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“I like this,” Rosa said, grinning evilly into Amy’s neck. “You’re much quieter when we’re making out than you are when we’re at a movie.”
Amy huffed a little in response, but twined her arms around Rosa’s neck, pulling her in tighter. “I’m sorry, I just don’t understand why anyone thought a hybrid dinosaur would be a good idea,” she said stubbornly, lifting her chin for Rosa to kiss her neck. “And we all know Bryce Dallas Howard is the poor man’s Jessica Chastain.”
“Hey, don’t hate on BDH.” Rosa slid her hands down to Amy’s thighs, fingers hovering just near the hem of her dress. “She’s a national treasure.”
“Maybe to her father,” Amy said, but quieted as Rosa’s hands skimmed further up, almost touching the garter lines of her basic nylons. “We are still in public, you know.”
“Barely,” Rosa said, but stopped where she was when Amy stilled, settling her hands against the soft curves of Amy’s thighs. The theater was closing up with only a few late-night stragglers waiting for cabs. “Want to get something to eat, or do you want to head back to your place?”
“Food first,” Amy said, sighing contentedly when Rosa gave her a quick peck on the lips. “I’ll buy, since you paid for the movie.”
“No, I’ll buy, since I asked you out to this dumb movie.”
“Fine. But next time I’m taking you out, and the new Tornado Alley exhibit at the science museum is anything but dumb, let me tell you.”
Rosa slung her arm over Amy’s shoulders, pulling her close. “Can’t wait, nerd.”
*
As it turned out, Tornado Alley was in fact not dumb, and the interactive theater documentary portion was pretty intense. The last time Rosa had to be afraid of a tornado was when she visited her Aunt Carla in Iowa when she was thirteen and had to spend a night in the potato cellar with the dogs after the sirens went off.
Amy leaned in, her hair brushing against Rosa’s cheek. “You okay? This is actually sort of scary.”
Rosa shrugged, trying to brush off her nerves as the sound of fake wind whistled around them. “Yeah, I’m cool.” A cartoon cow whizzed across the movie screen, mooing forlornly, and they both startled in their seats.
Amy buried a laugh in Rosa’s shoulder and Rosa hid hers in Amy’s hair as they avoided the glares from the people around them. Rosa laid her palm in Amy’s lap and Amy readily twined their fingers together, a gesture Rosa only allowed in dark spaces or bad weather—which, in their current situation, was a double whammy.
As the documentary slowed down and maps, statistics, and interviews crowded the screen, Amy’s attention turned away from Rosa once more. Rosa, never one to be one-upped by a pie-chart, slowly untangled their fingers and drew lazy circles on Amy’s bare knee with her thumb.
“Be good,” Amy warned, giving her a side-eyed glare, but Rosa just shrugged. She continued her slow ministrations, feeling Amy’s smooth skin with her gun-calloused fingertips, sneaking them higher up Amy’s thigh in the dark theater.
The scene onscreen flashed to a shaky home video, a couple of kids capturing the lightning outside their home, and in that small space of brightness, Rosa caught a glimpse of something high up on Amy’s leg beneath the soft white cotton of her skirt—a tiny corner of black ink.
“You’ve got to be kidding me, Santiago,” Rosa said, voice huskier than usual, practically dizzy with arousal.
Amy looked over, brow knit adorably for half a second before she followed Rosa’s gaze. She turned bright red, mouth pinched shut, and tugged her skirt down to her knees. “Watch the movie,” she said, looping her arm through Rosa’s.
Rosa wanted to ask about that hint of ink on her girlfriend’s thigh, about all the areas of her gorgeous body she hadn’t seen yet, but she was smart enough to know when a subject needed to be dropped.
“Stupid tornadoes,” she muttered, and kissed Amy on the cheek.
*
“I was nineteen,” Amy blurted, turning quickly on the sofa to face Rosa.
Rosa stared at her, remote frozen in one hand, bowl of jalapeño popcorn in the other. “Yes. Most of us were.”
Amy rolled her eyes and snatched the remote to pause her DVD of The Help. “No, I mean…remember what you saw? At the museum?”
Of course Rosa remembered. It was memorable enough for her to think about it before she went to bed every night, usually accompanied by a fantasy of Amy doing some sort of non-Amy-like burlesque act where she wore a feather boa and garter stockings onstage and lifted her skirt slowly as smooth jazz played in the background. “Oh, yeah. That,” she said, glancing away.
Amy took a deep breath. “It’s just a little thing. I was nineteen and visiting my friend in downtown Minneapolis and there was this tattoo parlor called the Kitten Basket. I thought there were going to be kittens!”
“I take it there were no kittens,” Rosa said.
Amy nodded gravely. “I wasn’t even drunk. That’s the sad part.”
“Babe,” Rosa said, substituting her usual dude with something a little gentler. “How did you think I’d react? It’s a tattoo, not a conjoined twin. Which would be hella cool.”
“I know,” Amy said reasonably, hands folded in her lap. “I just wish I was more confident about it. I won’t even go to the beach without my sarong anymore.”
“I love that sarong,” Rosa said seriously, giving Amy a little smile. “You’re still Amy. Geeky, uptight Amy—tattoo or no tattoo.”
Amy smiled and leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Rosa’s mouth. “Do you…want to see it?” Something a little wicked gleamed in her eyes and hit Rosa like a bolt of lightning.
“Hell yeah,” Rosa said, slapping her lap. “Get ‘em up here.”
Amy giggled and swung her legs into Rosa’s lap. They were both still dressed from work since they told Boyle they’d swing by his new favorite bar later for a drink, and Amy’s neat navy skirt hit her just above the knee. She wasn’t wearing nylons. “Well, if you want to see it, go ahead.”
“Minx,” Rosa said, and ran her hand up Amy’s leg, making Amy shiver. Once her fingertips slipped beneath the hem of her skirt, she gripped Amy gently by the thighs and gave her a firm tug, sliding her further into her lap. Amy let out an indignant squeak, but allowed it. Rosa slid the fabric of Amy’s skirt higher up on her right thigh, the linen bunching, until she finally found the flash of ink about four inches below Amy’s hip.
It was a pale pink bow, like the kind little girls wore in their hair, outlined neatly in black, no bigger than the face of a watch.
Amy covered her red face. “I know. It’s so lame. It looks like something Hello Kitty would wear.”
Rosa swallowed hard. “It’s perfect.”
Amy glanced from behind her hands, eyes wide. “Wait, really?”
“Yeah,” Rosa said, brushing her fingertips against the inked spot. “Really.” She leaned down and pressed her lips to the spot. “We are definitely not going out tonight.”
“Oh my god, this makes me such a bad-ass, doesn’t it?” Amy grinned, arching like a cat into Rosa’s attentions.
“Don’t push it,” Rosa said against the tattoo, and slid Amy’s skirt up just a little bit further.