"So you like redheads?"

  "Particular to them, yes. There were a couple of other redheads, but…" Frances shrugged. "I dunno. I really liked your smile and the look in your eyes."

  "What about my smile?"

  "It was honest. Mysterious. And sad."

  "My eyes?"

  "Dark."

  Elena felt like a fossil. A fossil laid out on a blanket for study and examination. Dissection. A live fossil.

  "The women I date will have to be gracious losers," Frances said. "For when I beat them at Skee-ball."

  Elena giggled. "You're awful."

  "I want to be on bottom for a bit. Missionary position."

  They switched. Elena slid Frances's shirt and bra off, then her own. Elena held off on entering Frances with the dildo. Instead, she brought her lips to Frances's stomach, kissed her around her bellybutton.

  "Will you eat me again?" Frances whispered tentatively.

  "Of course, my lady." Elena got the dental dam, and Frances closed her eyes.

  Elena flicked her tongue across Frances’s clit. "Ahh. That's good," Frances rasped.

  Elena closed her own eyes, too. She did not want to be caught looking when Frances came.

  *****

  After her orgasm, Frances peered at the clock on her nightstand. Ten minutes left. She curled up on the blanket with the prostitute. Frances wanted to ask more questions. When did you realize you were gay? How did you come out? What do you like to do on a date? Where do you go to meet women? Do you do that, with your job? Do you use protection with them? What do you like for sex? Do you like dildos, being eaten, what? Do you have a sex toy stash at home?

  "Do you think you could come sometime with me?" Frances asked. "Not tonight, because of the time. But some other night. Do you think you could?"

  "Yes."

  Her answer was too quick. Too steady. "Not a fake?"

  "Not a fake."

  "Really?"

  "I--Frances, I--" the prostitute sighed.

  "Are you allowed to come with clients?"

  "Yes."

  "Have you?"

  "Yes."

  You’re lying. Responding a heartbeat too fast. "Does your mom have acid reflux often?"

  "Sometimes."

  "Were you on the phone with her?"

  "Mmm."

  Frances weaved her fingers into the prostitute's hair. She let the silky auburn strands fall and picked them up again.

  "No," the prostitute said.

  At first, Frances thought the prostitute meant to stop fiddling with her hair. No, I was not on the phone with my mother. Frances's heart leaped. Something important and truthful. "You were with her in person?"

  "Yes," the prostitute said.

  "Tell me a story."

  "A story?"

  "Start with 'Once upon a time.' "

  "Okay." The prostitute removed the dildo and strap. "Once upon a time lived a woman. This woman was three inches tall. She had four children, three inches tall like her. They lived in a cupboard."

  "Will you visit again? Day after tomorrow? Five o'clock?"

  "Of course, Frances."

  "Please don't fake. If you're going to fake, I don't want to do it in the first place. Waste of time. Be honest with me. Tell me if you're going to fake, and we'll do something else instead."

  "So, this woman, she wasn't sweet. Nope. She was a witch, and she was not creative. Her children were named One, Two, Three and Bob."

  "Bob?" Frances laughed. So did the prostitute, and she took Frances into her arms.

  "Two was the mama's boy," the prostitute said. "Bob was the troublemaker, the rebel. One was a vegetarian."

  "And Three?"

  "Three had gambling problems. So, this woman and her four kids lived in a cupboard with Cheerios and Cocoa Puffs."

  Beep. The prostitute's cellphone, signaling the end of the appointment. "I'll finish next time," she said.

  "Your skin is so nice," Frances whispered.

  The prostitute tightened her embrace around Frances. The cell alarm kept buzzing, but they stayed for several long, long seconds. At last, the prostitute kissed Frances's forehead. "Can I use your bathroom to wash up?"

  "Yes. I'll get your tip."

  Chapter 19

  "What's wrong?" Darren asked in the morning. He and Elena were on the Four Seasons bed, doing their usual post-ass-fuck cuddle.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You're not listening to me."

  "I am."

  "I asked what I should get Jan for her birthday, and you didn't answer."

  "I was thinking," Elena said, although she had not heard the question. Her mind was on Frances, Frances, Frances. "Make Jan dinner. Take a bubble bath together in candlelight."

  "I don't cook."

  "Learn how to do one meal. Trust me."

  He nuzzled her neck. Kissed her eyelids. It felt good. Of course it did. She had goose bumps. Same as with Frances.

  But.

  But.

  No urge to flee, no urge to excuse herself to the bathroom. No urge to kiss him back, no urge to taste him, no urge to feel his fingers and tongue inside her.

  Darren Kendall was not Frances Dourne. Elena would never come with him.

  I need to drop her. But Elena would not. Why punish Frances for Elena's inability to keep her emotions separate, why penalize her by making her start over with a new prostitute?

  "I brought grapes." Darren rolled out of bed and returned with the fruit. He fed her one, and she tasted the length of his finger.

  "Juicy," she said. "I like."

  He ate one from her fingers. "What's eating ya, Solan?"

  "Was that pun intentional?"

  "It was bad, huh?"

  She teased him with another grape. "Disgustingly bad. I forgive you."

  "So what's eating you?"

  "Nothing."

  "I never asked what I should get Jan for her birthday."

  "What did you ask?"

  "If you wanted grapes."

  "Guess I did. They're yummy." Elena accepted several more. Darren liked snuggling after sex, as Frances apparently did. They both liked kissing her. But only Frances had expressed the desire to please her. But that's because she's single and has little experience. You're her guinea pig. Darren has years of experience.

  That was what Elena had to remember. She was Frances's guinea pig, and Frances was paying her loads of money. Frances deserved her money's worth. Elena was doing her a disservice by running off to the bathroom. Elena saw three choices.

  One, drop Frances.

  Two, keep Frances and let Frances do her thing. Somehow find the willpower to fake, to draw back at the proper time. Right. How could she fake after last night?

  Three, keep Frances but explain that--explain what? I'm in lust with you, so you can't touch me?

  Okay, two choices.

  Maybe there was a Bob choice. Keep Frances, let Frances do her thing, Elena would give in, have her fun while it lasted, because they would be over soon. Plenty of prostitutes had orgasms with their clients. Plenty of prostitutes were in lust with their clients. It was inevitable, they said. The trick was making it part of the fun.

  *****

  After Darren left, Elena used her personal cell to call her friend Cindi. Cindi had worked with her on servicing the king last year. At the time, Cindi was engaged to a former client. She and Elena had gotten along well at the king's appointment, and Cindi invited Elena to the wedding.

  Interesting how sex really was a job. Elena, Cindi and another prostitute had engaged in a threesome for the king's viewing pleasure. Kissing, on the mouth, eating, all that. No protection, because that would ruin the "royal" illusion. Lots of fake orgasms that night.

  Afterward, there was nothing awkward between Elena and Cindi. It was work. Elena did not feel odd attending the wedding, congratulating Cindi and her husband. Cindi's husband had no problems with her job. Supported it wholeheartedly.

  "Hey, what's up?" Cindi asked.

  Elena got to the point. "There's a client."

  "Uh-oh. I know that tone. Your first one?"

  "Cindi, I've been seeing her only about one and a half weeks."

  "Pssh. Time doesn't matter. My first time, I fell right away. His name was Walter. He was fifty and had ear hair like he was a scarecrow. But his smile and laugh…I was smitten right away."

  "What'd you do?"

  "What you're doing. Called other people for advice. They said that what I was feeling was okay. It happens to most everyone at some point. We're not robots."

  "Right." The agency had said the same thing at her orientation.

  "So, I let myself go with Walter."

  "What do you mean, let yourself go? Told him your name or--"

  "No, but I let my guard down. I bent some of my rules. I told him things I wouldn't have otherwise. It was one of the best times of my life, but when we stopped seeing each other, I was all right. Because deep down inside, I knew it was a job. I always did, every moment with him."

  "Did he like you back? Why did you two stop seeing each other?"

  A chuckle. "His wife found out he was seeing a hooker. He begged me to quit and to shack up with him. Hell, no. You know it's a job too, Elena. You can let yourself go but still know you're only doing a job. Let me ask you something."

  "Okay."

  "This client, is it an open-ended arrangement?"

  "No. Just until the end of the month, I think."

  "There you go. Perfect. The situation will resolve itself. Have fun."

  "Did you tell him you had feelings for him?"

  "Not straight out. They know. No need to talk about it. Mark says hello, by the way."

  "Hi, Mark!"

  After they hung up, Elena ate the rest of Darren's grapes. She would be all right. She could let herself go, and then the time would come when Frances stopped seeing her. The issue would mend itself, and that was all there was to it.

  So why did she feel so queasy?

  Chapter 20

  "He's funny looking," Victoria said. "His nose is a purple potato."

  "Lots of old people are gross," Markie whispered so only Victoria heard.

  They were in Markie's living room with her parents and five-year-old brother, watching clips from a speech last year: King Albert X addressing Congress about British-U.S. relations.

  "Prince Frederick's cute," Victoria said, and Markie’s mother nodded in dreamy agreement. Frederick, heir to the throne, was the thirty-seven-year-old son of Albert's deceased younger brother.

  Perhaps Markie was right that many old people were gross looking, but Victoria’s grandparents were not that bad. If her parents were Frances and Daniel, anyway. Daniel Dourne’s parents, Martha and Alan, were both broad-shouldered. They were church people. On Frances’s side. Rumor was that they even had had an informal agreement with Frances that while Marissa wouldn’t be allowed to see her father, she could visit with his parents. No wonder her dad drank.

  Daniel had a twin sister, Sally. Being a twin would be cool. Victoria and Markie had found a few pictures of Sally online. Sally could be Victoria in a few decades: the stature, body shape, hair color, eye color.

  Frances’s father, Francis Wellington, was still tall and strong and had a full head of white hair. Frances’s mother, Lucille, was regal and patrician. Victoria did not like what they had done to their daughter. Sent her off to camp for a year and had no contact with her. They could not be warm, loving people. Victoria could not get a handle on Nicholas, Frances’s brother. He said awful things about gays, but his eyes were kind and soft. He might be okay. Maybe not. In any case, no wonder Victoria’s mother and father turned out screwed, with parents like these. Victoria would turn out fine, though. She would make sure of it. Take care of herself.

  What would her grandparents would think of her? What would her father think of her? What would Frances think of her?

  She had green hair now.

  She and Markie had skipped school after second period and caught a ride with a couple of senior boys to a sketchy-looking place on the outskirts of Little Rock. She and one boy, Casey, got their hair dyed. Markie and the other boy, Gabe, got mohawks. And then Gabe got busted for pot.

  Her father was going to kill her. The idea had seemed good at the time. Liberating. Going along with the crowd. He would not pull her out of school, would he? Home school her again? Not over someone else’s pot and over green hair? Not when it would cut a chunk out of his drinking time.

  Victoria could hope.

  Markie's parents had grounded Markie for the next month. Forbidden Victoria from coming over for the foreseeable future.

  For the foreseeable future!

  That could be two months. The rest of the school year. Two years.

  Victoria saw headlights begin at the bottom of the hill and wend their way up Markie's driveway. Good old Daddy. She needed to run up to Markie's bedroom and grab the phone since she did not know when she would be back. If she would be back. She would probably have to call from school. Her dad had a cellphone, but service around the cabin was so-so.

  Maybe she would make the call now. Get it over with. I am Marissa Dourne, and please tell my mother I am okay. The phone was good to go. Markie had activated it and gotten a number with the area code 619, from San Diego.

  Adrenaline jackrabbited Victoria’s heart. Yep, she would make the call right now.

  From the TV, year-old applause for the king. Victoria hurried up the steps and dialed from the upstairs bathroom.

  Ring.

  She didn't want to be a monarch. A prison. Goldfish bowl. A better prison than the one her father constructed for her, though. Yes, definitely better. She hoped Albert X knew how lucky he was.

  "Hello," a man said. His tones were warm and welcoming. "This is the Marissa Dourne hotline. Your call is being recorded."

  What are you doing, Victoria Anne Cove? Someone's going to be banging on that door in a second, screaming "Victoria! Victoria! Your dad’s here!" and give away who you are. She hung up. She would call from school tomorrow.

  But the school bathroom would be too loud. Probably. Girls giggling, toilets flushing. Someone might overhear her. Maybe she would wait for her dad to pass out tonight or tomorrow night, sneak out of the cabin. Walk until she got a decent signal.

  Or maybe she would call from school, after all. Do it after school in the handicapped bathroom or a supply closet or something. She was smart. She would find a place.

  A knock. "Your daddy’s here! Mommy’s going to talk to him." Markie’s brother.

  Oh boy. I’m grounded for sure. "Be right there!" Victoria studied herself in the mirror. Offered herself a smile. When she smiled like that--had to be just right--she looked like Frances. A hell of a lot like Frances. They could be on magazine covers together. Beautiful Frances, and Victoria, not so bad looking with her green hair. Victoria pictured headlines and subheadlines.

  Long-lost daughter comes back!

  Reunion of the year!

  "I never lost hope," Frances Dourne says, tears in her eyes, and daughter Marissa adds: "I love my mom to bits."

  Victoria smiled her smile again. The Frances smile. She would be famous. Very famous, beyond her wildest dreams. Cameras trailing her everywhere, snapping pictures of her.

  Maybe she would like to be a monarch after all. Just had to know how to handle the cameras. Get used to them. Arkansas was not her life, not her future, no matter if Frances was her biological mother or not.

  Victoria would make the call. Soon.

  *****

  Felicianna gave Frances credit for one thing: Frances knew pretty buildings. Gay Is a Choice's headquarters for the past six years occupied the first two floors in a fifteen-story glass building. The building reflected other buildings and the sky, which, at the moment, was full of sun and white clouds.

  Here we go. Felicianna bypassed the GIC welcome lobby on the first floor. She took the steps to the second floor and checked the display on her BlackBerry. Couple of minutes early. She found Room 201 easily. She had expected something like puke yellow paint on the walls or a vomit shade of green, shaky lighting, and cheap tables and chairs. That was how support group meetings looked on TV.

  Wrong.

  The room was inviting. Plush couches and chairs formed a circle, and cookies and brownies were heaped on a table. Ten people or so milled about or sat, eating their lunches or the treats. No Frances. Yet.

  Felicianna had picked this specific meeting for a reason. The GIC website said that Frances liked to keep involved with what her organization was doing on the lay level. She had been busy lately with the San Francisco teen center and other matters but was resuming her support group duties today. She ran an ex-gays support group most weekdays at twelve o' clock. She was known to attend many other support groups as well.

  Felicianna sank into a blue chair and opened her brown bag. Peanut butter and jelly. What am I doing? What is the point? I am overreacting. Elena does not know Frances Dourne. Felicianna told herself that was immaterial. She would get info to use in a future anti-GIC protest or something.

  "Hey, everybody." Frances.

  Felicianna looked up from her sandwich. People crowded around their queen, some hugging her. No denying she had a presence. She radiated power and magnetism. She had not always. She'd definitely learned how to play people, how to play the media, over the years.

  A few minutes later, the meeting started. Frances surveyed the participants--fifteen by now--and her gaze lingered on a few, including Felicianna. She doesn't remember me. How can she?

  "Welcome, everyone." Frances did have a nice voice. Some wolves did. "We have a few new faces, so let's--oh. Where are my manners?" A laugh, color in her cheeks. "I'm Frances Dourne."

  "Hi, Frances!" From about half the group.

  She continued: "I'm the moderator for this session. We are so happy you are here. Remember that what we say here is confidential. We do not criticize or judge. Please talk about what you're feeling or experiencing. Okay. We'll go around really quick. Share your name if you're comfortable doing that, and any other information you want. You probably know my background, but you're stuck listening to me for one more minute." Another laugh. "When I was seventeen, my parents--"