who just emailed my mother asking her to fly out a month early for the wedding.  We are both amazed as our Libby loathes to ask for help from anybody.  Also, my mother is involved in many committees not to mention still teaching classes.  Plus, she’s a painter.  It would be difficult for her to take a month off from her various duties.  Libby lives in New York City where she’s a big pooh-bah on Wall Street engaged to a stock broker.  She’s also a major bitch.  I thought she’d be nicer after 9/11, but she’s pushed it out of her mind and refuses to talk about it.  Oddly enough, it’s the wedding which is making her act slightly more human.

My mother can’t go a month early, as we both know.  She hates to disappoint my sister, however, as she asks for so little.  How like Libby.  She doesn’t ask for anything for years then when she does, it’s over the top.  My mother goes on to inform me that Libby has requested that I get a move on with my itinerary for the wedding.  I heave a sigh.  Although she’s eased up on the dictums in the last month, she still tends to bark out orders as if she’s the general of an army.  Among them—I lose ten pounds, not get a new tattoo or piercing, shave my legs, and get a manicure and pedicure.  Not to mention the indignity of having to wear a pink fru-fru dress.  Pardon me, mauve.  The weight is gone, but not through any effort of my own.  I will get another damn tattoo if I feel like it, and as for the other stuff—we’ll see.

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Rainbow Connection; chapter three

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Break of dawn, I am up again.  At least I don’t have to be shaken awake because I’m screaming, so I am thankful for small favors.  I lie in bed, wondering if I should try to sleep more or if this is one of those days where nothing can entice me back into unconsciousness.  I can usually tell if I can coax an hour or two more out of my body, but today is neutral.  There are none of the obvious signs either way, so I decide to give it a go.  I obligingly close my eyes and start breathing deeply.  I know from experience that if I do not fall asleep within twenty minutes, I will not fall asleep at all.  I feel the minutes ticking away as I lie there.  I squeeze my eyes shut, but it’s no use.  Not more than ten minutes have passed before I know it’s going to be one of those days.  I sigh and get up, shoving my feet in my slippers.  I pull my robe around me and make my way to the bathroom.  One of the perks about waking up at this time is I can take as long a shower as I like because no one is waiting in line.

After the shower, I go to see what I can scrounge up in the kitchen.  Paris’s fabulous brunch won’t be for at least four more hours, so I will have to make do with what I find.  I am one of those people who needs to fuel up the first thing in the morning or I’m dragging for the rest of the day.  Not coffee, but food.  Some herbal tea would be nice as well.  I put the kettle on the stove, hoping I won’t forget about it.  I have burned three kettles in the last month because of absentmindedness.  I pop a couple slices of bread in the toaster and wait for them to toast.  I rummage in the cupboards for something to put on the toast.  It’s been so long since I’ve made something for myself, I don’t know what we have and what we don’t.  I find some peanut butter and to my surprise, some mini-marshmallows.  That reminds me of the sandwiches I made as a kid, and I do the same now.  One piping hot piece of toast slathered with peanut butter; marshmallows firmly pressed into the peanut butter; I have the last-minute inspiration of adding chocolate and find an unopened bag of semi-sweet morsels, melt them and drizzle the concoction over my sandwich.  Just as the chocolate is running down the sides of the sandwich, I mash the other piece of toast on top of it all.  I pour myself a glass of milk and sit down to enjoy.  After the first bite, however, my stomach growls in protest.  It doesn’t want this combination, as tasty as it is, lodged inside it.

“Shit!”  I throw the sandwich across the room, dissolving into tears.  “Fuck!”  The glass of milk soon follows.  A stream of obscenities escape my lips, gathering a life of their own.  By the time I hit full stride, I am screaming at the top of my lungs.  I sit down and thump the table with my fists.  I am not meant to live this way—I cannot tolerate it for much longer.  I am weeping so hard, I don’t hear Paris enter the room until he is right behind me.  “Careful,” I sigh wearily.  “There’s glass.”  I’ve broken things before so Paris isn’t too fazed by that, although Lyle looks wary.  Paris silently grabs the mop and hands it to Lyle who begins cleaning up the milk.  Paris grabs the sandwich, the plate (which, miraculously, hasn’t broken) and shards of glass.  I watch them dispassionately, feeling a slight twinge of guilt that I am not helping.  I am acutely aware that I have not been carrying my own weight for quite some time.  Paris has been a saint, but it has to be grating on his nerves.  He wasn’t unaffected by what happened, and yet, he has had to be the strong one.  Lyle finishes mopping and places the mop back in the corner.

“Why don’t I cook something for you?”  Lyle offers, turning to the stove.

“Oh, no,” I protest automatically.  “It’s too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all.”  Nothing I say will dissuade him, so I allow him free reign of the kitchen.  I am curious to see what he’ll make and if it’ll live up to Paris’s cooking—a hard act to follow.  Lyle grabs some eggs out of the fridge and gets to work.  In the meantime, the kettle has boiled away to almost nothing, but there is enough left for one cup of tea.  Paris throws some green tea leaves into a mug and pours the boiling water over the leaves.  He knows I like loose tea leaves better than tea in a bag, especially that dreadful Lipton—which seems to be the only tea most restaurants serve.

“When does that group you’re trying out meet?”  Paris asks the question casually as he sets the mug in front of me, but I can see the anxiety in his eyes.

“Tuesday,” I say softly, sipping the tea.  “Tuesday night.”  Paris nods, but doesn’t say anything.  He doesn’t have to; I know what he’s thinking.

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Rainbow Connection; chapter one, part two

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“Just that she’s sorry.”  Paris’s cold tone indicates what he thinks of her apology.  “She kept saying it.  Like she always does.”  He pauses to flip over whatever he’s making.  “As if that makes it all better.”  I sit there, tears silently dripping from my eyes.  Paris turns around and sees me.  “Oh, honey.”  He rushes over and pats me on the back before returning to his cooking.  “I could kill that girl, I really could.  What was she thinking?”  He shakes his head, giving me time to regroup.

“She thought she was protecting a friend,” I say, sniffling up some snot.  I know I must look a mess, but there isn’t much I can do about it.  “She was doing what she thought was right.”

“Then how come you’re not speaking to her?”  Paris asks, not expecting an answer.  He knows that even though I think Vashti did what she thought was best, she still severed the fragile ties that bound us.  I have no idea when—if ever—I will be willing to try to trust her again.

“How’s Lyle?”  I ask, switching subjects.  Yet another thing to feel guilty for.  Paris’s new love who has been getting the short shrift because Paris has had to spend so much time with me.

“He’s fine.  We’re getting together tonight, if you think you’ll be ok on your own.”  Paris glances anxiously at me, trying to gauge where I am mentally.  It saddens me that I have been reduced to this—my best friend tailoring his dates around my mental condition.

“Go.  Have a good time.  I insist.”  I don’t give a damn what I’m feeling like—Paris deserves a normal life.  In the past month, he’s gone out with Lyle four times, rushing back home before midnight each time.  They talk on the phone all the time and meet at the gym frequently, but it’s not the same.  No more.  “And this time, spend the night.”  I look hard at Paris to show that I’m serious.  Unfortunately, his back is to me, but I feel better, anyway.  A tiny step towards feeling more like myself.

“Here we go.”  Paris sets a plate in front of me.  It has an omelet on it along with a chocolate croissant.  My mouth waters at the heady aroma.  I cut into the omelet, watching the aged sharp cheddar cheese ooze out.  The omelet is bursting with ham, onions, broccoli, and red bell peppers.  I pop a tiny bit into my mouth and chew it slowly.  I don’t want to make myself sick, so I masticate the bite thoroughly.  I wash it down with a sip of milk and wait anxiously to see if it’ll stay down.  It does.  I take a bite out of the croissant.  Pure heaven with the melted chocolate running down my throat.  Encouraged, I take a bigger bite of the omelet and immediately start retching.  Dropping my fork, I race to the bathroom and kneel by the toilet.  I am able to lift the seat in time just as the food forces its way back up my throat.  It doesn’t taste nearly as good going up as it did going down.  I have tears in my eyes as I finish gagging.

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Rainbow Connection; chapter one, part one

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Ed. Note: I wrote this nearly twenty years ago in memory of my time in San Francisco. It’s the second of a trilogy, and I had a lot of fun writing it. Let’s see how well it’s aged, shall we?

Paris runs his hands down my body, taking his time.  He stares in adoration at my generous curves, even though he usually prefers his women a bit more waifish.  I’m short, which he likes, but curvier than his usual suspects.  He licks his lips in anticipation as he peels off each piece of my clothing until he finally uncovers my naked body which is waiting for him to touch me.  Every nerve is crying out to him as he lovingly picks up the chainsaw resting by his hand.  My eyes widen as he starts it.  I try to move, but my arms are tied to the bed.  He turns on the chainsaw and raises it high in the air.  He is grinning savagely as he lowers the chainsaw, his wide-set green eyes dancing with maniacal glee.  My struggles increase as the chainsaw bypasses my head and nears my breasts.

“What the fuck are you doing?”  I shout at Paris, my best friend, only the words are stuck in my throat and can’t be heard.  I scream as the blade bites into my left breast.  Paris acts as if he hasn’t heard me, so intent is he on the task at hand.  I cannot believe he is doing this to me; we have been best friends for fourteen years, and he’s going to hack me apart with a chainsaw?  He pauses, lifting the chainsaw.  Chocolate syrup is oozing out of the wound.  He leans close to my ear.

“Rayne, Rayne, wake the fuck up.”  What?  Why is he saying that?  I struggle to get away from his hot breath, but he won’t leave me alone.  “You’re having a bad dream.  Wake up!”  I listen to what he’s saying, but it makes no sense.  He is shaking me, leaving the chainsaw to the side.  I slowly realize that I’ve been dreaming, and I allow myself to be roused from my sleep.

“Paris?”  I open one eye and see my best friend’s face filled with concern.  “What time is it?  What day is it?”

“It’s six in the morning.  Saturday morning.  February.  You were screaming so loud, I could hear you from my room.”  His green eyes, the same ones that had tormented me in my dream, gaze at me with concern.  I stare at him, his eyes, the blond hair, the muscular frame, as if I’ve never seen him before.  He sits on the edge of my bed and gathers me in his arms.  We have done this nightmare things so many times, we have it down to a science.  He has to repeat the same information to me after each episode.  Time of day, what day, what month.

“Paris, it was horrible.  You had me tied down and were cutting me apart with a chainsaw.”  I huddle against his muscular body, feeling the fear I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in the dream.  He is almost a foot taller than I, and I take comfort in his bulk.  It’s been this way for the last month, ever since I almost lost my life to a killer with nothing to lose and everything to gain by killing me.  Paris is a part-time personal trainer, and one of his client’s girlfriends was killed at a party Paris and I attended.  The client herself  was killed shortly after.  Paris and I were suspects until I cleared our names, almost losing my life and my faith in humanity at the same time.  A month later, I am nowhere near recovered.

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Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter twelve, part three

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I go to the kitchen to make myself a rum and coke before returning to the living room.  I slump in the couch, ready to think some more.  I can’t get Harry out of my mind, despite any solid evidence pointing at him.  However, any theory involving Harry doesn’t take into account the note, the rose, the S&M motif, nor the sex play. In other words, it sucks.  I lean back on the couch and close my eyes.  The characters are dancing behind my eyelids, taunting me to find the guilty one.  Everything is a mess and a jumble.  There are so many possibilities, it’s depressing.  For such a beautiful, charming woman, Moira certainly squandered her birthright.  With her talent and her personal life, she should have been the happiest woman on earth.  Instead, she cut a swath through the female population of the Bay Area, leaving carnage and destruction wherever she went.  There’s something infinitely sad about someone who’s greatest success in life is messing up other people’s lives.  She would be proud of her accomplishments, of course, but it would be a hollow victory.  None of her affairs satisfied her.  None of her shenanigans masked the fact that she was empty inside.  Sex can be an addiction like anything else—I think she was addicted to the drama of star-crossed lovers and obsessive stalkers.

Once again, I find myself wondering what kind of childhood she must have had to turn out the way she did.  She was a sociopath—or a psychopath, I always get those mixed up—with little remorse or regret.  A part of me envies that about her.  She moved decisively once she made a decision—so unlike me.  I tend to stew and worry when I have to make a decision and the anxiety doesn’t let up once the decision is made.  That’s actually when the fun begins because I get to second-guess myself until I am no longer sure what I should have done.  So to me, the appeal of someone like Moira is enormous.  The other part of me, however, wouldn’t want to lose my humanity to gain confidence, and I feel that Moira had made that trade-off.

“Hi, honey!  I’m home!”  There is a slam of the door, and Paris bounces into the living room.  He has that disgusting smirk of someone who has just gotten laid.  Fortunately, I have the matching look on my own face.  We eye each other silently for a second before we both simultaneously burst out talking.  After we tell each other to go first and several false starts, I tell him about my evening with Vashti.  I glide over a few of the details, but remain true to the spirit of the events.  His face loses some of its animation as I talk.  There is no love lost between the two, and I sometimes feel as if I’m in the middle of a very personal cold war.  Since I want to be fair, I tell him the rest.

“She’s hiding something from me,” I say bluntly.  “I have a feeling it has something to do with the killer, but I’m not exactly sure what.”

“Let me get this straight,” Paris says carefully, spacing his words evenly.  “You just spent the evening with someone who knows who the killer is, but won’t tell you?  What are you, crazy?”

“I guess so,” I say, narrowing my eyes.  “But then again, I never dated a woman who systematically stole my money, or someone who threatened to kill herself after I left her.  You certainly can’t say the same.”

“That’s not the point,” Paris huffs.  “You could be killed if you’re not careful.  I think as long as Vashti doesn’t come clean, you shouldn’t talk to her.”  He sits on the couch and folds his arms.  I can tell he’s angry, but I think he’s out of line.

“Paris, whatever you have against Vashti is between you and her.  I’m not getting in the middle of that one.  That said, Vashti is my girl.  That means treat her with some respect.  If you do that, I’m sure she’ll do the same for you.”  Paris’s face is closed as if he’s never heard such a thing.  I rush on, uncomfortable with the friction between us.  “It’s not that I think she’s lying to me; she’s just not telling all she knows.  But she said she will in a day or two.”  Paris is still not receptive.  “Let’s talk about something else.  Tell me more about Lyle.  I like him.”

“I know you think I’m being unreasonable.”  Paris finally sits down next to me on the couch.  “I just worry about you, Rayne.  We’re not talking about hiding a past lover or other trivial information.  She knows something about a killer, and she’s not telling you.  She’s putting you in danger.  Doesn’t that worry you in the least?”  I bite down a defensive retort and really think about his question.

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Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter twelve, part one

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“That was incredible,” I sigh after we have thoroughly explored each other’s bodies.  She is by far the best lover I’ve had in a long time.  We are lying on my bed, both satiated, our sweaty bodies pressing lightly against each other.  She has her arm casually draped under my neck, and it feels right to be lying by her side.  We lie in compatible silence for a few minutes until Vashti reluctantly sits up.

“I should be going.  Work and all.”  She quickly dresses.

I am secretly relieved that she is leaving.  I have difficulty sleeping next to someone I don’t know well, and despite the activities we just engaged in, I definitely don’t know her well enough yet. Vashti pecks me on the lips and pushes me back into bed when I make a move to get up.  I elude her hands, grab my robe and get up.  I note that Paris hasn’t come home yet, which means he most likely slept with Jenna.  I walk to Vashti to the front door where we kiss deeply before she leaves.  There is a smile on my face as I lean on the door.  To my surprise, the door starts rattling.

“Hello?”

“Rayne?  It’s me.”  Paris’s voice is muffled, but recognizable.  I let him in.

“How was your date?”  I smile at him knowingly, hoping to get a rise out of him.

“It wasn’t a date,” Paris sighs, staggering into the living room.  I follow, eager for the details.  He plops down onto the couch, exhaling loudly as he does.

“Well?”  I have a feeling this is going to be juicier than a soap opera.

It started nicely with dinner, though Paris was wary because Jenna had gotten all dolled up which is unlike her.  She even curled her hair which was definitely a first.  They ate at a Middle Eastern restaurant on Valencia, but things started to unravel after they returned to Jenna’s apartment.  She put on an Ella Fitzgerald CD and started swaying to the music.  Before Paris could react, she reached up and unzipped her dress.  That’s when Paris knew he couldn’t put it off any longer and gently told her that he didn’t want to see her any more.  Instantly, she flipped.  Started bawling and begging him not to leave her.  When that had no impression on him, she started throwing things at him and ended up threatening to throw herself out the window.

“It would have been more impressive if she didn’t live on the ground floor.”  Paris says with a straight face.  We look at each other then simultaneously burst into laughter.

“So what did you do tonight?”  Paris asks once he can talk again, his eyelids fluttering.

“Vashti,” I say casually, watching his face closely for his response.  I don’t have long to wait.

“What?”  His eyes fly open, and he pops up from the couch.  His whole body screams disbelief.  “You didn’t!”

“I did!”  I shoot out my hand, and he high-fives me.

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Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter eleven, part three

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“Hello?”  Vashti’s voice is soothing to my ears.

“Vashti?  This is Rayne.  How would you like to go the Wild West with me tonight?”  She agrees and says she’ll be over in a half hour.  It gives me enough time to change.  I wriggle into a slim black skirt that reaches my ankles.  I pull on a low-cut, snug-fitting bright red shirt with long sleeves.  I brush my hair until it shines and give myself a little wink.  I wish I could do something about the cut on my neck, but I’m not sweating it.  I’m wearing my best set of underwear—all lace and very little fabric.  I don’t know if I’ll be spending the night at Vashti’s, but I want to be prepared.  I slip in a pair of black twisty earrings, black nylons, and black heels.  I look in the mirror with satisfaction.  I clean up good when I want to.  I grab my little black purse and hurry to the living room to wait for Vashti.  She is precisely on time which makes me question her heritage.  She is definitely not running on CP time.

“You look beautiful,” Vashti compliments me as I slide into her car.

“So do you.”  She is wearing black jeans and a white t-shirt with a black leather jacket.  Her hair is cut short and slicked back.  “You cut your hair!”  I reach over to touch it, then pull back.  “It looks good.”

“I thought it was time for a change,” Vashti shrugs.  “It was getting too heavy.”    She roars off into the night.  We chitchat as she drives, not wanting to get too serious just yet.  I tell her about the email I sent to Libby, and she heartily approves.  She tells me that she hates doing administrative work and wants to get back to her kids, but her supervisor won’t budge until the murders are solved.  I repeat that she should retain a lawyer, but I don’t push it.  It’s her life, and I don’t know what the answer is.  I just know what I would do if I were in her shoes.  I tell her about Paris breaking up with his newest paramour.  She tells me about Dylan’s newest girlfriend.  We reach the Wild Side West in record time.

At first glance, it doesn’t appear that Billie is there.  She is not working.  There’s some cheerful BBW handling the bartending duties.  I look over to the pool table, but no Billie.  I wonder if it’s worth waiting then decide we might as well drink while we’re there.  We snag a table near the pool table, and Vashti gets the drinks.  Rum and coke for me, Rolling Rock for her.  She is definitely in butch mode tonight as she doesn’t even ask me what I want to drink.  I don’t mind once in awhile as long as she doesn’t make a habit of it.  We sit and drink in silence as we watch the pool game going on.  A cute blond is hustling a dour-looking brunette.  Every time the brunette makes like she’s going to walk away, the blond kisses her on the cheek until she repents.

I want to talk to Vashti about Paris’s adoption, but I know it’s not my place.  Besides the fact that they don’t like each other, it’s really Paris’s decision who should know and who shouldn’t.  I don’t want to talk about the murders, not tonight, but I also want to solve them.  I wish this was just a date and that the biggest thing on my mind was wondering if I’d be getting laid by the end of the night.  Instead, here I am waiting for surly butch dyke who is bitter towards the world and delusional about Moira Kelley.  However, said dyke might also have more information that she’s willing to share if I find the right way to ask her.  I have a hunch wearing a tight shirt and leaning over a lot will help my cause.  She already respects my pool-playing abilities.  Now, if she would just show up.  I can take care of business, then go home with Vashti.  Or not.

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