Femme Like Her Read online

  Nailah - I figure one of the best ways I can apologize to you is with food. I didn’t mean to make you feel like an afterthought or no thought at all. Give me a second chance to add something good to your life. Seeing you today seemed like the universe’s way of telling me to get my shit together. Call me. Please.

  * * *

  Scottie’s phone number is at the bottom of the card, but I’m not going to use it. This fruit, however, I will eat.

  The paper with her note is soft between my fingers. Dry. Did she order the fruit while I drove away from her in the parking lot yesterday, or did she wait until she got home to do it, thinking carefully about what words would open me up one more time to her powerful but unreliable charm?

  Does she think I’m desperate enough for sex that I’d just say yes to whatever she wants?

  Osiris blinks up at me with his judging eyes. “Whatever. You don’t know.”

  I pluck out one of the flower daisies. My teeth burst through the firm layer of chocolate and into the crisp sweetness of pineapple underneath. Juice floods over my tongue and my eyes flutter closed to savor the mix of bitter chocolate and luscious fruit. I reread her card. Once. Twice. Then ditch it in the kitchen trash.

  I don’t have time for bullshit and, no matter how good this fruit tastes, that’s all I smell on it. Pure Scottie-sized bullshit.

  7

  My card slides with a satisfying “click” into the payment slot of the gas pump. It’s been a long day, with the same office bullshit that doesn’t need mentally rehashing, but I do it anyway. Everything from the break-room gossip about who’s going to get laid off next to the rumor that the pregnant lawyer on our floor has been cheating on her husband with the female accountant across the hall.

  Since I left the office a half an hour ago, my phone’s been blowing up with the latest details of the affair. It takes everybody’s mind off the layoffs, so the chatter on the whole thing has been off the charts.

  As the token office lesbian, the gossips always keep me in the loop if there’s even a whiff of homosexual scandal, so I’ve been bombarded with break-room and bathroom updates all day.

  My phone pings with a new message.

  * * *

  The accountant was the one who blew up the whole thing. She sent the hubby a video of the two of them making out at some women-only spa.

  * * *

  It’s always the quiet ones, I send back to the chat group of office gossips. Because, to be honest, I’m a tiny bit of an office gossip too.

  * * *

  Makes me wonder what you’re getting into, one of the women in the chat replies.

  * * *

  I’ll never tell, I quickly tap out on my phone.

  * * *

  “What’s so funny?”

  I look up. There’s a woman standing on the other side of the gas pump, pulling a wallet from her back pocket. Her smile is bright and inviting but her car is, quite frankly, blazing hot. Reflexively, I reach over to pat Earl so he won’t feel jealous. The car is a Dodge Charger. Wide-bodied and black. The paint sparkles in the sun like someone threw glitter on it before stroking on a fine clear coat. I’ve had my nails painted this color.

  “Life is what’s funny.” I skim my eyes along the Charger one more time. “Nice car, by the way.”

  While in the middle of lifting up the pump, she pauses and looks me over, probably sizing up my work outfit of heels, close-fitting skirt, and frilly blouse. Then glances at Earl. “Thanks. Yours too. Is it a convertible?”

  As if that’s the only cute thing about my baby.

  “Yes.” One of my favorite things about Earl is his hard convertible top. I love the sound of the rain on the roof, the feel of something solid over my head that I can peel back to still drink up the sun.

  “Sweet.” She goes back to pumping her gas, and I finish up then open the door to climb in and drive away. “I don’t suppose a hot girl like you is into racing?”

  Hot girl? As compliments go, it’s not a bad one.

  Of course, I notice she’s attractive and that, from how she dresses, there’s at least a ninety-eight percent chance she’s gay. Starched jeans, button-down shirt rolled up at the elbows, and a discarded tie on the front passenger seat. Her hair is long and thick, a good frame for her masculine face that has a hint of lip gloss for makeup.

  As for racing against other cars, I don’t do it often. But if someone’s going to challenge me, it’s hard for me to say no.

  “Every once in a while.” I shrug.

  Her eyebrow rises. “How about now?”

  A buzz of interest zips through me and clenches my fingers around the edge of the car door. Maybe it’s my imagination, but it feels like Earl heats up under my palm pressed flat against his roof. “Sure. Why not?”

  “I’m Baxter, by the way.” Her grin is flirtatious. Challenging. The kind of woman Pauline would feel intimidated by and purposely try to antagonize into a fight, just to prove she’s more butch.

  I introduce myself, and we shake hands, a quick press of palms, although her touch lingers a bit longer than is strictly friendly. “Good to meet you.”

  Now, usually, I wouldn’t do anything so ridiculous, follow a stranger to some random place to race our cars, but something about her is vaguely familiar, like I’ve seen her out in the real world or on social media, something that says we might have a few friends in common. Plus, I’m a little off balance. The situation with Scottie has me all twisted up. Craving her presence, wanting to accept her gift and her invitation to more, but also not wanting the inevitable pain I see coming along with it.

  So, basically, I hear zero warning bells as I follow Baxter to the racing spot. The site is barely twenty minutes away from the gas station, off a maze of quiet side roads, and separated from the small amount of traffic by a rickety bridge overgrown with weeds.

  We pull into the hidden street, and, as I clear the tall weeds, small rocks crunching under Earl’s tires, I see other cars. First two, then three, and then it’s about ten cars with their doors hanging open, people leaning against car hoods watching Baxter and me drive up.

  Mustangs. Another Camaro. A few Hondas and Acuras. Even an actual red Ferrari.

  Butterflies attack my stomach, and I can’t decide if it’s excitement or nerves. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to see all these people, but I am.

  Most of them are obviously gay. Women in baggy pants and ball caps. A few hot boys in short shorts and cropped tank tops despite the chilly late afternoon. A sympathetic shiver makes my teeth chatter.

  After letting out one last throaty rumble of the engine, Baxter’s Charger rolls to a stop at what looks like the race starting point.

  “So, we have a little audience, huh?” I ask her as I pull Earl alongside her shiny car.

  Another blinding smile from her. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  And if I do, too bad, huh?

  My heart’s beating faster than normal, vibrating my chest under the thin silk blouse. But I’ve faked confidence in more intense situations than this. “A little pressure can be a good thing.” Flashing her my teeth, I jerk my chin toward the other cars. “I hope you’re ready to lose in front of your friends.”

  “Cocky. I like that.” She laughs, then waves when a girl in yoga pants and some kind of workout bra calls out her name. “Want to come meet everyone?”

  I really don’t. The people whose faces I can see don’t look too friendly. This feels too much like a face-off between the cool kids and the new girl in school. My insides twist with anxiety, but I shove down the feeling of discomfort and face Baxter with a careless smile.

  “No. I’ll pass for now.” How weird would it look if I just kept driving after the race was over, speeding away until Baxter and her friends are just dots in my rearview mirror?

  But even as I’m refusing the offer to meet Baxter’s friends, outside-bra girl is walking over to us, her thick hips swinging as she watches Baxter like all that is a show just for her. The jealousy is strong with this one.

  “Hey, Bax. You two going for a race?” she asks, like what we’re doing isn’t as obvious as her jealousy.

  The look she throws my way is full of doubt, like she can’t connect me with my car. Earl seems built for performance and me just for show.

  The girl hugs Baxter. A long and slow press of her thick breasts and thighs against the taller woman’s sleek body. After this X-rated hug, she only moves enough to back her ass into Baxter, who, after a startled little movement, just settles in against the side of her Charger to enjoy the attention.

  “Yeah. I just ran into Nailah and her sweet car at the gas station down the street.” Baxter introduces us, and I almost immediately forget the girl’s name. I’m not in the business of wasting energy on people giving me hate.

  At the girl’s lackluster greeting, Baxter gives me an apologetic look. “We’re here to race. You want to be the flag girl?”

  The girl looks between me and Baxter again, fake lashes shadowing her eyes. “Sure.”

  It’s like the girl’s approach gives everyone else the signal to come over. Soon, a steady trickle of folks comes toward us. They all look at me and Earl with curiosity. Every single one of them is cute in some way, and fashionable. Dramatic makeup. Designer athleisure gear. Salon-fresh hair. The way they look actually reminds me of—

  “Hey, didn’t you used to hang with Raven?” a girl with Bantu knots asks.

  My stomach drops. Of course they would know her.

  “I did.” The words are barely out before Raven herself walks over. My stomach, already at my feet, feels like she’s stomping all over it in her wedged heel Chucks.

  Rounded cheeks. Lashes like mink. A tiny scar high on her cheek from when I accidentally pushed her off a park bench one day a
fter school. In tight gold jeans and a T-shirt ripped to show off her pink lace bra, Raven is still as pretty as the last time I saw her. The day she slammed out of my house and told me never to call her again. After nearly three years, I don’t think about her as often as I used to, but seeing her right now feels like a sharp kick down low.

  Too late, I notice her girlfriend, Chance, tall, muscular and confident, who helped put our friendship into the ground.

  “Nailah.” Raven says my name like it’s an insult. Her normally warm brown eyes are cold and flat. “You still pushing up on other femmes and breaking up relationships?” She looks like she hates me. Still.

  My teeth clench and a coppery taste fills my mouth. The inside of my cheek feels raw and painful from the accidental bite. I’d give anything to be gone from here. Knees shaking, I lean back against Earl’s driver-side door and cross my arms. I may be quivering on the inside, but Mommy didn’t raise a doormat.

  “You still blackmailing women into staying with you?” I snarl back.

  A flinch crosses her face, and, behind her, Chance looks crazy uncomfortable.

  A million years ago, Raven and I were best friends. The “known each other since high school” and “giggling on the phone for hours” type of friends. Me, her, and another self-identified femme. Back when it wasn’t my business, I gave Chance some advice she asked for and have regretted it ever since.

  Chance looks at me now but doesn’t say a word.

  Okay, then.

  “Baxter.” I say the woman’s name firmly enough for her to look at me over her girl’s high pile of hair. “Do you still want to race?”

  “Of course,” Baxter answers, although she’s glancing uncomfortably between me and Raven, like she’d rather be anywhere else.

  Raven curls her lip. “Watch out, Bax. Or she’ll set you up with some stud to fuck you.”

  My already abused stomach flops around like a landed fish, but I give Baxter a bland look.

  Back in the day, Raven and the other girl I ran with were clear and uncompromising in their opinions about what queer girls like us looked like, how we dressed, and who we fucked. I wanted to keep being friends with them, so I followed their rules. I was determined to be their kind of gay girl.

  Until Chance confided in me about wanting to leave behind the casual thing she had with Raven and go after a hot, masculine professor who taught LGBTQ studies at the local private university. Holding on to my own secrets, I told her to go for it. Life was too short to not go after what you want.

  Somehow, Raven found out, and all hell broke loose.

  Suddenly, Chance was an official girlfriend. The professor never mentioned again. And I was out.

  “This is the bitch you told me about?” This comes from the girl leaning on Baxter. She looks at me like she wants to fight and, honestly, that’s my cue to leave.

  Just as Raven spits, “Yes, girl,” I grab Earl’s door handle to slip inside and escape. But a hard shove from behind slams me into the car. An explosion of pain as the door handle rams into my hip.

  “What the fuck?” someone yells out. And another, “She’s going to mess her up!”

  A bolt of anger mixed with fear spins me around in time to see Raven lunging for me. Chance grabs her and holds her back from hitting me again. Shouts and laughter boil up around us. Goosebumps race across my skin and I stumble backward into the car, pummeled by the staring faces, some hostile, others just eager for a show.

  “What’s going on?” Baxter stares between me and Raven.

  But I don’t have an answer for her. My face is hot with embarrassment, but more than anything, I’m just…shocked. I know Raven doesn’t like me anymore, but to go this far?

  Her look is pure hate.

  “Stop it!” Chance shouts in Raven’s ear, but my ex-friend twists in her grip, hair flying and teeth bared.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Raven says, low and mean. “Nobody wants you.”

  My lungs squeeze tight and it’s hard to breathe. God, that hurt. Even after all these years. Even knowing the real reason she says it.

  That seems to snap Baxter out of whatever stupor she was in. “You’re out of order, Raven. I invited her here. With your shitty attitude, right now, she’s more wanted than you are.”

  Everyone’s staring at Raven now. She sobs out a painful-sounding gasp. Typical of her to play the victim after the blowback from the explosions she caused singe her around the edges. As for me, I feel burned to the ground.

  Using Raven’s dramatics as a distraction, I open Earl’s door and slide into the driver’s seat, locking myself in.

  The engine starts with a growl, and the people who were pressing close move back, including Chance, who still has Raven in a tight hold. “Nice meeting you, Baxter. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think we should link up again.”

  Her hand, resting just outside Earl’s open driver-side window, curls into a fist. Regret turns down the corners of her mouth. “Sorry about all this. I really just brought you out here for a race, not drama.”

  “Thanks for the good intentions.” Although I just want to blaze out of there and put all this quickly behind me, I cover her hand with mine, give it a quick squeeze, and smile. “Besides, it’s not like you could’ve beaten me and Earl anyway.”

  She steps back, a slight smile clearing the shadows from her face. “That sounds like a challenge, hot girl. Maybe I’ll catch you another time.”

  “Maybe.” Ignoring the rise of voices among the group, I put Earl in drive and speed away, gravel flying under the tires.

  With every second of the growing distance between me and my former friends, my tight muscles loosen. My jaw unclenches. But leaving them behind isn’t the same thing as escaping the painful memories, or the mingled look of bitterness and resentment on Raven’s face.

  8

  It’s a dream.

  I can feel it in the odd translucence of the buildings huddled close to this narrow street where I walk. The sky is a dark gray without a hint of sun.

  Where am I? Nothing around gives me a clue.

  A streetlamp glows at the end of the alley, and the faint skyline beyond could be anywhere in the world. My footsteps thud against the pavement, the sound lonely and echoing. Goosebumps erupt along my arms and I jerk my head back to look over my shoulder. Something dangerous is out there.

  Okay. It would be really great if I could wake up now. Any minute now.

  But when I close my eyes tight and open them again, the world stays the same.

  The walls of the buildings, insubstantial and nearly transparent, flutter like gossamer curtains in a breeze. A flash of movement. Somebody is coming toward me from the other end of the alley. Who…?

  My heart speeds up. Then stops when a familiar shape steps into the light.

  It’s Scottie.

  Tall. Imposing. And waiting.

  A trick of the light makes it seem like she’s standing on a fashion runway. Even from this distance, the mischief in her eyes is clear. She tilts her chin up, smiles, then slowly turns in a circle.

  The breath flutters in my throat.

  She looks just like the last time I saw her. Green blouse, red stilettos, jeans shorts. But now, the shorts are strip club short, the frayed hem brushing the meatiest curve of each ass cheek. Her lips are pomegranate red. Juicy and plump.

  Watching her, my stomach somersaults with a sudden hunger. Drool wets my tongue. She looks delicious, a lot like the chocolate-covered fruit she sent me, and I feel as hungry as a half-starved wolf who finally has the meal in front of her that she’s always wanted.

  “You don’t need her permission, you know.” Scottie’s words are low, amused.

  “Who are you talking about?” I can play dumb with the best of them, but I already see that Scottie isn’t buying it.

  In real life, I’ve never told her about Raven, but here, I think she knows.

  She walks closer, and the click of her heels against this phantom road is nothing like the empty sound of my own footsteps. It’s strong and decisive. Hypnotic. With every stride, she seems to claim the path for her own. “Nailah, that woman dumped her issues all over you and ran off. When are you going to leave all her shit behind?”