True Colors Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  What Reviewers Say About Yolanda Wallace’s Work

  By the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  About the Author

  Books Available from Bold Strokes Books

  True Colors

  Taylor Crenshaw is a lifelong Democrat, but her parents are staunch Republicans. To make matters worse, her ultraconservative father has just been elected president. Although she prefers to live her life openly, her father would rather she stay in the closet. When she meets Robby Rawlins, will she choose to give in to her father’s demands or follow her heart?

  Robby Rawlins works at an antique store by day. She spends her nights anonymously skewering politicians in her blog. President Terry Crenshaw’s anti-gay rhetoric gave Robby plenty to write about during a contentious campaign, but a chance meeting with his daughter leaves her at a loss for words. Getting the scoop has always been Robby’s goal. Now it might come second to getting the girl. Unless she can find a way to do both.

  What Reviewers Say About Yolanda Wallace’s Work

  The War Within

  “The War Within has a masterpiece quality to it. It’s a story of the heart told with heart—a story to be savored—and proof that you’re never too old to find (or rediscover) true love.”—Lambda Literary

  Rum Spring

  “The writing was possibly the best I’ve seen for the modern lesfic genre, and the premise and setting was intriguing. I would recommend this one.”—The Lesbrary

  Murphy’s Law

  “Prepare to be thrilled by a love story filled with high adventure as they move toward an ending as turbulent as the weather on a Himalayan peak.”—Lambda Literary

  Lucky Loser

  “Yolanda Wallace is a great writer. Her character work is strong, the story is compelling, and the pacing is so good that I found myself tearing through the book within a day and a half.”—The Lesbian Review

  True Colors

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  True Colors

  © 2017 By Yolanda Wallace. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-928-0

  This Electronic Original is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: August 2017

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Cindy Cresap

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Jeanine Henning

  By the Author

  In Medias Res

  Rum Spring

  Lucky Loser

  Month of Sundays

  Murphy’s Law

  The War Within

  Love’s Bounty

  Break Point

  24/7

  Divided Nation, United Hearts

  True Colors

  Writing as Mason Dixon:

  Date with Destiny

  Charm City

  21 Questions

  Acknowledgments

  When I was growing up, I was always fascinated by the news. Good Morning, America kept me entertained while I was getting ready for school, and the CBS Evening News with Dan Rather played in the background while I helped set the table for dinner. No wonder I ended up earning a degree in journalism.

  I’m still a news junkie to this day, which made maintaining my mental equilibrium during the tumultuous 2016 presidential election difficult, to say the least. To cope, I reached for a manuscript I had been working on in fits and starts for several years but had never finished.

  I started writing the book that eventually became True Colors in 2010. I couldn’t get the story to come together, so I moved on to something else. Not once, but twice. I went back to the well in 2012, but I was afraid to delve too deeply into the book because I didn’t want to tempt fate by writing about a Republican president when Mitt Romney was favored to deny Barack Obama a second term. I dodged a bullet that year, but I didn’t get quite so lucky when a certain orange-hued billionaire shook up the political landscape four years later.

  I’m still getting used to a new reality featuring alternative facts. So are the characters in True Colors. Unlike Ivanka Trump, First Daughter Taylor Crenshaw opposes rather than supports her father’s conservative views. Taylor loves her dad but soon discovers family loyalty only goes so far. It remains to be seen if the same scenario will eventually play out in real life.

  As always, I would like to thank Radclyffe, my editor Cindy Cresap, and the wonderful team at Bold Strokes Books for making the publishing process such a smooth one. A huge thanks to the readers for taking a chance on my books. You guys rock! Last, but by no means least, thank you, Dita, for continuing to put up with me and all the voices in my head.

  It’s obvious the next four years are going to be challenging. We, the members of the LGBTQ community, have overcome these kinds of challenges before. I firmly believe we will do so again because we are, without doubt, stronger together. And if you haven’t guessed it, yes, I’m still with her. #resist

  Dedication

  To Dita.

  Thanks for always staying true.

  Chapter One

  The rustic shoeshine box displayed in the front window of the antique store drew Taylor Crenshaw inside. The gorgeous brunette behind the counter kept her there.

  Taylor loved stylish women. The woman flipping through the Metro section of the Washington Post exuded style from every pore. Her dark eyes were accentuated by a pair of retro-style glasses. Her raven-colored hair was pulled back into a loose bun held in place by two bright yellow number two pencils. Her crisp white cotton blouse was paired with a black-and-white houndstooth miniskirt. A wide black belt circled her narrow waist. Her long legs, sheathed in fishnet stockings, disappeared into a pair of knee-high black leather boots.

  “Nice,” Taylor said under her breath as she slowly walked up one of the antique-laden aisles and headed toward the front of the store.

  The woman lifted her eyes from the newspaper when Taylor reached the glass-topped counter. A look of curiosity followed by a glimmer of recognition crossed her smooth porcelain fe
atures. She looked momentarily flustered. Taylor had been receiving that reaction a lot lately, but she supposed she was going to have to get used to it. Or at least try to.

  “May I help you?” the woman asked.

  “I certainly hope so.” Taylor pointed over her shoulder. “The shoeshine box in the window. How much is it?”

  The woman came around the counter and walked to the display in the window, her stiletto heels clicking on the worn hardwood floor. Taylor followed, her gaze glued to the woman’s gently swaying hips.

  “Very nice.”

  Steven Alesana, the Secret Service agent who had been assigned to Taylor’s detail, softly cleared his throat to let her know she might have spoken a bit louder than she intended. She waved off his show of concern. The straight-backed ex-Army sergeant had stuck to her side like glue since the morning after election night. It was his job to keep trouble from finding her. Had he been tasked with preventing her from looking for it on her own, too? If so, he had blown his mission because Taylor’s gut said a woman as gorgeous as this one spelled trouble with a capital T. And that was just the kind she was looking for.

  “This one?” The woman leaned past a vintage Underwood typewriter and picked up a brightly painted wooden shoeshine box with brass accents.

  Taylor dragged her eyes away from her mouthwatering view of the woman’s firm round ass. “No, the primitive one next to it.”

  The woman replaced the shoeshine box and reached for its less ornate companion. The unpainted pine box featured a foot-shaped cutout on top. The open storage area underneath the cutout left plenty of room for wax, brushes, rags, and other supplies. Despite—or, rather, because of—its simplicity, Taylor speculated the box was worth much more than the flashier version next to it.

  The woman looked at the price tag dangling from the well-worn box. “It’s regularly one hundred fifty dollars, but it’s marked down to a hundred. Are you interested?”

  Taylor suppressed a smile. “You bet I am.” The woman was a threat to her primary rule: have all the fun you want, but don’t let anyone get too close. Never had a threat seemed so appealing. “I mean, I’ll take it.”

  “Okay.” The woman said the word hesitantly as if she were unsure why Taylor would want to possess such an item.

  “My grandfather shined shoes to earn money during the Depression,” Taylor said as she followed the woman back to the front of the store. “The box is a gift for my dad so he won’t forget where he came from.”

  “Ah.” The woman placed the box on the counter and reached for a three-ring binder. After consulting the price tag on the box, she found a matching entry in the binder. Then she made a note on the page and rang up the purchase. “One-oh-five seventy-five, please.”

  Taylor handed the woman her credit card.

  The woman flipped the card over to check the signature. “May I see your ID?”

  “I think you know who I am,” Taylor said with a smile.

  The woman smiled back, though not as sincerely as Taylor might have liked. She would have preferred to see desire emanating from her rather than indulgence. Did the woman have even a modicum of an interest in her, or was she simply trying to provide good customer service? Ah, the joys of retail.

  “Maybe so,” the woman said, “but your card says, ‘See ID.’”

  “So it does.” Taylor pulled her wallet from the back pocket of her frayed jeans, unfolded it, and fished out her driver’s license.

  The woman flicked her eyes from Taylor’s face to the driver’s license and back again. “The address on your license is wrong,” she said, returning Taylor’s ID. “Shouldn’t it read 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue instead?”

  Taylor smiled again. “We don’t move in for another couple of days. I still have time to visit the DMV and get my address changed before then.”

  The woman swiped the credit card and tapped it against her red lacquered nails as she waited for the transaction to process. “Here you are.” She extended her arm, and her fingers brushed against Taylor’s as they exchanged possession of the credit card. Taylor felt something in the woman’s touch she hadn’t seen in her smile: attraction. “Shall I wrap this for you?”

  “Please.” Taylor could have easily wrapped the box herself, but she wanted to prolong her visit as long as possible. She wasn’t leaving without a name or a phone number. Preferably both.

  The woman snipped the price tag off the box and stapled it to the receipt. Then she wrapped Taylor’s purchase in paisley-accented gift paper. Taylor wrote a message on the provided gift card, which the woman taped to the package before completing the presentation with a claret-colored bow.

  “How’s that?” the woman asked.

  “Perfect, thank you.” Taylor examined the package. “You’re quite skilled with scissors and tape.”

  The woman’s ruby lips quirked up into a playful smile that made Taylor’s heart skip several beats. “You should see me when I get my hands on more complex equipment.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.” Taylor put the package down and placed both hands on the counter. She needed to make her move before it was too late. Once the transaction ended, this encounter might as well. “You have me at a disadvantage. You already know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  The woman pulled off her glasses and set them on the counter. Her eyes, as black as midnight and nearly as sinful, were arresting. “Roberta Rawlins, but please call me Robby if you expect me to respond.”

  Oh, Taylor expected her to respond. And loudly, if she had anything to say about it. “It’s nice to meet you, Robby. Do you have plans for the evening? If you’re free, I would love to take you to dinner.”

  Robby’s eyes fell to half-mast. “To dinner or to bed?”

  “That depends. Which would you prefer?”

  Robby’s smile turned coquettish. “I asked you first.”

  Oh, yeah. Robby was definitely trouble. But Taylor was too invested to back out now. She grinned, enjoying the game. “Why don’t we start with dinner and see how the evening progresses?”

  “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  “Excellent. Where should I meet you?”

  Robby wrote a name and address on a piece of paper and slid it across the counter.

  “Kramerbooks and Afterwords Café?” Taylor asked. “Never heard of the place.”

  “If you’re going to live in DC for the next four years—or eight, depending on the results of the next election—this should be your first stop. It’s the perfect place to meet to have a drink, sit down for a meal, buy a book, or pick up the booklover of your choice.”

  “What if I want to pick up an antique store clerk? Can you help me with that?”

  Robby cocked her head. “I think you’re doing a fine job on your own, don’t you?”

  Taylor pocketed the slip of paper, feeling happier than she had since her father’s campaign strategists had decided the best way to get him elected was to turn him into someone she didn’t recognize. “See you at eight?”

  “Only if you promise to tell me why your political stance is so far left of your father’s.”

  Taylor arched an eyebrow. “Politics as foreplay?”

  Robby shrugged. “In this town, that’s par for the course.”

  “In that case, I’ll see you tonight.”

  * * *

  Robby reached for her laptop as soon as Taylor and her bodyguard left the store. She didn’t normally submit posts from her own computer, but this was an emergency.

  Miles Osgood, her sometime boss and longtime best friend, returned from his deli run while she was updating her blog. Her online gossip column was getting more and more hits each week. The latest entry should increase traffic even more.

  The pH Factor wasn’t a serious threat to Perez Hilton’s site yet. His website regularly racked up millions of hits while hers averaged only a low six figures. But if she could add a few more subscribers—say ten or twenty thousand—she could start thinking corporate sponsorship. After that, sh
e would have to make a difficult decision: should she continue to post anonymously, or reveal herself to the world?

  She revealed her body three nights a week. Why shouldn’t she reveal her identity as well? Simple. Even though she was willing to do many things for money, some things weren’t for sale.

  Miles placed a bag of pastrami sandwiches on the counter and looked around the store he had inherited from his parents. Thanks to his parents’ contacts and the store’s prime location near Dupont Circle, Miles easily raked in enough income to make the monthly mortgage payments on the townhouse he occupied in Georgetown—and to offer the cramped living space above the store to Robby rent-free until she could afford a place of her own. Whenever that happened.

  Robby gave Miles plenty of grief because that was what friends were for, but she appreciated his generosity. If not for him, she would have been on the street or in the poorhouse years ago. When she hit it big, he would be the first stop on her restitution tour. Okay, maybe second. She would square things with him right after she paid a visit to her favorite designer shoe store to pick up a pair of the trademark red-soled Louboutins she had always longed to own but could never afford.

  Miles jammed his hands in the pockets of his tweed vest as he tried to read over Robby’s shoulder. “Did you have any customers while I was gone?”

  Robby angled her laptop away from Miles’s prying eyes. With his youthful countenance and unruly mop of brown curls, he looked positively prepubescent. Too bad his wardrobe was strictly nineteenth century. Less steampunk and more Charles Dickens. No wonder his friends called him Tiny Tim behind his back.

  “Just one,” she said, “but I took care of her.”