by Anna Burke
“You look hot. Relax,” said Emilia.
“You know what else is hot?” Lillian asked. Perhaps sensing a rhetorical question, none of them answered. “Sweatpants, a fire, and a cup of tea.”
Stevie jabbed her elbow into her ribs. “Okay, grandma.”
It took them only forty-five minutes to get to the city and find parking. Lillian wrapped her jacket closer around herself to fend off the November chill as Stormy and Angie bounced ahead of them on the sidewalk. Stevie looked torn between Morgan and Angie but opted to stay with the larger herd, bumping her shoulder into Lillian’s and grinning. “Chilly, Lilly?”
“God, you’re like a child sometimes.”
“That’s why you love me.” Stevie looped her arm through Lillian’s and, though she didn’t want to admit it, her added body heat did fend off some of the cold. Morgan, Lillian noted, had not been wrestled into revealing items of clothing, and had been allowed to wear her usual jeans and button-down, complete with comfortable-looking leather boots. Even Emilia, who looked stunning in a slinky dress, had opted for a low-slung pair of heels instead of the pair Angie had insisted Lillian cram her toes into. Her feet were already screaming at her.
Stevie had femmed up her look for the night. Her skin-tight black pants and black boots were paired with a soft V-neck T-shirt, which would shimmer beneath a blacklight, showing off her collarbones, arms, and even a hint of cleavage. Those attributes were currently all hidden beneath her thick Carhartt jacket.
“And we’re here,” said Stormy.
“What is this place?” Morgan asked, balking.
The brick building in front of them was old, ugly, and crumbling in a way that screamed derelict. Bass music pounded from within as they moved up the line at the door. She checked her coat twice—once herself for valuables, and once to the man in the booth. Inside, darkness, strobe lights, and dancing bodies lit with glow sticks assaulted her vision. Lillian clung to Morgan, who was busy watching her girlfriend, and squinted against the barrage.
“This is hell, isn’t it?” Stevie asked from her left.
“Pretty much.”
Angie and Stormy were already on the dance floor, turning heads as they moved in time to the music. Morgan was no better—she looked like she was in a deep trance as Emilia led her out to join their friends, leaving Stevie and Lillian standing awkwardly near the door. Stevie’s face fell as several dancers zeroed in on Angie. Lillian put a hand on Stevie’s elbow and gave her a reassuring squeeze. She didn’t want to see Stevie hurt any more than she wanted to see Angie hurt. At least none of the strangers were Alanna, Angie’s off-and-on fuck buddy and all-around asshole.
“Drink?” Stevie asked.
“Several.”
The bar wasn’t any quieter, but at least alcohol would make her feel slightly less uncomfortable. She avoided making eye contact with the people gathered around it, acutely aware of the sensation of air on her chest. When was the last time she’d dressed up to go out?
“Hey,” Stevie said to the bartender, a cute transman in a vest.
“What are you drinking?” he asked.
“Whatever she wants, and whatever you have that will get this over with quickly.” Stevie smiled at him in a way that took Lillian aback. She’d only ever seen Stevie flirt with Angie, and this was an entirely different version of her friend. The bartender grinned and served up a shot of something golden, not taking his eyes off Stevie as he asked for Lillian’s order.
“I guess whatever that is.”
She never found out what they’d been served. All she knew was it burned, and she drank more of them than was wise while Stevie flirted her way to a lower bar tab. A woman in a tight dress and impeccable eyebrows slid into the space beside Lillian to place her order. She turned to Lillian while she waited and looked her up and down. The open admiration, combined with the effect of the liquor, made her shiver. It had been a while since a woman had looked at her like that.
“Want to dance?” Stevie said in Lillian’s ear.
“Yes,” she said, looking away from the stranger. Stevie took her hand and hauled her toward the source of the ungodly noise. It was like someone had put pop music through a blender, which was probably trendy, but just gave her a headache. Stevie delivered her to the circle of bodies containing Morgan, Emilia, Angie, and Stormy, and some of her anxiety faded—though that could also have been the drinks.
“There you are!” Angie threw herself into Lillian’s arms and proceeded to move her hips against Lillian’s with so much command Lillian was forced to move with her or be knocked off balance.
“Get it, girl,” said Stormy.
“I hate you all,” Lillian said as Angie tossed her loose hair back and laughed.
The song changed to one she recognized, and she allowed herself to dance despite the heels, grateful for her daily workouts as the burn in her thighs intensified. Emilia pulled away from Morgan, who looked so pathetically devastated that the rest of them burst into hysterics, and took Lillian’s hand. She let Emilia twirl her around.
“Look at you, turning heads,” Emilia said as she reeled her in.
“Shut up.”
“No, really.”
“I thought you were on my side.” She had to shout to be heard over the music.
“Fine, you look hideous and everyone hates you.”
“Thank you.”
The song changed several more times as the crowd grew, and eventually she broke away to find the restroom. Once she’d managed to locate the facilities, navigate the line, and perch above the seat—there was no way in hell she would ever sit on a public toilet seat—and then force her way back out again, she realized she’d lost her friends. The crowd of bodies pulsed in time with the music, and she leaned against the brick wall to take some of her weight off her heels.
“Crazy, right?”
She glanced up to see the woman from the bar wipe a manicured hand across her forehead. Lillian dreaded small talk. She could do it with clients, but not in situations like this.
“Yeah. Crazy.”
“Better than the last one,” said the woman.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“First time?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you should be dancing.” The woman held out a hand to Lillian. Hesitating only a moment, she took it. This was why she’d come, wasn’t it? Or why her friends had wanted her to come—to dance with strangers and forget about Brian and Ivy. Her new dance partner was very pretty, with full lips, liquid brown eyes, and glossy dark hair that cascaded down her back in waves. The dress was a little tighter than what Lillian considered tasteful, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing she decided as the woman pulled her closer. She could smell the alcohol on her breath, along with her perfume and the underlying musk of her sweat.
“I’m Sara.”
“Lillian.”
“Nice to meet you, Lillian.”
Sara moved well, gliding against Lillian and pulling away, aware of her body and what it could do. Lillian tried to relax. This was what people did. It was normal.
Sara’s hands moved, too. Her sides shivered as Sara’s palms passed over them, but when hands moved to her ass, she stiffened.
“No?” Sara asked.
“Not yet.”
“Whatever you want.”
“I think I need something to drink.”
“Of course.” Sara let her go with a smile that managed to hold regret and understanding. She didn’t follow.
Lillian stumbled as the floor changed from wood to brick. A slim man with cheerful yellow suspenders steadied her. “Look at you in those heels, girl,” he said with admiration. She thanked him and wove her way to the bar, cursing Angie under her breath.
The bartender from earlier had been replaced with a butch woman younger than Lillian who smiled at her respectfully and who reminded her of Morgan.
“Water,” she said. The bartender nodded and filled her a plastic cup.
“Anything for your
friend?” asked a voice to her left.
She whirled, spilling ice water down her front, and glared at Ivy Holden.
“What are you doing here?”
“Hello to you, too.”
Ivy’s black dress bared her shoulders but covered her arms to the wrist, and her blond hair looked artfully windblown as it fell down her chest. Her makeup, too, was a study in the subtle art of casual glamour—a touch of lipstick, lush mascara, and a contour job that would have made the man who’d admired her heels swoon with envy. Ivy looking gorgeous wasn’t anything new. Ivy crashing Lillian’s night off, however, was.
“What are you doing here?” she repeated.
Ivy opened her mouth, then shut it, as if she’d thought better about whatever she’d been about to say. “You look nice, Lil.”
“Fuck you.”
“I’m serious.”
“I don’t care if you’re serious or not.” She turned back to the bartender, who had just finished serving the couple next to them. “Can I get—”
“A vodka martini. Ciroc, if you have it.”
The bartender’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline. “We do. Shaken?”
Lillian was too furious to speak.
“Yes. And I’ll have one of the same.”
“You can’t do that,” Lillian said as the bartender moved to mix the drinks.
“We called a truce, remember?” Ivy jerked her head at the dance floor. “But don’t let me interrupt. You looked like you were having fun.”
“You’re not interrupting anything,” Lillian said as curtly as she could, then realized she might have been better served returning to Sara and her wandering hands. “A truce doesn’t mean you buy me drinks.”
“Pretty sure it does, actually. Don’t enemies toast or something?”
“Here you are,” said the bartender.
“Put it on my tab,” said Ivy.
“Hold on—”
“Please,” Ivy said to the bartender, who nodded and backed away, probably sensing an impending bloodbath and going to find the bouncer.
“Anyway, isn’t this a little too pedestrian for you?” Lillian said. “Don’t you prefer yachts?”
“When I can get them, sure. This is fun, though.” Ivy leaned back against the bar and presented Lillian with her profile as she sipped her drink. “Try the martini, Lil.”
Lil. Ivy hadn’t earned the right to use her nickname. Because tossing her drink in Ivy’s face might get her thrown out, and because if she didn’t put something in her mouth she might scream, Lillian drank. The vodka, predictably, was excellent, and she suspected the bartender had upped the quality of the vermouth from wherever they stored the spirits they served the wealthy people who kept places like this in business. She would not give Ivy the satisfaction of acknowledging its quality.
“I don’t see your usual clique,” she said. “Don’t blondes just find you, like, magnetically?”
“Give it time. I’m new in town, remember?”
“Call up your country club.”
“I didn’t take you for a mean drunk.”
“Just for you, Poison Ivy.”
“See,” said Ivy as she took another sip, “this is what I missed about you. You know exactly how to make a girl feel special.”
The martini was sinfully good. Part of her wanted to shove it away to prove a point, but the part of her that had downed three shots earlier protested that if Ivy wanted to blow her money on women who hated her, that was her prerogative, and who was Lillian to waste a good drink?
“She didn’t strike me as your type, anyway,” Ivy continued.
“What would you know about my type?”
Ivy’s green eyes avoided hers, and the barest suggestion of a blush colored her cheeks. Lillian wanted to slap her. She didn’t get to play vulnerable after what she’d done. Ivy swirled her drink and watched her olive tumble around its depths.
“I’m right though, aren’t I?” Ivy said at last as she looked up. “Or else you’d still be out there, and she wouldn’t be all up on that chick.”
Lillian didn’t spare Sara a glance. “Were you watching me?”
Ivy shrugged.
“Ivy.”
“What?”
“What the hell is this?”
“I told you. I want a truce.”
“This isn’t a truce.” Lillian gestured at the space between them.
“I bought you a drink, didn’t I?”
“So now I owe you?”
“That’s not—”
“Save it.” She turned on her heel, which was a mistake. Her ankle gave on her and she tilted sideways, spilling her drink and careening toward the bar.
Ivy caught her.
“Easy,” Ivy said, and her voice was low and soothing, the way she might have spoken to a spooked horse. Lillian pulled away like she’d been scalded. An Ivy who sang off-key and who caught her instead of giving her an extra shove was dangerous. It made her unpredictable. She should never have let Angie talk her into these shoes or this outing. She belonged at home with her dogs and a glass of merlot, not in Portland, and Ivy—why was Ivy here? Ivy had dodged the question, but it wasn’t like she’d come with a group of friends, unless they, like Lillian’s friends, were somewhere on the dance floor. It was ludicrous to think Ivy had followed her here. That was beyond her usual brand of evil.
Ivy watched her with an uncharacteristically guarded expression while she turned over these ideas. Lillian met her eyes and held them, searching for a sign of whatever logic was driving her actions from within their swampy green depths.
Not swampy. Try as she might, faulting Ivy on her looks was a losing battle. Her eyes were the same piercing shade of green they had always been, flawed only in the way of gemstones.
“Want to dance?” Ivy asked. “I assume that’s why you’re here.”
The old gauntlet, thrown once more. Shame sliced through her, followed by a cauterizing hatred that stopped the wound from bleeding. The smart thing to do would be to walk away. That was what the Lillian she’d worked hard to become would do. Should do. Looking at Ivy, however, she saw a flicker of something as old as their enmity and wondered at it with a clarity that had nothing to do with liquor. The hatred in her belly purred with delight.
“Sure,” she said. “Why not?”
• • •
Ivy followed Lillian into the crowd with her mouth dry and a pounding in her ears that might have been the bass. Lillian’s muscled legs went on forever in those jeans, aided by the heels, which didn’t really seem Lillian’s style, and the sway of her hips. Her dark hair was pulled up and gathered in a twist Ivy longed to undo, and when Lillian turned back around to face her, lips full beneath their gloss, Ivy had to swallow.
The Lillian Lee she had known, as a rule didn’t show cleavage. Ivy had documented her entire wardrobe one year out of boredom. None of them were anything like this top.
Lillian at twenty-one had been cute. At twenty-three she’d been hot. Now, at thirty-one, she was stunning—or maybe Ivy just hadn’t been willing to admit she’d noticed before now. The woman in the skanky red dress cut eyes at her a few yards away, clearly annoyed she’d stolen Lillian away, and on the far side of the room, visible for a moment through a shift in the crowd, she saw Stormy look around.
Her attention was snatched back by Lillian. She’d raised her hands and closed her eyes, for all the world looking like she was lost in the music. Ivy moved with her, keeping their bodies close but not touching, and taking advantage of Lillian’s closed eyes to study the curve of her cheeks and the bow of her upper lip.
This was a terrible idea. She had told herself she wouldn’t go out up until the moment she’d received Stormy’s text, and even after, for a whole five minutes she had been sure she’d stay at home alone with her dog and her failing body. Then the pain had spiked and instead of making her feel tired, as it usually did, she’d felt reckless enough to call an Uber and pop more of her pain meds than she should have. Now, here she
was, dancing with Lillian again.
Lillian’s lashes fluttered open as she pulled the pin from her hair and let it fall in a tousled mass around her shoulders.
Sweet hell. She was unprepared for the smell of her shampoo or the way her hair softened her face. Her hands found Lillian’s waist and rested there, lightly, though she wanted to grip her hard enough to leave the imprint of her fingers on her skin. Lillian didn’t pull away.
The music changed to something with a faster, more insistent beat. Ivy, who had spent much of her teenage and college years in clubs, recognized the switch. The DJ wanted everyone on the floor. Lillian’s body shifted beneath Ivy’s hands, and her fingers tightened, pain forgotten as Lillian’s skin burned her through the sheer fabric of her top.
Lillian’s arms were still above her head, and she leaned into Ivy’s hands, as trusting as the ballerinas Ivy had trained with before she’d convinced her parents to forgo ballet in favor of more riding lessons. Though perhaps, she amended, trusting wasn’t the right word. It implied Ivy had control of the situation, which was so far from the truth it was laughable.
She wasn’t laughing.
Lillian turned away from her, still allowing Ivy to hold her, and let their bodies touch. Desire arced through Ivy along the same paths the nerve pain usually took, but with far more pleasant results. Her hands dropped to Lillian’s hips, sliding over the fabric of her jeans and down her thighs before she remembered who she was dancing with.
She didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Lillian’s hair was smooth against her cheek, and the skin of her neck was close enough to brush with her lips, thanks to her heels. She did. Lillian’s body responded with a shiver that made Ivy’s eyes close as she struggled to control her breathing. Then Lillian began to dance in earnest, and it was all Ivy could do to stay upright.
Lillian dropped her hands and rested them on top of Ivy’s. She waited for her to pull her hands away, flinging her off in disgust, but instead Lillian slid her palms up and down her knuckles before finding the exposed strip of skin between the hem of Ivy’s dress and the tops of her boots, which came to just above the knee. Fingertips skimmed over her thigh. Unable to stop herself, she bit Lillian’s neck, tasting her sweat. The way her skin yielded beneath her teeth, firm and warm and real, was intoxicating. She deepened the bite as Lillian dug her nails—short, as ever—into the meat of her thigh, and she nipped the muscle at the base of her neck before working her way back up to Lillian’s jaw. Lillian was supple fire in her arms—and she knew how to use her ass. Ivy pulled her closer, then abandoned her grip on Lillian’s hips to feel the flare of her waist again and the softer skin of her stomach. She could hear Lillian’s breathing in her ear, as ragged as her own.