Vee (5 page)

“Lay back,” I said, and she
laughed again.

“On the bathroom floor?” She
obeyed and I hovered over her, my hair brushing her stomach. I
traced the fine silvery marks just below her hips and my nose
brushed the slight swell of her stomach below her belly button. My
tongue darted out and I tasted her skin before trailing kisses down
to her dark curls. When I spread her legs, my thumbs stroked the
hollows of her inner thighs, already damp with arousal.

“Vee,” she begged, tilting her
hips up. She was pink and soft, her clit peeking out, and I swiped
my tongue over it, giving her a teasing flick. I let my breath fan
over her, then I took her in my mouth and her moan became a
guttural cry, almost a sob. That I could do this to her--there’s no
feeling in the world like it. I would spend all my days giving her
pleasure if I could.

Her hands twined through my hair and drew it back
from my face. I glanced up. She watched me, her eyes glazed with
passion, her lips parted. When I gently scraped her clit with my
teeth, her head fell back. My fingers slid into her wetness, the
muscles tightening around me. She was close already, so wet she
drenched my hand.

I curled my fingers and pressed up. Her grip on my
hair tightened and I felt an ache at the roots, but it didn’t
matter, because she came, her whole body stiffening, arching up off
the floor.

She melted into my embrace, her chest heaving. I
inched up next to her and she smoothed my hair with her gentle
hands.

“So much for your chignon,” she
said.

I looked up at her, lifting my head from her chest
where I’d pillowed it on her breasts. “If I asked you to dye my
hair, would you?”

Her hands stilled. “You just changed the color a few
days ago.”

This was going to hurt, but I had an idea. On her
desk last night I’d spotted a garish orange and black invitation to
a Halloween ball. It was from one of her big clients, someone who
liked to invite his favorite freelancers to all the company bashes.
I knew Alex hadn’t really intended to go. She liked to stay in most
of the time. That’s something I didn’t realize about her until we
started seeing each other. I’d only ever seen her at the
bookstore.

I wanted to go to this party.

“I want to dye it a dark brown,
like yours.”

She flinched, a better reaction than I’d expected.
She loved my hair being wild colors, the sort of shades she’d never
dared do herself. I wondered why. It wasn’t like she worked in an
office or had to punch a time clock.

I reached up and tweaked a lock of her dark hair
where it lay in a halo round her head. “And when you’ve done mine,
I’ll do yours.”

“Mine?” She pushed herself up on
her elbows and I sat back, leaning against the vanity.

“It’s the Review’s Halloween party
in a few days,” I said. “I thought we should go.”

“I never go.” She sat up fully,
her brow furrowed. So much for post-orgasmic bliss. I thought for
sure she’d agree, with all the happy endorphins bopping around in
her system. Not that I’d use sex as a means of getting my own way,
but it would have been useful.

“But it’ll be great--I already
have an idea for our costumes!” I squeezed her hand and shook it
almost maniacally, and finally she cracked a smile.

“I’m glad you do, because I never
know what to be.”

“You’ll be me.”

“You?”

“And I’ll be you.”

“I don’t know.” Her smile faded to
pensiveness.

I pushed myself to my feet, my hair flying back in a
wild wave. I’m sure I looked ridiculous--stark naked, pale but for
my tattoos, the splash of stars that run from my ribcage and down
over my bony left hip.

“Remember when you first came to
New York and joined the punk scene?” I knew; I’d read about it in
one of her notebooks. I reached down and pulled her to her feet.
She gathered her robe and tied the sash, but she wasn’t going
anywhere, so at least I’d intrigued her.

“I’ll dye your hair purple with
pink streaks and we’ll go raid some thrift shops to find us both
some clothes.”

“It’ll be like Freaky Friday,” she
said, drawing me close. The velvet and satin of her dressing gown
was soft against my breasts. She stroked the small of my back,
sending shivers down my spine. “I don’t think I want to relive my
youth, Vee.”

My heart sank. It was such a good idea. “Please,
Alex? It won’t be permanent.” I bent and opened the cabinet of the
vanity, pulling out all the hair color I’d purchased on a whim.
Dark auburn for me. Purple and pink for her.

She lifted the packet of pink hair color and read
the label. I could feel her wavering. She finally sighed and shook
her head, handing me the dye.

“If it doesn’t come out, do you
promise to pay for a trip to the salon?”

I felt my grin nearly split my face. “Anything.”

***

Oh, Vee. I don’t think I was meant to find this
quite so soon. I have a feeling you were going to come back to this
notebook while I was in my office, writing, but it has been a busy
few days.

Right now you’re asleep, sprawled out in bed,
oblivious to the world. You sleep like a child still, though you
are an adult. Is it because you’re so carefree? I can just see the
back of your head from my spot in the worn leather armchair you
love so much. Your dark auburn hair cascades over the pillow and it
still doesn’t seem real.

I did help you dye it, even though I mourned every
strand of blue covered by the conservative color. But I did it,
wiping the dye from your ears so it wouldn’t stain, making sure we
covered every inch. I didn’t recognize you when we were done--the
sophisticated young woman. Once we found you some clothes to fit
your new look, you could have been someone else. And in subtle
makeup, dark, muted lipstick, you could pass among the young
professionals of Wall Street or Fifth Avenue with ease.

I stopped writing for a moment and rose from my
chair, tiptoeing to the side of the bed, watching your chest rise
and fall. I smoothed your hair off your forehead and you smiled in
your sleep.

My own hair, now a dark purple with a few strategic
pink highlights, falls over my forehead as I sit writing again, for
you. I’m glad I did it, though I still have that twinge of worry
that I look ridiculous, like some poor old lady trying to re-live
her youth.

“If Betsey Johnson can do it,”
you’d reasoned as you made me sit on the edge of the tub, applying
hair color with the skill of a master, “so can you.”

“Betsey Johnson has an excuse,”
I’d replied. You stuck out your tongue and I started to
laugh.

“Don’t move!”

The purple speckles on the bathroom wall will always
make me smile. I didn’t think my laughter was so physical.

While I showered, you tidied up--or so I thought.
I’ve obviously been writing too much if you had time to dig in my
closet and find the old combat boots I’d tucked away. Don’t think
that I’m angry, because I’m not. It just means that we ought to
spend more time doing things. When you read these words, come tear
me away from the computer. I’ll probably need it.

You had an entire outfit laid out for me when I
emerged, and it brought back memories. Torn jeans, safety-pinned
together. A skin-tight black tank top. A studded belt. And, a
leather jacket almost exactly like the one I’d had, the one stolen
from me a few weeks after Lucie died. You’d studied that one photo
of her and I, and recreated my entire look.

My hair is better now than it was back then. It’ll
grow on me, likely just in time for it to fade back to my normal
color.

You watched as I dressed, anticipation in your eyes,
lips parted. I could see the lust, the appreciation. You licked
your lips as I slid the jeans up my thighs, over my bottom. When I
was fully dressed you came over and we looked into the full length
mirror at the end of the bed. If you’d had your purple hair, we’d
have been punk rock bookends.

We made quite the impression at the party. The
managing editor at the magazine sidled up to me while you were
getting our drinks.

“Very old-school,” he said,
looking pleased with himself with his use of modern slang. The man
is seventy-five if he’s a day. “But who is that young thing? She’s
not your usual type, Alex.”

I turned to watch you, poised and elegant as you
moved through the crowd of expensively costumed drunks. “You’ve met
Sylvia, haven’t you, Robert?” I asked, laying on the innocent
surprise.

I had to tap his chin to remind him to close his
mouth. He looked properly chastised and he was discomfited enough
that the tips of his ears went pink.

When you arrived with our drinks, I’d never been so
relieved--in another moment I would have laughed at poor Robert,
and then where would I be? That man without his dignity would be a
shell of himself, and I’d never get another job from him.

I spent the rest of the party itching to leave, to
take you home and get you naked. And now that we’re here, I’m going
to stop writing, and go wake you up.

***

You did find this earlier than I wanted, but it’s
worked out better than I thought. Maybe I have some talent as an
erotica writer, since you came to bed so ready. I wish you could
wake me up every night with your tongue flicking my clit. Even
better that you held my hips so I couldn’t move. And afterwards,
falling asleep together, tangled in the sheets--I couldn’t ask for
anything more.

And now I’ll stop--the coffee’s perking and you’ll
be awake soon. I love bringing you coffee in bed, seeing your
tousled hair and drowsy eyes, the beautiful disarray. If I didn’t
love you already, I’d love you just from seeing you like that.

But I forgot to tell you…my hair dye is temporary,
but yours isn’t. I double-checked the label on the purple. So in
another week, we will be punk bookends after all. If I find you a
silver dress like Debbie Harry’s in Heart of Glass, will you model
it for me?

Love, Vee.

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