Parties in Congress (7 page)

Bijal blinked a couple times and reassessed the bill of fare. “Okay, I understand the muffaletta—that makes perfect sense. So do the fried clams. But what’s a ‘blooming pussy’?”

“It’s a deep-fried Vidalia onion with special dipping sauce.”

“Special
vaginal
dipping sauce?” Bijal asked, completely amazed that she was having this conversation.

Sue put her hands up playfully. “Hey, what you do with your nosh is completely up to you. We don’t judge here.”

“Clearly. And what exactly is ‘areola pie’?”

“Taken literally, it’s the best of both worlds. In this context, though, it tastes a lot like pecan pie.”

“Uh-huh,” Bijal muttered. Sue was very possibly totally fucking insane. When Bijal unintentionally caught the eye of the brawny cowdyke across the bar—who then nodded at her and smiled—she quickly directed her attention back to the menu, hoping that would effectively send a leave-me-alone message. “Then I’ll forgo the ‘dick-free oyster platter,’ which is…kind of confusing. I mean, I’d hope that
everything
is dick-free. I’ll just get a basket of the ‘faggity-ass french fries.’”

“You’re in luck,” Sue said, keying the order into the register. “We just put new grease in the fryer.”

“Today?” Bijal asked.

“Well, no. Not today, but recently. In the last month.”

Bijal couldn’t contain her frustration any longer. “Wow, and to think that just this morning when I accidentally spat toothpaste into my hair, I thought that meant I would have a
bad
day.”

“Things are looking up.” Sue was apparently oblivious to the sarcasm.

Bijal exhaled loudly and blew her hair out her eyes. Remembering why she’d stopped here, she tasted her twatini, which was actually pretty good. She took another sip and closed her eyes. To her chagrin, when she opened them again, the brawny cowdyke picked up her mug of beer and sauntered toward her.

Could this day get any worse? Would her brazenly gay fries perhaps come with a side of labia remoulade and pickled clitoris?

“Hello, beautiful,” the brawny cowdyke said in a voice that sounded like she gargled with ground glass in her free time. Remarkably, somehow Bijal had expected her to sound like that.

“Hello,” she answered flatly, not even trying to hide her lack of enthusiasm.

“I’m Flayme. Flayme Coverdale.”

“Hi,” Bijal said, purposely withholding her own name. She stared back at her drink and tried to figure out what she had done that she was now paying so dearly for. Was it that lost night in Manhattan?

“You’ve never heard of me?” Flayme asked, seeming genuinely surprised.

“Are you the lead singer of Whitesnake?”

Flayme looked confused. “So you’re not here for the signing?”

“Someone plans to interpret this conversation for the hearing impaired? Can we just tell them not to bother?”

“
Christ
, but you’re sassy,” Flayme rasped with a grin. “It complements your hotness nicely.”

Bijal stared at her, unimpressed. “Does this usually work for you?”

“What?”

“This carpet bombing of flattery and flirtation.”

Flayme leered and the left corner of her mouth rose. “I’m an author, and I’m here to sign some of my books. I thought you might be here for that, given the early hour, but I hadn’t factored in that you might just be a hardcore alcoholic.”

“We’re a much maligned minority, the hardcore alcoholics,” Bijal said, lifting her glass in salute. “Cheers.” She allowed the fruity beverage to slide coolly down her throat. A quick glance showed that Flayme was still staring at her. “So what have you written? Anything I might know?”

“Well, right now I’m promoting my new lesbian romance
You Fist My Heart
.”

Had she called it a romance? “Wow, that
does
sound romantic,” Bijal said in a deadpan voice. “You could have gone with
You Heart My Fist
, but I guess that just wouldn’t pack the same wallop, huh? No pun intended with the word ‘pack.’” She took another sip of her drink and prayed for tipsiness.

“It’s a tearjerker,” Flayme explained.

“Sounds like it could be if you’re not relaxed enough, yeah.”

“This may come off like a line, but your flippancy and indifference really turn me on.”

Bijal propped her chin on her fist. “Something tells me that if I kicked you in the back of the head, that might turn you on too.”

“Baby, you can read me like a book.”

“A book with the word ‘fist’ in the title?”

Flayme gave what Bijal assumed was her best come-hither look. “I won’t lie. I like to get a little freaky.”

“Quite frankly, I’m shocked,” Bijal replied sarcastically.

“Hold on for a moment.” Flayme walked back over to the opposite side of the bar and returned with a small cardboard box full of paperbacks. She grabbed a copy and handed it to Bijal. “This is for you, sweetie. I want to do pages seventy-three to seventy-five with you.” She winked brazenly.

Bijal was caught somewhere between horrified and curious. She had to admit, this was at least a new approach. She took the book, which had a rather angry-looking fist on the cover bursting violently through a pink papier-mâché heart, and opened it to page seventy-three. “Wow…which one of us brings the bowling pin?”

“I have one.” Flayme sounded smug.

“I had a sneaking feeling that you just might. My God! Is this part about the cantaloupe even possible?”

“Would you like to find out?”

“You know, I’d have to say that by design the vagina is plenty sticky on its own without shoving various fruits up there.”

“Hear, hear,” came a voice from behind her.

Bijal turned to see who agreed with her and gasped when none other then Colleen O’Bannon pulled up the bar stool to her right. She was instantly overcome with nausea.

“Hi, Bijal,” Colleen said with a smile.

“Fuck,” Bijal breathed, the lone syllable protracted for several seconds in her nervousness. “Is it possible for us to ever meet under respectable circumstances?”

“Ooh,
Bijal
,” Flayme repeated. “That’s a great name. Mind if I use it?”

“I think I might, yes.”

Flayme’s sexual interest in Bijal seemed to utterly dissolve at that very instant, and her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized both Colleen and Bijal—perhaps trying to deduce the nature of their relationship. She extended her hand across the corner of the bar to Colleen. “Hi, I’m—”

“Flayme Coverdale,” Colleen said, shaking her hand enthusiastically. “You wrote
Leaving the Handprint of Love: Spanking Stories for Very Naughty Girls
.”

Bijal stared, catatonic—unable to move anything except her eyelids.

“Always nice to meet a fan,” Flayme said through an alabaster grin. “Would you like an autographed book?”

“I’d love one,” Colleen replied.

Flayme snatched back the book she’d given Bijal and picked up a pen, which she clicked with great flourish. “Who am I making this out to?”

Colleen began spelling it for her. “S-p-y-x-i-e. It’s pronounced ‘spicy.’ Spyxie Sugarbottom.”

“That’s a very sexy name,” Flayme said as she scrawled feverishly across the cover page.

Bijal was still agog. “Wow, naughty, spicy,
and
sexy.”

“I have many layers,” Colleen said, with the slightest hint of a smirk.

A group of four women walked in, clutching books to their chests and looking very eager. It was apparent they were here for Flayme.

Bijal glanced back to Colleen, noting how her appearance had changed now that she was wearing more casual clothes. In faded low-rise jeans, a crisp purple blouse, and a buttery-soft-looking leather jacket, she was absolutely stunning.

“Here you go, Ms. Sugarbottom,” Flayme said, handing over the paperback but not releasing it right away.

“Thanks. What do I owe you?” Colleen asked.

“Nothing, sweetheart, but I did add my phone number. If you’re feeling appreciative later, give me a call.” Flayme turned and nodded at her fans, who were milling around a table in the corner with copies of her other titles. “Sorry, ladies, but the throng awaits.” She stood, picked up her box of books, and moseyed away.

Bijal tried to read the inscription but couldn’t without leaning into Colleen’s space. “What’s it say?”

“‘To Spyxie. When you get tired of the sarcasm and disdain and are ready for a night you’ll never forget, call me.’ Then she put her number. Do you think she’s referring to you?”

The humor in Colleen’s voice somehow helped Bijal feel more at ease. “Yes, but I’d just like to go on record that before
you
sat down, she said my sarcasm was a turn-on.”

“I didn’t…interrupt something, did I?”

“Just an unwelcome sexual advance. You’re a fan of hers?”

Colleen began flipping through the book. “No, I’d never heard of her before.”

“So you just happened to know all about the happy red handprint of love, or whatever it was? Who do you think you’re fooling?” She took a large swig of her drink.

“It’s on the poster on the front door. I saw it when I got here,” Colleen said discreetly. “And, come on, that’s a pretty unusual title.”

Bijal grinned. “Please tell me that Spyxie Sugarbottom is your chat-room name.”

“If only. But it sounded like she was looking for a provocative one.”

“More like a pornographic one. I hope you won’t be upset if that’s the name of the protagonist in her next book,
Up to Her Elbow: Reaching for Love
.”

Colleen’s mouth curved in amusement. “Is that the sequel to
I’ve Had You Up to Here
?”

“Maybe so.”

“No worries. Perhaps I gave her something she could use.”

“So it was just political subterfuge?”

“It’s really more an attention to detail, though I prefer the term ‘sorcery.’ It sounds more mysterious.” Suddenly, Colleen stumbled across a passage that changed her expression to one of horror. “Oh, my
God
!”

“Wait till you get to the part with the bowling pin.”

Colleen closed the book and pushed it away from her. “Leave it to a lesbian to figure out a way to mix sex with bowling.”

Sue reappeared from the kitchen with a basket of fries and set it in front of Bijal. “Here you go, honey. Hey, Col. You want your usual?”

“Please. Ah, I see you’re reclaiming your femaleness by ordering from Sue’s post-pejorative menu.”

Bijal blew on a fry to cool it. “Do I ask for ketchup or menstrual relish?”

Sue chuckled. “I’ll bring you a bottle of Heinz and a maxi pad. Do you two know each other?”

“We do, yes. Sue, this is Bijal Rao. She’s in the business.”

Bijal was impressed that Colleen remembered her full name, then dismissed it as more sorcery.

“Aw, that’s a shame,” Sue said, setting a glass of something amber-colored in front of Colleen. “You seemed like a nice kid.”

“I used to be,” Bijal replied dejectedly as she ran her finger along the rim of her martini glass.

Sue leaned on the bar. “Have you had to sell your soul, sweetie?”

“Not such a good day, huh?” Colleen asked.

Bijal scoffed. “Noticed that, did you?”

“Maybe,” Colleen said, reaching into a paper bag beside her and retrieving two liquor bottles. “But perhaps this will help.”

Sue looked ecstatic. “You brought them!”

“Of course I did,” Colleen said. “I keep my campaign promises.”

Bijal looked at the labels curiously. “What are they?”

“Last week, I was telling Sue that the whiskeys she stocks are complete crap,” Colleen explained.

“Even though I carry Arc of Orion,” Sue said defensively.

Colleen shook her head. “But your well drinks all taste like paint thinner. Orion is your only top-shelf brand, which isn’t much in the way of variety.”

“You’re insufferable, Colleen—and you always have been.”

Bijal considered Sue’s words. It was clear these women were close and had been for a while. Were they romantically involved? Sue had, after all, already mentioned that she was “taken.”

“So I agreed to bring Sue some of Orion’s other products so she can taste the difference for herself. Are you game, Bijal?” Colleen asked.

“I’m not sure. I don’t know much about whiskey.”

Colleen glanced at the remainder of the pink twatini in Bijal’s hand. “What’s your usual drink of choice?”

“Um…anything served with a tiny umbrella, a plastic monkey, or a swizzle stick shaped like a naked woman.”

“Sounds
fancy
,” Colleen said jokingly.

“I’m a woman of modest means and tastes,” Bijal replied.

“As are most of the women who come into the K and K,” Sue added. “Which is what I was telling Colleen the last time she brought this up.”

“I’m not suggesting that you stop carrying economical brands, just that you give the patrons a few more options. Let’s have a few shot glasses, Sue, and a bottle of your crappy stuff. We’ll have a little Whiskey 101.”