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    Fight Fire with Fire
    Fight Fire with Fire
    Fight Fire with Fire
    Ebook80 pages1 hour

    Fight Fire with Fire

    By Sionna Fox

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    About this ebook

    Frannie Thorpe is on the verge of getting everything she ever wanted, crowned by securing an exhibition of the work of late queer photographer Rian Sampson--until her funding is put in jeopardy by a would-be senator with an eye on slashing public funding for "pornography."

    Ashley Patterson, Sampson's muse and erstwhile indie music darling, steps in to help close the funding gap. Working together to save the show creates sparks, but neither woman is prepared for the fire between them.

    *This short story originally appeared in the anthology Rogue Passion

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSionna Fox
    Release dateSep 21, 2018
    ISBN9781386891499
    Fight Fire with Fire
    Author

    Sionna Fox

    Sionna Fox is an author of sweet/hot HEAs, die-hard romance fan, and lover of things nerdy and twee. She drinks too much coffee, has a minor issue with washi tape and planner stickers, and tagging her in anything involving llamas, foxes, or women in suits is a surefire way to her heart. She lives in New Hampshire with her very patient husband and very put-upon dog.

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      Book preview

      Fight Fire with Fire - Sionna Fox

      1

      I know how to write a fucking grant, Larry. Frannie slammed the door to her office. The muffled thump of old wood catching on the door frame was not nearly as satisfying as she wanted it to be. The board had hired her to drag the museum into the twenty-first century, increase attendance and ticket sales to special exhibitions, and bring in new corporate donors—all of which she could and would do—but it would be so much easier if they didn’t fight her every step of the fucking way.

      Hell, she’d proven that by securing the region’s only showing of the collected works of the late Rian Sampson, and the grant money to get the thing up on the walls. She’d even managed to get funding that was tied to educational opportunities by devising a program for low-income high school students to view the exhibition and learn about youth culture documentary. Basically they were going to let a bunch of teenagers run around the museum taking selfies, but they’d learn that teenagers had been doing that pretty much since the invention of the camera.

      While she should have been basking in the success of scoring the show from a highly competitive field of applicants and working with the installers to draft plans for the temporary walls they were going to need—Sampson’s catalog was enormous considering their brief professional career—she’d been in a board meeting, defending her ability to get the funding for next year’s schedule.

      They didn’t trust her yet. But they would. This season was going to put their little regional museum back on the map. For years, they’d done nothing but bring in second-rate touring exhibitions of stodgy classics, and their ticket sales and membership numbers showed it. People were going to notice them again, and bringing in Rian Sampson’s work was a major first step.

      Sampson’s work was a brilliant mash-up of documentary and editorial, grit and glamour, their portrait subjects were messy, their snapshots sharply composed. Grainy black and white from basement punk shows mixed with lushly-colored studio shots. And so many of them featured Ashley Patterson, muse, singer, activist, and erstwhile indie cool girl.

      Frannie had been watching Sampson since their work started appearing in small magazines, following them as they moved into gallery shows while documenting their muse’s rise from belting her heart out in dirty basements to doing the same in front of thousands. Through Sampson’s lens, Patterson was at turns fragile and confrontational, sweaty and screaming into a microphone, then underlit and exhausted, curled in on herself in the backseat of a van. They were a powerful team, shaping the image of what it meant, for that moment in time, to be young, to be queer, to be fat, to be feminist, to be dirty and beautiful and to lift a middle finger to anyone who wanted them to be otherwise.

      When Sampson had died eight years earlier—a stupid, senseless case of untreated pneumonia—Frannie had felt it like the loss of a friend. To bring Sampson’s work here, to Frannie’s hometown, to hold up a mirror for every closeted kid like the one she’d been, it was personal. For the first major show of her tenure, the first evidence of the changing face of the museum, to be the work of a queer artist—Frannie couldn’t have dreamed of better. Approving the press packet that had just gone out had been a bittersweet triumph.

      But before she could draft floor layouts for the exhibition space and talk to the permanent collections curator about making some changes to their installation to better lead attendees into Sampson’s work, Frannie had to finish this section of another grant proposal so the board could hem and haw over whether she and the education director were out of their minds. They weren’t. And she’d prove it.

      Her door burst open, revealing her rather more harried than usual assistant. Ms. Thorpe, you’re gonna want to see this.

      For the last time, Holly, it’s Frannie. What’s wrong?

      She came around the desk with her phone in her hand and pressed play on a video from the local news station.

      What am I watching?

      Just wait.

      Frannie reflexively wrinkled her nose when the camera panned to Trenton Everett Markham III. He’d just announced a Senate run, invoking the bogeymen of immigrants, feminists, and queers to rile up his would-be constituents. A few years ago, she would never have taken his chances seriously. Now, he disgusted her at the same time as he struck fear in her heart. Their deep purple state could go either way, between rural conservatives convinced the government was coming for their guns and white suburbanites who wanted tax cuts, social services be damned. And Markham was holding up the museum schedule mailer that had gone out last weekend.

      Shit.

      Through the tinny speakers of her phone, she heard him rail about public funding being used to spread filth in the community. The glorification of sin would not be tolerated on the public dime. This had to be stopped. The gay agenda was poisoning the youth. He ranted on at the shell-shocked local news host, and the producers let it go, seeing viral spread and dollar signs, Frannie was sure. She turned away from Holly’s phone and put her head in her hands, dread roiling in her stomach.

      Her desk phone rang.

      She took a deep breath, straightened her glasses, smoothed the lapel of her blazer, and picked up. Frances Thorpe, Special Exhibitions, how can I help you?

      Have you seen the news? Her boss didn’t bother with a greeting. They’d all left the board meeting to the same video.

      Frannie flipped over her phone. Notifications for the museum’s social media accounts flashed across the screen every couple of seconds. This was bigger than local news. Shit, shit, shit.

      Yes, sir.

      "This is not what the board meant when we talked about bringing

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