Departure from the Script Read online

  Neither was the nightstand.

  What the…? Was she caught in some alcohol-induced nightmare, like the one in which she had won an Oscar, but when she wanted to walk onto the stage to accept it, she couldn’t find her clothes? She opened her eyes.

  Sunlight made her wince. The crazed preschooler was now stomping on her head.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled the pillow over her head to shut out the sunlight. The smell of men’s cologne clung to the cotton pillow cover.

  Nonsense. How much of that hellish stuff had she drunk last night? Now not even her sense of smell was working. There was no way men’s cologne could cling to her pillow. Her bed was a man-free zone.

  Wait a minute… Cotton? Just a few days ago, she had put the satin sheets that Kathryn had given her for Christmas on her bed.

  She jerked upright and then clutched her head. Through half-open eyes, she peered at the unfamiliar bedroom. To her left was a floor-to-ceiling window. Her head spun as she stared at a stone patio surrounded by lemon and orange trees, so different from the view that greeted her when she opened her eyes in her modest one-bedroom apartment.

  Large black-and-white prints covered the rest of the walls—a Harley with a half-naked woman straddling the bike, a close-up of a growling tiger, and the weathered face of an old man squinting into the sun.

  A man’s wristwatch sat on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. Next to it, clothes were piled on a white leather-and-chrome chair: socks, a pair of boxer shorts, and a Los Angeles Lakers sweatshirt. A pair of sneakers that looked to be at least a size ten lay beneath the chair.

  Amanda glanced back and forth between the Harley print, the watch, and the boxer shorts. Her nose caught another whiff of men’s cologne. Oh, shit. What did I do? No way in hell did I go home with that guy from the bar…did I? Not even half a dozen of those mind erasers could turn a gay woman straight. Stupid maybe, but not straight.

  Her gaze darted down her body. Air whooshed out of her lungs. Thank God. At least she was still wearing her panties and bra. She massaged her hammering temples, hoping it would jog her memory of what had happened last night.

  No such luck. The last thing she remembered was drinking at the bar and pulling her blouse down from her shoulder to show off the scar from that commercial with the camel.

  Her red-haired drinking companion had clapped and hooted.

  Everything after that was a blank.

  God, I hate Valentine’s Day. And mind erasers. And if I slept with a man, I really, really hate myself. Even as a teenager, she had known that her interests lay elsewhere, and she had never succumbed to Hollywood’s pressure to date men. She had always been proud of that, but now…

  When the pounding in her head lessened for a moment, she became aware of the sound of a running shower. Someone whistled a much-too-happy tune in the bathroom.

  Amanda’s stomach lurched. She didn’t want to even imagine what had put the guy in this postcoital mood.

  The water stopped. He would be out in a minute.

  Time to make a quick escape. Ignoring the drumroll in her head, Amanda jumped up. Her feet got caught in something soft, and she nearly fell. Suppressing a curse, she looked down.

  Her slacks, blouse, and socks were strewn around the bed as if ripped off in the heat of passion. When she bent down and picked up her clothes, the world started spinning. She waited until the merry-go-round stopped before she shoved first one foot, then the other through a pant leg and struggled to pull up her slacks.

  A sound made her look up, half in, half out of her pants.

  Clouds of steam drifted through the now-open bathroom door.

  Amanda froze and took in the figure in the doorway. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut but forced her gaze to trail up muscular legs clad in worn jeans and over a black muscle shirt clinging to still-damp skin. Next, she encountered—

  Breasts! They weren’t overly large, but that definitely wasn’t the chest of the red-haired guy or any other man. Only her pounding head and the slacks trapping her feet prevented her from doing a dance of joy. I knew it! I would never sleep with… Her gaze wandered farther and took in short hair and a strong face. A butch?

  She had never dated, much less slept with, a butch.

  With her feet still tangled in her slacks, she fell backward.

  The bed broke her fall, and she lay still, staring at the ceiling.

  Concerned brown eyes appeared in her line of sight. “You okay, Mandy?”

  “Mandy?” Amanda croaked. Only her grandmother was allowed to call her that.

  One knee next to Amanda on the bed, much too close for her liking, the butch looked down at her. “Yeah. Last night, you told me to call you Mandy.”

  Dear God. What else had she done last night? She didn’t dare ask.

  “Something wrong with that?” the butch asked when Amanda stayed silent. “It’s your name, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. But…ah, you know, it doesn’t matter. I have to go.” She rolled to the side and got up, careful to avoid stumbling over her slacks again.

  “Like this?” The butch moved away from the bed and gestured at Amanda’s state of dress…or rather state of undress. “You’re welcome to take a shower first, then I’ll drive you back to your car.”

  So at least she hadn’t gotten behind the wheel drunk last night. Not that getting into a car with a complete stranger was much better. Amanda hesitated, but the thought of a hot shower was tempting. “All right.” She pulled up her slacks, picked up the blouse, and clutched it to her chest as she passed the woman on her way to the bathroom. Like she hasn’t seen it all already.

  “I put clean towels and a toothbrush out for you,” the butch said. “Do you need something to wear?”

  “Uh, no, thank you.” Boxer shorts and muscle shirts really weren’t her style. Yesterday’s clothes would have to do until she made it home. Amanda quickly closed and locked the bathroom door behind her and sank onto the edge of the tub. She rubbed her face with both hands and moaned into her palms. When she pulled her hands away, her gaze fell on the mirror above the sink.

  Her reflection looked as bad as she felt. Good thing she didn’t have an acting job lined up today. Not even the world’s best makeup artist could have covered the shadows beneath her eyes or the greenish tint of her skin. Her hair looked as if a bird—or an entire flock—had made a nest in it.

  She gave herself a mental shove. Hurry up before she thinks you’re in here rooting through the bathroom cabinets or she breaks down the door to save you from drowning in the tub. She slipped out of the still-unbuttoned slacks, kicked off her panties, and unhooked her bra before stepping into the shower. The hot water felt heavenly.

  While she washed up, she took stock of her body. Other than the second-worst hangover of her life, everything seemed normal. No hickeys. No scratches on her back. No sensitive body parts. Nothing that indicated a night of passionate, intense sex—and with the athletic butch, it probably would have been intense. Maybe you weren’t up for more than a quickie, as smashed as you were.

  She squeezed shampoo into her hand and sniffed at it. Instead of the honey and cream she was used to, her hostess’s shampoo had a minty herbal scent. When she scrubbed her scalp, she flinched. Even the roots of her hair hurt.

  As the soapy water ran down her back, an image flashed through her mind: the butch’s muscular arms wrapped around her, pulling her against her warm, tight body. She buried her fingers in short, silky hair. When two insistent hands slid down her ass, she lifted her head and captured the butch’s lips in a deep kiss.

  Despite her killer headache, her body reacted to the memory. Stop it. You’ve never been attracted to butch women. Vodka just makes you horny. She shut off the water, stepped out of the shower, and struggled back into her clothes.

  As promised, a toothbrush, still in its package, waited next to the sink.

  Unlike Amanda, who avoided one-night stands, her hostess was obviously used to having overnight
guests. But when she managed to get the toothbrush out of its package, she realized that it was smaller than usual. Tiny panda bears dotted the handle. She gave me a toothbrush for children?

  She shrugged and squeezed toothpaste onto the pink-and-white-striped bristles, eager to get rid of that rubber-boot taste in her mouth. Finally feeling halfway human again, she stepped out of the bathroom and went in search of her hostess.

  She padded over the hardwood floor and took in the house. The hall opened into a large living area, and Amanda couldn’t help staring as she took in the view of the Hollywood Hills beyond the French doors.

  Well, at least she had taste—apparently, she had slept with someone rich and/or famous.

  Two steps led from the living room up to the kitchen, which seemed to have every cooking gadget known to mankind.

  “How many pancakes do you want?” the butch called from the stove.

  What is it about lesbians and their instant domesticity? Had she stumbled across a butch version of Val? Her stomach roiled at the mere thought of food. “No pancakes for me.”

  The butch turned and leaned against the counter. She was barefoot, and her dark brown hair was tousled and still damp from her shower. Amanda usually preferred women in skirts to women in jeans, but even she had to admit that her hostess had a sexy ass.

  “Are you sure? I haven’t poisoned anyone yet, if that’s what you’re worried about.” The butch turned back to the stove. With a quick flick of her wrist, she flipped the pancake. It landed back in the pan without a splash.

  Amanda lifted a brow. Most butches she knew were helpless in the kitchen. Not that she knew many.

  “You’ll feel better once you have something in your stomach. Let me make you some toast. Or do you want oatmeal?”

  “No, no. That’s not necessary. I can eat when I get home.”

  The butch turned off the stove and swiveled to face Amanda. Her biceps flexed as she crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s Saturday. You’ve got somewhere urgent to be?”

  Amanda glanced at her watch. It was barely eight, so she had more than seven hours before her shift at the juice bar started. “Um, no, but…”

  “But…?”

  What could she say? No, thanks, I’m not in the habit of letting people make me breakfast when I don’t even know their name? She sighed. After spending the night with this stranger, the least she could do was accept her hospitality and have breakfast with her. “All right. Then I’ll have toast if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all.” The butch moved smoothly through the modern chef’s kitchen and popped two pieces of bread into the toaster. “Come over here and sit down. I don’t bite.”

  Amanda flushed. What was she? A fifteen-year-old? Women usually didn’t fluster her like this. She climbed the two steps to the kitchen and sat at the far side of the breakfast bar, careful not to get in the butch’s way. When the toaster ejected the toast, Amanda jumped and then scolded herself.

  The butch placed two perfect, golden-brown pieces of toast in front of her. “Butter?”

  “Um, no, thanks.” Amanda wasn’t even sure her stomach could handle the toast.

  After one long glance at Amanda, the woman put a kettle of water on the stove.

  While they waited for the water to boil, the silence seemed deafening. Amanda fidgeted, but even if she had been in the mood for a chat, she didn’t know what to say.

  A few minutes later, the butch set a steaming mug down in front of her.

  “Thank you.” Amanda took a careful sniff. The fresh, spicy scent reminded her of her favorite Chinese takeout. “What’s this?”

  A smile deepened the laugh lines around the butch’s eyes. She couldn’t be much older than Amanda’s thirty-one, but the lines in her face already showed that she liked to laugh. “Don’t worry. I told you I’m not gonna poison you. It’s fresh ginger tea. My grandfather always made it for me when I felt a bit…under the weather.”

  Under the weather. Amanda couldn’t help returning the smile. That’s what her grandmother also called it when someone had a hangover. She clutched the mug in both hands and let the warmth soothe her rattled nerves.

  The butch pulled up a stool, took a seat next to her at the breakfast bar, and got started on her stack of pancakes. Her knee touched Amanda’s, but she either didn’t notice or was entirely comfortable sitting so close.

  No wonder. She touched a lot more than just your knee last night and probably remembers every last graphic detail. Amanda didn’t, though. To her, the woman was a complete stranger. Under the pretense of reaching for her toast, she pulled her knee away.

  In the silence between them, the crunching of the toast sounded overly loud. Should she say something? But what? As far as she could see, they had nothing in common. Finally, she thought of something. “You’ve got kids?”

  The butch swallowed a bite of pancake and looked up. “Oh, you mean because of the toothbrush? Sorry about that. It was the only new one I had. I keep some for when my nieces and nephews stay overnight. I don’t have kids, but I’m a highly sought-after babysitter.”

  “Oh.” Somehow, she hadn’t thought of the butch as the babysitter type. Amanda rolled her eyes at herself. Stereotyping much?

  “You sound surprised. Butch women can be great with kids too. We also have a fully functional uterus, you know?” She didn’t sound offended, just amused.

  Amanda’s cheeks heated. She hid behind the mug of tea. “I know. It’s just… This…you… It just caught me off-guard.” Oh, great. If her acting coach had heard her, he would have lost what little hair he had left. Years of voice training and now one night with this stranger made her stammer like a fool. “I don’t usually… You’re not… I mean, normally, I go for the more…”

  “Feminine type,” the butch said with a nod. “I know. That’s what you said last night.”

  “Oh. I did?” Was that before or after I examined her tonsils with my tongue?

  The butch put down her fork and turned to face Amanda. “You don’t remember a thing about last night, do you?”

  Amanda nearly spat ginger tea across the breakfast bar. Her coughing made the hyperactive preschooler start the drumming behind her temples again. Wheezing, she peeked at the butch out of the corner of her eye. What now? Lie through her teeth or come clean? She decided to go with the truth. Sort of. “Everything after the first drink is a bit fuzzy.”

  The butch lifted one perfectly arched eyebrow.

  Was she tweezing them, or did they naturally grow like that?

  “Define ‘a bit fuzzy.’”

  “Um.” Amanda nibbled on her toast to buy herself some time. Finally, she wiped the crumbs off her chin and turned toward the woman next to her. “I don’t remember a thing.” There. It was out. She gulped down ginger tea as if it were liquor.

  “Nothing? Not even…?”

  “What?” Amanda asked. “What happened?”

  The butch shook her head. “Nothing.”

  Amanda wanted to believe that, but she remembered a pretty hot kiss. Maybe the butch thought nothing of kissing strangers on a regular basis, but in Amanda’s book, that wasn’t “nothing.”

  “Honestly. We didn’t sleep together.” The butch looked at her with her brown teddy bear eyes. Either she was a damn good liar or a better actress than Amanda.

  “But you kissed me.”

  “No.”

  The half-empty mug nearly toppled over as Amanda stabbed her finger at the butch. “Liar. That’s the one thing I remember. You kissed me, and it wasn’t a little peck.”

  “No,” the butch said once more. “You kissed me.”

  “Why would I do that?” Only after she had said it did Amanda realize how that sounded. Christ. She was acting as if the butch was the most repulsive creature on earth, and that certainly wasn’t true. “Sorry. That didn’t come out the way I meant it. What I meant is, uh…”

  “That red-haired guy just wouldn’t leave you alone, no matter how many times you to
ld him to clear out. After you shot him down for the umpteenth time, he slurred, ‘What are you, a lesbian?’ By that time, half of the club was eavesdropping on your conversation.”

  Amanda groaned. As much as she appreciated having an attentive audience at work, she hated making a spectacle of herself in her spare time.

  “You looked him right in the eye and said, ‘Yes.’” The butch shrugged. “That idiot didn’t believe you, so you set out to convince him.”

  Something tickled the edges of Amanda’s memory. Not quite a flashback, but the words rang true. “What did I do?” She had a feeling she wouldn’t like the answer.

  “You emptied your drink, turned, and laid the kiss of my life on me.” Grinning, the butch fanned herself with both hands.

  “I didn’t.”

  “You sure did. And it was very convincing too. After he stopped salivating, the guy finally got lost.”

  Amanda covered her burning face with her hands. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

  Gentle fingers tried to pull her hands down, but she resisted. “No need to apologize. Even three sheets to the wind, you’re a great kisser.”

  Still feeling as if her face was glowing ketchup red, Amanda peeked through her fingers. For the first time, she really looked at the butch’s face. Despite the short hair, it wasn’t as androgynous as she had first thought. The square jaw and strong forehead were gentled by luscious lips and long eyelashes that every actress in Hollywood, including Amanda, would kill for. A small scar at the corner of her left eye made her look as if she were constantly winking. Somehow, it seemed to fit her easygoing personality.

  The woman gave her an encouraging smile.

  Amanda took her hands away from her face and inhaled deeply, determined to be an adult about this. “Okay. So I kissed you, and you didn’t suffer too much. That still doesn’t explain how I ended up in your bed.” She tried to keep her voice neutral, without an accusing undertone. The woman next to her didn’t seem like the type who took advantage of a drunken person.

  “People were staring at you, so I dragged you out of that bar before you could order another one of those drinks.”