Secret Bird
by Politic X

Part 2
See part 0 for header information.


"Loft-warming."

My student gives me a sly look.  "She pretty?"

"Very."

"Sweet."  She grins.

"Very."

Very sweet.  Much too sweet, the woman and the
situation.  It'll never happen, but I have a
feeling Monica's going to play me for all I'm worth
before she breaks my heart.  She won't mean to, of
course, but women like her are loved by too many
not to break a few.

----------------------------

The loft is spotless.  I've cleaned it from top to
bottom, even the windows, which are so large and so
high on the walls that I had to purchase a ladder
to reach the tops of them.  I would've needed a
ladder anyway to change the light bulbs.  Such open
space makes me happy.

Stephanie's due to arrive any minute, and Raney
will probably be here shortly thereafter.  They're
my two closest buddies, and they'll make tonight
more bearable.  I expect to be given the cold
shoulder by almost everyone, so I've made a small
display of some art they should recognize.  It
should appease them; it was done by the
salutatorian of our graduating class at Brown.  He
died a few months ago, and nothing has been the
same since.  Everyone loved Marty.  His artwork is
mostly sculptures, with a couple of mosaics thrown
in.  I'm leaving the drawings packed away, though,
and the wolf stays in the guest bedroom, because
these things are too personal to have on exhibit.

I've spent the last few days trying not to think
about Dana and whether or not she'll come.  She
said she would, but she's so wrapped up in herself
and her son that I'm not sure she'll even remember
the invitation.  I hope she does.  She's the main
reason for the party.  I'm so at odds with my
friends right now that I probably wouldn't have it
otherwise.  But I have to get her alone.  I have to
tell her what she means to me, and I need to know
if I mean anything to her.

I know she cares about me as a friend, even though
she's so gruff and unemotional that it's sometimes
hard to know where she's coming from.  I need to
know if I'm more.  I need to know if she lies awake
thinking about me the way that I think about her.
I need to know where I stand with her, and I need
to know tonight, because I don't like guessing
games.  And I can't keep these feelings bottled up
inside any longer.

Stephanie says that what I wear tonight is the key
to everything.  "Give her sexy, honey," she said
from the road yesterday.  Not only have we already
discussed our outfits, but Steph's familiar with
almost everything that hangs in my closet.  We're
that close, even though she lives a thousand miles
away.

The outfit I'd planned to wear does nothing for
her, even though she hasn't seen it.  It's pretty -
a soft cashmere dress, beige, and even softer brown
leather boots that come to my knees.  "Something
sexier," Stephanie insisted.  I'm not sure I dare
to wear what she has in mind.  The blouse is a
halter top that she pushed me to buy last year when
we were in New Orleans, and the skirt is
excessively short.  I plan to wear the cashmere.
This party isn't about seduction, after all, it's
about getting answers to some important questions
and setting some secrets free.

---------

I'm glad the parking garage is well lit.  Monica's
loft is located in a decidedly uneven section of
town.  Her building's nice; it's an old school with
huge banks of windows, and the grounds are green
and they cover a city block.  But the adjacent
blocks aren't as lush, and they're scattered with
prostitutes and drug dealers.  I don't like her
living on the fringe like this.

I take a freight elevator from the garage to the
living quarters, and I have to smile.  It's
decidedly different, this building; the developers
have done a good job in restoring it.  The
incredibly wide hallways still house lockers, the
doors are heavy wood and the walls are brick.  The
first floor is retail space and Monica's floor is
directly above a small day spa.

Six is on the end, beside an alcove with a window.
I peer out it at the night.  I don't like her being
in a mixed-use building, but that's none of my
business.  I don't like her being the end apartment
on the first residential floor adjacent to an 8' x
12' window, either.  I especially don't like that
she's bought this place instead of leasing it.  If
this is where she's putting down roots, I'll be
worrying about her for a long time.

I press the buzzer, suddenly self-conscious about
the house-warming gift I've brought her.  It's too
personal to be unwrapped in a crowd; she'll need to
open it later.

I ring the buzzer again, just as she's opening the
door, and my breath catches.  I've always thought
her pretty, but now I know better.  She's gorgeous.
I can't choose which feature to stare at, her eyes,
her smile, her breasts, or her legs.  "Dana," she
says breathlessly, and it's her smile my eyes rest
on.

"Hi."

"I'm glad to see you.  Come in."  She closes the
door behind me.  "Can I get your coat?"

"Yes, thanks."  I maneuver her heavy present and
reach up to remove my jacket myself, but Monica's
already behind me.  She brushes against my
collarbones as she reaches around and grasps it in
an area so close to my breasts that my nipples
react to her heat.  She opens my coat and then
moves her hands back up to a place near the collar,
pulls the leather, slides it down.  I feel her
fingertips through my thin blouse as they trail
down my arms.  I'm on fire.

"Love that blouse," she murmurs, her mouth seeming
to be intimately close, and the hairs on the back
of my neck stand up.  "Turn around, let me see."  I
turn, feeling awkward, and her eyes are all over my
body, but mostly on my breasts.  Not that I'm
wearing anything revealing - but the blouse is
tight, and her admiration is open.  The shirt is
different for me, and I'm nervous.  It's vivid and
exotic - a Gaultier tulle top in black, lime green
and silver - and I paid too much for it.  I bought
it just for tonight.  "Nice," she says, and the
price of the blouse is worth it.  Her eyes sweep up
to my face and she smiles mysteriously, as if we
share a secret.

She's cast a spell on me.

This encounter - from the moment she opened the
door until now - is one of the most erotic moments
I've ever experienced, and far too brief.  She
moves to a nearby closet, and I let myself gawk.
If she thinks I look nice, there must be a finer
word for her.  She's all mini-skirt, tall boots and
bare legs, but it's her blouse that's the scene-
stealer.  It's sleeveless, black and soft, like
crushed velvet.  There's a keyhole of exposed flesh
from her collarbone to her sternum.  It looks quite
charming on her - feminine but strong, accentuating
her broad shoulders - but it's not what it seems.
For all its sweet, earthy innocence, it's backless.

Two thoughts hit me at once.  One, it's November
and much too cold for her outfit.  Two, this party
isn't just a party if she wore it for me.  She
turns back to me, and I push those thoughts away.
The finer word I want isn't on my tongue, so I
thrust the present at her.  "Here.  For your house
warming.  Loft-warming, I should say."

Her smile lights up her whole face.  "Thank you,
that's so sweet."

I grimace.  Sweet's not what I intended.  "You
might want to open it later."

Her eyes penetrate mine.  There's something sexy
about them that I've never noticed before.  "Okay,"
she says softly.  "Let me put it in a safe place."

I follow her, feeling decidedly conspicuous in this
blouse.  My trousers ride low and the blouse rides
high, so my stomach feels uncomfortably naked.  I
try to relax.  I wanted to be daring and different,
someone more exciting than I am, and that's why my
clothes are tight.  Instead, I'm the same me stuck
in a blouse so wild that everyone turns to stare in
our direction.

There are many people here, but the loft is
enormous, and it doesn't feel crowded.  It seems
even bigger than it did last week, when she didn't
have all of her furniture yet.  "Can I get you
something to drink?" she asks over her shoulder.

"Sure."

I'm staring at her shoulders, at her back, at her
shoulder blades, at the long line of her spine.
She wore this blouse because she wanted someone to
touch her.  I wonder if she knows that someone's
going to be me.

We walk into the kitchen area, and she places the
gift on the counter.  She looks at it for a moment,
rubbing her thumb over the paper as if she's
contemplating opening it.  I stare at her back and
think about how nice it would be to wrap my arms
around her.  I'd kiss her between her shoulder
blades and slide my hands up to her breasts.  She
turns and smiles at me, and I'm almost ashamed of
my lustful thoughts.  Almost.  "What's your
poison?"

"What are my options?"

Her look is entirely innocent.  "I'm sure I have
anything you'd want."

I'm sure she does, too.  "Why don't you pick my
poison, in that case?"

She chuckles and scratches her brow.  "Okay."  I
can't take my eyes from her.  She grows pensive,
staring right back at me.  "I'd peg you for vodka
or gin.  Or white wine, maybe.  A clear drink."

I'm surprised by her accuracy.  "A gin and tonic
would be great."  Why not have a summer drink to
celebrate her summer outfit?  As she prepares it, I
watch her and wonder if she's sleeping with
anybody.  I wonder if she sleeps with men.  "And
you?"  I ask, when she hands me the drink.  "What's
your poison, Monica?"  I take a sip, locking eyes
with her.  "Something harder, I imagine?"

There's definite heat in the room.  "What could be
harder than a gin and tonic?" she purrs.  "Looks
like water, tastes like gasoline."

"Yeah, well," I swallow.  "Some things aren't what
they seem."

She reaches into the cabinet.  "And those," she
says, pulling out a bottle of Jack Daniels, "Are
the most interesting things of all."  She pours
herself a shot, downs it, and tilts the glass
toward me.

I shake my head.  "I'll stick with unleaded."

"Okay."  She chuckles and grabs herself a beer from
the fridge.  "Let me introduce you around."

I follow her back to her amazing living space.  I'm
already sure I'll spend a lot of the evening
learning about her from her friends, and I'm
surprised by my enthusiasm.  I *want* to spend the
evening discussing her.  I want to spend it looking
at her pottery and books and photos, and everything
else.  I want to learn everything about her
tonight.

"Monica!" someone yells.  We look, and there's a
guy at the other end of the loft.  He's waving at
her like a drunken idiot, asking about a cheron,
whatever that is.  She yells right back at him that
it's in the guest room, but he doesn't seem to find
it.  She excuses herself from me to help him, and
I'm alone suddenly, in the midst of sixty people
who may or may not be friendly, who may or may not
be gay, and who may or may not think I'm someone
more exciting than I am because of my distinct
blouse.

It takes me five seconds to realize that it's a
mixed crowd, and not much longer than that for the
first guy to hit on me.  He's not bad looking, but
there's an air of desperation that clings to him
like cloying aftershave.  I'm quickly becoming
trapped in a conversation I don't want to have, and
I can't be rude to him if he's a friend of
Monica's.

I don't have to endure it long.  Another man comes
to my rescue.  I hope these guys notice that I'm
rolling my eyes at both of them.  This man is easy,
though.  He's attractive, but he'd be plain if it
weren't for his long, thick lashes and incredible
gray eyes.  He's dressed casually in blue jeans and
loafers.

He steps right in front of the oily guy - Gary
Somebody - and sticks his hand out.  "Raney
Pritchard," he says in a southern accent.  His grip
is firm and dry, compared to Gary's.  "I'll be your
tour guide this evening."  His eyes crinkle.

"Dana Scully."

He nods, as if he knew this already.  "Monica asked
me to find you," he says.

I'm embarrassed that he found me so quickly; I'm
sticking out like a sore thumb.  I can just hear
Monica tell him 'Find Dana Scully, she's the one
with the loud blouse.'  He seems to sense my
discomfort.  "There's not many people here I don't
know."  He nods curtly to Gary while taking my
elbow and leading me away.  "Excuse us, Walker."

I learn that Raney Pritchard is the pastor of a
small congregation outside Atlanta, and that Monica
really didn't fetch for me, but meant to rescue me
from Gary Walker.  "She's tied up with the Cheron
right now," he says, glancing over my head.

"What's the cheron?"

"It's a sculpture of a wolf.  Our friend, Marty
Cheron, did it.  He died a few months ago.  The
last time most of us were together was at his
funeral."

I nod my sympathy.

"Freak motorcycle accident," he offers, and stops
in front of the painting of the peasant and the
princess witch, and begins telling me all about the
artist, who happens to be here tonight, and for
whom he obviously has great affection.  "Speak of
the devil."  He looks across the room and I follow
his gaze.

A woman's kissing Monica.

---------------------

"How's my baby?"

Stephanie touches my arm and her breasts press
against me as she leans up on tiptoe for a kiss.
Fifteen years ago, that move of hers had me weak-
kneed and tongue-tied.  Now I just roll my eyes.
"I'm good."

Her lips linger on mine for a moment, not because
there's any passion between us, but because she
knows how it looks to everyone who's watching.  And
everyone's always watching her; she makes sure of
that.  She was born an actress and doesn't need a
stage to show off her talents.

She's the other redhead in my life (until she
changes colors again), and so different from Dana
that they aren't comparable.  Steph's the divorced
mother of two grown boys, a drama coach and the
proud owner of a Harley Davidson.  Her hair is long
and curly and her figure is voluptuous.  She has
the artist's flair and everything she wears is
dramatic and gaudy; her clothes are always a
disaster.  And she brought plenty of gaudy with her
this afternoon when she made the drive to my place.
I hauled three suitcases of gaudy out of the trunk
of her ancient car.  Gaudy is heavy.

Tonight she's sporting a leather skirt, black boots
- nothing like the ones I'm wearing because hers
have a stiletto heel - and a small, red blouse.
She loves cleavage - she loves tempting people that
way - so the shirt's cut low at her breasts.  She's
looking cheap, raunchy and brazenly sexy.  No
taste, this woman.  I wouldn't have her any other
way.

"Is she here yet?"

I nod.  "She's -"

"No, don't tell me.  Let me find her."

"I'm getting another beer.  What do you want?"

"Tequila."

I leave her and glance around at the other guests.
Friends, all of them, mostly from Brown, and most
of them know each other.  They seem to be having a
good time; some are gathering in cliques by the
fireplace (which doesn't hold a fire tonight, but
candles), some are dancing, and everyone is
drinking.  I learned a long time ago that the only
requirement for having a good party is plenty of
alcohol.  The rest takes care of itself.

(Continued in part 3)