Chapter Text
Sent: Thursday, April 14, 2016 2:49 pm
From: Hollis, Laura
To: Belmonde, Matska
Cc: LaFontaine, S.
Re: Join us at Corvae for our Inclusivity Conference
Dear Dr. Belmonde,
I am writing to kindly accept your generous invitation for next week’s training on centering inclusivity in biomedical research; I will be attending alongside Dr. LaFontaine, and we are excited to join you in this learning.
Below you will find our full names, pronouns, titles, and breakout preference. Should you have any questions, please contact me directly.
Dr. S. LaFontaine, They/Them, Director of Genomic Research, “Transgender Experiences in Research Settings”
Laura Hollis, She/Her, Project Manager – Genomic Research and Publications, “Wonder Women: How Women Can Take Back STEM”
In gratitude,
Laura Hollis
--
L. Hollis, MPH, MS
Project Manager
Silas University
Department of Genomic Research
Department of Publications
*****
I drop my luggage onto the bed beside me, the starched white bedspread tucked so tightly underneath the mattress that it hardly puckers under the weight of my bag. Another hotel; another conference; another day in the life.
I unzip the suitcase, my trusted sidekick these last few months, and unpack my conference clothes first – my favorite navy blazer, white and blue collared blouses, and the pairs of navy, black, and emerald dress pants – hanging them carefully in the closet. With these removed, I yank my yellow pillow from beneath the remaining clothes and toss it onto the other bed. The shabby pillow looks amiss on the pristine bed, its only blemish.
I look down at myself; take in my light jeans and the soft white t-shirt I’d traveled in. I’m meeting LaFontaine in less than ten minutes for dinner, my delayed flight leaving negligible time to settle in beyond unpacking the essentials. Oh, well; the rest I can deal with later.
I slip on a cardigan, comb my fingers loosely through my hair to untangle a few knots, grab my room key and open the door. Well, try to open the door. I hadn’t realized that I’d already bolted the door, an instinct easily instilled by an overprotective father with a daughter who travels 7 months of every year. The door hardly opens a sliver before it slams loudly against the deadbolt, dropping closed immediately. Well, shit.
I unbolt the door, twisting the knob until I hear a click before trying to open the door when again I’m stopped; this time by the chain lock that is pulled taunt, the door cracked open only slightly, not budging any farther. I exhale in exasperation, closing the door again to slide the chain lock back, the shackle swinging loosely from its hook on the wall. Third time’s the charm. With much less confidence than before I turn the door handle and pull slowly, waiting for another obstacle that thankfully never comes.
The door finally opens fully and I’m met with a woman leaning against the door of the room across the hallway opposite mine. A black duffel bag rests on the floor next to her feet. Well, foot. Clad in combat boots – Doc Martens at that, I think – the other is bent back and pressed against the door. Dark jeans hug her curves, tears exposing pale legs beneath. A deep red flannel is tied around her waist, a black v-neck and leather jacket over top completing the look. She’s John Bender, Cry-Baby Walker, her dark eyes set against her ivory skin, red lipstick drawing my eyes in immediately. I’m swooning, a thirsty traveler in the Sahara; she’s a mirage.
The smirk on her lips shifts as she chuckles. So much for a mirage; she is definitely real. Very real. Laughing at me and biting her lip to hide another smirk, real.
“I thought you were surely trapped in there, cutie,” she speaks finally. My eyes follow her lips as they open and close around the words, morphing and molding round each syllable perfectly. I only realize she has stopped because they are pulled into another smirk. I tear my eyes away to finally meet hers, a bashful and embarrassed look on my face as I realize immediately by her cocked eyebrow that of course she recognizes where my eyes have been this whole time: her hips, the swell of her breasts, her neck, her lips, definitely not her eyes. But now that they’ve met, I can’t look away. They are as incredible as the rest of her, more so even. I search them like I’m looking for the answers to life’s unanswered questions, for secrets not yet revealed.
It’s when she breaks eye contact that the fog in my mind clears long enough to register her statement and respond. The embarrassed flush in my cheeks grows darker as I feel her eyes now skimming over me; I am suddenly uncomfortable in my white t-shirt, the fabric hardly enough to cover me under her wandering gaze.
“I, uh, yeah.”
Great work, Hollis.
She doesn’t even stop to taunt my inarticulate word dump, her eyes undressing me in a way I’ve never experienced. We are magnets, a palpable pull drawing us closer. I brace myself in place, promise my feet the world if they’ll stay anchored to the floor, imagining the fibers of the hotel carpet forming like shackles around my heels.
“I’m glad you made it out,” she purrs, her eyes finally returning to mine, “quite worth the wait.” Her pupils are darker than before. This time we don’t look away. The magnet has been switched to hyper speed and my heart is thumping against my chest. Stay, stay, stay, I tell my feet.
“Can never be too safe,” I drawl awkwardly. I am putty, the words falling out and clumping on the floor next to my feet. I don’t mind, maybe they’ll turn to glue.
“Ah,” she smirks knowingly, her leg dropping to the floor as she bends to pick up her duffel bag, my eyes scanning the curve of her hips as she does, “Where’s the fun in too safe?”
I swallow the lump in my throat as she twists toward her door. I don’t even realize she unlocks it until I hear the noise of the handle turning.
She looks toward me over her shoulder, her stare disarming.
“See you around, cutie.”
The last thing I see before the door closes behind her is a wink and her tongue running along her bottom lip. I shudder, silently thanking my feet as I slowly begin to walk, dislodging each one from the matted roots I’d planted around them and make my way to the hotel pub to meet LaFontaine.
*****
“L, I don’t know how the hell you arranged this, but you’re a goddamn champ,” LaFontaine mumbles over a mouth full of food. A nationally renowned scientist, published author, and still they have the manners of a child. I thank myself for this though, glad I haven’t lost my best friend in their pursuit of scientific understanding, and pass them a napkin, my subtle reminder that while I may not mind, we are still in fact in public and unsuspecting onlookers have not signed up for a front row seat to their foodstuffs.
“I told you,” I explain, “Dr. Belmonde and her team reached out to me. They like the work you’re doing; said you are ‘unraveling gender essentialism through genetics’ and that ‘your participation would certainly model to others the role of diverse science.’”
I take another bite of my sandwich, chuckling as LaF finishes mouthing along; they’ve read Dr. Belmonde’s email seventeen times at last count, even printed it out and hung it on their office door and, I suspect, their home refrigerator.
“Still,” they vow, “You’re the reason we’re here, so thank you. I really couldn’t do any of this without you. I know it’s not your first choice, but you’re more important to the team than you acknowledge.”
They’re right; genomic research is not my expertise, not even close, and certainly not where I’d have thought I’d end up if you would have asked me five years ago. I joined the Silas University research department three years ago after finding a position in their Publications division that allowed me to interview the scientists, edit their articles, and oversee their distribution with the academic journals. It wasn’t groundbreaking Katie Couric investigative journalism, but I was good at it.
When LaFontaine joined the research department after receiving their PhD, they pulled me further into the research itself. I learned quickly that I had a knack for tying together all of the processes and findings of the researchers and synthesizing them into publishable reports; having worked for years on the Publications side, I knew what would get our work out there.
Sure enough, we were quickly invited to several conferences, offered additional funding for our research by the university, and I was bumped to official Program Manager for the department, continuing to liaise with the Publications folks but focusing more and more on the work of Dr. LaFontaine and their team. I don’t mind; I am better at this than I imagined and I’m responsible for the successful distribution of the incredible work of my best friend. Things could be far worse.
And, if I am being honest, I do enjoy the traveling to conferences. It keeps me out of Silas and away from my overprotective dad, clingy ex-girlfriend, and memories of things better left there. Surprisingly it also helps me to meet more women; I can enjoy myself and justify my inability to stay in touch with my constant traveling. It takes the pressure off of trying to maintain an actual functional relationship, something I haven’t wanted since things ended so poorly with Danny.
LaFontaine is excitedly rambling about the week’s agenda, trying to identify potential guest speakers for the opening plenary while my eyes glaze over. A soft murmur of voices fills the room, growing louder the longer I listen. LaFontaine seems to notice as well, their voice naturally rising to be heard over the chorus of “Is that?” and “I thought she wasn’t coming until tomorrow.”
I can’t contain my curiosity – blame it on the journalistic passion that courses through my veins. My neck is now swiveling to provide me with better coverage, eyes darting across the pub. Even LaF finally seems to recognize the disturbance in the space, their eyes following mine to the point where I am transfixed.
At the bar stands my hotel neighbor. She wears the same dark jeans as before, but her t-shirt has been replaced with a tight corset that provides minimal coverage over her chest, her pale hips rising above the horizon of her waistband. My mouth goes dry; I recognize that all eyes in the bar are on her. I grimace. She’s clearly attractive, I mean mind-blowingly heart-stopping-gorgeous, but I’m embarrassed to be just another mortifyingly inadequate onlooker, eyes roving over her hungrily.
“Holy shit,” LaF croaks next to me.
I gulp, not looking forward to having to describe my earlier encounter with this woman.
“That’s Dr. Belmonde.”
I pause. I’ve looked at images of Dr. Belmonde for days, googling her and scrolling through photo after photo of her at philanthropic galas, presenting at symposiums, giving university commencement speeches; there’s no way this is Dr. Belmonde. I force my eyes off of the raven haired woman in the corset and finally register that yes, standing next to her is in fact Dr. Belmonde. The Dr. Belmonde.
And if that’s who LaFontaine and most likely everyone else in the pub is animatedly motioning toward, why can’t I take my eyes off of her companion? And why are they together in the first place?
“Shit, shit, shit,” LaF groans, lowering their neck to drop their head, withdrawing further into the booth.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, an eyebrow darting at their unusual behavior.
“L, that’s Dr. Belmonde. Like, my fricken idol. Who wants to meet their idol with greasy cheeseburger bits in between their teeth at a hotel bar? I had a whole plan for this, conversation starters and everything; I can’t find a natural way to insert the illuminati into the conversation if it happens here,” they stammer.
“But you could find a way to insert it into a conversation naturally elsewhere?” I tease.
“Shut up, they’re looking over here. Just hide. No, wait, act natural. She can probably sense fear. Just, be normal.”
I laugh, amused that my friend who is hunched over their drink, chewing furiously on the bendy straw in it with their eyes darting back and forth is telling me to act normal. I glance toward the bar to find that the pair is looking right at us. Dr. Belmonde’s eyebrow raises as our eyes meet, a smirk awfully familiar to the one I witnessed earlier from her friend (friend? Assistant? Companion?) playing on her lips. The other woman throws me a wink, the same as before, and I feel my face flush. I avert my eyes, though not before seeing Dr. Belmonde roll her eyes at the brunette, and join LaF in an attempt to fully submerge myself into the booth itself.
Several minutes pass and we feel the coast must be clear. The two women are still seated at the bar, deep in conversation and playfully teasing each other. I tense at the idea that they could be together – a jealousy I have no right to claim – but find their interaction more akin to family than anything else. LaFontaine and I resume our conversation, seemingly forgetting about the presence of their idol under the false pretense of the safety of our booth, daring to order a few drinks as the night rolls by.
It is past ten thirty when we feel their eyes on us again. The pub is less crowded than before, nightcaps moving from public to private rooms. I scan the bar in the most natural way I can manage, as I have been doing for an embarrassing amount of tonight, to see Dr. Belmonde huff, grab the woman by the arm, and begin to make her way toward our side of the pub.
“LaF, please don’t panic, but I think Dr. Belmonde is coming over here.”
“What?!” they cry out, just as the pair reaches our booth.
“Dr. LaFontaine, it is a pleasure to see you here and able to join us this week,” Dr. Belmonde greets them before directing her attention to me. Her gaze is harsh, powerful, and I can see immediately why she is so successful. “And you must be Ms. Hollis?”
I smile, registering that LaF hasn’t quite managed to pick their jaw up from the table where it rests yet, and hope I can salvage the encounter for their sake.
“Dr. Belmonde, thank you for inviting us. It’s an honor to be here.” Nicely done.
“Ah, Ms. Hollis, the pleasure is mine. And please, let me introduce you to my colleague, Ms. Karnstein. She is typically the one overseeing these trainings. I’m lucky enough to have been able to join this one as it’s close to our headquarters, of course, but you will still see plenty of her this week.”
My eyes find Ms. Karnstein’s – can a name possibly be sexier? Ms. Karnstein. Karnstein. Laura Karnstein. I balk at my own thoughts. Her eyes sparkle, dark orbs with galaxies shining beneath. I can’t find my words. Next to me I hear LaFontaine finally begin to speak, Dr. Belmonde’s attention now re-directed from our staring contest.
“Carmilla,” she purrs, dropping herself into the booth next to me. I should slide over to give her more space. I don’t; our knees bump, our thighs press against each other.
“What,” I ask, unable to control my thoughts for very long with the warmth of her leg pressed against mine.
“My name, cutie. It’s Carmilla.” Oh. Fuck, that’s even sexier. Carmilla. Karnstein. Carmilla Karnstein.
“I’m, uh, I’m Laura. Laura Hollis,” I squeak out. I blame my current state on the presence of Dr. Belmonde, unnerved by her proximity, but find that she and LaF are engrossed in a conversation of their own. I scoff when I hear the word “illuminati” come up.
“It’s wonderful to meet you, Laura Hollis. And here I’ve been calling you ‘Prisoner of Room 307’ all night.” Her red stained lips are smirking at me and I can tell she’s flirting with me. I decide to girl the hell up; if LaF can carry on a conversation with their idol and impressively redirect it toward conspiracy theories I can flirt back with the sexy woman seated next to me.
“My, Ms. Karnstein, are you saying you’ve been talking about me all evening? How forward.” I playfully raise an eyebrow at her.
Her neck flushes, but her face remains stoic. “Well, Ms. Hollis, when you meet a beautiful woman, you can’t help but talk about her all night. I don’t know that Mattie appreciated it much, but you left quite the impression.”
It’s my turn to flush. The idea of Carmilla spending her evening talking to Dr. Belmonde – Mattie – about me is enough to twist my stomach into a knot, and I can’t tell whether or not I like it.
“You’ll be here for the week?” she asks, her hand dropping to rub her own thigh, my eyes taking in the movement before meeting hers again.
“I am. I’ve heard that means I’ll be seeing plenty of you,” I try to echo Dr. Belmonde’s words.
At this she leans closer to me, her hand moving from the top of her thigh to mine. “I certainly hope so,” she growls, the lust in her voice no longer contained. She squeezes the top of my thigh and I’m fairly certain that my pants have already unbuttoned themselves in anticipation. It’s embarrassing, really; I’ve never felt myself so ready for another woman, a stranger at that, and yet.
She removes her hand and shuffles out of the booth, placing a hand on Dr. Belmonde’s back that pulls her attention to the woman.
“Well, let me leave the two of you to your evening; I simply couldn’t let the opportunity pass to say hello. I look forward to a great week together. Dr. LaFontaine, Ms. Hollis, good evening.”
With that, the pair leaves in the same way that they’d arrived.
I gulp, my eyes trailing them, glued so fiercely to Carmilla’s ass that I don’t realize she has turned to look back at me until I see her hand run along the cheek and squeeze. I look up to find her eyes locked on mine, a smirk and a wink sent my way as usual.
“Wow,” LaF breathes from next to me.
“You have no idea.”
We sit together in silence, each running through our separate conversations in reverie until we find the willpower to stand and head to our rooms with promises of a great week ahead.
*****
I awake with a stir, the sound of disgruntled mumbling and the jostling of my door handle pulling me from my slumber. I glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table next to me: 2:58 am. I grunt in annoyance, untucking myself from the quilt and climbing out of bed.
I’m not afraid; it’s pretty clear by the sounds coming from the hallway that this is no intruder, just a drunk resident of the hotel who is mistaking my room for their own. Still, I peek through the peephole in the door and I’m met with a very frustrated Carmilla Karnstein, her messy locks pulled into a bun, makeup still perfectly intact as she continues to fumble with her room key, her brow furrowed as the room card is denied again.
I open the door with a smirk, my face growing smugger as I notice the confusion etching further onto hers. It passes quickly though and transforms into a genuine smile.
“Cupcake,” she bubbles in an adorably excited way, something I never thought I’d use to describe the dark, broody woman.
I chuckle. “Onto pet names already, are we,” I tease.
She giggles - honest to God fucking giggles – in her drunken state and her smile only brightens. I’m mesmerized, a storm-chaser praying for safety as I draw closer and closer.
“Your shirt is full of cupcakes,” she explains nonchalantly, playfully rolling her eyes as she moves toward me to tug at the hem of my shirt, her eyes flicking between mine and the shirt. She seems surprised by her own forwardness; her eyes are dark but they look to mine for approval. I lean into her touch, wrapping a steadying arm around her waist. I tell myself I’m only looking to make sure that she doesn’t fall as she, on cue, takes a wobbly step closer to me.
“So, cupcake, what are you doing in my room,” she purrs at me, her words threaded together slightly from the alcohol.
“Your room,” I tease, twisting her with my arm to point her toward her room across the hall, “is that one.”
When I’ve finished speaking, her body now facing the door of Room 308 and my hands firm on her hips, I watch the emotions play out on her face: confusion, recognition, embarrassment, and she finally lands back on playful flirting.
“Well, I think I’d much prefer to spend the night in this one,” she smirks, her body turning to face me again, much closer than before. She draws her fingertips along the collar of my t-shirt, dipping them below to run along my collarbone. I shiver at the feeling.
“How about,” I start, leaning into the touch and tugging her toward me by the hand still draped around her waist, “if you’re not this drunk tomorrow, you come find me. Then maybe I’ll let you.”
I’m impressed with myself as I hear Carmilla’s sharp intake of breath, so close to my ear; I feel it in the base of my stomach before I even hear it, like she has a tin can telephone wired from her mouth to my abdomen.
She hums in contentment, her lips grazing my neck as she draws closer to my ear.
“Goodnight, Laura the Cupcake, Escaped Prisoner of Room 307.”
I chuckle as she withdraws from my arm, shakily making her way back across the hallway to her own door which opens on the first try of her room card; the magic of the right lock and key.
“Goodnight, Carmilla,” I whisper to her retreating form as she disappears behind the door.
*****
I shuffle the folder I’m holding from my hand to tuck beneath my armpit as I attempt to gather my breakfast. It shouldn’t be so difficult to transport a small plate and a mug of hot chocolate but I’m encumbered by my folder and notebook. I use the notebook as a tray, but as the mug begins to teeter precariously I set everything back down to readjust.
I reset the plate once more, feeling more secure with my pinky wrapped around the mug now, and begin to shuffle my way toward the ballroom when I feel a hand come to rest on my back. I jump slightly at the contact, my mug sliding haphazardly toward the edge of the notebook-tray as my pinky struggles to hang onto it. Luckily a hand juts out to grab it before any damage can be done.
“Careful, cupcake; wouldn’t want to start your morning with a bang.”
I recognize the voice immediately, the low gravely rasp only sexier as a hint of sleep softens the edges. She emphasizes her last word, my thoughts immediately spiraling back to our early morning encounter; as if I hadn’t spent the rest of the night dreaming and fantasizing about just that.
“Surprised to see you alive at such an hour,” I tease as I walk toward my table, Carmilla following closely behind with my hot chocolate and a few extra napkins that she must have grabbed from the buffet tables.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, cutie,” she accuses, her eyebrow cocked.
I steer us toward a vacant table at the front of the room near the stage and Carmilla drops into the seat next to me, scooting her chair closer to mine as she nudges the mug toward me.
“Well, then fill me in, Ms. Karnstein,” I joke, picking up the hot chocolate to take a sip. “It seems we’ve got some time to fill before the day’s events begin.”
Our eyes meet again and I’m enamored by this woman. She is a stranger, but our lighthearted banter feels more natural than almost any of the conversations I’ve had this month.
“Ah, but if I do, I’ll lose some of my air of mystery, won’t I?” she retorts. “And we can’t have that just yet; I’ve got to keep you around somehow.”
“I don’t think you need to worry about that.”
I’m so overwhelmed that the words slip out before my mind can even register them. My cheeks burn scarlet as Carmilla’s lips curl. She smiles, a warm smile filled with what I hope is the same recognition leaping out of me at this very moment: that there’s something about this woman that I haven’t encountered before, something that pulls me in, something that makes me want to know more.
She stands up and drapes a hand over my shoulder, dragging her fingertips along my back as she walks away, leaving me – as expected – wanting more. I’m pulled from my trance by the clatter of LaFontaine joining me. They somehow managed to carry three plates and two cups of orange juice with them. They smirk at the look of astonishment in my eyes before dipping the tote bag off of their shoulder to open in front of me. I look inside to find a handful of chocolate chip cookies wrapped in napkins. My eyes go wide as they dart back toward my friend.
“To keep your energy up,” they sing, closing the bag and nestling it under their chair.
Best conference ever, I think as I dive into the warm chocolate chip scone on my plate.
*****
My brain hurts. It actually physically aches inside of me; its grown limbs that are rattling against my skull begging for a break, protesting every thought that crosses my mind. There should have been a sign on the front door this morning that read: Beware, science.
I’m used to this. I’ve adjusted to the research nomenclature and the language of numbers and the jargon of scientists, but still my mind is in a fog.
Turns out when Dr. Belmonde implied we’d be seeing a lot of Carmilla, and that she typically runs these things, she meant that Carmilla is very much in charge. The flirt, the drunken mess of a woman who showed up at my door in the wee hours of the morning – who I may have propositioned for another visit, if I recall correctly, though I don’t dwell on that just yet – is long gone, replaced with a commanding trainer who, I learn, spends her time traveling, in the employment of Dr. Belmonde and the Corvae Corporation, to speak with research teams around the world on the value of intersectionality in science.
I swoon at the idea alone, never mind the fact that she is engaging, intelligent, and why-can’t-I-look-away beautiful. The full package; they write poems about girls like her, on walls of cathedrals for tourists to find centuries later and wonder if such a woman could have even existed. Well, tourists, let me tell you now, for those reading in the year 3017: she does.
Today she has led the group through a nine hour grueling analysis of science itself, only the start of our four days together. She juxtaposes philosophical queries, the foundation of so much of the research all of us gathered are working on, with social questions that contextualize everything we’re asking, shining a new light on the fundamental questions of science – and life – itself.
I’m absolutely blown away. In all of my time in the world of biomedical research – and granted it hasn’t been much – I’ve never been so captivated by a presenter or a subject so deeply. LaF feels just the same, I can tell; they’re mumbling along as they jot down as many of Carmilla’s words as they can catch.
It’s past six o’clock when we are dismissed for the day. There is a networking dinner this evening intended mostly for researchers, and because LaF plans to attend I decide to take the night to explore the city a bit by myself. It’s something that I do in each place that we visit: I wander the streets without expectation, blending into the local scenery to stop into any small shops that catch my eye, picking up a trinket for my dad or a tacky souvenir with the city’s named plastered on it for Danny or Kirsch.
I stop by my room to drop off my belongings and change into something more comfortable. A pair of jeans and a light sweater will suffice, as the temperature was mild all day. I swing a purse over my shoulder, drop my room key in, and step out into the hallway when I’m met with Carmilla, her eyes glued to her phone. Her room card is in between her teeth as both thumbs furiously type on the device. I let out a soft chuckle at the sight, catching her attention. She smirks, and when her lips part I can see her teeth clenched around the card.
“Hey,” I pipe.
“Hey, cupcake,” she replies, forgetting the room card completely so that it falls to the ground immediately.
We both laugh, but I bend to pick it up for her. I can feel her eyes following me; I stand up slower, arching my back more than necessary.
“Super unhygienic,” I chide, “You have no clue where this thing has been.”
“Now I do,” she teases back, grabbing for the card in my hand. She holds it before taking it, her fingers brushing against mine. I am buzzing, an electricity coursing through me at the slightest touch.
“Oh, um,” I stammer, “you were fantastic today, by the way. I mean, just incredible. I always feel a little bit out of my element at these conferences, being on the program side and not a researcher and all, but I think you’ve inspired me to value my outsider perspective a little more. I mean, who would have thought that a philosopher would be the one to totally change my worldview on science?!” I take a breath and notice she’s full on grinning at me now, a toothy smile that melts my already exhausted brain and for the first time in probably my entire life I’m speechless. Not out of breath, not pausing to pivot to another point, but actually out-of-words speechless.
“Thanks,” she mutters, a bashful glow now sweeping from her neck to her cheeks.
We stand in awkward silence for a moment longer until I realize that she’s probably waiting for me to make my exit.
“So, I, uh, I’ll just be on my way then,” I mumble, my thumb pointing behind me toward the elevators.
“Heading anywhere fun?” she asks, genuinely curious.
“Oh! I guess that depends,” I giggle. “I’m partaking in my conference tradition of actually exploring the city I’m in. I never really traveled as a kid – only child of an overprotective father whose idea of camping meant a tent in the living room – and I feel like I’m making up for lost time, even if I wouldn’t choose,” I pause, trying to think of the name of the city we’re currently in, “Peekskill, NY as my destination of choice.”
She smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Enjoy your roaming,” she approves.
I thank her and walk away toward the elevator. I think about inviting Carmilla, about how desperately I want to spend a night getting to know her, but compromise for an evening of solo adventure with the promise that I’ll see if she’s awake when I return. That’s as far as I let myself carry that line of thought.
*****
I drop my bag onto the hotel dresser and make my way to the bathroom. I sit down on the toilet and begin to flick through emails on my phone. I scroll to the earlier messages and respond to the few that warrant an immediate response when my eye catches a familiar name. I open the email immediately.
Sent: Monday, April 18, 2016 9:03 pm
From: Karnstein, Carmilla
To: Hollis, Laura
Subject: Evening Offer?
Laura,
Hope it’s not weird I’m emailing you – I realize I never asked for your number, and the silence across the hall leads me to believe that you’re not back from your exploring just yet.
Wanted to see if your offer still stands for tonight. I’ve been thinking about it all day.
- C
(Sent from my iPhone)
My heart is in my throat and my stomach has dropped to my toes and is Carmilla fucking Karnstein really emailing me right now about a flirty comment I made a three in the morning?
I consider my options momentarily:
- I can not respond, meet Carmilla in the morning and pretend I didn’t see the message until it was too late to do anything about it.
- I can email back and let her know that I’m back but tucking in for the night.
- I can tell her I meant what I said and see what happens.
The tug in my stomach at the prospect of watching Carmilla come undone around me answers that question fast enough. Who am I kidding, like it was ever even a decision to make in the first place.
I type out a quick reply, settling on something simple. The sooner this conversation leaves the Silas server, the better.
Sent: Monday, April 18, 2016 10:07 pm
From: Hollis, Laura
To: Karnstein, Carmilla
Re: Evening Offer?
Carmilla,
I don’t make promises I can’t keep. Text me – xxx-xxx-xxxx.
-L
(Sent from my iPhone)
Less than a minute passes before my phone buzzes in my hands. I look down to see an alert for a text from an unknown number; I smirk at the instant gratification.
(Unknown Number): Does your (delayed) reply mean that you’re finally back?
I laugh at Carmilla’s text before sending one of my own.
Laura Hollis: Does your (immediate) sarcastic text mean this is Carmilla Karnstein?
Carmilla Karnstein: Must it be?
Laura Hollis: If it isn’t, someone else could end up with some very filthy things on their phone tonight.
I bite my lip in anticipation as soon as the message sends. This isn’t my typical routine, but I think with Carmilla I can cut out the will-we-won’t-we and happily assume it’s going to happen; why wait?
I see the grey dots indicating she is responding pop up and disappear three times as she deletes and re-enters her response. I grow slightly nervous at the delay.
Carmilla Karnstein: If that’s the case, then you’ve got the right girl.
Carmilla Karnstein: Now, let’s skip to the part where those filthy things end up on my phone.
A smug smile stretches across my lips as I get an idea. I quickly dart across the room to my still-packed suitcase, withdrawing a pair of lacy black underwear and matching bra. I undress and slip them on, pulling a t-shirt over top and stepping into a pair of short pajama shorts. I toss the discarded clothes into a laundry bag on the floor. When I’m back on my bed, I pick up the phone and send my response.
Laura Hollis: Or, you could come find out yourself. ;)
I count to thirty eight before I hear the soft knock on my door. Faster than usual, I think with confidence as I pull open the door from where I’ve been perched next to it. I continue to lean against the doorframe. A pajama-clad Carmilla stands before me, lust in her eyes as they rake over my body. She has on a pair of similarly tight shorts and a loose grey v-neck t-shirt. I can already tell she’s not wearing a bra.
“Can I help you?” I ask, trying my best to feign surprise at my guest as I hold in a laugh.
“That depends,” she husks, her gravelly voice deeper than usual; she leans closer to me, her hand coming to rest on my hip. “I heard there might be someone here looking to spend her evening getting to know her very sexy, very intelligent, very good in bed hotel neighbor.” She offers a knowing smirk and a wink, and I can’t help the chuckle that escapes my lips.
“Oh, is that so?” I wonder, and she hums in agreement. “Well, then you’d better come in while I try to find her and let her know that her very modest ‘hotel neighbor’ is looking for her.”
I move further into the room and she follows, her hand never leaving my hip. She kicks the door closed behind her, her eyes locked on mine with a hunger I find absolutely irresistible. She bites her bottom lip and I take it as the only invitation that I need to step forward, pushing her against the door, my body pressing up against hers. She gasps and closes the gap between us.
Our lips meet and I’m plunging into a river, cannonballing off of a cliff on the hottest day of the summer, sinking beneath the surface as my senses are overwhelmed by warmth and quiet until I’m bursting back up to the surface, breathless with the bright sun spotting my vision.
I’ve never been kissed like this. The one night stands, bathroom hookups, nightcaps in new cities, even the very best of Danny doesn’t come close to the body-waking make out session happening against my door.
Eventually I find the sense to pull us toward the bed, twisting so that the back of Carmilla’s knees bump up against the mattress; I push her down onto it and climb on top to straddle her.
“Now, Ms. Hollis,” she quips from beneath me, her bruised lips momentarily parted from mine, “I’m looking forward to seeing what filthy things you have in store for me.”
I practically growl as I lunge forward, connecting our lips again as I yank the t-shirt over her head. Our kiss is broken as by the article of clothing being removed, but I use the opportunity to move my mouth lower now, sucking soft bruises into her collarbone and chest. She moans above me, her hands tangling into my hair and tugging me to where she wants me most.
“Patience,” I tease, kissing my way further down her body, stopping only so that she can remove my shirt as well. She pauses when she sees the lacy bra I’m wearing, her pupils blown, before unclasping it so that we’re both topless.
“I think you’ll find I’m not very patient,” she muses as she reaches down to pull me back up toward her, flipping me over so that she is now on top of me. “I’ve wanted to do this all fucking day,” she admits as her mouth lands on my breast. She sucks on my nipple, her teeth grazing it softly as the vibration of her moaning is felt on every surface of my body. “I’ve never been so distracted,” she continues, her mouth now sucking the soft skin of my hips.
“Sorry,” I moan, completely unapologetic, “but I have no sympathy. I spent nine hours trying to actually learn something when the only thought my brain could process for more than ten minutes is how sexy you looked in that blazer, and how badly I wanted to run my – fuck.”
I’m interrupted by Carmilla’s hot mouth sucking at me through my underwear. I’d been so distracted I hadn’t even felt her tug my shorts down, resting now on my thighs. She continues to bite softly at my center through the clothing, and I can feel how wet I am already. It’s unbelievable.
“Can I?” she asks, as if there’s any semblance of doubt as my hips buck up toward her mouth.
“You’d better,” I nod. She swiftly moves the fabric of my underwear to the side, slipping her tongue beneath to run along the length of my slit and holy fucking shit. I don’t know if I’m moaning so loudly, or if it’s her, or if it’s the both of us, but the entire room is filled with the sound of pure bliss as she slides my underwear off completely. I’ve never felt so good. My mind is blank as I’m lost in the feeling of Carmilla’s tongue fucking me. She sucks at my clit, biting gently as I throw my head back against the pillow beneath me, my hands pulling her even closer.
“You taste so much better than I imagined,” she mumbles against me, and it takes all of the willpower I have to not shimmy out a victory dance at that thought that Carmilla Karnstein – this sexy, powerful, charming woman – has thought about tasting me. The thought pushes me closer to the edge, my body quaking as she inserts a finger into me, pumping faster as my hips grind against her.
“Come for me, Laura,” she whispers, her breath hot against my already heated core. “I want to feel you come for me.”
That’s all it takes. My walls tighten around her finger, her teeth grazing my clit as she sucks hard enough for me to see stars. I moan her name as I come for her, wanting her to know that she’s completely responsible for the overwhelming orgasm that’s rocking through me. She flattens her tongue and continues to gently lick and suck until I tug her by the hair toward me, crashing my lips against hers in a searing kiss. I moan at the taste of myself on her lips and tongue.
“You like that,” she whispers against my lips.
“I’d rather taste you,” I smirk while pushing her up so that she’s hovering over me. From beneath her I lower my body further down the mattress. She immediately gets the hint, scooting higher up toward me. I bite at the inside of her thighs and hear her hiss, her body arched over me. I tug her shorts and underwear down in one movement and she lifts each leg to help remove them. They get temporarily stuck and we both laugh, our eyes locked enjoying the lighthearted moment.
When she’s completely naked I wrap my arms around her thighs and lower her core to my mouth. She’s dripping wet, and I run my tongue along the length of her to take in as much of her as I can.
A stream of swears erupt from her throat as she cries out when my tongue enters her, my nose brushing against her clit. I pull her even closer, encouraging her to grind against my mouth. She starts to rock against me, a low moan coming from her throat as she speeds up slightly. We find a steady pace, and my hands begin to explore her body. I cup her breasts, tugging at her nipples as she pants above me.
“Fuck Laura, don’t stop,” she mumbles. “I’ve never felt so fucking good, ah.”
It’s on the last word that I pick up my pace, my tongue assaulting her clit now as I slide a finger into her. She gasps and hunches further onto me with a white knuckled grip on the headboard. I’m confident now as her body convulses above me; I can feel her heart beating out of her chest, sure mine is doing the same, as she climaxes, my name the last words on her lips as she utters it over and over until her body relaxes.
She lowers herself, flopping down ungracefully to lay her full body weight on top of me. I can feel the sweat coating her back and neck.
“Fuck,” she groans, nuzzling into my neck. I chuckle and wrap my arms around her back, pressing her against me, our worn, naked bodies tangled together.
“Tired that quickly,” I tease, and feel her laugh against my neck.
“Cupcake, I thought we signed up for a night, not a two hour tryst.” She plays with my hair, wrapping it around her finger and tugging at the loose curls. “I’m simply catching my breath.”
I crane my neck so that I can meet her eyes. They’re still dark, but the release of her orgasm has softened them.
“I’m not sure staying up all night, even for this, is the best idea if you’ve got another day like today planned for tomorrow,” I suggest, remembering the pounding in my head as I grappled with the concepts Carmilla spent the morning laying out for everyone. I think of the consequences of trying to do that again without any rest in between – no thanks. Still, the thought of a spending the night listening to Carmilla moan my name seems to outweigh the other option. Almost.
She’s quiet now, evidently considering the same.
“I guess you’re right,” she finally huffs, and I giggle at the sincere annoyance and disappointment in her voice. “But my drunken self very clearly remembers an offer to spend the night in here, so – ”
She doesn’t finish her sentence as my lips find hers, cutting her off. The kiss is gentle; it feels misplaced between two strangers after a lustful night in a hotel bed, and yet it comes naturally with Carmilla. I lean into the kiss as she hums against my lips, enjoying it as much as I am, her arm winding around my waist to pull me closer to her.
I pull back breathless, her eyes searching mine.
“I don’t exactly do sleepovers,” I admit, very aware all of a sudden that the last time I shared a bed with anyone to sleep was the night things ended with Danny. I’ve done well over the last two years to keep my bed-sharing to strictly physical purposes, but the thought of waking up to Carmilla’s arms still comfortably wrapped around me pulls something in my chest that I haven’t felt in as long. A tiny Laura races around inside me, dusting the cobwebs off my heart and adjusting the lighting, inviting Carmilla in like a desperate, lonely housewife. I scoff at her, but I’m so relaxed against Carmilla that I cave. Where’s the harm in one night?
“But,” I continue on as if I hadn’t just paused for a full minute to rationalize this all, “I guess if you’re already here, and we’re already in bed, and we both have to be awake at the same time tomorrow,” I don’t finish, just turn toward her and fall deeper into her arms.
I feel her body relax against me; I hadn’t realized that she had tensed during my mental bout with tiny-Laura. She places a gentle kiss to the top of my head and, even though it feels all wrong and not at all something your one-night-stand conference-fling ought to do, it feels right, and it comforts me, and I’m already on the verge of falling asleep when I hear Carmilla mumbling above me.
“Goodnight, cupcake.”
“Night, Carm.”
*****
Waking up next to someone for the first time in over two years is strange. It’s even stranger when it’s only just past 4 am, the sun still hidden beneath layers of nighttime darkness.
I feel confined, limbs enclosing me and caging me against the bed. I try to relax but I feel suffocated. Not only physically suffocated, but weighed down by the guilt of having spent the night with someone in the first place.
It’s not that I’m still tied to Danny – that ship sailed long ago, and we’re both better off for it. No, I think I’m guilty because I don’t want to lead Carmilla on. I mock myself at the thought. She emailed me to bring up last night, I remember; she’s only as into this as I am. And yet, I recall her body relaxing significantly when I told her that she could spend the night, the tender kiss she placed against my head before we fell asleep.
I can’t sleep, and when thirty restless minutes pass and the first hint of sunlight starts to break through the darkness and Carmilla’s hand squeezes my waist unconsciously, I make a decision.
“Carm,” I whisper, jostling her a bit to try to wake her. Surprisingly she’s up pretty quickly, completely disoriented as an adorable wrinkle creases her brow.
“Where the fuck am I,” she mumbles, her tired voice hardly above a whisper as she cranes her neck to look around the room. I giggle at the sight and feel her go rigid against me, her eyes darting to my face before recognition sets in and they soften a bit. “Cupcake, why the hell am I awake right now?”
I can feel a rambling explanation brewing inside of me. I’ve always been this way; I give myself one deep breath to get everything out in the hopes that if it at least breaks free and enters existence, out of my skull and into the open, I’ll be able to fill in gaps later.
“Uh, hey Carm. Sorry about that, it’s just that I woke up a little while ago and I haven’t been able to fall back asleep – ”
“So you thought you’d wake me up then? Misery-loves-company style?”
“No, just – let me finish. I couldn’t sleep because I feel badly that I wasn’t upfront about this with you,” I wave a hand over our bodies to indicate I’m talking about us, and I feel her move away from me subtly. I press on. “I, I-uh, well, I don’t really spend the night with people because I’m not looking for anything more than sex and I don’t want to give the wrong impression. I mean, I’m not actively searching for sex either but, it happened, and it tends to happen when I go to conferences because it’s a way to meet new people, but if you’re looking for something more than that I can’t exactly be that person, and spending the night together feels like it’s pulling us in that direction, and if that’s weird – ”
“Cupcake,” she interrupts again. “Breathe.”
I take a deep exaggerated breath which, annoyingly, actually helps as my deflated lungs offer their thanks.
“I spent the night because you ended up with a king sized bed and mine is only a queen – which is something I’m definitely going to complain to Mattie about – and I wasn’t about to go prancing across the hallway after midnight when you were already halfway asleep anyway. But that’s not me asking you to be anything more than sex. Christ, I’m not proposing,” she feigns a gag as the words leave her mouth and I bite back a laugh. “I don’t even have an apartment right now. I travel three and a half weeks of every month and crash at Mattie’s the rest of the time. I’m not trying to settle anything about my life right now, so don’t worry. Besides, we both know that when this conference is over it’ll have been nothing but sex. Mind-blowingly good sex, mind you, but that’s it. So why not just have a lot of it now?”
I search her eyes for any indication that she’s lying, that she’s hiding something deeper, but I find nothing. I’m thankful, but also disappointed, and I wonder at that. She’s giving me exactly what I’m asking for: freedom, no-strings-attached, one-time-only (well, one-week-only, if I’m lucky) sex. And yet, my chest feels constricted. I don’t understand what’s happening, and I file it away with the rest of the squishy feelings I tend to ignore.
“Alright.”
“Alright,” she repeats. “If that’s settled, can I go back to sleep?”
I giggle and nod. She nuzzles back against my chest and I wrap a protective arm around her. Suddenly I don’t feel suffocated; I feel warm and comfortable and I fall asleep in no time.
*****
The group adjourns for the day, and I spend ten extra minutes transcribing my final thoughts into my notebook. I’m in disbelief by this point; Carmilla is as engaging, thought-provoking, and animated as before, and yet operating on even less sleep than Day 1. I smile internally at the thought that I’m the reason she has less sleep, as our late night and very early morning pre-breakfast shenanigans certainly cut into our ability to rest, but the back-to-back orgasms I woke her up with seem to have actually done wonders for her.
“Wow, cupcake,” I hear from behind me, her voice low enough so that only I can hear, “I’m surprised your wrists haven’t cramped by now with the workout you got this morning and the amount of notetaking happening since.”
“Ha, ha,” I mock, my eyes only leaving the page when I’ve finished my sentence to close the notebook in front of me. I turn toward her, meeting her eyes again, this time without rows of round tables, a stage, and a hundred other people between us. “Are you just here to make fun of me, or can I help you with something?”
“Oh, I think there are quite a few things you can help me with,” she purrs, her hand coming to rest on my shoulder and massaging gently. I stifle a moan at the feeling. “The first of which includes having dinner with me.”
She smiles warmly at me, her hand leaving my shoulder as she extends it toward me. I take it and stand up, dropping it only to pack my belongings into my bag (the one I remembered this morning so as to avoid another potential breakfast disaster). I follow the group out toward the banquet hall for our arranged dinner, but Carmilla tugs my arm and pulls me in the direction of the elevators.
“Our dinner is upstairs,” she boasts, a mischievous glint in her eye.
While we wait for the elevator, I text LaF to let them know I won’t be joining the group. I’m sure they won’t mind, as they’ve managed to network quite a bit since we’ve been here, but I would feel bad if I didn’t at least let them know.
When finally the elevator arrives, I step in after Carmilla who hits the button to take us to the penthouse. My eyebrows raise but her smirk only grows; she doesn’t divulge any information until she’s leading me toward The Alchemy Club, the hotel’s rooftop restaurant/bar/club.
“Carm, why are we here?” I ask in astonishment, slowing until I’m stopped outside of the entrance. The place is fancy – far nicer than the dinner I’m sure our colleagues are being offered downstairs – and, to be honest, when she said our dinner was upstairs I thought she was just being crass about me being her dinner.
“For dinner,” she beams, grabbing my hand and lacing her fingers through mine as she drags me into the restaurant. I don’t withdraw my hand, instead threading my fingers tightly around hers and squeezing. I can’t help it; her smile is blinding and she’s holding my hand and I’m thinking about all of the ways I want to repay her tonight. She’s being cute, and it’s totally working. “Don’t get things twisted,” she continues, as if sensing my thoughts, “it’s on the company card. I nagged Mattie about the king sized bed and this is my remuneration.” Her eyes tell me she’s only telling a half-truth.
We spend the evening getting to know each other. I learn that Mattie is actually Carmilla’s half-sister, – a shocking revelation that has me nearly spitting my wine at her when I think of the fact that I fucked Dr. Belmonde’s sister – that she was born in New York but raised across multiple states, her mother a successful businesswoman who she avoids bringing back up. She doesn’t have an apartment, which I knew, but does own a few places that she rents out; she figures she’ll eventually need to settle into one, so she chooses to keep her options open. She makes me smile and laugh, and when I tell her that I’m having a good time, I mean it. The best time I’ve had with a stranger ever, and perhaps even sadder, the best time I’ve had at all in years.
For dessert she orders a giant chocolate chip cookie. When I offer her some she refuses, explaining that she saw me eating them all day yesterday and the moans she heard, and figures I’ll make again, make the dessert as much for her as for me.
After dinner we go back to my room and I keep my promise of thanking her in the best way that I know how: spending hours under her until she’s shaking and moaning my name for the entire hotel to hear.
*****
The next two days follow in a similar fashion. During the day, Carmilla and I make eyes as often as we can while she’s presenting. She comes over to my table during our breakout session, her front pressing against my back subtly as she leans forward to speak to the rest of the group gathered at the table. She takes quite a liking to LaFontaine – not surprising in the slightest, when I think about it – and she actually arranges a dinner for the three of us and Dr. Belmonde. LaF spends the evening discussing their research and when Dr. Belmonde asks about their thoughts on inclusive models of research participation for transgender patients in primary care settings an hour passes before they even come up for air.
Carmilla and I carry on a conversation of our own, stealing soft touches and whispers of forecasts for the rest of our night. I’m only pulled back into the conversation when Dr. Belmonde – Mattie, as she insists we call her over dinner – asks about our upcoming plans.
“Well, LaF hasn’t made it easy on me with their being the most sought after brain right now,” I brag, a scarlet hue tinting my friend’s face, “so we’ve actually got a pretty packed few months ahead of us; a stint in Rochester at the Mayo Clinic, some time in Pittsburgh and Philadelphia, a few weeks in California, and then back in Silas for a month to write it all down.”
“Whether we want to or not,” LaF adds.
“I must say, I’m very impressed,” Dr. Belmonde boasts. “For such a relatively new researcher, Dr. LaFontaine, you’ve made quite a splash.”
I can see LaF beaming, memorizing every word from Dr. Belmonde’s mouth, her tone, the visual of the whole thing so that they can share it with everyone they meet for the next six months.
“And you, Ms. Hollis,” she continues, “Who’d have thought a journalist would be the one to take the publishing side of genomic research by surprise?”
I blush at her kindness, and feel Carmilla’s hand come to rest on my thigh. She leaves it there, a comforting presence as we continue our conversation.
When the meal ends, Mattie (yeah, no, still awkward) excuses herself; she is headed back to New York City to her home and the Corvae headquarters. I watch as she slips LaF her business card, offering to give them a tour when we’re in New York next. LaF graciously accepts; I can feel the pride and excitement radiating off of them from across the table, confident that the life forms looking down at us from some faraway planet probably can too.
Carmilla and I make our exit next, leaving LaFontaine in the glow of an evening with their idol as they wrap Carmilla into an appreciative hug before we go. When it’s my turn, they squeeze tight and whisper, “Thank her for me too, tonight,” a suggestive smirk on their lips as they wave goodbye.
We undress in my room and climb into bed, mentally and physically exhausted after four days of intense days and nights - and mornings and lunch breaks, I think with a smug smile. It’s true, though; in only four days I’ve come to know Carmilla’s body like my own. I know where she wants to be touched, where to suck to make her toes curl, how to twist my fingers inside her to make her tumble over the edge.
More than that though, I’ve come to know her as a person; how playful she gets when it’s just the two of us, how caring she is for others, – whether she admits it or not – how passionate she is about her work. She’s a total slob, her clothes strewn about every surface of her room and mine at this point, but it’s almost endearing. She carries herself with a sense of confidence that attracts me and inspires me at the same time. She’s an enigma; the needle in the hay stack.
I shock myself by admitting that I’m going to actually miss her when we part ways tomorrow, and the thought throws me off guard as it barrels across my mind. It’s an odd feeling, one typically reserved only for my dad and completely foreign amongst the women I sleep with on the road. But I know I mean it when my chest tightens at the feeling of Carmilla wrapping her arm around me, resting her head on my chest as she answers a few emails, our legs tangled together in bed.
I run my fingers through her hair, scratching softly at her scalp as she hums in appreciation. I can feel my inner Laura reclining in her armchair, a glass of wine in her hand and an “I told you so” on her lips. I roll my eyes but don’t stop what I’m doing.
“It’s going to be weird to leave tomorrow,” I sigh, breathing the words cautiously against the back of Carmilla’s head, glad that she can’t see the heat rising to my face.
“Why’s that?” she asks, her eyes still on her phone as she scrolls from one email to the next.
“You won’t be there.” My voice is quiet and weak. I can’t believe I’m even saying any of this and I chide myself for feeling any sort of attachment to this woman, the same woman who I woke up at four thirty in the morning only a few nights ago to assure that I’m only interested in sex. As if she can read my mind, Carmilla responds after only a slight hesitation that I don’t allow myself to read into.
“Well, yeah, sweetheart. That’s how this thing usually works. You said so yourself.” Her response is casual; she doesn’t even look up from her phone.
And suddenly I’m angry. And upset. And it’s not because of Carmilla, it’s because of me. Because I let myself develop this stupid crush on this stupid woman who, turns out, isn’t stupid at all. She’s amazing, and instead of thinking about having sex with her I’m wishing we could spend our last night together wrapped in each other’s arms, sharing secrets and thoughts until day breaks and sends us on our own paths that may not be the same, but intersect and weave frequently. I actually want more. Laura Hollis fucking wants more.
And I think about telling Carmilla; I imagine that I lean down and tuck a hair behind her ear, explain to her that she’s more than just a one-time thing, that she’s managed in four days to make me feel, and to feel things that are so much more than I expected.
Instead, all I muster is a dejected “yeah” before I end the conversation. My body is tense, but if Carmilla notices she doesn’t say anything. I do remove my hands though, placing them behind my own head in an attempt to physically begin to detach myself. I make more promises; tell my hands that if they’ll stay I’ll let them explore Carmilla all night. But the thought only depresses me further, and instead I spend the next twenty minutes staring at the ceiling.
“Sorry that took so long,” Carmilla finally whines, tossing her phone onto the edge of the bed behind her. “Where were we?” Her voice is lower now; I recognize what she wants before she even starts to run her fingertips along my sides. My body is still rigid, my eyes still closed and even though I’m begging my arms to move they won’t budge now, fearful of experiencing the hurt that’s seeping through my body elsewhere.
“Cupcake?” There is concerned laced in her voice and I feel like an idiot. Why now, why now, I demand of myself, why is now the time to start to feel and want and hope?
“Hey.” I feel Carmilla tugging my chin down toward her; I lower my head but don’t open my eyes. I’m holding back and I’m convinced that if any part of my body opens – my eyes, my mouth, anything – that my feelings will come tumbling out whether I want them to or not. “You okay?”
I steel myself, my jaw is locked and I try to respond by the thickness in my throat stops me before I can begin. I shrug instead, a half-hearted nod in an attempt to drop the subject. The gesture only brings Carmilla closer.
“Laura.” She uses my name and I know she’s serious; my name’s been replaced with “cutie” and “cupcake” and “sweetheart” unless she’s moaning it with my face tucked between her legs.
I peak through one eye and she’s already smirking at me, the concern dissipating as I squeeze my eye closed again, my lip curling of its own accord.
“There are other ways I can get you to talk, you know,” she warns. I feel her fingertips come to rest on my waist, poised and ready.
“Carm,” I groan, but the words hardly leave my lips before she’s tickling my sides, perched on top of me. I’m laughing but the pain of my thoughts lingers; tears start to fall from my eyes and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m laughing so hard or hurting so deep.
“Hey, Laura.” There’s that name again. It’s hard to detach myself when Carmilla’s straddling me, a worried crease across her brow and her soft eyes scanning my face. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I mumble, wiping the tears with the back of my hand.
Carmilla reaches down and pulls my hand away, wiping the tears herself. She smiles at me – a soft smile that I’ve never seen before – and it tugs at my chest, cuts me even deeper. It hurts, but it doesn’t sting like my own resignation.
“C’mere,” she tugs me closer to her until I’m lying on top of her, chest to chest. One arm winds around my waist, the other around my shoulders, and I inhale her scent: laundry soap and hotel shampoo and Carmilla.
“Tell me what’s got you upset,” she says, and it’s not a question.
“It’s stupid,” I grumble, already chastising myself for not being able to just stay quiet, for not quieting my emotions with sex as is customary.
“It’s not stupid if it’s making you cry,” she whispers, running her knuckle under my eye to wipe the tears still threatening to spill over. “You can tell me anything.”
I look into her eyes and she’s there. Her attention is focused on me, her fingers rubbing soft, soothing circles into my back as she waits for me to speak, and I feel like I really can tell her anything. And the idea that she would let me scares me more than the thought of just being honest. So instead, I am a coward.
“It’s just,” I start, piecing the words together as I go along, “do you think we can just lie like this tonight? I mean, not have sex, just – be together?” Her eyes widen and I immediately start to backtrack. “I’m, um, I’m just really tired. But you really don’t have to stay. Actually, I shouldn’t have even asked. Hell, I’m the one who made it weird in the first place. And I know that you probably just want to have sex since we’re leaving tomorrow, so you can totally go find someone else if you want.” As I speak the last sentence my voice cracks, betraying me as I crumble at the thought of Carmilla with someone else.
What the frilly hell is happening right now?
“Laura,” she cuts me off, her voice soothing and soft and comforting. She wraps her arms tighter around me, pulling me as close as she can so that we’re tangled together completely. “I’m content with just this.” She kisses the top of my head and leans her face against my forehead, her hands running up and down my back scratching lightly. I relax into her touch, and I drift to sleep without realizing.
*****
When I wake up, Carmilla isn’t there. Her clothes are gone, no trace that she co-inhabited this room with me for the last few nights. I glance at the alarm clock and it’s just past eight. Her flight was scheduled for seven thirty. I frown as I realize that she must have slipped out in the early morning or overnight. I grab for my yellow pillow, the one she claimed as hers our very first night here – explaining that hotel pillows lack the necessary ‘fluff’ that my pillow has – and tug it over my face. I want to breathe in her scent for as long as I can, telling myself I have until my flight later that morning to absorb her into me before she’s gone along with the rest of this trip.
As the pillow hangs in the air above me, my phone drops off of it and crashes against my forehead. I grunt as I bring my hand up to rub my sore forehead when I notice that I have several new texts from Carmilla, sent at 5:30 am.
Carmilla Karnstein: Cutie, I’m sorry that I’m too much of a chicken to say this to your face. I wanted to last night but you’d already fallen asleep by the time that I wrapped my mind around it, and right now you’re pressed comfortably against me and I can’t bear to wake you. The past four days have been the best I’ve had. The sex was great – I mean really, really great (don’t let it go to your head) – but the company was even better. I’ve been up all night thinking about you, how upset you were tonight and how much it hurt me to see you cry, and how much I want to get to know all these sides of you. The smart side, the happy side, the sexy side, the sad side, and every other one you’ll show me. I want to know every bit of you. So, I hope that we can stay in touch and maybe we’ll cross paths again. I know I’d be glad for it. Please let me know when you land safely tomorrow, I’ll be thinking about you the whole time.
Carmilla Karnstein: And if this isn’t what you’re looking for and I totally misread last night then I apologize and we can forget this ever happened.
Carmilla Karnstein: By the way, I totally hijacked your cupcake t-shirt. It’s my tacky souvenir ;)
Carmilla Karnstein: Don’t be mad, I left you a gift too. Top drawer of your dresser.
I hardly finish reading her last text before I’m leaping out of bed and running toward the dresser. I pull the drawer open in haste and inside of it sits her leather jacket. The leather jacket. Her favorite jacket, the one she’d had for seven years, the one she refused to let me borrow because it was “her pride and joy, Laura; you don’t just lend out your jacket when we could just as easily go up to your room and get your sweater.” It is more than a jacket; this is Carmilla giving me a piece of her.
I bring the jacket to my face, inhaling deeply. My mind blurs at the overwhelming sense of Carmilla filling the air around me. I smile and rush back to my phone, sending a text of my own.
Laura Hollis: I’ll forgive you for the shirt but only because I’m going to look like a total badass in your jacket. ;)
Before I can write anything more, she has already responded.
Carmilla Karnstein: If that’s the case then I should have taken something far less dorky than a t-shirt full of cupcakes. But, my options were limited, considering you are the queen of dorks.
Carmilla Karnstein: Also, I expect photo proof of any badassery…
Without thinking, I throw the jacket over my shoulders, twisting my arms into the sleeves and wrap it around me. I hold my phone up and snap a quick picture to send to Carmilla.
Laura Hollis: Total badass already. (Photo Attached)
Carmilla Karnstein: You make leather look adorable. How is that even possible?
My cheeks burn as I re-read her messages, remembering how I’d failed to even address her earlier message. Shit. I’d been so distracted by the jacket that I hadn’t even responded.
Laura Hollis: Not adorable, totally badass.
Laura Hollis: Also, I like you. I don’t know when it happened or how it happened, but I do. You’re so much more than I ever bargained for, Carm. I really hope that I see you again soon.
I press send and feel a thousand times better than I have since last night when the realization that this was more than a fling paralyzed me into a night of tearful and fearful resignation. The idea that Carmilla could want this too was too much to consider, but now that it was real I can feel myself opening up to the idea of something different, something more.
Carmilla Karnstein: Funny story – I may have missed my flight this morning because you kept asking me to stay and cuddle, so I’m stuck at the airport until the next one leaves at 5:00 tonight. If you leave now we can have lunch before yours leaves. What do you say?
For the first time in a lifetime, I do not hesitate. I give in to the magnet, stand atop the hay stack proudly with my needle, shouting for everyone to hear that I’m Laura Hollis. I feel and I want and I kiss and I crush and I lunch. Oh, do I lunch.
Laura Hollis: I’m in.