by Mason Dixon
Table of Contents
Synopsis
By the Author
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
About the Author
Other Mason Dixon Titles Available via Amazon
Books Available from Bold Strokes Books
Synopsis
Kenya Davis’s ability to find the perfect employee is unparalleled. Her ability to find the perfect mate? Not so much. After she takes a chance on speed dating, she finds herself with not one but two chances to find true love. But with her spotty romantic track record, how can she be sure which woman is Miss Right and which is only Miss Right Now?
Simone Bailey works as a bartender at one of the hottest nightclubs in South Beach, has more female attention than she knows what to do with, and spends her spare time following her musical ambitions. Then she meets Kenya Davis. After her initial attempt to charm her way into Kenya's heart fails, she resolves to reach her ultimate destination one question at a time.
21 Questions
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21 Questions
© 2016 By Mason Dixon. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-725-5
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: November 2016
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Cindy Cresap
Production Design: Susan Ramundo
Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])
By the Author
Date with Destiny
Charm City
21 Questions
Writing as Yolanda Wallace:
In Medias Res
Rum Spring
Lucky Loser
Month of Sundays
Murphy’s Law
The War Within
Love’s Bounty
Break Point
24/7
Acknowledgments
Writing this book was a challenge. At times, it felt like an extended therapy session. Choosing the titular questions was the first test. I wanted them to be interesting, obviously, but thought provoking as well. And, most of all, I wanted the answers to reflect the characters’ thoughts and beliefs rather than mine. That, of course, was easier said than done, but it resulted in several in-depth conversations between my partner and me that allowed us to view our relationship—and each other—in a different light. Now our bond is stronger than ever.
I want to thank Radclyffe, Sandy Lowe, Cindy Cresap, and the rest of the BSB team for making the publishing process so much fun. Go, team!
I want to thank my partner for putting up with me for fifteen years and counting. My favorite question from you was answered with “I do.”
And last but not least, thank you to the readers for your support, encouragement, and feedback. You inspire me to try to make each book better than the last.
Dedication
To my boo.
You are the answer to all my questions.
Chapter One
Kenya Davis parked her BMW in the valet area outside Azure, one of the most popular nightclubs in South Beach. As she watched a steady stream of well-dressed lesbians head inside, she tried to convince herself to shut off her car’s engine and head inside the bar instead of returning to her condo and helping herself to a pint of pistachio gelato while she binge-watched the eight episodes of Scandal she’d saved on her DVR. Watching Kerry Washington look flawless in an endless string of designer fashions while the series’ writers heaped on one unbelievable plot twist after another had to be better than subjecting herself to the humiliation waiting for her on the other side of Azure’s trademark blue doors.
Had it really come to this? Was she so desperate for companionship she had to resort to speed dating in order to improve her chances of finding true love?
She was settled in her career—blessed with job security and a six-figure salary that might not make her rich but left her feeling comfortable in the present and optimistic about the future. Her love life, however, didn’t inspire similar sunny thoughts. She hadn’t been in a relationship for so long she didn’t know if she still had what it took to sustain one. Did the fault lie with her or the women with whom she had chosen to share her life?
She took a long look at herself in the rearview mirror, subjecting herself to the kind of careful assessment she gave potential employees when they sat nervously across from her for an interview, their portfolios bouncing on their knocking knees. She didn’t look as frightened as some prospects she had evaluated over the years, but she definitely looked scared.
“What are you afraid of?” she asked her reflection. “It’s less than two hours of your time. What else do you have to do on a Friday night?” She thought about the eight episodes of Scandal and the pint of gelato calling her name. “Olivia Pope isn’t real. Tonight, you have a chance to meet someone who is.”
And more importantly, conquer her fear that she was far better at selecting the perfect employee than she was at finding the perfect mate.
With an effort, she opened her car door and climbed out of the driver’s seat. Then she traded her keys for a valet parking ticket. After the attendant drove off with her primary means of escape, she threw her shoulders back and tried to project an air of confidence she didn’t actually feel.
She habitually made two lists after she got out of the shower each morning, a to-do list and a wait list. The to-do list included tasks she wanted to accomplish before the end of the day. The wait list was composed of items that weren’t nearly as pressing. Things that could be put off for another day. For too long, finding love had been on the second list. Perhaps it was time to give it higher priority.
The bouncer, a handsome butch with the body of a mixed martial arts fighter and the tattoos to match, nodded in Kenya’s direction and opened the door for her. “Welcome to Azure. Enjoy your evening.”
Like most nightclubs and restaurants in eternally hip South Beach, Azure didn’t start filling until after nine p.m. Since it was only a little before eight, Kenya expected the place to be mostly empty. Instead, it was packed with so many lesbians she didn’t know where to turn.
She needed a wingman. Someone to help her navigate the choppy waters of a dating pool that seemed to get deeper and younger every year. But Bridget Weaver, her closest lesbian friend, was lolling on a beach in Hawaii with her fiancée for another week, and her work wife, Celia Torres, was more apt to be available to help solve Kenya’s crises that happened between nine a.m. and five p.m. than those that occurred after the work day was done, when Celia’s attention turned from office politics to her one-year-old twins’ dirty diapers.
Forced to fend for herself, Kenya op
ted for a liberal dose of liquid courage. Several other women must have had the same idea because the crowd at the bar was at least three deep. Kenya found a spot in line and waited to place her order.
Four servers dressed in skinny jeans and Azure-branded tank tops stood behind the marble-topped bar. All were young, hot, and flashy. They tossed sterling silver cocktail shakers like expert jugglers as they mixed drinks for the dozens of women standing in line. None of the bartenders seemed to be a day over thirty. Neither did the patrons, who took turns slipping their favorite bartenders their phone numbers.
Kenya had never been a fan of one-night stands, and she was too set in her ways to become a convert now. Not for the first time, she wondered if she should just turn around and leave. She was looking for someone who already had her act together, not someone who was still trying to figure things out. She didn’t want a fling. She wanted forever. But could she find it in a place like this, where some relationships lasted only as long as the dance music track blasting from the state-of-the-art sound system?
Despite her misgivings about the setting, she felt her attention drawn to the bartender on the end, the one with shoulder-length dreads, caramel-colored eyes, mocha skin, and a dazzling smile. Kenya liked her energy. There was a stillness about her that stood in stark contrast to her caffeinated coworkers. Mineral water, as opposed to Red Bull. Equally refreshing but without the sugar crash that was sure to follow a few hours later.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked when Kenya finally made her way to the front of the line. Kenya started to reply, but the bartender held up a hand before she could respond. “Wait. Let me guess.” The bartender looked her up and down, her gaze slowly traveling from Kenya’s face to her feet and back again. Kenya felt every inch of the journey, her nipples hardening under the intense scrutiny. “An old-fashioned with bourbon instead of rye. Am I right?”
Kenya arched an eyebrow in surprise. “How did you know?” she asked as the bartender began muddling a sugar cube, a dash of bitters, and a tablespoon of water in a highball glass. “Most people peg me as a cosmo drinker.”
The bartender shook her head. “Cosmos are for girls who have watched too many reruns of Sex and the City. You’re a woman who knows the value of hard work and likes to be rewarded for it. You do everything one hundred percent. You don’t hold back. When you love someone, they know it. And when you don’t, they know that, too.” She poured two fingers of bourbon into the glass, added a twist of lemon peel, then threw in slices of lemon and orange, and topped the whole thing off with a maraschino cherry. She stirred the concoction with a swizzle stick and pushed it toward Kenya. “How did I do?”
Kenya took a sip and nearly moaned in ecstasy. “Perfect.”
“The drink or my assessment?” the bartender asked with a wink.
“Both.” In fact, Kenya wondered how a stranger could know her so well. Guessing her favorite drink was a nice parlor trick, but listing her personality traits so precisely took real skill. Kenya admired her powers of perception, along with her obvious physical attributes. She had the body of a track athlete—lean, but powerfully built with the carriage of a sprinter and the long legs to match. For an instant, Kenya imagined having those long, powerful legs wrapped around her as she settled between them. Then she banished the images from her mind. She came here tonight to play a game, not play the fool. Yet that seemed to be exactly what she was setting herself up to do. Not again, she promised herself. Never again. “How much do I owe you?”
“Eight dollars.”
Kenya pulled a ten from her purse. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks.” Kenya turned to leave so the bartender could wait on the next customer in line, but the bartender called her back. “Not so fast. Are you here to watch the speed dating or participate in it?”
“Participate,” Kenya said, wondering if she looked as desperate as she was starting to feel.
“I would say, ‘Good luck,’ but a woman who has it going on as much as you seem to probably doesn’t need it.”
“Thank you.” Kenya tipped her glass in the bartender’s direction. “For the drink and the compliment.”
“My pleasure. The mini-dates only last ten minutes. Unless your game is tight, that doesn’t give you much time to get to know someone. Do you want to practice on me until the fun starts?”
The bartender ran a towel across the bar top to mop up the spilled remains of someone’s drink. Her movements were quick but effortless. Was she that smooth in bed, too? She placed her hands on the bar. Her fingers were long and tapered like a musician’s. Kenya barely suppressed a shudder as she imagined those fingers playing her body like a musical instrument, hitting all the right notes in a very different kind of symphony. Looking for a way out of the conversation before she got in too deep, she glanced at the growing line behind her.
“Thank you for the offer, but there are a lot of thirsty women waiting to take my place.”
“Then it’s a good thing I can mix drinks and hold a conversation at the same time. When I really get going, I can walk and chew gum, too,” the bartender said with a smile as charming as her self-deprecating statement. “So are you interested, or would you prefer to save your moves for someone who counts?”
Kenya laughed despite herself. “If I had moves, I wouldn’t be here tonight.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” the bartender asked after she fielded an order for a mojito and a rum and Coke—and fended off a request for a date. “What’s your name?”
“Kenya.” She had decided to remain on a first-name basis with everyone she came across tonight unless she met someone who convinced her to be more forthcoming. Unless she met The One. Fat chance of that happening since she didn’t believe in love at first sight. Infatuation, yes. Lust, definitely. But love? Like fine wine, that took time to develop. And when she finally found it, she hoped it would taste just as sweet.
“Pleased to meet you, Kenya. I’m Simone. Before you ask, my roots are Jamaican, not French, but my mother’s favorite singer was Nina Simone.”
“Mine preferred James Brown.”
Simone nodded in appreciation. “The hardest-working and most-sampled man in show business. I don’t think there’s a single hip-hop song from the eighties and nineties that doesn’t have a James Brown hook in it somewhere,” she said with the authority of a music historian. Despite Simone’s calm demeanor, Kenya could practically feel the passion seeping through her pores. “What kind of music do you like? I’m better at determining favorite drinks than preferred music styles, but if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say you were a cool jazz aficionado.”
Kenya started to say yes just to humor Simone since she was going out of her way to help her relax, but she decided to be honest rather than polite.
“Actually, I prefer Motown to jazz. Whenever I need an emotional pick-me-up, I crank up my MP3 player, grab a hairbrush, and pretend I’m Diana Ross fronting the Supremes. When I have a bad day at work, I channel Aretha Franklin and demand my R-E-S-P-E-C-T. And when it’s time to set the mood, I bust out the Marvin Gaye. But I thought I was supposed to be the one asking you the questions, not the other way around.”
Simone grinned as she poured the ingredients for a pomegranate martini into a cocktail shaker. Her taut biceps flexed as she manually blended the drink. “Fire away.”
Kenya ran through a list of questions in her head. Talking points she had picked up on the Internet to help break the ice when she sat across from ten complete strangers for ten minutes at a time. As she mentally browsed through the collection of potential opening lines, she tried to find one that wouldn’t make her seem presumptuous or shallow.
“What’s your favorite guilty pleasure?” she finally asked.
“Conch fritters and cheesy science fiction movies. Preferably at the same time. What about you?”
“Fast cars and loose women.”
Simone’s jaw dropped in an almost comical expression of surprise. “Really?”
<
br /> “No, but it makes me sound much more interesting than I really am.”
Simone held her hand on the top of the blender to keep the lid from flying off as she prepared a frozen strawberry daiquiri. “You’re a tough nut to crack, aren’t you?”
Kenya shrugged. “I guess I’m more used to asking questions than answering them.” Tonight, however she would have to be able to reveal more than she withheld. But was she willing—or able—to do it?
“In that case,” Simone said, “just tell me one thing.”
“What do you want to know?”
“When can I see you again?”
Kenya hesitated. Simone had many things going for her, but she and Kenya obviously moved in different circles. Simone could never be anything other than a one-night stand, a luxury Kenya hadn’t afforded herself since college and one she wasn’t willing to indulge in now. Not if it meant risking her reputation as well as her heart. “I’m flattered, but—”
“You’re not interested.”
She might be if Simone were in a different line of work. Bartending was a job, not a career. It was all about enjoying the moment, not planning for the future. Kenya wasn’t looking for a playmate or a drinking buddy. She was looking for a partner. Someone who needed emotional rather than financial support.
“I’d still like to take you out sometime,” Simone said. “No strings. No pressure. Just two people taking some time to get to know each other better. Are you free for dinner tomorrow night?”
“That remains to be seen.” If the evening turned out to be as successful as the organizers had promised, she might be busy for the foreseeable future, if not the rest of her life. “Thanks for the drink.”
Kenya could feel Simone’s eyes on her as she walked away. She put an extra switch in her hips to make sure Simone enjoyed the show. Simone’s attention had given her the confidence boost she needed to make it through the rest of the evening, but she wondered if the ten mini-dates she was about to have would be half as exciting as the one she had just turned down.