Lightning Strikes Read online

  “Do you think you’ll start dating again? Do you think you might date a man, assuming the right one came along?”

  She would have given anything to have the guts to reply, Mom, how about if things don’t work out with Dad, I take you to First Friday at the Rainbow and hook you up with a nice woman? Instead, she said, “No, Mom. I’ll be single for a while, anyhow.”

  Her mother changed the subject to something that interested her and didn’t smell of homosexuality or anything she couldn’t brag about at the Junior League. They ended the conversation so Sylvia could go cook dinner. Exhausted, somewhat accomplished, and now genuinely irritated, Parker crashed on the couch, her tablet falling into the crease between the cushions.

  *

  Parker woke up Saturday morning well rested and decided she would sleep on the couch until she moved. The bedroom was just a sad place she wanted to shutter in her mind. She had convinced Allen to tour real estate offerings with her and was on the porch by nine a.m. when his new black Jetta glided down Dartmouth Street.

  Parker trotted to the car with a small purse and a sheaf of her notes. She recounted the therapy-inducing conversation with her mother en route to her first house selection.

  “Lord,” Allen said. “What is with these people? If we only got so freaking uptight about starvation and animal abuse, the world would be a different place.”

  “Preaching to the choir, sister.” Parker raised her palms in resignation. “I’ve stopped trying to fix it. She’s never going to see how it affects everything. I can’t even imagine having a mom who acted like my life was normal.”

  “Trust me, I see these parents marching with PFLAG and they make no sense to me. Aliens in tutus would seem more normal in my mind,” Allen said.

  They laughed at their common experience. Parker knew Allen had once asked his mom if she would feel better if he was a straight felon instead of a gay architect. She had replied that since being a felon wouldn’t have been a choice, she would be able to explain that to her friends.

  The day melted away as Allen drove up and down the streets of Parker’s target neighborhoods—she wanted old character, with a worn, industrial feel. Not a very big place and certainly not normal. Dayne’s delivery of the word had stuck in her heart like a dagger. She had never craved normal and wouldn’t settle for it again.

  Parker spotted a commercial real estate sign advertising what appeared to be a garage space. The buildings around it and attached to it seemed to be nicely rehabilitated but the drab corner caught Parker’s eye as she pointed it out to Allen. He slowed as she bounded out of the car and began to record the telephone number from the sign.

  She located a ground-floor window and cupped her hands to see through the grime covering the small metal-framed square of glass. She took in a large open and cluttered warehouse area with ugly concrete posts, peeling walls, and cement floors. A rusty black metal staircase led to what was apparently a loft space. It was abandoned and ugly and absolutely perfect.

  Allen looked horrified as she practically skipped back to the car. She rushed him through a recount of what she had seen and dragged him back for a firsthand view. She could imagine polishing the floors, stripping the walls, and installing a bright industrial kitchen. She could paint and hang huge canvases taking advantage of the incredibly high ceilings. It was the perfect space to start her life over.

  Allen placed a hand on her shoulder, in an apparent effort to ground her. Laughing, he said, “Why don’t you call the number before you redecorate, dear.”

  Despite his reasonable warning, her heart knew this little disaster would be where she would start over. Allen glanced back through the window while she dialed. She could see the wheels of his architect brain were already turning.

  The commercial broker, Bryant Markley, was just around the corner and willing to show the property immediately. He explained that it was the last of the units in the live-work space yet to be remodeled, and since the interior condition was barely considered fair, it would be sold as is. Parker told him she didn’t care.

  Markley led them through a glass door into a foyer. He entered a code and an audible thunk indicated the release of the heavy door magnet. He explained that the property could only be marketed as a studio since there were no closets or walls separating the loft space.

  As they walked through the hall, Parker noticed a sign with the letters D.R.I.F.T. hanging by the door marked with an A. Markley didn’t know what kind of business it was but that the owner had created a state-of-the-art studio in the upstairs space including soundproofing, so whatever it was, she wouldn’t need to be concerned about noise. He pointed out the other two units belonging to a lawyer’s office and a CPA firm.

  The unit’s front door was part of the original construction, a giant oak slider on a barn track which had been moved to the common hallway during the restructure. The broker stepped outside to take a call as Parker rushed into the space.

  “Remember, try not to fall in love with everything. And even if you do, don’t tell him,” Allen whispered.

  “I promise,” Parker agreed, not really hearing him. She glanced around the warehouse; the soaring twenty-foot ceilings made it seem huge. Slivers of old grime and paint stained the ancient concrete floors which matched the bubbling colors clinging inconsistently to the old brick walls. Parker launched herself up the metal stairs and stood in an open loft space which still managed eight-foot ceilings.

  She pictured modern furniture and a closet spanning the space near the wretched old bathroom. Under the loft she heard Allen appraising the would-be kitchen space and walking off a corner for a laundry closet with the agent. Allen remarked that the industrial panel already allowed for the hookups and adding in-unit laundry would be an easy fix. Parker smiled when she knew he was fully on board.

  She hung herself half over the metal loft railing, and called to Allen, “Well? Can we make it work?” She pulled a goofy face that made him laugh.

  “Well, what are you waiting for, girlfriend? Get down here and buy a broken-down garage.”

  She clapped and did a mini-dance and she rushed down the stairs to Markley, who chuckled at her enthusiasm. She took only seconds to offer nearly list, still significantly below market for the area, cheerfully presenting an earnest money check for 950 Meridian Street, Unit D.

  As they watched the broker drive away, Parker offered Allen a stunned stare and giggled. “What did I just do?”

  Allen reassured her that he loved it and that they would make it fabulous, in his best lispy gay-designer voice.

  *

  Closing day came quickly and Parker watched her belongings hefted into a storage cube sitting oddly at the curb on Dartmouth. It would be hauled off and delivered to the warehouse over the weekend.

  By afternoon, Parker was pulling her suitcase up to her friends’ Victorian. She stood in front of the mass of clothes and pawed through the pile for something to wear for the planned celebration. Parker selected casual black slacks and a cinched royal blue button up. She had lost about eleven pounds since the storm blew through her life, so selecting from the skinny section of her closet was like a shopping trip. But she changed her mind and ditched the slacks when she came across her once favorite and expensive designer jeans, which fit her like a glove.

  The straight hem of the sleeveless shirt skimmed just below the waist of the jeans and just above the embellished pockets. She appraised her small butt in the mirror behind the door. “Not bad,” she mused and laughed to herself. Happy with the effect and realizing it was the first time she had cared in a long time, she sprayed her favorite perfume under her hair and on her wrists. She applied makeup with a slightly heavier hand than she would have for work functions; after all, this was her coming out party.

  Allen walked by. “Wow! You look gorgeous,” he gushed, giving her a side hug.

  She rolled her eyes and slid into her favorite three-inch heels. “You’re my best friend, Biscuit, you have to say that.”

 
“No, I don’t. I’ve seen you look perfectly awful and I just change the subject.” Parker punched his upper arm playfully, and he carried her bag outside. They dropped Parker’s car at the warehouse and headed over to meet the girls.

  Chapter Three

  Mack and Jen were sitting at a round six top and waved happily as Parker came through the door with Allen and Richard. Color and décor leaning toward the tacky engulfed the small establishment which bounced with traditional Mexican music.

  When the odd place setting was swept away highlighting an uneven number of guests, it occurred to Parker that being single was a big adjustment socially. Suddenly your plus one went missing and social events were now solo, where you felt very alone or on the prowl, neither of which she was, she reminded herself confidently.

  No women for her for a while, she silently pledged. A long while. Parker told the group excitedly about the new warehouse space. Her friends were obviously happy to watch her animate over dinner—a first in months. The meal finished with fried ice cream and overstuffed groans; however, Parker suddenly felt like she could breathe.

  The assembly leisurely wandered to the front door after paying the checks. Mack and Jen picked up Parker’s tab despite her fervent objections.

  “We haven’t given you a congratulations present,” Mack announced. Parker gratefully accepted the gift without asking for clarification of whether they were congratulating her for leaving a cheating wife or buying a new home.

  They walked the short block to the Pride Lounge, TPL to the regulars, for drinks and the inevitable people watching. The dark bar with its old-style marquis had been there for years, under many different names. It had always been a gay bar save one brief miscalculation by a DC businessman who’d bought the bar and intended to cater to a straight, over-forty clientele who would participate in salsa lessons and line-dancing groups. Apparently the gay community had not gotten the memo, or they just weren’t willing to read it. Regardless, the only people who showed up to dance at the new place were the old gay crowd.

  The dark wood bar ran down half of the left side of the narrow building, leaving room at the back for a small makeshift dance floor and a hallway to single stall bathrooms, all gender neutral, deferring to those not willing to jump on the gender binary and pick a side. Parker appraised the scarce crowd dribbling in just after eight p.m. Several couples, obviously regulars, lined the bar and chatted up the bartender.

  Parker surveyed a small group of women wearing plaid shirts and various iterations of cargo pants, sharing beers and a dartboard in the back corner. Parker’s crowd claimed the only remaining table at the side of the bar, near the dance floor. Parker threw in a ten when Richard rose to order a round of drinks. She relaxed into an incredibly good feeling of accomplishment and freedom while she appraised the crowd.

  Parker stuck to her customary red wine and grimaced when Richard landed it in front of her, secretly lamenting the cheap plastic cup.

  Two hours later, the bar had filled to capacity. Lights dimmed and the noise swelled. Parker saw clearly that at least a few singles had come shopping for an opportunity, and she watched the game they played for too few options.

  Parker felt tipsy and wished she had eschewed the third hard plastic cup of wine. As she finished the last sip and stood to ask the bartender for a glass of ice water, she heard a loud cheer as “Y.M.C.A.” began to play and her four friends joined in the raucous choreographed dance with the throngs of other lounge patrons. She turned back to the table and fussed with the abandoned empty cups, dragging a napkin across small spills. She hoped to look busy enough to avoid participating.

  *

  Sydney Hyatt guided her black Porsche 911 into a miraculously vacant spot behind the Pride Lounge. Syd found herself there several nights a week, visiting with friends or making new ones, maybe.

  She climbed out of the seat and, at a full six feet, towered over the convertible sports car. An answering chirp confirmed the locks engaged before she pushed the fob into her front pocket. She slid her long fingers into the waist of her jeans and behind the thick black belt pulling her T-shirt down to re-tuck it. Running her fingers through her very short black hair, she glanced at the reflection of the fresh cut in the car’s tinted vent window, the same cut her mother hated. Her mother never missed an opportunity to tell her she looked butch. Sydney mused that was the nicest thing she had said in a long time. Given she had looked more like a guy than a girl since she was a toddler, it was also fairly redundant. Syd thought to herself that her invitation to her mother’s Thanksgiving dinner would be lost in the mail again this year, and that she wasn’t at all sad about that.

  Syd strode confidently into her second home, hearing several voices call her name over the music. She high-fived Tom and Adam who sat at the front of the bar and locked eyes with Steve, the bartender and her very good friend. After a long week and a lengthy work project, Syd planned to unwind with a double scotch and an anonymous woman pressed against her on the dance floor.

  Syd had met Steve in a first-year computer engineering class. He’d dropped out after his second semester to pursue an artist named Matt, and Sydney had stayed in class to pursue an audio-visual engineering degree.

  After fifteen years, the degree had paid off when she opened her own business, turning her once-casual hobby into a thriving entity and financial freedom. Syd used her talents to assist various law enforcement groups, attorneys, and non-profit justice groups digitally reenact crimes and crime scenes for judges and juries.

  Steve had caught Matt in bed with his sister’s boyfriend, and he’d parlayed that into an ugly, sordid, and messy story of heartbreak and mistrust. After wallowing for what seemed like years, Steve landed the Pride Lounge bartending job, allowing him to flirt from a distance and turn down offers of any potential relationships from a safe place behind the bar.

  Syd noticed Tim and Mike at the far end of the long expanse. She walked slowly toward them while scanning the crowd for old friends, new prospects, and women high on her list of people to avoid. Sydney knew she had a well-earned reputation for seducing women into bed after one drink and a few dances. Problems only arose when they failed to treat the encounter as casually as she had intended. When the night’s conquest expected a leisurely breakfast and a second date, she cut ties, blocked numbers, and feigned alcohol-related amnesia, even though she never had enough scotch to get even slightly tipsy.

  On rare occasions when she would run into scorned one-nighters before the memories had completely faded, she would hide out in Steve’s office, emerging only when she got the all-clear text from her protective wingman.

  Not my fault, she thought, knowing she had never promised anything more to any woman she met at the bar.

  After years of watching her mother berate her father into an early grave, Syd had vowed at a young age that she wanted nothing to do with relationships. But for a nineteen-month exception with an older woman many years ago, a little libido relief was all she was after. It wasn’t like she didn’t deliver skills in return. She had been told more than a few times how good she was at the art of driving a woman to a very contented place.

  When her scan produced no impending hazards, Syd made it over to a stool near Dominic and his twink of the week. Steve caught her eye as he slid a double scotch down the length of the thick varnished top where she caught it easily, replacing it with her credit card.

  She rescanned the bar hoping to locate the next Ms. Hyatt of the moment. Her gaze landed on a petite brunette with a drop-dead figure nervously rearranging drinks on her table and wiping seemingly imaginary spills. Syd filed her away as an interesting prospect.

  *

  Parker noticed the club’s door open and admit an unusually tall, particularly androgynous woman. She sported military-short black hair that was a bit longer at the top, with the sides and back more closely cut. Her relaxed manner and walk were confident and her affect supremely comfortable. The woman crossed to the front end of the bar, just inside the door
, where she high-fived the male couple seated there. A Cheers-style greeting was lofted across the lounge as several patrons yelled, “What’s up, Syd?”

  She nodded to the bartender who raised his full hands in an awkward acknowledgment that her drink was already in the works. She strolled easily to the opposite end of the bar and caught a glass half full of amber liquid that he slid down the top at her. She nodded in thanks over the loud music and held up the black Amex she was exchanging for her order before dropping it on the worn surface.

  She turned to scan the bar and the dance floor, perhaps looking for her friends or her date. Parker watched her before realizing she was staring. She appraised her dark jeans and tight black T-shirt which showed off her trim waist and obvious musculature. Her arms seemed to fight the fabric of her sleeves while the jeans molded perfectly to her sculpted thighs.

  As the new arrival—Syd—spoke with a series of partiers, Parker quickly resumed moving the empties to the edge of her table. When she turned back toward the bar to order another water, she collided with Syd, who she was sure would have passed her by now. Parker’s shoulder was now jockeying for position with Syd’s well-defined biceps.

  Parker spun quickly when she felt the impact. She looked up into the stranger’s dark eyes and flushed. She fought for breath, somehow unable to break from the very shadowy stare or cocky expression. Syd leaned in toward Parker. “Hey, sorry, honey, my fault.”

  Parker, in an effort to recover, said, “No, it was my fault. I’m sorry I, uh, got in your way.” She felt silly stuttering at this woman with the deep husky voice.

  Syd chuckled and squeezed Parker’s shoulder as she passed slowly behind her. “No worries, we’re all good.” Parker caught her breath again as she winked playfully at her. The latest song ended, giving way to a brief bout of voices yelling unlikely requests at the DJ.