Because I Said So Page 7

  “I knew Josie was the one for me the moment I saw her,” Paz was saying to Kesa.

  She had never seen this side of him, but it didn’t surprise her either. The traumatic experiences of his past had deepened his enjoyment of life in ways she sometimes envied. When they went to the beach, he would run right into the water while she waited to test the temperature. Josie seemed to possess equal zest—she was halfway through her lemon tart already.

  Kesa hadn’t touched her cake yet. She glanced up then, her deep blue eyes catching Shannon in the act of staring. Look away, she told herself, but she couldn’t make herself do it until Paz suddenly grabbed his phone from the table.

  “Damn—I forgot to pick up my book from Lucio,” he explained as he furiously tapped at his phone. “We share textbooks. I need it for tonight.”

  “Can you get it on the way home?”

  “He has work.” Paz furrowed his brow at the display. “He’s about to leave his dorm, but I can intersect with him. I’ll be right back, maybe ten minutes total.” He grabbed his wallet off the table.

  “I’ll come with you,” Josie announced and moments later they were both hurrying up the street. It seemed prearranged to Shannon, meant to give the older folks a chance to talk.

  Kesa’s gaze met Shannon’s and they both stilled. The silence grew longer, heavier.

  This can’t be happening.

  The nape of Shannon’s neck was damp, then cold. The clatter of dishes and hum of voices seemed far away, and a rising siren from a passing ambulance reached the pitch of the alarm bells in her head telling her to run now, before it was too late.

  Words. She thought of Paz and Josie, how strong they were and unafraid. She thought about possible futures and the immutable past. Risk, and love at first sight, and fear. She searched for the right words, came up with none, and all the while she felt caught in Kesa’s burning sapphire eyes.

  Finally all she could think to say was, “So, how have you been?”

  Chapter Nine

  As the going-away gathering had slowly broken up, Shannon had lifted her margarita one last time at Deputy Marshal Carnutt, who was proof that a deputy could make it to retirement. She had quite a lot left to her drink and was disinclined to leave it, so when the table emptied she carried it to the patio where the bar would be open all night. She liked Olvera Street, including the bright, continuous Latin music that encouraged dancing wherever you happened to be standing.

  As she surveyed the available barstools her gaze was caught by a woman in the process of literally showing a cold shoulder to a scruffy-chic, Rolex-sporting “I could be a producer” dude. The woman’s bare arms, amber in the neon lights over the bar, were taut with tension, and one foot was hooked on the barstool rung as if to keep her from kicking him with her this-will-hurt-and-I-mean-it Doc Marten boots. Long, heavy hair hung down her back in a black cape, and she was tiny enough to make Shannon feel gangly.

  Rolex Dude was a type that filled bars everywhere in LA. The woman was not. Her sleeveless shell was silk in a flame orange that was translucent over her midriff. Simple black jeans with no sign of a designer label were set off with a braided fabric belt of purple and saffron. Long purple and pink earrings tangled in her dark hair, making her an explosion of color in a room full of business casual office types. Shannon was drab by comparison in her serviceable gray suit and white blouse.

  It was the no-nonsense black boots, though, that pinged her gaydar and pinged it hard. If the likes of Rolex Dude were on her menu, the woman would probably be wearing CFM stilettos. All at once Shannon’s intentions of finishing her margarita and catching the next Metro train toward home to rewatch a superhero movie were gone. LA was full of beautiful women, but this one wasn’t wrapped in a plastic facade that sparkled for men to appreciate. An artist, maybe, and dressed to please her own vivid aesthetic.

  How did Shannon approach her without being as obnoxious as Rolex Dude? It’s not as if she had any practice at picking up women in bars. Or anywhere. Living with a very elderly aunt had acted as an all-purpose Libido Suppressant. Well, if she got a “go away” signal, she’d respect it and back off, for one thing.

  Rolex Dude leaned over the rigid shoulder to say something in the woman’s ear. She jerked away and snapped a few short words that made Rolex Dude laugh like they were oh-so-funny when Shannon was absolutely certain the woman had meant “fuck off” in every language women spoke.

  Though there was room elsewhere, Shannon slid in between Rolex Dude and the woman and set her margarita glass on the coral-tinted bar. Rolex Dude had to take a step back. He was about to assert himself when Shannon turned completely to face him.

  “Been in LA long?”

  “Huh?”

  So literate. “You seem new in town. Time is precious and you’re wasting it here.”

  He puffed out his chest. “Was I talking to you?”

  Shannon felt the woman shift on her barstool perch, as if she were going to take off now that Rolex Dude was distracted. “Sweetheart, you’re not talking to anybody here.”

  He didn’t know what to make of her. She wasn’t his type, yet she was looking at him, which was the best response he’d had all night, she was willing to bet. He opened his mouth and probably closed it again, but Shannon was no longer facing him.

  “So,” she said to the woman, who was indeed about to slide off the barstool. “Come here often? What’s your sign? Read any good books lately?”

  She froze, looked Shannon up and down, and then relaxed back onto her seat. “First time. None of your business. And I haven’t had time to read in years.”

  “Taking a break from work then?” She guessed she was eight or nine inches taller than the woman, who, from closer observation, was probably of Pacific Islander extraction.

  “That was my plan. I’d forgotten how…” She sipped her Corona, adding to the mauve lipstick on the bottle’s lip. “How this works.”

  “Me too.” She shrugged a shoulder in the direction of Rolex Dude, who’d gone further down the bar to pout. “Except it doesn’t work the way he thinks it does.”

  The shoulder was now noticeably less rigid. “Your turn. Come here often?”

  “Not really. We had a retirement sendoff earlier. I was planning to finish my drink and head home.”

  “And now?”

  “I’m a Virgo, so I’m analyzing the situation and revising my plan accordingly.”

  The woman’s thin, soft lips were pressed together as if she was fighting a smile. “I see.”

  “Well, I’ve been reading this book on how to make friends and influence people so I thought I’d practice.”

  “Is it to make friends or to influence people you’re after right now?” She finally looked up at Shannon, revealing unexpected, startling blue eyes.

  Shannon surprised herself by saying, “Something else entirely.”

  The other woman had been about to respond lightly, but something arced between them, hot and palpable. They stared at each other, then sipped their drinks. The air seemed thin.

  “He’s gone, you know.”

  “Hmm?” Shannon blinked.

  “Mr. God’s Gift with the Armani knock-off suit and the fake Rolex. If you were just being gallant, then you can go off duty.”

  “I really wanted to finish my drink,” Shannon said. “Then I saw the idiot and decided to finish it here. Not that you seemed to need rescuing. Solidarity.”

  “He was going to end up with a boot in his ass.” She sipped her Corona and seemed to make a decision. “I’m Kesa.”

  “Shannon.”

  They ordered another round and when their drinks had been delivered, their fingers tangled around the glasses and bottles as if magnetized. Shannon’s brain was on a seesaw between devising any way she could to touch Kesa and not wanting to be a skeevy pervert. She pushed away the voice of Aunt Ryanne reminding her that pubs weren’t where quality people were to be found.

  As the music rose they moved closer together, shouting
names of movies and songs they liked into each other’s ears. Kesa’s cologne was working on her senses even more than the second margarita, filling her head with a dizzy desire to press her lips to the small circle of bare skin behind Kesa’s earlobe. She didn’t remember feeling like this before, but wasn’t that how desire worked? Their chemistry clicked.

  They were free associating favorite movies and swapping lines when they said in stereo, “By Grapthar’s Hammer, you shall be avenged!” Shannon burst out laughing as Kesa ducked her head to dab the bar napkin at her eyes.

  Shannon was so lost in the smell of Kesa’s cologne that she didn’t lean away in time. The crown of Kesa’s head caught her full on the chin.

  She staggered, seeing stars, and felt the barstool begin to slip out from under her.

  Kesa was a lot stronger than she looked, because the arm that came around Shannon to steady her was like iron.

  “I’m so sorry!”

  “My fault,” Shannon said. She loved the way Kesa’s arm felt around her. “I was smelling your perfume. It’s lovely.”

  Kesa didn’t let go of her. In fact, she inched her barstool closer so that the most comfortable place for Shannon’s leg was braced on one of Kesa’s rungs. “Thank you. It’s Belle de Nuit. Are you okay?”

  “Yes. ‘Pain don’t hurt,’” she added, and loved that she could feel Kesa’s giggle. Her chin would be tender for a day or two, but she didn’t think the bruise would show. “I didn’t bite my tongue.”

  “I am very glad of that,” Kesa said, and then she kissed Shannon, hard and fast. Shannon had enough time to smile into the warm, soft lips, then Kesa leaned away. Shannon checked with a sidelong glance to make sure their display hadn’t drawn unwelcome attention.

  “I know a quieter place,” Kesa said. “Friendlier than this for us, perhaps.”

  “If I may be so bold—so do I, and it’s about ten minutes from here. I keep a very good supply of red wines.” She saw Kesa hesitate and said, “I’m on foot, so if you have a car, you could drive me home and then leave whenever you want.”

  “Um, well. It’s not that you’re scary…” Kesa began.

  “I understand,” Shannon said quickly. What had she been thinking, asking for such a leap of trust? She didn’t know this woman either. It wasn’t smart, inviting strangers into her home. Aunt Ryanne was rolling over in her grave, no doubt. Besides, the house wasn’t ready for a guest. Some player she was. “I shouldn’t have suggested it. We can go wherever you like. But I am on foot. I take the bus to work and a co-worker gave me a lift here.”

  “If you don’t like the place, I’ll give you a lift home. It’s called The Grog and Game—if you Google it, you’ll see it on the map.”

  Kesa was right. The Googles said it wasn’t far as distances in LA were measured. “It looks great.”

  They went out into the warm night, surrounded by a glitter of gold stars and bright music. At first Shannon thought there was someone sitting in the backseat of Kesa’s well-used hatchback, but it turned out to be a dress form that Kesa explained was for a wedding dress fitting she’d done earlier in the day. The life of a seamstress/tailor sounded grueling.

  “It’s enough for rent and the necessities, until my sister is old enough to support herself. Our parents died when she was seven. She’s fifteen now, so a couple more years.”

  “Then you’ve both been on your own for a while,” Shannon said. “I was raised by my Aunt Ryanne. She was in her fifties when she adopted me as a baby. She passed away two years ago.” She added carefully, because people reacted in all sorts of odd ways, “I work for the US Marshals Service.”

  “You’re a deputy?” Kesa’s surprise was obvious.

  “No. And it’s not all like in The Fugitive. The marshals make sure federal courthouses are safe and secure, and we track and apprehend fugitives. I’m an analyst. I gather and evaluate information from other agencies and services and pass it along to the deputies as they need it. A desk job.” It wasn’t the time to bring up her hopes of moving up her security clearance, which not only paid better but brought far more interesting cases. After several years, bank robbers were routine and drug runners tediously predictable. The scary part was that if she outed herself in the process as required there was no guarantee she wouldn’t be not only denied a higher clearance but then eased out of the job she had because someone didn’t like queers. Not that she’d seen that behavior around her so far, but the ghost of Aunt Ryanne often whispered that shite and malice were life’s undoubted reward for getting noticed. In Aunt Ryanne’s telling, leprechauns weren’t cute little munchkins with pots o’gold, but tricksters who liked to lure folks off safe paths into sucking bogs.

  Kesa’s gaze never left the road as she spoke. “It sounds much more interesting than making clothes.”

  “It sounds like you’re making art to order. I think working with people that way would make me crazy.”

  “It’s frustrating sometimes,” Kesa admitted. “I have to read the client very closely. I just did my first evening gown for a celebrity—not quite the A-list, but getting there. So I am hoping for referrals. It would be nice to move in that direction, instead of routine tailoring.”

  “Fashion by Kesa? Your own label?”

  “I wish. For that I need lots of work to show or the patronage of a designer. Which isn’t all that plentiful. And I’m not willing to do some of the things—” her tone made it clear these options were unpleasant “—that would garner a designer’s favor.”

  “I get that.” She found herself relaxing as Kesa drove, liking the competent way she moved through traffic. LA driving took both patience and aggression, and at the right times. Kesa drove the way Shannon did, leaving her to wonder if they were well matched in other ways. The dark windows provided plenty of blank space she could fill in with fevered, intimate images.

  “This is it,” Kesa said. “I’ve only read about it, but it sounds friendly and laid-back.”

  The brew pub wasn’t overtly queer, but the decor featured flags from all over the world, including the rainbow one. Pinball machines interspersed with long, crowded tables dominated the first floor. “Looks like it’s self-service at the bar.”

  “Not a problem,” Kesa said.

  “Want a snack?”

  “Sure. Anything but onion rings. I like them, but they seriously don’t like me.”

  As they carried their beers and a basket of fries upstairs, Shannon saw that tables below were filled by people hunched over cards, worksheets, and twenty-sided dice. The upstairs tables were for two and four, and some were inlaid with chess gameboards. They chose a plain table against the window with a view of the street.

  “I like this place,” Shannon said. The music was not too loud and given that the song had segued from “Help” to “Yellow Submarine” it was set to an all-Beatles channel. “And I don’t even game.”

  “A client told me about it. She was super worried about her kid going here, and pot and gaming, and, you know.” Her voice took on a nasal tone. “All sorts of the wrong people. So I made a note of it, being all sorts of the wrong people myself.”

  “I’m happy to be the wrong sort of person. She sounds swell.”

  Kesa shrugged. “She pays her bills and I can’t afford to be picky.”

  A silence fell and they each sipped from their frosty pilsner glasses. They’d ordered the night’s special local brew, which turned out to be closer to an IPA than Shannon liked, but she managed. She didn’t want to come off fussy or hard to please. On the other hand, she didn’t want to seem like she had no standards or cultivated tastes. Like any beer would do. Or any woman. “It’s drinkable.”

  “A bit strong. The fries are great though.”

  She nodded. There suddenly didn’t seem to be anything much to talk about. Shannon was mostly aware that her skin was tingling, as if she’d rubbed a balloon across it to make static electricity. She knew exactly what would complete the electrical connection, and the pull got stronger every t
ime Kesa looked at her as if she felt the same dancing energy as well.

  “So tell me more about working for the marshals.”

  “I love it,” Shannon said honestly. “It’s important work. I graduated after 9-11 and they seemed like the perfect place for me. There’s more chatter than ever, and sorting out the inconsequential from the important is a skill I’m good at. Other people do the dangerous work.”

  “It’s less dangerous if you do your work well, isn’t it?”

  “That’s the goal. Movies and TV don’t get much of anything right. No bomb threat every day. No terrorist threat minutes from wiping out a subway. Most of what we do is intervene long before there’s a countdown. Look for the same person with five aliases. I draw lines between pieces of data and decide how connected they are, all from my safe little cubicle. I hope you weren’t picturing me in one of those tight-fitting bulletproof vests and a sidearm set at the perfect, completely useless angle on my hip.”

  Kesa’s throaty laugh made Shannon’s toes curl. “I have wondered if bulletproof vests really came in women’s size two.”

  “Not on a government budget. Deputies will wear thicker clothes under for a better fit, but looks really aren’t the point.”

  “Is that kind of work something you went to school for?”

  “Criminal justice studies and public administration at Cal State LA. I specialized in cyber threats and digital data gathering and decided the Marshals Service was a good use of those skills. It’s worked out.” She didn’t see any reason to add that after 9-11 all the fears her Aunt Ryanne had drilled into her seemed to be coming true, and she had felt that working in intelligence for the USMS to keep them safe had been her duty. “Why did you take up making custom clothes?”

  “After my parents died I had to make money fast and at home. Child Services would have put my sister in foster care otherwise. I went to all the dry cleaners in Beverly Hills and Hollywood that took in alterations and did the work by the piece. One day enough for groceries, another day to pay the rent for the week. No time for college.” She gave Shannon a sidelong look as if she feared Shannon would judge her choices.