Brooke Chambers is forced to leave the Army and the job that she loves. Moving back into civilian life, she never imagined it would mean looking after her teenage sister and searching for a new career. But, with the sudden loss of their dad, Brooke finds herself stepping up, and in the process, looking for a new job; any job. Getting the chance to let off some steam, she heads to Art, a lesbian bar, and meets Catherine. It’s lust at first sight as both women feel that instant connection, despite the obvious age gap. With Brooke’s new job being the same place where Catherine works, she assumes it was meant to be. Catherine, however, has other ideas and puts a halt to any prospective love affair, much to Brooke’s confusion and heartbreak. When she tells Brooke to forget it, she didn’t quite mean it so literally and wishes she hadn’t said it, but Brooke is injured on the job and loses her memory…and forgets Catherine….Will they get a second chance to work things out?
Get a taste of Forget it
She wants her.
It’s that simple.
It’s the only thought in her head as she stands at the bar watching her. The music is loud, loud enough to drown out any real thoughts of conversation, not that that it matters as she sips the last of her drink. The lights are colourful and bouncing around the walls like fireflies on a hot summer’s night in the Bintan Island Mangroves in Indonesia, on a boat floating down the Sebung River. She’d spent a week there once on leave, back when the British Army made decisions for her time.
None of it matters now though. All of that feels like a lifetime away. Her attention is held; her future awaits.
Brooke Chambers has watched her from the moment she entered the club: the blonde that now sits by herself at a table for four, radiating elegance.
She’s average in height, much like Brooke herself, but she wears heels that accentuate perfectly toned calves and give her an inch or two edge in stature. She was dressed for the office maybe, in a short black skirt that reaches just about the level of decency above her knees. There was something sexy about a woman of a certain age who knew how to dress herself well.
She’s drinking a long glass of something colourful and filled with ice. The tendon and muscle in her arm flex as she lifts the glass to her mouth. Kissable lips just touch the rim of the glass as she takes a sip. She savours the flavour and then places the glass back down on the table, pushing it forward slightly with the tip of her index finger until it is safe and away from the edge.
As Brooke watches on, safe at her distance, the woman’s friends begin to arrive and join her. Two men and three women. People that make Brooke jealous in an instant. She wants to be with them. In fact, no, she wants them to leave, to not exist and invade this private spectacle.
The woman laughs at something one of her friends has said and Brooke thinks it might be the sexiest thing she has ever seen.
The larger man of the two, the one who has been holding court for the last ten minutes, leans in and whispers something against her ear, and although the blonde is laughing, this time she doesn’t look as though she is quite so comfortable with the group as Brooke first thought. She looks on edge, a little unnerved, anxious even, but she hides it well. She is there and yet, she is distant from them.
It sets her aside.
She stands out.
Her honey-coloured blonde hair flies around her face as her head whips one way and then the other, trying to keep up with the conversations. Sometimes she is successful; other times it’s clear that she missed the joke. She falters, but still she smiles and keeps listening, and Brooke is enraptured even more. This woman exudes such confidence in the way that she dresses and takes in the world around her, and yet, it’s all a façade with these people.
She has been blatant in her staring; several times the blonde has caught those dark, brooding eyes with her own surreptitious glance. Brooke blushed the first time, mainly out of politeness, but when Blondie smiled back at her the second time, Brooke was hooked even more.
Sipping her drink, Brooke is watchful, alert to her every move. The woman glances over at her admirer and then heads to the dance floor, aware she is the object of someone’s desire.
Watching her move was mesmerising, the way her body loosened to the beat. She looked relaxed and every inch the siren. Brooke wanted to devour her, let her hands roam over every inch of her there was to explore, and do it again, over and over. Her imagination raced at the endless possibilities, and positions she could have her in. Naked positions.
Brooke swallowed down her drink; a little Dutch courage never hurt. She checked her appearance in the mirror behind the bar. She looked good. Her hairstyle with the short back and sides was slowly growing out, the fringe flopping down over her eyes until she swept it back into place with her fingers. She was cute and she knew it. Not in an arrogant way, she could never be described as that, but she made the best of herself.
The game of cat-and-mouse flirting had gone on long enough. She wanted to talk with this woman. If she was lucky, she would be allowed to touch maybe, but as she placed her empty bottle down on the bar, ready to casually head on over and politely intrude on this little gathering, the reality hit her like a truck.
To Brooke’s utter dismay, she was leaving.
Coats where shrugged on and bags grabbed from the floor. Drinks swallowed down in one last gulp as laughter erupted once more between them all.
A glance back at Brooke and then she was gone. That was a week ago.