Because I Said So Read online

  She set the bowl of fruit on the sideboard, tweaked the vase of flowers to the center of the dining room table, and tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the heat and desire out of her face.

  The nervous smile Kesa gave her was the only reason Shannon didn’t grab her and kiss her right there on the porch. The deep animal growl rumbling in the pit of her stomach was more than a little frightening. She managed to say, “You’re right on time.”

  “Your directions were impeccable.”

  Shannon inhaled the scent of Kesa’s rose-and-vanilla perfume as she came into the house. Did anything else smell so delicious? Like she wanted to dive body and soul into it?

  “This is a nice place,” Kesa said, after putting her purse on the side table Shannon indicated. She turned, holding out the slender bag she’d been carrying under one arm. “I thought a sassy red would go with pizza.”

  Shannon extracted the bottle to view the label for the casual table wine. “Perfect.”

  Kesa walked over to the windows to look at the backyard. “It’s so green—you have so much light.”

  It was only then that Shannon appreciated the sleeveless blouse that Kesa was wearing. It looked like watered silk, mottled in dyes from orange to red. It was fitted to Kesa like a second skin, stopping a finger-width short of the waistband of her black jeans. “Would you like to sit outside for a while?”

  Kesa glanced down, drawing Shannon’s gaze to the high-heeled gold sandals that were a long cry from the black boots of last night. Equally yet differently alluring.

  Shannon couldn’t help the little purring sound she made. “We’ll stick to the patio. No grass stains on those shoes. Too early for a beer?”

  “On a day like this, a beer would be perfect.”

  Their fingertips brushed as Shannon handed her a Corona topped with a lime wedge. She had to give herself a little shake as she led the way to the backyard. There was plenty of time for other activities. Talking in the garden would have its own magic.

  Even with all the efforts, Shannon wished the yard was tidier and the cushions not so clearly several seasons sun-faded. At least Kesa didn’t know what it had looked like earlier in the day.

  “I’m so envious of this.” Kesa gazed around the space, taking in the orange tree and garden. “My sister and I share an apartment and there’s no balcony or patio in the complex. No place to take dinner outside and relax.”

  “The house belonged to my aunt for a long time. She lived here with her husband, who died suddenly, and she never remarried. Aunt Ryanne was quite the gardener until she was in her seventies, but I haven’t really kept it up. She passed on a couple of years ago.”

  Shannon pulled out one of the patio chairs for her and they each stretched out with a sigh. They clinked their bottles and bit into their respective lime wedges before having that first refreshing gulp. The dappled sunshine was bright, the breeze light and cool, and they each could put their feet in the sun for warmth. A perfect balance for a fall day, Shannon thought.

  “Your aunt sounds like a good woman,” Kesa observed.

  Good yes, but also cold, Shannon wanted to say. It felt disloyal, though. Aunt Ryanne’s paranoia about the wickedness and dangers of the world had grown over the years, but Shannon had been safe and never hungry. “She was twenty years older than my mother. I haven’t a clue who my father was, and given her history, my mother probably didn’t either. She died from complications after I was born.”

  She didn’t mind telling Kesa a little more. “She was an addict. My hospital admission record shows someone had delivered me, got me breathing, but they hadn’t cut the cord. My mother never regained consciousness, and a determined social worker hunted down Aunt Ryanne. Who took me in.” It hadn’t been perfect, but it was indisputable. “She saved my life. I disrupted hers, but she was a stoic and took care of me because that’s what you did.”

  “She sounds responsible.” Kesa quickly added, “And given the way my parents were, that’s a compliment, I promise.”

  “They’ve passed away?”

  “Auto accident.” Bitterness clouded Kesa’s expression for a moment, but cleared as she raised her face to the breeze and closed her eyes. “They left behind a pile of debts. That was seven-eight years ago.”

  Shannon wished she had an ounce of artistic talent, because she would have sketched the curving line of Kesa’s nose and chin and throat, all in cool brown brushed with golden sunlight. “That must have been hard.”

  Kesa gave a short nod. “It’s heavenly out here.” She opened one eye to glance at Shannon, and her lips curved in a smile. “You said something about pizza.”

  “I did, and I do try to keep my promises. What kind do you like?”

  They’d agreed on pancetta and olive and filled in the time waiting for the delivery by curling up together on the sofa. Conversation eased into languid kisses and purposeful explorations until the doorbell rang.

  “You should—” Kesa paused to pant into Shannon’s ear. “You should answer that.” She pushed her fingers further down Shannon’s unzipped jeans.

  Shannon shifted with a groan. Kesa’s touch was so close, and she’d been about to strip off her jeans and beg. “No fair.”

  Kesa nuzzled at Shannon’s nipple, taut and visible through her shirt. “I want my pizza.”

  Laughing with giddy regret, Shannon managed to get out from under Kesa and tidied her clothes on the way to the door. Payment was quickly managed and she took the steaming, fragrant box into the kitchen and set it on the table. “Let’s open that lovely bottle of red. One slice of pizza coming up.”

  She was on tiptoes at the counter, reaching for the wineglasses, when Kesa’s arms went around her waist from behind to undo her jeans again.

  “Stay right there,” Kesa had whispered. “I’m going to lose my mind if I don’t touch you right now.”

  The pizza had been stone cold by the time they had staggered out of the bedroom wearing old T-shirts. The rest of the night had been heated and languid, quietly intense and filled with talk. They had watched Galaxy Quest and then moved to the bedroom.

  A loud knock on the bathroom door jolted Shannon out of the memory of Kesa’s hands sliding down her hips and the sound of her low, pleased laugh.

  “You okay? I can’t wait any longer to ask if you’ve seen my keys.” Paz sounded frazzled.

  She glanced at the clock next to the shower. She was going to miss her bus if she didn’t get her butt in gear. “I thought I saw them on the counter near the bananas.”

  “Thanks, I’ll look.” A few moments later he hollered, “Found them! See you later!”

  She gave a last pat to her hair and turned away from her now-flushed reflection. Four years ago had been all about sex, hadn’t it? A chemistry that still drove them both to distraction, or that motel last Friday never would have happened so easily.

  Just sex. Really good sex. Wasn’t it brave to claim her sexuality and find no shame in acting on it with another consenting adult? If so, then why did she feel guilty? Why couldn’t she look at herself in the mirror? And why did she ache in deep down, dark places?

  She arrived at her cubicle without being conscious of the journey, hoping that falling into her usual routine would shake away the numbness that was a byproduct of trying so hard not to think about Kesa. Not thinking about the way her nose twitched when she was about to laugh. Not remembering the way they’d melted into each other to watch TV, cold pizza slices in hand. Waking up in the small hours with a crick in her neck and one hip completely asleep, but not moving for as long as she could stand it because Kesa’s head was tucked under her chin and the steady beat of her heart gently pulsed against Shannon’s ribs.

  Her feelings were a confusion of pain and bliss, as if a broken bone had healed badly, but now was finally set right. That feeling of rightness, of being aligned somehow, had come back the moment she’d seen Kesa in the diner with the kids. It had grown during the night together and reached a radiant glow over a cup of coffee.


  Kesa wasn’t wound through her again; she’d never left. She’d never not been there, like sunlight on the other side of a curtain Shannon had refused to open, just as her aunt had refused to let any amount of sun into her life.

  Four years ago, she reminded herself viciously, you listened to the voices of reason and caution and you let her go. Why would this time be any different than the last? Even if Kesa ever trusted her again, what would keep Shannon from bailing out when feelings got intense? You’re worse than Aunt Ryanne. You’ve kept the curtains closed and bricked up the window for good measure.

  She sat at her desk in a fog, idly paging through updates from the overnight chatter. Focus, she told herself. Do something useful. In truth, you hardly know the woman. Aside from the great sex. And the survivor’s tenacity. And the drive to succeed. And the artistry. And the fierce protective instinct toward her sister. And that she’s easy to talk to, a good listener, laughs from her belly.

  Sure. You don’t know a thing about her.

  She made herself reread all the communiqués again. If her head wasn’t in the game it put other people at risk. It was a good thing she did: the third item down, where she’d completely missed it the first time, was a mention of fugitive Seychelles by his Henry Lymon alias. He’d been caught by a CCTV camera outside a police station. A lucky break, perhaps. The report said the person-of-interest had surfaced during a facial recognition scan of an altercation in the station parking lot. Lymon had been standing on the fringe, then quickly walked away when the hubbub began. As a witness, the local police would have liked to question him, but he hadn’t turned up.

  Now “Henry Lymon” would have to get out of Toronto, Shannon thought. He was smart and paranoid and probably realized he might have been caught by the security camera. Where would he go next? It would be so satisfying to catch him and invite all interested agencies to scrape out every piece of dirt they could on his friends in trafficking.

  She couldn’t tell the deputy marshal in charge of the “Henry Lymon” warrant the whole story because it was classified, so she worded the update with her usual caution: “Fugitive Lymon has reason to flee Toronto. Trajectory suggests possible US entry out of Ontario. Other agencies may wish to coordinate interrogation.” That last sentence was standard code for “This one comes with extra eyes.” The deputy would move Lymon up on the watch list, but it would still take a passport scan to trigger an alert. She’d have to have more in order to ask for his face to be part of the already massive daily scanning from vehicle and booth cameras at all border crossings.

  Nevertheless, if “Lymon” continued his nonchalant approach to the United States, it would be one less slimeball on the streets maybe. She’d have done something useful for the cause of justice instead of mooning over Kesa.

  Kesa. Whom she knew nothing about. Like her favorite color or breakfast or her politics. Show tunes or country? Shakespeare or Shirley Jackson? Atwood or Stephen King? She wanted to know everything and take a long time in the learning. Kesa had been warm—at least at first—in the coffee shop, almost as if she’d forgiven Shannon for four years ago.

  Almost. Enough that they could let it slip into the past and make a new beginning?

  What they needed was some time spent far, far away from the allure of crisp, cool sheets against their overheated bodies.

  She shook herself out of a daze of remembering. As fun as it might be, sex wasn’t going to fix anything. They needed to agree to meet, talk, and simply enjoy each other’s company.

  That’s called “dating,” the voice of common sense pointed out.

  Was she seriously thinking of asking Kesa out on a date? How would she explain that to Paz? A casual desire to get to know his girlfriend’s big sister better, right? There was nothing unusual about that.

  Did she even have to explain it?

  Part of her said a resounding “yes.” She didn’t like unexplained behavior. People didn’t do anything for no reason at all. Including her.

  What reason for casually dating Kesa would she give them that they might believe?

  Hell, what reason would she give herself that wasn’t a lie? Casual? There was nothing casual about it.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Two more orders for the Suit-Kini by Kesa from different Beverly Hills socialites lightened Kesa’s mood considerably. They were new clients and seemed happy to come to her for measurement and fittings. She’d also been able to lure an existing client to her workshop for the final fitting of a custom cocktail dress, pleasing her even more for the time saved.

  Instead of driving across LA to the clients, she’d used that time to visit her fellow tenants and discovered most were like her, solitary artisans with clients who dropped in. Several worked with clay and shared in use of a kiln on the first floor. Nearly everyone offered her cucumber water or designer coffee, and she realized she had to take client hospitality seriously. Now she had her eye on a fancy one-cup-at-a-time coffee and tea maker. A pitcher of filtered water was another requirement. While it distracted from the work, having such niceties for her clients and guests made her feel as if her business was maturing.

  That had been the whole goal, she reminded herself. If business stayed steady for the next couple of months, she’d be looking for a handwork seamstress to help her out. She would have more time for the fun part: design. She might even be able to take a drawing class, which meant she’d probably land more clients.

  The focus on her business kept her from thinking too much about Shannon. They had only promised to get in touch if it was about the kids, and she knew that was for the best. Her head knew it, anyway.

  Discovering on Friday morning that her zipper supplies were still under her bed didn’t ruin her good mood. She hopped back in the car, cranked up the Beyoncé, and headed home.

  She didn’t immediately recognize the sound she heard when she opened the door, but as the twining voices sorted themselves out she realized that Josie and Paz had counted on having the place to themselves. Part of her wanted to laugh—seriously, the sounds associated with lovemaking were funny. The rest of her wanted to get in and out of the apartment without them knowing she had been there.

  That was not to be. The large flat box of accumulated zippers was stuck on her bed frame. When she finally worked it free she thumped butt-first onto the floor with two broken fingernails. “Damn it!”

  Josie’s bedroom door flew open and Paz filled the doorway holding the baseball bat Josie kept under her bed. He was, fortunately, partially clothed, though it looked as if he hadn’t been wearing the Deadpool boxers a minute ago.

  He burst out laughing. “You should see your face!”

  Josie, wrapped in her robe, peered out from behind him. “You scared the crap out of me!”

  Kesa found his humor infectious. “Believe me, I was hoping you wouldn’t know I was here.”

  “Yeah, we were hoping for some privacy.” Josie’s cross tone was probably out of embarrassment, Kesa thought.

  “I forgot all about moving what was under my bed. I need zippers.”

  “Not a sentence you hear every day.” Paz had pulled a Tamayo Moon Dog T-shirt over his head.

  “So you’re leaving, right?” Josie demanded.

  “As soon as I get this in the car.” Really, Josie could lighten up. “Next time put a ribbon on the door or something.”

  “Like that would have disrupted you getting what you wanted when you wanted it.”

  Even Paz looked puzzled by Josie’s biting tone. Well, better he see it now, Kesa thought. “I’m sorry I interrupted—”

  “No, you’re not. You don’t think we should be together.”

  “I don’t think you should get married. But as long as you’re safe and you’re both agreeable, I don’t care what you do in there. I would prefer not to hear it.”

  Paz blushed. “I am totally in agreement with you on that, wey.”

  Darn it, she was in danger of really liking the kid.

  Josie was having
none of their distraction. “Why don’t you admit that you’ll never support us being together? You don’t believe in anything but work. Real human feelings are an annoyance to you. It’s not like you know anything about love.”

  Her flounce back into her bedroom left Kesa and Paz awkwardly not looking at each other. He finally said, “See ya.”

  “Sure.” Kesa wasn’t certain what either of them could say. She wasn’t going to explain her particular experience of love. Or admit that it hurt for Josie to say—even if she didn’t really believe it—that Kesa didn’t at least love her.

  She had to put the fight out of her mind, as she had so many times in the past, but it proved difficult to do. The traffic back to the workshop was horrid. The blue sky had gone gray, and the idea of spending money on a fancy coffeemaker became wastefully risky.

  She was used to Josie’s passionate outbursts. What she wasn’t used to was the persistent image of Shannon that crept around the sides of her hurt. She wanted to relax into Shannon’s arms and let the world go away for a while. How stupid was that? Shannon had hurt her worse than any spat with Josie had. Why would she think she could turn to her for safety and comfort?

  Ridiculous.

  The sheer joy of being able to lay out all three projects at once and tack in the zippers via an assembly line helped her get back to a happier mental space. She went ahead and machine-sewed one of the zips into place because the client’s measurements were already known. The other two had declared themselves size eights and waved off any need to measure. She had her doubts, not that she would tell a local mover-and-shaker that. Rather than insisting on measurements the client would argue over, she cut too large. Ego pandering came with the territory. One of the aspects she liked most about actor clients was they knew it made no sense to lie to their wardrobe people. Bad measurements meant lumpy clothing and time wasted in extra fittings.