by Lynn Galli
“If one friend told me about the dating site, it might mean there’s some petty jealousy there.” That’s what I’d hoped until getting that last phone call. “Two or more? I have to assume the dating site story is true, and the two who confirmed the costume story either don’t know the truth or were told to lie to me to confirm their story.”
“That sucks.” She let out a sigh as if she were as frustrated by this as I was. “How much time did you waste on that?”
“Over an hour listening to it. Another five or six typing up a draft from the notes and calling around for confirmation.” Just so I could now delete that particular article submission. Damn my anal-retentive, ethically based need for verification.
“You do that with every story?”
I shot her a sly grin. “You’ve been my verification on every story I’ve heard at the bar. Even if they exaggerate a bit.”
“Like Blake and the tent?”
“Exactly, but if you’d told me they actually met bumping into each other at the bar, I couldn’t publish that story.”
She examined me, clearly curious. “Are you making other calls?”
“I did on the first few, but since we’ve become friends, I take your word for it. Two confirms is enough when you’re involved.”
“I’m honored.” She clinked her bottle against mine. “Which dating site?” She almost choked on the last swallow when I told her the site’s name. “You’re interviewing straight people?”
My eyes widened. I hadn’t told her that yet. “How did you know?”
“That site doesn’t match gay couples.”
I shoved at her shoulder. “You don’t need to use dating sites. How would you know?”
She turned wide eyes on me and waited for me to say something else. Maybe explain my comment about not needing a dating site. But why would that need explaining? She didn’t have any trouble getting dates. “I got familiar with all of them when I was in the fraud division. You wouldn’t believe the fraud that goes on with some of the people on those sites.”
“I didn’t bother to look at the particular site, but you’re right. They’re a straight couple.”
“You’re getting stories from…ah, the competition.” Her expression opened up as she nodded. “You’re, what? Pitting straight against gay stories to see which readers like best?”
I liked her thought process. It might turn into that, but it wasn’t my intent. “Even better, I hope. I’m using the whole unisex name thing to my advantage. One gay and one straight story, all names changed to unisex, no pronouns, and the readers vote on which they think is which.”
“Damn.” She sat back. “That’s ingenious. Especially now with all these straight assholes thinking the world will end by the legalization of gay marriage. Wait till they can’t tell the difference between the two stories.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.” Amazingly, again.
“Is there a prize in this competition?”
“A lavish wedding.” I’d made the suggestion of a prize to my editor. She came up with the wedding idea and got the paper to go for it.
“Lavish?”
“Six figures.” Or so the expense would be if the paper wasn’t planning to send their own photographer, event planner, and caterer to save on those expenses.
She coughed, putting down her beer for good. “That would be one hell of a wedding. What if they’re already married?”
“A nice trip somewhere.” That had been my first suggestion. I didn’t think the paper would go for anything more than that. “It won’t be as much as the wedding, but it’ll be a good deal more than what most people pay for a vacation.”
“Nice job coming up with that angle. I can’t wait to read them.” She whistled her appreciation. “And the book you mentioned?”
I shrugged, still undecided. The biggest draw was being able to stay in one place for a while to finish and publicize it. “All the articles I submit have a limit on word count. With a book, I’d be able to use everything I’ve gathered, add readers’ reactions, report on how the competition progresses, and tell the story of the winners. Should make for an entertaining book. Provided people take to the articles like I hope they will.”
“I’m happy for you, Vega.” She reached out to give my arm a squeeze.
Not just a polite response to someone’s good news. She really was happy for me. Up until this point, those words from other friends hadn’t meant much. Sitting with her in this gorgeous backyard, about to head to a baseball game where she’d introduce me to more people that will help my career, those words meant a great deal.
12 | Max & Carter
On the bleachers at Green Lake, I watched the end of a softball game on a field to the left. My next couple was currently smooching through the chain-link fence of the dugout on the field in front of me. All throughout the last inning, Carter had been yammering in my ear about her sugar-pie and how talented she was. What I’d seen was a pretty average shortstop, who needed to be moved to second base because she was losing mobility with her age and added weight. Now that the game was over, Carter had fluttered down the bleachers and was showering her with praise and kisses like she was a superstar for the Mariners.
This was the second Sunday I’d spent watching the games. One of the couples I’d interviewed at the bar had introduced me to almost everyone in the stands. Iris had been right. Hardly any crossover among this lesbian set with the regulars at Lane’s bar.
Yesterday, I’d been invited to a donut shop in Belltown where a group of gay men met every Saturday to play board games. I’d gotten two stories out of the couples there. Passable stories, different from what I’d heard in the past, but one might be too obvious that it described a gay couple. After the mess with the dating site, I was trying to pick my couples more carefully so as not to waste time. Next week, I had day trips planned up to Bellingham and down to Olympia. The week after, I would stay a couple of days in Portland. My plan originally was to move on to Denver next week, but with the new angle to the story and how much I liked it here, I didn’t need many excuses to stick around.
“Let’s make this quick. We have celebratory beers to down,” Sugar-pie, also known as Max, grumbled as she lumbered up the bleachers to where I sat, notebook in hand.
“If you’d rather not be interviewed, I have other couples lined up. No big deal.” I didn’t bother to hide the smirk on my face. Carter desperately wanted in this article, and Max’s ego needed it, too. She wouldn’t pass this up.
“Sugar-pie!” Carter whined, complete with pout. She was a tall, lithe thing, but her careful clamber down the bleachers told me she didn’t have one athletic bone in her body.
“Fine, fine. Ask your questions.” Max pulled her baseball cap down low to indicate how put out she was to be missing the kegger with her teammates.
I started the interview the same way as every other. “Tell me how you met.”
Over the next hour, they threw everything but the usual interview at me. It sounded like a badly written erotica novel, complete with every lurid detail imaginable. I kept looking around to see if I were in a high school locker room with the descriptive prose that came from Max’s mouth.
“I swear, man, I was so hard the first time I saw Carter naked I nearly popped off when I rubbed against my jeans. Like a teenage boy on his first date, you know what I’m saying?”
No, actually I didn’t. Why was it that some butch women insisted on describing their sex organs and sex acts as if they were men? And since she’d been a teenage girl on a first date at some point in her life and probably felt the same way as a teenage boy would have, she could have just said, “Like I was on my first date.” I added this line to a dozen other doozies she’d spewed out over the hour. Perhaps she didn’t understand that love stories were different from sex stories.
“I’m sure she doesn’t need to hear that, sugar-pie,” Carter crooned, gripping Max’s bicep but shooting curious glances at me. She was trying to figure out if I wanted t
o hear this. I tried never to direct where stories went, but I had to steer it off the sex track.
“How long before you moved in together?”
“The next weekend.” Carter smiled brightly, her teeth whiter than a lab rat. Veneers? That or she spent a lot of time having her teeth blitzed at the dentist’s office every year.
“I couldn’t get off work any sooner, and she had a lot of stuff to move, you know what I’m saying?”
I felt like responding, “I do know what you’re saying, otherwise I would have asked you to explain.” It might drive home how annoying her pet phrase was. If she’d mix it up with other pet phrases, it wouldn’t be so annoying. On top of everything else she was so freely sharing, it grated my nerves more than usual.
“We’ve been so happy together ever since,” Carter announced, planting a loud smacking kiss on her sugar-pie’s face.
“How long?”
“Seven years now,” Max said as if programmed to respond to this question. Seeing as how some of the other girlfriends at the bar missed the anniversaries and had gotten the silent treatment for it, I couldn’t blame her.
“Nice.” I added a period to my note as loudly as I could and slapped my notepad closed. This had gone on long enough. They’d met right here at the softball fields. While I didn’t have a player-fan story yet, I wasn’t sure I could wade through all the sexually explicit words to piece together enough PG-rated language to publish their story.
“Oh, is that it? You don’t want to hear about our wedding night?” Max looked at me in surprise.
I really didn’t. She’d already incorrectly identified the placement of both the hymen and the G-spot in her story so far. I didn’t need to know if she got any other female anatomy parts incorrect. I could see how some less adventurous women might not have explored their bodies enough to find where their G-spot is, especially since so many romance novels made it seem like it was a mythical spot that sporadically appears only when she’s excited enough. But to misidentify the placement of the hymen or even think that it was wholly intact by the time Carter reached twenty-three when they’d first had sex was pretty inexcusable. Run a fricking Google search, Lady Who Loves To Brag About Sex Acts. Learn about your damn body so you don’t sound like an inexperienced teenager the next time you overshare.
“Thanks, but I think I’ve got enough.”
“Will we make the paper?” Carter asked, pushing a shock of black hair behind her ear.
“You’ll have to subscribe to see. Remember, I’ll be changing your names to keep the stories anonymous.”
“Ooh, that’ll be fun to try to pick out, won’t it, sugar-pie?”
Another hat wiggle put it exactly where it had been before she adjusted it for the tenth time in the last hour. “Sure will, pookie-butt.”
Pookie-butt? For serious? Gathering my bag, I kept the cackle buried deep inside me. I needed a drink after that story, and I knew just the place.
Iris was talking to Lane when I arrived. Several people waved at me as I made my way over to them. Focused on getting a dose of reality, I barely paused to acknowledge them before I dropped onto the barstool next to Iris.
“You look like someone took a swing at you,” Iris commented and gestured to Lane, who pulled the tap of my favorite beer and slid the full mug to me.
“Someone just made me listen to an even more poorly written version of 50 Shades.”
Lane snorted as Iris grinned. “Even more poorly?”
“The original was complete trash, which makes any copy even worse.” I was judgmental about books, too. Still stumped me how something like that became the omnipresent companion to practically every straight woman in this country for months after it was published. I could have recommended several better written D/s stories to fill out their fantasy lives. They would have learned a lot more and enjoyed the read.
“One of your couples was into bondage?” Iris faced me fully.
“They were into telling me every detail of their sex lives.”
“Not joking?” Lane plopped her forearms onto the bar top in front of me. It was one of the first times I’d seen her stop working.
“Not.”
Her brown eyes showed a mix of confusion and interest. “That’s not part of your usual interview questions, is it?”
“It’s not. This woman just volunteered. I get the impression she talks this way all the time. When she heard about my article, she must have assumed that’s what I was asking about.”
“Really detailed?” Interest overtook any confusion now.
“Excruciatingly.”
She shared a look with Iris before turning to me and arching an eyebrow. “How detailed?”
I thought for a moment, then asked, “Okay, personal question that you absolutely do not have to answer.”
Lane stood upright and stepped back. Her head swiveled, checking for any customers who might need a drink or food. Something. Anything. Since it was a slow night, she couldn’t give in to whatever had made her react to my question that way by disappearing. I glanced at Iris, who’d watched the peculiar reaction and responded by placing her hand flat on the bar top. A gesture I didn’t understand, but Lane’s eyes went to her hand and stayed. As did she. With a quick check of her hair’s messy bun, Lane expelled a breath and settled back at the tip of our conversation triangle. I was dying to question what just happened, but I’d let it sit. Lane was skittish about something personal. I wouldn’t ask about it while we were at her work.
“Go ahead,” Iris encouraged, her eyes moving between mine and Lane’s. Her hand still rested on the counter, acting as a focal point for Lane’s nerves.
I’d almost forgotten what I’d said, too engaged in figuring out what just happened. Riffling back a few seconds, I picked up where I’d left off. “When you think of, or if you’re like this chick, describe your private parts, do you ever use words that would apply only to male genitalia?”
Iris did a spit take. Literally. A sip of beer sprayed out in a fine mist as she burst into laughter. Lane snickered, all nervousness vanishing. She reached for a towel and started wiping up the beer spray as a full laugh slipped out.
“No, seriously. Maybe I’m in the minority on this because it’s certainly in enough lesbian romances. I’ve just never heard a woman actually use that language outside of a book until today.”
Iris’s hand gripped my forearm as she regained her composure. “What, like her clit is a mini,” she paused and looked over her shoulder before continuing in a lower voice, “dick?”
“That very description, yes. Used that word and the other one. For her own body part. Not a toy, part of her own flesh.”
“Oh, wow,” Lane breathed out, completely back to normal. “Quite an afternoon, eh?”
I nodded, still reeling from how very descriptive and open Max and Carter had been. “So, it’s not a Seattle butch lesbian thing, then?”
“What’s not a Seattle butch lesbian thing?” Riley asked as she pushed in between Iris and me to order beers for her pool playing group.
“Vega was asking if everyone owned a Seahawks jersey,” Iris lied, shooting a cautious glance at Lane before smiling at me. Something major was again unspoken in that glance. I didn’t think it had to do with not mentioning sex in polite conversation. She didn’t want the topic brought up with Riley, and she was overly concerned about Lane. I wanted to find out why, but with Riley here, it wasn’t the right time.
“Oh, that’s not just butches, babe. That’s everyone.” Riley slapped my back as she usually did whenever she got within reach of me. “Wait till the season starts. It becomes the standard outfit at work for casual Fridays in town.”
“Has it always been like that?” I played along with the change in topic.
Lane snorted while Riley enthusiastically bobbed her head. Iris spoke the truth. “Only diehard fans even knew we had a team when they played in the Kingdome.”
“She’s exaggerating.” Riley bumped my shoulder. “Give me a hand d
elivering the beers. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Exhausted from the day in the sunshine and the oddly draining interview, I really wanted to stay put right where I was. Then I noticed the five beers she had to carry, and my manners propelled me into motion.
“You’re still talking to her, at least. I guess she didn’t treat you badly when she kicked you out the door the next morning, huh?” Riley asked when we were out of earshot.
I stopped and sloshed some beer onto my hands, turning to face her. “What?”
“Iris. Remember, I tried to warn you about her. She’s a one-night stand kinda gal. A total player. Hope you’re not trying to win her back.”
“We’re just friends. There’s nothing going on between us.”
She gave me a disbelieving look, then shrugged. “Then you’re open to meeting my friend. We weren’t sure what your type was, but Greer is hot enough for you not to care.”
Only my deep-rooted courtesy kept me from dumping the beer on her. First, she insults my friend, makes assumptions about me, then tries to set me up? What gave her the impression I was open to that? I hadn’t minded the occasional chats we’d had in the bar, but this was overreaching on her part.
“Greer, meet Vega, the one I’ve been telling you about,” Riley said from ten feet away.
The entire group turned to appraise me. A day in the sunshine had made me hot and sticky. I knew I looked a sight. It shouldn’t matter, but for some reason, it did.
“The reporter, yes?” a short brunette asked from beside Riley’s buddy Devon. She was attractive enough, but I so wasn’t in the mood. Not only had it been a long and weird day, but I couldn’t stand being set up.
“Writer,” I corrected, handing the beers I was holding to Devon and Greer. “Nice to meet you.” Then I turned and started walking back to where I’d been.
“Wait!” Riley said. “Don’t you want to stay a while? Play a game?”
“Don’t have time. I really just stopped in for a quick beer and to say hello to my friends.” I pointed at Iris and Lane, realizing that I probably sounded rude since I hadn’t counted her among my friends. “Have a good evening.”