by Sabrina Kane
“No, not today,” Amy answered her. “We’re just going for a walk.”
“Hey, I meant to tell you,” Vanessa began after handing Amy back the card, “I really enjoyed that podcast episode you did with Patty Conroy; I think two episodes back? She’s one of my favorite writers.”
Amy smiled again behind her mask.
“Oh, thank you! Yeah, I love her. And she was so super nice!” She paused a second. “Have you ever read anything by Jillian Ashley?”
Vanessa gave her an Are you kidding? look.
“She’s amazing!” she said. “Like, my favorite writer. No offense to Patty. I know Jillian just released a new book but I haven’t gotten around to reading it yet.”
“It’ll blow your mind,” Amy insisted. “I just finished it and—” Amy used her hands to indicate the apparent explosiveness her mind underwent. “I’m hoping to get her on the show.”
“God, I hope you do! You’re so good at interviewing!”
Amy looked down, blushing. She couldn’t help it. Vanessa had that effect on her. Praise from her was like praise from a goddess.
In a few minutes, Amy and Rachel had their coffees in hand and left La Vida Mocha, heading west on Grand Avenue, towards the beach.
Rachel nudged Amy as they walked.
“Like I always say,” she began, “Vanessa really likes talking to you.”
Amy nudged her friend back.
“Quit! She’s just super friendly with all the regulars.”
“And yet she barely glanced in my direction,” Rachel said, taking a sip of her coffee.
“That’s probably because you put off this incredibly strong ‘I’m straight and only like dick’ vibe. Anyway, Vanessa is happily engaged to Megan.”
“Oh, come on, bestie,” Rachel said. “Like if Vanessa threw herself at you, you wouldn’t take her up on that?”
Amy’s mouth dropped open in indignation.
“I happen to have scruples, Rach! Give me some credit!”
The two women walked on for a few more steps.
“God, who am I kidding?” Amy suddenly exclaimed. “I would totally do Vanessa! And I would let Vanessa do anything she wanted with me! Even if she was married to Megan. Even if she and Megan were the poster women for lesbian marriage!” She took a somewhat frustrated sip of her coffee. “Fuck, I need a girlfriend!”
“No luck online, then?”
Amy sighed. Luck? She had no idea what that was anymore when it came to women. Twenty-seven-years-old and the last time she had a girlfriend for more than six months was two years ago. Okay, fine…she was something of a workaholic. But being assistant director of an organization whose purpose for existing is to help vulnerable women meant that Amy often worked long hours and sometimes even took work home. She was simply that committed to the cause. And, okay, fine…the blog and the podcast both sucked up a lot of time as well. Nonetheless, Amy never felt as if she had made herself so busy as to completely wall off any possibility of romance.
“I mean, I’m an attractive woman, right?” she asked Rachel.
“Well, speaking from the I’m-straight-and-I-only-like-dick perspective, yeah, you’re super pretty.”
“Then why am I single?” Amy exclaimed, throwing up her hands, careful not to splash her coffee from its to-go cup. “And why do only crazy women hit me up on Zoosk?” Amy inquired. They had reached the corner of Grand and Carlsbad Boulevard, waiting for the light to change, and while they did, Amy regaled Rachel with the story of the woman she had been chatting with on Zoosk. Everything seemed fine, until they met for drinks this past Tuesday.
“At least ten years older than all her profile pictures,” Amy said. “Which, okay, I was willing to let slide because A: it was obviously still her, and B: she’s still attractive. But then she spent the whole date talking about cute guys.”
Amy made a face but then a thought came to her.
Podcast idea: fake lesbians on dating sites.
“I take it talking about cute guys is something lesbians don’t do much?” Rachel asked.
“Um, hardly ever!” Amy muttered.
“Don’t worry, Aims,” Rachel said. “There’s somebody out there for you. Somebody who actually likes women and will spend the entire date talking about how cute you are.”
The light changed and they crossed the wide expanse of Carlsbad Boulevard, one of the main thoroughfares of the town. On the other side, they continued west. They were now only a couple of blocks from the stairs that would lead them down to the beach and they could hear the ocean’s surf getting louder with each step.
“So, who is this writer you and Vanessa were chatting about getting on your podcast?” Rachel asked.
Amy smiled reflexively. Last night, she had re-read that final sex scene in Rego Park Romance almost out of compulsion, it was that good; and the memory of the orgasms she then gave herself afterwards were still fresh in her mind. Not that she would tell Rachel that.
“Jillian Ashley,” she began instead. “No shit, my favorite writer. Problem is, she’s this super reclusive person. She doesn’t post pictures of herself or her personal life on Twitter and she refuses to do interviews except by email.” Amy raised her right arm in a gesture of defiance as she walked. “But she will be mine! I am determined to convince her to come on my show!”
Amy thought about the email she had written on Thursday night. It had kept her up well past her normal bedtime but she hadn’t cared. The email had to be perfect and, in the end, after numerous drafts, she felt she had finally sent off a message that was an appropriate mix of fawning admiration for Jillian’s amazing talents and down-on-her-knees fangirl begging.
As of yet, Amy still had not heard back from Jillian. Earlier today, her phone had chimed with an email notification and Amy had almost dropped the device on the Mexican tile floor of her kitchen in her haste to pick it up, praying it was a response from Jillian. No luck. It was only her grandmother in Wichita sharing pictures of gingersnap cookies she had just baked.
That’s what Instagram is for, grandma, Amy had thought.
“Maybe I’ll read one of her books, then,” Rachel said. “I just finished a good mystery and could use something new.”
By now, they had reached the stairs which led down from Ocean Street to the beach and were walking down them. Amy laughed at Rachel’s statement.
“What?” Rachel asked.
“It’s lesfic, Rach,” Amy said.
“So? Are straight women not allowed to read lesfic? Is there a permission setting on my Kindle which will block me from downloading books about gay women?”
“Have you ever read any lesfic, Rach?”
Rachel rolled her eyes.
“No, but how much different can they be from any other books?” she asked. “Instead of boy meets girl, it’s girl meets girl. Instead of two male cops solving crimes, it’s two female cops solving crimes. I get it…the books all have women.”
Amy smirked.
“You know what? Go for it! Find Jillian’s books on Amazon. You might as well start with the best of the lesfic writers. I will be so interested in learning what you think.”
Chapter 4
Sally arrived at The Fisherman, a seafood restaurant in Carlsbad close to the beach, to find Max already waiting for her. That wasn’t a surprise; Max was never late for anything. It was his superpower. He had once told her it was a product of his New York City upbringing and since he had become a big part of her life, Sally had discovered that his influence had rubbed off on her, making her more time-conscious and less prone to what used to be a habit of always running late.
Sally had first met Max back when she was still in college. Back then he was the director of a division of one of Southern California’s biggest graphic design firms and Sally had been hired as an intern during her senior year, working as his apprentice and assistant. Max was someone she had quickly developed a strong admiration for upon joining the firm because his skills and talent as an artist amazed her. However
, it always seemed to her that Max merely tolerated her presence, never actually wanting her around. In fact, she was certain that he hadn’t bothered learning her name until three months into her tenure there when she overheard someone remind him discreetly that her name was Sally, not Samantha. When the internship ended, Max hadn’t even come to the going-away party the rest of the division threw for her.
So, it came as a huge surprise to her when, two days before she graduated from San Diego State, Max himself called her to offer her a job with his team, telling her that he saw such talent and potential in her that he’d be a fool to let her go work somewhere else.
When Max eventually became president of a new division of the firm that was to handle more high-profile projects for big multinational brands, Sally was one of the few people he handpicked to join him, promoting her to lead artist in the process.
Somehow, they became close friends: The middle-aged guy from New York City; and the millennial lesbian from Carlsbad. Sally had known then that if Max had had his way, he probably would happily not be bothered with her outside of the office and would still be calling her Samantha; but Sally had felt he needed her in his life, and wormed her way in until now, they saw each other at least twice a week, even with the pandemic.
A year ago, Max abruptly retired from the firm. He had told Sally that he had enough of a retirement nest egg accrued and that he had also recently come into some money. And that was that, he was gone from the office, leaving Sally feeling like a piece was missing from her daily life.
“Hey, babe!” Sally greeted Max when she arrived at the booth he had secured for them. California was pretty much open again now that everyone was eligible for vaccinations and getting them. She herself had just gotten her second shot last week. Sitting down, Sally noticed how Max discreetly checked his watch.
“I’m three minutes early,” she told him, sticking out her tongue at him.
Max merely grunted. He was a slender man who always dressed well. Today, he was wearing jeans and a black fitted blazer over a white tee shirt. He had this silver fox thing going on, which Sally knew a lot of straight women—even straight women her age—found attractive. This was proven when their waitress, a pretty young thing who looked like she could be just starting college, materialized when Sally sat down. After taking Sally’s order for coffee and refilling the cup Max already had, the waitress had looked at him, shyly hoping to catch his eye.
Damn, why do all the cute ones have to be straight?
When the waitress left to get Sally a mug of coffee, Sally leaned over the table a bit and whispered, “She wants you!”
Max, a perplexed frown on his face, asked, “What are you talking about? Who wants what?”
“The waitress,” Sally continued in a whisper. “She’s totally into you!”
Max looked over his shoulder at the waitress, who was several yards away at a coffee station. He then looked back at Sally like she was completely insane.
“God, she’s, like, fourteen-years-old!” he hissed. “What kind of person do you think I am?”
Sally sat back in the booth and crossed her arms.
“I doubt she’s fourteen-years-old, Max. Child labor laws and all that. She keeps looking over here at you! Besides, she’s gorgeous and I hate that you’re alone.” She pouted for good effect, knowing it would irk him.
“Okay, fine, I’ll ask her parents later if it’s alright if she comes out to play,” Max sniped. “Now, would you stop trying to fix me up with felonies?”
The waitress—her name tag read “Tiffany”—returned with a mug of coffee for Sally and asked if they were ready to order food. As Max gave his order, Sally had to stifle a laugh at how Tiffany was so clearly flirting with him. For his part, Max was either oblivious to it or choosing to ignore it. After ordering a salmon burger for herself, Sally said to Tiffany, “Excuse me, but you look soooooo super young! Do you mind if I ask how old you are?”
Tiffany smiled at the compliment.
“I’m twenty-three,” she answered, stealing another glance at Max, who was glaring at Sally.
“Wow!” Sally exclaimed. “I have to start using whatever skin cream you use!”
Tiffany giggled.
“Stop! You look amazing! You’re super pretty! And I wish I was as tall as you! You could be a model!”
“Aww, thanks!”
With a final smile at Max—not that he noticed because he was still glaring at Sally—Tiffany left the table to get their food order in.
“See?” Sally said. “Older than fourteen.”
“Why am I friends with you again?” he asked.
“Because I’m adorable and I make you happy?”
“I’ll give you adorable,” Max began. “The happy bit has always been up for debate. Now, if you’re done being silly, I need to talk to you about something important.”
Sally rubbed her hands together.
“Ooh, finally I get to learn the great mystery of why we’re here!”
Max pursed his lips and looked out the window. Sally knew from having worked closely with him that something big was on his mind and once again she felt a little afraid, certain that the big thing was medical related, despite what he had told her on the phone last night.
“I know you like reading,” Max began. “Do you read any lesfic?”
What the fuck? Curveball!
Sally chuckled.
“Lesfic, Max? I’m, like, totally surprised you even know that term!” She took a sip of her coffee. “Next you’ll be telling me you know what ‘wlw’ stands for.”
Max sighed.
“Women-loving-women, every idiot knows that.”
“Yeah, every lesbian idiot,” Sally countered. “I can’t imagine it’s that common a term in your heteronormative world.”
“Just answer the damn question. Do you read any lesfic books or not?”
Sally nodded.
“Almost exclusively,” she told him.
“Fine. I need your help with something,” Max stated.
Sally nodded to indicate he should go on.
“Have you ever heard of a lesfic writer named Jillian Ashley?”
Sally’s eyebrows shot up. Heard of her? That was like asking a baseball fan if they had ever heard of Babe Ruth.
“I just finished her latest book! It was amazing!” Sally stared at Max for several seconds. “Seriously, how do you know all of this? Lesfic? Jillian Ashley…?”
Max went back to looking out the window for a moment before eventually turning back to her, holding Sally’s green eyes with his grey ones.
“I’m Jillian Ashley,” he said.
Sally blinked.
It sounded like Max had spoken to her in English yet the words he had just said made absolutely no sense to her. Seriously, what was he talking about?
“What are you talking about?” Sally asked aloud. She felt as if her question should have been more profound, somehow. But the shock of what he had just said rendered her unable to come up with anything close to profound.
“I’m Jillian Ashley,” Max repeated. “I wrote those books.”
Sally squeezed her eyes shut and briskly shook her head.
This makes zero sense!
After taking a deep breath and then a fortifying sip of her coffee, Sally said, “Jillian Ashley is a woman. She lives in Oceanside. She’s a lesbian. She writes books for lesbians. Really, really good books.”
“No, Jillian Ashley is a man—me, who, yes, does live in Oceanside. I’m not a lesbian but I do write books for lesbians and I’m glad you find them enjoyable.” Turning to his left, Max reached into his familiar brown leather messenger bag, which Sally hadn’t noticed was next to him on the seat. “Here, I’ll prove it to you,” he said, extracting his iPad Pro from the bag. After tapping the screen a few times, he held out the device towards her so she could read the screen.
Sally didn’t quite know what she was looking at; there was a lot of information on the screen, but it seemed to be an Amazo
n-related site.
“What is this?” she asked.
“It’s my KDP account,” Max told her. “Kindle Direct Publishing,” he added when it was clear Sally had no clue what KDP meant. “Every Kindle author has one. Now, look…” he pointed at the screen “…there’s my name.”
Sure enough, Sally saw “Max Tremont” where he indicated.
“And, look…” he pointed to another portion of the screen “…here are all the books I’ve published.”
Sally saw a list of about eight books, all with Max’s name as their author. But there were four additional books listed. All four written by an author Sally was very familiar with: Jillian Ashley.
“Jillian is just a pen name,” Max explained. “She’s made up.”
Sally was feeling a little lightheaded. First, there was the fact that, by the evidence being shown her on Max’s iPad, her favorite lesfic author, Jillian Ashley, didn’t exist. Second, there was the fact that, wait a minute, Jillian Ashley actually did exist, just in the form of one of her best friends. Third, there was the fact that Max—a man she thought she knew at least fairly well—had a secret life as a writer.
Before she had a chance to construct further questions in her mind, Max tapped the screen again. Suddenly, Sally was seeing charts and dollar amounts.
Holy fuck!
The dollar amounts were impressive.
“And, see,” Max continued, “the money from all of Jillian’s books belongs to my KDP account. In fact, Jillian’s books are really the only ones that actually earn me any money.” He actually sounded a little sad about that. “I tried writing mysteries but those barely sold. Then I tried sci-fi and those also barely sold. I didn’t hit it big until I became Jillian.” He put the iPad down. “So, are you convinced?”
Sally had to take a moment before answering. Those dollar amounts were still swirling around in her head. Max was making a lot of money from Jillian Ashley books. In fact, if she had interpreted the chart that Max had just shown her briefly a few moments ago, even though Jillian’s latest novel had come out only this past Tuesday, Max had already earned enough from it to not only pay Sally’s rent but also her car payment.