This story is longish and romantic-ish and lesbian-ish. Abandon ship if that's not what you're looking for.
If you've read my other stuff you'll see this explains one side of a love triangle. If you haven't read my other stuff, well, you're probably still a lovely human being and productive member of society.
All characters in this story are over eighteen. So's the author.
*~*~*~ Part 1 ~*~*~*
Half an hour into my first office party and I already wanted to go home. Almost everyone was wearing black so I stuck out like a dufus in my stupid blue satin wrap dress. I'd worn it to my cousin's wedding last spring.
The dress matched my eyes, but I'd picked it that night more for its maximum coverage up top. I'm a smidge on the chesty side and even as a teenager, I had the feeling that swinging cleavage around at a work party would be tacky.
What I didn't count on that night was not having a single person to talk to. Sure, I was just a little filing clerk that worked a day or two a week at their fancy accounting firm, but everyone was usually superfriendly. Well, okay, mostly the accountants. And they were guys.
Here's the thing: I'm young, skinny, blonde and friendly. As far as boys go, I'm a hot fudge sundae. Ever meet someone that doesn't like hot fudge sundaes? Me neither.
So I usually flirted with the office guys a little. Just jokes and stuff. It never got gross. They were well-behaved professional types and old enough to know better.
There was zero flirty chitchat that night though. Just me standing awkwardly by myself. I never know what to do with my hands when I wear a dress. There's no pockets or anything. Folding my arms under my chest wasn't an option either. That would push things up and the goal was to avoid drawing attention there. Besides, it was bad body language if I wanted anyone to talk to me.
Not that anyone was going to.
"Great idea, Dad," I muttered. He'd been the one urging me to come to the stupid party. I'd been moping around the house for weeks.
We both knew the real reason he ushered me out the front door was a tad more selfish. My brother was away for the weekend visiting our cousins. With both of us out of the house, there was no telling what sort of weird sex acts my parents were performing on each other right now.
I had to stick it out here for at least another hour or two just to give the old folks some time to work it out of their systems. I tried not to dwell on the fact that my fifty year-old mother had a better sex life than me these days.
I started fiddling with my hair, wrapping a lock around my finger. It was a bad habit and I needed to stop. It makes me look like an airhead.
Oh yeah, this was shaping up to be a titanically shitty night. Certainly not the kind of night I'd expect to meet the love of my life anyway.
About the time I finally managed to quit twisting my hair, I smelled cologne. A lot of it.
Ramon. He'd come after all. Thank god.
"Lo siento, senorita." He slid up next to me. "Trouble at home."
"'Berto's jealous again?"
Ramon shrugged and smiled even as he pulled me onto the dancefloor being used mostly by tipsy secretaries.
"Let's just say he hates when I leave him alone on Saturday nights. And I can't bring him here. Tan... derechista. Entiendes?"
I nodded. My Spanish sucked but I knew his problem. Ramon dressed better than any guy I'd met and he lisped like a leaky tire valve. He was incredibly, epically, flamingly gay. And he was one of my best friends at work. Everyone knew he was gay but bringing his live-in boyfriend would be rubbing his lifestyle in people's faces more than he dared. The firm was too "derechista," whatever the heck that meant.
For the next twenty minutes, Ramon made me forget about being ignored by the rest of the office crowd. We danced and made funny sexy faces at each other and laughed. His gayness made everything feel safe. When one of the secretaries finally tugged him away, I let him go. Everybody liked Ramon.
And
that's
when I met the love of my life. Okay, technically I'd met her before since she worked at the office too. But that didn't count. It was different. That night, I met the real Samantha.
The girl who would steal my heart forever tapped me on my shoulder softly. "Looks like we're all out of boys. Wanna dance with me?"
I turned. And I stared. With my mouth open. Like an airhead.
Dammit.
During the normal work week, Samantha, the miniature ice queen of marketing was already dressed to kill. That night, she was dressed for genocide.
Her tiny black halter dress was silky, slinky and mind-numbingly sexy. It was a dress for someone brave and beautiful. She wore it like a second skin. It fell low up top, exposing just a hint of the inside curves of breasts cradled in a delicately laced black bra. Her bronze chest was partly hidden by her gorgeous dark hair that fell all around her in long, loose deep chocolate waves.
And of course the shoes.
Always
the shoes. Sam was a well-known shoe junky. Her three inch heels that night were sleek and black and made her already amazing legs look insane.
The best part of Sam that night? Her eyes. How had I missed them before? They weren't just green. The were
perfectly
green. The deepest, truest green I'd ever seen. When I looked in them, they closed around me. It was like getting yanked into a tropical rainforest where everything around me was really, really thick and dark and, well,
green
.
She was standing perfectly still too. Like she knew she needed to just let me look at her a little bit before I'd be able to talk. It didn't come off as vain. It was more like a self-awareness -- a recognition of the effect she could have on people.
Samantha let a few heartbeats go by before she tried her invitation again. She started with my name this time and talked slower, enunciating clearly. In the way you would talk to someone with a mental handicap. Which was about right -- I was kind of handicapped at that moment.
"Heather, we are all out of boys. Would you like to dance with me?"
It worked. My brain rebooted. "Uh yeah. Sure."
She stepped in closer than I expected and took one of my hands in hers. Her other one went to the small of my back, like a guy's would.
"So can you actually dance, girlie?" she asked.
"Sort of. A little."
It wasn't a complete fib. My parents were pretty good ballroom dancers. Waltz. Charleston. Foxtrot. The classics. I watched them practice on the back porch. My Dad had even taught me a few steps.
She smiled. "Awesome. I'll lead. You follow. Ready?"
She stepped forward a step and a half then back the same way. I copied. We did it again, faster.
We were soon moving smoothly and I risked a little extra hip swivel for some style. "This is fun. What is it?"
"Salsa. Hey, you're doing pretty good for a jock. Field hockey and lacrosse right?"
