Rogue Passion

by Sionna Fox

  “No. We should eat. I’m sorry I keep getting so heavy.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I get it.” Frannie held open the door for her to go in.

  * * *

  Ashley was quiet as the host led them to a table. Frannie wanted to change the subject to something lighter, but everything they had in common felt heavy. Rian, the exhibition, bigotry, the dismal state of healthcare for queer and trans people. Knowing now that Rian’s birth family had rejected their identity added a whole other layer of meaning to the depth and strength of the family connections they’d forged as an adult. But all of that was too much for dinner. Too much to ask of Ashley, who Frannie barely knew, and who was doing her massive favor after massive favor.

  Frannie kept quiet, waiting for a cue from Ashley as the other woman pulled a pair of sparkly, over-sized reading glasses from her bag and perched them on her nose.

  “Don’t laugh.”

  “Not laughing. Those are exactly the sort of glasses I’d expect you to have.”

  “I’m not always glittered up like a disco ball.”

  “Of course not. But you’re generally a bit sparkly.”

  “I’m a magpie. When I was little, whenever I wandered off in a store, it was a good bet I was at the jewelry counter, or near the makeup, staring at the shiny things. I used to sleep with my favorite necklace under my pillow.”

  “I, on the other hand, was famous for running away in a mall when my mother and a saleswoman ambushed me with a frilly dress.”

  Ashley chuckled, a low, slightly scratchy sound in her throat that made Frannie’s skin tingle. She wanted to hear it again. Their server interrupted to take their orders and allowed Frannie to change the subject away from the potentially thorny topic of childhood.

  She asked instead about Ashley’s work in the studio, her tour plans, the shift in her sound that she was working toward, distancing herself sonically from her old band as she got further into a solo career.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I love them to pieces and I love what we did, but everyone was ready to move on. We started when we were eighteen, playing basements and goofing off. We had stuff to say too, but we mostly assumed it would be this fun thing we did for a while, and it was, and we got way bigger than any of us thought we would, but we all knew we weren’t going to do it forever.”

  “But you’re still doing it.”

  “I can’t stop. This is what I know how to do. Write songs, record them, do promo, go on tour, that’s my life. Too much downtime and I get itchy.”

  All the more reason for Frannie to stop nursing this ridiculous crush. Ashley never stayed in one place for long. She would forever be in and out of town, running off to the next thing without stopping. Frannie’s life was here. Her work, her family, she’d come back to her hometown for a reason. Turning the Briggs around to face the twenty-first century was an added bonus.

  She shook her head. “That sounds like my nightmares. Never settling in, always living out of a suitcase.”

  “I’m disturbingly good at packing.”

  “I’d bet.”

  The conversation stalled, Frannie thinking about all the reasons she shouldn’t be interested in the woman across from her. All the reasons she should get through the next day and let her go with thanks for everything she’d done for the museum. It wasn’t about Frannie. It was about the work. But she couldn’t shake the feeling of Ashley’s hand wrapped around her wrist, telling her she trusted her with the installation. Or the way their fingers had twined together as Ashley lay on the gallery floor and cried for everything she had lost. No wonder the woman never stopped moving.

  They skipped dessert and walked the few blocks to Ashley’s hotel. Though the city technically spread across both sides of the river that split it, the downtown area was small. A small arena, a handful of hotels and restaurants, the museum, some shops, and a tiny park made up the whole of it. There was always talk of revitalizing the city, but no one ever wanted to spend the money to do it, so it languished as it was, not having changed much since Frannie was little.

  She should have said goodnight in the lobby, but Frannie followed Ashley into the elevator. She was making sure she got to her room safely after a long day. Between traveling and the emotional upheaval of walking through the exhibition for the first time, she must be worn out.

  Ashley slipped her key card into the lock. The door clicked. She opened it and flicked the light switch before she turned, holding the door open.

  “Thanks for dinner.” Ashley lifted onto her toes and rested a hand on Frannie’s lapel, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

  Frannie froze at the contact. If she turned her head just a hair, their lips would touch. If their lips touched, she would skim her hand from where Ashley’s palm rested on her jacket, up her arm, to her shoulders, down the curve of her back, to her waist. She would pull her in and kiss her hard, back her into the room and let the door slam shut behind them. But that fantasy was best left for later, when the show was open and Ashley was gone.

  “I should go.”

  Ashley was back on her flat feet, her hands at her sides. Frannie missed the warmth of her soft cheek, the weight of her palm against her collarbone.

  “Good night, Frannie.”

  “Good night.”

  As soon as the door clicked shut, Frannie hurried down the hallway. She had to get out of this hotel before she changed her mind and knocked on Ashley’s door.

  6

  Ashley paced the gallery opposite the exhibition. Frannie had told her last night that they’d moved what little of their collection was relevant into the space, but that it had been a struggle with their limited contemporary collection and the plethora of dusty still-lifes and donated seascapes by local artists. But they’d cobbled together a small grouping to ground the documentary narrative of Rian’s work into a larger context.

  That Frannie was really very good at her job did not make her less attractive. Nor did it help Ashley’s conflicted feelings about the night before. She’d basically invited her into her hotel room. She’d kissed Frannie’s sharp cheekbone and felt the racing of her heart under her lapel. And Frannie had left.

  She’d hate it if she’d made Frannie uncomfortable. She’d regret knowing what Frannie’s cheek felt like under her lips when she couldn’t get it out of her head later, or stop herself from wondering if the rest of her skin was as soft and firm.

  She’d told herself she was going to let Frannie go. It was for the best. She was leaving in the morning. There was no particular reason for her to ever see Frannie Thorpe again after tonight. Even if she wanted to.

  “Wow.” Frannie’s voice at the door caught her off guard.

  Ashley couldn’t stop the grin from spreading over her face as she turned to the sight of Frannie looking her up and down. She’d dressed her part, in a tight silver sequined mini dress with cap sleeves that exposed her tattoos, black tights and sky-high heels that she’d inevitably ditch as soon as she started her short set. She sang better barefoot, always had, which led to some interesting scars on her feet back in the early days.

  She blinked through her thick black lashes. Frannie was wearing a subtly-patterned charcoal suit, a pale lavender shirt, top button undone exposing her collarbone, a narrow, deep violet tie slung around her neck. “Wow, yourself.”

  Pink stained Frannie’s cheeks as she tucked her hands in her pockets and scuffed her feet on the floor. “It’s nothing. You look amazing.”

  “Never let it be said I don’t give the people what they want.” She’d crafted a signature look for herself years ago. Her tight stretchy dresses and refusal to hide her size or shape—as if a baggy dress would trick anyone into thinking she was thin—had started because it allowed her to move freely, but it had become a visual short-hand, a fuck you to an industry that wanted to whittle her down and fit her in a box.

  “The donor group just arrived. If you’re not ready, Holly can stall them for a few minutes.”

  Ashley took a deep brea
th, watching Frannie’s fingers work to knot her tie. She’d walked through the exhibition again today, getting her bearings, picking and choosing what stories she would let go of and the memories she would keep for herself. She could hold those memories and turn them over without breaking down. Frannie was counting on her. She could do this.

  “I’m ready.”

  * * *

  The crowd buzzed through the space, the steady hum of voices and clinking champagne glasses carrying Frannie through the evening. The opening was an unqualified success. Ashley’s tour had been a pitch-perfect mix of funny insider stories and serious consideration of the work; the group that had ponied up the donation had gotten more than what they’d paid for. Even the stodgiest board members hovering at the edges of the room looked pleased, despite their sidelong glances at the very mixed group of their traditional patrons and the people who had bought tickets to the opening mostly for the novelty of seeing Ashley play an acoustic set in an art museum.

  Frannie couldn’t have imagined better. When they’d opened the doors tonight, she’d still been bracing for failure, but the protesters across the street hadn’t deterred the ticket holders, nor had the added security measures of checking bags and jackets for any projectiles.

  With a heady rush of adrenaline in her bloodstream, Frannie stepped up onto the small stage they’d erected for the night and tapped the microphone.

  “Welcome, friends and patrons of the Briggs Museum of Art. For those of you who have been living under a rock and came out tonight only because you have annual tickets to museum events, I am Frances Thorpe, director of special exhibitions. For those of you who are here specifically because I accidentally embroiled the museum in a controversy over public arts funding, I would like to thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for being here with us tonight. Your support shows the museum, the community, and a nation watching at home, that the arts, no matter how challenging the material, have a place in public life that must be protected. We cannot shy away from work that asks us to consider lives different from our own. We cannot allow naked bigotry to silence the voices of artists like Rian Sampson.”

  Applause erupted and Frannie waved her arms to signal she wasn’t done.

  “This evening would not have been possible without the tireless support of Sampson’s team, and in particular Ashley Patterson, who has so generously donated her time and effort in making our fundraiser a success. Ashley Patterson met Rian Sampson when she was eighteen, and their deep friendship and artistic collaboration will go down in history as one of the great partnerships between artist and muse. Patterson’s own body of work, from music to model, and her activism in queer and body positive spaces, is its own powerful legacy, which she has been gracious enough to share with us tonight. Without further ado, friends of the Briggs, Ashley Patterson.”

  Ashley kicked off her shoes and adjusted the mic stand down to loud cheers from the half of the room that was clearly here to see her, and polite applause from the half of the room that was their regular patrons, slightly scandalized by either the noise or the barefoot woman in an art museum. What they would think of Ashley’s set was anyone’s guess.

  “Y’all. Wow. It is super weird to be playing a set across from naked pictures of myself.” Ashley grinned from behind the mic as the audience laughed. “I mean, I looked good, but still weird. But seriously, before I start, I wanna say thank you to all of you for coming out. Whatever brought you here, whatever compelled you to buy a ticket tonight, I hope you’ll stand with us in fighting bullshit wherever you find it. This is for you, Rian. We are a long way from the basement, my friend. You should be here.”

  She turned her eyes to the ceiling, then slung a guitar over her shoulder and began to play a stripped-down version of one of her old fight songs, her big voice flooding the space. She held the room, winding a spell around every single person. Every time she closed her eyes on a long note, the audience held their breath. Every time she opened them again, everyone thought she was looking directly at them.

  But as she transitioned into a song Frannie hadn’t heard before, she was pretty sure Ashley really was looking at her, catching her gaze through a song that was both sad and lovely, drawing more on blues and vintage country than punk. It was a song about constant motion, never waking up in the same place more than a few days in a row, with a wailing, lilting chorus, punctuated by her voice dropping softly, just barely breaking. Frannie’s chest hurt for her, thinking of how long Ashley had been running from the loss.

  “Thanks y’all. That one was new,” she murmured to the applause before she launched into another older song, letting the audience sing along for the chorus, dispelling the melancholy for a giddy burst of adrenaline and joy. Frannie nodded at the approving looks of the board members and let the energy of it carry her away, leaving behind Frances Thorpe, special exhibitions director to just be Frannie, watching Ashley Patterson dance around barefoot with a guitar and lead a room in the chorus of a song about making out with girls in clubs. They had pulled it off.

  7

  Ashley was surprised at how buoyant the energy was. It had been a long time since she’d played to such a small room, and worse, one where she could see every face in the crowd reacting. But they were into it. She’d even caught some of the old farts from the board nodding their heads. And Frannie.

  Frannie’s gaze on her was almost enough to break her. Every time Ashley glanced in her direction, she noticed a subtle shift in her posture as Frannie realized they’d done it. The opening was a rousing success and the exhibition would make money. They would have their pick of sponsors who actually supported the arts, and not just the art that was politically safe and boring. Frannie had put them on the map.

  By the time she stepped off the makeshift stage, Ashley was sweating and floating on a wave of relief and adrenaline. She beelined to Frannie and threw her arms around her waist, just barely stopping short of kissing her. Frannie’s arms came around her shoulders and they swayed in place as they both spoke at once.

  “You were amazing!”

  “We did it, we did it, we did it!”

  Frannie laughed, the sound of it singing through Ashley’s body, making her shiver despite the warmth of the room and the flush from performing. They parted, though Frannie took her hand.

  “I couldn’t—I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you enough. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

  “You would have thought of something. But I’m glad you came to me.”

  Ashley was forced to let go by a stream of people wanting to congratulate both her and Frannie. By the time the caterers cut off the wine and the crowd started to thin, Ashley’s voice was raw from talking over the noise and she’d lost count of the number of hugs she’d given.

  Frannie’s assistant shooed them out the door with a “go celebrate” and a raised eyebrow.

  Frannie’s cheeks colored. “You must be exhausted.”

  “Wide awake, actually. But you could still walk me back to my hotel.” If Frannie wanted to pretend that was an innocent remark, if she wasn’t interested, Ashley would let her. If not, if she wanted to come back to Ashley’s room…

  Frannie interrupted her thought. “If you’re ready to get out of here…”

  Ashley took Frannie’s hand and squeezed. If she could keep contact with her, maybe neither of them would lose their nerve.

  At the door to her room, Ashley dropped Frannie’s hand to fumble through her purse for the key. Frannie stood behind her, her front to Ashley’s back, the length of her frame dwarfing Ashley, the width of Ashley’s hips and belly spreading past Frannie’s bounds in the gray shadow they cast on the door. Frannie was warm behind her, bundled in her neatly-cut suit as Ashley’s skin cooled away from the crowded gallery and coming down from the high of their success. Exhaustion was starting to creep into her limbs, but Frannie’s lips brushed the back of her neck as the lock clicked, sparking a fire low in her belly. No matter how tired she was, she would stay up for this.
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  She’d thought they would paw at each other, roughly shucking clothes in a frantic race to the bed, running on post-show adrenaline, but Frannie resisted Ashley’s instinct to rush. Backed against the wall inside the door, Frannie leaned over her and took her mouth, traced her lips delicately, as if they had all the time in the world to learn each other.

  Ashley tangled her fingers in the soft, short hair at Frannie’s nape, kissing her back, pressing her body against Frannie, finding her softer than she’d expected. Everything about this woman was a surprise.

  But they couldn’t stay by the door kissing all night. There wasn’t time.

  Ashley took Frannie’s hand and led them to the bed. How many cheap hotel coverlets had she pressed her naked back against over the years? She pushed the thought away. She wanted this. Needed this. Wanted Frannie, here, now, for however long she could stay awake before she had to leave for the airport.

  When her knees hit the mattress, she stopped and shimmied her dress down over her shoulders. Frannie swallowed hard as Ashley peeled the fabric down her body, exposing her chest and her belly, until with a swing of her hips, she dropped the dress to the floor and stood in her underwear.

  Frannie stood there, watching her, not moving. “Come on, you’ve seen naked pictures of me.” Ashley fidgeted, tilting her hip with her weight on the outside of one foot, suddenly nervous.

  “Not the same thing. Not the same thing at all.” Frannie reached out and skimmed her fingers up Ashley’s arm, across her collarbone, down to the crease of her cleavage. She traced her thumb across the smooth fabric of Ashley’s plain, practical bra, following the deep curve of her breast as she leaned in and pressed her mouth to the corner of Ashley’s jaw. “I suppose this is as good a time as any to admit that I’ve had a crush on you for years.”