Winter Jacket: Finding Home (10 page)

In profile, a woman leaned into a wooden steering wheel. Her back was arched, her bare breasts pressed against the oversized wheel, and her legs were spread shoulder’s length apart. She held onto the wheel, fingers clenched and white-knuckled. Standing directly behind her was a second woman, slightly taller with short, dark hair. Unlike her partner, the room’s second occupant was fully dressed.

One hand fisted the naked woman’s long hair and the other hand was out of view, but from the noises falling from the first woman’s mouth, I had a pretty good idea where it was.

Both women looked up sharply when the metal hatch door made a noisy complaint.

I backed out of the door from which I’d just come. “S-sorry,” I stuttered. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

The dark-haired woman slowly licked her lips, and I felt the lingering attention of her stare. “You want in on this, beautiful?”

I slammed the door shut in lieu of a response. A hand clasped on my elbow, and I turned abruptly on my heels. Thankfully, it was only Troian.

“Where did you go?”

“I was looking for you,” I explained. “Did you find Jane?” My pulse was racing, but if Troian noticed, she didn’t comment.

“Yes and no.” She rolled her eyes. “She’s blackout drunk so she probably won’t even remember I stopped by. What a waste of a Saturday.”

“I’m sorry. That sucks.”

“Agreed,” she nodded her head. “Now let’s blow this popsicle stand. I’m ready to eat my weight in cheeseburgers.”

+ + +

“You wouldn’t believe this party Troian dragged me to today.” I called Hunter’s laptop nearly the moment I returned from burgers with Troian.

“Oh yeah?” came Hunter’s voice. I was afforded a view of my bedroom, but no girlfriend.

“Where are you?”

“Keep talking,” she instructed off-camera. “I’m just finishing getting ready.”

“Oh Lord, no,” I muttered.

All memories of lesbians in tiny bikinis fell out of my brain when my girlfriend walked across the screen. She wore a nearly neon pink sleeveless-top tucked into a black pencil skirt, creating a long, lean silhouette.

“What’s the outfit for?” I asked.

“The hospital is having a fundraising dinner tonight,” she said, holding herself steady as she stepped into high heels, “so we’re supposed to dress up.”

“Jesus, you look good,” I practically salivated. “Why would you do this to me?”

“Because I can, obviously. Plus, I think it’s always a good idea to remind you what you have waiting for you back home.”

“I never forget, love.” I licked my lips as I continued to stare, unblinking at my computer screen. “Where has that skirt been all my life?”

Hunter often wore skirts, but they were generally long and flowing or knee-length and pleated. The skirt she now wore hugged her lean curves, accentuating both her slender waist and her long, toned legs.

“In your closet, actually. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? The only thing I mind is that I’m not there to take it off of you at the end of the night.”

“I miss you,” she said, painted lips curving into a frown.

I leaned toward the laptop screen as though I couldn’t get close enough to her. “I miss you so much, Hunt. When do you think you can visit?”

Hunter’s frown deepened. “I depleted all my vacation days on our road trip, so it’ll be a while until I can save up some more time off. Maybe in a month?”

“That sounds like forever.” What I wouldn’t do for someone to have invented teleportation technology so I could beam myself to where she was.

“I’ll keep working on it,” she promised. “But in the meantime, I’ve got to get to this party.”

“Okay. Have fun,” I said. “But if any of those doctors try to get handsy with you, just remember whose girl you are.”

From nearly two thousand miles away, she blew me a kiss. “Like I could ever forget.”

I was supposed to be looking over the scripts Troian had given me earlier in the week, tightening up dialogue and making jokes funnier, but it was hard to focus with thoughts of Hunter in that black skirt and high heels parading around in my head.

I jumped to attention when my laptop began to jingle with a video chat request from Hunter. When I accepted the call, my bedroom came into focus, but my girlfriend was absent.

“Hunter?” I called out. “Are you there?” I briefly considered if Sylvia was talented enough to step on the laptop keyboard to have made the call.

“I’m here.” I heard her voice rather than saw her. Her black high heels flew across the screen, and I heard her satisfied sigh.

“I didn’t expect you home so soon,” I admitted. “Was the party not fun?”

“Not even a little bit, but what do you expect when you cram a bunch of stuffy doctors into one room?”

When she finally appeared on my laptop screen, the pink top she’d worn to the party was gone to reveal a black satiny bra, her bare midriff, and that damn pencil skirt.

“You don’t play fair.” I openly complained.

She sat down in front of the computer screen. “Will you do something for me?”

“Anything,” came my immediate reply.

“I can’t … I haven’t been able to … I’m feeling … frustrated.”

My pulse quickened. “What, um, what do you need me to do?”

She chewed on her lower lip. “Would you have sex with me?”

I cocked an eyebrow. “On Skype?”

“Would that be weird?”

I hesitated. “What about … over the phone?” I was a word person, not visual. On the rare occasion that I looked at porn, I read erotica rather than watching movies.

“Should I call you or the other way around?” she asked.

“Wow. You weren’t bluffing.”

She ducked her head. “Stop it,” she quietly protested.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” I apologized in earnest. “I shouldn’t tease.”

Her chin lifted, and she met my gaze once more. “But I really like it when you do.”

“Call me,” I said. “Right now.”

I had barely signed off on my laptop before my cell phone began to ring.

“Hi,” I answered, feeling a little breathless.

“Hi,” she replied.

An awkward, silent second passed. “So …” I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to start.

“What are you wearing?” she asked me, voice dropping to a low rasp.

I smiled into the phone. We’d only just seen each other on video chat seconds ago, but if she wanted to go this route, I was game.

“A t-shirt and sleep shorts.”

“No bra or underwear?”

“No.”

“I’m wearing a skirt, underwear, and a bra; I’m feeling a little over dressed.”

I shifted on the mattress, slipping down the headboard to find a more comfortable resting place. “You should do something about that,” I husked.

“Hold on.” I heard a squeaking noise like she was moving around on the bed followed by what sounded like a door closing. “Okay. I’m back.”

“Where did you go?”

“I had to close the bedroom door. I don’t want to risk Sylvia walking in on me.”

“Good thinking,” I chuckled.

“So where were we?” she posed.

“You were just telling me about how you were feeling overdressed, and I had suggested you do something about it.”

“Oh, right. I should probably take this skirt off.”

“Please.”

She was silent for a moment, and I imagined her unzipping the hidden side zipper on the skirt and wiggling her hips to shimmy out of the fitted garment. Even better, I imagined myself removing the clothing from her tight body.

“Okay,” she breathed. “It’s off.”

“Just your underwear and bra left?” I asked.

“Should I take those off, too?”

“Not yet.”

She made a quiet sound, but I caught the small whimper. It was like she knew what I had planned for her.

“Describe them for me.”

“Pastel pink cheeksters. Cotton with a wide lace border.”

Even without seeing them, I could picture them. They were the cut and style she typically wore. It was just enough material to cover her most intimate places, and the cut in the back perfectly hugged her pert backside.

“And the bra?” I pressed.

“It’s black. Kind of a shiny satin material. Demi-cups.”

“Padded?” I asked.

“No.”

“Good. I want you to start rubbing your nipples through your bra. Don’t twist or pull on them—just lightly run the pads of your fingers over them.”

She sighed contentedly in my ear as I began my instructions.

“Rub your fingertips in small circles over your nipples,” I continued. “Can you feel them getting hard?”

“Mmhm.”

“Keep playing with them,” I encouraged. “Flick your nipples through the material, making them harder and longer. Use your nails if you have them.”

“That feels good,” she murmured in my ear.

“Not nearly as good as it’s about to feel,” I promised. “Pull down the cups of your bra so your breasts pop over the top. And keep flicking,” I ordered. “Make your nipples ache.”

Her breath quickened in my ear. “Baby, fuck …”

“Not yet,” I hummed.

She continued to obey my commands. With each subsequent flick of her nails against her sensitive nipples, I knew it stung.

“That’s a good girl,” I purred. “Now stop touching your breasts. They’re off-limits until I say so. I want you to grab the waistband of your underwear and pull them up tight—so tight it feels like they might rip.”

I heard another low sigh through the phone.

“Did you do it?” I demanded.

“Uh huh.”

“Tighter,” I ordered. “Keep pulling. Make that crotch disappear between your pussy lips. But don’t touch anything else.”

“God, Elle,” she moaned. I knew she liked it when I used coarse language I otherwise avoided.

Without Hunter’s cornflower blue eyes staring at me, I was able to say and command things of her that I normally couldn’t do. Topping another person was often an out of body experience for me. I never spoke like this in my everyday life. I hardly swore, let alone being this explicit. It brought me back to my graduate school years with Ruby. Our mutual contempt had fueled our short tryst, our egos burning and egging us to push the other person just a little more out of their comfort zone. But those years felt like a lifetime ago, and I was rusty. The commands and assertive growl caught in my throat.

“Rub yourself over your underwear. But use a light touch,” I said sharply. “I don’t want you cumming yet.”

She made a quiet noise in the phone. I could practically see her in my mind—on my bed, propped up against the headboard with her legs spread wide apart, youthful breasts spilling over the top of her bra. She’d have her bottom teeth digging into her top lip as her hips rose off the bed, rubbing her clit over her underwear, wanting release, but not without my consent.

“Tell me what you’re doing.”

“I’m touching my clit through my underwear,” she breathed. “I’m rubbing it in small circles. God, Elle,” she groaned. “I need more.”

“More? Like what?”

“Fingers,” she panted. “Please.”

“Not yet,” I denied. “Your clit has had enough attention.”

“No, baby. Don’t make me stop,” she pled.

“We’ll come back to that soon enough. For now, your lovely breasts are being neglected. Lick your fingertips. Get them wet with your saliva and go back to your nipples. Pinch and twist and whenever you get dry, get them wet again.”

“What should I use to make them wet?”

Her question gave me pause. “What do you want to use?”

“Please, Ellio,” she whimpered. “I’m throbbing. I just need to cum.”

“And how would you like to cum?”

“From your mouth, preferably.”

This time a groan of my own escaped. “Damn it.”

“I know, baby. But I guess I’ll just have to use my fingers until then.”

“Do it,” I allowed. “Make yourself cum.”

I heard her loud moan of satisfaction. I imagined her finally pulling her underwear off, the crotch reluctantly giving way so that no barrier existed between her nimble fingers and her overheating sex.

“Cum with me, Ellio,” she panted. “Touch yourself.” The sound of her heavy breathing rattling through my phone’s receiver was all the encouragement I needed.

My hand slid beneath the elastic waistband of my sleep shorts. I groaned at the discovery of how wet I was. Without any underwear, my arousal had coated my inner thighs.

“What are you doing?” she asked in a breathy voice. “Tell me.”

“My hand is down my shorts.” I bit my lower lip. “God, I’m so fucking wet.”

“For me?”

“Always.”

CHAPTER FIVE

At the start of the second week of my new, glamorous life, I found a small patio on the studio lot where people ate their lunches. There were no trees and no grass, just a slab of concrete populated with metal furniture that baked under the noon sun, but it was quiet and away from the chaos found elsewhere on the lot.  

I ate my sandwich and the apple I’d bought from a vendor on the lot while I looked over the script for episode seven. The other people at the adjacent tables were either on their phones or working on laptops. If I hadn’t been so focused on getting these revisions in to Troian before the end of the week, I would have had fun making up stories about their lives and imagining what they were doing on their lunch breaks. I hoped that Troian would be able to carve out some time for Top, Bottom, Switch soon.

“You shouldn’t work so hard,” a deep male voice announced, pulling my attention away from the script. “You’ll make the rest of us look bad.”

I squinted into the sun at the curly-haired man who stood over me. “Oh hey, Guillen,” I greeted.

“What are you working on?” he asked before taking a sip from a cardboard coffee cup.

I tapped my pen against the stack of papers set in front of me. “Trying to punch up the dialogue in this script for Troian.”

“During lunch? Careful you don’t burn yourself out.”

I shrugged. “I’ve got some catching up to do.”

He sat down without invitation and slid the script down the table and out of my reach. “So what’s your story?” he asked.

I shook my head and tried to contain my annoyance. I wasn’t above small talk, but I really needed to work. “There’s not much to tell.”

“Of course there is,” he insisted. “We’re writers. It’s how we make our money. So what’s your story, Elle? Comedy? Mystery?” He leaned in a little closer. “Romance?”

I pulled back to reclaim my personal space. “How about a work in progress?” I proposed.

“Fair enough.” His grin was slow and particularly wolfish, I thought. “I never would have pegged you as a writer, you know.”

I flicked away the hair that had fallen across my forehead, feeling self-conscious. “No?”

I had never much felt like a real professor until I’d received tenure, and I certainly didn’t think of myself as a television writer yet. I wondered if everyone could see the inexperience writ across my features.

“You’re far too beautiful,” he crooned.

I relaxed my rigid body. Guillen wasn’t calling me out for my shortcomings as a writer; he was hitting on me. “That’s kind of you to say,” I stated evenly.

I didn’t take his words seriously. I was toned and long limbed with nice hair and a pretty face, but it was a wholesome Midwestern look that probably translated as plain and uninspired under the bright lights of Hollywood.

“If you’ve ever thought about being an actress, I could probably arrange something,” he continued. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I recently sold a movie screenplay.”

A loud bang interrupted Guillen’s thwarted attempt to make another pass at me. I looked away from my co-worker to see Sonja standing near our table. She’d dropped a stack of binders on the ground, but was in no hurry to pick them up.

“Whoops. Clumsy me,” she said in a voice absent of remorse. “Guillen, Troian’s looking for you.”

“Uh oh,” I joked. “You must be in trouble.”

Guillen crumpled his cardboard coffee cup in his fist. “That woman,” he grumbled. He shot a quick look in my direction. He’d realized his company just in time before anything more incriminating could slip past his self-censor.

He stood stiffly from the table and brushed at invisible crumbs on his shirt and vest. “See you later, Elle,” he said in parting.

I watched Guillen stalk off in the direction of Troian’s trailer while Sonja stooped to retrieve the plastic binders she’d dropped. I got up from the table, episode seven momentarily abandoned, and crouched down to help.

“Thanks,” she said as I helped her collect the scattered files.

“No problem.”

“Do you think he gets results with those lines?” Sonja wondered aloud.

I laughed and leaned back on my heels. “You heard all that?”

She smiled as we finished stacking the binders into a tidy pile. “He tried that ‘what’s your story?’ line on me when I first got this internship. He’s been insufferable since he got that movie deal.”

I squinted my eyes at her suspiciously. “Was Troian really looking for him?”

“Nope,” she said with a sly grin. “But you looked like you could use the help. I can spot an unwanted advance from a mile away.”

“You were very subtle,” I teased, as we stood up.

She shrugged and juggled the binders in her arms. “It got the job done.” She gestured to the now empty table. “Mind if I join you?”

“As long as you don’t try to cast me in your next movie,” I chuckled.

“Fair enough,” she smirked. “How are you liking LA so far?” she asked, taking a seat at the table.

“It’s big. And hot.”

She laughed. “That’s true.”

“Are you originally from the area?” I asked.

“No. Nebraska.”

“Cornhusker.”

Her smile was affable. “Born and raised.”

I rifled my brain for more facts about Nebraska, but came up empty. For all of its proximity to my former home, I knew next to nothing about the flyover state.

“I’ve always wanted to do something in the movies or television, ever since I was a little girl,” she explained. “I got my Bachelor’s degree in Film Studies with a minor in Journalism at Creighton in Omaha, but I knew if I was serious about a career in Hollywood, I would eventually have to move here.”

“And UCLA has one of the best programs for that, too,” I observed. “That’s certainly a credit to all your hard work. Your parents must be proud.”

I’d always had an easy time talking to students, and I found an easy rapport with Sonja as well. Academia was like a world of its own, with a secret language and handshake.

She ducked her head demurely. “Yeah, they like to brag to their friends about their big shot daughter who’s living in California with the movie stars. I’m not sure they’d be so excited if they knew what I did to pay the bills.”

“Hey, we’ve all been there. I worked one summer in college at a strip club.”

Her dark blue eyes widened in surprise. “You did?”

“As a bartender. But I always love the look on people’s faces when I tell them that,” I laughed.
“It didn’t last very long though; my girlfriend at the time got jealous. Too much naked female flesh parading around for her comfort.”

“Yeah, my girlfriend didn’t like my job, either. But she’s not the one paying my bills, so our relationship was the thing that didn’t last.”

I tried not to look surprised by her admission. She hadn’t pinged my gaydar, but I had never been very good at identifying family.

“This might be totally unprofessional of me to ask,” I started, “but do you know of a queer-friendly strip club around here?”

“Wow,” Sonja blinked. “Can’t say I expected that question.”

“It’s for a surprise bachelorette party for Troian and her girlfriend,” I qualified.

“Oh, I was going to say, an attractive woman like yourself shouldn’t have to pay to see girls take off their clothes.”

I didn’t know how to react to Sonja’s words, and she’d said it with such a serious face, I didn’t know if she was teasing me or being overly friendly. “I suppose I can just ask the Internet.”

“You could do that,” she confirmed, “or you could check out a bar called the 323. It’s named after an LA area code. Some of the girls I work with split their time between professional partiers and dancing there. There might be some other gay-friendly clubs around, but I know that the 323 has a weekly ladies’ night with female dancers.”

“323,” I repeated, committing the name to memory. “I’ll check it out. Thanks for the tip.” I glanced once at the screen of my phone and noted the time. “I should probably be getting back. I have a phobia about being late,” I unnecessarily added.

“And I’ve got to bring these scripts to the casting director,” she said, standing from the table. “They’re auditioning guest spots next week. You know, in case you ever thought about being an actress,” she said with an exaggerated flutter of her eyelashes.

After lunch, I stopped off at the bathroom to wash my hands. I was just finishing up when I heard what sounded like sobbing coming from one of the toilet stalls. I bent over to see a single pair of black combat boots in the last stall.

I knocked lightly on the closed door. “Is everything okay in there?”

The crying abruptly stopped. “I’m fine,” a voice sniffled.

The toilet flushed, and I stepped backwards when the door creaked open.

Aviva, one of the writers on my team, stepped out of the bathroom stall. She was a petite woman and only came up to my shoulder; everything about her was small except for the thick-framed glasses perched precariously on her nose. Her stick-straight hair reached the small of her back, and thick black bangs cut across her forehead.

She walked stiffly towards the row of faucets and began to wash her hands. She avoided her own reflection, but I could tell her brown eyes were red rimmed and swollen.

I lingered in the bathroom, unsure if I should leave her alone, or if I should continue to pry into her well-being.

She spoke before I could make a decision: “I heard this kind of thing happened; I just never thought it would happen to me.” Her chin and bottom lip trembled with barely contained emotion.

“What’s wrong?” I asked again.

“A Page One Re-write.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m still new to this; I don’t know what that is.”

Aviva pursed her lips and finally regarded herself in the vanity mirror. “Troian told me to open the script to page one and start re-writing.”

“The only good writing is re-writing,” I routinely replied. It was something I’d always told my students.

“Re-write. Every word,” she said flatly.

“Wait.
Every
word?” I echoed.

Aviva tore off some paper towel and dried her hands. She crumpled up the waste in her fist and threw it into the trash receptacle with unneeded force. “Welcome to Hollywood.”

I ran into Troian outside of the writer’s trailer. Sonja flanked her side, no longer burdened by the heavy stack of scripts.

“Did you really tell Aviva to re-write her entire script?” I demanded.

Troian’s eyebrows crunched together. “I just told her over lunch. Geez,” she remarked, “I knew gossip traveled fast on set, but I didn’t think it was
that
fast.”

“I found her crying in the women’s bathroom.”

“Oh.” Troian cleared her throat uncomfortably and threw a furtive glance in Sonja’s direction. To Sonja’s credit, she knew without being asked to make herself scarce.

“It happens sometimes,” Troian continued when Sonja was out of earshot. “But it’s not personal. You know how it is; you can’t get attached to your writing. They’re just words on a page, not your first born child.”

I loathed the peer editing process. Writing was such a personal and intimate entity that it felt like a personal attack whenever a book editor suggested revisions. “But every single word? There wasn’t anything that could be repurposed?”

“You leave those decisions to me,” Troian instructed. “I’ve got a more important job for you.”

My stomach began to churn uneasily. I hoped she didn’t need me to accompany her to another party. “What do you need me to do?”

“Write an episode.”

“Already?” I squeaked.

Troian nodded. “Time to start earning your paycheck, Bookie. And since you’re the brain who came up with the idea of making Paige part mutant, I want the reveal to be in your episode.”

I whistled lowly. “Are you sure? That seems like a monumental plot twist to entrust to me. Maybe Edward should take it. Or Gloria. They have loads of experience.”

“I’ve made up my mind about this,” Troian said in a tone that defied further challenge. “It was your idea, so you get to do it. Now all you’ve got to do is figure out how it happens.”

“Yeah, that’s all,” I scoffed. The churning in my stomach had turned into full-on nausea.

Back at my apartment, I frowned and tapped my pencil against my notepad. My first real assignment that required me to do more than re-write jokes or tightened up dialogue had me intimidated. It was only my second week on the job, and I was still flailing about, trying to get my footing.

“Something wrong, hun?” Hunter asked. We were both in for the night and were spending time together with the help of video chat while I stared at my blank notebook, willing inspiration to strike.

“I’m feeling a little out of my element,” I admitted. “Troian assigned me my first episode today, but I don’t know the first thing about scriptwriting.”