Page 8 of Make Her Mine

Nora’s hands froze on the keyboard and she looked at her assistant. “Yes. Why?”

“Because it’s Thursday. I ordered you the same salad from Sweetgreen that I have ordered for the last 365 Thursdays and beyond.” She held up a lidded takeout bowl. “I have it here in my hand. But you want a… pizza?”

“I would very much like a pizza.” She clicked on the Menu button of the Lounge website. “Actually, can you DoorDash me this smoked salmon and pesto flatbread?” A thought occurred to her. “Order it under your name, please, and don’t put the Hartley Group anywhere on it.”

“What, why? Are you starting a new career moonlighting as a food critic?” Laurie came around the desk to peer at Nora’s laptop screen. “Oh, I see. Bold move.”

“The chef doesn’t like me,” Nora admitted. “But the food there is amazing.”

Laurie stood up straight and observed her shrewdly. “You getting a little personally involved there?”

“No. I just really want the flatbread.” Nora looked at the menu again. “And a side order of the Elevated Greek Salad.”

“Anything you say.” Laurie pulled out her phone and started to put the order in. “That it?”

“That’ll do.” Nora clicked back over to the calendar page as Laurie left. The Lounge was hosting a fundraiser this Saturday evening to benefit a local chain of thrift shops that worked with the AIDS Healthcare Foundation. The party would be “Pink Pony Club” themed, whatever that meant. There would be drag performers, Mia Cortés was going to do a set, and there would be raffles of Indigo Lounge gift cards, edible arrangements, items from a local leather boutique, and more.

Nora wanted to see the Lounge in full swing, lights and colors and music and all. She wanted to see Esme in her element.

She wanted to see Esme, period. The dichotomy of the soft long skirts and flowing curls compared to the fire Nora had seen in Esme’s eyes when she defended her life’s work was intriguing to her. If ever a woman contained multitudes, it was Esme Bloom, and that was something Nora found too irresistible for words.

But what the hell, she wondered, was a Pink Pony Club? With a sigh, Nora opened up a new tab and began yet another Google search.

“Esme! This is incredible!” Ruby shrieked from under a pink velvet cowboy hat heavily fringed with silver beads. Her fire engine-red hair was down from its usual ponytail and bounced over her spaghetti-strapped shoulders as she danced with a drag king clad in a sharp candy-cotton pink suit. The Indigo Lounge was full of similarly dressed patrons, head to toe in various shades of pink and coated in a rainbow of sparkling glitter that Esme knew would be impossible to ever fully vacuum up.

That thought made her smile a bit grimly. If she was facing eviction, at least she’d make damned sure that the Indigo Lounge was leaving an extremely annoying mark.

With a smile, Esme waved at Ruby and threaded her way through the crowd, looking around at the transformation the Lounge had undergone for this night. She was pleased with how the place had turned out after days of hard work. Many of the warm white overhead lightbulbs had been replaced with pale pink ones, casting the Lounge in a rosy glow. Strings of silver and pink tinsel festooned the walls and window frames, interspersed with long strands of silver beads and stars. It was more pink than the Lounge had ever seen in its existence, and it was probably taking the whole pink aspect of Pink Pony Club a little too literally, but Esme didn’t care. She’d wanted to go all out for their first Chappell Roan-themed party.

Two years ago, much like Chloe Riley, Chappell and her keyboard had done a mini-residency at the Lounge. Now she was on a world tour and much too famous to perform at a venue the size of a Manhattan studio apartment. But she’d sent Esme a sweet note of gratitude when she’d heard about the tribute night and fundraiser dedicated to her and had even sent in a video message to be played later. Esme was so proud of her, the way she was proud of all her little sapphic music protégées.

Right now, there was a young drag queen on stage bouncing her way through “Femininomenon” wearing a sleek, lilac-sequined jumpsuit with such a low v-neck her silicon boob bib threatened to pop out. The long blonde curls of her wig were flying as she lip-synced with more energy than Esme thought she’d ever had in her twenties. The crowd was into it, singing along to the lyrics and exploding into cheers when the queen jumped into the air and landed in a split.

At the side of the stage, Mia Cortés was tuning her guitar and grinning at the spectacle. Her girlfriend/agent Harper Nightingale stood protectively by, keeping any would-be autograph or selfie seekers at bay with her stern expression. She’d told Esme that she felt a bit silly playing the heavy like this, but Mia needed time to get into her performing headspace and was too soft-hearted to resist pleas from fans who wanted her attention.

Her pearly white smile lit up her face as she saw Esme approaching, though. Harper was a stunning woman, with deep velvety black skin and brown eyes so warm and light they appeared almost golden. She always wore black, in the form of pantsuits cut to fit low and close, and her hair was styled in long, glossy braids that looked like ebony beads. Next to her, Mia looked like a charming ragamuffin, even if her tank tops and artfully cut up thrift store jeans had been traded in for more deliberately tattered Levis and a vintage pinstriped vest.

“Esme,” Harper purred, reaching out both of her hands for Esme’s. She drew her in for a very continental kiss on both of Esme’s cheeks. “The party is amazing. You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Thank you, Harper. I do feel pretty good about it.” She beamed and turned to Mia. “How are you feeling?”

“Great! I’ve got some new songs for this crowd tonight. Think they’ll love them.” Setting her guitar aside, Mia bounded over to give Esme a bone-crushing hug. “How are you doing? You look wonderful. Like a goddess.”

Esme blushed, self-consciously tugging at the hem of her silver sequined mini-dress. “Ruby helped dress me. I’m not too sure about this.”

“You do look divine. Literally.” Harper stood back and gave her a once-over with a wink. “I’m amazed to discover you’ve got legs, my darling. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in anything other than those ankle-length skirts.”

“I do feel more comfortable in those,” Esme admitted. “But this is a special occasion. It called for a special look.” In addition to the tiny sequined handkerchief that Ruby had called a dress, Esme was wearing silver kitten heeled sandals—the single inch of them as high as she was willing to let Ruby take her, heel-wise—and her hair had been styled into a thick braid that draped over one shoulder. Ruby had then arranged pre-Raphaelite ringlets and long tendrils of curls around Esme’s face, creating a cloud around her head, and there were sparkling silver and pink rhinestone flowers placed all through the hairstyle, holding baby’s breath in place. Finally, she’d fixed a fragrant flower crown of real full-bloom roses and peonies across the top of Esme’s head and painted Esme’s face in cherry reds, rosy pinks, and iridescent glitter. Esme felt like Aphrodite, a tempting queen of love and revelry.

It didn’t at all feel like she was dressed anywhere near her age, and she was slightly self-conscious about the over-the-top nature of the whole thing, but everyone seemed to think she looked great, so she’d go with that. Leaning up on her tiptoes, Esme kissed Harper on the cheek and then gave Mia a much gentler hug than she’d gotten. “Thank you both. Mia, love, break a leg.”

Harper opened her mouth to reply, then frowned and grabbed Esme by the shoulders. “Esme, my darling, I don’t mean to harsh your buzz, but I don’t want you be unprepared when you turn around.”

“Unprepared for what?” Esme laughed, squirming out of Harper’s grip. She turned, up on her toes again, and craned her head, trying to find whatever her friend thought would upset her.

Nora. Esme’s heart began to race.

Nora’s height made her easy to spot at the doors of the Lounge, where she stood surveying the party in mild bemusement. Esme noted with some irritation that she hadn’t bothered to costume herself up, giving the impression that she had simply come to the Indigo Lounge to observe the community there like a bunch of zoo animals on display.

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