Femme Like Her Read online

  Femme Like Her

  Fiona Zedde

  Red Hills Publishing

  For my readers.

  Thank you.

  Acknowledgments

  It’s been a wild year, and 2020 has certainly taken no prisoners. Getting through, seizing joy, and most of all, finishing my books wouldn’t have been possible without the amazing people in my life. Asmara, Angela, Sheree, dos mamas, and Pedro. Thank you all so, so much for your encouragement and for your love.

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  Kia Georges, you’re simply the loveliest. Big up.

  Copyright © 2020 by Fiona Zedde

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  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author.

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  These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Cover by Red Raven Book Design

  Contents

  A Few Months Before…

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Thank you!

  Fiona Online

  Bliss Excerpt

  The House of Agnes Summer 2021

  How Sweet, the series

  Also by Fiona Zedde

  About the Author

  A Few Months Before…

  I don’t do femmes.

  That’s what I tell myself the whole time she’s giving me the eye across the crowded restaurant. Tall and pretty in that average Atlanta way—meaning she’d be a dime in any other city. She’s working her tongue on the edge of a half-full martini glass. The pink liquid in the glass sloshes dangerously, but she doesn’t look away from me. From the prop of her hip against the chair she’s leaning on, it’s obvious she knows she looks good in that tight ass skirt, blue and high-waisted, clinging to her decent curves in a way that tells the open secret of her G-string underwear.

  I can’t do thong panties. The idea of something rubbing in my sweaty crack all day makes me shudder, and not in a good way. Though the fleeting thought of her panties, the thin string snuggled between the firm mounds of ass cheeks, inexplicably makes my mouth dry. I look away from the femme and take a quick gulp of my own drink.

  The drink is cold and strong, just about the only good thing about the evening so far.

  Coming to the restaurant was a bad idea. But my friend, Pauline, called me on the way from work, saying she was hungry, had a Groupon, and would love to take me out. Meaning she wanted me to drive us someplace so she could get drunk.

  So I picked her up from her place and we made our way out into Atlanta nightlife on a Friday night, not thinking of where the place would be—Edgewood, the latest Atlanta it neighborhood—and what it would mean.

  What it means is the restaurant that’s normally a good place to unwind over a drink and good conversation is loud from the DJ playing the latest trap music—or top 40, sometimes it all sounds the same—while couples and groups of friends lean on square high tables trying to seem fuckable to anybody who wants to look.

  Pauline takes in the whole restaurant, her eyes squinting in annoyance. Her solid body overflows the spindly chair while her Friday evening outfit of cargo shorts and Hawaiian shirt don’t do much to blend her with the high heels and oiled beard crowd.

  “This was a fucking mistake.” She snaps a look at the DJ as if she could magically destroy both him and the music with the power of her eyes alone.

  “Yeah.” I look up from stirring my Moscow mule with the limp straw, my eyes instantly colliding with the bold browns of the brassy femme in the middle of the restaurant.

  The friend she’s with, equally femme, which could also mean straight as hell, is bouncing her ass to the music and shouting something in the femme’s ear while looking toward the bar. There, a guy in dick-hugging sweatpants is scoping out the restaurant. He’s standing near other bored looking twenty-somethings draped over the bar and shouting in vain to be heard above the too-loud music. His gaze doesn’t linger on the femme’s friend, but that doesn’t stop the chick from stripping him naked with her eyes.

  The femme looks at the guy, shouts something back to her friend, then goes back to looking at me. I look away quickly but not before she catches me checking her out. A smile curves up the corner of her very red mouth.

  “You wanna leave?” Pauline’s shout vibrates my ear drums.

  I shake my head. This is the second place we’ve been to in the name of trying to use one of her thousand and one Groupons. She’s addicted to those things. The first restaurant told us and our Groupon to fuck off, and that was after we paid for parking. I’d skipped lunch at work so now I’m just hungry enough to deal with restaurant number two’s stupidly loud music and the femme trying to visually crawl into my non-existent cleavage.

  “Okay,” Pauline says. “Then let’s order.”

  When the waitress comes back around, we order and the cute little thing in black leather shorts flirts with Pauline like her job depended on it.

  Once we order, Pauline and I sit back to watch the crowd since talking is out of the question. I’m not really in the mood for conversation so this is good enough for me.

  The healthcare company I work for was just bought by a larger and more aggressive competitor. After months of waiting, the news everybody in the office had been waiting for finally came down. They’re slashing half our department and getting rid of the analysts, me included. I’m not in the mood to look for another job, but I sure as hell am not ready to live in a cardboard box since the new place I just bought comes with a mortgage that matches the well-paying gig I’m about to get laid off from.

  Fuck my life.

  I suck down the last of my cocktail and signal the waitress for another.

  “Slow down. You don’t have to drink me under the table.” Pauline flicks her fingers at my empty cup although she’s already two shots of honey whiskey into the evening. We have my car in the expensive ass parking lot around the block but the meter is for twenty-four hours so I have no problem calling an Uber to come get us if we both ended up too sloppy drunk to drive.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I tell Pauline just as a shadow falls over our table.

  I think it’s the waitress with my fresh drink and look up with a thanks on the tip of my tongue. But it’s the tight skirt femme. I dart a glance at the table where she was sitting before but it’s empty now and her friend is at the bar, still shaking her ass to the questionable music but this time she’s draped across Sweatpants Dick and he looks just as interested in her as she is in him.

  “I’m leaving,” the femme shouts down to me from her sky-high heels, skipping the introductions. “—but I want to get your number before I go. I want to take you out.”

  I blink at her like she’s speaking Croatian, a language I don’t know a word of, by the way. Pauline is grinning like a fool. Before I can do or say anything, my ex-friend grabs a pen out of my purse and scribbles my number and name on a napkin and hands it to the femme. I glower at h
er. She knows I don’t mess with other femmes.

  The femme takes the napkin with a nod of thanks to Pauline, but looks at me, eyebrow raised as if making sure I’m okay with this egregious breach of friendship protocol. I nod and she gives me a smile full of red lips and white teeth. Then she slides a business card under my empty cup.

  “So you’ll know who’s calling you,” is what I think she says, but the music is so damn loud she could have been reciting her ABC’s for all I know.

  I nod again, then she’s gone.

  Pauline looks pleased with herself as she watches the femme go. “Nice,” she says, and I can easily read the word on her lips because that’s her favorite word in the English language next to “fuck.”

  I roll my eyes and go back to searching the restaurant for our waitress. I’m getting hungrier—and thirstier—by the minute. Once the food comes, I can start thinking of excuses to get out of the date with the femme if she calls.

  She doesn’t call me that night. In my bed after a shower and with my head still spinning from the three drinks and teeth-rattling music, I spare the femme’s fearless approach far too much thought before falling into the quick sleep of the thoroughly drunk.

  The next day comes with the expected hangover and, after OD’ing on aspirin and coffee, I leave my house for brunch with some sad soon to be ex-coworkers. I pretty much forget about the bad night of Grouponing until I get a call from an unfamiliar number on the way home from the restaurant.

  “Do you remember me?” Again she skips the usual greeting. And it’s because of this more than the sound of her voice that I remember who she is.

  But this doesn’t mean I know how to respond. “What?”

  “Oh, you don’t remember. That’s too bad.” Her voice comes out low and amused, not at all insulted. “Are you free tonight? I’d like the chance to stimulate your memory.”

  Stopped at a traffic light, I stare down at the phone with my mouth open. Is this chick for real?

  “How do you even know I’m gay?” I ask, knowing what she was going to say before she says it.

  “That big stud you were with gave me a clue,” she says, confirming my assumption. “Mostly when she gave up your number so quickly.” Her low laugh rolls over me through the phone. “So, are you free or will I have to duel with your stud for a few hours of your company?”

  “I...”

  “I’m Scottie, by the way, just in case you haven’t looked at the card I gave you.”

  I’m still speechless and feel a little overwhelmed. Not even the most aggressive stud I dated in the past was ever this...determined. But the butterflies winging through my stomach tell me I’m not completely uninterested.

  Strange.

  A car horn bleats behind me, startling me away from my contemplation of this odd piece of business. As a formality, I stick my middle finger out the car window before putting my foot on the gas to glide through the green light.

  “So, does tonight work for you?” Scottie asks.

  Tonight? “No, not really.” My only plans are to sit in front of the TV in my sweats and have a pending unemployment pity party for one. But that’s not anything to share with a stranger.

  “That’s too bad,” Scottie says, and she doesn’t do a thing to hide her disappointment, although it sounds like she’s laughing at me too. “I’d love to have a weekend to spoil you. Since I’m assuming you work, and I do too, how about next Saturday evening? I’ll drop by your place to pick you up.”

  “No!” My denial is automatic. First of all, I’m not about to invite a stranger over to my place, and two... Just no.

  “Why not? I’m not a mass murderer or anything.”

  “You could be a single murderer for all I know.” The words spring to my lips, probably confirming for her that I had no real reason to say no to the date.

  “I’ll send you my LinkedIn profile once we get off the phone, and my Pinterest so you can see my hobbies in case you want to buy me a present later.” She obviously manages to amuse herself. “Let’s say eight next Saturday night. Text me your address sometime this week. I’ll make a reservation someplace convenient for both of us.”

  “Are you for real?”

  “Absolutely, gorgeous. Although I should be the one to ask that. When I saw you at that stupid restaurant looking so damn good and probably bi or lesbian too, my clit did a little happy dance.”

  I almost bite my tongue in half. She’s talking about clits already? “Listen—”

  “I know, too much too soon, right? It’s okay. I know I can be a bit extra for some, but I’m hoping I’m just right for you.” A low murmur comes through the phone, words I can’t make out but are urgent sounding. “Listen, I have to run, honey. But I’ll call you later.”

  “Wait!” And something happens low in my stomach when I don’t immediately hear dead air, a sign Scottie’s a listener, not just a talker and is interested in what I have to say. “Do you even know my name.”

  “Nailah.”

  The way she says my name jerks my foot on the gas pedal and it’s a miracle I don’t rear-end the car in front of me. I swallow. “Okay. I... I’ll talk with you later then.”

  “That’s a promise.” She hangs up.

  I’m surprised but shouldn’t have been when she calls me the next night. It’s Sunday and I can barely face the reality of going into work the next morning knowing my last day is coming soon. Curled up in my bed, reading, but not really paying attention to the words on the page, I jump and nearly hit myself in the face with the book when the phone rings. I lunge for my cell like a life line, not even looking to see who’s calling.

  “Hello?”

  “You haven’t saved me into your contacts yet? Shame on you. Do I have to punish you for that when I see you next weekend?”

  I blink at my cat perched on the foot of my bed. From the nest he’d made of my cashmere sweater and a few pairs of socks, Osiris lifts his dark head to peer at me with his glowing yellow eyes, blinking back at me before resting his head once more on his paws to contemplate the mysteries of his small universe.

  “Was that too much,” Scottie asks into the resulting silence. But the amusement in her voice lets me know she’s not even a little embarrassed, or deterred. “We can talk about that kind of stuff if you want. What your kinks are, if you have any.” A rustling comes through the phone, like she’s in bed too and rolling around in her sheets. “By the way, I hope I’m not calling you too late.” It’s just past ten, at least two hours away from my bedtime but this latest bombshell from my company has me seeking the comfort of my bed and books much earlier than usual.

  “Would you hang up if I told you it was too late?”

  “Not really, but I’d call you earlier tomorrow night. I know it’s a work night. Or a school night.” She paused. “Do you have kids to put to bed?”

  I almost laugh. “No, no kids. And I live alone.”

  Way to invite a potential killer to drop by and murder me in my sleep. But as I think that, I remember the LinkedIn profile she’d sent me along with the Pinterest boards filled with Moorish architecture and Japanese bondage techniques; the photos of her pretty craftsman style house in East Point with her standing in front of and inside it. All proof that she had no other intentions than to take me to a nice dinner and possibly fuck me afterward.

  I’m not quite sure I’m on board for the last bit, but something in me responds all too well to her commanding presence on my phone, the way she fearlessly approached me in the restaurant.

  “Oh, good,” she says with a throaty laugh after I basically told her she can come to my condo and murder me without interruption if she ever felt like it. “Now, even though I’m a pushy bitch, I’m not completely inconsiderate. Tell me a bit about yourself, something I can’t find out from stalking you on Facebook, then I’ll let you get your beauty sleep.”

  We end up talking for a long time, letting midnight pass with us still on the phone and playfully discussing the things we liked about our past
lovers, what she wanted from me, what I could expect from her if we went any further than this. Whatever this was.

  I find out she’s bisexual and just as aggressive with her men as she is being with me. That she likes ice cream and always gets it in waffle cones, doesn’t like sports but loves to watch rugby and women’s volleyball for the hot and sweaty bodies on display. And that she’s absolutely dominating in nearly every aspect of her relationships.

  “And I want to seduce you,” she says just before she hangs up the phone. “I know I’m not your usual type, Nailah. But give me the chance to show you that different can be nice.”

  I bite my lip, my hand digging hard into the mattress through my sheets, searching desperately for something stable to hold onto since her words threaten to sweep me away.

  Suffering through a two-year long dry spell, mostly caused by my workaholic tendencies, I am now at the very least willing to go out with her, have a woman wine and dine me, one who thinks I’m worth pursuing. Scottie’s boldness and wicked sense of humor are intoxicating, even though I pretty much already know by the time we sit down to dinner face to face and start to really get to know each other, her lack of swagger and proper set of muscles will kill any of my bourgeoning desire and with it any illusions I have that we can go any further.

  “Okay,” I tell her. “I’ll give different a chance.” Although I’ve never done that before.