The Story of Lansing Lotte (5 page)

My dare was to kiss someone at the table. The words came from the sweet feminine voice of someone else at the table. Another mutual friend, who I suspected had an interest in me, but I tried to keep things platonic. That girl was different from Elaine Corbin’s known obsession. That girl was innocent, with what I considered a high school crush. I ignored her suggestion to kiss someone
literally
sitting at the table, and stood slowly to approach another. Blue eyes that had been meeting mine all night, and that dare was my chance to officially get up close to her, even though it would be an awkward moment.

“I apologize for having to do it this way,” I stated, as I reached for her soft cheeks. Her skin was silky; like I imagined it would be. I knew immediately she was tender all over. I wanted to discover each piece of her skin, but for now I needed to get it over and get out of the drinking game.

“But I’ve been wanting to do this all night. Actually, I’ve been wanting to do this for a long, long time,” I said, as I leaned in and brushed her lips with mine. The first shock was just that, a spark, a bite against my lips. I pulled back after too brief a connection, but I felt her hesitation when I removed my lips from hers. I had to know if that spark could ignite. My lips returned to hers in the sweetest caress of lips on lips I’d ever known. She was all sweet inexperience and eager willingness; the combination made her the greatest thing I’d ever tasted. Nothing would compare to that moment, and I didn’t know then that those sentiments would be true.

I told her I’d call her after we broke that kiss. I returned to the table holding her gaze, ignoring the hurt eyes of that other girl who had requested the dare. Another set of innocent eyes that were deep and brown: those of Layne Ascolat.

I hadn’t seen Layne Ascolat for a number of years, since she disappeared from our group at Performing Arts. She had been within that inner realm of friends that came and went at gatherings. I didn’t know what actually happened to her after that particular party. I didn’t know if Guinie and she were still friends or not, as Guinevere didn’t circulate in my crowd until recently. Imagine my surprise when I entered Arturo’s apartment, several days later, to find Layne present, seated next to Guinevere on the couch, and looking at me in a guarded way. She smiled slowly in my direction and held her face frozen, as she must have noticed my reaction to her presence.

I was concerned for Guinevere who looked pale and thinning. I didn’t think she was eating. I wasn’t certain she had been out of the apartment. She held her stomach with her arms clenched tight around her abdomen, bending forward slightly at the waist. She didn’t look up at my entrance.

“Lansing, it’s so nice to see you again,” Layne tried for a cheery voice, as her hand slipped onto Guinie’s back and slowly rubbed small circles while she continued to look at me.

“Layne. It’s been a while.”

“Yes, it has.” She smiled shyly and I noticed her gaze shift, as if she was thinking of that night long ago. 

“I was trying to convince Guinie to go out to lunch with me. Get some fresh air,” Layne said again with that false cheeriness, as she stroked larger circles around Guinie’s back.

“That sounds like a great idea,” I said plainly, continuing to stare at Guinie.

“Why don’t you join us?” Layne interjected and I saw Guinie flinch. Layne must have felt that motion because she removed her hand to clasp the other in her lap. I noticed her nervously stretching her fingers then clench them together. 

“I’m not feeling well,” Guinie replied weakly.  “Why don’t you two go instead?”

“I don’t think…” Layne began as I said, “I don’t know…” We both nervously laughed a bit, but were saved when Talia, Guinie’s housekeeper, appeared out of nowhere to suggest we leave and allow Guinie some much needed rest.

I wasn’t sure what to say to Layne as we entered the elevator. I didn’t want her to feel that she had to go anywhere with me. The conversation of lunch was more a means to an end to get Guinie to leave the apartment.

“We don’t really have to go to lunch, if you have other plans,” I attempted, as a way to let her out of the preempted discussion.

“Actually, I don’t have plans. I was hoping Guinie would go out with me. It’s been a long time and I’ve just returned to the city. I heard about Arturo. I thought she might like someone to talk to that wasn’t part of the group.” Her eyes traveled to my face, as if she was worried she offended me.

“I don’t think Guinie does much talking to anyone in the group, anyway,” I bit without meaning to, and I instantly saw Layne’s face fall. I didn’t want to hurt the girl. She was innocent of all my guilt over Guinevere…well, all Guinie’s guilt with me.

“You know what, I have to eat, and I don’t have plans. So, would you like to have lunch with just me?” I tried to force a smile. I think she saw through my falseness. She took a moment to contemplate something behind those brown eyes before she answered.

“Maybe
you
could use someone to talk to outside the group?” she laughed.

I had to admit to myself, I thought I could.

Having lunch with Layne at a small deli down the block was refreshing. After weeks spent with Guinevere in awkward tension at Arturo’s apartment, my time with Layne was a welcome distraction. She was surprisingly attentive to my unanswered questions.

Where was Arturo?

Who steals a body?

Why hadn’t Mure Linn returned anyone’s calls?

How can Ana stay away?

What about Morte?

I wasn’t even sure that Layne knew about Ana or Morte in relation to Arturo. I found myself questioning Ana’s family loyalty and Morte’s youngness, regarding Arturo’s mystery.  Layne didn’t pry for further answers, just offered support when I seemed to need reassurance more than an answer. I talked too long before I finally asked her about herself.

She explained to me that after she graduated from PA then she went to Indiana University to study opera. In my opinion, she seemed a bit thin to sing something that would need some serious lungs. Not to mention, I thought all opera singers were fat older women, but she assured me that that was not the case and by her stature I could tell my stereotype could not be true.

Layne Ascolat was a pretty girl; the kind of beauty that artists painted in ancient times. I hadn’t really noticed before, spending all my younger days trying to avoid her schoolgirl crushing. She had developed into a body that was curvy in all the right places, somehow seeming unaware of the effect those curves had on the male species. She moved seductively without knowing it: a slow cross of her bare legs under her skirt, a gentle rub of her hand up her arm to jingle her many bracelets, a soft lick of her lips to moisten and brighten them. My own body became reactive to those subtle motions. I literally shook my head to rid my thoughts.  I would not allow myself to be attracted to Layne Ascolat.

We continued our lunch, taking our time as Layne talked about school. She selected Indiana, as it was the second largest opera program in the country. She returned to New York because NYC had the first. She was hopeful of landing something within the city, she said with a laugh. I noticed even her laugh sounded innocent. She reminded me of a small town girl in a booming metropolis, and I worried she would be lost here. I offered to make any connections I could. I felt a need to protect her. I knew that Ingrid Tintagel, while MIA lately in regards to Arturo, had many friends and acquaintances in the social circles of the fine arts. I was sure she could help, somehow.

The light in Layne’s face at the mere suggestion made me relax. She was so sweet and her eagerness to do well in New York was almost contagious. She had dreams of success, and I sensed a determination to not let anything get in her way.  Hours passed before the conversation diminished. I realized I had enjoyed the distraction of talking and thinking about another person, other than myself.

It turned out that Layne only lived a few blocks from my building, so I offered to walk her home. It was late September by then, but summer was still trying to hang on. The day was gloriously sunny while we walked the New York streets and I felt slightly warm from the activity of strolling. We approached her place and stopped outside the main door. It was the part I always had trouble with on dates…the doorstep. I suddenly recalled that I couldn’t think of the last time I had a normal date with a girl, not that I was considering the time with Layne as a date. Most of my encounters with the other sex were hook-ups; one-night stands that never resulted in the front door awkwardness. I left satiated women behind in a comfortable bed, so it was always me walking
out
the door, not standing awkwardly before it. The last date I had was…never.

I hadn’t had that first date I planned for Guinevere DeGrance, all those years ago. As the momentum of the band picked up after my missed opportunity, I never slowed down enough to consider dating. Standing in front of Layne’s building, I suddenly felt like I was on a date, and I didn’t know what to do next.  I slipped my hands into my pockets and paused, while she tucked a piece of her reddish hair behind her ear. Her hair was long and wildly curly, but pulled back to tame it. Loose strands around her face blew in the light breeze, and I absentmindedly mimicked her moves with my hand to capture a few curls, slipping them behind her ear. Her hair was silky, despite the extreme curls contained in her ponytail. I heard her breath hitch, as I placed my hand on her neck for a moment.

“Would you like to come in?” she swallowed, but immediately her face gave away her horror in asking the question, as a deep blush filled her cheeks, and I dropped my hand.

“I…I don’t think I can. I should get back to check on Guinie.”

“Sure...right…that was…I mean…I didn’t mean…” Her hands were moving in all directions before her, as she hitched her thumb to point over her shoulder at first, then used her index finger to point back down the street. She suddenly laughed at herself and it brightened her face again. I relaxed for a second time at the sound of her giggles. Without thinking, I stepped forward and kissed her cheek. She went rigid under my touch. I had a sickening sense that I was suddenly repelling women everywhere. 

“I had a great time today. Thanks for sharing lunch with me,” I said.

“Oh…well…thank you. It was great to see you again.” She smiled shyly and took a step back with a quick one-handed wave. I don’t know why I reacted, but I stepped toward her as she took a second step back.

“I…I was wondering if I could call you…you know to talk again?”

I suddenly felt like I couldn’t let Layne go. I knew I didn’t want to date. I didn’t want a relationship, but I needed something. I needed a friend outside the group. I needed assurance that she would be there for me. That someone would be there for
me
.

She set out her hand, wiggling her fingers, and I gave her my phone. She took a selfie and entered her number.

“You can call me anytime.” She smiled as she handed the phone back to me. “I’d like that,” she added. She turned her back to me and walked into her building with a slight sway to her slender hips.

I didn’t return to Guinie’s like I thought I would. A sense of relief, I hadn’t felt in weeks, filled me after my time with Layne, and I decided to continue to walk the remaining blocks to my own apartment building, instead. My building had an antiquated name,
Dolorous Guard,
like it was some special place long ago. I suppose at some time or other, in the birth of New York, it was. I couldn’t recall all the history of the place, but it was Old World and a well-known building amongst the social elite of the city from an ancient time.

The elevator to my apartment on the fifteenth floor was an old cage lift. It was temperamental and there was some injunction that it was a historical piece of the building, so it couldn’t be replaced. I was pretty sure it didn’t meet city code. I was trying to maneuver the metal gate when I heard a voice yell to hold the elevator.

3A.

My neighbor within the building was one of those beautiful women who had a child: a total MILF, for lack of any better acronym. Simply put, she was hot. Honey blonde hair, deep brown eyes, sweet body. Problem was; I was pretty sure she knew it. She’d never been a snob to me. Heck no, she flirted with me often, but I never asked her name and she never asked mine. I didn’t know the woman’s name, by choice. I liked the anonymity, actually. I only knew her as 3A. I would have thought she knew who I was, but she never addressed me as if she knew me personally, like many fans are apt to do. She never even gave a hint to it. Our banter with one another might have bordered on sexual harassment, but she didn’t seem to mind. We flirted often in the elevator or the lobby.

“Hold the elevator? Is that slang for something you kids are doing nowadays?” I teased.

She was no more than my age of twenty-four. I smirked as she struggled into the lift with a bag of groceries in one hand, a large tote dangling from her elbow and her other hand holding onto Fleur, her four-year-old daughter. It all started because of the adorable child. I teased her that one day I was going to marry the sweet girl, and 3A retorted that I would have to go through her first. The sexual innuendo was present, and we kept the banter appropriate, but suggestive.