"Huh?"

  "She forgives me." Nicholas’s gaze was empty, stunned. "How can she forgive me? Something’s wrong with her."

  Chapter 18

  Frances’s heart thrilled. And thrilled some more. The prostitute had brought a present, covered in shimmery blue paper and adorned with a silver bow. But the prostitute kept a careful distance, a few arms’ length. "Did I book too late?" Frances asked. "I hope I didn’t interrupt your evening."

  "Let’s see. Being here or listening to my mother yammer again about acid reflux. Yeah. I’m real angry at you."

  Your mother?

  The prostitute perhaps realized her gaffe and quickly extended the gift. "This is for--please don't think me presumptuous, but when I saw this, I knew it was perfect for Marissa."

  Frances inhaled a quick breath. "Marissa?"

  The prostitute nodded earnestly, and her faith initiated more thrills in Frances’s heart. The prostitute was on her side. Supporting her, rooting for her, for Marissa's return.

  "What is it?" Frances asked.

  "You can open it."

  "I’ll let Marissa do it." Frances laid the gift next to the eleven-year-old present. "Wow. The room is brighter already."

  "Okay," the prostitute said. "We’re going to play a game. I don't know what it's called, but we'll start by you naming a room."

  A sex game? "Kitchen," Frances said, not sure why she had. Sex in the kitchen was bound to be uncomfortable. Hard floor, counters, appliances, not much open wall space. Maybe that was why she had picked the kitchen--to challenge the prostitute.

  The prostitute led her to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. "Okay, pick three things."

  Frances surveyed her fridge. Plenty of obvious items: whipped cream, chocolate syrup, yogurt, cake, strawberries. Up the ante. She selected an onion, an egg and a box of leftover pizza.

  "Interesting," the prostitute said.

  "What’s the game?"

  "I think you’ve figured it out. We’re gonna have sex right here, baby, with the assistance of your items. You get to figure out how."

  "Me?"

  "Yep. No help from me."

  Frances glanced toward the refrigerator. "Can I switch my items?"

  A laugh. "You stinker. No."

  Frances liked the light in the prostitute’s eyes, the teasing in her reply. "At least I didn’t pick three onions."

  Another laugh, longer and deeper. "Can’t wait to see what you do." The prostitute shrugged out of her jacket and plucked off her sweater. Her bra was a lacy hunter green.

  "Nice," Frances complimented. Perfect with your hair.

  "Got it for you."

  "Really?" Of course not, you idiot. Or--yes, yes, of course, you idiot--because it means higher tips.

  "Yes, really." The prostitute pulled Frances’s shirt off. Blue bra. "New for me?"

  "Might be." Meaning yes. Bought during her lunch break, along with bras in several other colors. Frances was not going to wear the same red bra every time.

  "I love how blue goes perfect with your eyes," the prostitute said, injecting the right mixture of admiration, awe and eroticism in her voice. How does she do it?

  "I bought a blue shirt and earrings today. For the coming out. No sense in me wearing your clothes."

  "I don’t mind," the prostitute said. Was it just Frances, or did the prostitute seem disappointed? Frances decided it was just her.

  The prostitute eyed the three items Frances had set on the kitchen counter. "So, what ya gonna do?"

  Frances opened the pizza box. Three slices left. "Do you like cold pepperoni?"

  "You bet."

  "Bacon?"

  "You bet."

  "Possum?"

  "Uh--what?" The prostitute laughed. More of a giggle. Yes, Frances decided, she needed to make the prostitute laugh as much as possible. Make them laugh more. "Did you say possum? Yes, yes, my favorite."

  "Aardvark?"

  "I can’t have pizza without it."

  "I hope you like skunk, too."

  "So that’s what the smell is."

  Frances picked off a piece of pepperoni. "Eat aardvark off my chest." She positioned the pepperoni between her breasts.

  The prostitute kissed the crook of Frances's neck. Kissed the crook on the other side. Let her mouth linger. Then worked her way up and down the crook. Does she have this easy intimacy with her other clients? Yes, probably.

  The prostitute smelled of citrus spray.

  At last, she moved to the pepperoni. She took her time nibbling, her lips supple and sweet.

  "That’s good aardvark. Best I've had. Or maybe it's your breasts."

  Frances drew back. "I would love to know how to please a woman. How to kiss a woman. I don’t mean on the lips. But like how you kiss me, on my neck."

  A muscle flickered at the prostitute’s jaw. "Each woman is different. They have different sweet spots, different pleasure points."

  "I know. I’m not that out of touch."

  The muscle flickered again. Hooded, wary eyes. Then the prostitute smiled. But not enough to erase her uneasiness. "Yes, Frances, you can practice on me."

  How does she say my name like that?

  "Do you get clients who want to practice?" Frances asked.

  "Not often."

  "I don’t want you to feel weird."

  A chuckle. "I will be all right. I will live."

  "You were fine with me touching you in the bath tub."

  "And I'm fine now."

  Then why the cautious eyes? "If you had a prostitute, what would you ask her to do? Or him."

  Another chuckle. Embarrassed. "Hell if I know."

  Frances snaked her arms around the prostitute’s waist. The prostitute's breaths were steady. Calm. Unruffled. Frances’s pulse certainly was not. She lowered her mouth to the softness of the prostitute’s breasts. She kissed the top of each breast. She slipped her hands farther down, into the prostitute’s underwear. Her butt was the right balance of hard and smooth.

  "Nice ass," Frances said.

  "Yours too." The prostitute’s breathing continued to be calm. But she was rigid, reminding Frances of herself, before. Frances freed one of the prostitute’s breasts from her bra.

  First time she had held another woman’s breast. "You really are beautiful," Frances murmured. She studied the nipple, noting similarities and differences between it and her own. Frances's nipples were pink too, but a bit darker. Perhaps a little larger, too. The prostitute seemed to have more bumps on her aureole. Not that Frances was going to count. If the prostitute was her lover, she would. In bed, after lovemaking. During pillow talk.

  Frances pinched the nipple lightly. Brought her mouth to it. Sucked it for a couple of seconds. The prostitute twitched.

  "Do you like that?" Frances asked.

  No reply. Frances heard a thumpthumpthump--the other woman’s heartbeat. "Are you sure this is okay?"

  "Of course it’s okay, Frances."

  "I like how you say my name."

  "I haven’t forgotten about the onion."

  Frances replaced the breast. She fished a Sharpie from a drawer. She drew eyes, a nose with a moustache, and a mouth. "I have no idea what to do with this thing, so he’s some guy watching us."

  "Lucky guy. Debonair. You don’t see moustaches like these anymore. Is he Poirot?"

  "Sure. He’s watching us and twirling his moustache." The egg would be easier. Frances got the prostitute's other breast and ran the egg over its erect peak. "What does it feel like?"

  "Smooth. Cold. Awesome. Let me do you."

  Frances went for a kiss in the curve of the prostitute’s neck. The prostitute took an uneven breath. More like a shudder. Frances ventured another kiss and tasted goose bumps.

  "I have to go to the bathroom," the prostitute said. A moment later, Frances heard the bathroom door shut.

  They fit, Frances realized. Their bodies. They fit. She would not say so out loud, of course. Because they did not really fit. They were two women of the same height and the same approximate body shapes. One experienced, the other inexperienced--and all too eager to devour, to smother their connection like a forest fire, until nothing was left but blackness. Thank goodness the prostitute was able to temper Frances’s fervor.

  But.

  My touching her is bothering her. A lot. Because she likes it. Frances was not sure what to make of the matter. Yes, she could see how it would be awkward for the prostitute. But surely the prostitute was used to clients touching her. Surely they had aroused her before. That was a physical, natural reaction. Her honeymoon night, Frances was kissing Daniel's arms and face. She bit the back of his neck just so--instant sproing, and he pulled up her dress and took her right then.

  Back of the neck, instant sproing for Daniel--never failed.

  Was there some smooth way to convey to the prostitute that she need not be embarrassed? That Frances knew not to interpret the prostitute's arousal as more? But the prostitute knew that. She had let Frances feel the wetness of her pussy in the tub, after all. Did the prostitute fear another kiss?

  Or maybe it truly was as simple as a need to pee.

  Frances stuffed the pizza box and the egg into the trash. The Poirot onion was cute. She would keep him out for a few days. No more touching her tonight, he said.

  Frances grinned. "Does she like me?"

  She pictured Hercule Poirot, playing coy and twirling his moustache.

  "Okay, I won't touch her. I'll show her my toys."

  *****

  "So, I have three dildos," Frances said. "And a vibrator. Obviously."

  Elena surveyed the selection. She approved; the dildos fit her own tastes, too. She and Frances were in Frances’s bedroom, on the floor. Both of them had pulled their shirts back on. "Do you like your toys?" Elena asked.

  "I think so. Do you?"

  "I do. I can’t stand these--" Elena made a face "--these dildos that look like the real thing, with balls and veins."

  "But you can stand the real thing all day?"

  "Well." Elena laughed nervously. "I suppose I can."

  "How?"

  "I think about other things. How did you with your husband?"

  Something flickered far back in Frances’s eyes. "Are you, uh, are you gay? In real life, I mean. Or bisexual or fluid or--sorry. Inappropriate question." She dropped her gaze and busied her hands with a dildo.

  Elena ran her tongue over her lips. Which answer did Frances want? Probably best to say straight. Maybe that’d dissipate the chemistry between them. But Frances would likely pick up on the lie.

  Tell the truth. Elena would play it off as if it were not a big deal. Because it was not. Really.

  "I’m queer, Frances," Elena said. "I’m a lesbian. But I’m not crazy about that word. It’s rough. I like queer. Nice big umbrella. Lots of people fit under queer. Inclusive."

  Frances raised her gaze. Searched Elena’s face. Elena could not tell if her being gay was good or bad news. "Are you really?"

  Elena smiled. "Yep."

  "And you don’t hate me." Frances said this wonderingly.

  Elena took Frances’s hand in hers. Kissed each of her four knuckles. "I don’t hate you. And I hope you’re done hating yourself. Good people do terrible things. Bad people do good things. The world is gray. Thank goodness. I like it better that way than black and white."

  "Have you done terrible things?"

  Like letting my son drown? Elena ignored the knot in her stomach. "Probably. Who hasn’t?"

  "Is it weird for you being gay--queer--and having to, you know, with men? Do you enjoy that?"

  "I probably enjoy it the same as you enjoy your job. We all have to make a living." Change of subject. "Want to see what’s in my briefcase?"

  "Sure."

  Elena went to the living room to get her briefcase. She unlocked it and took a deep breath. She'd had to wipe three times in the bathroom, she was so wet.

  Why did a client have to do this to her? She ought to go out soon, pick someone up and have a good fuck. That'd help. She did not want to think about what could have been if she had not excused herself to the bathroom. Frances losing herself even more in Elena's neck. Moving to her breasts. Elena responding, doing the same. And then kissing Frances, kissing her on the lips. Never lose yourself with a client. Personal rule of Elena’s. Not all call girls were like her.

  Elena took Frances’s memoir out of the briefcase and tucked it under a magazine. She glanced at the clock on the wall. An hour left. She would make it. She rejoined Frances. "Open and see. The birth control pills are because menstruation gets messy in this line of work."

  "I'm on birth control too," Frances said. "In case I meet a guy and…" She rubbed her forehead. "Time for me to go off, huh?"

  "Yes."

  Mini blow dryer.

  Handcuffs.

  Whips.

  A dominatrix outfit.

  Dildos and more dildos. Some realistic.

  Lube.

  Condoms.

  "Wow," Frances said. She looked toward her stash, and Elena could read her thoughts. Paltry in comparison.

  "See anything you’d like us to do tonight?" Elena asked.

  "Heh. Maybe later. Much later. Not tonight. It’d be like graduating from kindergarten and going straight to high school."

  "You will make a great girlfriend," Elena said. "Not only are you beautiful, inside and out, but you’re open-minded. Willing to try."

  "Me?"

  "No, I was talking to Monsieur Onion in the kitchen."

  Frances rolled her eyes. "Do you whip a lot of clients? Or do they whip you? Both?"

  "I whip them. Haven't lately except for one. Maybe they're on vacation together." Elena chuckled.

  "What do you look for in a girlfriend?"

  "Uh…"

  "That was too personal, wasn’t it?"

  "I can answer," Elena said. "Humor. Kindness. Inner beauty. Passion. And the click. Because without the click, without chemistry, there’s nothing." Like with me and Felicianna.

  "Put this on." Frances handed Elena one of her dildos and a strap.

  "Do you want me naked?"

  "It's cold. Keep your shirt on."

  Elena stepped out of her pants and underwear, and Frances grabbed a couple of pillows from her bed. She pulled several blankets from the closet. "I've always wanted to do it on the floor." She unbuttoned her jeans. "Are you going to put a condom on the dildo?"

  "Not for your dildo, if you don't want me to."

  "I don't."

  "Want me on my back?"

  "Yes."

  The blankets were soft. Fleece. Elena felt nothing of the wood floor’s hardness. She propped her head on the pillows, and Frances straddled her. Elena pressed her legs together, and Frances guided the dildo in.

  "Go slow," Elena warned. "Do you need lube?"

  "Don't think so. It's in."

  "Does it hurt?"

  "I've had it inside me before. Position's a little different."

  "Wriggle around until it--"

  "Got it."

  "Feels good?" Elena's hands moved to Frances's hips. Her butt.

  "Yeah. Yeah. I like your hands there." Frances moved up. Down. Testing the dildo. It did not pop out. "Are you okay?" Frances asked. "The pillows, the blanket? Am I too heavy or--"

  "Everything's perfect."

  Frances closed her eyes and moved. Her shirt came down to her belly button, and Elena could see the light hairs of Frances's pussy, the pussy moving with the purple dildo.

  Jesus.

  For sure Elena needed a lay. Too late tonight, but tomorrow she was going to a bar. Pick up a woman. She had not done so since Isaiah's death.

  Partly because of her fear of possibly exposing someone to diseases, but the truth was with her rules and her protection, she was probably one of the cleanest women in the United States.

  Partly because her sex drive had been dormant since Isaiah's death. Sex with Felicianna, after Elena became a prostitute, mainly consisted of kissing and riding each other's legs. Before Elena became a prostitute, she'd gone down on Felicianna a few times. Let Felicianna go down on her, too. Nothing to write home about.

  Heavier rocking from Frances. Clenched teeth, eyes still closed. "Where should I go to meet women after I come out? How long 'til you think it's safe?"

  "Uh…uh." Elena fought to get blood up to her brain. "Probably about three months. The usual places. Bars, bookstores, online, through friends. Is there an ex-ex-gays support group?"

  "Hmm." Frances leaned forward. Elena knew that motion--so Frances could rub her clit against the dildo, Elena's stomach or the strap. Her eyes were still closed.

  "What do you think you’d like to do on dates?" Elena asked. She kept her gaze on Frances's face. Every moan, every pant, every sigh, every sensation--it was there. The veins in her neck constricted, then contracted. In and out, in and out.

  Elena felt Frances's wetness dribbling onto her stomach. More groans, more rubbing. Something was off, though. Frances was not quite on an orgasmic path. She needed more stimulation. Elena would wait a few moments then suggest Frances take her shirt off. Easy access to her breasts.

  "Traditional fare," Frances said. "Dinner. A movie. The zoo. Bowling. Hiking. I like arcades. Maybe an arcade. Skee-ball. I'm really good."

  "Me too."

  "Not as good as me," Frances said.

  "Someone has an ego."

  "I'm very good. It's true."

  "What do you look for in a woman? In a girlfriend?" Elena asked.

  Frances paused in her rhythm. Opened her eyes. Let out a laugh. "Ask me again when I have actual experience."

  "That's a cop-out."

  "Yeah, yeah." Frances's tone was dismissive, but her sly, shy gaze did funny things to Elena's heart. A new redness colored Frances's cheeks. "I maybe fibbed--okay, not fibbed--left out a few factors when I said the hourglass necklace was why I picked you. The other prostitute was orange."

  "Orange?"

  "Fakey tan orange. Do you know her?"

  "No."

  "She was orange, sent to me sight unseen, and I wasn't going to make that mistake again. I met with the agent, we went through pictures, each girl's rules, blah blah blah, and I told the agent the rules didn't matter because I didn't want sex. When I saw your picture, I knew I wanted you. Whatever your rules were. Then I noticed your necklace. It confirmed my initial reaction."