Clichéd Love: A Satirical Romance Read online

  I reached for the new beer she’d set down, taking a sip. My eyes shifted from Lane back to the other woman. We all fit the not femme but not butch category. Androgynous didn’t really apply either. Our features were too distinctly feminine. My hair was longer than both of theirs, and I was often mistaken for femme until someone spent time with me. Sporty could fit, although Lane might just look this way at work for the tips it could generate.

  A finger tapped my shoulder, and I turned to find the couple I’d set up to interview tonight. In each new city, I started out by interviewing friends. When locals saw another couple spilling their story to me, they were less hesitant to share their own. The shorter of the two hugged me while her partner shook my hand. I gestured to the table I’d scoped out and reached for my beer.

  My eyes shifted back to the witty woman. I considered her remark and felt my lips curl up. “Thanks for the tip.”

  She tilted her drink and let her smile pull widely. I liked that she wasn’t shy with her smile. She wasn’t playing coy or keeping things close to the vest. She spoke up when she wanted and smiled when she pleased.

  As I followed the couple over to the table, first femme from the pool tables sidled up to me. She’d apparently gotten over her pouting fest and had something to say. “Stay away from her if you don’t want your heart broken, sweetie.”

  My brow furrowed. “Who?” And which one was she? Adrian or Sawyer?

  Her finger pointed surreptitiously over her shoulder at the woman with the sharp wit. “She beds anyone that moves.”

  Okay. For her to warn me like this meant she’d been one of the woman’s love ‘em and leave ‘em victims. For her to warn me like this meant she was still bitter about it and not over her. Perhaps that’s why the alleged lothario warned me about her drama prone ways.

  I didn’t need to worry. Despite the wit and slamming body, the sporty andro wasn’t my preferred type. Not that I’d been looking for a relationship or a roll in the sheets in a while. I looked down at pouty femme and repeated what I’d said to witty woman, “Thanks for the tip.”

  As she drifted back to her girlfriend, I couldn’t help but check over my shoulder again. Wit caught my glance and smiled. She didn’t seem at all concerned that Pouty had been whispering in my ear. If what Pouty said was true, she should be worried about the burning in her ears. Instead, she gave me an unaffected smile that didn’t tip her thoughts. There was no agenda in that smile, and I liked that quite a lot.

  2 | Fran & Yvette

  No sooner had we sat, then my old college friend, Fran, started gabbing. “I can’t believe you’re finally visiting. You look younger every time I see you. How’s that possible? Did you make a deal with the devil?”

  “Explains her success,” Yvette, the usually silent, disinterested one, commented.

  “Oh, you.” Fran knocked her on the shoulder. She pursed her lipstick lined lips, trying to suppress a smile at her partner’s joke. “Tell us what you’ve been doing.”

  “Same as always,” I replied vaguely. People our age didn’t usually get my lifestyle. At forty-six, I didn’t own a house or furniture, didn’t have a girlfriend or partner, didn’t have any pets, and wasn’t looking for any of those things. My life as a journalist had always been about chasing stories and the experiences that come with that. It afforded me many more life experiences than most people, but because I wasn’t settled and didn’t have a home, I wasn’t relatable.

  “You’re not dating anyone?” She asked what she thought was the most important thing someone can ask another after not seeing her for two years.

  “I’m not.” My hands reached into my messenger bag and pulled out a recorder, pen, and notepad. I took my time arranging them on the table. It was as much for show to draw attention from potential interviewees as a stall tactic to get off the subject of me.

  “You’re not printing our story, are you?” Yvette’s eyes tracked every one of my movements.

  Interesting. I wouldn’t have guessed she’d react as I would to having part of my life put in print. She’d never warranted much thought because, as partners went, she was a bit blah. Fran had personality, a little grating at times, but Yvette just followed along except in the areas she needed to lead: driving, home repair, finances, and the bedroom. Everywhere else, she let Fran do whatever she wanted. And all the talking.

  “I won’t unless you want me to,” I assured her. “I appreciate you playing the shills tonight. This always helps to draw interest. People should be stopping by all night if they follow the same patterns I saw in St. Louis, Phoenix, and San Francisco.”

  Yvette nodded, but Fran frowned at her. “You don’t want our story public?”

  Oh, brother. Spare me the pouty fit right now. “I’d want to keep mine private, too. Just between me and the love of my life.” I crossed my fingers and hoped the B.S. would work.

  Fran pondered that, then gave Yvette the benefit of my words. “Well, she knows our story anyway.”

  Only I didn’t because I hadn’t paid attention to the dull, drawn-out saga Fran had told me over the phone when she’d met Yvette. It was kind of a habit with me, which was why I was so shocked that the idea for this article had even occurred to me. Listening to how people got together and stayed together was as uninteresting to me as someone’s coming out story. Those were nearly impossible to avoid. Maybe I didn’t have friends with interesting coming out stories. They were all the same: crushing on a girl in high school, or kissing a girl in college, or being fixated on the tough, but hot female police detective on her favorite show, and how it all felt so much more intense than it did with boys. Since there was never a doubt in my mind that I liked women, I didn’t have one. Even if I did, I wouldn’t feel the need to share it any more than I wanted to hear others. Landing me back again in wonderment over how I’d ever come up with this idea and thought to pitch it to a national paper as a freelance series.

  Flipping to a blank page in my notebook, I jotted their names, the location, and the date at the top of the page. I reached for the recorder and turned it on before tossing out the first of my set interview questions. “Tell me how you met.”

  Fran spoke up, shocking absolutely no one at the table, and proceeded to tell me about how they’d met—at work—how Fran thought Yvette was handsome—an exaggeration in my opinion—how Yvette found excuses to come by her cubicle until she finally suggested they get lunch together—big spender—how Fran had jumped her on the walk back—big surprise for the sex-crazed Fran—and finally, how they both called in sick and spent the rest of the day in bed and never slept alone again. I vaguely remembered the part about leaving work early to boink like bunnies, and of course, the decision to move in together immediately. That was the part I reacted to when she’d called to share her news. Not verbally, I’d simply held the phone away from my ear and silently screamed what I wanted to scream at her. I honestly thought the U-Haul joke was a massive exaggeration. Every other lesbian I knew waited at least a month before they officially moved in together. These two had fallen into bed and become roommates on the same day. If it weren’t for Yvette’s go-along attitude, I doubt they’d still be together.

  Throughout the telling of the story, we had to break for various curiosity seekers. The shills were working. After tonight, it shouldn’t be hard to get people interested in being interviewed.

  “Is Lane throwing shit again?” Riley, from the pool foursome, interrupted Fran’s narration of when they’d first declared their love for each other—after their second round of sex before dinner that first night. Nothing like waiting for the perfect moment.

  While I’m certain Lane would love to throw things at some of her customers, I doubted she’d resort to tossing feces. My questioning glance made Riley rephrase. “You’re a reporter?”

  “I’m a writer,” I corrected because the other word often had a bad connotation. Plus, reporters went after news stories. This article series would be in the personal interest section.

  “Abou
t lezzie stories?”

  Lezzie. Charming. “It’s centered on lesbian and gay subjects, yes.”

  “How we all got together?”

  “About relationships in the community.”

  “Were you interviewing us back there?” Her hand waved toward the pool tables.

  “I was not.”

  An affronted face now. She was everything I thought she could be if I interviewed her. “Why not?”

  “I enjoy chatting with people as much as the next person, but you’d know if I was working.” Dazzling smile to show I meant no offense at not interviewing her when I had the chance.

  “Lane didn’t know if you were looking for others?” She couldn’t hide her curiosity.

  The warning from the witty woman crossed my mind. “I have several lined up already, but thanks for your interest.”

  Her eyes lingered on me, stumped for a moment. “Let us know if you need others.”

  “Will do, thanks.” It was entirely possible that I would interview her to fill out a night, but I didn’t want her asking every night I was here.

  It happened again when I went up to place a dinner order for our table. A short, skinny number approached and stopped me before I got to the bar. “Heard you were collecting coming out stories for a book or something?”

  The Telephone Game was in full effect tonight. I was fairly certain Lane hadn’t said anything more than I was a writer in town for a story. The rest was generated by people lurking within earshot of our table.

  “Close.”

  She beamed. “I’ve got a great story to tell.”

  “I’m interviewing couples actually.”

  “No problem, I’ll bring my cuddle-boo.”

  Cuddle-boo? Mental eye roll. “I’m Vega.” I held out my hand.

  She shook it without aggression. That I could work with. “Blake. Should I tell her we’re on?”

  I had to start somewhere. “Can you make it tomorrow at six?”

  “Better make it six-thirty. The 520 is a nightmare to cross after work.”

  I acted like I knew what she was talking about. “See you tomorrow, Blake.”

  “How’s it going?” Lane shifted over from another customer.

  “Yeah,” I responded without answering her question. It was still rumbling around in my head at the moment. The shills were working, but I wasn’t sure there’d be the same number of usable interviews here as there’d been at the bar on Polk Street in San Francisco.

  A muted golf clap sounded from my left. Witty woman was delicately slapping her palms together and repeating, “Good answer. Good answer.”

  I laughed again. Obscure reference to a game show from the seventies that was, like all of television these days, resurrected when it shouldn’t have been. My eyes strolled over her again. I might have guessed wrong on her age. She didn’t look to be in her mid-forties, but then again, neither did I. “Wasn’t much of one, was it?”

  “Let me guess. ‘It’s going all right.’ That about what you would have said?”

  My lips pulled inward. She had me pegged after exchanging only a few words. “Predictably, it was.”

  “You lose points on innovation, but even with the East German judge, you’ll get a 5.6 overall.”

  East German? Now, I really looked her over. She had to be close to my age, otherwise she would have said German. What I hadn’t noticed before, cowboy boots, not the fancy kind, broken in cowboy boots, finished out her look. Cowboy boots on a woman who lived in a West Coast city was a noteworthy choice.

  “Generous, thanks. I’ll perfect my dismount before trying again.”

  A grin flared on her face, making her impossibly more attractive. “You do that.”

  An inebriated patron brushed up against her, trying to get Lane’s attention. The woman shifted to help with her balance and suggested coffee instead. She was smooth, not aggressive or bossy, and within seconds had the woman changing her martini order to a coffee.

  I tipped my chin in parting and headed back to the table. Fran and Yvette were having a heated discussion regarding how much to reveal about their first hookup. Worse than pouty was the sexual overshare. I waited for them to settle their decision before I discouraged them from telling me the details. As I waited, I watched witty woman escort boozy woman out the door.

  Perhaps Adrian/Sawyer had been right. Not that I’d judge. Nothing wrong with a little no strings fun. It was certainly better than spending the evening listening to the details of my friends’ sex life.

  3 | Blake & Kerry

  The property agent pulled her minivan to the curb in front of another high-rise condo not too far from last night’s bar. On our third showing of the morning, I was eager to find something before the official start of my interviews with Blake and her cuddle-boo tonight.

  “This is Capitol Hill.” The agent waved a bejeweled hand toward the windshield. Two same-sex couples strolled by hand-in-hand, a dude clinging to an eighties’ Mohawk walked toward us, and four adult skateboarders attempted elaborate tricks nearby.

  “Interesting,” I commented as we exited the kiddie shuttle.

  She launched into another lengthy discussion about her two talented toddlers as we headed up to the unit. I’d already heard plenty about her “amazing” family, which sounded pretty ordinary to me. This was my curse. People shared things with me, often without prompting. The curse that I’d turned into a career.

  Upstairs, I breathed a sigh of relief. We’d found the place. The furniture was clean and comfortable, and the view of downtown Seattle and Elliot Bay closed the deal. “This is good,” I said after a quick check of the bedroom and bathroom.

  “Don’t you want to see the amenities?” The agent didn’t hide her surprise at my swift decision.

  “I’ll check out the gym while you get the contract ready.”

  At ten-thirty on a weekday morning, only one woman in basketball shorts and a clingy t-shirt was working out. She kept a brisk pace on the treadmill, barely any perspiration showing on her tan skin. Her thighs were muscular and gorgeous. Her arms equally so. She turned at the sound of the door opening, and that smile that I’d liked from last night at the bar flared again.

  “You live here?” We both asked at the same time.

  She shrugged her shoulders while still maintaining her jogging pace. “I just use the gym.”

  Uh-oh, what kind of building security allowed someone off the street to use the gym?

  She must have seen the concerned look I was trying to hide because she offered, “I worked for the building’s owner. This is my payment.”

  Gym privileges in lieu of money? My reporter instincts kicked in, overwhelming me with questions I wanted to ask. But she didn’t deserve an interrogation. “Did you get the better deal on that one?”

  She tipped her head in acknowledgement of my tease. The strands of her hair curved upward as much as the three-inch lengths would allow, giving the style more body. With no product this morning, they were free to flounce and settle with each of her steps on the treadmill. Last night they’d been sectioned into chaotically styled chunks with a few swipes of her hands. She didn’t bother with meticulous pampering to make it look just so. This morning, the bouncy wisps looked just as good. As did the rest of her.

  Her mouth opened to respond to my tease, but the agent called me over to sign the lease. When I looked back, she was watching me leave. It was possible she was watching my ass leave, but I couldn’t be sure. Even without being my type, an attractive lesbian checking out my ass made my day.

  That gratified feeling stayed with me through getting settled into the new place and on my return to the bar. I looked for her as soon as I stepped inside, but the dense crowd was making it difficult to spot anyone. At least Lane had company behind the bar. A cute guy with shaved hair on one side and multiple earrings stood beside Charlie, and two servers were working the tables.

  Lane greeted me with a raised glass. I indicated a tap and nodded at Charlie when she came over. After a
brief handshake and announcement to the people around us as to why I was there, Charlie moved on to the next patron as if she were a local celebrity everyone was dying to meet. Witty woman was nowhere to be found, much to my disappointment. Neither was Blake. Lane set the drink in front of me and pointed to an empty table she’d reserved for me. While setting up, I got a few curious stares and one loud Riley smacking my back in greeting.

  Blake came through the door holding the hand of an Asian woman in tight jeans and an even tighter top. Blake wore an outfit that I swear I saw draping a mannequin in the Eddie Bauer store I’d passed on my walk through downtown today. Not just the pants or top, the entire ensemble including belt, socks, shoes, leather wristband, and small tote.

  “Meet my cuddle-boo, Kerry,” Blake said as she approached.

  I stood to shake hands with the raven-haired beauty and offered them seats. “I’m happy you could make it.”

  “I couldn’t believe it when Blakie told me what we were doing tonight. Are we really going to be part of a book?” Kerry asked, her dark brown eyes sparkling. They were just one of the remarkable features on her face.

  “Right now it’s a series of articles.” Articles that I and my sponsoring paper hoped would assuage the rampant fear about marauding bands of gays and lesbians kicking down the doors of traditional marriage now that the Court had handed down its decision. A series of articles depicting the way a sampling of homosexual couples got together and stayed together should prove that marriage was marriage regardless of sexual orientation.

  “Not a book?” Kerry’s face fell, which did nothing to ramp down her attractiveness.

  “It could become a book, but right now, it’s a series of articles for a national newspaper.” If I could stand rewriting these stories in book format with an overriding theme, I’d give it a go. Staying in one location for a while without having to work at a news desk for a paper had a lot of appeal. Slightly more appeal than having to rehash these stories, so the book was still an option.