"Pheromone Pharmacopia"

by Brandy Dewinter

(c 2001, All rights reserved)

 

Chapter 9 - "Mistake"

"It’s just that I feel so . . . alone," Carol began. "It’s not the team. They’re great, and I feel very much part of it. But outside the team, well, what else is there?"

Once upon a time, Marilyn might have jumped in with an offer of some sort of solution. But now she realized that it was more important for Carol to share what was on her mind than to ‘solve’ the problem. She just nodded and Carol’s eyes took on a distant look as her mind focused more on memories than on the birds in the trees before her.

 

I really, really enjoyed that exercise in the tank. It’s been a long time since I’ve actually built anything. I used to do that, you know, back before . . . well, a long time ago. I was a carpenter before I joined up. Oh, silly me, of course you already knew that. Anyway, I liked building things, working with my hands to create something enduring. I know what we do on the team is important, really important, but sometimes I wish . . .

I liked sports, too. I couldn’t afford season tickets or anything, but I managed to get to a couple of games a year, in whatever sport was in season. And when I couldn’t get to the game itself, I’d visit a sports bar and watch it on TV, along with a hundred other hootin’ and hollerin’ fans.

That’s what I tried to do over our furlough. Like Sandy, I don’t have any family so I took my ticket and went to Denver. The Avalanche was in the Stanley Cup playoffs, and if I had to pick a single sport that I like best, it would be hockey. I’d never been to Denver before, so I figured that would be a safe place for a furlough. When I got there, I splurged and rented a really nice Mustang and was soon whipping my way around their beltway; I-470.

I don’t really mind being pretty and wearing clothes that show it. Part of looking good, as we all learned, is to take advantages of the advantages you have, and I know I’ve got killer legs. They look even better in heels, but nosebleed spikes are, well, they look good but they’re not the most comfortable things to wear even when you’re used to them. So the first place I went in Denver was to a western wear store with the subtle name of ‘Boots and Spurs’. I was wearing my leather mini and knee-high boots when I went in, and surprise, surprise, I didn’t have to wait very long for someone to notice me. 

	"I know I’ve got killer legs," said Carol.

 "Can I help you, miss?" a guy asked. No name tag, and from something - I don’t know - ‘furtive’ in his manner I actually wondered for a moment if he was really a store employee. But I put it down to the typical sort of nervousness that people seem to show around me. In my heels I’m, uh, ‘noticeable’, and a bit intimidating to some people.

At least I’ve never had Sandy’s problem. People don’t talk to my boobs. They talk to my legs. I waited for him to get his eyes uncrossed and look at my face. When I, that is, my face had his attention, I took a moment to size *him* up just as obviously as he had looked at me.

He wasn’t bad. Urban cowboy type, but fairly well done, with snugly tight jeans and a buckle so large it made his trim waist more necessity than option. He had a beard though, and that wasn’t a good thing, at least not to me.

Still, my training held and I let a little smolder into my eyes and said, "Oh, I hope so."

He blushed nicely. I let him. After a moment that no doubt seemed a lot longer to him than to me, he said, "I’m Rick. How can we help you?"

"We? That sounds . . . interesting." I guess training really takes when it’s a reflex you can’t stop if you want to. Anyway, this time *I* was the one to blush, but I covered it with a return to business. "I’m here on, uh, vacation and I decided I want an outfit that’s more . . . local."

I could see him trying to decide whether to be offended or not. I have to admit, I sounded sort of condescending even though I didn’t really mean to, but I was saved because ‘the customer is always right.’ He nodded and let his eyes make a circle of the store, asking where I wanted to start.

"I’d like some boots," I said, "and some jeans and a nice shirt."

"We don’t have anything with heels like that," he said. I’ll give him credit for not looking down again after I had made it obvious I had noticed his initial . . . focus. Well, not more than a quick glance.

"Fine," I replied. "I like heels, but there’s more to me than just legs."

It made him blush again. Or maybe it was the way I sort of . . slid my hips out to one side when I said it. Whatever, it also gave him something specific to do, so he led me to about 14,000 pairs of boots. Fortunately, there were only 57 styles in my size, so it wasn’t too long before I had some really cute boots with only about three inches of heel, and not stilettos, either. After that I found a pair of jeans and a satin shirt in dark green and white with only a modest amount of fringe. Really.

I tried things on and came out to look in the mirror. The outfit seemed to work. Rick’s eyes were about as bulging as before, maybe more. Of course, those jeans were, well, our skinsuits are no tighter, that’s for sure.

"Do you like it?" I asked with a smirk. Like I couldn’t tell.

"Ah, yes. It looks, um, great," Rick said. I didn’t much doubt that he was telling the truth.

"I think I’ll just wear these clothes out of here," I decided, then before he could say a word I found a hat I just had to have. Black, of course, I am a bad girl after all, but with some white braid that danced around the hatband before piling up in front - just short of gaudy. Or at least I thought so.

Rick liked that, too, and helped me get a nice shape to the brim. Of course, I had to get a belt, too, and a few other things, but I escaped with a little money to spare. Not enough to go buy hockey tickets at scalper prices, though.

"So," I asked, "where can I find a place to watch the game tonight?"

"Hockey?"

"What else?"

"Um, do you just want to watch?"

"Well, I don’t think they’ll let me *play*."

He blushed yet again, then recovered with a ‘dare you’ look on his face. "If you’re interested in just watching the game, then I’d suggest your hotel room. But if you want to have some fun, there’s always Jackson’s."

"I think I saw that place, but it was way back by the airport."

"It’s a chain. They call them ‘Jackson’s All American Sports Grill.’ The one over on Yosemite is fairly close, and you can get a nice meal or get rowdy in the bar, whatever you want."

"Thanks," I said as I gathered up my things. "You’ve been a big help."

"Any time," Rick replied, a bit more wistfulness in his voice than I think he intended.

I gave him a medium sway as a reward on my way out the door. I imagine he noticed. He’d been having a lot of trouble looking me in the eyes again.

The bar was easy enough to find, but before I stopped I decided to get a room that fit within my remaining budget, eventually finding a typical sort of western-sprawl motel. I used the time to peel out of those jeans and take a quick shower. I almost thought they’d shrunk when I tried to get them back on, but with a little help from my ‘bad girl’ vocabulary I managed to get the zipper up. Tilting my new hat to the properly flamboyant angle, I decided I was ready to strut.

The game hadn’t quite started when I got to Jackson’s, but I could tell it was going to be a rowdy crowd. My first clue was the raucous cheer when I walked into the bar. I had to laugh. There were so many guys undressing me with their eyes - at least in their imagination - and I’d have bet not one single one of them got the most important part right.

It only took a glance at a stool and guys were scrambling to make room for me. And make offers for me . . . or perhaps that should be make offers *to* me. I finally decided I needed to get things under control a little.

"Listen up, all of you," I called out. "I’m just here to watch the game and maybe have a beer or two. Now, behave or I’ll root for Dallas."

THAT set up a nice loud groan, but it also calmed things down enough that I could order a sandwich and a beer from the bartender, a good looking brunette that reminds me of, that is, that Jacqui reminds me of. She had the same sort of not-looking-for-trouble-but-you-better-not-be-either attitude, not really a chip on her shoulder, but a readiness that was too confident to be wariness.

"You don’t really think things will be that easy, do you?" she said with a grin as she handed me my beer. "You come in here looking like something these studs *wish* they had enough imagination to dream up, and you expect them to just treat you like ‘one of the boys’? Don’t kid yourself."

I almost snorted beer out my nose at that ‘one of the boys’ comment, but I managed to cover it with a chuckle of my own.

"You seem to do okay," I observed. "And you’re as pretty as I am."

"Thank you, darlin’" she drawled, "but you can’t kid me, either.

You’re the most gorgeous thing that has EVER been in this bar."

"Why, thank YOU, *darlin’*," I repeated. "A girl does what she can."

"And the best make it look easy," she said, laughing as she moved - easily - to get another beer for someone down the bar.

I turned back to look up at the big-screen TV where the game was starting up. That was apparently an invitation.

"Hey, Barb, long time no see." I heard from near my shoulder.

It was obvious he was talking to me, so I said, "My name’s not Barb."

"I know," he said easily. "That’s a nickname of course, but you just have to be ‘Flame of the Barbary Coast.’ They make movies about beauties like you. And I memorize the ones about redheads."

It was an interesting opening, I suppose. Too bad the guy making it wasn’t. I wasn’t entirely sure why I felt that way, though I decided it was a lot of little things. For one, he had a mustache, and while it wasn’t real scraggly or anything, it didn’t seem . . neat somehow. And he could have used a shave. Most of all, though, he was, that is, he was NOT very fit. I worked damn hard to keep my waist down, and his was trying too hard to cover his belt. He wasn’t grossly fat or anything, but his hardbody days were long past, if he’d ever had any.

"You’ve got the wrong girl," I said, looking up at the screen again.

He didn’t answer me directly, because just then the bartender was back and handing me my sandwich.

"I’ll get that," he offered.

I reached for my pocket - I had decided to bring just my money and ID, leaving my purse in the car if I needed my lipstick later - and turned just far enough that I could show him a shoulder. "No thanks. Like I said, you’ve got the wrong girl."

It would have been smoother if I could have gotten my hand inside those damn tight jeans. I was still struggling, figuring I’d have to stand up to get my fingers in my pocket without breaking a nail, when the bartender’s hand touched my shoulder.

"Don’t worry, you’ve got a tab," she said.

"Thanks," I replied, sending her a look that showed I appreciated more than just the credit.

A cheer from the crowd about something going on in the game gave Movie Critic a chance to pretend to be interested in something else anyway, ignoring the way I was ignoring him. It also gave me a chance to introduce myself to my dark-haired protector.

"I’m Carol."

"Rachel," she said, shaking hands in an interesting way that was neither masculine wannabe nor delicate femininity, yet somehow promised both. "I think I’ll quit worrying about you, even with these guys. You took care of old ‘Ed Earl’ well enough."

"Ed Earl?" I repeated with a snort.

"Can you believe it?" Rachel laughed in turn. "It’s not even his real name. I saw that when he used a credit card one time. He likes to pretend he’s a good ol’ boy, but I’ll bet he’s a computer geek or something."

"Or something," I repeated her words again.

She was called away again, letting me get back into the game. This was obviously not the year for Dallas, which was just fine with the guys in the bar. At least, those who cared. It wasn’t long before I had another offer. And then another. Proving another cliche. True equality of the sexes won’t be reached until a woman can be 40, bald, and pot-bellied and *still* think she’s sexy.

That’s not fair, actually. A couple of the guys who showed an interest were about my age, fit, and good-looking. Another truism of the mating chase is that confidence is its own reward, most of the time. The desirable ones could send an invitation on the wings of a glance, hardly breaking their concentration on the game. Except, they weren’t desirable, at least not to me. They could accept that, too. The ones who couldn’t accept it, who wouldn’t take no for an answer, got more than a little tiresome though.

"Nothing suits your fancy?" Rachel’s voice floated over my shoulder through the general noise level as the latest over-ambitious suitor slithered away.

"No," I said, turning back to her. "You were right of course, about it not being as easy as telling them I was here to watch the game. But that’s really all I wanted." She nodded, but I had this feeling her acceptance was more complex than my simple agreement would indicate. "You don’t seem to have any trouble with these guys. What’s your secret?"

"Well, for one, I don’t come in here looking like nine kinds of hot in a tall, cool package."

"Sorry," I said, sniffing and turning back.

"Hold on, gorgeous, I didn’t say I didn’t *like* it," Rachel said quickly. "I just meant it, ah, contributes to the problem. I mean, these animals are not exactly subtle, you know?"

"You can say that again."

"Believe me, I have. Again and again," Rachel said with a laugh.

"Just what makes them think they’re so hot?" I asked. "They’re all so . . coarse. I don’t mean crude, though that’s true too. But, I mean, look at them. Most of them need shaves, and the rest need a bath. None of them have enough pride to stand up straight. They just look . . sloppy."

"You only made one mistake in that sentence," Rachel countered, chuckling again. "You should have stopped with the key question. ‘What makes them think . . ?’ And the answer is . . . ‘nothing.’ They’re men. What did you expect?"

"More than that, or less actually, since I expected to be allowed to watch the game in peace. Just like one of them."

"Girl, you *definitely* need to look in a mirror. You are *not* like one of them."

"Well, I’m not apologizing for looking good. It’s not a crime."

"No," she agreed, but then she said, "though you do have to admit it’s not unreasonable to expect that a woman dressed as . . . hell, as provocatively as you, who comes into a bar populated 50:1 with men . . ."

"All right, so I made a mistake. Sue me!"

"Chill, girl, I’m not complaining. This mistake has its good points."

"Like what?"

"Well, for one thing, we met each other," she said with a chuckle.

"Look, the problem is the place, not the outfit. I know another place we

could go to that would be, ah, ‘subtle.’"

"Now?"

She shook her head. "No, I’m on duty until late tonight. But I could take you there tomorrow night. Say, 7:00? I’ll pick you up if you’d like."

"Um, sure," I said, distracted by a shout at another Avalanche goal.

"Beats sitting around alone."

Some part of my training resurrected itself and I thought about clothes. "This okay?" I asked, waving my hand at my western clothes.

"Its up to you," Rachel answered. "I thought we might get a bite to eat, too. If we go clubbing afterward, though . . . "

" . . we don’t want to be limited to redneck country-western clubs.

Is that it?" I finished for her.

"Subtlety is the key," she laughed.

That phrase resonated in my mind after she said it. I realized I hadn’t really been fair to the guys in the bar. I was anything but subtle myself. My SMITE team persona was deliberately provocative in every way that I could be. But who was the off-duty Carol? Mixed up, obviously, sending conflicting signals. Blatant invitation in dress and movements, cold rejection in words and sneer. Uncomfortably astride a fence. Ha, just like the real me.

I was pretty quiet for the rest of the game, nursing a drink or two and trying to be a bit more gentle with the rest of my admirers. I even casually flirted with a few, teasing without really inviting. But I was glad when the game was over. I waved at Rachel and left more than enough money for my tab, though she hadn’t ever asked to be paid. I also left the name and number for my motel room. Then I tried to be just a bit more subtle on my way out of the bar.

That question - who I really was - bothered me all night. On a mission I could do what was required, even unpleasant things. But off duty? I didn’t know how to act. I just didn’t know how. After the scene in the bar I knew I wasn’t really, in my heart, the tramp that my SMITE team role defined. I wasn’t interested in fulfilling the promises my innuendoes made. Especially not with civilians. The guys in the bar were sloppy and out of shape, but not unusually so for civilians. I was just used to the discipline of soldiers. Add to that the care women take with their appearance, and ordinary men don’t stand up too well in comparison. But what about other men, men with a sense of discipline and pride in their appearance, Army men or some other service?

That didn’t interest me either. I kept thinking of the guys I had known when I was Carl, when I knew a lot more guys. I never felt any interest at that time, of course, but, well, living as a woman changes a lot of things. You get used to ‘fitting in’, playing the role until it’s not a role any longer. I knew I had done that in some ways. I had no desire to go back to looking like a guy. I even liked provocative outfits, liked being attractive, and that inevitably meant attractive to men. That night I realized though, that they had never become attractive to me.

Rachel, on the other hand, was something else. But . . . was that just the other side of the same coin? Was I attracted to her while she was not really interested in a tall, redheaded woman? Once again, I just didn’t know. I had never tried to read those sorts of signals - as a woman - from a woman, and I didn’t know if the things I had picked up on, that I was clinging to, were real signals or just wishful thinking. If I’d have thought about it more, I wouldn’t have agreed to meet her again. Not that I didn’t want to, but I didn’t want to screw it up by assuming the wrong things. It would have been better to get to know her better before agreeing to . . . what? Did we really have a ‘date’ for the next night? If it had been a guy, that would have been clear. But with another woman? What would our night out mean?

Lord, What was I going to wear?!

My western outfit wouldn’t do, of course, not even if Rachel hadn’t more or less said so. I didn’t want her to think I was, um, limited. Should I be the Carol I had been trained to be? Should I wear something just this side of trampy, blatantly provocative? I was off duty and I could be anyone I wanted. Business professional in a trim pin-striped suit, the skirt just a bit too short so that I could show off my legs? Dainty ‘girly-girl’ with lace and ruffles? Tough leather-girl with my boots and mini and a motorcycle jacket? Who was I, really?

None of the above, I decided. The ‘girly-girl’ look wasn’t me. I liked looking good, but I wasn’t demure and that was that. I didn’t need to be trampy, but it would be just as fake to pretend innocence. The leather look didn’t really appeal to me, either. I liked my stiletto boots and a leather skirt is hardly a major fashion statement any more, but taking that one extra step with a leather jacket and correspondingly ‘tough’ makeup just wasn’t me, not the real me, the Carol who wasn’t playing an assigned SMITE team role.

Neither was the professional woman look, but for a different reason. The look itself actually appealed to me. I think that after all this is over, after the SMITE team has done what we need to do, I’d like to be that sort of woman. Fashionable, not ashamed of her sensuality though not defined only by it either. But . . .

But I didn’t want that formality with Rachel. I wanted more than a professional relationship with her. Maybe she didn’t think of me that way, but *I* was not going to be the one to shut off that path. I wanted a sophisticated look, but a personal one. That was . . . is part of what I . . . needed. I love the team, but under all the honest affection we have for each other, there is always ‘Duty’. We got into that relationship because of Duty. We do what we need to do, even the unpleasant things - especially the unpleasant things - because of Duty. I like to think that we would all be good friends even without the pressure of Duty, but you just can’t *know*. It’s part of who we are, part of how we met, inextricably part of *us*. I wanted something more, something that was free and not in any sense ‘necessary’. I wanted to be free to walk away from a relationship without in any way compromising my sense of professionalism, my Duty. And I wanted to know that my . . . partner in a relationship could do the same.

Somewhere in there, my ‘wants’ became dreams, because I don’t remember the sunrise, though I’m sure I didn’t miss it by much. I guess it’s a good thing the Army likes to start the day early. Despite my restless night, I didn’t waste any of the morning - and I needed every bit of that day to get ready. I guess it was a date, at least to me, and I went at it like a girl with more than ‘friendship’ on her mind.

I found a dress right away, a royal blue knit that could have been used for a dictionary illustration of ‘body conscious’. What took forever was finding shoes. Which I never did. I ended up in a pair of black patent heels that I had brought along, at least two inches higher than I wanted, but they did make my legs look spectacular, aided by the fact the dress was . . . well, ‘short’ will do.

I really hated the idea of trusting my hair and face to a salon I’d never been in before, but after I made them write out a contract in blood that they wouldn’t cut anything or use any chemicals more dangerous than hairspray, I gave a trendy downtown location a chance. And of course I needed new earrings, and a pearl necklace (fake, unfortunately). I was still fussing with them when there was a knock at the door to my motel room.

"Coming," I said, giving up on the necklace for a moment. I opened it to see a Rachel I’d have passed on the street, she was so different from the night before.

That’s not true, actually. She was so stunning I’d have turned around and followed her if I passed her on the street. She was in a classic little black dress (heavy emphasis on ‘little’) and made it clear why that look was so classic. Her dark hair was piled up to show a surprisingly long neck for such a petite woman, accented even further with glittering chandelier earrings. But all that was merely a frame around the most artfully made up, expressively deep eyes I had ever seen.

"Wow," I whispered.

"Wow yourself," she said with a laugh. But she blushed, too, and I could tell she was pleased that I was impressed.

I just stood there like a fool, of course, blocking the door. After some immeasurable interval, I realized it and stepped back. At least one thing went right, though not because I deserved it. I was holding my pearls in my right hand so I didn’t reach out to shake hers in an inappropriate male response. I have to admit, at that moment I was feeling more ‘male’ than I had in a very long time.

I was still dumbstruck, but once I got moving Rachel helped with that side of things. "Need any help with those?"

"What, oh, yes, please, I would appreciate it."

I handed her the necklace and turned my back to her. My curly hair just wouldn’t take an updo, so it still spilled over my shoulders. I lifted a handful out of her way and stood waiting.

"Goodness, girl, you’re gonna either have to squat down or find me a a ladder," Rachel said.

"Oh, sorry," I replied.

"I’m not," she said. "You look fabulous. But you are certainly tall."

I squatted down a bit so she could reach around my neck with the pearls while she continued. "I never did ask what you do for a living. Are you a model?"

"Hardly," I laughed, then I sobered a bit as I realized I didn’t really have a good answer for her. "I, um, let’s just say I’m on vacation and leave it at that."

"Oh, a mystery woman," Rachel said, but she laughed too so I knew she wasn’t upset.

"More than you can imagine," I said softly. By then, she had my necklace hooked so I stood straighter and gathered up the rest of my things.

She took me to a nice restaurant, just this side of ostentatiously elegant. I had promised myself that on furlough I would have a nice, juicy steak, but that didn’t seem the time for it so I had some sort of ragin’ cajun dish that hadn’t suffered a bit from being so far from its nominal home. It did take a few glasses of wine to keep the fire under control, though. Quite a few.

Rachel was . . . charming. Witty, engaging, distractingly beautiful, and attentive. I smiled when I could remember to, laughed way too often for the air of sophistication I was trying to present, and began wishing I had met her under other circumstances. Wishing hard.

When we finished the meal, I certainly didn’t want the evening to end so I was more than receptive to her suggestion we go to a club she knew. For the life of me, I can’t remember the name of it now, but that doesn’t really matter. What does matter, or did, was that when we walked through the door, I realized that every single person in the club was a woman. Including the ones draped over each other on the dance floor.

 

(continued in next part)

 

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SMITE 2 - Pheromone Pharmacopia © 2001 by Brandy Dewinter. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.