SUMMARY: An very original character comes to West Hollywood. Shane meets ber match.
For three weeks I’ve been walking around, looking at the walls, having fantasies about color.
I’m in my first house, a house with an actual mortgage that terrifies me and a backyard in which I intend to grow things, an actual front porch with a swing. It’s in an adorable part of West Hollywood, with kids and swimming pools and shady tree-lined streets.
The previous owners painted every room stark white before showing the house. It tempts me like a blank canvas. Somehow the potential of color is more intriguing than any given color itself. Like white light splintered by a prism. Ever notice that no matter what color you pick, the finished wall never looks as good as that spread of paint swatches in the hardware store?
So I’ve put off that trip to buy paint.
But I’m sick of living with all my furniture clustered together in the center of each room. I’m sick of living with furniture I’ve had since nursing school and the existence of milk crates. And this is it, baby. I have a three-day weekend. Last evening I went to the Home Depot and bought a dozen gallons of interior flat latex in assorted colors.
All I need is coffee.
I lie in bed and look around the room. The first light hits the front of the house, and at this time of day, back here, the shadows are dark. The amber. Definitely the orangish yellow, warm. Maybe it will help get my ass up in the morning.
I get up slowly, stretching the tense muscles in my back. Stumble into the bathroom in my PJ pants and tank top. Splash water on my face. My hair is a long curly mess. My olive skin has darkened a bit. I see a tan line where my top falls off my shoulder. L.A. agrees with me.
Coffee, definitely. I take my vitamins, keep the PJ pants, throw on the blue tee shirt that makes my tits look hot and my eyes look blue.
I slide into flip flops, and a ponytail, and that’s as dolled up as I get. The café will be full of people far hipper and prettier than me, but fuck it. I’m starting a new trend: Rumpled Chic.
I decide to walk the five blocks to Santa Monica. It’s a gorgeous spring day. I’m definitely down with the L.A. thing. I come to the an intersection where traffic whooshes by, stand there waiting for the signal with two men, one of whom is holding a pink-wrapped bundle. She sleeps, peaceful as a pea in a pod, tiny brown hands clenched into whorls.
“Your baby is beautiful.”
“Thank you,” one of the dads says, while the one who holds her just smiles. He is glowing like a pregnant woman.
“What’s her name?”
“Justine.”
“That’s lovely.”
“We named her after her mother.”
“Well, that’s nice. Traditional, but not. And I bet her mom is thrilled.”
The signal changes and we start walking.
“Oh, she is.”
“Have a great day,” the other dad says.
“Thanks,” I grin, and keep walking, while they veer right. God, I love it here.
It feels like home. In Houston being an outspoken woman of decidedly brownish ethnicity was one thing (especially post-911), but being a raging dyke was another. I didn’t mind it at the time. Now, I don’t think I could ever go back. Not that I give a flying fuck what a bunch of rednecks think, but still, I love it here. God, I love it here.
I step into the Planet, as the trendy little joint is called, and insinuate myself into the crowd at the bar. People are belly up to the counter, beyond which is a chaos of coffee machines and employees.
The person on my left is very close to me. Then again, so is the person on the right. But the hands of the person to the left, slim and androgynous and clutching keys and cell phone with the desperation of someone who isn’t quite oriented or settled into the day, intrigue me. I wonder if it’s a man or woman.
Behind the counter, a curvy brown-skinned woman with curls spilling over her shoulders glances at me. “Can I help you, hon?”
“Um, give me a double cappuccino and a half dozen of those pastries.”
“Sure. We’re having some technical difficulties so that’s gonna be a minute.” She says it with a slightly frazzled but sweet smile.
“No problem,” I say, grateful for the heads-up.
God, I so love it here.
I glance at the mystery person to the left.
It’s not often that someone’s beauty dumbfounds me, and in L.A. it’s certainly more frequent, but damn.
It’s a woman, and barely, but a striking one. In profile, she has face that is the height of beautiful androgyny, lush red-painted lips, skin like cream. Hair dark brown and cut jaggedly, shoulder length.
She turns, catches me cruising her and I see that her eyes are somewhere in the realm of hazel, wide and gorgeous, kohl-lined. I suppress the urge to whimper.
"Hi," I say. I'm not embarrassed by being caught cruising, and why should I be? This exquisite creature must get it twenty times a day. And besides, I'm too old for that shit.
And she smiles like a player but I see her doing a double-take at my eyes. They are my best feature, I know, like the eyes of the angrily beautiful girl on the National Geographic photo, a startlingly pale blue on my olive skin. One perk of being a Jordanian-English mutt.
"Hi." Her voice is like a teenaged boy's. But she's got no shortage of feminine wiles, no matter how androgynous they be. Blouse buttoned low, just a hint of cleavage. Her rings are chunky and silver. She has the hottest lips I have ever seen, lush. Oh my god.
"I'm Darah." I say, coolly.
"Shane."
What a perfectly androgynous name. Is that what they called her when she was born, knowing that she‘d blossom into this boyish wonder? Or is it a name she‘s adopted to suit her? "Hello."
"Hello, Darah." Oh, hearing her say my name gives me shivers. And then she gives me this complicit grin, lopsided and adorable. Holy fuck on a stick. She must get more pussy than anyone on the planet. Or, at least anyone in the Planet.
"What kind of technical difficulties are they having?" I ask.
"Oh, um, they just opened under new management. They were having problems with the power earlier."
"Ah."
"What are you doing later?" she asks, calmly, as if asking me to pass the sugar.
"Painting my house."
That grin conceals whatever she may think of my reply. "Sounds riveting."
"We'll see." I pull a felt-tipped pen from the counter. "Give me your hand."
I take her hand in both of my own, feeling the gentle press of my fingertips to the soft skin on the back of her hand. I turn her hand over in mine, sensually, savoring the contact of my fingertips on her fingers as I uncurl her fingers from their loose fist. She is very ragged and rock-and-roll, not exactly butch but nowhere near manicured, but her hands are soft and uncalloused. Whatever she does for a living, it isn't physical.
There's no reason I couldn't scrawl my number on a napkin, but I just can't resist.
I unfold her fingers, and on her palm I write my name. Her fingers wiggle slightly and I wonder if I’m tickling her. I add my new number.
Then I look at her from under my eyelashes, one of the more cliché yet formidable weapons in my arsenal. "Call me if you wanna get together." I say.
"Um, okay. Maybe I will."
Of course she qualifies it with a maybe. I'm thirty-one and a quick learner. I can smell a player a mile away. That shit stopped fazing me in my twenties.
"Maybe," I say, gently mocking and smile.
The lady behind the counter presents me with a pastry box and my cappuccino.
"Thanks. Keep the change.”
“Thank you. Sorry for the wait."
"No problem. I love what you've done with the place."
"Aww, thank you." The lady is truly touched.
"You’re welcome. Later," I say over my shoulder at Shane. "Maybe."
I feel her watching me as I retreat, and am acutely aware of the thick curly ponytail that hangs down my back, the tension in my muscles, the sway of my ass.
.
I’ve got every window open, the fan on, and my favorite eclectic mix on the CD player, Morcheeba and KMFDM and Zeppelin and Jay-Z and Ten Fingers. I crank it up.
I paint until I’m down at the baseboards. I start where the morning light is - in the entryway. I paint that a warm, indulgent purple. Welcoming. It’s gonna look fabulous with this one vase I have.
I get through the first coat on the dining room, which is the color of saffron. A coat of bordello red in the sunlit bathroom, and lush green in the kitchen. After eight hours of that, my shoulders are aching and I’m ready to pack it in.
That night founds me out with Darrell and his friends. Darrell is one of my new co-workers and we hit it off instantly. He’s one of the finest trauma nurses I’ve ever worked with, a huge dark-skinned guy with dreadlocks, who always smells great, and who dates more women than me.
We have dinner at Hibachi, drinking warm Saki. Everyone else at dinner is straight, male, and black. I feel a bit awkward for a minute, then wonder why I was invited. They initially seem taken aback, either by my being female or by my not being black. Or maybe they think I’m Darrell’s date, and they are annoyed that be brought someone to boy’s night out.
I had male friends in Texas, but they always seemed bent on proving their manhood. But when we get to talking I learn that with this crew I’m just one of the boys. I decide it my being invited is a huge compliment.
Later, we meet up with Ravi and Bob from work. Ravi is an Indian Doctor, and Bob is one of my fellow nurses. We go to Space Bar and I kick their asses at pool and one of them, Mack, jokes about hooking me up with his sister. It feels good to be out and having fun, with new friends in a new city.
I’m having a great time, joking around and dancing with Mack, when my cell phone vibrates.
“I’ll be back,” I say, and duck outside. The air has cooled a bit but it is still hot, and as I answer the phone I twist my curls up into a knot on my head.
“Hello?”
“Hey. It’s Shane.” Her voice sounds even deeper on the phone, open, friendly, sexy.
“Ah, Miss Maybe.”
“Are you makin’ fun of me?” To my delight her voice is playful. She doesn’t seem pissed that I called her on her player behavior. If anything, there’s the recognition of a kindred spirit.
“Yes, I am. You can’t shit a shitter, darling. What are you doing?”
“Finishing work.”
“This late?”
“Yeah. I had a VIP client.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah. So what are you doing?”
“Well, at the moment I’m at Space Bar, dancing my ass off.”
“Wanna get together?”
“How about tomorrow?”
“Um, I can’t tomorrow. Sunday?”
“Yeah, Sunday is great.”
“Perfect, actually, the salon is closed Monday.”
So, she’s a hairdresser. That would explain the VIP client thing. Especially in this town. “All right. Come over around seven?“
“Yeah, cool."
I give her the address.
“Cool,” she says, repeating it. “See you Sunday.”
“Allright. See ya then.”
“Cool. Bye.”
“Bye.” I hit end, and grin. Oh, I can’t wait to taste the luscious Shane. Hmm.
“You bailing on us, D?” I turn around to find Darrell.
“Hey. No way. Just getting my phone.”
“Hot date?”
“I have a daa-ate, cause I’m the shizzz-nit...” I sing, doing my happy dance.
“You’re so damn cute it’s disgusting. We’re gonna go over to a strip joint, you wanna come?”
“Darrell. How long have you known me? Naked women? Boobies? Of course I wanna come.”
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: None, yet.
SPOILERS/WARNINGS: Through season one.
DISCLAIMER: The L-Word is owned by Ilene Chaiken, Showtime Networks, etc. Shane McCutcheon is owned by the aforementioned, and Kate Moennig's hot self. Darah Salameh is mine.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This takes place a few months after season one ends. In my universe, Shane never cut her hair, because I hate the new 'do. I love Carmen, but she's not in this story.
Gorgeous, like barbed wire in the sun.
