Romeo Fails

Table of Contents

• Other Bella Books By Amy Briant
  
• About the Author
  
• Prologue
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  

Copyright © 2012 by Amy Briant

Bella Books, Inc.

P.O. Box 10543

Tallahassee, FL 32302

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

First published 2012

eBook released 2012

Cover Designer: Sandy Knowles

ISBN 13: 978-1-59493-267-0

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Other Bella Books By Amy Briant

Shadow Point

For lonely hearts.

And Volkswagen enthusiasts.

About the Author

Amy Briant’s first book,
Shadow Point
, won a Goldie for Best Debut Author as well as an Alice B. Lavender award for lesbian fiction debut novel. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Find out more at www.amybriant.com.

Prologue

A thousand stars twinkled in the midnight blue midwestern summer sky, their reflections in the lake below like diamonds tossed carelessly across velvet. In the distance, the women’s music festival crowd screamed and cheered for the headlining band, but all was serene and quiet on the cool sandy shore of the lake. Ten feet from the water’s edge, a leather carpenter’s belt with a hammer in it sat atop a loose pile of clothes. Other clothes were randomly strewn about. A half-empty wine bottle reposed in a much used yellow suede work boot. Strategically placed citronella candles kept the mosquitoes at bay. In the center of their gentle glow, a young woman sat on a blanket. Twenty-six-year-old Dorsey Larue peered into the darkness, straining to see the girl with whom she had just made love.

A muted splash caught her attention. Another splash followed, then the dim figure of a nude woman emerged from the shadows of the lake.

And what a figure, thought Dorsey, deeply inhaling the warm night air. The anonymous girl’s quiet charm, coupled with the sardonic, intelligent gleam of her piercing blue eyes behind stylish glasses had first attracted Dorsey. The discovery of the lush, soft curves augmenting the slender form beneath the tattered jeans and festival tank top had been like unwrapping an unexpected and wonderful gift.

Drops of water, silver in the moonlight, slowly and sinuously snaked their way down the girl’s naked body as she strode, unhurried but sure of foot, back to their blanket. She had a distinctive heel-to-toe gait, slow but oh so confident. She looked more like a goddess than a girl in the luminous glow of the moon and stars, Dorsey thought—a Naked Silver Lake Goddess.

She found herself holding her breath as the other woman gracefully sat down next to her on the blanket. Dorsey reached for her favorite old flannel shirt, the one with the sleeves cut off, to dry off her companion.

“You’re wet!” she exclaimed. An obvious, even fatuous thing to say, she knew, but what else do you say to a dripping wet naked girl? Even if you’re naked too. She dabbed the flannel against the smooth fair skin of the girl’s back, trying her best not to seem rushed or clumsy, though her heart was going a hundred miles an hour. The Goddess smiled at her over her pale shoulder, then raised her strong slender arms to run her hands through her dripping short black hair. When she shook it out, though, she only showered the both of them with a cascade of mercurial droplets. Laughing, they wrestled playfully for a moment, then lay panting together, entwined on the soft fleece blanket.

“Now we’re both wet,” the girl said in her low, throaty voice, with a secret little smile that made Dorsey’s heart jump in a manner both alarming and exciting. The Goddess’s fingertips traced a path down the taller girl’s well-defined stomach. Their lips met for a kiss still tingling with the passion of their first embrace. As Dorsey’s hands slid down to the girl’s hips to pull her in tighter, she heard the far-off singer say, “Thank you! Good night!” The crowd roared one last time, then the sound faded to a dull, happy rumble as they started packing up to leave, the concert over.

The Goddess’s hand was between Dorsey’s legs now, her fingers seeking and finding a particular spot they had so recently learned.

“Oh, God,” said Dorsey. “Oh,
God
…”

“Oh, God,” said the Goddess, but in a completely different tone of voice. She suddenly stopped what she was doing and sat up. Listening intently, she said, “Do you hear anything?”

“What? What’s wrong?” a bewildered and unsatisfied Dorsey asked, reaching for the other girl’s hand. Anything to get that hand back where it belonged.

But the Goddess sprang to her feet, scrambling for her scattered clothes. She pulled on her tattered jeans at high speed, saying, “Shit! I’m going to miss my ride!”

As a stunned and open-mouthed Dorsey watched, the girl crammed her feet into sneakers, grabbed a shirt off the ground (Dorsey’s, as it turned out) and sped off topless toward the tree-lined forest path leading back to the festival.

“Sorry!” she called over her shoulder.

“Wait!” Dorsey cried as she disappeared from sight. “What’s your name?”

But the Goddess was gone, into the night.

Chapter One

The bell rang cheerfully as a customer came in the front door of Larue’s Swingtime Hardware. It was a typical Saturday afternoon at the store with Benny Goodman playing quietly in the background. The cats were asleep in the front display window, each in his jealously guarded spot in the dappled May sunshine. Dorsey glanced up from behind the cash register to see the round, beaming face of her best friend, Maggie. Since Dorsey was ringing up a sale, Maggie gave her a wave, picked up a basket and headed down aisle six, the first aisle by the door—paint, brushes, ladders and tarps.

“Thanks again, ladies,” Dorsey said with a smile, handing over the bag containing a fancy coffeemaker to Mrs. Alene White, who nodded curtly but failed to return the smile. Mrs. White’s pouty teenaged daughter Jimalene sighed gustily, saying, “Come
on
, Mother! I was supposed to meet my friends at the pool fifteen minutes ago.”

Dorsey kept the polite smile in place as the mother and daughter, now bickering, went out the door, then went in search of Maggie. She was still in aisle six, studying the locked cabinet in which the spray paint was displayed.

“Need some paint, Mags?”

“Oh, hey!” Maggie’s face lit up in a smile. Enthusiastic and outgoing by nature, she was extra happy about something that day, Dorsey could tell.

Although the same age, the two lifelong friends were otherwise a study in contrasts. Maggie was five foot three, a little on the plump side, with pink cheeks, lively brown eyes and long dark hair pulled back conservatively in a twist. Also straight, divorced for a year now from Dwayne Bergstrom (thank God!) and the math teacher at the high school, a job she absolutely loved although it didn’t require many of the skills she’d learned while acquiring her MBA.

Dorsey, on the other hand, was tall and lean at five foot eight. Her blond buzz cut had grown shaggy since early spring and was currently sticking out every which way due to a generous application of hair gel that morning. She knew she should get it cut again, but it was too much of a hassle. Especially since her choices were the barber shop, where they would give her shit, or the Kut, Kolor ‘N’ Kurl where they would give her more. The last time, she’d made her younger brother Shaw do it with some clippers at home. That did not go particularly well as Shaw was (a) easily distracted and (b) not a slave to symmetry.

The contrast continued into the two women’s wardrobes. Dorsey had chosen comfort over style that morning (and every other morning) with dark blue Dickies work pants, ancient black engineer boots and a “Grover City Schwinn” T-shirt. One thing about working for the family business, at least she got to wear whatever she wanted. Maggie, as always, was perfectly turned out and color coordinated in a cantaloupe-colored capri pant ensemble. Fancy white sandals with a little heel, a slender white belt with gold accents, a white leather purse and lots of gold jewelry completed the look. Lots of makeup for Maggie, zero for Dorsey. Despite their many differences, or maybe because of them, the two had been fast friends since their first day of kindergarten at Romeo Falls Elementary when Maggie stood up for the little blond girl the other kids were already calling “tomboy” and Dorsey kicked Dwayne Bergstrom’s butt for throwing sand in Maggie’s face.

“So what’s the paint for? And what color?” Dorsey asked her buddy, unlocking the cabinet.

“Oh, um, red and we’re thinking about repainting those old Adirondack chairs on the porch, but that’s not what I came down to tell you. You’ll never guess who showed up last night!”

Maggie’s eyes were dancing with excitement. Someone had shown up? Meaning he or she had voluntarily come to the tiny town of Romeo Falls of their own free will? Maggie was right—Dorsey couldn’t begin to imagine who that could be.

“Well, who?” she asked, automatically selecting the best type of spray paint for the job and handing Maggie some cans which she put in her basket.

“Sarah!” Maggie said with delight.

“Your cousin? From the city?”

“Yes!” Maggie was obviously thrilled to pieces that her older cousin Sarah had come for a visit. Dorsey wasn’t sure she shared her enthusiasm, but tried to appear positive for Maggie’s sake.

“Wow,” she said, not really meaning it as she relocked the cabinet.

“I know,” Maggie gushed happily. “I can’t believe you two finally get to meet!”

For their annual visit, Maggie’s family had always gone to the cousins in the city (leaving Dorsey bereft for those two weeks each summer) and never the other way around. Dorsey had always felt a little jealous, honestly, of the girl she’d never met but heard so much about. Throughout her childhood, a series of framed school pictures of Sarah on Maggie’s dresser showed a gawky, skinny girl with braces and truly unfortunate oversized plastic spectacles with tinted lenses and frames in “fashion” colors. Dorsey didn’t see what the big deal was. But Maggie, with no siblings of her own, had looked up to Sarah, who was four years older, with all the extravagant infatuation of a young girl. She was convinced that her big city cousin was everything she, Mary Margaret Bigelow, was not—thin, cultured, sophisticated and mature.

“So, where is this famous cousin of yours?” Dorsey said, hoping that hadn’t come out too sarcastic. If it had, Maggie gave no sign. She turned toward the front window to peer out onto Main Street.

“She’s parking her car—I made her let me out first because I was so excited to tell you! And, oh my gosh, you should see her adorable little car, Dorse! It’s a
V-W
.”

She whispered the letters as if they were something naughty. And maybe they were. People bought American in Romeo Falls. Dorsey shaded her eyes against the afternoon sun and glanced out the front window. Sure enough, a bright red Bug was sliding into a spot in front of the bank a block away. A little too cutesy, Dorsey thought, then told herself she was being childish.