by CF Frizzell
Table of Contents
Synopsis
By the Author
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Epilogue
About the Author
Books Available From Bold Strokes Books
Synopsis
Shay Maguire doesn’t realize how much of a fresh start she wants until she meets local newspaper editor Mel Baker in rural Tomson, Montana. But can she swallow being on the “dark side” of a town-wide development controversy if Mel sees her as the enemy? Jeopardizing revenue with her anti-development crusade, Mel earns Shay’s respect and empathy, but frustration mounts when Shay learns fear of devastating financial loss keeps Mel from revealing her lesbianism.
What Shay doesn’t know is that Mel’s life is controlled by a much stronger family secret. With both her newspaper and her love hanging in the balance, Mel is put to the test. Should she stand her ground? And will Shay still be there when the dust settles?
Exchange
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Exchange
© 2016 By CF Frizzell. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-680-7
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: July 2016
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Cindy Cresap
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design By Melody Pond
By the Author
Stick McLaughlin: The Prohibition Years
Exchange
Acknowledgments
There’s a substantial tale behind every novel, and Exchange has a healthy one, but none of it would have led to an ISBN number without the encouragement (and yes, the insistence) of Bold Strokes Books. Thank you to publisher Radclyffe and her ace admin, Sandy Lowe, for their dedication to our romance genre and their faith in my attempt to do it justice.
I’m indebted to editor Cindy Cresap for her patience and meticulous eye in helping craft this story, which, no doubt, landed on her busy desk like a twenty-pound hunk of clay.
Exchange is what happens when two people discover their hearts so aligned, there is no turning back, and only braving the consequences will enable their life together. It’s also a story that hits close to home, not only for my new wife and me, but for many who seek their own “happily ever after.” If you’re one of them, reading this now, I thank you for giving Exchange a deeper look, and I sincerely hope it lightens your heart.
In keeping with the story, let it be written in headlines that my better half, Kathy, deserves credit for this novel. Unquestionably, without her devotion and courage, Exchange simply never would have happened. XOX
For Kathy.
We never dreamed “bus buddies” would someday exchange vows.
Together, everything is possible.
Love you, always.
Chapter One
Shay Maguire emerged from the dance floor throng, spent and overheated, and returned to her seat at the bar. She shook her head at her old friend Coby’s smirk. “What? I didn’t cruise sixteen hundred miles to get laid, for Christ’s sake.” She wiped her face with a cocktail napkin.
“Uh-huh.” Coby held out her bare wrist and checked the time on an invisible watch. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“Shit. Montana women are tireless.”
“I think you must’ve set a record. She followed you into the ladies’ room and you were out in a flash—and back dancing with someone else. You dog.”
Shay frowned and drank what was left of her beer. “I wasn’t interested in ‘dancing’ in the restroom.”
“God. Remember the old days? Age must be catching up to us.”
“I’ve developed a healthy respect for that ‘four-oh’ on the horizon.”
“Eh. There’s no reason you can’t enjoy being single again.”
Shay glanced back at the lively dance floor. “I’ve got nothing against light and flirty, but no hookups. Now it’s all about bigger, adult decisions.”
“Well, I’m glad that common sense brought you out here and might make you stay.” Coby sighed dreamily toward the bartender, her partner, Misty. “God, she took me by storm, so you never know what might happen. I’m just saying.”
Shay shrugged and raised her empty bottle. “Another round, please, Ms. Misty. Colder the better.” She watched her step to the ice chest and reach in, the form-fitting black leggings outlining an alluring figure. “Misty’s just a doll, you know. It amazes me that a low-life musician like you ever landed a lady so fine.”
Coby slung an arm around her shoulders. “Goes back to our natural Boston-bred charm, old pal. Misty and I clicked and something said ‘stay,’ so I did. Same can happen to you.”
“Right. I really am serious about starting over, you know, getting down to business.”
Misty wiped ice chips off their bottles. “Coldest ice in the territory.” She winked at Shay. “You’re a popular commodity on the dance floor tonight.”
“Hell, it’s been ages since I spent any time on a dance floor. I’ll pay for it tomorrow, I’m sure.”
“We’ll whip her into shape,” Coby assured Misty.
“Well, your secret’s safe with us.” Misty leaned forward slightly. “From where I stand, the ladies love your leather.”
Shay tilted her head in doubt at the compliment, at herself. Black leather hugged her from hips to boots with that flushed satin texture of flesh, a second-skin-tight that forced nerve endings to the surface and detailed her ass, thigh, and calf muscles. She’d been uncertain, selecting leather for her first night at the Exchange, the bar Misty owned and operated, but everything about coming to the quaint little town of Tomson had screamed “change,” so she went for it.
“Where do all these lesbians come from? It’s just miles of nothing around here. I didn’t expect this.”
“They come from all over,” Coby said. “Now and then, some locals will stop by for a drink, to dance…probably just to check us out. But in general, folks don’t interact with the nighttime clientele. The sidewalks
roll up at six o’clock and we’re surrounded by businesses, so it all works out. No neighbors complaining about the parking or the music.”
Misty beamed proudly. “We’re a very popular wireless café by day and very gay-friendly dance lounge by night. Personally, though, I love that we’ve cornered the lesbian market. There isn’t a women’s club for at least a hundred miles.”
“And you bought the place.” Shay was still overwhelmed by the concept, admittedly envious.
“Oh, back then, it was no gold mine, believe me, but being the bartender here, I wanted my own shot at it. Plus,” Misty ran a finger along the back of Coby’s hand, “by the time it became available, I had someone in my life who gave me the strength. Dreams do come true sometimes.”
Shay sat back. Making those dreams last was a different battle because just finding the courage was tough.
“It can be done,” Coby said quietly, as if reading Shay’s mind. “You were a huge success in Chicago, so you’ve done it already. You can again if you want.”
“Tomson may be stuck in its ways, not quick to change,” Misty added, “but people generally are very supportive of that entrepreneurial spirit. I think it comes with the territory. You’ll see.”
Shay wondered how “supportive” townspeople would be of her, the dyke from Chicago. “At this very moment, I’m not sure what I want, but looking around could be fun.”
Shay figured her “looking around” could start right here. This scene wasn’t really all that unfamiliar, but the vision of her own business, establishing roots in a town like this was.
The Exchange bustled around her, the antique jukebox in the corner supplying an endless string of familiar tunes, and Shay let herself be swept away by the simplicity of it all. It was refreshing and edged that troublesome self-doubt farther from her mind.
“How did we ever make it past twenty-one?” she mused aloud.
“Your college connections,” Coby said before drinking.
“Ah yes. And you were the rowdy rocker attracting all the girls.”
“Jesus, those were wild times.”
“And, boy, have we changed. These women here…I’ll admit they aren’t what I thought I’d find. Not many beer-swigging farm-boy butches in this crowd.”
“They’re in the minority here tonight,” Coby said. “You danced with that blonde in the rhinestones twice, and that little brunette who’s about to wiggle out of her jeans, and the cowgirl in heels—”
“You keeping score? Did you notice that I couldn’t get off the damn dance floor?”
“Sure. Like you’re going to ignore that hot redhead who keeps looking this way, aren’t you?” Coby snickered into her beer.
“I may have had my fill of dancing tonight.”
“Oh, right, Miss Light ’n Flirty.”
Several women cajoled each other at the far end of the bar and drew Shay’s attention from Coby’s teasing. Next to them, an athletic-looking woman in a Dodgers ball cap and faded rose USC T-shirt sat nursing a beer. She filled out the shirt nicely, Shay thought, lost in her prolonged evaluation of the woman’s trim build. Probably a tennis player. The face was angelic, and when she tipped her bottle to drink, sapphire eyes glittered beneath the tiny recessed lights overhead. Mesmerized, Shay watched her absently flick a short, honey-blond ponytail back off her shoulder and survey the many dancers.
Something urged Shay to stand, to take that walk, but the press of a small palm between her shoulders turned her on her stool.
The redhead lowered her lips to Shay’s ear. “I think it’s our turn, don’t you?” She claimed Shay’s hand and led her away.
*
From her seat at the far end of the bar, Melissa Baker watched the latest pairing leave the club hand in hand. This time, however, she didn’t add it to her running list of Exchange success stories. She felt a pang of disappointment at their departure. She’d enjoyed the view for the past two hours, from the moment she’d spotted the good-looking stranger and attached that rugged body in tight leathers to the customized Harley parked out front. The door closed behind them and she turned back to her beer, unable to shake the image from her mind, an image in which she had left with a handsome mystery woman of her own.
“She’s hot, huh?” Misty quipped.
“Mixology school teaches bartenders how to read minds? You do it too well, Misty. And Keary does the same damn thing when you’re not here.”
Misty wiped the bar top around Mel’s beer bottle. “Honey, when she walked out, half the women in the place took on your same look.”
Mel readjusted her ball cap and shook her head at the effect one sexy, mature butch could have on a room full of lesbians. What an interesting psychological article it would make for her newspaper. It would have been amusing if she herself wasn’t helpless to improve her own plight.
“Good dancer,” she conceded.
“Not that you were watching or anything.”
Mel finished her beer, put cash on the bar, and slid off her stool. “Another player.”
“Well, she’s got the look, I’ll give you that.”
“She didn’t waste any time leaving with the redhead.”
Misty pressed her hand atop Mel’s, holding her from leaving. “Why didn’t you ask her to dance or at least talk? Who knows? Might’ve been you leaving with her.”
“Sure.”
“What? You don’t think she noticed you sitting here alone?” Misty struck a dumb face.
“Really, Misty. Stop. I doubt she’d think I was her type. I’m not one of her dancing babes.” She pulled car keys from her pocket and tapped Misty’s hand. “Besides, whatever would I do here in Tomson with that much butch, huh? But thanks for the thought—and the beers. Hope you get out of here at a decent hour tonight.”
Once outside, Mel inhaled hard and let the cool air of the spring night flush the tension from her chest. Misty was a dear friend and had only the best intentions, but damn if her words didn’t churn her orderly mind into a twist. The time spent crowd watching certainly had been relaxing, and she’d only had to decline two dance offers, but these nights always closed with a return to her solitary reality.
She headed up the sidewalk toward her Subaru, the vacancy between two parked cars telling her that the heavily chromed Harley had left. No doubt cruising lazily through the dark, nothing but the two of them pressed warmly together, carefree. Reality was a bummer, even if the woman was a player. Someday, she told herself, you’ll be able to let loose.
At her car door, she paused to scan Main Street, quiet and deserted, shopkeepers she knew like extended family now home asleep at addresses she knew by heart. Quaint and homey Tomson, in many ways still stuck in the nineteen seventies, and that wasn’t necessarily all bad, but at moments like this she wished certain attitudes had advanced with the times.
She settled in behind the wheel, wondering if someday she’d see success from her efforts as editor of the Chronicle, Tomson’s newspaper, if her passion for this little town was well spent. The newspaper gave her purpose, but above all, it lent her the means to actually do something with her life that mattered. She couldn’t afford to let it or the town or herself down.
Mel sighed hard in the silent car, sitting in the driveway now and staring blankly at the homestead she shared with her grandmother. The idea of a late-night rendezvous with that tall, dark-haired stranger from the Exchange sent an odd rush through her system, one she hurriedly dismissed. It irritated her, thoughts of that woman refusing to fade. Oh, the talk that would start. “You see our newspaper editor making time with that butch dyke?” It’d be all over town the next day and half my advertisers would bail. And my life would be destroyed.
She couldn’t afford to be associated with a woman, least of all a woman as androgynous as that stranger. Ill will would spread like the plague and she’d have to woo outraged advertisers and readers with discounts, freebies, and puff pieces to win back their financial and public support, while her pride and joy bled soy ink down the
drain.
It had happened with her arrival as editor six years ago. The simple change in status quo forced her to spend most of that first year scrounging, groveling, and skirting delinquency with bill collectors before things leveled off. It had taken everything she’d had—every ounce of pride and energy and every damn cent in her savings—to publish a professional, community-minded product consistently, week after week, and gain their trust and their business. She remembered too well how her father watched and waited, oversaw her every move, and measured her success from his retirement condo in Miami.
His last remaining tie to Tomson, aside from the family homestead, the Chronicle was her grandfather’s creation, and owning it had been Mel’s driving objective since high school. To her absentee-owner father, who resisted change with every ounce of Tomson’s territorial ancestry, the newspaper was Mel’s litmus test. He dangled it before her optimistic spirit, as if challenging her to snatch it free of his grasp. She knew she would, that she was meant to move it forward, but she agonized over traveling the “straight and narrow” road he demanded. And she had less than one year of “travel” left before her contract with him placed ownership in her hands. Until then, she knew he’d sell the paper out from under her unless she maintained the historic homestead with her grandmother and preserved the conservative, well-respected Baker family reputation—and under no circumstances “shame the family by experimenting with deviant behavior.” He’d backed her into a closet as a grad student and locked it with the Chronicle.
The newspaper was her future, today just as solid and reliable as any townsperson, but, she wondered, what did that say about her heart and soul? Had she effectively sold her soul to the Chronicle? And as for her heart, well, being herself couldn’t even figure into this equation. Not for the foreseeable future, at least.
