Love on the Main Stage (Sapphic Showmance #2)

Prologue

MARY

“Mary, that? Really?” Bea groaned, hand on hip. “I told you—”

“That is my grade five kit!” Bea giggled.

“And yet? You keep it in your wardrobe. You specified to grab a shirt—not which shirt. Also, I’ll remind you that I am doing you a favor, Bea.”

I faced the bathroom mirror of a London club to fix my hair part—our dressing room tonight. An annoying cowlick on one side of my head always made it weird after a few weeks. It stuck up in places I hated—something Bea knew. She sat down her eyeliner and nodded in my direction.

“Let me help. I’ve got product,” Alicia Morrison, Bea’s girlfriend, said.

“I regret letting you give me this undercut. I’m not cool enough for it,” I groaned.

“You look powerful,” Bea said.

“Shut up, Bea!” I sighed, rolling my eyes. “I am not taking cues from a girl who looks like she could do a Philippa Lepley campaign.”

“Who is that?” Alicia Morrison fussed with my hair.

“The one who did Princess Ingrid’s bridal gown,” Bea answered. “The real question is how you know that, Mary?”

“I still couldn’t point the woman out in a crowd, but lord knows I’ve heard all about her damn wedding dress just the same. I am sure when we see it, it won’t be that great. Royal weddings are a joke and I’m sick of hearing about it.”

“I think it will,” Bea swooned.

“Trust me. We can fix this,” Alicia grabbed more product.

I remained doubtful and looked Alicia over, noting that she was ten times cooler than me—a studio musician and writer who never took the stage anymore. Alicia was loud, very much out, and didn’t care what anyone thought. She was badass in a way I’d never be. She was also younger than me.

“I’m too old.”

“You’re thirty-seven,” Bea sighed.

“She’s twenty-five, Bea! And cool!”

“Don’t move, Marit!” Bea used my given name like an angry mother. “Stand still, you little Viking!”

I sighed but stood still as Alicia worked.

“We need the angry Viking from within to come out on stage,” Bea continued. “Can you manage?”

“I will manage,” I said. “I’m not that rusty.”

Alicia backed up and Bea cupped my face—pulling it towards her sky-high visage that was now even higher in heels.

She said, “You deserve to be yourself. You’ve given up years to take care of someone else. I love you and I’m going to keep saying it.”

I grinned, nodding. “If you say so.”

“Don’t box yourself in. You come alive on stage. Eat it up,” Bea said.

I faced the mirror, taking in my new hair. I didn’t hate it. I only hoped it had the benefit of making straight men ignore me.

“It’s nice,” I admitted. “Thanks, kid.”

When Bea started dating her a year ago, I felt supplanted. Now, I loved Alicia’s wit and don’t-give-a-fuck-ness. She just lived her life. When they invited me to sub for a sick guitarist, I knew I’d have fun.

“Here, let’s fix your makeup,” Alicia sorted through my makeup bag. “Don’t you have anything sparkly?”

“Why?” I laughed. “I haven’t been performing drag on the side, Li.”

“Well, I got you,” Alicia smeared on a dark and purple holo shimmer eyeshadow. “You’re gorgeous. Your brown eyes look great with the right makeup. I’ll give you some ideas.”

I faced myself and smiled. “Yeah, thanks, Alicia, that’s fucking amazing. My mother will hate it.”

Bea giggled. “Yeah, but how do you feel?”

“Myself,” I agreed. “In the most surprising way.”

* * *

BETTY

“What’s that?” I stopped on a street in Soho.

My friend Jaz looked back. “What?”

“The music? It’s like… amazing.” I nodded toward a downstairs club, locking eyes with the bouncer.

“We need to meet Jenny in like an hour,” Jaz groaned.

“Sure,” I said. “But we could watch their set at least.”

“I only have enough for like two drinks and cover,” she protested.

“Yeah, okay. But I’ve got you, boo,” I offered.

I paid two twenties for cover and followed Jaz downstairs.

We came face-to-face with the band. I stopped dead as the guitarist with an edgy, short haircut soloed with gusto.

She was completely in the moment. Her licks sent shivers down my spine.

I wasn’t a music person, but it was something about her presence that got me.

“I want a drink,” Jaz shouted as the chorus picked up. “You want something?”

“No, I’m good,” I was unable to turn.

I watched—mesmerized not by the singer, but by her lead guitarist. I couldn’t describe their sound beyond ‘alt-rock’, but I was sure I didn’t care. They were dynamite. What struck me was how fun it all looked.

To my dismay, the singer announced, “Thank you all! We’re Wet Hat and this is our last song. We’re going to play ‘Make it’ for you all before we get out of here.”

Wet Hat? The name was weird but delightful. I spotted Jaz crossing back, the crowd whooping it up.

“I guess their supporters turned out,” she said as the guitarist and bassist began.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “But I have a feeling they are going somewhere. I like their sound.”

“Since when do you give a shit about music?” Jaz giggled.

“I care about it!” I smacked her arm. “We’re being rude!”

I stared as the guitarist investigated the crowd. I knew she couldn’t see me past the lighting setup, but I pretended she did. In my make-believe land, we locked eyes and she sang to me while laying down background vocals about surviving a setback.

I blushed as another shiver traversed my spine.

She was a woman. I never had feelings like this for a woman, right?

But here I was mooning over her. I beat it down and told myself I had a girl crush, that it was just her talent that spoke to me.

I was coming off a breakup and wanted to feel something, right?

“Thank you, London! We love you!” The singer ended as their final chord vibrated.

The guitarist played with her hair, pressing the long side back and dabbing the sweat running down her face from the lights with the hem of the football kit. It exposed her abs in a way I couldn’t ignore. What was this urge? And why her?

I’m just starstruck. There’s nothing more to it.

The band took a playful bow before packing up. Two guys dipped in to help before the women disappeared. My heart sank. I hoped that somehow, some way, I could talk to her.

“Yo,” Jaz laughed. “Earth to Betty. Let’s get a drink.”

“Sure,” I agreed.

It’s better this way.

Jaz and I approached the bar, and waited for the cute bartender with a cheeky grin.

He asked, “What can I get for you?”

Those dimples.

“Uh… just that hazy IPA,” I answered.

“Coming right up.” He winked.

If nothing else, the bartender eye candy hit.

I stood against the bar after getting my drink.

Jaz disappeared to talk with a guy on the other side.

She tended to float in and out with few words.

We had an understanding that on our rare nights off, we were wing-womanning.

No one got to be a cockblock. We checked in if we went home with someone.

We dropped a pin. No one got to complain if they didn’t get laid, though. Our time was precious.

As I was about to sip my beer, I spotted the guitarist making her way to the bar. Freezing, I realized she was headed for me specifically. I looked at Jaz, but got no reaction, then mildly panicked. I gazed at the woman.

Chaos ensued when she ordered the same beer as me.

The bartender said, “Sorry, we just blew the keg. I’ve got a couple other hazy IPAs in bottles.”

“No, mate. That was the one you swore you’d hold for me.”

“Sorry, it blew early, Mary. Here, it’s on me. I’ll grab you this thing from the States. I promise you won’t hate it.” He ducked away, then popped a beer.

Annoyed, she turned to the DJ assembling his equipment on stage.

She sipped before groaning, “Not the same. Wrong hops.”

I offered, “Look, I haven’t even sipped this yet. I think they gave me the last one of what you wanted. I’m good with almost anything.”

“Oh, no! You don’t have to do that,” Mary insisted.

“No, really. Your set was amazing. It was the least I could do.”

She blushed adorably. “What can I order you—”

“I’ll take your beer,” I said. “Tradesies?”

“Tradesies?” She giggled. “You’re adorable, sweetheart.”

“I really don’t mind. I am not afraid of your cooties.” I held out my beer. “Unless you’re afraid of sharing?”

She arched her eyebrow. “Fine. But if you hate it, I owe you.”

She let out a satisfied “mmm” after sipping. I felt alright about the other beer.

“To be honest, I don’t know enough to know the difference.”

“Oh, sweet, summer child,” she snickered.

The way she said it annoyed me. Did she think I was an infant? I certainly wasn’t! She was older—I guessed early thirties—but I didn’t feel like a baby.

“Oh, don’t scowl, not that it is also not adorable,” Mary said. “I didn’t mean to infantilize you. Just… you’re young.”

“Nah. I’m just not much of a beer person,” I protested.

“Well, I am.”

“You’re a beer snob and I’m not that young.”

“What are you?”

“Twenty-four, thanks,” I snickered.

“You’re still far too young for me, sweetheart.”

I rolled my eyes, then realized her words implied she considered it. Or, rather, she thought I was flirting. Did I want to be flirting? Maybe?

“Or maybe you date older? Hell if I know.”

“Typically, yes.”

Older men.

“Well, I’m Mary. And you are?”

“Betty,” I said.

“It’s got a we-were-roommates-in-the-fifties vibe, but I’ll take it.”

I didn’t get the joke. She shifted awkwardly.

“The band is great,” I said. “How long have you all been doing this?”

“Oh, I am filling in,” Mary answered. “Their guitarist fell ill. I’m friends of the band. I’ve worked with Barry a lot—the drummer—and Bea and I used to date, but we’re best mates, and Alicia is her partner. I got roped in last minute.”

“You’re fucking amazing! How did you learn the song so fast?”

She sipped, then with major bravado, answered, “Well, I wrote it.”

My jaw dropped.

“I don’t usually perform much anymore. I do a lot of studio work. I produce, write, and play in-studio.”

“Oh, cool,” I said. “But you’re dynamite on stage. Why not?”

“Uh… years on the road. Stuff came up with family. I just have different obligations.”

My face dropped. What I thought was flirting seemed like maybe a clue she wasn’t single.