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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!