Though she and Jennifer hadn’t lasted as a couple, their friendship had remained intact. When Jennifer had explained the theme she planned to explore and asked if she would be willing to participate, Dakota had said yes right away because the subject was personal and she trusted Jennifer to do it justice.
When Dakota caught up with her, Jennifer was affixing a circular orange sticker next to an oversized photograph of Joey with a bike draped over her shoulders like a pair of angel’s wings. The sticker let potential buyers know that the photo had already been purchased.
“I knew that one would be the first to go,” Dakota said.
“I knew it would sell, too,” Jennifer said, giving her a hug, “but it’s hardly the first. Look around.”
When Dakota scanned the room, she spotted orange stickers everywhere. “Seriously?”
“I know, right? I thought we had a chance to do well tonight. Word of mouth has been really good.”
“That explains all the drop-ins. I was afraid they’d only shown up for the free booze.”
“So was I until the sales started piling up. I could tell people were looking forward to the show, but this has surpassed all my expectations. The doors have been open a few minutes and we’re already almost sold out. Thanks for helping me arrange this, by the way. I couldn’t have put this show together if you hadn’t hooked me up with the models. And I definitely wouldn’t be in this setting without your rather substantial investment.”
“I had to put my money somewhere, didn’t I? And it’s not much of a risk when I know it’s going to pay off.”
Dakota was part owner of the gallery, but she didn’t have a hand in its day-to-day operations. She left that part up to Jennifer and her staff. She simply deposited her share of the profits each month and dropped in every once in a while to take a look at the exhibits and make sure everything was running smoothly. The quintessential silent partner. Except, in this case, she was practically mute. The gallery was Jennifer’s baby. Dakota was just a sponsor. The next time she had a chance to go into business with someone, she promised herself, she would do so only if the union felt like a genuine partnership rather than a legal transaction.
Jennifer’s eyes misted. “You always believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself.”
“What can I say? I recognize talent when I see it.” Dakota used her thumb to wipe away Jennifer’s tears. “Where’s Trish?”
Patricia “Trish” Harlan, Jennifer’s partner for the past two years, wasn’t often far from her side. Her stolid personality and serious mien provided the perfect counterpart to Jennifer’s ethereal nature and frequent creative flights of fancy. They were an ideal match—even if the crown of Trish’s head barely reached Jennifer’s shoulder.
“She’s taking a head count to make sure we don’t get in trouble with the fire marshal.”
“Smart move.” If they weren’t over capacity, they had to be pretty darn close. A violation could result in a substantial fine and could also curtail what was turning out to be a wildly successful evening.
“Babe?” Trish’s Westchester-accented voice floated above the growing cacophony as she made her way through the crowd. “Oh, hey, Dakota. What’s up?”
“Speak of the devil and she appears.” Dakota shook Trish’s extended hand. Trish’s favorite literary character was Sherlock Holmes, and her tweed-centric wardrobe often seemed inspired by the fictional private detective. “I was just asking about you.”
“And I’ve been looking for you. Photographers from the Times, the Daily News, and the Post just arrived. They want to get some shots of you and Jennifer standing next to your display. Do you mind?”
Dakota liked the idea of being part of an ensemble rather than the headliner tonight, but she knew the publicity that resulted from her impromptu photo shoot would be good for both the exhibit and the gallery itself. “Lead the way.”
Instinct urged Dakota to reach for the small of Jennifer’s back to guide her through the crowd, but she forced herself to defer to Trish. Looking after Jennifer wasn’t her job. Because she had turned down the opportunity when she had the chance. What would she do the next time the opportunity presented itself? Turn her back on it as she had with Jennifer, or finally rise to the occasion?
As she followed Jennifer and Trish through the crowd, Dakota told herself she wasn’t looking for Grace. Deep down, she knew better. She had been looking for Grace from the moment she had arrived. So far, she hadn’t been able to find what she was looking for. No big surprise where Grace was concerned. After Grace had blown her off two nights ago, she had no idea if Grace even planned to show. Grace’s friend Lynette had promised they would be here, but Grace hadn’t had much to say.
As she smiled for the cameras and tried to provide articulate answers to the reporters’ shouted questions, Dakota felt like she was being watched. Not watched. Consumed. Her skin prickled as if it were on fire. While camera flashes popped like strobe lights, she scanned the room to locate the source of the heat. She found it in Grace’s eyes, which were trained squarely on her.
Grace looked so sexy Dakota couldn’t help but stare. Her black cocktail dress was simple but stunning. The hem fell just above the knee, showing off her gorgeous legs. The sleeves were long but sheer. Dakota longed to feel the contrast between the warmth of Grace’s skin and the coolness of the fabric, but her pride still stung from Grace’s recent rejection.
She and Aaron had had a blast at the street party Thursday night, but she had left the event feeling like Grace was a lost cause. Grace’s presence tonight restored her flickering hopes. She wasn’t ready to give up on Grace just yet, but perhaps it was time to implement a new strategy.
She had already presented her case. As far as she was concerned, there was nothing left to say. Instead of chasing after Grace, she decided to let Grace come to her. A gamble, to be sure, but if it paid off, she could end up hitting the proverbial jackpot.
* * *
Grace had read about art shows and photography exhibits in local newspapers and national magazines, but she had never attended one in person. When she and Lynette walked through the doors of the Stitchfield Gallery, she expected to see a few groups of people sipping wine, munching fancy hors d’oeuvres, and making pithy comments in posh accents while they stared at overpriced photographs and prints. Instead, the crowd was almost as large as the one that had attended the street party in Harlem Thursday night and its makeup was just as varied.
On one side of the room, wealthy patrons of the arts in vintage Chanel mingled with art school students in paint-splattered jeans. On another, street hustlers made deals with stockbrokers in Brooks Brothers suits. And in the middle, well-heeled society types conversed with women who were packing something other than silver spoons.
A gallery employee wearing black latex hot pants, a red bustier, a military-style crew cut, and an impeccably trimmed goatee stood in the entryway holding a bowl filled with several felt-tip markers and dozens of blank paper tags. Instead of the usual Hi, My Name Is, the small purple and white tags were imprinted with Hello, My Pronouns Are.
“Hi, my name’s Sinclair. Please take a tag and provide your preferred pronouns. That way, you won’t be offended if someone makes an inaccurate assumption.”
Grace reached into the bowl and grabbed two tags. The tag affixed to Sinclair’s hairy chest read “ze/hir.” Grace wrote “she/her” on her own tag and handed the pen to Lynette.
“Is this really a thing?” Lynette asked under her breath.
“Just go with the flow, will you?” Grace replied in kind. She dropped the pen in the bowl after Lynette filled in her tag. “Thanks, Sinclair. Love the outfit, by the way. You look fierce.”
“Thank you,” Sinclair said with a grateful grin. “And thanks for coming. I hope you enjoy the show.”
“I’m sure we will.” After Sinclair left to greet another guest, Grace noticed the frown on Lynette’s face. “What’s wrong?”
“The kids I look after are m
ore concerned with where their next meal’s coming from, where they’re going to lay their heads at night, and how they can keep their parents from using them as punching bags than they are about whether someone calls them by the wrong pronoun,” Lynette said after she checked to see if she had stuck her tag on straight. “Kids are embracing their genders and their sexuality at younger and younger ages these days. I think I need to sign up for a training class to make sure I’m properly equipped to help the ones who would rather be called something gender-neutral rather than gender-specific.”
“Or,” Grace said, remembering the conversation she’d had with Dakota about the very same subject, “you could simply call them by their names.”
“When did you get so enlightened?”
Grace grabbed a cup of wine from a passing cater-waiter’s tray. “I’m embracing my inner millennial. The next thing you know, I’ll become obsessed with having the latest technology and start having random hookups that are solely about physical rather than emotional attachment.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“Yeah, me too.” She hooked her arm around Lynette’s. “Now let’s check out some art.”
The gallery space was filled with exhibits showcasing nearly a dozen women. The exhibits in the large rectangular room were uniform—each featured the model’s name and a quote attributed to them framed by three photographs, two professional ones and an informal one provided by the model—but the subject of each exhibit was anything but.
Grace moved closer to a nearby exhibit featuring a broad-shouldered auto mechanic named Aubrey West. In the first photo, Aubrey’s sinewy forearms were covered in what looked like motor oil, and s/he gripped a battered adjustable wrench like a knight wielding a sword. In the second photo, s/he looked like a greaser from the 1950s. A lit cigarette dangled from hir lips and s/he was wearing motorcycle boots, peg-legged jeans, and a tight white T-shirt with one sleeve rolled up to secure a pack of smokes. The third photo was a grainy eight-by-ten that appeared to have been taken when Aubrey was about ten years old. In it, s/he was holding a plastic pumpkin filled with Halloween candy and s/he was dressed like Elvis Presley in Jailhouse Rock.
Grace read the quote printed at the top of the exhibit. “‘It’s not the appendage that matters. It’s the person attached to it.’”
The next exhibit was similarly eye-catching.
“I don’t care how tired Monica is when she finishes her shift,” Lynette said as she stared at a photo of a woman wearing a leather jacket, skintight jeans, and not much more. “She’s putting in overtime when she gets home.”
Grace winced. “Remember what you said about not wanting to imagine your friends having sex? Ditto.”
“Spoilsport.”
Grace perused a few other exhibits before she tried to find Dakota’s. She didn’t have to search too hard or too long. All she had to do was follow the crowd. Each exhibit seemed to have its fair share of admirers, but only Dakota’s was ringed by a horde of reporters, photographers, and camerapeople. Grace observed the spectacle from her position on the fringe of the crowd.
Just like in the other exhibits, Dakota’s name was printed on the top of the display. The thought-provoking quote attributed to her read, “Gender isn’t about genitals.”
Grace lowered her gaze from Dakota’s self-professed manifesto to the series of photographs arranged beneath it. In the first photograph, Dakota was wearing a gray T-shirt with the words Male Model emblazoned on the front in large black letters. Her thumbs were hooked in the belt loops of her low-slung jeans, giving the viewer a peek at the V-shaped muscle that pointed from her rippled abs to her crotch. She stared at the camera with an almost defiant expression on her angular face. “This is me,” the look seemed to say. “Do you have a problem with that?”
The second photograph was decidedly less serious but just as challenging. In it, Dakota lay on her stomach on a messy bed wearing nothing but a well-positioned sheet that covered her hips but left the tantalizing arch of her back on full display. Her arms were folded in front of her, hiding her breasts from view. Her hair, normally so perfect, was tousled. Tufts of it stuck out in weird angles all over her head. Her eyes were hooded, her smile sly. Her expression this time seemed to say, “You’ve taken enough pictures. Now will you please put the camera down and come back to bed?”
Thursday night, Dakota had referred to Jennifer as a friend. Based on the postcoital photograph on display, Jennifer seemed more like a friend with benefits.
Since the third photograph was smaller, Grace couldn’t see it clearly from where she was standing. She moved closer to get a better look. The photograph, like the ones in the other models’ exhibits, charted an early step in Dakota’s evolution from tomboy to androgynous adult. The picture showed Dakota standing in front of a campfire holding a can of beer in one hand and flipping the bird with the other. Even though she couldn’t have been much older than fifteen, she looked even more like a rock star than the one printed on her oversized T-shirt.
“Dakota, over here! Dakota, this way!”
The photographers calling Dakota’s name drew Grace’s attention from the display itself to the scrum taking place in front of it.
Dakota and a gorgeous redhead were standing with their arms around each other’s waists and smiles on their faces. The redhead’s tag read “she/her”; Dakota’s tag read “whatever I feel like on any given day.” Grace didn’t know if the redhead was Dakota’s date or the photographer who had come up with the idea for the exhibit. Based on the interaction between them and the sexually-charged images on display, the answer to both questions was likely one and the same.
Grace had never seen Dakota look more stunning, either in print or in person. Dakota was wearing a fitted dark blue suit and a colorful button-down shirt. The shirt was unbuttoned halfway to her navel. Depending on your point of view, the striations in her bare chest marked either the rise of her breasts or a set of well-developed pecs.
Grace felt a potent mixture of jealousy and desire. She wanted to undress Dakota. Slide her hands inside Dakota’s expensive designer clothes and slowly unwrap her like a treasured gift. She wanted to tell the redhead to get away from Dakota and stop touching her in such a familiar way because Dakota was hers. Then she wanted to push her way through the crowd, pull Dakota’s mouth down to hers, and stake her claim. But how could she do either when she kept telling everyone who would listen—including herself—that Dakota wasn’t her type? When Dakota kept saying she was built for one-night stands, not relationships.
Dakota might not have been what Grace was looking for, but in this setting—in that suit—she was all Grace could see. The realization shook Grace to her core.
That was the moment Dakota turned and looked at her. Grace saw raw hunger etched on Dakota’s face. Felt it in her own gaze. As Dakota stared at her as if she were the only woman in the room, Grace no longer doubted her feelings. No matter how often or how adamantly she tried to deny it, she wanted Dakota Lane. Whether for one night or the rest of their lives, the duration no longer mattered. She wanted to be with her. Now. Tonight.
She moved forward, caught up in the combined momentum of the swell of the crowd and the emotions churning inside her. A hand gripped her arm as if offering her a lifeline.
“Grace, hi.” She turned to see Joey and Whitney standing in front of her. “Dakota said you might be here tonight,” Joey said, releasing her grip on her arm. “I thought we might have missed you.”
“No, we just got here a few minutes ago. This is my friend Lynette Walker. Lynette, I’d like you to meet Joey Palallos and Whitney Robbins. They’re friends of Dakota’s. Joey owns a bicycle shop in Williamsburg and Whitney runs a bar slash restaurant in the same building.”
“Joey’s also one of the models on display tonight,” Whitney said proudly.
“So I heard,” Grace said after Lynette, Joey, and Whitney exchanged pleasantries. “I haven’t had a chance to view everything yet, but I love what I’ve seen so fa
r.” She craned her neck as she sneaked a peek at the rest of the exhibits. “Where’s yours?”
“I’ll show you,” Whitney said.
Joey begged off. “I’ve stared at my own image long enough for one night. You guys go ahead. I’m going to find the bathroom, then refill our drinks. Since everyone’s staring at Dakota right now, neither line should be too long.”
“Do you want me to go with you?” Whitney asked with obvious concern.
“I think I should be okay here, babe.”
“Are you sure?”
“When she and Jennifer were remodeling this place, Dakota insisted on unisex bathrooms. Much less room for confusion that way.” Whitney still didn’t look convinced, so Joey took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up to you in a few.”
Whitney watched Joey make her way through the crowd. “Logic says she should be safe in a setting like this, but I can’t help but worry. I have to accompany her to the bathroom most of the time to vouch that she hasn’t wandered into the wrong one by mistake or on purpose. Most people fixate on her short hair and the way she dresses and assume she’s a teenage boy playing a prank.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Lynette said. “My partner Monica goes through similar hassles all the time. She’s a guard at Rikers, a job that requires her to subvert every ounce of her femininity in order to earn the inmates’ respect. Even though she’s almost as stacked as Dolly Parton, she still gets sideways glances when she uses a public restroom while she’s in uniform.”
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