One and done, p.1
One and Done, page 1
One and Done
Synopsis
One night of passion and possibly one more chance at love…
Determined, motivated, goal-driven, and eternally single, Dr. Taylor James is an accomplished university administrator in San Francisco determined to get his campus successfully through an upcoming accreditation process. The process could set him up for his ultimate career goal–to be one of the only Black and openly queer university presidents in the US. Taylor gives himself just one day a week to have fun and let loose with friends–a one and done Sunday Funday brunch in the Castro District.
Dustin McMillan is a consultant and project manager who reluctantly returns to the Bay Area, his hometown, for an assignment. The first in his family to finish college, earn a healthy six-figure income, and have choice and agency in his life’s direction, Dustin is fearful that returning home could mean falling back into roles that he’d thought he’d resolved by moving miles away…and equally fearful of falling back into bed with one sexy and toxic ex-boyfriend who still lingers in his memories.
One chance encounter. One night of passion. Will Taylor and Dustin leave it at one and done?
Advance Praise for One and Done
“Once again, Frederick Smith continues to draw back the curtain and offer us more glimpses behind the scenes of the modern Black gay man, this time bringing us two beloved characters who deal with the real—love, sex, and all that mess in between, while still allowing them to find moments of humor and joy that all Black gay men are worthy of.”—Aaron K. Foley, author, Boys Come First
“Grown, sexy, and a warm hug for readers with complicated pasts and busy schedules. Watching Taylor and Dustin fall in love was tender and delightful.”—Katrina Jackson, author, Office Hours and Sabbatical
“One and Done by Frederick Smith had me hooked faster than you could say ‘Beyoncé.’ Actively laughing and yelling, I haven’t been so quickly engaged in a book in a few reads. I loved it.”—Sander Santiago, author, Head Over Heelflip and One Verse Multi
“In One and Done, we are invited to dance on the line between the professional and the provocative. With characters who explore the complex struggle between heart and head, Smith’s novel is a slice of life portrait of what happens when ambition and romance collide.”—Sheree L. Greer, author, Let The Lover Be and A Return to Arms
Once and Done
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By the Author
Busy Ain’t the Half of It
(co-authored with Chaz Lamar Cruz)
In Case You Forgot
(co-authored with Chaz Lamar Cruz)
Play It Forward
Right Side of the Wrong Bed
Down For Whatever
One and Done
One and Done
© 2024 By Frederick Smith. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-63679-563-8
This Electronic Original Is Published By
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, NY 12185
First Edition: June 2024
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
Editors: Jerry Wheeler and Stacia Seaman
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design by Ray Jean-Gilles
eBook Design by Toni Whitaker
Acknowledgments
I appreciate the generosity of Chaz and Hari, who loaned me their apartment in L.A. in Summer 2023 so that I could write in a place with no distractions. One and Done would not have happened, or been completed, without their gift of space, place, and grace. Thank you!
I appreciate the support of my happy hour crew, also known as “The Blacks,” who have become found family in San Francisco’s Castro District, and whose stories and one-liners end up in my Notes app for future stories: Brian, Chris, Danique, Jonathan, L.Q., Matt, Nickolas, Omar, Pierre.
I appreciate the servers, bartenders, and neighborhood historians who fill me in on everything service industry and San Francisco: Alexis, Austin, Ben, C.J., Cherie, Cole, Danny, David, Drew, Felipe, Gage, Irwan, Jerome, Joshua, Julio, Justin, Mark, Matthew, Lee, Moses, Oscar, Q, both Sams, ShaRey, Shaun, Sheree, Summer, Treston, Trey, Vanessa, both Vinnys, and Winston. A reminder to all—tip your servers very well and they will take care of you very well!
I appreciate the dancers, performers, photographers, places, and promoters who keep San Francisco entertained during drag brunch events and more: Ashley Wevemet, Bebe Sweetbriar, Betty Fresas, Bionka Simone, Black Opal Munro, Carne Asada, Curveball, Felicia LaMar, Hera Wynn, Jaymelah Moore, Mahlae Balenciaga, Marques, Mercedez Munro, Mohammad, Ruby Red Munro, and more, Tamia, Terrill, The Last Call, Tiv, Tony OMGF, TréBion, US, plus people I can’t remember and love, so please insert your names and faves here: ____________. ☺ Again, tip your performers!
I appreciate Romancelandia—the romance novel writing and reading community. Romance novels and all the virtual romance writer events got me through the 2020–2022 years when we couldn’t go outside. So many writer friends (and writer friends in my mind), bookstagrammers, bookstores, and podcasts to name. But what I’ll say to all is this—keep writing, keep sharing the joy of romance novels, keep giving the world happiness. The world needs love, hope, and inspiration that come from books.
Finally, thanks to educators, booksellers, and librarians who just want to open minds and hearts and bring enlightenment to the world. Books and information are the key to growing empathy and understanding, and to empowering people to make the decisions that work best for them. Please support teachers and librarians. Please support independent neighborhood bookstores.
Till the next book…Love you all!—Fred
Life in general, but especially LGBTQIA+ life, does not end at 21, 25, 30, or 40, 60, 80. It’s never too late, and we’re never too old, to pursue a dream or goal or to consider a new way of approaching life. I dedicate this to all who would still like to be here to lament getting older and who would love to have one more chance of going through this thing called adulting. I dedicate this to all who uplift and support our queer youth and who value and listen to our queer elders—with special reverence for all who support queer youth and elders of color.
Chapter One
Taylor
Dustin McMillan poured into my life as effortlessly as the top-shelf tequila going into the first margarita of the afternoon Markell was shaking up for me.
I was sitting alone in my usual seat adjacent to the bar at Beaux where I could chat with my best friend Markell, who was mixing up drinks for the Sunday drag brunch crowd. The DJ had just lowered the music a bit for hostess and performer Miss Coco Hydrate to get the drag brunch going. She’d asked us to get our singles out for the queens performing their interpretations of Beyoncé’s Renaissance album—still a favorite of all the Black and Brown gays, even after all the time the album had been out, even after most of the gays had been to one of the Renaissance world tour concerts, and even as we eagerly anticipated Beyoncé’s next project. And as I always did on Sunday afternoons, I reached into my chocolate Telfar bag and took two twenties out to change into singles for the drag performers.
“Only forty dollars?” this guy asked as he sidled up near to me and sat in an empty barstool two seats over. “Renaissance has sixteen tracks. And you’re tipping barely two bucks per performance in expensive-ass San Francisco?”
I swung my face toward the somewhat raspy baritone voice commenting on my tipping. For a second, I thought I was looking at myself in the mirror.
He was a Black guy, way too attractive, wearing a blue fitted suit that looked Armani and a salmon-colored button-down dress shirt with a light blue tie. Reminded me a bit of that Nate Burleson newscaster on CBS Mornings. Confident looking, too, like he thought he was the shit. Definitely overdressed for day drinking in the Castro. But then again, Markell often said the same about me and my Sunday Funday attire.
Not that I was sizing him up for anything beyond curiosity, we shared the same mid-to-dark brown complexion and smooth skin that looked taken care of by an aesthetician. And whereas I kept my hair in more of a clean cut, tapered low ’fro, with a small mustache and chin goatee, Two Seats Over guy was a little more rugged looking, wearing a high top natural with a fade, full beard, and mustache. His edge up was sharp and crisp.
Beyond superficial looks, that’s where our similarities seemed to end. He showed some nerve. I’d never think to intrude or impose my opinion on a stranger in a bar. Work life, yes. Sunday Funday, no.
“Who asked you?” I said. Maybe I should have retorted in a nicer way, given that the number of gay Black men in the Castro, especially those who talked to other Black men in the Castro, was generally low to none. But the way he approached me, I thought my response was warranted.
“I’m just s
“That’s funny. I’ve never seen you in here before. I’m here pretty much every Sunday.”
“Oh, you’re a regular, then?”
“You could say that,” I said. “My best friend works here.”
“Oh, so everybody in here knows you’re a frugal tipper? In this expensive-ass city? And what’s up with this city, by the way? Is it even the destination city anymore? I mean the homeless, the mental health, the drugs. Hell, y’all even pushed Keith Lee to cancel his food critic tour. This how y’all be living in San Francisco and the Bay Area now?”
He punctuated the questions with an arrogantly radiant smile filled with Hollywood-perfect teeth. Enamored and at a loss for words at the moment, I looked down while thinking of a response, noting the stainless steel Chopard watch on his left wrist and what looked to be a Tiffany link bracelet on the right wrist. I peeped the Armani white leather sneakers and concluded his suit definitely had to be the same label as the shoes. These brands I knew by look, not because I bought them for myself, but because my parents often gifted me things I never thought or wanted to acquire for myself. Clearly, his taste and income for exorbitant goods were behind his opinions about San Francisco, a city I’d called home for about five years after leaving my family and a job I loved in Los Angeles for a better professional opportunity in the Bay Area.
I’m generally quick-witted and ready with a response for everything, so rarely does someone come for me in my professional or personal life. People who know me know winning a debate with me is hard. Except for maybe Markell’s attempts to poke emotional holes in my reasons for remaining single.
“Well, what I’m not gonna do is buy into anything that critiques our Black woman mayor, her agenda, or her performance,” I said, not really wanting to get into politics at a bar. I just wanted to talk to Markell on his Sunday shift, have my one and done cocktail, and watch some drag. But here we were. “Black women already treated as less than, and buying into that thinly veiled sexist and racist negative talk about her is a slippery slope meant to set the stage for conservatives to try and take back the city—and you know we’ll never get another Black mayor again if that happens. They’ve already pushed enough of us Blacks out of San Francisco, Oakland, and all the Bay Area. We not doing this now. And it’s not just San Francisco, in case you don’t watch the news. It’s all major cities.”
“Point taken,” Two Seats Over guy said. “I ain’t even had my first drink. And I have had a day. Still don’t get you off the hook for cheap tipping. Ha. Thought I forgot.”
We smiled. Eyes lingered on each other. I knew what that look meant and broke eye contact. Romance was definitely not in my plan.
“I tip the girls very well, thank you,” I said, hesitantly. “With cash and in other ways they need help.”
“Mm-hmm, help.” He looked me up and down. “That kinda help? You get down with the performers like that?”
“You don’t even know me.” I scanned the bar area for an empty seat, even though I hated the idea of leaving my usual place at the bar because of an annoying stranger. The nerve of him to imply help meant sex work. Not that anything was wrong with sex work. Rent’s gotta be paid.
What he didn’t know, not that I needed to explain anything to him, was that a lot of my professional work and community service was dedicated to helping queer, nonbinary, trans, and genderqueer people, especially Black and Brown. These groups were the ones highly likely to make up a large number of unhoused youths in the Bay Area and elsewhere. My volunteer and advocacy work was to get them connected to the services they needed. Whether their needs were food, shelter, physical health, mental health, educational, or legal, I’d volunteered on the ground and on advisory boards with organizations dedicated to the uplift of those most invisible within the LGBTQIA+ and Black communities.
And when drag queens and Black trans youth got put on the political bingo card out of the blue, I’d doubled down my support by joining the local NAACP chapter, Castro District Arts Council, and the Food, Bar, and Beverage Council to advocate for their rights. Along with giving cash and tips directly to the performers, that demonstrated my support was beyond the sex work box many tried to confine them to.
I wasn’t too sure I wanted to give energy to Two Seats Over guy, who came across as conceited, opinionated, and full of himself. The kind whose good looks got him his way in his personal and professional life. I didn’t really like that kind of energy in my world.
“Man, just joking,” he said. He put a fist out to bump, so I extended mine back to signal a truce and, hopefully, to end the conversation. “You ain’t gotta move or change seats. I just flew into San Francisco, luggage ain’t make it, car service was late, and they’re going to text when my hotel room is ready. It’s up the street. I’m just passing time.”
“All that to say you’re a tourist?” I said. “If you hate it here so much, why you visiting?”
“Work. Money. A job assignment. That’s it.”
“Welcome, I guess. If you can play nice. And stop talking shit about my city since you’re making money here.”
“Point taken. Thanks for welcoming me, man. I’m familiar with the area somewhat, so I’m entitled to talk shit. But I’ll quit. I’m D.J.”
“Oh, I see. I’m Taylor.”
“Taylor? As in ‘beautiful gowns’ Taylor?”
“You got jokes like Aretha Franklin, huh?”
“So, what’s behind your name? What the hell kinda Black family names a kid Taylor?”
“The kind that named me Taylor, I guess.”
“Doctor Taylor, if you want to be more specific,” Markell interrupted, thankfully, as he made his way back to the bar, vogueing quickly past the performer who was in the middle of doing Beyoncé’s “I’m That Girl.” For a thick and muscular guy who had formerly done drag in his twenties and early thirties before giving up entertaining, Markell could still easily jump in and around the current girls performing at Beaux during his bartending shift.
In between making my margarita, mixing others’ drinks, and delivering mimosas and food orders to the various Sunday Funday groups at tables around the club, Markell had grabbed some casual clothes out his locker in the back—a green T-shirt and light blue denim jacket he’d wanted me to change into, as I was, as usual, overdressed for Sunday Funday. He set the clothes in the empty seat between me and Two Seats Over guy.
“Here’s your drink you ordered from the app,” Markell said and sat something dark on ice in front of D.J. “Doc, I can get you into the staff lounge if you want to change clothes.”
“You changing, Doctor Taylor?” D.J. said, looking me up and down again. “You look fine as you are.”
I hated when Markell, or anyone else outside of the university where I worked, emphasized my academic title. I knew they were proud. I was proud, too, knowing I’d accomplished something less than two percent of the population had achieved. But now wasn’t the time for formalities. Not among bar friends and strangers.
“Aww, man, look at you…another suited and booted kinda guy,” Markell said to D.J. “I swear y’all act like you’ve never been to a club for day drinking before.”
“And you’re?”
“I’m Markell. I’m a bartender, mixologist, sometimes deejay, barback, whatever they need here, and best friend of Doc.”
“That’s what’s up,” D.J. said. “I’m D.J. And yep, the kinda Black family that names people D.J., C.J., B.J., and all that…based on who the daddy is. Not that you asked, Doc.”
“I didn’t, and please don’t call me Doc.” I turned to Markell. “He’s visiting San Francisco. But didn’t say from where or how long. Right?”
