Warm and Willing - Lawrence Block [37]
She thought of Megan. The blonde girl might be home now—she had not even called to make sure. Megan could be at their apartment, waiting for her, wondering where she was, worrying about her. She dragged nervously on the cigarette and coughed. She could still do it, she told herself. Turn around, hurry home, find Megan or wait for Megan, and push Bobbie out of her mind. She could do it.
Oh, God—
Her forefinger found the bell, stabbed it. She heard chimes sound within the apartment. There was silence and for a moment she thought that Bobbie was not home. Then she heard footsteps approaching the door and she held her arms rigid at her sides and waited.
“I hoped you would come.”
“I had to.”
“Last night.”
“Yes.”
“You’re scared, aren’t you, Rho?”
“Not of you.”
“Of yourself then. Of what happens.”
“Yes.”
“Stay there, I’ll make drinks. Scotch?”
“All right.”
She waited on the couch while Bobbie made drinks. The couch was an old Victorian affair with arms, a floral pattern that blended with the cozily chaotic decor of the apartment. An oriental rug, going threadbare here and there. A Modigliani reproduction housed in a garish gold frame. A sagging armchair, a pair of rock maple captain’s chairs, a Duncan Phyfe drumhead table. A confusion of bad pieces which somehow went together well, all of them managing to reflect the person that was Bobbie.
On the arm of the couch Bobbie’s cat sat staring at her. A Siamese, a study in poise and gentility. Bobbie had spoken of the cat before. His name was Claude—“Because he clawed me,” Bobbie had explained—and he was the only male allowed in the apartment. Rhoda reached out a hand toward the cat, then withdrew it. She tried to remember whether or not you were supposed to pet cats.
“Don’t,” Bobbie said. She crossed the room with the drinks. “He hates affection, Rho. He’s a miserable bastard. Did you want water in this? I made it on the rocks.”
“That’s fine.”
She took her drink, sipped it. Bobbie was sitting in the chair at her right now. She turned on the couch and crossed her legs at the knee and looked at Bobbie. Bobbie was wearing slacks and a gold blouse, and her chestnut hair was drawn back in a chignon. She always seemed to be wearing her hair differently, Rhoda thought. And it always looked lovely. Now she seemed cool and detached, very commanding.
Bobbie said, “What happens now, Rho?”
“I don’t know.”
“We want each other. That much is fairly obvious. I’ve wanted you all along, and I suppose you’ve known that all along. Megan could see it coming. She hasn’t liked me much since you and I met. She knew this would happen.”
“She knew before I did.”
“When was that?”
“I guess the party.”
”That’s what I thought.”
Bobbie stood up, stretched, pulling her shoulders sharply back to draw her breasts into bold relief against the material of the gold blouse. Her body was bent slightly backward at the waist, and her hips thrust out provocatively. Rhoda’s eyes were glued to the girl’s body. The black slacks were very tight, like a second skin, and Rhoda looked at the tops of Bobbie’s thighs and felt a yearning come up in the back of throat, strong and undeniable. She could not look away.
Why? Just a girl’s body, composed of the same elements as her own, arranged in similar if not identical proportion. A body no better or worse than her own and no better or worse than Megan’s. Why such a hunger, such a wave of need?
“Rho.” The voice low in pitch now, husky. “Rho, I do not just want a sweet and simple roll in the hay.”
“No.”
“If I have you it has to be for a long time. Forget forever, I don’t know what forever means. Nothing is forever. But no one-night stands and no week-long marriage. I don’t want that.”
“Neither do I.”
And she thought, Don’t talk, don’t talk to me. Touch me, hold me, kiss me, say wonderful things to me. Just that.
“Megan was your first.”
“Yes.”
“Gay girls change partners more when they just start out. They suddenly see