FF (April 2013) Q. Kelly - [Strange Bedfellows 3] Victoria's Very Awkward Love Story

Why would Victoria Dourne strike up a friendship with Felicianna Grey, the woman who almost ruined the lives of Victoria’s mother and stepmother? What started as mere curiosity on Victoria’s part has developed into much more. She and Felicianna have been chatting online a few months, and Felicianna thinks Victoria is a twenty-five-year-old secretary from Chicago, not the eighteen-year-old girl she is. They’ve bonded over the fact they’re both in love with women they can’t have. They’ve even engaged in cybersex with each other. The online thing is getting old, though, and when Felicianna shows signs of losing interest, Victoria figures the time has come to tell the truth—in person. Felicianna is horrified when Victoria confesses all. An eighteen-year-old girl! The stepdaughter of Felicianna’s former best friend. The daughter of a woman Felicianna despises. This was what happened when Felicianna took risks. When she decided she could trust someone. Victoria begs Felicianna to give her a chance. Just one chance. A dinner. If, after that, Felicianna still wants Victoria to stay away, she will. Can Victoria persuade Felicianna to look past the trappings of age and circumstances to find her way back to the woman she thought she knew online? Can Victoria and Felicianna surmount their many, many obstacles?

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Sample

Chapter One

Victoria Dourne struck the jackpot on her first seduction attempt. Never mind that she was eighteen years old, nervous as hell and supposed to screw up.
Shit!
Pauline Ross said yes. In a necessary, vague, roundabout way, of course. Didn’t take much. Some chatter about her tie, and the woman opened up—illustrating the validity of Victoria’s research. People were lonely. Often, they didn’t want to go home. Victoria sure didn’t. What waited for her: an upside-down dorm room and probably Markie in bed with her greasy Caleb.
Pauline exited the lobby of the Best Western Harrisonburg Inn, and Victoria scrambled to meet her.
“We’re on the second floor,” Pauline said. Minty freshness flew from her smile and nearly knocked Victoria over. Pauline must’ve sneaked into a lobby bathroom and doused her mouth with breath spray. Victoria had chewed cinnamon gum. Less obvious than breath spray.
In silence, they climbed the steps, and Pauline poked her key in the electronic lock.
Red light.
She frowned and jabbed her key in again. Red light part two.
“Try mine,” Victoria offered.
Green light. Click. Success.
Pauline headed into the room first and smoothly flicked lamps on as she went. Victoria watched with envy. Hotel room lamps liked to wrestle with her.
“It’s funny,” Pauline said. “How I met my husband.”
“How did you meet him?”
“Like this,” Pauline replied. “More or less.” Her tight smile indicated no more hubbykins talk—which Victoria agreed with. Hubbykins was the main topic of conversation at Waffle House, but Victoria and Pauline were about to have sex. Enough was enough.
Victoria endeavored: “Do you do this a lot?”
Pauline laughed. She was a handsome and beautiful woman—androgynous. Close-cropped brown hair, gray eyes, a powerful, angular face. “Oh, Victoria,” she said, “I’ve only been with my husband.”
Victoria. Victoria. The name stabbed Victoria’s stomach. So, Pauline knew. Victoria would’ve preferred to keep her ostrich head in ignorance, but there it was. The big V. At least Pauline hadn’t called her Marissa.
“My name is Leigh Dumas,” Victoria insisted. If Pauline contradicted her, Victoria would vamoose. She didn’t need to be here that badly.
Pauline searched Victoria’s face. About five feet separated them. The room had two beds—doubles.
Wait. Leigh Dumas? Didn’t I say Leigh Branscom at Waffle House?
“You don’t have to lie,” Pauline said soothingly. “It’s okay. I don’t care.”
This.
This.
This was why Victoria didn’t want people to recognize her. She would always be Frances Dourne’s daughter, that kidnapped girl. At least the usual nosy questions didn’t gleam in Pauline’s eyes. Questions such as:
What’s your mother like?
What’s your stepmother like? Was she really a call girl? Does she still do it?
Isn’t that kind of icky, your mother going to a prostitute?
Did they have safe sex?
Do they still have sex?
Do you like your mom? How about Elena, do you like her?
Were you in therapy? How’d that go?
Bet you miss your dad, huh? Do you see him a lot? Did you like him homeschooling you? What stuff did he teach you?
What was day-to-day life like at the cabin?
Did your dad molest you? Or abuse you? How about while he was drunk? What kind of drunk was he?
Did y’all have him squirreled away in the penthouse? Where was he those two years before your mom filed for divorce and he gave himself up?
Like Victoria would answer any of these questions. The fuck! And why did people expect an infinity of answers?
Victoria saw nothing of these intrusions with Pauline, so she supposed she could forgive the woman’s unwillingness to play along with “Leigh Dumas/Branscom.” But she wouldn’t let Pauline get off scot-free.
“I will do no commercials for you,” Victoria said. “No special appearances at your car dealerships. Just so you’re aware.”
Pauline blinked. “I…but I never had any intention to…”
Guilt marked her words. Underlined them. Bolded them. Italicized them.
“Why are you here?” Victoria snapped.
Pauline stepped toward her but thought better of it. Instead, she sat on the bed closest to Victoria. “How old do you think I am?”
“Forty to fifty?”
Pauline chuckled. “Try fifty-eight.”
Victoria attempted to contain her reaction but felt incredulity leak from her face.
“Fifty-eight,” Pauline affirmed with a series of nods. “I’m old. I’m a grandma.”
“Fifty-eight isn’t old.”
“My father died when he was fifty-five. Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
Pauline flapped her hand. “We weren’t close.”
“Is your mother alive?”
“Yes. Doing well.”
“There you go.” Victoria injected cheer into her voice. “You’ll be fine. Women tend to live longer than men.”
“A car could flatten me tomorrow.”
“Yes, but…” Victoria caught herself before she veered further off track. “Are you saying you’re here because you’re old?”
“I’m here because I’m old—and I’m lacking.” Pauline’s expression said: A car could turn you into pancake mix tomorrow too, Victoria-Marissa Dourne. You’re not old, but you’re lacking too, aren’t you?
Victoria didn’t budge. In fact, she scowled.
Pauline exhaled. “Okay,” she said slowly. “Speaking of cars. It did cross my mind that you might be interested in a commercial or something like that. My dealerships aren’t doing well, and…” She ran a hand through her brown hair. Had to be dyed, right? At fifty-eight years old. “I’m sorry. Can we forget about my insensitivity? I’m sure you get tiresome offers all the time.”
Victoria did. Offers flooded in, offers to appear in front of groups (gay rights groups, children’s groups, kidnap victims groups, you name it), offers for movie cameos and TV guest spots, offers to help pen her memoir, offers to paint her, to photograph her, offers to appear in commercials.
Her mother usually said no, although she allowed some of the speeches if Victoria was okay with that. Victoria used to be miffed at Frances but last summer began to see the wisdom of Frances’s ways. For the past four years, Victoria was one of the most famous children in the United States. Little kidnapped Marissa! Teenage runaway Victoria! And last year, she was a tearful, green-haired seventeen-year-old girl flinging her arms around her handcuffed father and refusing to let go.
From age fourteen to age seventeen, her hair color vacillated: sometimes green, sometimes orange, sometimes bright red. Now, she had returned to her plain-brown roots. Her haircut was choppy and unkind. She wore nerd glasses—no prescription. She’d shot up a few inches. Popped boobs and curves. Nice boobs and nice curves, but for the time being, she hid behind jeans and loose clothing. The People magazine spread covering Frances and Elena’s wedding a few months ago prompted Victoria’s change. In the glossy photos, she exemplified classic beauty. Her brown hair fell long and wavy (with pink streaks). Her bridesmaid dress boasted of her chest and curves, but something snapped in her after she saw the spread. She realized that unless she did something drastic, she would always be known as that kidnapped girl, Frances Dourne’s daughter.
Victoria didn’t reply to Pauline—no glib way out, thank you. Also, Victoria’s curiosity about Pauline dwindled. When did Pauline realize she was gay (or bisexual)? Was she out to her husband? Did Victoria care? Nope.
Pauline undid her silk blue tie and flung it on the bed. “Why are you here? You ought to be with kids your own age, not ancients like me.”
Pauline’s movement was so smooth, so graceful, so reckless, Victoria felt compelled to answer. Plus, Pauline’s eyes, her eyes…she seemed truly interested in Victoria for reasons that had nothing to do with commercials.
Victoria fiddled with her glasses and ended up setting them down near the TV. “I don’t want to go home.”
“Why? Don’t you live in a dorm?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Pauline quirked an eyebrow as if to say: You can do better than mmm-hmm.
“It’s my roommate. She’s been my best friend since before I left Arkansas. But we’re different now. She’s changed. Maybe I have too. She loves to drink and to fuck guys. Well, only one guy for the past couple of weeks. That’s a monogamy record for her.”
Pauline smiled.
Victoria continued: “I guess I drink sometimes, but…” An image of her father passed out on the couch shattered her brain, and she shivered. “I’m not obsessed with it like Markie and the other kids are. Markie’s turned superficial.”
“People do have that irritating tendency to change,” Pauline said, almost too softly for Victoria to hear. Pauline got to her feet and surveyed the room, affording Victoria the opportunity to salivate over her neck. Long. Creamy. Victoria wouldn’t peg its age at fifty-eight, but it did claim enough wrinkles and sag to convey character, depth and smarts.
At last, Pauline said: “This has been…I’m very glad to have met you, but coming here was wrong. My husband and I fought earlier, and then there you were, pretty and attentive and…famous.” A little grin. “But mostly pretty. Beautiful and interesting. This isn’t right. I’m sorry. My husband is a good man, and you’re young. You’re innocent. You’re eighteen years old. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Victoria’s heart spiraled into her stomach and beat thumpthump thumpthump from way down yonder. “Are you leaving?”
Pauline sighed. “I should.”
Victoria fought to keep her heart steady. “Please don’t. I’m not innocent. I’m tainted.” And she was. If only Pauline knew why Victoria really approached her at Waffle House. If only Pauline knew about the odd relationship between Victoria and Felicianna Grey.
Pauline pulled a face, said, “Sorry, sorry,” and brushed past Victoria. Victoria caught her.
“You smell good,” Victoria whispered.
Pauline smiled despite herself. “I don’t smell like old lady? Like Depends and denture cream?”
Victoria wrapped her arms around Pauline. Brought her lips to Pauline’s neck. “You smell like a whisper,” Victoria said.
“A whisper?”
“Mmm.” Pauline did. She tasted sweet and mysterious and throaty and repressed. Victoria’s kisses roused gooseflesh on Pauline’s skin, and the woman resisted. But not really—especially after Victoria moved her mouth over Pauline’s. Pauline moaned. Yep, a true-business moan that burst Victoria’s insides and nearly made her come. Pauline deepened the kiss, and damn. She was good. In control. Skilled. Patient. She moaned again and let Victoria’s inexperienced tongue slowly but surely blend into the rhythm of hers.
They fell onto the bed like a couple of ogres, and Victoria pretended the woman below her was Felicianna. Victoria reached orgasm fast. Too fast, seemingly only instants after she and Pauline landed on the bed.
One second, Victoria pumped atop Pauline’s leg, the next second, a demon shook her body, she cried out something unbecoming like: “Eugh eugh ahh!” Victoria’s hips arched, and her toes curled.
She died inside of mortification. How had she come so quickly—even quicker than thirty-second Caleb? Shit! Shit!
“Oh,” Victoria whispered, drowning in the indignity of her orgasm. “Oh. Ohh. I’m so sorry.”
Pauline snaked her arms around Victoria. Found the small of Victoria’s back, the sweaty, sweaty small of her back. “Don’t be sorry.”
“I didn’t think I’d be that fast. Not during sex.”
“Hey. Hey. It’s okay.”
“I’m probably no better than your husband,” Victoria mumbled. “In and out.”
Pauline laughed. “You’re funny. That’s important.” She kissed Victoria—long, lingering. “You’re poetic too,” Pauline murmured. “A whisper. Lovely. How many women have fallen for that?”
Victoria looked at Pauline—right into her gray eyes. “Just you. I wouldn’t say it to anyone else. It wouldn’t be true for them.”
Pauline genuinely liked Victoria. She could tell because of the pink blush of praise on Pauline’s cheeks (the whisper on her cheeks?). And because Pauline pulled her pants down, inviting Victoria inside her. Victoria didn’t look between her legs. Seemed weird and unfair to, since Victoria’s clothes were on and Pauline hadn’t seen any of Victoria’s body.
Victoria’s fingers felt for Pauline down there. She had hair, a fair amount but not too much. Probably gray hair, or white hair. Coarse hair. Victoria slid a finger inside Pauline. She was wet, as wet as Victoria tended to get. Perhaps more wet.
Victoria almost came again at how wet Pauline was. No senior citizen vaginal dryness for Pauline! Victoria rubbed Pauline’s clit, and she must’ve been good, because Pauline moaned and screamed and clutched a pillow over her head. She came pretty quickly too.
Victoria ached. She ached all over.

*****

Victoria couldn’t sleep in the impersonal hotel room bed, so she focused on Pauline, who snoozed next to her. In Victoria’s arms, actually. Pauline’s breathing was soft and steady, and Victoria liked it. She liked being in bed with someone, she liked not being alone.
True, the sex hadn’t been much. But at least they’d both reached orgasm.
In the half-conscious land between wakefulness and sleep, Pauline morphed into Felicianna and then into Markie. Victoria watched her a long while. She was petrified. Scared to stay, scared to go. Scared to tell Markie that she had loved her about two years—the gooey, cheesy, horrible kind of love. The gooey, cheesy, horrible kind of love that drove Victoria to get closer and closer to Felicianna.
At last, Victoria gently untangled herself from Pauline and rolled out of bed. Psychology class at eight a.m. beckoned. More specifically, and from the shiny James Madison University .pdf catalog:
GPSYC 101. General Psychology.
3 credits.
A study of the nervous system, sensation, perception, consciousness, learning, memory, language, intelligence, motivation, emotion, life span development, personality, psychopathology, psychotherapy, social psychology and the scientific method.
Markie was taking it with Victoria but probably wouldn’t show up (psychology was the only class they had together). Markie was being dumb with her freedom; she’d probably flunk all her classes. She’d be stuck again in Arkansas after first semester or, for sure, after the first year. This partying had better be worth it, but Victoria couldn’t blame Markie for going wild. Her parents were strict, and Markie was blooming the best way she knew how.
On the way out, Victoria spotted Pauline’s tie lurking under the bed. After a moment’s hesitation, Victoria swiped the tie. Something to remember her first time by. Maybe something to give to Felicianna as well.

*****

Victoria arrived five minutes early to class and sent Felicianna a quick email: I did as you ordered. Success! Details later.
There were a few texts from Markie, all from last night and along the lines of: Where are you? Come parrr-tay!
A couple of texts from Victoria’s mother about tomorrow, a Saturday—when Victoria and Markie planned to go to Petersburg.
Markie didn’t show up to class. No surprise. In all fairness, though, psychology didn’t have a