Radclyffe - Turn Back Time

Wynter's throat burned and she was terrified that she would cry.

She never cried. "She didn't do anything. But I think I might've done something stupid."

"Like what? God, you didn't do drugs or anything did you?"

"No, nothing like that," Wynter said, her voice edging upward toward what she feared might become an hysterical laugh. "I'm a mess, I kissed her. She was upset."

"You kissed Pearce? As in a serious kiss kiss?"

Wynter nodded.

"Is she gay?"

Wynter nodded again, but she was thinking about the kiss. About the way Pearce's body had tightened against hers, about the scrape of teeth over her lips and the hungry plunge of tongues, about the possessive hands that had cupped her butt and tugged her close. She shut her eyes, hoping it would stop her head from swimming.

"Holy. Holy holy holy. So what...are you gay?"

Wynter opened her eyes. "I haven't thought past her. I can't seem to think about anything except her."

"Jeez, Wynter. Maybe you should."

"Yes," Wynter said wearily. "Maybe I should."

v Rosie made Wynter's excuses to Wayne, and Wynter walked to the car, hoping against hope that she would see Pearce somewhere along the way--tucked into a doorway, her ankles crossed and that grin on her face that was an irresistible combination of amusement and cocky self-assurance, or leaning against the Thunderbird, waiting as she had been just the previous evening. Thirty-six hours that felt like forever. Her life was divided into thirty-six-hour segments, it seemed, a repetitive cycle from which she could not shift back into the routine that most of the world followed. She'd never been able to explain her work, or what it demanded of her, to anyone who hadn't experienced it. Now, that sense of alienation extended to the very core of her. She could say the words. I kissed her. It was simple enough. She even knew why. She'd done it because every atom in her body had been drawn to Pearce from the instant they'd met.

There was no one waiting at the Thunderbird except a couple of young men who stood on the sidewalk admiring its sleek lines and dazzling chrome.

"Yo, lady," one of them said. "Some fine ride."

Wynter unlocked the driver's door. "It is, isn't it."

"Your old man do the restoration?"

"Not exactly." Wynter slid in and took a few seconds to acquaint herself with the gauges and gears. Fortunately, she wasn't intimidated by anything mechanical, and although she hadn't driven anything quite like this before, she knew that she could. She pulled out carefully at the first sign of a break in the traffic that crawled down the two-lane, one-way thoroughfare and quickly headed for one of the less populated streets to return to West Philadelphia. She didn't want anything to happen to this car.

Once she felt comfortable, she fished around in the deep pocket of her leather coat and found her cell phone. She had Pearce's cell programmed in, just as she had the numbers of all the other residents on the service, and they had hers. She tried the number, her heart hammering. When she got voicemail, she didn't leave a message. What could she say? What had she intended to say if Pearce had answered? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to kiss you? No, because that wasn't true. She hadn't thought about it, she hadn't made a conscious decision to do it, but she'd meant it.

She disconnected and pushed one on the speed dial for the most important number in her life, the hospital operator. When the call was answered, she identified herself and asked to be put through to Dr.

Pearce Rifkin's home number.

"I can do that, Doctor, but Dr. Rifkin is here in the hospital. Would you like me to page her for you?"

"Yes, please," Wynter said. She wasn't surprised, now that she thought about it. Pearce rarely spent any time at home even when she wasn't on call. She felt a surge of irrational relief that Pearce hadn't gone to O'Malley's or some other place looking for a diversion, then laughed at her own self-deception. Pearce could find all the company she needed in the hospital if she wanted it.

As if to prove the point, a woman came on the line. A woman who wasn't Pearce.

"Are you paging Dr. Rifkin?" the woman asked imperiously.

Wynter tried desperately to place the voice. She thought she would recognize Tammy's, because they ran into each other a fair amount in the OR lounge. Andrea she wasn't too sure of. She snapped, "Yes I am.

This is Dr. Thompson."

"Dr. Rifkin is scrubbed in the OR. Would you like to leave a message?"

"No. Thanks." Wynter disconnected and put the phone back in her pocket.

She rubbed her eyes, feeling them burn with frustration and fatigue. Whatever she was going to say, she had to say in person. Pearce deserved that.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Wynter slept fitfully. The new house was too quiet with Ronnie gone. With just the two of them now, Wynter kept both of their bedroom doors open to monitor the small sounds her daughter made in the night. The bedroom was hot, stuffy, and she irritably kicked off the covers in a light doze. Her skin burned, despite the damp film of stress sweat. She was used to this anxious half sleep from being on call, when every night resembled this one; but usually when she was home, she slept like the dead. Tonight, her mind wouldn't stop racing, replaying every minute of the evening until she was once again in Pearce's arms, their mouths and bodies cleaved. Each time she relived the memory she grew aroused, her thighs tight and her stomach twisting with need.

At 5:00 a.m. she finally got up, showered, and went next door to Mina and Ken's. She let herself in and crept quietly up the stairs to the room where Ronnie slept with Winston when she stayed overnight.

When Wynter peeked in the room, she saw what she expected: Ronnie was awake, carrying on an earnest and animated one-sided conversation with a stuffed rabbit. Winston, apparently used to Ronnie's early morning monologues, slept on. Stepping carefully over toys, Wynter scooped Ronnie up and tiptoed out. She left a quick note in the kitchen for Mina, writing one-handed while she balanced Ronnie on her opposite hip.

On the short trip home, she said, "How would you like to go out to the diner with Mommy for breakfast, honey?"

Ronnie and the rabbit thought it was a great idea. Thirty minutes later, with Ronnie washed and dressed and carrying Mr. Bunny, Wynter buckled her into the child seat in the rear of her Volvo wagon and headed for the Melrose Diner in South Philly. Open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, it was a perfect place for a fast meal and a chance to think. Unfortunately, by the time she returned home an hour and a half later, her stomach was full but her head was no clearer.

She took Ronnie inside and settled her on the bed with her favorite books and toys while she curled up next to her with a newspaper. It was all for show, because she couldn't concentrate on anything. Fortunately, Ronnie required little in the way of focused conversation. When her cell phone rang Wynter snatched it up, trying not to be disappointed when she recognized the number.

"Hi, Mina," she said.

"I take it that really was you who kidnapped our little darling before sunrise this morning."

Wynter couldn't help smiling. "Guilty. Are you interested in the ransom demands?"

"Of course. How much are you going to pay me to take her back?"

"I don't think I've got enough saved." At that moment, Ronnie crawled into her lap and closed her eyes. "However, right this minute, she does resemble an angel. Maybe we could negotiate price."

"Must be nap time."

"You've got it." Wynter nuzzled the top of Ronnie's head, soothed by the smell of Johnson's Baby Shampoo and innocence.

"How come you didn't stay for breakfast?"