Chapter 2

Ira

Lara Anderssen walks through the door, dressed like a runway model with hair as perfect as a movie star's. That's not unusual for the women around here, but you have to understand that Lara is about forty, a relatively young age for someone with so much power in this region.

I mention what a bombshell she is with her hip-hugging red pencil skirt and flowing salon-blond hair because the first thing she does is wink at me before extending her hand to shake my father's. Lara is an infamous flirt, and she knows how to deck a man right in the groin.

So does her spouse, Kennedy Anderssen, a fellow androgyne barely older than her and as good-looking. I shouldn't feel embarrassed. They're notorious swingers who even share a mistress if the rumors I hear are true. Of course, they're going to flirt with me. I'm not into my fellow non-binary mascs, but even I blush when Kennedy Anderssen, carrying herself much taller than her petite stature should allow, flashes me a man-eating smile. Look, I have a college friend who said she and Kennedy got so drunk one night that they may have searched for the center of each other's lollipops. I know what I'm up against. We're talking about a woman who marches into a room, declares her preference for feminine pronouns, and proceeds to turn the words "butch" and "gender-fluid" on their heads. She wants everyone so confused that all they know is they want her. Male, female, neither or in-between, she doesn't care. Like, I'm intimidated, okay? I can't even imagine!

These two gods of the Pantheon of poly-pansexual debauchery are currently the richest real estate couple in the area. Classic love story of two big-shot real estate salespeople ending their rivalry to join forces and take over the world – and a few asses, if I believe this same friend.

My dad's got it in his head that we're going to buy The Ace from them. Turn it into the best historical hotel this state has ever seen. That's quite a feat when you consider how many other famous hotels there are around here that are more than a century old. May sound like babies to you Brits, but as Americans, we get excited by anything older than our grandparents.

"Donovan. Ira." We trade handshakes with the Anderssens, my father's knees creaking as he forces himself to stand up. I tell the man he needs to retire to the Bahamas, or maybe San Diego if he insists, but he won't hear it. I don't think he's that enamored with business anymore – I simply suspect that he doesn't think I'm ready to take over everything. That and he doesn't want his ex-wife to get more of her hands on our assets.

"Lara," I say with a stupid grin as if I can't help myself around a pretty woman like her. "Lovely to see you again."

Her grip tightens around my hand. Well, I'm in trouble.

Behind me, Kathleen Allen chokes on her coffee. I had forgotten that she was here…

Wait. Wait. I see that look on your face. What the fuck has she been saying about me? I know you've been talking to her.

What!

Hang on. Back the fuck up. Why am I not surprised that she brought that up in her conversation with you? Is that the first thing she considers when she thinks of me? When she sees me? That stupid time we tried to hook up in a closet and my Aunt Flow ruined my night?

Uggghh!

I can explain. I will let you know that it was an accident. Back then, my cycle was all out of sorts, and at some point it was hitting me every three weeks instead of four. If I had known… any anticipation at all… my zipper would have never come down! I say this because I assume she thinks I did it on purpose. To get back at her for something petty, probably. We rich kids at Winslow Academy were always doing shit like that. Why would she think differently? Never mind that one of the only acts of medical gender affirmation is getting an IUD specifically to tell Aunt Flow to fuck off for most of the year. She's not invited to my temple anymore.

What? Of course, I remember. How does a horny teenage kid not remember a pretty girl like Kathleen swaying those come-hither hips and sending sex signals with those beautiful blue eyes? I asked her to dance because I wanted to see if she was serious. While we danced, she kept talking about lingerie shopping and her favorite things to do in the bath. I don't remember what I said to invite her into that closet, but the next thing I remember, I had my hands all over her, and…

Well, you know the rest. Apparently.

She's grown quite a bit more since then. I daresay I barely recognize her. She's taller now. Wider hips and bigger breasts she hides beneath designer pantsuits. Her stringy light-brown hair is now completely blond, sometimes bobbed above her shoulder, sometimes pulled back into a long ponytail, but today worn straight and long. Never seen it curled. Too high maintenance for a busy lady like Kathleen.

Her face is thinner, more pronounced. She wears subdued makeup that pops out her features without making them garish. Yeah, lots of people notice those things. Including me.

Because I look at Kathleen Allen. A lot.

Not because I'm plagued with that ugly memory of exposing my reproductive system before I could even get a finger in her, but because she's a beautiful woman. My exact type, honestly. Confident, lipstick femme, can hold her own in a conversation or argument…

Fuck, she's my perfect physical type. I can't help but steal glances at her when we're in the same room. Yes. Physical type.

Emotionally? Ha. Hahahahaha. Ha!

She may be hot, but we are as compatible as peas and gasoline. She was forward and domineering back then. Now it's been amplified times ten.

Shit. She didn't tell you, did she? That she's a Domme?

Yup. Kathleen Allen, that pretty, feminine blonde sitting over there trying to clean up her coffee and not screw up this deal is a Domme. Everyone who would know that, well, knows that.

And I would know.

Because I'm also a Domme.

So, you see, we're not really… compatible.

"Kathleen." Neither Lara nor Kennedy is keen on holding her attention for much longer. No flirting with Kathleen Allen. Well, to be fair, she's not the one involved with the buy, although my father is bringing her in for part of the plan. It's all our money in the deal. Kathleen is here to help convince the Anderssens to sell.

It's kinda funny. The Anderssens are willing to flirt with me, but they completely overlook Kathleen. Guess I'm that irresistible!

Sure enough, the four of us are cornered on one end of the table, our assistants perching with recorders and analog methods of notetaking. I don't have my assistant here with me. Instead, my dad and I are sharing his, a middle-aged woman named Bertha. I kid you not. My mother never allowed my father to have young assistants. Guess why!

And there's Kathleen Allen, sitting by herself – well, with her assistant – down at the far end of the table. It's cute. They look like they're having their own conference about butterflies and ball-busting.

"I hope you realize our hesitations," Lara says twenty minutes into the meeting. Finally, we are cutting to the chase. "The Ace is a staple in the community. One of the reasons we haven't done anything with it is because, quite frankly, we don't want to deal with any backlash that comes with compromising a historical institution, no matter how much help it needs right now. Sure, we could simply sell it to you…" She leans back in her chair, cleavage on full display in her button-up black blouse that isn't really buttoned up. My father is totally looking. "Even if you screw it up, it's our asses people will flay forever. For selling it to you."

"We completely understand." My father, who thinks he's Earth's greatest diplomat, sits up straight and spreads out his hands. You think Kathleen told you that I have a smug face? Nothing compares to my father's. Only he looks like a grandfather now, so people think it's cute. I know the truth. Deep down, he's as capable of being as slimy and cunning as anyone else. Yes, even me. Well, maybe not slimy. "That's why we've brought you the full proposals for you to take home and consider. Ira?"

That's my cue. In my briefcase, I have the full proposals we and the team at my father's office put together over the past few weeks. I display them now, carefully, each sheet of paper impeccably laid out so both Anderssens can see the full picture, so to speak.

"As you can see," I say, keeping my voice steady, "we have put every attention into the details. Wright and Co. are the designers we're working with. Together, we've concocted this historically accurate design. We don't want to update The Ace. We want to take it back in time to its former glory."

The couple glances over the pictures. They exchange looks. Whatever they shared in that second… I have no idea. I don't speak Couple, let alone Married Couple with a Business. It could be good. It could be bad.

It's probably something Kathleen should be paying attention to, but she's knee-deep in her briefcase looking for her part of the project. Before the Anderssens can notice this, I lean in and put my elbow on the table, effectively blocking their view. Never say I don't look out for her. Or my own ass, for that matter.

"These are lovely… sketches." Pursing her lips as if I showed her a clown juggling a litter of puppies, Lara pushes from the drawings with a dramatic sigh. "Doesn't really matter what we think, Mathison. What matters is what the public thinks. The community board."

"You have to admit that it's very true to the original design of the building."

"Sure. And people thought we should bring back bell-bottom pants." Lara shrugs.

Her spouse isn't much more committed. "Besides, there's another part to your plan, isn't there? Something about a local museum. We have to consider that as well. It sounds good on paper, but depending on how it's executed…"

"Ah, yes. I believe Ms. Allen is heading up that end of the bargain." My father motions behind me to the young blonde whispering to her assistant. The plain girl dressed in a plainer sweater dress lets out a squeak and searches through her bags for whatever the hell it is they've misplaced. Probably their designs for the museum, because of course.

"Um…" Kathleen thumbs through a stack of papers but doesn't seem to find what she wants. "Just a second…"

My father has that look on his face. The fake look. The fake look that says, "Kathleen Allen, I'm smiling, but if you don't get your shit together in two seconds I'm firing your ass."

"Wright and Co. is a spectacular design firm." I point to the picture nearest me and make further comments on the aesthetic Houston Wright picked. Everything is decorous, with grays and beiges accentuating the true-to-time-period stone and woodwork that remains in the building. The wood will have to be replaced since the inspector says there's rot. The stone's still good, but Wright understood to keep the wood in the redesign. It will be replaced. Copied, but replaced.

"Found it!" Kathleen slaps a paper on the table. A single paper.

Is she kidding us? She has to be kidding us. Did they even use a designer? It looks like a kindergartener scratched some shit together while waiting for his parents to pick him up from school. The lines aren't straight. The shading is… nonexistent. I'm almost embarrassed for her. Except I can see a look of disappointment on her face…

This is not what she's supposed to show. This is probably the rough draft the designer provided, and someone botched bringing the real thing.

I could scream at her. Except I don't scream. I've picked up my parents' ability to sit and silently judge with a single stare. I hope she feels it burning through her sinew.

Because she might have fucked this all up for us.

The corner of Lara's mouth twitches. "How quaint. I can see the vision coming into play."

Oh, God. Kathleen Allen, I hope you can hear me right now. I hope you know how much you fucked up. I hope you can appreciate that I am sitting between you and my father right now. If my father was close enough to you? He would pull some old-school shit and snatch that crap you call a design draft, crumple it up in his hand, and force your incompetent assistant to eat it.

I know you're better than this. I know what you did for that library out east. Or was it libraries? Doesn't matter. Point is, I know you are better than this. You don't forget things. You hold grudges and still judge a dumbass for her period ten years ago. You're impeccable. You graduated at the top of your high school class because of how organized you are and how much attention you pay to details.

So what the fuck is going on?

And why am I so flustered?

I get it! This is my ass on the line, and I'm embarrassed by extension. Embarrassed for you right now, and embarrassed for my father, who hired you through your father to make this happen. I'm embarrassed for your father. I'm embarrassed for my mother, and she's not even a part of this!

I'm embarrassed for everyone. What a way to go down, Kathleen. What a way.

The Anderssens are gracious people. They may be weirdos, they may be flirtatious jerks, but hey, they're gracious. They're nice enough to overlook this for now because they also know you're better than this. Plus, they want to sell that property and will give us a second chance.

"Tell you what, Mathison," Kennedy says to both my father and me. "We have to talk this over with the community council anyway. We'll arrange for you to make a presentation." She looks at the sorry excuse on the table. "A proper one. It'll be two weeks from now. If they sign off on it, we'll talk numbers."

My father contains a sigh of relief, but I can tell from his twitching arms that he's shaking inside. Watch out, Kathleen. He might come for your throat at this rate. Me? I'm glad this is ending as well as it is. The Anderssens are reasonable. They know this is a mistake. My father only sees incompetence.

I'm going to have to talk him down from this, aren't I? As soon as we're out of here, he's going to launch into a tirade about what a mistake it was to trust your father. You're too young. You're too inexperienced. Your father should be handling this, or at least one of his trusted employees. Not his kid, who is only getting this job because of nepotism. Hey, it was true for me too, a few years ago. But I proved myself, like you have yet to do.

I would give you a hard time, Kathleen, because I love seeing you flustered and being reminded of how far you have to travel until you're ready to play with the big boys. Yet I'm not going to. Not because I'm a better person or something, but because I can see in your baby blues that this is killing you inside. It doesn't matter what I say. It doesn't matter what my father says. We'll only be reaffirming what you already know. You don't need our punishment. Anything you do to yourself will be more than enough.

Because you're a Domme, aren't you, Kathleen? You know how in control you're supposed to be. That's one thing I can sympathize with when it comes to you. So I won't mention this. I will, however, make your life absolutely hell in the days leading up to the presentation in two weeks.

Enjoy that. I will!