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She should have remembered Marguerite didn't do casual conversation.
"You've been stopping by a little more often lately, Lyda," her boss said. "I don't stock your usual preference."
Startled by Marguerite's cool tone, Gen turned her head from what she was doing. Lyda's silver-gray irises were comparable to a knife blade. "Do I need your blessing, Marguerite? I wasn't aware she was yours."
"You're quite aware there's an ownership question here. Which is why you're here today. You intended to broach it in exactly this fashion."
Lyda set down the tea. "What do you need to hear?"
"Nothing. Words don't impress me overly much. It's what you need to recognize that's relevant." Marguerite held her gaze.
When the women said nothing else for a weighted moment, Gen wondered if she was witnessing a Vulcan mind meld. Should she get involved? Only an idiot tried to step between two crossed swords.
Lyda nodded at last. "Understood."
Marguerite's teeth flashed. "Be mindful of it." Without turning, she spoke. "Gen, go ahead and take off. Chloe's coming in at one."
"If you're sure." She waffled, not sure how to take her leave with Lyda here, and so much in the air. "Um...Lyda, if you need an extra pair of hands, I can help."
Lyda was still holding Marguerite's gaze, but Gen's offer changed something. She projected a sense of satisfaction, as if Gen's offer had tilted the scale of whatever they were resolving toward Lyda. Marguerite's flat expression didn't change, however, which made Lyda clear her throat, then finally look Gen's way. "No. You'll need your energy for tonight. Put the tea in a to-go cup, and top it off."
Marguerite shifted, turning away. It was a deliberate gesture, transferring the responsibility to Gen. Gen wasn't clued into everything happening, but that one was clear. Lyda's order was directed to her.
She hoped her fingers didn't tremble when she closed them around the glass to take it away, but if they did, the motion was arrested when Lyda laid a single fingertip on her wrist. Gen stilled. She stared at the cup, kept holding it, didn't raise her gaze. Didn't move. She couldn't. Aroused need spread out inside her, and the reaction in her fingers manifested in her forearm, giving it a quiver beneath Lyda's finger. The woman tapped her once. Gen realized she expected an acknowledgement.
"Yes ma'am," she murmured. She'd respond that way to a customer on a normal day, but it meant something entirely different with Lyda. When Gen dared a quick look at her, Lyda's countenance reminded Gen of how the woman had looked when she demanded that "uncertain girl kiss".
Lyda drew her touch away and Gen pivoted to dump the glass contents into a to-go cup, top it off. It was probably good she hadn't requested sugar, because Gen's unsteady hand might have tipped in enough to put the woman in diabetic shock. She did add more of M's rehydration blend. That truck was way too full, and it was obvious this wasn't Lyda's first delivery of the day. Who would plant in the heat of summer? People with enough money for a huge water bill, apparently.
When she brought the cup back to Lyda, she was on her feet. Marguerite was checking on the current brew. Lyda took the cup from Gen's hand. "See you tonight."
"All right. Thanks." Gen felt awkward again. Lyda gave her a level look.
"You really should come to my class. You might enjoy it more than you think. It's the Blood, Sweat and Tears fitness center, about a mile from the nursery."
"Blood, Sweat and Tears. Seriously?"
"Planet Fitness felt I was too extreme." Lyda gave her an arch look. When Gen watched her move toward the door, she wasn't alone. Other customers watched her, that purposeful way she had of moving, the sexual energy pulsing off her. Gen wanted to lift her hair off her neck, press her lips to the perspiration that would be there. Push her T-shirt up so she could slide her lips along the valley of her spine, her buttocks.
She could imagine it, but would Lyda ever permit it? Had Lyda ever had a lover, someone not locked into a rigid submissive structure she defined? Was the answer to that question staring at Gen from her own mirror?
Lyda got into her truck, twisted to put on her seat belt, picked up her phone. She tilted her head to study the screen, probably reading a text from one of the other employees. Then she'd turned over the ignition and was gone. Gen realized then that she'd watched her until she drove out of sight.
She pivoted toward the other enigmatic female force in her life, who was working on a call-in order. "Can I ask you what that was about?"
Marguerite glanced her way. When she didn't say anything, Gen figured she might be waiting for clarification. She checked to be sure no customers were in earshot. "The ownership thing?"
"You already know the answer to that, Gen." Marguerite's tone wasn't unkind, but it was firm.
"I meant..." She struggled for the right words. "Your part of it. What were you telling her? It was like..."
Marguerite didn't often make prolonged eye contact. As a result, when she did, it was like having a railroad spike driven into both feet, keeping a person in place. "I was telling her, in a way she understood, that whether or not you are starting to think of yourself as hers, until she reciprocates the feeling sufficiently, you're mine. Which means if she fucks with your head, I will take her apart."
Her office phone started ringing. Marguerite passed Gen, touching her back.
Gen drew an unsteady breath. Was she starting to think of herself as Lyda's? You already know the answer to that.
Yeah, she did. It was funny how one intense club session with Lyda, and an even more intense night at her home, as well as the separate times with Noah, were starting to sharpen nebulous feelings. A few days ago, if someone had asked her if she wanted to be a part of something like this, she would have politely declined. Now she was seeking answers, wanting a deeper understanding.
