Woman of the Night

"What?"

"Save me!" I said tensely.

"Good morning, Ms. Rush," Lucas said, encroaching on our duo.

"Lucas, I don't have time to—"

Laila's phone rang. "Office of Deputy Solicitor Rush," she answered. "How may I direct your call?...Yes, sir...yes, she's available...one moment please."

She covered the edge of the phone with her hand. "It's the governor of South Carolina's secretary. The governor would like to speak with you."

"Oh, thank you. Lucas, I gotta take this." I took the phone and pretended to speak. It was black; there was no one on the line. "Yes, this is Emily Rush."

Laila and I walked away from Lucas, who stood helplessly as we ignored him. When we turned a corner, I handed the phone back and we both leaned forward, our shoulders bouncing in laughter. Laila held her tummy as she giggled and my face reddened. "That was brilliant," I said. "The governor? Seriously?"

"At least it's believable." She removed her glasses to wipe a tear from her eye. "The king of England would be too much of a stretch, right?"

"Ugh — the less I have to deal with that ambulance-chasing fiend, the better. I want nothing to do with him."

She sighed and changed the subject. "And speaking of things you don't want anything to do with."

"What?"

"Try this bar out on Devine Street."

I threw my hand in the air and let it fall so that it slapped my thigh. "Why are you so persistent about this damn bar?"

She came closer to me and said softly, "because I can see the stress in your eyes. You need someone to spend time outside of work, trust me."

I rubbed my eyebrows with my fingers and groaned. "Okay, fine, I'll go to the bar. Probably Saturday. But that's only to shut you up, got it?"

Her face lit with excitement. "And you'll tell me what happens, right?"

"I most certainly will not," I said sharply.

She threw her head back and rolled her eyes. She begged like a petulant child. "Come on, Emily!"

"If you're so interested in the bar, why don't you go?"

"Cause I'm not a lesbian," she returned. "And I'm not interested in the bar. I just think you need to have some fun, that's all. If you don't want to go, then don't go."

"Are you sure that a bar is the best place to pick up a date? It seems like more of a place to pick up someone for a one-night stand — and I'm not doing a one-night stand."

"You can find a lot of different types of people," she said. "There'll be people there looking for dates and there'll be people there looking for one-night stands. And then there'll be people who are there just to socialize. Didn't you ever have fun in college? You just have to find who you're looking for."

"No, Laila," I stayed in my dorm and studied so I could finish in six years instead of seven. It's hard to get a Juris Doctor degree when you're partying every night."

"Are you going to the bar or not, Dr. Emily?"

"I'll go, I'll go," I said hesitantly as if I surrendered a battle. "But you insist on being so nosy."

"I'm not," she defended, chuckling as if she knew she was wrong. "I just want to know what happens, that's all."

"That's the definition of nosiness," I said.

She shook her head. "Jesus, Emily. Just go to the bar and see what happens. Then let me know what went down."

"Nothing's gonna go down," I ensured, my voice border-lining a whine. "At most, I'm going to talk to someone, but I'm certainly not hopping into anyone's bed."

"You never know," her sinister smile grew.

"And don't call me Dr."

* * *

On Saturday, I found myself at a lesbian bar for the first time in my life. I had never had trouble finding women to date, especially since most of my friends and family knew I wasn't straight. But lately, I lacked the drive to seek anyone, focusing greater attention on my job and my hobbies. I wore a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a stylistic top that publicized my cleavage and my naval; it had been years since I was this scantily clad in public.

I sat in my car for twenty minutes contemplating giving up and going home. I watched as a multitude of women entered, each content with her individuality. Some wore conservative clothing that revealed little while others flaunted their breasts and legs. Some boasted their tattoos and jewelry. Some were butch and others had long hair that spilled over their shoulders. Short or tall, thick or thin, blonde or grey, the only thing they had in common was that they were women. And none of them seemed like they'd be compatible with me. But finally, I mustered the courage to go inside.

The large, dark room was livened with flashy lights and a DJ playing modern tunes. As I strode across the bar, several women turned their heads toward me, melting my apprehension into confidence. A brunette sent shivers down my spine when she winked. A blonde made my heart jump when she raised her eyebrows in lust. A tall woman seductively licked her lips as I strutted past.

I grabbed a drink from the bartender and stood at a high table in the corner of the room. There were too many people for me to seek someone out, and I wouldn't even know where to begin. The cute blonde who had gawked at me was now speaking with someone else. And the brunette who winked had disappeared. Some girls were kissing, others chatting and laughing, and a few just sipping drinks by themselves. One woman was practically groping another. I even saw a naked boob after a girl had a wardrobe malfunction from dancing a little too hard.

"How are you?" A woman approached from my side and wrapped her hand around my bare tummy. I almost dropped my drink from the surprise. Her fingers were warm, and the edges of her nails glided over my body.

"Hey," I mumbled. The woman was sexy: flawless skin, curly blond hair, beautiful lips. I took a quick peek at her cleavage, which she noticed.

"You looking for a good time?" She flirted, biting her lower lip.

"Truthfully, I don't quite know what I'm looking for."

She leaned against my side so that her breasts hugged my arm and her breath crept down my shoulder. She smelled like sugar cookies. "I don't live very far from here," she whispered alluringly. "Wanna get outta here together?"

My heart sputtered, "oh, uhh — I don't think — I've never been a fan of one-night stands."

She inhaled deeply and leaned closer to my ear, "I can eat a girl out like nobody else."

"Oh, wow," I breathed. "But I'm more of a dating-first kinda girl. Sorry."

"You sure, Red? I can make you cum ten times."

"No, thanks," I answered.

"Umph," she exhaled, seemingly surprised by the rejection. She stuck up her nose at me and walked away, but quickly found someone else to hit on. It wasn't long before she left the bar with another girl. My heart thumped harshly, and I wondered if I had made the right decision. I just turned down the opportunity to fuck an insanely attractive woman. But one-night stands were a bad idea in my book. Plus, I detested nicknames based on my hair.

I caught the stare of another girl. She was very attractive and — oh, no. Not her. My stomach sank to my hips and my heart jumped into my throat. Hoping she wouldn't see me, I turned my head to the side. I peeked in her direction; she was walking toward me. She wore a purple top that implored me to notice her cleavage and pierced belly button. She had a tattoo sleeve that reached from her shoulder to her elbow. My legs wobbled as she came closer. It was the woman I knocked off the bicycle a week before. I hope she doesn't remember me.

"How are you?" She asked.

"I'm — uhh — doing great. How about you?" My words quavered like a ship in rough waters.

The corners of her mouth lifted ever-so-slightly. "Nice to see you again."

The little confidence I had gained eroded. I chuckled awkwardly, my drink sloshing in my hand. "Yeah, I — uhh — I guess — I guess so." She looked at me painfully, her face consistently serious. "Didn't know if you'd remember me," I bumbled.

She chuckled, "it's hard to forget a moment like that. And you don't exactly blend in with the crowd too well." She gestured to my red hair. "Irish? Scottish?"

"My mom's side of the family is Scottish," I said. There were a few moments of humiliating silence before I added, "look, I'm sorry about what happened the other day. I feel bad about it. Let me buy you a drink. I know that won't make up for it, but I have to do something. I feel guilty."

"I don't drink," she objected.

"Oh," I breathed.

"It's fine. It really is. And it's what I get for riding a bicycle in January."

"You're well within your right to ride in whatever month without being hurt. What can I do to make it up to you?"

"How about a date?" Her expression was blank and I struggled to determine whether or not she was sincere.

I raised my eyebrows in curiosity. "You want to go on a date with the girl who hit you with her car?" She stared at me intuitively in anticipation of an answer. "Are you serious? What makes you—"

She interrupted, "because you're cute and you have a sense of decency. Most people resent cyclists and wouldn't have cared that they knocked one on the ground." She leaned onto the table. "And I didn't know you liked women when you hit me or else I probably would have asked you while I was on the ground. But seeing you here — well, I assume you're a lesbian. Otherwise, you're in the wrong building."

"Oh," I muttered again. "You would really want to go on a date with someone who ruined your afternoon?"

"You're pretty," she said, shrugging as if the conversation were casual. "And you didn't ruin my afternoon. If anything, you gave me a face to think about in bed that night."

"Oh—" I laughed clumsily. "Surely you're not serious."

"What if I am serious? And don't call me Shirley."

"I — I'm not even sure what to say." I smirked, "and I know what movie you stole that joke from."

"It's a good joke. And you can say 'yes or no'." Her smile doubled.

"Yes or no?"

"Are you going to go on a date with me or not?"

"Okay—," I said. My voice rattled with confusion. "Let's go on a date."

She nodded and looked at me appealingly. "Monday."

I asked, "where do you want to go?"

"I don't know," she said. "I'll think about it. In the meantime, tell me what you do for a living."

"I — uhh — I'm a lawyer."

"Defending people? Impressive."

I chuckled awkwardly, "a—actually, I serve as a prosecutor for the State. I'm the one putting people in prison."

"Hmph," she huffed. "You're putting away bad guys. That's good too."

"Yeah, lots of people see me as the enemy, though."

"Pays well, right?"

I grunted. "I'm a government employee, so no. I mean, it's not terrible — about 85,000 a year. But lawyers, including me, typically have outrageous student debt. The government promised to pay off my student loans if I work ten years for them, and that's the six-figure number I'm looking at every day. What about you?"

"Also a government employee — 911 dispatcher."

"Oh, that's cool," I said, leaning forward. I rested my elbows on the table and leaned my chin against my hands. "You're the one who sends the firefighters where they need to go?"

"And the police and the medics," she added.

"I'll bet you have some crazy stories," I said. My confidence slowly strengthened again. "What's the most bizarre thing you ever dealt with?"

She threw her hands up. "Oh, I could go on for days." She looked up and tapped the table with her fingers as she thought. "Most of the calls are straightforward — fire, heart attack, car crash — that's almost 99% of all calls. But there was this one situation a couple of months ago where this guy said there was an intruder in his home. And at the same time, someone else called and said there was an intruder in his home too. It turns out they were in the same house but one guy had dementia and had lived in the house over twenty years before. He was just confused."

I widened my eyes in amazement. "That's weird. The most messed up case I prosecuted was when a woman dunked her infant's legs into boiling water." I lowered my eyes and shook my head. "She got twenty years. Of course, I guess that's not as bad as the father who killed his five children."

"Ohh, I think I remember that on the news a few years ago," she said. "What happened to him?"

"Electric chair," I answered dryly. A few more moments of tense silence passed before I said, "didn't mean to go grim on you. It's my nature, I suppose. My job has desensitized me to everything."

"No, that's fascinating. How long have you been at it?"

"Six years total," I answered. "I started as an assistant prosecutor and am in the process of working my way up the food chain."

"Year two for me," she said. "I'm retired military so this is a second career."

I nodded in admiration, "military? Nice. I should probably ask you your name."

"Jenna," she smiled.

"I'm Emily."

"You're a fine-looking woman, Emily," Jenna complimented.

"Thank you, and you too."

She leaned forward over the table. "Now, about this date. Is Monday good for you?"

"Uh — yeah, Monday's fine, but we'd better not do it before 7:00 just to make sure."

"Can you meet me at a restaurant at 7:30?"

"Yeah, no problem. Which one?"

She handed me her phone. "Put your number in. I'll text you tomorrow and let you know where we're meeting."

"You can't tell me now?"

"Nope! I'll let it be a mystery."

* * *

The next day, I sat at home anxiously waiting for Jenna's message, but it seemed it wouldn't come. I reached for my phone hastily after every notification or email thinking that it might be her. Sometimes, I checked randomly in case I missed a notification. As the hands on the wall clock crawled, Jenna did not text. Nine o'clock. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. One — no sign. With each tick of the second hand, my stomach became weaker. Eventually, I thought she must have stood me up. Is there a better way to get back at someone for knocking you off your bicycle than to ask for a date and never respond?

But finally, the text came:

Jenna: Meet me at California Dreaming tomorrow at 7:30 p.m.

Me: Got it. See you there!

Our conversation was as simple as it could be. Still, my stomach filled with butterflies for the first time in a while. Laila was right — I needed someone to help me maintain my sanity.

* * *

As soon as I entered my office Monday morning, Laila shouted, "okay, spill the beans!"

"How about a good morning," I said sarcastically.

"Good morning, Emily," she said snobbishly. "Now come on. How'd it go?"

"Actually, I just stayed home on Saturday and didn't go anywhere."

Laila's forehead wrinkled. "Are you serious? You chickened out?"

I chuckled, "no, I'm just kidding." She rolled her eyes. "It was quite interesting. I had a couple of girls hit on me — one even offered to have sex right there on the spot."

I paused and Laila leaned forward in interest. "And?" She prodded, folding her arms.

"And I told her that I wasn't interested in a one-night stand." Laila seemed to sink as if she were disappointed by my reservations. I continued, "but I do have a date with a girl tonight."

Her face lit with excitement again. "See! I told you it'd be easy. Who is she? Where are y'all going?"

"She's really cute," I bragged. "That's for sure. Her name is Jenna and—" I stopped, suddenly remembering the bicycle incident. "She seems pretty nice. She's a military girl too, but we didn't get much time to talk. We're having dinner tonight."

Laila nodded in amusement, her smile as wide as the sea. "I told you," she boasted. "And see? You're already giddy."

"I'm not giddy," I rejected. "You're more excited than I am."

"Are you not excited?"

"I am," I said. "I'm just nervous. I've already—" Again, I stopped mid-sentence.

"You've already what?"

"Nothing," I dismissed, too embarrassed to share the bicycle story. "It's just been a while since I've been on a proper date. I don't even know what to wear."

Laila gestured toward me, "wear that. It's professional and formal."

I looked down at my outfit: a white blouse and a black skirt. "Are you sure? Maybe I should go home and change into something that shows a bit of cleavage."

"It's fine," she assured. "As long as whats-her-face doesn't show up in a slutty outfit, it's fine."

"Oh, God, I hope she doesn't." I shook my head, "anyway, let's focus. What's going on today?"

She handed me the first binder. "As usual, you have a bond hearing in about thirty minutes. Today's pretty normal."

* * *

That night, I entered the restaurant wearing my regular work attire.

Me: "Are you here?"

Jenna: "I'm seated in the back at a booth."

Me: I don't see you. Where are you?

She raised her hand to catch my attention. I did not initially recognize her because she was dressed much differently than she was Saturday night. Instead of her hair flowing over her shoulders, it was tied neatly in a bun behind her head. She wore a full, formal uniform of the United States Army. The uniform's top was black, beneath which was a white blouse. On her left breast, she carried medals and ribbons. On her right breast, there was a small plate with the name "Booth." Each shoulder was fashioned with a silver leaf. Her black shoes were freshly shined and her pants hugged her legs. Each detail of the uniform was perfect as if she spent hours getting dressed that morning.

"Good evening," she said, standing as I approached the table.

I sat across from her and gleamed, "I was worried I might be overdressed, but you look official — and stunning.

She returned, "and you look like a lawyer — and stunning." She had cute wrinkles around her eyes when she smiled.

I asked, "now, you can call me ignorant, but what rank does that silver emblem represent?"

"Lieutenant colonel," she answered, leaning back in the booth.

"Lieutenant colonel? That seems pretty high up there. You look too young to be a lieutenant colonel."

"You don't believe me?" A coy, lopsided smile grew on her face.

"No, no, it's just that when you said you were in the military, I didn't expect you to be a lieutenant colonel. Most people don't make it that high, right?"

She nodded. "I'm thirty-two, though I'm younger than most lieutenant colonels."

"Lieutenant Colonel Jenna Booth. Huh. How does one become a lieutenant colonel?" I wondered.

"It's not as exciting as you might think. I was appointed to command troops at Fort Jackson, but I'm retired now. The only reason I'm wearing this today is because of a meeting I had with the Veteran's Affairs Council."

"Cool," I muttered. "You look badass."

She chuckled. The waitress came and took our orders and greeted Jenna with a congenial "thank you for your service."

"So tell me, Emily. What's your story? How does a lawyer like you wind up in a lesbian bar?"

"Truth be told, my friend encouraged me to go."

"I don't remember seeing you with anyone on Saturday," she recalled.

I waved my hands to clarify. "No, you're right. My straight friend, who's also my employee, encouraged me to go. She keeps insisting that I need to have fun on the weekends instead of sitting at home and reading or doing work."

"Your friend was right," Jenna winked.

"I know," I sighed. "I didn't want to admit that she was right; I gave in to her advice and went to the bar. That's where I met you — I mean, I know I met you before when I knocked you off of your bike, but — but you get the idea."

Her shoulders bubbled as she laughed. "I get it. I was there to find someone new too."

"To find a girlfriend or a friend?" I asked.

"A girlfriend, of course. I'm going to come out and say this straight away," Jenna said after sipping on her water. "And forgive me if this seems a little too forward. But are you looking for someone to date and get to know, or are you looking for someone to have sex with?"