Read Online Femme Noir by Clara Nipper - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Clara Nipper
Tags: Fiction, General, Romance, Contemporary, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Gay & Lesbian, Lesbian, v5.0
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intense. The two of them mixing their colors, blending their palettes, blurring… Max’s soft sighs of surrender, her nails scratching Sloane’s wide ebony back, Sloane growling in triumphant possession. Hers. Max was hers. Oh, God.
I absently bummed a cigarette from one of the men seated at the table behind me. I put it in my breast pocket without even noticing the brand. I thumbed the match with practiced ease, needing its tiny fire even without applying it to a cigarette. Was Sloane there now, telling Max all about me and how pathetically deluded I was? Then Max would laugh her sultry, tinkling laugh and Sloane would reach for her, her black eyes full of desire. “Enough talk,” Sloane might say. Sloane could park at Max’s without an excuse. She could go into a room with Max and close the door. I crunched ice from my cup to cool my sudden dryness, my sudden anger. Sloane could beckon Max and Max would come. Max would come to her, just like that, anywhere, anytime, in front of everyone. I needed to let off some steam. I would cruise and cruise until I found someone to drown myself in tonight.
Chapter Nine
I threw my trash away and sauntered out the door without a backward glance to head back to the bar for some filly fishin’.
Once in the car, I wiped the sweat off my head and face and looked at my map of Tulsa to reacquaint myself with where I was versus the bar and Max.
Max’s was so far out of the way to the bar from Tisdale’s, in no stretch of rationalization could I just casually swing by on the way. The barbecue joint was north, the club was south and east, my hotel was downtown, and Max’s was midtown. So I gave up trying to justify it and was grateful I was alone. “If I’d known Max was here, I would’ve moved long ago,” I said, fumbling out of my pocket the extra toothpick I had taken and placing it between my lips. Nothing like a cigarette or a nipple, but it would do. Hell, a leaky ballpoint pen would do.
I drove off, scattering gravel and grinding the toothpick to soggy splinters as I headed for Utica Avenue and south. Then I lit the bummed cigarette and smoked it as if it were Max.
There it was, Max’s street. I turned right onto Swan Drive and pulled over immediately to let the full effect come slowly. I hadn’t paid much attention the first time I was here.
Max’s house was Asian-inspired. It was a long, low, angular deep orange brick house with black accents. It could have been an antique Chinese lacquered box in some precious shop. It had marvelous huge lattice gates, a privacy wall, and its only adornment, a balcony with an awning that flapped invitingly in the breeze. The house, like most on Swan Drive, was set far above the street, so any open curtains were an invitation for the wandering eye to intrude. The house was moody and dark, and mystery clung to it like a mist. Even the way the huge trees that shaded the home rustled in the wind made my heart beat faster. I turned off the car and rolled down the windows. The air rolled in like a steam bath. I could hear the quiet chattering of the ducks on the lake as they swam in the moonlight, creating silver Vs of flashing brilliance. I thought all birds slept after dark, but obviously, I was wrong about so much. I suddenly felt at home with all of this: Michelle’s death, Tulsa, Sloane, Max, and even my own spying. I breathed deeply, enjoying being here in this strange, wet city, on this bizarre errand.
My gaze sharpened at the turning off of some lights in Max’s house. From this angle, I couldn’t tell if Sloane was there or not and it didn’t much matter. This was my time with Max. I felt an improbable intimacy and bittersweet aching that was mine and Max’s alone. I got out of the car and closed the door quietly, as if Max would be listening and discover my presence. The air smelled so good, I stopped and closed my eyes and just enjoyed the summer scents of cut clover, mown grass, watermelons, and petunias. Sweat
I absently bummed a cigarette from one of the men seated at the table behind me. I put it in my breast pocket without even noticing the brand. I thumbed the match with practiced ease, needing its tiny fire even without applying it to a cigarette. Was Sloane there now, telling Max all about me and how pathetically deluded I was? Then Max would laugh her sultry, tinkling laugh and Sloane would reach for her, her black eyes full of desire. “Enough talk,” Sloane might say. Sloane could park at Max’s without an excuse. She could go into a room with Max and close the door. I crunched ice from my cup to cool my sudden dryness, my sudden anger. Sloane could beckon Max and Max would come. Max would come to her, just like that, anywhere, anytime, in front of everyone. I needed to let off some steam. I would cruise and cruise until I found someone to drown myself in tonight.
Chapter Nine
I threw my trash away and sauntered out the door without a backward glance to head back to the bar for some filly fishin’.
Once in the car, I wiped the sweat off my head and face and looked at my map of Tulsa to reacquaint myself with where I was versus the bar and Max.
Max’s was so far out of the way to the bar from Tisdale’s, in no stretch of rationalization could I just casually swing by on the way. The barbecue joint was north, the club was south and east, my hotel was downtown, and Max’s was midtown. So I gave up trying to justify it and was grateful I was alone. “If I’d known Max was here, I would’ve moved long ago,” I said, fumbling out of my pocket the extra toothpick I had taken and placing it between my lips. Nothing like a cigarette or a nipple, but it would do. Hell, a leaky ballpoint pen would do.
I drove off, scattering gravel and grinding the toothpick to soggy splinters as I headed for Utica Avenue and south. Then I lit the bummed cigarette and smoked it as if it were Max.
There it was, Max’s street. I turned right onto Swan Drive and pulled over immediately to let the full effect come slowly. I hadn’t paid much attention the first time I was here.
Max’s house was Asian-inspired. It was a long, low, angular deep orange brick house with black accents. It could have been an antique Chinese lacquered box in some precious shop. It had marvelous huge lattice gates, a privacy wall, and its only adornment, a balcony with an awning that flapped invitingly in the breeze. The house, like most on Swan Drive, was set far above the street, so any open curtains were an invitation for the wandering eye to intrude. The house was moody and dark, and mystery clung to it like a mist. Even the way the huge trees that shaded the home rustled in the wind made my heart beat faster. I turned off the car and rolled down the windows. The air rolled in like a steam bath. I could hear the quiet chattering of the ducks on the lake as they swam in the moonlight, creating silver Vs of flashing brilliance. I thought all birds slept after dark, but obviously, I was wrong about so much. I suddenly felt at home with all of this: Michelle’s death, Tulsa, Sloane, Max, and even my own spying. I breathed deeply, enjoying being here in this strange, wet city, on this bizarre errand.
My gaze sharpened at the turning off of some lights in Max’s house. From this angle, I couldn’t tell if Sloane was there or not and it didn’t much matter. This was my time with Max. I felt an improbable intimacy and bittersweet aching that was mine and Max’s alone. I got out of the car and closed the door quietly, as if Max would be listening and discover my presence. The air smelled so good, I stopped and closed my eyes and just enjoyed the summer scents of cut clover, mown grass, watermelons, and petunias. Sweat
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