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These damn things are a nuisance. The food is always mediocre and under-seasoned--odd, because Britain once sent ships in all directions searching for spices, and apparently Britain rejected them all. Worse than that, the drinks are always watered down. It’ll be crowded and hot, too many people in too small a space. The lights will be just a bit too bright in order to prevent any conduct unbecoming, at least while the cameras are present. Tonight is supposed to be about photographers, officials, and hand-shaking. They’re here to make a wholesome, all-American picture so the folks back home can have handsome, clean-cut men and pretty girls on their newsreels. Exasperating.
So Nix is stuck pretending that Rissy is just a girl he brought along to keep the numbers roughly even. Why have the party if there aren’t enough women to go around? He and Rissy will smile for the cameras as if they both just happened to be in England on happy coincidence, and they are nothing other than friends, perhaps with a slightly-more-than-platonic undertone, but still only friends. For propriety’s sake, Rissy will stay at arm’s length and there will be no kissing or holding of hands or waists or hips or anything else. He’ll be careful not to stand too close or look too long. Should that happen, Nix’s smirk might turn into a sappy, indulgent smile, and anyone watching would recognize it for what it was. It’s not the kind of expression he typically wears.
While any number of people might suspect that he and Rissy are sleeping together, almost no one actually knows that little supposition is both emphatically and frequently true. Even the very few people who do know--who know it’s never been just a fling or fun in bed--can’t possibly have any idea exactly how much more than that it is. It’s still, ashamedly, an affair, yes, but also a love affair, and that makes a difference. However, that difference is only large enough to allow so much.
And for another thing, if woman back home hears her husband is on a newsreel, she’d want to see it. That’s just human nature. Suppose a revealing moment between him and Rissy ended up on film? That probably wouldn’t happen--and if it did, there are strings he could pull--but why chance it in the first place? He can imagine Kathy sitting in the theater, squinting at the screen, analyzing his gestures and expressions, measuring the distance between him and the girl he kept talking to and dancing with. Nix doesn’t want to deal with a flurry of angry letters from across the Atlantic.
What a way to spend a Friday night.
Shame to waste the dress hugging Rissy’s curves on such a stupid occasion, though. She looks sweet and pretty, but like she’d kiss you within an inch of your life if given five minutes alone with you. God, he wishes they were on their way to a dark theater or a tiny table for two someplace with candles and fresh flowers. Or somewhere you could dance and hold the girl like you mean it, have a cocktail or three and blow off some steam before getting up close and personal. Then you might sneak off into a dark corner…and the evening could take its course, all the way back to a bed somewhere, or anywhere you’d have a reasonable expectation of privacy for at least a few minutes. Let’s be honest, a bed is not a necessity if you’re adventurous and/or desperate enough.
On the other hand, an evening at home might be better, say on the Millers back porch. They could sit on the swing, and it would creak amiably under their weight while Nix pushed it with one foot. The cool night air would make a decent--and transparent--excuse to curl up together. He’d hold her hand and name the stars for her, and they’d pretend not to notice Mrs. Miller peeking through the curtains every now and again. He’d kiss Rissy’s cheek, press his mouth to hers. They’d talk about everything and nothing or just sit in comfortable silence. There would be no expectations, no obligations, no one would ask anything of him. Later, Rissy’d come around the corner of the house with him to say good-night and give him the kind of kisses she wouldn’t where the Millers might see. He could hold her as close as he liked and appreciate all those pretty curves with his hands. It would be a different kind of intimacy, something wholesome and mostly innocent, a far cry from the kind of night that starts in a smoky bar and ends in a sweaty tangle of naked limbs.
But instead of those infinitely more pleasant scenarios, tonight Nix has to be an example. As an officer, his behavior has to be above reproach. Everyone who knows him thinks that’s ridiculous; he’s too self-indulgent with his vices when he can be. Still, one must be responsible. Nix sighs, resigning himself to the prospect of being stuck here when he’d rather be anywhere else as long as he was there with Rissy. Either the sweet and cozy tryst or the frankly baser sort of assignation would suit just fine.
Nix will do his duty, his actual job to the best of his ability, but this part of it just seems so stupid.
--And really, by now, everyone should know soldiers are still human under the uniform; they have wants and needs and feelings just like everyone else. They’re also adult men--who swear and drink and enjoy the company of young ladies. They’re not boys, they’re men about to go to war, who have spent roughly two years preparing for it. That’s the stark reality. Why act like schoolchildren? Even actual schoolchildren aren’t that innocent, or maybe that was just Nix when he was a student. He doesn’t think so, though, and he has an idea that most young ladies don’t have such delicate sensibilities, either--
Nix puts the car in park and pulls the key from the ignition with another irritated sigh before he turns to Rissy. She looks like an angel with the moon haloing her from behind. Her lashes throw shadows on her cheeks, her lips are curled in the tiny, mischievous smile that makes his heart quicken. Outside, young men and women call to one another and laugh in the cool of the evening; in the car, it’s warm. Nix is about to pull the door handle when Rissy leans over to kiss him. By the time she’s done, the windows are starting to fog and there are only a few stragglers left. Not that he’s complaining.
“Are you ready?” he murmurs, tracing her cheekbone. Rissy turns her face to his hand, almost purring.
“Yes, Lew,” she answers, but her hand slides up his neck, behind his ear, to pull him closer. She plants a row of tiny kisses along his jaw until she gets to the spot right below his ear, where the bone curves upward. It’s a secret place she discovered not all that long ago. She laughed at his sharp intake of breath; now she kisses and nips there whenever she wants to elicit a response. It works; it always leaves him shivering. He needs to get her out of the car before they get in trouble. Rissy might look angelic, but she’s decidedly not where he’s concerned.
“Honey, as much as I like what you’re doing, and believe me, I do, we need to get in there.” He puts a hand on her shoulder to push her back gently, albeit reluctantly. “We’ll do whatever you want later, I promise. Whatever you like.”
“We can’t, not for the next few days anyway. We don’t need any more complications than we have already.” She pouts at him and he pouts back. “I’m sorry.”
“You still wanna come back with me after this thing?” Even if sex is off the table--as it were--he just wants to be with her. And there are things they can do that won’t result in complications. Some of those alternatives are very gratifying in their own right.
She nods into his throat, kissing and sucking, softly so as not to leave a mark, until he has to stifle a groan. His noises spur her on; it only encourages her more when he has to try and suppress them. Why in God’s name does it feel so good to be kissed on the neck? Things are starting to stir. He really needs to get her out of the car, but she’s rapidly wearing out his resistance.
“Later, Rissy.” He says the words but his hands find soft places that no one but him is allowed to touch. “But we better go in there now or else we’ll never make it inside.”
“Not yet. I just want another minute alone with you.” Rissy’s eyes are fastened on his. His belt buckle clinks in her hand, she pulls the leather slowly through its loops. He could stop her but he doesn’t. Instead his breath catches in his throat and for once he can’t say anything at all. She slips the button through its hole, and then she drags the zipper down. Her hand finds its way into his trousers, into his underpants. She buries her face in his neck, burrowing there, and strokes the bristly hairs at his nape with her free hand, tugging gently. This time he can’t keep the moan in.
“Oh my God, what’re you doing to me?”
“Loving you,” she says simply. She might be referring what her fingers are doing, but he’s pretty sure she really does love him, the same way he loves her, even if they haven’t said the words yet. And why is that? It’s not like he’s never said it before or heard it back; he’s married for Christ’s sake. Rissy’s lips and hands push the thoughts right out of his mind. She leans toward his lap, tucking her head under his chin so she can see what she’s doing. Nix swears he can feel her breathing. He whines when she straightens up. His hips follow her.
“Please? Can I?” she whispers in his ear. “Will you let me?”
Nix nods and reclines as best he can. He lifts his ass off the seat so she can move his clothes out of the way, making it easier for her to do what she will. Thank God for bench seats, and thank God he’d parked as far back possible.
Afterwards, Rissy wipes her mouth on the back of her hand, Nix digs his handkerchief out of his pocket for her. She dabs at her lips then Nix takes it back to clean up the mess she left on his belly and, thank fuck, nowhere else. Rissy bites her knuckle, which does little to stifle her giggles. Nix tucks himself away and puts his clothes to rights. He balls the soiled hanky up and leaves it on the seat between them, making a mental note to destroy the evidence before anyone else can find it. Rissy has the mirror down, lipstick in hand, when Nix turns her face towards his with his thumb on her chin. The kiss reminds him of their first real one, the soft, lingering one that was all sweetness before it caught fire.
Her hair has fallen over her right shoulder, he fixes it so the curls tumble down her back. Nix wonders if she left it loose for him. He told her he liked it that way the night he climbed in her window at three o’clock in thee morning. She remembers things like that, even the small ones, so he might have what he wants. Silly, considerate girl, who could find a man without obligations to another woman, and chooses him instead. “Thank you, baby.”
Nix hopes she knows that he’s not really talking about what she just finished doing to him. Although it’d been an extremely pleasurable experience.
“You don’t usually thank one for sexual favors, but you’re most welcome. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.” God, as much as he loves that saucy little smile, he loves the way it softens when she looks at him even more. Of course she understood. She’s just as hesitant with the words as he is, so most of the time they hide behind playful banter. It works well enough for now.
“What about you?” It’s his turn to tease, just a little bit. After all, he knows what she likes just as well as she knows what he does. “Can you wait?” Rissy shrugs as she fixes her lipstick in the mirror. Nix’s fingers flick at her underpants; she laughs and pushes his hand away. “I’m not sure you can.”
“I have to.” Her shaking voice makes him grin down at her.
“Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“I don’t have a choice. We can’t stay out here any longer.”
While Nix knows this is true, he also knows she’s prolonging her own desire. They’re already late, a few minutes more wouldn’t make a difference at this point, and he doesn’t think it would take much more than that. But she shakes her head at him, mouthing her ‘no’ without saying it. He draws her close again, and this time his lips and hands are steady and soothing. He kisses her forehead, just holding her until her breathing and heartbeat slow. He doesn’t let go until she pulls back and tells him she’s ready to go in.
Nix, always the gentleman when the occasion call for it, climbs out of the car and comes around to open Rissy’s door. He pulls her to her feet and right into his arms since no one else is left outside to see. Their hands swing between them until he wraps an arm around her and hers slips around his waist. When they step onto the pavement they move a bit farther apart. Nix misses the warmth from her body.
Inside, everyone is doing his or her patriotic duty. Smile, smile, shake hands and make small talk, exchange pleasantries. Nix introduces Rissy as his friend and tries to refrain from touching her too much. He’s proud of her pretty manners and intelligent questions. There are pictures to pose for and movie cameras to wave at. Thankfully, before long it’s time to eat. Nix pulls Rissy’s chair out for her and pushes it back in once she’s seated. The very tips of his fingers find hers over and over under the table. She slips her stockinged foot out of her shoe and gently runs her toe up and down his shin. She rests her foot on top of his.
The table is for eight, all friends or, at the very least, friendly acquaintances. It makes for pleasant meal. Cutlery clinks against the plates and conversation swirls easily. Rissy is between him and Dick. Her bright eyes and the way she turns her head this way and that remind Nix a little of a bird. Her table manners are pretty, too. Rissy’s mother taught her well.
The food is bland but at least it’s warm. The drinks aren’t bad, so someone had his priorities in the correct order. The coffee is still swill but the tea isn’t, should one choose to drink tea. After dinner comes dessert, tiny squares of cake, miniature bowls of ice cream, or slightly larger portions of strawberries and cream. Once everyone has eaten and the plates have been cleared away, the band starts playing in earnest. The large tables are pulled closer together to make more room for the dancing. The music is all up-tempo, keeping everyone in motion and not allowing longing glances or wandering hands.
Neither Nix nor Rissy is any more than slightly tipsy. She has drunk just enough to be pliant in his arms and still remember to keep a friendly distance. His hands stay at her waist or on the small of her back, no straying at all. It’s hard not to tip his face down to hers for a kiss, not to stare at the red lips or uplifted eyes.
It doesn’t take long to get thirsty. It really is too hot and the dance-floor is crowded, and maybe he and Rissy have been showing off just a little. Nix is good at this; it was a skill he learned growing up, just like he’d learned what silverware to use and how to hold his liquor. Rissy’s light on her feet and easy to lead. They’ve been impolite, not changing partners as one should. If Nix has to waste a free night here, he’s choosing who to spend it with. He’s getting cranky. It is past time for more libations.
The photographers are done with their posed pictures, now they’re taking candid shots. The movie cameras have long since gone, as is anyone of any real significance to the US Army. Everyone left can relax. Nix lets his arm slide around Rissy’s waist for a minute or two; she fits against his ribs far more comfortably than a girl who’s merely a friend would. No one notices because, at the moment, no one is watching. And after all, it’d be strange not to be a little affectionate with a friend, right? Especially if your friend is pretty, and her cheeks are flushed, and she appreciates your sense of humor.
It’s alright, they’re not crossing any kind of line, he can tell. Nix was raised to observe unspoken rules; he knows how to be smooth and charming, how to appear at ease even if he isn’t, how to determine what’s required of him in any given social circumstance. It’s something that was ingrained in him. Rissy cleans up well, too. No one would suspect that the sweet-faced girl sipping her aviations had been orally pleasuring him in the car just before they came inside. No, her sparkling dark eyes are deceptively Bambi-like. The smile playing around her pretty mouth is genuine; she’s watching Dick devour the second dish of ice cream he somehow procured. She turns the smile up to Nix; it softens and her pupils dilate.
A camera flashes behind him. He’d like to have the photograph, just so he can see the expression caught on Rissy’s face. She’s a good girl, and sometimes he feels almost guilty for roping her into an extramarital affair. But again, Nix is too self-indulgent with his vices--if love is a vice--whenever he can be. If it was just about sex he wouldn’t feel all that bad, but that simply isn’t the case. This isn’t just a bit of fun. Rissy loves him, and now she depends on him and his love. It’s the same damn way for him. The way she looks at him makes Nix feel about ten feet tall. Right now adoring is turning into pleading.
She shuffles her feet and tugs at his hand. “Lew, can we sit down, please? These stupid shoes are hurting me.”
He guides her to one of the small, high tables, ready to help her onto the stool if she needs him to. The way her shoe dangles off her foot is distracting, as are the seams of her stockings, perfectly straight until they disappear under her dress. Across the room, Dick is engaged in conversation, holding a glass of what must be water. He waves and Nix and Rissy wave back before turning to each other.
“Are you having fun?”
Rissy just turns her eyes up at him, completely deadpan. Apparently she’d like to be elsewhere just as much as he does. Her blank expression dissolves into giggles and Nix laughs with her, a quiet liquid chuckle. “Are you?” she asks.
“Not as much as I was earlier. But you probably already knew that.” Rissy rolls her eyes and drains her glass. Her cheeks grow pinker, she studies her own fingers fiddling with her cocktail napkin.
“May I have another, please?” She pushes her glass across the table so her fingertips touch his. Rissy doesn’t look down, her eyes are fastened on his. The words they’re not saying hang in the air. Rissy’s hair is curling and her lips are just slightly parted. “Please?”
Nix pushes himself up from the table, leaning forward so his face is right next to Rissy’s for a second or two, just long enough to inhale her perfume and whisper a word or two in her ear. Then he makes his way to the bar, stopping to say hello and shake hands a few times. The crowd waiting for the bartender is two or three deep; it takes a long time to get fresh drinks. Nix waits impatiently. He shifts from one foot to the other, craning his neck to locate the restroom. Dick has stopped to talk to Rissy on his way across the room. She catches Nix’s gaze and sticks her tongue out at him, wrinkling her nose. Dick shakes his head, recognizing the longing on Nix’s face. He just wants to get back to his girl.
Nix is forced to excuse himself almost as soon as he sets the glasses down. Rissy stays where she is, perched at the table, her purple cocktail next to Nix’s butterscotch whiskey. Before Nix is five steps away, a man comes up to Rissy and puts his hand on the top rung of her chair. He’s standing too close. Nix knows the guy tangentially, enough to say hello, enough to know he’s currently unattached, but he can’t remember the man’s name to save his life. What’s-his-name knows Nix is married, though, so what’s to stop him from flirting with the ‘friend’ Nix brought along? After all, Nix never kept any of the other women he’d dated a secret.
Rissy looks up, listening with polite interest to whatever what’s-his-name is saying. It’s not the rapt attention she gives Nix, but he feels a stab of jealousy anyway. He has to fight the urge to stalk back and--do something. Before he can figure out what hat ‘something’ would be, the other man leans down to Rissy and holds out his arm. He must have asked her to dance. She looks over her shoulder with wide, helpless eyes and shrugs back at Nix. The music has mellowed now that all the cameras are finally gone and the lights have dimmed.
Nix shrugs back at her, watching as what’s-his-name leads his girl to the dance floor. It’s no small satisfaction when Rissy neatly side-steps the hand he tries to place on her back. She wouldn’t do that with Nix; she’d welcome him, lean into it, turn it into a caress. Or she’d reach behind her back to find his hand and hold it. Nix’s jaw clenches when lieutenant what’s-his-name put his arms around Rissy and ducks his head to speak into her ear. It’s not really loud enough to make that necessary. Rissy pulls away, her neck and back stiff. She lets him lead her but she keeps space between them.
The need to urinate is too great to put off anymore. Nix has watched so long he almost doesn’t make it to the men’s room. He can smell it before he rushes through the short dimly-lit corridor. Good thing cameras aren’t capable of picking up acrid piss in the air. Too many men in too small a space with plenty of alcohol to go around do not bode well for lavatories, especially when it’s getting late and the men have reason to be anxious. Whatever’s coming is coming soon.
Nix hates these troughs, too. This is supposed to be an occasion, maybe not anything elegant, but nicer than pissing in a goddamn trough. His eyes are open but he’s looking at nothing. This unspoken rule is one everybody knows. You don’t stand too close; you never look. But there’s always someone, and he hurries in and stands almost shoulder-to-shoulder to Nix. And then he looks. Nix is about to let out an annoyed ‘hey!’ when he looks down at himself. His cock is covered with smudges of cherry-red lipstick. The other guy huffs and Nix does, too. He can feel the flush spreading to the tops of his ears. Fuck.
He washes his hands without looking in the mirror and strides out, almost bumping into someone on his way in. Rissy is waiting for him at their table. Her face lights up when she sees him. What’s-his-name is nowhere in sight. She’s playing with the rim of her half-empty glass. His whiskey is right beside it; the lone ice cube has almost melted away.
If anyone was paying any attention at all, there would be no way to mistake the naked love in the way Rissy looks at him. He’s pretty sure his expression isn’t much different. Their secret won’t last much longer. He doesn’t really want it to anyway. He can’t remember why it seemed so important in the first place, other than the fact it was still new and delicate. It would be much simpler if it were out in the open. Anyone who could be angry is on the other side of the ocean. Maybe Rissy doesn’t want anyone to know she’s sleeping with a married man, even if he doesn’t have much of a marriage.
It would be nice to just be able to take her out. Could anyone really begrudge them that? He wants to be able to do the normal things: take her out on dates, kiss her hello and good-bye, hug her and hold her hand, without worrying that someone might see or that the love and affection was showing on his face. He doesn’t see this ending any time soon, and Jesus, he wants people to know Rissy is his girl. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, if it’s really love, is there? Of course, some things are only fine as long as you don’t get caught, or at the very least, as long as you’re discrete. It’s a conundrum.
He walks right beside her chair, stopping much too close and bending in even closer. His lips almost touch her ear. “You got lipstick all over me.”
Rissy doesn’t move away; in fact, she leans closer and cranes her face up to look at him. She searches his face and neck and frowns slightly. “I don’t see it.”
“Not my face, sweetheart.”
“Oh--oh my God. Did anyone see?”
“Yeah. Him.” The bathroom peeker emerges from the corridor and Nix points to him with his chin.
Rissy climbs off her stool slowly. Her breathing quickens and she squints; she’s making a decision. It might be a tiny one, but important none-the-less. There’s less than a half-inch of space between them. She deliberately presses her mouth to Nix’s cheek, leaving a lipstick smudge behind. It’s the exact same color as the ones elsewhere on his anatomy. Nix shakes his head and Rissy laughs. The peeker gives Nix a subtle thumbs up before he melts into the crowd. Rissy laughs at that, too.
The expression on her face turns philosophical. “You know, sometimes I’m really glad I’m not a man.”
Nix leers down at her. “So am I.” He finishes his drink in one swallow and grins at her.
For the rest of the night they are models of good behavior, which isn’t really saying much as they only stay another half-hour.
Once he’s got her back at his, they have both time and privacy. Rissy finds what transpires in no way proper but entirely satisfying. Nix is generous and attentive, and excellent at finding creative ways to avoid any complications, all things Rissy appreciates very well.