Table of Contents
Other books by Cheyenne Blue
Acknowledgments
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
Epilogue
About Cheyenne Blue
Other Books from Ylva Publishing
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www.ylva-publishing.com
Other books by Cheyenne Blue
Girl Meets Girl Series
Fenced-In-Felix
Not-So-Straight Sue
Never-Tied Nora
To small Australian towns, red wine, and the yoga poses I’m incapable of holding.
And to D. Always.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to the wonderful people at Ylva Publishing, in particular Gill McKnight, JoSelle, Astrid Ohletz, and on this occasion KD Williamson. These people make me think harder and make me laugh. That alone is worth the pain of a thousand misplaced commas. Thanks also to my friend, Marg, for her careful read. I owe you lunch.
Chapter 1
The sun reflected off the window, obscuring the view of the shop inside. Still, Freya was hyperaware of the products on display. She shuffled her feet and coughed, but didn’t move towards the door. In the window, she caught the reflection of Carly’s easy smile, as if she frequented sex toy stores all the time. Freya moved to one side. Now the sun slanted low, slicing through the glass. A mannequin wearing red-and-black, skimpy, lace underwear caught her attention.
“Tasteless,” she muttered.
Carly glanced sideways at her. “I’ve seen worse in the chain stores in Mackay. I think it’s sexy. I’d wear it—if I were ten years younger and ten kilos lighter.”
Freya sniffed. “There is so much inherently wrong with that statement. What you wear shouldn’t be determined by an outside opinion of what looks good. Your self-worth isn’t dependent on another’s approval—”
“Okay, okay.” Carly’s interruption was tempered with a smile. “I didn’t mean it quite like that.” She pointed to a discreet sign in the corner of the window. “‘A woman’s pleasure is in her own hands.’ Clever.”
“Why don’t they just show a purple dildo and be done with it.” Freya took a tiny step towards the shop next door. Her shop.
Carly shrugged. “No doubt there’s some law against it. When did you last see more than lingerie and posters in a sex shop window?”
“I’m not in the habit of looking.” Freya’s voice was riveted steel. “I’m surprised you are.”
“I don’t often.” Carly grabbed Freya’s hand and pulled her back towards the window. “After all, we don’t get much chance living here, do we? The last sex shop I saw was in Brisbane when Andy and I went down for the rugby. But that wasn’t like this—it appeared to cater mostly to men. This one seems different.”
In Freya’s jaundiced opinion, that was like calling a spade a manual digging implement. “It’s all the same. Catering to the baser instincts of men. Objectifying women. Turning them into sex objects.”
Carly turned to face her, and Freya caught the little wrinkle between her eyes. Good. Maybe she was getting through to her friend. This shop was everything she found repellent. Its silver-and-purple paintwork shone garishly in the sun. The wide window showed only the paltry display and a backdrop of black-and-silver cloth blocking the rest of the shop from view. Probably a good thing. Who knew what was behind those folds and artfully arranged drapes? The mannequin was on the left, and the sign Carly had noticed was propped up on the other side. The middle was empty, a blank canvas for… Freya shuddered. What would end up there? She already knew she wouldn’t like it.
Her gaze moved right, to her own shop window. A Woman’s Spirit. She narrowed her eyes and saliva filled her mouth. Even the name of the next-door shop, A Woman’s Pleasure, was offensive, being so similar to her own. Her shop front was tasteful, painted the silver-green of gum leaves. Nothing stopped a passer-by seeing inside; indeed, the wide window drew the gaze inwards to the welcoming warmth of racks of books and tarot cards, to the stands of bright clothes, the shelves of crystals and pottery.
“It’s great that there’s a tenant.” Carly rested her forehead on the glass and shaded her eyes, trying to peer inside. “It’s been a couple of months since Diane moved to the coast. It can’t have been good for your business, having a vacant shop next door.”
Freya snorted. “Better a vacant space than this. Diane’s organic produce shop and mine complemented each other—we got a lot of cross trade. I doubt there’ll be any now.”
“You might be surprised.”
“Unlikely. But it doesn’t matter. This shop won’t be here long. I’m surprised the council approved the permit.” Freya’s gaze shifted to the window, where the permit was taped to the glass. “Maybe I should check that they actually did.”
Carly huffed a breath. “I think you’ll be wasting your time. There’s no way the owner could get away with it in a town as small as Grasstree Flat.”
Freya shrugged. “Maybe that’s what they’re relying on.”
“Honestly, Freya? Drop it. I’m sure it’s fine. Try and give the owner the benefit of the doubt. They’re new in town, it’s a new business. Surely it’s better for you and your shop if they make a success of it.” Amused exasperation tinged Carly’s voice.
In front of the two women, the black-and-silver backdrop twitched, saving Freya from answering. A hand appeared through the gap and placed down some stands, the sort that might support signage or photographs. The hand was tawny, with short, manicured nails. Two silver rings glinted on the fingers.
Carly nudged Freya. “See? A woman owns it.”
“I gathered that already.” Freya pointed to the sign that was already nagging in her head, an irritant not to be forgotten, like a mozzie bite on a hot summer day. “I doubt a man would run a store called ‘A Woman’s Pleasure’.”
“Not necessarily.”
The hand adjusted the position of the stands. A forearm extended through the curtain, then withdrew.
“I’m going to ring the council.”
“And say what?” Carly said in a neutral tone. “That you think the new owner is breaking some law you’re not aware of? The window is tasteful, Frey. I quite like it.”
“It’s only remotely all right now because it’s mostly empty. You wait, that mannequin will only be the start.” Her fingers twitched with the urge to rant some more, but she controlled it. Deep breaths. A slow inhale, hold that breath, and then let the tension of the moment expel in the whoosh of air through her mouth. She would not let this shop get to her.
On Freya’s third exhale, the curtain dividing the window from the rest of the shop was pulled to one side. The owner of the hand came into view. The lighting behind her was dim, only enough to show a smooth-skinned arm, a full shoulder, and the curve of neck and breast. The woman wore a yellow singlet, and a bird’s wing of smooth dark hair hung down, obscuring her face. In the dimly lit shop, she was bronze and sunshine, her top standing out brightly against her dark
skin, a beacon in the shadows.
The woman placed a handful of lingerie in the window. She piled it in a bunch, with no attempt at display. A froth of lace and bright colours mixed with the darker sheen of satin or silk, something smooth and luxurious. She reached behind her and brought out another sign, which she propped on the stand she’d placed earlier: Sensuous Reading for Women.
“Dirty books. Porn.” Freya grasped Carly’s arm as a prelude to urging her away, into the safety of her shop.
The woman in the window straightened and saw them looking. She smiled hugely, her grin spontaneous and infectious under high cheekbones. Carly grinned in response, and Freya’s own lips twitched before she schooled her features back to disapproval. The woman gestured to them with a smile that obviously meant “come inside”.
“Let’s go and have a look. Meet your new neighbour.” Carly took a pace towards the door before Freya could reply.
“Go if you want,” she said. “I have a shop to open.”
“It’s still ten minutes early.” Carly glanced back to the window, where the woman watched them. The smile still graced her face, as though she was amused by their dilemma.
“Got things to do.” Freya stepped into the porch between the two shop entrances and slid her key into her lock.
The two doorways slanted towards each other: Freya’s green door, with the wooden sign stating Welcome, Friend. And on the other side, the as-yet featureless black door of A Woman’s Pleasure. After a beat, Carly followed her in to her shop. Freya flicked the lights on to full and the familiar space calmed her more than any deep breathing could. Her space. Fashioned in a way to soothe her soul, filled with things that nurtured, that calmed, that strengthened. A Woman’s Spirit was an empowering place, one where women could feel secure, could browse and relax in a space where they wouldn’t be rushed, or harried, or cajoled to purchase. Freya walked to the back, past the racks of feminist and spiritual literature, past the displays of crystals and stone jewellery. At the back was clothing from hill tribes in Thailand and Nepal, sourced from suppliers who paid the creators—all women—a fair and living wage, and donated a percent of the profits to ecological projects within the villages. The other side of the room had racks of pottery, hill tribe beadwork, and artwork. Himalayan salt lamps glinted in the light from carefully positioned spotlights. Freya moved past the couches set either side of a low coffee table, to the water urn and flicked the switch to heat it.
“Will you be at class later?” She turned to Carly, her words softening as she looked at her friend.
Carly’s brown hair hung in disordered array over her face. She grinned in response. “Of course. Wouldn’t miss it. I’ll see you later. I better get away now. I promised Andy I’d check on whether the tiles he ordered have arrived.”
“No worries.” Freya stretched up to kiss her on the cheek. “I’m expecting a delivery of tisanes from the new supplier. I’ll save you something good.”
“Thanks. You’re the best.” With a squeeze of Freya’s hand, Carly was gone, bouncing out into the morning sun. The door, with its Indian chimes, banged behind her.
Freya closed her eyes briefly. Carly was her good friend, her best friend, her long-time friend. But sometimes she was over the top. Too bubbly, too accepting, as she skated and danced her way through life. Freya went into the small kitchenette at the rear of the shop. She really needed a cup of tea, and the urn would take far too long to boil. As the kettle built up its head of steam, thoughts of the woman next door intruded. Sex. Porn. The physical lusts of life.
Everything that she avoided. Everything that she tried to rise above.
The kettle boiled. Freya selected a jasmine green tea, poured water into her mug, and went back to her shop. Time to open up for the day.
Just past five, Freya turned the Welcome, Friend sign around and climbed the narrow, rickety stairway to her flat above the shop, stepping past the fourth stair where the dry rot threatened to crumble under her weight. Her cat, Dorcas, greeted her, entwining around her legs in a noisy appeal for love. Freya picked her up and Dorcas snuggled under her chin, purring her appreciation. With the cat balanced on one arm, she made a cup of ginger tea with her free hand.
Freya moved to the front room, where a wide balcony overlooked the street. Grasstree Flat’s main street was quiet at this time of day. After most of the shops closed, before the single pub became busy, there were generally just a few people dashing into the convenience store, walking dogs, or ambling home. She sat on the couch overlooking the street, and Dorcas settled on her lap. For a few minutes, she sipped the spicy tea and watched the late afternoon sun slant down the hill to the main part of town. She lifted a hand in acknowledgment to one of her yoga pupils, but didn’t say anything. Dorcas’s contented rumbling purr and the occasional car driving slowly past were the only sounds.
Until the music started. It wasn’t the blast and blare of a car radio turned loud with the windows down, nor was it particularly unpleasant. The salsa beat was catchy and infectious, a happy tumbling of notes. But it was loud enough that it disturbed Freya’s space, intruded in her peaceful sanctuary.
And it was coming from the flat next door. The flat above that shop. She looked at Dorcas; the tabby didn’t seem disturbed; she continued to knead the cloth of Freya’s loose pants with her claws.
Someone must now be living there. Or maybe someone was renovating it for another purpose. Diane had had a house in Grasstree Flat where she’d lived with her husband and kids, so although she’d used one room of the flat above for an office, she’d never lived there. The after-hours time had always been Freya’s alone.
She sipped her tea and tried to relax into the late afternoon. But it was impossible. The music played on. And then, to make things worse, a loud and off-key voice lifted above the tune, singing in Spanish. Freya waited. Surely, at any moment, a normal person, a considerate person would think of their neighbour, and the fact the wall between the flats was only a single skin of wooden panelling. Queensland houses, especially the older ones, didn’t have the solidity of build that houses further south in the cooler states had.
The music paused, and Freya exhaled in relief. But then a blast of horns led into the next tune, one that was even louder and faster than the previous piece. Tipping Dorcas from her lap, Freya stood and moved to where her balcony adjoined next door’s. A flimsy piece of lattice separated the two spaces. She rested her hands on the railing and leant out so she could see around the lattice to the next balcony.
It was a mess. A confusion of plants in planters and pots were strewn haphazardly across the floor—tomatoes, a jumble of herbs, and some sort of climbing vine. She sniffed. If she looked harder, she’d probably find a couple of dope plants, something that was very definitely not legal. A wicker couch faced the street in front of a low table piled high with boxes, as if the owner had taken the contents and left the empty boxes there to deal with later. No one was in sight, but the music played on, as loud and intrusive as ever.
“Hello,” she called. “Can you hear me?”
No one answered.
“Hello.” Her voice was nearly a shout, but it still didn’t make a dent in the wall of sound. “Can you turn the music down. Now.”
Still no response. Freya clenched her jaw and stalked back to her own front room. She raised her fist and banged on the wooden wall, once, twice, a third time. The singer next door paused. Freya waited for her to get the hint and turn the music down, but after a few moments, the singing resumed.
The insensitivity of it. Just what she would expect from someone who ran a sex shop. Just what she would expect from someone with no care or concern for people or community. She raised her fist again and banged on the wall in an irregular rhythm, not stopping until first the singing stopped, and then—blessedly—the music was turned down. Freya waited for it to cease completely, and when it didn
’t, she banged again.
This time, the hint was taken and the noise stopped in mid-note.
Chapter 2
Lily hummed under her breath as she put the finishing touches on a display and stood back to assess the impact. By law, customers had to walk around a partition to access the shop, but once inside, they would see that this was very different to the usual sex shop. There were no wall racks holding sealed sex toys, displayed with all the finesse of kitchen utensils. No displays of porno magazines in plastic wrappings, or cardboard boxes containing life-size blow-up dolls, their pink mouths permanently puckered to take a cock. Walking into the average sex shop was like walking into a tacky discount store. But, it seemed, that sterile, functional sort of atmosphere was what the average customer wanted. The average male customer, that is.
Lily’s previous store had been exactly like that. She’d managed a busy sex shop in Sydney’s Kings Cross. Turnover was brisk, but the average punter stayed only a few minutes. They’d swaggered in, or shuffled furtively, browsed the shelves, swept something up, paid, and then left as fast as they could. She’d dealt with groups of giggling women on hens’ nights and the bluster and bravado of blokes let loose from the pub. She had more shoplifters each day than the average supermarket got in a week, and more underage kids trying to sneak in than to any suburban pub on a Friday night.
But A Woman’s Pleasure was her store and things were different. The shop was warm and welcoming, almost cosy. Warm lighting, rather than the harsh glare of fluorescent, illuminated sunny tones. The polished floorboards were springy underfoot—a remnant from the previous tenant. Lily had painted the walls a soft yellow, and the side windows had blue blinds. She moved to where four slouchy chairs faced each other across a low table and rearranged the books and leaflets piled on the table—quirky, humorous, educational, or informative brochures, aimed at women across the gender and sexual-identity spectrum. It was the sort of place two friends would sit and share confidences. No dirty sniggers would be allowed in this place. And certainly, no men intimidating female customers, making asinine comments about how their own equipment and charm were far better than any vibrator.
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