9This was by far the most palatial house Michael had ever seen, much less been inside of. She just sat in the car staring slack-jawed up at it, barely noticing when Dylan had to open the door for her and expectantly hold out a hand. It was only when Dylan sort of barked her name that Michael came mostly back into focus; she gazed at Dylan's extended hand in slight confusion.
"What?"
"This is my hand. Give me yours."
Michael quickly did so and Dylan pulled her out of the car. "Okay," she said under her breath as they approached the mansion, which seemed to be overflowing with people and had disco lights shooting out of every window. "Just follow my lead. Don't be surprised if we get in there, and Tiffany is sucking face with a different guy every five seconds. I'm not going to be all up in her grill, and that's how she's going to notice me."
Actually, Tiffany noticed Dylan the second she and Michael walked into the house. A short, bulky hockey player was basically slobbering all over her neck as she watched Dylan hand a pair of invitations to the bouncer at the door, get patted down, then shoved inside. Neither Dylan nor Michael (who wouldn't even know who to look for) had realized that Tiffany had her eye on them as they walked hand-in-hand to the bar that was right off the dance floor.
"Club soda for the lady here," Dylan said. "And I'll take a Bloody Bull."
As the bartender set about getting the orders, Michael involuntarily did exactly what Jenna had told her not to: she was unabashedly staring at everything and everyone around her, shocked that this kind of atmosphere actually existed outside of a Hollywood movie. The bar area seemed a bit more classy, where people were trying to hold conversations, but the dance floor was full of earnestly grinding couples, many of whom seemed seconds away from having sex right then and there. Dylan nudged her slightly with a look that said stop staring, naïf! when their attention was caught once again by the bartender.
"Mm, I see our hostess has picked up a soldier!" he laughed, handing the drinks to Dylan. "First man in uniform she's been with all night—she's been through at least twenty-five so far."
"Still hasn't found the one yet, huh?" Dylan asked.
"Nope, and I've been keeping an eye on her."
Michael was looking once again at the dance floor, searching for a middle-aged woman dancing with a soldier. She didn't have to look hard—the guy was dressed in dark blue jeans and motorcycle boots, but also wore a US army t-shirt and had a dog tag dangling from his neck. The woman with him was Tiffany Blair, who from this distance looked astonishingly pretty for her age. Her stick-straight auburn hair was flying in several directions at once as the soldier picked her up so her legs wound around his waist, and he tried to motorboat her.
The bartender took a quick shot himself, then said, "She's just gotta get this all out of her system now, and eliminate the frat guys. The place will class up soon."
"Good." Dylan took a long gulp of her drink, then jumped when a pretty young blonde crashed onto the stool next to her.
"Whiskey," the blonde moaned. "Ginger ale on the side, please." She turned to Dylan and Michael, pointing forlornly at the dance floor. "That's my boyfriend she's with. My boyfriend, we live together and everything. And he's out there trying to get that old hag to sleep with him! Dirty, lousy—"
"Soldier boys," Michael cut in. "Yeah, they…" Dylan and the girl stared at her, and Michael realized she had no idea what to say. "Uh…yeah."
The blonde snorted in disgust. "I should've known better than to agree to come here. It was stupid."
"Listen," Dylan said. "You want someone to teach your boyfriend some manners, you just get him to come over here."
The girl gave Dylan an appraising look, then tried to smile. "If I could get him to, yeah, maybe I'll take you up on that." She tipped her whiskey glass at Dylan, then stood up to go join the crowd that fringed the dance floor. A couple of times she glanced back at Dylan, who knew she was looking but did not return the gaze.
Michael was now looking again at the two exceptionally beefy bodyguards who had examined Dylan before allowing them in. They were, Jenna had supposed, two of Stefano's own guys who he leant to Tiffany on nights like these to make sure nobody ever hurt her. One in particular looked as though he would have very much enjoyed taking a break and partying on the dance floor, but all he could bring himself to do was nod his head slightly in rhythm to the music (until someone new walked up, and he would revert instantly to seriousness again). Michael was so preoccupied analyzing his behavior that she didn't even notice when the music suddenly ended, and the room got a bit brighter than it had been. In fact she probably wouldn't have noticed at all if Dylan hadn't tapped her arm.
"Get on my lap, Michael."
"What?"
"That girl's going to bring that guy over here, and Tiffany's going to follow them. Come on." With surprisingly little effort, she pulled Michael over, easing her quickly into such a position that Michael was straddling her. "Just stay calm," Dylan whispered, casually brushing some imaginary hair from Michael's face and not realizing that her mere touch was making it nearly impossible for Michael to even remember to breathe. "Just keep in mind that nothing's going to happen to you, that Jenna and Taylor are waiting for us, and that insofar as my character goes, you are the prettiest girl here."
Dylan placed a hand on the back of Michael's neck and was leaning in for a kiss when—just as she had predicted, right down to the second—someone tapped her on the shoulder. She twisted around slightly and saw that it was indeed the soldier, who had both his girlfriend and Tiffany (who made a small gasping noise at the sight of Dylan) behind him. Slowly shifting Michael off her lap, Dylan made brief but substantial eye contact with Tiffany before asking the soldier if there was anything she could do for him.
He jabbed a thumb at his girlfriend. "Hear you've been mouthing off a bit. Think you're tougher than me, punk?"
"You look familiar," Dylan muttered.
"Name's Jack Marshall, but I sure as hell don't know you," he said back, casually sitting at the stool next to her. "Top of my class at West Point."
Dylan would not meet his eyes, instead staring at the empty glass in front of her. "And look where you are now."
Jack narrowed his eyes. "Meaning what?" When Dylan didn't answer him, he said, "Seems to me you aren't paying your girlfriend any attention, bud. And you won't look me in the eye like a man. Maybe I do know you… maybe you're one of those fags my brother and I got kicked out of school. That how I know you?" He smirked when Dylan didn't answer, which surprised Michael because Dylan seemed to always have a smartass comeback for everything. She jumped a little when Jack addressed her, presumably having forgotten that Tiffany Blair was right behind him: "Hey, girlie. What say you ditch this homo and let me show you a grandé Americano out back?"
Without even glancing up, Dylan kicked at his stool hard enough to send him crashing to the floor, hitting his jaw against the bar on the way down.
"You don't talk that way to a lady," Dylan growled at him.
"Ooh, Jack honey, do some push-ups!" Tiffany said, noting the position he was in. When he quickly complied, Tiffany looked expectantly over at Dylan, who had to work quite hard to keep from rolling her eyes.
Dylan stepped off the stool and got into a push-up position, then said, "Hey, babe? C'mere and get on my back."
Michael knew better than to doubt Dylan at this point, but it was still with some trepidation that she got down and sat uneasily on Dylan's back. Not to be outdone, Jack asked his girlfriend to do the same (and not Tiffany, presumably because the older woman was much thinner and therefore would not present as much of a challenge). As Dylan and Jack fell into a kind of rhythm of competition, a small ring of people had gathered around to watch. Ultimately what they saw was that Dylan could not only do the push-ups faster, but she was able to eke out twenty more than Jack. When she finally collapsed onto the floor, Michael quickly stood and asked the bartender for some water. Everyone except Jack had fallen into a loud state of cheering, including Tiffany. A few moments later, Dylan was able to pull herself to her feet and sit back down on the stool. Jack had also gotten back up, and he grimaced when Dylan yanked on his dog tag.
"You should wear that with more honor," she said hoarsely, accepting the glass of water from the bartender. "Don't use it like a badge to show off. You're not a girl scout."
Jack satisfied himself with another look of disgust before taking Tiffany by the hand and yanking her back to the dance floor, which had cleared significantly. This left his girlfriend standing alone, looking a tad pathetic.
"That guy's been here before," the bartender said to Dylan. "He's kind of a douche bag, don't pay him any attention. But um, just for the record…" He lowered his voice and spoke with a hint of hopefulness. "You aren't gay, are you?"
Dylan looked him over, then gave him a wry smile. "Sorry," she said, standing again and taking Michael's hand. "I like girls." She spared an apologetic glance for Jack's girlfriend, but walked on past her towards the dance floor. "We don't want to miss this game, Mike," she whispered.
"Game…?"
Indeed, people were getting on to one of two lines as the deejay for the night (who had traded his sideways baseball cap for a clip-on tie), lowered the music once more: "All right y'all, it's time to slow things down so we can heat things up! Here's the deal." He hopped onto the floor from his elevated stand, holding an orange in each of his hands. "You've got to pass the orange down the line without using your hands, and this is how you'll do it." He walked up to the first person on each line and stuck the orange under his or her chin. "The first team to make it through all the players wins! Or, if one team drops the orange on the floor, that one will automatically be deemed the losing team!"
"Oh, man, it's Charade," Dylan said.
"What?" Michael asked.
"Charade, it's a movie…where they do this…"
"You know Charade?" It was Tiffany, and she was staring at Dylan as though the girl was the first human being she had ever seen. Her green eyes were lit up in excitement and enhanced her smile. But before Dylan could answer, the deejay had started up the music again and the game had begun. Tiffany quickly positioned herself between Dylan and Jack, while Michael cut the line to be in front of Dylan.
If she had really realized what this game had entailed, though, she probably would have just as soon watched from the sidelines (some other party patrons were merely looking on while others danced to the music). Transferring the orange without the use of hands meant that couples had to awkwardly embrace and do an odd sort of dance. Several jawbones bumped against each other as one partner pressed the orange against the throat of the other until he could grip it tightly enough with his chin to turn and offer it to the person behind him. What made it so exceedingly difficult was that even the slightest miscalculation (which could come about through un-coordination, inhibition, and/or haste) would almost always result in losing control of the orange. Though everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely, Michael was mortified for each and every one of them and after a few minutes, turned desperately to Dylan.
"No," Dylan said simply, before Michael could even open her mouth.
"You don't understand," Michael said in a hushed voice so low that it ensured only Dylan could (barely) hear her. "I cannot do this."
"You said the same thing when we were in Jenna's basement all those weeks ago," Dylan patiently reminded her. "Just chill. Look, the guy in front of you is pretty fat; all you have to do is poke him somewhere so the orange will roll out from under his chin. Then you rush and get it before it, you know, falls too far."
Michael paled noticeably, but Dylan paid no attention as she physically turned the girl around and said "Look, you're up." By following Dylan's advice, Michael was actually able to secure the orange faster than anyone else on their team thus far, eliciting applause from those team members who had already played and since broken off, better to watch the others. She had to admit that she was kind of proud of herself as she turned to face the next person in line, and only then did it really register that she'd be doing this with Dylan.
Instantly they were engaged in the most awkward but scintillating maneuver that Michael could have possibly ever imagined. She knew she was burning red; she had never felt so immensely hot as Dylan's lips came so frighteningly close to touching her own while they struggled and shrugged and kind of embraced. Her brain short-circuited as Dylan, who had her arms around Michael's waist, tightened her grip—but then it dawned on Michael that Dylan could have easily gotten the orange within seconds. Why was she prolonging this more than was necessary? ! Maybe she likes me! A nice thought, but Michael quickly realized Dylan was doing it to attract Tiffany's attention. She was making a scene.
Oh God, just take it or take me, Michael pleaded, not sure how much longer she could stand this complete torture. So close, and yet so far.
As if sensing this, Dylan finally squeezed Michael close enough to her that she was able to get hold of the orange under her chin, and she turned quickly to grab Tiffany. Michael was all but gasping for air, trying desperately to calm herself down and ignore the fact that it felt quite suddenly like there was a raging fire between her legs. It pained her now to see Dylan practically falling over herself with this woman, but there was little else she felt she could do than just stand awkwardly and watch. Tiffany, meanwhile, was a master at lengthening the game—she knew her hands weren't allowed anywhere near the orange, but she was certainly putting them everywhere else on Dylan that she could reach, getting busily acquainted with her physique.
"I want to kiss you, but I don't want to lose," she laughed.
Dylan, who for her part was trying not to grope the woman, smirked back. "Well at least I know where your priorities are."
Tiffany grinned and then managed to secure the orange. She turned to Jack, who snatched her aggressively. He seemed torn between wanting to please Tiffany and wanting to win the game; a couple of times the orange nearly fell, but this did nothing more than allow him to plant his face in her cleavage as he tried to keep the fruit from hitting the floor. Eventually he managed to get it from her, and the moment he had turned away, Tiffany reached for Dylan's hand.
"C'mon, honey, let's get out of here."
Dylan took her hand and followed her across the dance floor, around a group of people trying to socialize on a couch, and towards a door that was guarded by two more burly men. Tiffany opened the door and was about to pull Dylan through it before Dylan turned back to the bodyguards.
"Hey guys," she muttered. "Mind doing me a favor, man to man? See the blue-eyed girl in the floral-print dress? Make sure… make sure nobody bothers her, all right?"
One of the guys nodded, and Tiffany eagerly yanked Dylan over so that she could shut the door. With a slam, it shut out completely all the sounds of the party, so that the two of them could have very easily been all alone in that house. Tiffany grabbed two fistfuls of Dylan's jacket and pushed her against the door with a very passionate, very intrusive kiss. The response was relatively mechanical, but Tiffany was just tipsy enough not to notice; Dylan had one hand at the woman's neck and the other at the small of her back, rubbing it in small circles. Her tongue mimicked the circular movement around Tiffany's, culminating in a soft moan from the older woman.
"Oh, God yes," Tiffany whispered against Dylan's lips. "You passed the test, honey. What's your name?"
Dylan surveyed her for a moment. Tiffany had lost any amount of the sincerity or humanity she had possessed upon discovering that Dylan knew the movie Charade. Her behavior right now was nothing more than that, a charade. "Call me Peter Joshua."
Tiffany smiled. "I recognize that name. We don't know each other, do we?"
"Why, do you think we're going to?"
"Oh, of course," Tiffany laughed, relaxing noticeably and easing off a bit. "That's the first name he takes in Charade, isn't it? Well, if that's all you'll give me, all right. Come on back, Mr. Joshua." Once again she led Dylan by the hand, this time taking her into a dark bedroom. She flipped on the light and sat at the corner of the bed.
Though forty-two in actual years, Tiffany Blair did not look a day over twenty-five. The miraculous thing about this was that she had obviously not had any plastic surgery and didn't even seem to be wearing that much makeup. Her reddish-brown hair fell gently to her shoulders, impossibly shiny and straight. When she bowed her head for a moment, a few thick strands obscured the light green eyes which were now giving Dylan a thorough looking-over. Extremely thin eyebrows contracted together at the same time that her lips formed a disarmingly sweet smile.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-two," Dylan replied, hands shoved in her pockets.
She nodded to herself. "So young. I'm surprised you know Charade."
Dylan snorted a laugh. "My mom was a big Cary Grant fan. She used to think she was an Audrey Hepburn fan, too, until she realized Charade was the only movie of hers that she actually liked."
"That's funny," Tiffany murmured as Dylan sat down next to her on the bed. "I've never really thought about that before, but I think she's right! Audrey Hepburn is more of an image to me, an icon, like Marilyn Monroe. You see their movies and always feel a little surprised that you don't like them as much as you feel you should. Audrey's exception is Charade, and I guess Marilyn's would be—"
"Gentlemen Prefer Blondes," they said together.
"What! I thought you'd have said Some Like it Hot!" Tiffany laughed.
"I thought you would, too, but it's a bit overrated, if you ask me. You just can't go wrong with Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, though. I mean, come on."
"Well, diamonds are a girl's best friend, after all."
Dylan smiled. "You know, I've got to be honest, Tiffany. You're …not the person I was expecting at all. You seem really different from the woman who was out there a few minutes ago."
Tiffany's grin faltered a bit. "Why'd you come here?" When Dylan hesitated, Tiffany placed a hand gently on her arm. "I'm really glad you did. I'm just curious."
"Heard you threw a rocking Halloween party, and I needed something to do. My friend and I got here and she wanted to leave almost right away—this kind of party's not really her scene, or mine. But we stayed."
"Why?"
Dylan was dishonest about it being the reason, but she was utterly sincere in giving the compliment: "You're the prettiest woman I've ever seen. You're beautiful."
Withdrawing her hand from Dylan and moving it instead to rub her forehead, Tiffany bowed her head and closed her eyes. "Oh, my. I haven't heard those words in a long time …not in reference to me, anyway."
"What? How could that be?" Dylan asked, sounding genuinely surprised.
"Not like—I mean, you know, there's a reason I have my reputation. Guys think I'm a cougar. Hot, sexy older woman. Babe. Milf. Not pretty, not beautiful. Nobody's told me that since…since…"
A single tear slid down her cheek, and was suddenly followed by a cavalcade of others. Unbeknownst to her (or anyone, actually), tears were Dylan's biggest weakness. She could not stand the sight of a woman crying; the mere idea was enough to break her heart. Instantly moved, she put her arms around Tiffany and kissed her on the cheek. Tiffany turned slightly, so that their lips met and it was incredible—she could not remember the last time she had been kissed like this. It wasn't for lust or excitement, or even passion; it was for sincerity and caring. They broke apart after a few moments, and Tiffany gave Dylan a quivering smile.
"It's been a long time since I've had a real conversation with someone in this room. Really long time."
"Your accent, too," Dylan said, kind of out of nowhere. "You sound different than you did before. Are you from Long Island?"
Looking surprised, Tiffany let out another little laugh. "Yes! Wow, most people usually guess Brooklyn or Boston. Have you been there?"
"I used to live there, actually. My family moved when I was in high school. I always told myself I'd get back to New York someday."
"Don't we all?" Tiffany asked ruefully. "I never thought I'd leave, but then I got married and my husband moved us out here." A master at masking emotion, Dylan did not betray her intense interest in this. Tiffany was silent for an unnerving amount of time. When she finally spoke again, it was with a sort of dead voice, relating her wish for none of this to have ever happened. "Don't know why I never went back. I guess I just got used to living around here."
"You're not still married, are you?" Dylan asked slowly.
Tiffany shook her head. "Nope, no."
"What happened?"
With a deep breath, Tiffany slumped over then straightened up. She stared long and hard at Dylan, the corners of her mouth twitching into a frown. "People usually come to my parties for one of two reasons: they hear I'm a renowned cougar and want to get lucky with me. Sometimes they do get lucky. But the other reason people generally come is that they think I can help them score some drugs." Dylan furrowed her brow. "They never get drugs."
"Was your husband a drug dealer?"
"What makes you ask that?"
Dylan worked hard not to laugh. "Well…I asked you why you and your husband aren't together anymore, and then you told me that people come to you for drugs. I may not be a college graduate, but I'm not stupid, Ms. Blair."
She smirked. "True, true."
"I don't want any drugs."
"Oh, no?"
"No, and I'll tell you why. When I was twelve years old, my older sister got roped into some heavy stuff. Her boyfriend had connections and seemed awfully good at getting his hands on cocaine." Dylan folded her hands together and stared at the ground, trying to remind herself be a man even while she related this painful personal story. "They usually got high at his place, because he was an only child and his parents were never around. Now and then, though, they'd do it at our house and I'd see them. One night my mom and stepdad went out and left my sister in charge of watching me. She had her boyfriend over and he brought some cocaine… I woke up in the middle of the night and went to the kitchen to get some Oreos. I passed her room on the way down and suddenly sh-she yanked the door open and screamed at me. It was this long, wordless scream and it scared the s—t out of me. She hit me with a pillow and knocked me down the stairs, then she started kicking me. I wanted to stop her, but I didn't know how, and I didn't want to hurt her and I was so confused… her boyfriend finally caught up and yanked her off me, asking her what the hell she thought she was doing, but he was laughing. She said I was a zombie and she had to kill me or I'd kill her. He just laughed, but she was totally freaked out… he pulled her back up the stairs to the bedroom, and just left me there."
"Did she hurt you?" Tiffany whispered.
"Bruised me pretty bad, but other than that, I was okay."
"Was she? I mean, is she okay now?"
Dylan sniffed and stared up at her. "She's dead. Drugs don't mix well with the human body on their own, but she had super high blood pressure too, and apparently that just made it all the worse. Seventeen. She'd finally gotten her driver's license and she wanted to take me for a ride, so we walked out onto the driveway. Our neighbors had a Great Dane …I remember it barked all of a sudden and came running in front of house, and I turned to stare at it. Then I heard something else, and it was Lindsay, and she had collapsed right behind me."
"God…"
"Cardiac arrest."
"I'm…I…"
Gravely trying to attempt a smile, Dylan reverted her gaze to the ground again. "Don't worry about it, it's been ten years. I still think about her all the time, though. Usually it's because I hear a song she used to love, or one of my friends will order a sandwich done the exact way she did. Sometimes I see her old boyfriend and I want to kick him in the teeth because he's still alive and if it hadn't been for him, my sister would still be here. She'd tell me what she thought of the girls I've dated, or what I do for a living, she'd tell me she better see me at Christmas. I just want her back."
Though she hadn't shed a tear, it was obvious that Dylan was now the one in need of comfort. Tiffany pulled her into a hug and they sat there for several long moments, breathing deeply and feeling something powerfully intimate about their closeness and these shared secrets. Dylan didn't say it out loud, but Tiffany got the impression that this story hadn't been shared with very many people (and she was right). This experience was the reason Dylan knew she had really been picked for this mission; Jenna thought there was a chance she'd bring it up and that Tiffany would be moved.
"So no," Dylan finally muttered. "I didn't come to your party to find out where I could get some drugs. Frankly, kids are stupid and sometimes I still think of myself as a kid, so I can understand why you'd assume I wanted drugs. People have no idea what they're getting themselves into when they start that stuff… it's really tragic, especially when they start so young. And I know that what happened with my sister was an exception. Some people do drugs and you can't ever even tell, but …that's not a risk I'm interested in taking."
Tiffany melted at the sight of Dylan's soulful, sorrowful brown eyes. "My husband never did anything to hurt me."
"I believe that."
"I couldn't bring myself to condone what he did, that's why we got a divorce."
"I believe that, too."
She bit her lip. "I thought I could escape all that by doing this, by reinventing myself. Now I just have hordes of boys coming in here, thinking they know who I am and what I want. Don't get me wrong, sex is great and all, but I've been fooling myself. I was stupid to deny it this long."
Dylan took her hand. "Not stupid, but dangerous, maybe. You may not see yourself as condoning what your husband does for a living, but with your silence, you might as well be out there right next to him selling the stuff. Do you know who his clients are, Tiffany?"
"Middle-class men," she whispered, though she looked unsure of herself. "Businessmen who need a high now and then."
"How do you know that?"
"Because…because he told me."
"What if he sold it to kids, would you still stay quiet?"
Tiffany stared at her long and hard. How much did this person know? Was it all just rhetoric? Slowly she stood up and went over to her nightstand, pulled open the bottom drawer, and from it retrieved a small, weathered photograph. With trembling hands she passed it over to Dylan, who took it carefully.
"That's me and my daughter, Sheila," she said quietly. "It's the last picture we ever got of her before she was hit by a car when she was four—some teenager was drunk and went driving on a dare from his friends. If she were still alive, she'd be thirteen next week." The unspoken words hung in the air between them—I wouldn't want her on drugs, I'd kill anyone who tried intentionally to hurt her—and Dylan felt her heart race as she waited for more. Tiffany did not disappoint: she tapped the grandiose house in the background of the picture. "My husband took this photo of us outside of the home we shared. He still lives there."
Dylan brought the photograph closer to her eyes and studied it carefully. The house number was 679, and a tiny green sign at the very edge of the frame held the letters of the second half of a street: "mond Drive."
"There's a really good hot dog place near there," Tiffany said in an off-handed way. "We used to go there all the time, he and Sheila and I. I don't really like hot dogs but they made one heck of a chocolate malt."
"Thanks," Dylan muttered, handing back the photo. Tiffany took it and gingerly placed it back in the drawer. "Maybe I'll check it out."
Another drawn-out silence, then Tiffany chuckled. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I've never shown that picture to a single person other than my husband. How do I know you were telling me the truth about your sister?"
Dylan shrugged. "You don't. But I can promise you I didn't make it up."
"You know it's weird, but…I believe you. Maybe just because I want to believe you. You're the first person to come up here and treat me like a human being."
"Maybe that's because this is the first time you've acted like one."
"I don't really know what to say to that," Tiffany said blankly, trying to decide if she thought it was true. She idly raised a hand and brushed Dylan's cheek with it, pushing some stray hair behind her ear. "You know something else weird? I've never wanted someone so much as I want you right now, to stay with me. And you haven't even really done anything to warrant it, except pull that stunt at the door earlier…"
But Dylan already had the information she needed, and though she had to admit to herself that Tiffany was, in many ways, not the woman she had been expecting, it would be prudent to get herself (and Michael) out of there as soon as possible. "I can't stay."
"Please," Tiffany whispered, moving closer.
"I should go. My friend will be waiting for me."
"That little thing in the floral dress?"
"Yeah, her."
"Just 'friends,' huh?"
"She's like a kid sister to me."
"You two seemed pretty close at the bar..."
Dylan snorted. "It's not like that. She thought she was interested, but she's not."
"Oh, no, trust me. Call it feminine intuition, but that girl likes you. I could tell just by looking at her. I almost felt guilty dragging you away from her."
"Almost, huh?"
It seemed like a rhetorical question, so instead of answering, Tiffany kissed her on the lips. Oh, this was great… it had been so long since Dylan had kissed anyone quite like this. The pressure to forget everything and lie there with her was unbelievable, but Dylan knew that sex was an impossible option. Too soon she pulled gently on Tiffany's hand that was planted firmly at her neck. With downcast eyes, Dylan simply shook her head. Tiffany pulled away, feeling incredibly embarrassed at the way she had thrown herself at this kid, but she betrayed none of it. Dylan got slowly to her feet and headed for the door.
"Hey," Tiffany said a little hoarsely before the girl was out of sight.
"Yeah?" Dylan asked.
"Do you know what's wrong with you?"
Managing half a smile, Dylan asked, "No, what?"
"Nothing."
Oh, God. You would do me right now and part of me really wants to stay. I bet you're amazing—and I'd be up one on Taylor. There are few things more irresistible than the chance to bed someone who openly finds you irresistible, yet Dylan hesitated. She had only planned on seducing Tiffany insofar as it got her the information she required, and now that she had it, there was no real reason to stay. But what could I do if I did, anyway? You think I'm a man, and it would be kind of obvious I'm not once we reached a certain point… Jenna would stay, she'd find some sort of excuse to at least get Tiffany undressed and get her fingers down there…
But I'm not Jenna, and I don't want to be.
"Go," Tiffany suddenly said quietly. Her tone was gracious, not indignant; she could recognize that Dylan did not really want to stay, but it was still with a heavy heart that she watched Dylan walk out of the room.
It felt a bit surreal leaving the calm quietness of the back part of the house and going back into the raging party. She had expected to have to explain herself to the thugs Tiffany had dragged her past, but they were standing far off to the right side of the room. One of them had Michael on his shoulders, who Dylan was somewhat shocked to see holding a gun and aiming at the remaining shards of a vase someone had broken earlier. The shards were all stacked on top of each other, and someone had placed the one on top so that it stood upright, propped against the wall on the opposite side of the room. The target was far above the heads of the crowd, easing Dylan's mind as she watched Michael pull the trigger. A second later, the shard shattered into even tinier pieces, leading to wild applause from Tiffany's bodyguards.
"Dude!" one of them laughed, giving Michael a high-five. "Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"
"Oh, just a trick my daddy taught me," she laughed, getting off the shoulders of the other one.
"Your daddy, huh? Is this him right now?"
He was of course referring to Dylan, who was marching through the crowds to get to Michael. "Hey," she said brusquely. "Time to leave."
"Aren't you the guy Tiffany just took back?" one of the guards asked.
"What's it to you?"
He exchanged glances with the other guard, but didn't say anything else.
Dylan headed for the front door with Michael right on her tail. To her own surprise, Michael was almost sorry to be leaving so soon—she'd become very friendly with the bodyguards, neither of whom were permitted to drink that night and had thought Michael was a funny, cute kid. For her part, Dylan was shocked that Michael was such an incredible shot; her talents were definitely something they would have to take advantage of later. But neither of them exchanged a word until they had gotten safely outdoors, where they could breathe freely again.
"Oh…I'm exhausted," Dylan sighed, rubbing one of her eyes.
Her voice surprised Michael, though it shouldn't have. All day, Dylan had worked to lower it in order to make it sound more manly, which made her regular voice sound all the more feminine when she used it suddenly now. She wasn't quite as butch as Taylor, nor was she as girly as Jenna; her voice had always been the most femme thing about her, which had taken Michael by surprise the first time they'd met. Dylan just looked so tough and so ready to take you down that when she spoke to you in that sweetly feminine voice, it really took you off guard.
"So what was Tiffany like?" Michael asked a little breathlessly, more anxious to know this than to learn how much Dylan had found out.
Surprisingly human, talkative, witty. She likes old movies and she has a heart. She's beautiful, she's sweet. Her laugh was one of the most charming noises I've ever heard. She just let me leave instead of throwing a tantrum. It wasn't hard to get that information out of her because she only acts like a horny cougar who could care less about the world. All she needed was to know somebody cared enough to see who she really was, past all that pretense …I feel bad for her, and I almost wish I could see her again after this case, just to talk to her.
"She was flat-chested."