Crazy Bitch (Bitches and Queens)

by Rachael James

  Hannah found Willow stretched out on her stomach in the middle of her living room, working on a sketch. She was torn. She wanted nothing more than to stay and spend a quiet evening with Willow, but she really needed to go out and get this out of her system. Because of her chaotic schedule, she wasn’t in Paris nearly as much as she wanted to be, and there, situated in the middle of the Red Light district, was the most exquisite club. Over the years, she had learned the hard way that if she denied herself this most basic pleasure, she could be very intolerable to live with. And she didn’t want to do anything that might spoil her relationship with Willow. So really, she was doing this for Willow.

  “I’m going out for the evening,” Hannah said.

  “All right,” Willow muttered without looking up.

  Hannah frowned. Clearly, Willow was angry at her. Everything about her screamed pissed off—from her indifferent attitude, to the fact she was wearing her own pajamas, a neon tank top and old pair of sweatpants with words painted across her ass, and not one of the pairs Hannah had packed for her. At a loss, Hannah didn’t understand what she had done wrong, but Willow had been sullen all afternoon. Knowing she could spend hours trying to figure out what was wrong, Hannah decided to just ask.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” Willow mumbled, once again without looking up.

  Strolling impatiently across the wide room, Hannah leaned down in front of Willow. “You could at least fucking acknowledge me when I talk to you.”

  Looking up at last, Willow muttered, “Huh? Sorry, did you say something? I was working.”

  Hannah eyed her suspiciously, not buying it. “Are you mad I’m going out without you?”

  “What?” Willow questioned. “No, of course not. Go on, have a good time with Lola.”

  Hannah slowly stood with a cocky smirk. “I didn’t say I was going out with her.”

  “I just assumed,” Willow answered as she looked back her sketch and attacked it with a series of bold, angular strokes.

  “Don’t wait up, darling,” Hannah simpered at the door.

  Willow was jealous. Good. In the end, that sort of jealousy generally led to Francesca-like reactions, but with Willow there would be no end. The fact that she felt it before they even started playing the game was thrilling to Hannah.

  So ecstatic, she barely noticed when she parted ways with Lola at the club. It was always the same. Lola went to her private room, and Hannah went to hers. They never discussed what transpired beyond the closed the doors, but Lola often made little comments about how insatiable Hannah must be that she always asked for two women.

  Once inside, as the two whores fucked each other every way possible with all variety of kinky, vibrating devices, Hannah sat silently and watched. They wouldn’t stop until Hannah was satisfied. She paid them well not to stop. No matter how many times they came, and after years of voyeurism she could spot a fake, they would continue to fuck until Hannah was spent.

  Tonight, the two little dolls were disappointed in her lack of endurance. Typically, she always outlasted the whores, leaving them a quivering mass of ecstasy, but not tonight. Not when she had Willow waiting at home. Having seen her fill, Hannah stood politely and said, “Merci.”

  Chapter 7

  When Hannah arrived back at her flat, Willow was still in the very same position as when she had left. Stretching out beside her, Hannah lay on her side with her head propped up in her hand.

  “You weren’t out very long,” Willow said as she rolled on her side and mirrored Hannah’s position.

  Without a bra, Willow’s tank top dipped dangerously low. Hannah eyed her luscious cleavage for a moment before she reached out and traced the neon hem. Growing bolder because Willow hadn’t moved away, her painted fingertips dipped into the warm, heavy crevice of her breasts.

  “Willow, there is something I’ve wanted to ask you. What does Zach dear think about you being a lesbian?”

  Willow opened her mouth to respond but words failed her. Since they arrived in Paris, Hannah had been very unpredictable, and she didn’t know what to say. Or, what to make of Hannah’s little game. Reaching for Hannah’s hand before her body started to respond, she held it loosely against her chest.

  “I’m not a lesbian.”

  “I’ve seen the way you look at women,” Hannah denied.

  “How’s that, Hannah? The same way you look at me?” Willow challenged.

  Hannah gave her a quizzical look before she answered, “I’m not gay.”

  Looking doubtful, Willow dropped their hands and rolled back over onto her stomach. “Why are you asking?”

  “I was curious, I suppose,” Hannah said blandly. “I find your relationship with Zach very odd.”

  “It’s unusual,” Willow conceded, “but it works for us.”

  “How?” Hannah insisted.

  Willow looked down at her sketch, biting her lip in frustration. It wasn’t right. Something was missing. For hours, she tried to figure out what it needed, but nothing came to mind. “We have an open relationship, Hannah.”

  “How charmingly liberal of you,” Hannah answered with a bright smile. “So, neither of you get jealous?”

  “I have needs that Zach can’t meet, and he would never be satisfied with only one woman,” Willow muttered.

  “What needs?” Hannah demanded.

  Willow glanced over at Hannah. She pulled a loose strand of her hair behind her ear and then boldly proclaimed, “I like women, Hannah. I always have. I like the way they feel and taste. I like their softness.”

  “Hmm,” Hannah muttered, seemingly satisfied with her answer before changing the subject with such a swift turn Willow had a hard time keeping up, “On my way home tonight, I was thinking. Considering this is your first time in Paris, you might want to see some of the sights.”

  “Are you offering your services as a tour guide?” Willow teased.

  “I do know my way around the city.”

  “What about those lovely photographers that follow your every move?”

  “I can dress down. I don’t do it very often, but it can be done.”

  When Willow woke the next morning, she was so stunned by Hannah’s transformation her jaw dropped.

  “I’m not that terrible without makeup,” Hannah frowned.

  “No, it’s not that. You look…” Willow started to explain but had a hard time coming up with the right word. She was wearing a hoodie sweatshirt and a faded pair of jeans—Willow had never suspected either of which existed inside Hannah’s wardrobe. Her thick, platinum hair was loosely braided and hung down her spine, suspended from the back of a pink baseball cap. In incognito, Hannah was barely recognizable. She certainly didn’t resemble a world-famous, fashion icon. No, instead, she looked like a really tall, very thin tourist. What surprised Willow the most was how young she looked. She always thought makeup was supposed to hide your age, but in Hannah’s case, just the opposite was true. Without her paint, she barely looked eighteen. Regardless, she was still beautiful, only a different kind of beauty. “…you look lovely,” Willow finally finished.

  They started their sightseeing tour by taking a train to Versailles. Enthralled by the history, Willow tried to listen to the official tour guide, but quickly gave up as Hannah clearly knew more antidotes. Hannah reached for Willow’s hand and pulled her to the back of the group. While the little man leading the tour recited the history of all the lavish furniture, decorations, and courtly proceedings, Hannah spilled the goods on the naughty historical gossips—who slept with who, where they did it, and if they were ever caught, basically the kind of stuff that was way more interesting than bed stands and pillowcases.

  In the famed Hall of Mirrors, Hannah grew silent and let the guide tell her favorite part of the story. Standing behind Willow, she wrapped her arms her waist, pulled her close, and leaned her head on Willow’s shoulder. By most accounts, the architect had designed this room so that when Louis XIV entered, the sun’s rays would reflect through th
e windows and cast a halo around his head. Hannah started to laugh and then whispered, “Now that’s a way to make a goddamn entrance.”

  Outside the palace, they spent a few hours touring the grounds. With cold drizzle and gloomy skies overhead, Willow should have been miserable, yet she couldn’t remember a time she enjoyed herself more. Hannah’s appearance wasn’t the only thing that changed—it was as if her entire personality had been altered as well. Always before, Willow detected varying degrees of anger hovering just below Hannah’s surface. Even when she seemed happy, it was there hiding in the shadows. Today, it was gone, evaporated, leaving behind someone with an almost childlike enthusiasm and a wicked sense of humor. Willow wished Hannah would let the rest of the world see this side instead of the angel face with a volcanic temper that people liked to bait to see the eruption.

  After they took the train back to Paris, they toured the rest of the city on foot and via the metro. Given Willow’s artistic temperament, Hannah thought no trip to Paris would be complete without a visit to the Louvre. Willow could have spent days wondering through the galleries, but unfortunately, they only had a few hours and the rest of this magnificent city to see. Halfway between Sacre Coeur and the Eiffel Tower, Willow finally commented on the changes in Hannah.

  “I don’t know,” Hannah shrugged. “I guess I just love this place. When I’m not busy working, I love Europe. I suppose it has something to do with being closer to home.”

  “Home?” Willow questioned. “I thought you were from Austin.”

  “Oh no,” Hannah denied. “I was born in a tiny little town in Siberia of all places.”

  “Russian?” Willow asked doubtfully. “You don’t sound very Russian to me.”

  “That’s because you’ve never heard me speak it,” Hannah said. “останься со мной навсегда. When I was seven years old, I was adopted and moved to Austin with my new mommy and daddy.”

  “What happened to your birth parents?”

  Hannah gave her a sad smile. Reaching out, she captured a piece of Willow’s hair and rubbed it like a fine piece of silk between her fingers. “We’re not so different, you and I. I have no idea what happened to my parents because I was raised in an orphanage.”

  “I never knew that.”

  “It’s not a secret,” Hannah said.

  “Have you ever thought about looking for them?”

  “My birth parents?” Hannah questioned. “God no. I can’t imagine either of them are still alive, or if they were, that they would want me showing up at their doors. Besides, the records are sealed tight.”

  Willow nodded silently, although she did not entirely understand. She knew why Hannah might not wish to contact the people who had turned her over to state custody as a baby. That sort of reaction was reasonable. What she didn’t get was that Hannah believed her biological parents would not want her around. Perhaps it was different in Russia? Sad but true, in America, there were many people who would look at a long-lost child turned multi-millionaire celebrity as some sort of lottery ticket.

  “If you hadn’t told me, I never would have guessed. You don’t have a trace of an accent,” Willow said.

  “That’s because my new mommy and daddy insisted I speak only English. They thought it would help me assimilate better.”

  “Did it?”

  “Not really. But enough about that, we still have tons to see and I want to get to Champ-Elysees by sunset.”

  For dinner, they ate at the Hard Rock Café. Hannah teased Willow incessantly about her choice of authentic French cuisine. Willow told her she didn’t care about the food; she wanted to see the memorabilia. Besides, she had to get some pictures for Zachary. He probably wouldn’t care about any of the other amazing sights she saw today, but if she came home without pictures of a famous rock god’s guitars, he would be pissed. As luck would have it, they were seated in front of one very famous guitar player’s cased instrument. Several other diners came up to take a picture. Willow wondered how long it would take them to figure out they also captured the face of one of the most famous supermodels as well.

  Much later that night, they rode the metro back to Hannah’s apartment. It was so crowded there was standing room only. Squeezed together, Hannah and Willow held on to the pole in front of them. Because she was so much taller than Willow, Hannah held her hand at a higher reach.

  “Thank you, Hannah. I really enjoyed today.”

  “Good. That makes me happy,” Hannah answered as she stared down deeply into Willow’s eyes.

  Even though they were crammed like sardines in a steel box zooming under the streets of Paris, Willow suddenly felt that it was just the two of them standing in the middle of nowhere. Hannah was watching her so intently that her heart began to pound and her breathe caught in her throat. With a slight jerk of the car, their bodies crashed together. Willow expected Hannah to step back, but she didn’t. Instead, she held her ground, staring down with her electric eyes. It was impossible not to lose herself in the moment, and for a second, Willow thought that Hannah was going to lean down and kiss her.

  There was no kiss—only a small smile. “There’s no reason we have to leave tomorrow. We could stay for a few more days, and I could show you more,” Hannah whispered as her hand crept down the pole.

  The movement caught Willow’s eye. Looking up, she silently watched as Hannah’s hand moved south until their fingers were entwined. Hannah had touched her all day long. Sometimes it was her hair, sometimes her hand, but none of those touches felt like this. This was different. Palm to palm, Willow felt Hannah’s naked energy flow through her just as she felt her essence being absorbed into Hannah’s skin. This was by far their most intimate encounter to date. And if Willow was utterly honest, it was perhaps her most intimate encounter with anyone. Making love to either a man or a woman had never felt like this. She knew she could deny the attraction no longer. It was there, pulling at them both with a magnetic force. Hannah was north to her south, and with a sense of inevitable certainty, Willow realized she probably always would be.

  “Or, if you want, I have a villa in Tuscany, a beach house in Malibu, an apartment in New York, or we could rent a yacht on the Mediterranean, or the Caribbean is lovely this time of year,” Hannah continued.

  Willow nervously licked her lips. “Hannah, I can’t,” she said quietly.

  “Why not? You can work anywhere, right?”

  Willow didn’t think Hannah understood what she was asking of her. Or, if she did, she didn’t think about the consequences of such a choice. Although she was open-minded and wasn’t one to shy away from a sudden impulse, this wasn’t just a whim. Willow had already invested too much of herself in Hannah to see it ruined once the relationship soured. Besides her career aspirations, not to mention her boyfriend waiting back home, Willow really liked Hannah as a person. As in really, really liked, although she didn’t quite understand it at times when Hannah was being a horrible bitch. Yet still, she was drawn to her in way that was incomprehensible.

  “I’m afraid if I said yes, I would never want to come home,” Willow answered as honestly as she could.

  “Who says we have to?”

  “For starters, Zachary,” Willow said.

  At the mention of his name, the magical spell became only a distant memory and so did today’s Hannah. She released Willow’s hand, stepped back, and turned away.

  Chapter 8

  Hannah stayed distant and cool for the rest of their stay in Paris, but once they landed in the great state of Texas, she became absolutely unbearable. Nothing Willow said or did was right. The constant barrage of nit-picking bitchiness wore on Willow, but she discovered that she must have had a hidden masochistic side because no matter how badly Hannah treated her—she still wanted more. There were no more flowers, no more after-hour calls, no more assurances that everything she drew was wonderful, but every morning, Willow still woke hours before the alarm clock sounded because she was so eager to get back to work, back to Hannah.
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  The first few days after they came back were tumultuous and confusing. On one hand, she was grateful for her relationship with Zachary. He was so easy and uncomplicated. She knew exactly who she was when she was with him.

  Almost as soon as she stepped in the door, he had slammed her with his ardor. They had made love so many times, it should have felt like slipping on an old pair of her most comfortable shoes, but it wasn’t. It was awkward, and Willow felt disconnected. Zachary must have sensed it too. Later, he tried to bring it up, but she said it was just jetlag, even though she knew it wasn’t. Lying naked, skin-to-skin, with him fully embedded inside her, paled in comparison to the moment she shared with Hannah on the subway. While it lasted only a few seconds, nothing had ever felt so real in her life.

  Grateful for Zachary—yes, but surprisingly resentful as well. Willow could not stop her wandering feelings. Whenever she looked at him, she thought, If it wasn’t for you, I could be happy. It wasn’t true, of course it wasn’t true, and she felt terrible as soon as it popped in her mind, which probably explained why she answered the way she did when he asked the last question she ever expected to him ask.

  It happened after dinner one evening before he left to go to his latest gig. When he got down on his knees in front of her, Willow’s first thought was that maybe his contact fell out again, but no, his eyes were fine. He pulled out the twenty-dollar ring he had bought at a local pawnshop and asked her to marry him.

  “Really?” she questioned in disbelief.

  “Really,” he asserted. “I want you to be my wife, my partner in life.”

  Willow hesitated for only a moment before voicing her concern. “Are we really the marrying type?”