A Life In Plain Sight

A Life in Plain Sight

Chapter One — The Door

This story contains AI-generated prose. I develop the concepts and outlines with AI, direct the scenes, and read, revise, and refine the drafts using AI. The perspective is personal; the final decisions and responsibility are mine.

Call it “AI slop” if you like—I’m a literal, sarcastic software engineer and a closeted trans woman exploring things through fiction. This isn’t Shakespeare. It’s supposed to be fun.

I value your time, and I want you to know how it’s made before you start.

“You’re going to a lesbian bar,” Brittney said. Steve kept chopping the onion. He was halfway through the second one, working through it with the quick, economical rhythm of somebody who cooked often enough that a knife was a tool rather than an event. His apartment kitchen was small, generic in all the ways apartments were generic: builder-grade cabinets, beige walls, a refrigerator that had come with the place. But Steve had made the working parts of it his. The knives were sharp, the cutting boards were scarred but clean, and a heavy skillet heated on the stove beside a tray of marinated chicken. Three little prep bowls waited on the counter because dumping spices directly from jars over a hot pan was how people ruined dinner and then blamed the recipe.

Brittney waited behind him for a reaction. Steve gave her one without interrupting his work. “No.” “Steven,” she warned. “Brittney,” he returned, in exactly the same tone. Across the kitchen table, Liz snorted, and Steve pointed the knife at her. “Don’t encourage her.” Liz raised both eyebrows. “I didn’t say anything.” He gave her a look. “You made a sound.” She lifted her beer. “I’m allowed to make sounds in my own house.” Steve glanced around at his own cabinets. “This is not your house.”

Liz looked around Steve’s kitchen as though the argument interested her only academically. She had made herself thoroughly at home anyway, one ankle crossed over the other beneath the table, beer loose in one hand, her posture carrying the absolute confidence of a woman who had married into a family and considered the paperwork settled. Her soft-butch presentation tonight was clean rather than severe: a dark skirt with a simple top, sleeves pushed toward her elbows, a substantial watch at one wrist, and small silver hoops catching the kitchen light when she turned her head. The heeled ankle boots under the table were unmistakably feminine without making the rest of her presentation any less Liz. “Then why am I eating your food?” she asked. Steve did not look up from the board. “That’s not how property works.” “In my family it is,” Liz replied. “Your family also sends me home with enough leftovers to feed the whole building.” Liz nodded as if he'd just proved her point. “Exactly. Family property law.” Steve stared at her until Brittney started laughing.

His sister was leaning against the counter beside him, close enough to be annoying and entirely unconcerned by the knife. At forty, Brittney still had the expressive face Steve remembered hovering over him when he was a kid: every thought arrived there half a second before she decided whether to say it. Tonight she had come straight from whatever she and Liz had been doing before invading his apartment, wearing a soft knit dress, sheer tights, and heels she'd already kicked off beneath the table. Her earrings moved when she laughed, her nails were neat and polished, and her makeup had survived the evening better than Steve thought makeup reasonably should. Steve noticed these things because they were there, and because Brittney had once spent forty-five minutes explaining why cheap dresses twisted after washing when manufacturers cut the fabric off-grain. He had made the tactical error of finding that explanation interesting. He had also suggested dinner at Brittney and Liz’s place, where there were tactical advantages to being able to leave. Unfortunately, mentioning that he'd been experimenting with a chicken recipe had resulted in Brittney inviting herself over before he'd finished the sentence. Liz had apparently come with the marriage. Not that he minded. Mostly.

“Anyway,” Brittney said, “you’re going.” Steve scraped the chopped onion toward the pan. “I’m not.” “You need to get out.” “I am out.” Brittney looked at the knife in his hand. “You’re chopping an onion.” “I went to the grocery store,” Steve protested. “This is exactly what I mean.”

He thought about it. “I also went to Home Depot.” Brittney looked at Liz, who nodded gravely. “Big day.” Steve tipped the onion into the pan. “Oh, fuck both of you.”

The sound changed instantly: dry knife against board became a sharp hiss, followed by the warm smell of onion hitting oil. Steve stirred once, spread everything evenly, and wiped the edge of the cutting board with his thumb before setting it beside the sink. The chicken had been marinating since that morning. He'd found the recipe at eleven-thirty the previous night while trying to determine why the garbage collector in a programming language he didn't even use behaved differently under memory pressure on ARM processors. That investigation had somehow led to a discussion of Korean fried chicken, then to gochujang, then to a cooking blog whose author used entirely too much sugar in her marinade. So he'd fixed it. He considered that a perfectly normal use of an evening; Brittney had other ideas.

“What’s wrong with Blush?” she asked. Steve checked the heat under the skillet. “Nothing is wrong with Blush.” “Then go.” “No.” She folded her arms. “Why?” He turned around, wooden spoon in his hand, wearing exactly what he normally wore at home: T-shirt, shorts, socks, no shoes. At five-six and barely a hundred and five pounds, even that required more attention than he liked. Men's clothes had an irritating tendency to assume short men were built like compressed refrigerators. Anything broad enough in one place swallowed him somewhere else, while anything that followed his frame tended to make people express opinions. Steve had learned to have different ones. “Because it’s a lesbian bar,” he finally said. “Yes,” Brittney answered. “And I’m not a lesbian.” Liz coughed into her beer.

“What?” Steve demanded. Liz shook her head. “Nothing.” “That was a fucking suspicious cough.” “I swallowed wrong.” He looked at the untouched beer. “You weren't drinking.” Liz picked it up, took a deliberate sip, and asked, “There. Better?” “No.” Brittney's face had acquired the expression Steve knew well: roughly eighty percent affection and twenty percent contemplating fratricide. Technically, fratricide was the correct word if she killed her brother; sororicide would require a sister. He'd looked up the gender-neutral term once, too. Siblicide existed, though it seemed to turn up more often in zoology than criminal law. The distinction would probably interest Brittney less than the opportunity to demonstrate it.

“Steve,” Brittney said, and he braced himself. “I'm listening.” She looked at the pan. “No, you're cooking defensively.” Steve discovered he was stirring the onions harder than necessary. “That isn't a thing.” “It is now,” she said.

He tried, “They were sticking.” Brittney did not even bother checking. “They weren't.” Steve pointed the spoon at her. “You're a nurse, not an onion specialist.” Liz raised her beer in Steve's direction. “He's got you there.” “Thank you,” Steve said. Brittney ignored the point. “Still going to Blush.” He closed his eyes. The onions smelled fantastic, and his sister was an asshole; Steve had room in his worldview for both facts.

“Explain to me,” he said, turning the heat down, “why you think sending your thirty-five-year-old brother to a lesbian bar is a productive use of anyone's evening.” Brittney smiled, and Steve immediately disliked the look of it. It was a little, private smile, the kind she wore when she had information and planned to be intolerable about sharing it. He pointed the spoon at her. “No.” “I haven't said anything.” “I know that face,” he told her. “You know every face I have.” “Exactly. That's the face where you know something you think I don't know.” At the table, Liz became fascinated by the label on her beer, which did not help.

The two women looked exactly like what they were: a married lesbian couple entirely at ease in their own skin and in each other’s company. Brittney's femininity was warm and obvious; Liz's was quieter, cut through with the masculine vocabulary of her soft-butch presentation. They fit beside one another without looking like somebody's stupid idea of which one was supposed to be the man. Steve had never thought of them that way. They were Brittney and Liz, and both of them were currently hiding something. “Oh, fuck off. Both of you,” he said. Brittney laughed, but Steve pressed on. “I'm serious.” “So am I,” she replied. “About what?” “Going out.” “I go out.” Brittney counted on her fingers. “You go to work.” “I go other places.” “Name three.”

“Home Depot,” Steve said immediately. Brittney gave him a flat look. “That was already one.” “The grocery store.” “Already one.” “Brittney's house.” She spread her hands. “I am Brittney.” “I know. I've known you for thirty-five years.” “Thirty-five years and you still don't know how lists work,” she said. Steve refused to yield that territory. “I write software. I know how lists work.” Brittney raised a finger. “Then name three places you voluntarily go where nobody is paying you, selling you something, or related to you.” Steve opened his mouth, and nothing useful happened.

The apartment suddenly seemed annoyingly available as evidence. There was the neat living room beyond the kitchen, the couch he had spent too much time researching before buying, and a couple of books stacked on the end table because he had not decided whether another bookcase constituted admitting defeat. His laptop sat closed on the desk, and a pair of sneakers waited precisely beside the front door. There was nothing wrong with any of it. Liz took another drink, and Steve pointed at her without looking. “Not one fucking word.” “I am drinking my beer,” she protested. “Judgmentally.” Liz took another sip. “You're very sensitive tonight.” “I am being ambushed in my own kitchen.” Brittney's grin widened; he turned back to the stove.

His life was fine. He had a good job, made good money, cooked, had hobbies, and talked to Brittney all the time whether he wanted to or not. He had friends, probably. There were people at work who had come over, and one had even helped him move a couch. That counted. He wasn't unhappy, and he wished people would stop treating not unhappy like a terminal diagnosis. “I'm fine,” he said. Brittney stopped smiling. The change was small enough that he might have missed it if he'd been looking at the pan. Instead he saw the nurse in her, paying attention when something mattered, and the expression unsettled him more than the argument.

“Don't,” Steve said. Brittney frowned at him across the counter. “I didn't say anything.” “You were about to.” “No, I wasn't.” Steve knew perfectly well where this argument went, because they'd been having versions of it his entire life. “You were thinking something,” he insisted. She spread her hands. “I'm usually thinking something.” “Debatable.” That finally drew a reaction from the table.

Liz choked on her beer, and Brittney turned. “Excuse me?” Liz lifted her palms. “Nothing, baby.” “Oh, now you're staying out of it?” Brittney asked. “I've been out of it,” Liz said, with a straight face that fooled nobody. Brittney turned toward Steve again. “She called you a hermit twenty minutes ago.” Liz objected immediately. “I said he has hermit tendencies.” Steve nodded at Liz. “Thank you. That's completely different.” Liz pointed at him. “See? He gets me.”

Brittney folded her arms and regarded them both. “You two deserve each other.” Liz put a hand over her heart. “I regret marrying into this family.” Steve and Brittney answered together. “No, you don't.” They looked at each other, then at Liz, who was failing to look properly regretful. Liz caught Steve's eye and bumped his shoulder with her fist. “Damn right.” It was the sort of argument that ended with someone touching your shoulder or stealing food off your plate. Liz took the last sip of her beer and pushed the empty bottle toward Steve without asking where the recycling was.

Steve checked the chicken. The marinade had gone dark and glossy in the heat, caramelizing along the edges, and he tipped the pan to spoon the juices back over the top. Brittney tried not to look interested. “Twenty minutes,” he told her. She responded by getting up and opening his refrigerator, her stockinged feet making almost no sound on the kitchen floor. “Hey,” Steve objected. “I want wine,” she said. “Ask.” She gave him a bright smile. “Can I have wine?” “No.” Brittney took the bottle anyway. Steve sighed. “Why do I bother?” “Because Mom raised you right,” she said. He looked at Brittney. “Mom raised you right too.” Brittney shrugged. “By the time she got to you five years later, she was tired.” Steve laughed despite himself.

Brittney kissed the top of his head on the way past, and he immediately ducked away. “Jesus Christ,” he protested, but he was still smiling. “You love me,” she said. “Debatable,” Steve replied. Brittney shook her head as she walked back to the table. “No, it isn't.” He turned back to the stove and let her have that one. She was right anyway.

---

Dinner should have ended the conversation. It did not. The kitchen had changed shape around the meal: the prep bowls were stacked beside the sink, and the chicken sat mostly demolished on a platter between them, its lacquered surface streaked with sauce. Roasted potatoes had disappeared even faster. Brittney had refilled her wineglass, while Liz retained her beer and declared open season on everyone else's plate. Steve had badly underestimated Brittney's commitment to being annoying, and by the time Liz was stealing the last piece of chicken off his plate, his sister had returned to Blush three times.

“No,” Steve said. Brittney pointed her fork at him. “You haven't even heard my latest argument.” “You haven't made an argument. You've issued a directive.” She sighed theatrically. “Fine. My argument is that you'll have fun.” Steve put down his fork. “That is speculation.” Brittney continued without the slightest interest in his methodology. “You like women.” “Yes,” he admitted.

Brittney opened one hand as though displaying an obvious solution. “Blush has women.” “Lesbians,” Steve corrected. “Those are women.” He gave her a long stare. “Thank you, Brittney. I'm glad nursing school covered taxonomy.” Liz laughed with food in her mouth and had to put her beer down until she could breathe again. Brittney let the joke land before making another attempt.

Brittney waited for Liz to recover before trying another approach. “You don't have to hit on anybody.” Steve gave her an incredulous look. “Excellent, because that would be creepy.” She leaned toward him as if this were a perfectly ordinary objection to interrogate. “Why?” “Because they're lesbians,” Steve said. Brittney exchanged a look with Liz, who studied her beer with sudden interest. Steve watched the exchange and felt the familiar irritation of being discussed without words.

“What?” Steve demanded. Brittney's mouth twitched. “Nothing.” “No. Absolutely not. You don't get to do that.” She opened her hands. “Do what?” “That.” Brittney remained seated and perfectly composed. “I am sitting here.” “You're sitting there meaningfully,” Steve told her. Liz muttered, “He's sensitive to sitting,” and Steve turned toward the voice.

“Thank you, Elizabeth,” Steve said. Liz pointed at him with mock outrage. “Don't government-name me in front of my wife.” Steve glanced at Brittney, who was fighting a smile. “Your wife was at your wedding.” Liz lifted her chin. “Still.” Brittney looked between them and chose not to intervene. Steve had no idea how two women could be so pleased with themselves over a conversation that had settled absolutely nothing.

Brittney leaned toward Steve again. “Go have a drink.” He raised his fork. “At a lesbian bar?” “Yes.” “Why that bar?” “Because I like it.” Steve looked toward Liz for some sign of dissent, but she was enjoying her beer far too much to help him. “You and Liz have been going there for years,” he said. “How does that make it my problem?” Brittney looked delighted to have been asked. “Experience. I know a good place when I find one.”

“Congratulations,” Steve said, returning his attention to his plate. Brittney continued as though he hadn't spoken. “And because Liz and I know people who go there.” That was new, and the way she said it made him suspicious. “Who?” he asked. “People.” “That's not an answer.” “It's technically an answer,” Brittney replied. “It's semantically useless.” She turned to Liz for help and received an innocent shrug.

“Jesus Christ,” Brittney muttered. Steve pointed at Liz instead. “You married a nurse. You could have stopped this.” Liz took a drink before answering, making him wait. “I like her tits.” Brittney slapped her arm, and Steve dropped his forehead into his hands. “For fuck's sake.” Liz looked pleased with herself. “What? We're lesbians. Apparently that's relevant tonight.” Brittney laughed, and Steve couldn't even pretend the answer surprised him.

“I hate this family,” Steve said. “No, you don't,” Brittney and Liz replied together, grinning at him. They were right, the assholes, and he loved them, which was the problem with family: it made murder complicated. He looked from one to the other and gave up trying to win by attrition. “All right.” Brittney stopped smiling long enough to make him suspicious. Steve pointed at her. “One drink.” Her smile came back. “One,” he repeated. “Sure.” Steve narrowed his eyes. “Do not ‘sure’ me like that.” “Like what?” “Like you're already changing the terms.”

“I haven't changed anything,” Brittney said. Steve began enumerating conditions. “I go there. I have one drink. I demonstrate conclusively that this is a stupid idea. I come home.” Brittney nodded, entirely too agreeable. “Absolutely.” “And then you stop.” She tilted her head. “Stop what?” “This. Trying to fix my social life.” Her expression changed just enough that Steve almost missed it. “I'm not trying to fix you,” she said. He frowned. “I said my social life.” “I know.” Neither woman filled the next half second. Then Liz stole the last roasted potato from Brittney's plate, and Brittney gasped. “You fucking bitch.” The moment vanished under the familiar argument.

---

An hour later, Steve stood in front of his closet wondering how the hell he'd lost control of his evening. His apartment had gone quiet again, a condition he genuinely liked; quiet didn't mean empty, whatever Brittney thought. The dishes were done, the counters wiped, and the kitchen restored to the condition it had been in before the invasion. Only the smell of garlic and gochujang lingered, along with the wineglass Brittney had abandoned on the coffee table despite Steve explicitly pointing toward the sink. One drink, he'd promised. He was going to a bar, a thing people did, including men. This was not a date. Calling it field research felt worse; calling it proof of concept felt worse still. He started to think about men going to lesbian bars, caught himself halfway through the thought, and muttered, “Don't. Not doing that tonight.” The empty apartment did not answer.

He pulled out a button-down, looked at it, and put it back. Too fitted. On a hanger it was an ordinary men's shirt, narrow collar, clean placket, dark fabric, nothing remotely remarkable about it. On Steve the side seams followed his waist rather than dropping straight from his ribs, and the result communicated something he had never authorized. He pulled out another shirt and paused. Too what? It was a shirt. He put that one back as well, irritated that the most straightforward task in the evening had somehow become an argument with his own closet.

Black jeans, dark blue shirt, boots. Fine. None of it was especially masculine, but none of it was especially feminine either, at least not as far as Steve was concerned. The black jeans were slim because anything wider overwhelmed his legs, and the blue shirt fit his shoulders properly while drawing in slightly at his waist. Apparently manufacturers believed a thirty-five-inch chest was evidence of criminal femininity. His black leather boots had a narrow, clean profile; the heavy work boots he sometimes bought looked ridiculous at the ends of his thin legs, so he almost never wore them. Individually, every choice made sense. Together, the clothes still managed to pick a fight with him. Steve dressed and checked the mirror.

There was nothing wrong with what he was wearing. The jeans fit, the shirt fit, and his hair was doing that thing again. It had enough length to fall rather than stand where he wanted, framing his face in a way strangers routinely interpreted as intentional. He ran his fingers through it to break up the shape. Worse. Again, and maybe better. He stepped back. A small, pretty woman stared at him from the mirror, which was simply what strangers had seen for years. Steve sighed. “Yeah, yeah.” He'd long since accepted that God, genetics, or some bored cosmic bureaucrat had fucked up the paperwork.

His shoulders were narrow, his waist small, and his face fine-boned enough that shaving did less visual work than Steve felt shaving should be contractually obligated to perform. Clothes followed the body underneath, and his body had never been much help in this particular argument. People saw what they saw; he knew what he was. Usually, when the discrepancy annoyed him enough, he compensated by lowering his voice a fraction, squaring his shoulders, putting his hands in his pockets, and taking up a little more space. These corrections had become habits he barely noticed. The problem was that deliberate masculinity on Steve sometimes had exactly the opposite effect. Brittney had once seen him leaning against a wall in what he considered perfectly ordinary masculine nonchalance and laughed so hard she'd needed to sit down. She had refused to explain. Asshole.

Steve adjusted his collar, and his attention caught on the workmanship. The shirt really was well made: single-needle stitching, a good placket, and a pocket whose pattern somebody had actually bothered to match. Basic craftsmanship counted as a premium feature now. He turned to check the side seam. Clean, with no puckering, and the pattern still aligned almost perfectly through the waist. He caught himself examining it in the mirror and frowned. “It's a shirt,” he told his reflection. The mirror remained unconvinced. Steve grabbed his jacket.

---

Blush announced itself in purple. The neon washed across the wet pavement outside, turning the sidewalk into something more cinematic than the neighborhood had any right to be. Steve sat in his car across the street, watching the entrance. He'd been sitting there for seven minutes, which he preferred to think of as reconnaissance. Rain had stopped recently enough that the street still reflected headlights, traffic signals, and the violet glow of the BLUSH sign, broken into ripples whenever a tire cut through the gutter. The building wasn't what he'd expected, although he wasn't sure what he'd expected. There was no rainbow explosion, no velvet rope, and no nightclub line curling around the block. Just dark brick, broad front windows softened by tinted glass, purple light around the entrance, and a steady pulse of music whenever the door opened.

People came and went, mostly women, unsurprisingly. But women turned out to cover considerably more territory than Steve's imagination had bothered supplying. Two walked toward the entrance holding hands; one wore a long wool coat over a dress and narrow heels that clicked on the wet sidewalk, while the other had a cropped jacket, close-cut hair, a skirt, and heavy platform Docs that almost erased their height difference. Three more spilled out laughing hard enough that one had to catch herself against the wall. One had styled hair, conspicuous lipstick, and jewelry flashing at her throat and wrists; her friend wore almost no makeup, a loose cardigan over a short dress, and sneakers. The third had an undercut, a carabiner clipped at her hip, and the sort of immaculate manicure Steve knew from Brittney was much more work than it looked.

A woman in a leather jacket held the door for someone in a tiny red dress. A grey-haired couple emerged a minute later, still arguing cheerfully about something, one of them carrying both umbrellas. Nobody appeared to be conducting lesbian inspections. Steve had thought that prospect would be reassuring, but it robbed him of a useful excuse to leave. He checked the time and considered texting Brittney that the line was too long. There wasn't a line. He tried parking as a complaint, but he was already parked. A private event? There were literally people walking inside. He could lie, of course; Brittney would know, and Liz would be worse because she wouldn't say anything. She would just look at him next Sunday. Fuck that.

Steve got out of the car. The damp night air hit his face, cool enough that he zipped his jacket halfway before crossing between two parked cars toward the purple light. One drink, that was the whole arrangement. He would walk inside, order something, stay a respectable amount of time, discover as predicted that he had no particular reason to be there, and report his findings to Brittney. Then he could go home. The woman at the door glanced up as he approached, and Steve slowed. She was probably in her thirties, broad-shouldered and striking in a fitted black dress under an open denim jacket with cuffs showing tattooed forearms. Her hair was cropped close at the sides and longer on top, with gold hoops, dark lipstick, and heeled boots finishing a look that made masculine and feminine details appear entirely comfortable together. Steve mainly wanted to determine whether she was security.

She looked him over, briefly but attentively, her gaze moving from his face to his clothes and back. Something in her expression settled with the easy speed of someone who thought she understood what she was looking at. Steve braced himself for the correction that usually followed. “Hey,” she said. He stopped. “Hey.” She glanced toward the door, and when he remained where he was, the beginning of a smile appeared at one corner of her mouth. “Door works better if you walk through it.” Steve looked at the door, then at her. “Right.” She pulled it open, letting warmth, music, conversation, and amber-purple light onto the sidewalk. He stepped through.

The first thing that hit him was the room, more than the music. Blush wasn't a dark box with a bar shoved against one wall; it had layers. The long bar curved through the front half beneath pendant lights warm enough to flatter everybody, while purple stayed behind the bottles, beneath shelves, and along the room's edges. Beyond the bar stood small tables and booths, then a more open area where the music mattered more. Farther back were pool tables under brighter lamps and the suggestion of another room. It smelled like citrus peel, perfume, beer, damp coats, and whatever somebody nearby was eating that had been fried within an inch of perfection. And everywhere he looked, there were women with entirely different ideas about how to dress for a Friday night.

A woman in a sharply tailored blazer and short skirt leaned against the bar talking to someone in a vintage floral dress. Two women in jeans occupied a booth with a third in a long flowing skirt, their table crowded with drinks and somebody's abandoned handbag. Near the pool tables, a woman in platform boots bent over a shot while her friend, wearing heels, a leather skirt, and flannel tied at the waist, offered advice her friend ignored. Hair ranged from waist-length curls to shaved sides to pixies to elaborate styling, and makeup from none Steve could detect to precise wings and saturated lips. Jewelry could be tiny and deliberate or impossible to miss. A woman in a skirt, heels, and a men's-cut vest somehow read more masculine than Brittney ever had in pants. Steve couldn't have explained why, and the classification part of his brain found that irritating enough to be interesting.

More importantly, nobody stopped when he entered. A woman glanced over, smiled automatically, and returned to her conversation; another shifted her chair so he could pass. Somebody brushed behind him and said, “Sorry, hon,” without looking twice. Steve had prepared himself to be conspicuous and was discovering he wasn't. He stood just inside the door, absorbing this, until someone behind him needed to come in. He moved, obviously, because standing in an entrance was how idiots caused traffic. He headed toward the bar, increasingly puzzled by what wasn't happening.

Steve knew perfectly well how other people saw him. He'd known for years, and a cashier calling him ma'am wasn't news. Neither was a waiter handing him the women's menu at some themed restaurant, or the occasional guy who started flirting and then realized his mistake. Those interactions usually corrected themselves: a second look, his voice, a quick apology, an awkward laugh, and some adjustment in how the stranger dealt with him. Here no adjustment came. The room accepted its first impression and carried on. A woman carrying two drinks passed him with a smile. “Cute shirt.” Steve looked down automatically. Of course, the fucking shirt. “Thanks,” he managed, but she'd already gone. The compliment hadn't sounded mocking or surprised, and that made it harder to dismiss.

He found an open stool near the end of the bar and sat. With his hands on the counter, he could at least pretend to study the bottles while waiting for the bartender. One drink was still the agreement, and once he had it, Brittney would be deprived of her argument. He ordered a beer when the bartender came over, paid, and set it in front of him with the solemnity of someone completing a contractual obligation. He'd made it into Blush without being challenged, corrected, or thrown out. That should have been uncomplicated good news. Instead Steve wondered, with mild irritation, why the explanation he'd rehearsed in the car had turned out to be unnecessary. Maybe he could go home and find out why that ARM issue was doing what it did.

A big laugh sounded behind him before he'd decided. It was unrestrained, followed by another woman's voice saying, “You cannot possibly believe that.” The laughing woman answered, “I don't have to believe it. I said it confidently.” Someone else replied, “That is not how facts work.” “That's how Sales works,” came the triumphant answer. Steve turned before he could stop himself. Five women occupied a table a few yards away, and the blonde currently defending Sales looked entirely too pleased with herself. Across from her, a dark-haired woman in an immaculate jacket had the expression of an attorney contemplating whether homicide could be billed to a client. Beside her, another woman was drawing something on a cocktail napkin. Steve squinted. Was that a horse? A horse with wings? The artist looked up and caught him staring, so he quickly turned away. Great. Now he was the weird guy staring at lesbians in the lesbian bar. Perfect execution, Steven.

He drank his beer and listened despite himself. “Sales does not create facts,” the attorney said. The blonde didn't miss a beat. “Sales creates revenue, Victoria. Revenue buys facts.” “That sentence is offensive on at least three levels.” “Only three?” The next voice was lower and dry, coming from a woman Steve couldn't see clearly from his stool. “Nat, if you explain capitalism to the attorney again, I'm leaving you here.” The blonde answered without hesitation. “You can't. We're in love.” “I'll recover,” the woman said. Steve smiled into his beer. Okay, that was funny.

“Excuse me.” Steve looked up to find a woman standing beside him, high femme, dark-haired, and beautiful enough that his brain briefly stopped doing anything useful. She indicated the empty stool beside him. “Are you using that?” Steve looked at the stool, then back at her. “No.” “Great.” She took it and set down her drink. He shifted his beer to give her room, and she thanked him. At the table, Nat was now gesturing emphatically with both hands while the attorney looked offended by the existence of commerce. The woman beside Steve sighed. “I leave for thirty seconds.” Steve glanced over. “What happened?” “Sales,” she said. He laughed, and she looked at him with sudden interest.

“I'm a software engineer,” Steve explained, nodding toward the table. Understanding dawned instantly. “Oh,” she said. “Yeah.” Her mouth curved. “My condolences.” “Thank you.” She took a sip of her drink and offered, “I'm a project manager.” Steve stared at her, and she stared back, perfectly willing to let him think through the implications. He slowly picked up his beer. “So we're enemies.” “Traditionally.” “That's unfortunate.” “Very.” The pause between them lasted just long enough for both to begin smiling.

“CHLOE, STOP FLIRTING WITH STRANGERS AND COME DEFEND CAPITALISM,” Nat shouted from the table. The woman beside Steve, Chloe apparently, didn't look away. “I don't defend capitalism.” Steve glanced toward Nat. “Sales does.” Chloe gave him the smallest approving lift of an eyebrow, so he added, “Sales would sell capitalism a subscription to capitalism.” He laughed before he could stop himself, and she smiled back. Steve didn't have to explain the joke; Chloe had already caught it. She glanced at the beer in his hand. “One drink?” Steve blinked. “What?” “You have the posture of somebody serving a sentence.”

He looked down at himself. “I do not.” Chloe didn't even pretend to reconsider. “You absolutely do.” Steve shifted on the barstool. “I'm sitting normally.” “Very bravely,” she said, entirely unpersuaded. He narrowed his eyes as she picked up her drink, and she let him hold the glare for a moment. “First time?” she asked. “Here?” She tilted her head.

“No. On Earth.” For a second he simply stared, then caught the corner of her mouth twitching and laughed. “Okay. Yes. Here.” Chloe smiled. “Thought so.” Steve looked at her. “How?” “You keep looking at the door.” He objected immediately. “I do not.” Chloe glanced deliberately toward the entrance; Steve followed her gaze before he could stop himself. When he looked back, she was smiling. “Oh, fuck you.” “There he is,” she said.

Something about that landed strangely. It hadn't been an insult, and she wasn't laughing at him, at least not in the way he usually hated. He was already arguing with her as though they'd been doing it longer than four minutes. Chloe lifted her glass. “So why Blush?” “My sister,” Steve said. “That sentence requires more words.” He explained that Brittney thought he needed to get out more and that he disagreed strongly. Chloe looked around pointedly. “Yet here you are.” “I'm proving her wrong.” She considered him. “How?” Steve opened his mouth, closed it, and studied his beer. “I haven't worked out all the metrics yet.” “Project-management failure,” Chloe said. “Engineering hasn't delivered requirements,” he returned. “Classic.”

“CHLOE,” Nat called again. Chloe shut her eyes. “What?” “You're hoarding the tiny engineer.” Steve looked sharply at Chloe. “Tiny?” She looked him up and down without an ounce of subtlety, and Steve straightened despite himself. “Would you prefer enormous?” she asked. “Average,” he said. Chloe considered that for about half a second. “No.” He stared at her while she calmly took another drink. He could feel a dangerous thought developing: he liked her. Not liked liked her, for Christ's sake; he'd known her for five minutes. But she was funny, gorgeous, and irritating, a combination to which he had historically demonstrated poor resistance.

Chloe nodded toward the table. “Come sit down.” Steve looked over: four women now, because Chloe was still sitting beside him at the bar. Nat was openly watching, the attorney was pretending not to, and the artist had abandoned her winged horse to take a picture of her drink. The fourth woman, beautiful, dark-haired, spectacularly feminine, caught him looking and smiled with such warmth that he almost smiled back automatically. Then he remembered where he was. “I don't want to intrude,” he said. Chloe shook her head. “You won't.” “You're here with your friends.” She considered him for a moment before answering. “My girlfriends.” Steve turned to her. “All of them?” “Yes.” He looked at the table and back. “All four?” “Yes.” At the table Nat waved, earning a sharp look from the attorney. The artist waved after Nat, and the fourth woman laughed.

“Huh,” Steve said, returning his attention to Chloe. She waited for him to get to the next thought. “That seems logistically complicated.” For the first time since sitting down, Chloe lost her composure. She barked out a laugh, loud enough to draw the table's attention. Steve grinned because it was nothing like the polished little laugh he'd expected when she first sat beside him. “What?” he asked. Chloe shook her head, still laughing. “No, it's just… that's your question?”

“I have others,” Steve assured her. Chloe studied his face with undisguised amusement. “I bet you do.” He thought about it for a moment. “I mean, calendars alone…” Chloe pressed her fingers to her forehead. “Oh my God.” Steve frowned. “What?” She looked back at him, smiling. “You really are an engineer.” He nodded. “I told you that.” Chloe conceded the point with a lift of her glass. “You did.”

Steve glanced at the four women again, all apparently dating Chloe, presumably with relationships among themselves too. He started mentally reverse-engineering the arrangement, caught himself, and stopped. He wasn't going to analyze strangers' relationships at a bar. He had boundaries, even if his curiosity kept trying to escape them. Chloe noticed him turning the idea over and said, “No pressure.” She turned her glass between her fingers and waited. Steve studied his beer. One drink; he'd promised Brittney one drink. He hadn't promised to drink it alone. Technically. He looked at Chloe. “Fine.” Her eyebrow rose. “Fine?” “One drink.” Chloe stood and collected her glass. “Your parole terms are very strict.” “You have no idea."

Steve followed Chloe toward the table. Nat immediately dragged an empty chair out with her foot, less like an invitation than kicking open a door. “Tiny Engineer!” she announced. Steve stopped beside the chair. “My name is Steve.” Nat froze; so did the attorney. The artist looked up from her drink, and the fourth woman blinked. Behind him Chloe made a sound that might have been a cough. Steve looked from face to face, already suspicious. “What?” Nat recovered first. “Nothing.” Something had happened, and he disliked not knowing what.

The attorney's eyes flicked toward Chloe, who gave the smallest possible shake of her head. Steve caught that. “What?” he asked again. “Nothing,” Chloe repeated. “That was definitely something.” Before he could press, the artist leaned toward him. “Do you believe in ghosts?” Steve stared at her. The attorney closed her eyes. “Maddie.”

Maddie shrugged at the warning. “What? We were talking about him.” “We absolutely were not,” Tori said. “We could have been.” Nat pointed at Maddie in delighted agreement. “She's right.” Tori sighed at the ceiling as if seeking judicial review. “She is demonstrably not.” Steve, who had only just arrived, decided to let the question of ghosts wait.

The fourth woman smiled at Steve. “I'm Sofia.” “Steve,” he answered. “I heard,” she said, her smile widening. Steve looked toward Nat. “Apparently everybody did.” Sofia laughed. “Nat doesn't have an indoor voice.” “I have an indoor voice,” Nat protested. The attorney, Tori, regarded her. “This is your indoor voice.” Nat considered that for a moment. “Fair.” Steve finally sat down, while Chloe pulled her own chair close beside him. The table carried on around him as though the moment of collective surprise had already been settled somewhere he hadn't been invited

Within thirty seconds Nat was explaining why Sales was the only reason software engineers had jobs, and Steve was explaining why this constituted hate speech. Tori demanded that both of them define their terms; Maddie decided the winged horse on her napkin was a tax accountant named Dennis. Sofia laughed hard enough to put her drink down, and Chloe leaned back to watch, smiling when the arguments crossed and tangled. Steve found himself joining in without calculating whether he ought to. He took sides, disputed evidence, and listened to a completely absurd argument about a fictional horse's career prospects. He'd planned to stay only long enough to prove a point. He still had an unfinished beer, an opinion about Sales, and a growing suspicion that Dennis's tax practice was fraudulent. Somewhere between Nat's latest accusation and Tori's reply, Steve forgot about the door. He didn't know when that had happened. He was having fun, and nobody at the table seemed to think he was in the wrong place.