Purple Prosaic is a self-publishing label featuring the nocturnal emissions of eroticists Alessia Brio & Will Belegon.
Double Decker
Cover © Alessia Brio 		DOUBLE DECKER
PP-034, PURPLE PROSAIC, JANUARY 2010
Tess is determined to win the big karaoke contest at the Double Decker bar... and the heart of the woman organizing it. Will her evening end on a high note?

This title is also available in the EPIC eBook Award Finalist multi-author anthology Sapphistocated: Four Tales of Mirror Geography.

[EROTIC ROMANCE, LESBIAN, CONTEMPORARY, EROTICA]

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EXCERPT
I got to the Double Decker a few minutes after nine and added my name to the sign-in sheet at the front door. Yeah, I was early. Anxiety had that effect on me. I’ve been told I look totally calm and collected before a show, but on the inside, I’m a nervous wreck. I knew I was good, but that did nothing to assuage the stage fright. It would vanish with the first few notes, but until then I had to endure it.

The first round didn’t start ‘til ten. The thirty slots would fill up fast, I figured, given the juicy prize. The main entrance led to a bar—pool tables, C&W jukebox, pinball machines. Next to the phrase ‘gay honky tonk’ in the dictionary there should be a picture of the Double Decker’s first floor. The only thing missing was the layer of smoke that used to hover just outside the reach of the lazily-spinning ceiling fans. City ordinance took care of that about five years ago, which was just fine with me.

Rough-looking women in baggy cargo pants and steel-toed Doc Martens, none with hair longer than two inches, pretended to ignore the baby dykes at the bar. If I had a dollar for every Shane wannabe in the room, I could forego the contest and just buy the spa weekend outright. I once heard a famous author speak at a conference, and something he said stuck with me: Be a first rate version of yourself, not a second rate version of someone else. That summed up my feelings about the copycats emulating a fictional television character who physically resembled a fifteen-year-old boy. It was undoubtedly her confident, unapologetic sexuality they hoped to capture, but most needed to lay off the cheese fries to achieve anything close to that strong, sinewy look. In my not so humble opinion, muffin tops and wife beaters were just not an effective combination.

As expected, I saw at least one gaggle of local girls who’d summoned enough courage to show up in the hopes of exploring their sexuality. High femme types, mostly. I steered way clear of that scene. It seems that every “straight” chick I’d ever fooled around with fell head over heels in love with me, and it took me far more time and trouble to get rid of her angst-ridden ass than the ass was worth in the first place. Pass! There’s nothing like a woman scorned to make me wish I liked men.

Now, I’m not one of those dykes who won’t touch a woman who’s touched a dick, but there’s quite enough drama in lesbian circles without bringing Buffy and her angry ex-boyfriend—the one with the Chevy Silverado sporting a Confederate flag and a loaded gun rack—into the mix. The last time I dabbled in that kind of pussy, I wound up having to send a linebacker to the E.R. with a busted tibia. Those steel-toed boots do come in handy on occasion.

A contingent of gay men occupied one corner, having discovered the Double Decker a good place to hide from the fruit flies who hung around just to prove they weren’t homophobic. They waggled their fingers at me, and I waggled back. No pretentiousness there. As a whole, I admired their moxie. It takes big cojones to be yourself when your self is living in a rural Appalachian college town.

“Hey, Corey,” I yelled at the manager over the twangy strains of Alan Jackson’s Chattahoochee. “Can I change in your office later?” I held up the garment bag and winked. He responded with a nod and a thumbs-up, tossing me the keys. Corey and I went way back: high school classmates who never really fit in any niche. We hung out together by process of elimination. No one else wanted us around. Misfits, Unincorporated.

Well, the years changed our welcome in various circles, but not our connection. I could go months without hearing from him, then we’d hook up for a beer and it’d be like old times. He was the one who let me know about karaoke night. I hadn’t participated in a while, because I was ineligible for a full twelve months after my last win.

At the bottom of the narrow stairs, the atmosphere changed along with the décor. Blood velvet tapestries hung from the walls, which were lined with cozy, high-backed booths—perfect for snuggling or a discreet public finger fucking. Not that I’d know, of course. I had to fiddle with the key a bit to get it into the old deadbolt, but once I’d managed to unlock it, I hung my outfit on the coat hook on the back of Corey’s office door, ran the keys back upstairs to him, then went to check out the stage and setup.

Two men I didn’t recognize were testing the sound system. They must’ve been new to the touring company, ‘cause I’d never seen them before. It felt weird to be downstairs with the lights on and the music off. I was used to it being noisy and dark and sexy, not bright and sterile and kinda naked. Accustomed to the soft, filtered light of the red sconces, I felt like I’d seen the Wizard behind the curtain.

“You singin’ tonight, babe?” The older guy motioned to me. Babe? Only on an S.O.L. day do I get called ‘Babe.’ “We need a sound check, if you don’t mind. I know you’ll sound better than Jeff over there.” The other man—Jeff, I assumed—barked a laugh as he taped a bundle of thick cables to the floor along the perimeter of the room. Looking around, I decided it was to my advantage to help them out. I’d get to warm up my vocal chords while getting a feel for the acoustics.

“Gimme This Kiss,” I said as I took the stage. Faith Hill was way out of my comfort range, but I figured she’d let me know my limits for the evening.

Since no one but the sound crew was downstairs, I saw no reason to hold back. It wasn’t as if I was gonna give away any big secrets, after all. And, if someone did happen to overhear, they’d hardly think me serious competition. The guys completed all their checks before I even hit the second verse and graciously allowed me to finish the entire song—a good sign.

“You don’t happen to have any Lucie Silvas, do you?” I asked as I stepped off the small stage. I thought it unlikely that they’d have a British artist who was virtually unknown in the States, but Jeff surprised me. Another good sign. “I’m gonna take her for my opening, then.”

“Nice pipes. G’luck.” Jeff’s colleague stuck out his calloused hand. Ask I took it, he continued, “Name’s Roy. I’d bet my next paycheck you’re Tess.”

My stunned expression drew a wide grin, and something about his smile was incredibly familiar. I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could formulate a coherent reply, he pointed to the flyer tacked to the wall of the stairwell. There, amidst a collage of posters advertising roommates wanted and second-hand furniture was my smiling mug ‘neath the words ‘Returning This Friday!’ Apparently, my karaoke reputation preceded me. I grinned and shrugged.

“Nice to meet you, Roy. You two new with the tour?”

“Found out at the last minute that the new tech’s afraid gay is contagious or something, so we’re just filling in as a favor for the boss lady. She said you were good, and she was right. She usually is.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that!” Jeff called from across the room.

Score one for the acoustics, I thought. Our words shouldn’t have carried that far. Something to keep in mind. I was flattered that the woman behind the tour thought enough of my talents to tell others about me. When Roy burst into laughter, the source of familiarity became instantly clear. “You’re related,” I blurted, more to myself than to him.

He confirmed with a nod. “My sister. She’s not here yet, so no worries.” Roy directed the latter toward his partner.

“She got the looks and the brains,” Jeff joked as he joined them. “Roy here just got the brawn, and now even that’s going to pot.” He threw one arm across Roy’s shoulders and with his other hand, lovingly patted the substantial abdomen. With a wink, he added, “He’s all man where it counts, though.”

I watched the blush rapidly climb Roy’s neck and settle on his cheeks, thinking them a delightful couple. I wondered how they met, when and where such a relationship blossomed, and suffered a momentary pang at the absence of such in my life. Tonight would change all that, I promised myself. Someday, we’d tell our kids—and grandkids—about karaoke night at the Double Decker.