Easier to run
Chapter 2
She woke in darkness, face down on the mattress. Still nude. She must have simply collapsed after her climax. Or had she done something else? She couldn't remember. Lara, could you be any more stupid?
Her hook-up was unconscious next to her; also naked, lying flat on his back with his arms splayed out to either side of him.
As she pushed herself upright, two monstrous palms clamped over her skull. It felt like it anyway – clumsy swollen fingertips digging into either side of her head, making her cringe at the pressure.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, and paused there for a few moments, hands clenching the edge of the mattress as she braced against the alternating waves of nausea and dizziness.
When the worst had passed, she pushed herself upright. Retrieving her silk kimono from behind the bedroom door, she draped it around herself and shuffled through to the kitchen. According to the wall clock it was just after 5am but it was still pitch black outside. One week into October the nights were getting considerably longer.
She downed a couple of aspirin and made some tea. Then she migrated through to her study.
Beneath her headache, the voice was still droning. Now why exactly was last night a good idea?
She had to admit it wasn't a good idea. It never was. But then again it was nothing she planned. Every few months or so, when she couldn't stand being alone in her head anymore; when the desire to be touched overpowered sense, she would go out, get drunk and find someone.
And it was always worse between expeditions. While out in the field she had the strenuous physical demands and mental exhilaration of discovery to flood her body with endorphins. Back in the UK, the distractions from self were less. And then the tendency to brood over her past actions would strike like a tsunami. She could sense it looming over her; the way her skin tingled in the menace of its shadow. When she worked, she could escape. In her downtime though, she grew restless. Writing journal articles, researching through the night, running for hours; none of it provided the complete absorption of senses that she craved.
She couldn't go home. Not really. Over the past five years it had become about more than a straightforward commitment to finding answers. Her body rejected the very idea of a time-out. She could never stop searching.
Even now, it was difficult to concentrate.
She could work on one of the papers she had agreed to write.
She could work on her doctorate. After all, she already had enough material for seven PhDs at least. But she had chosen the outsider's path. The renegade route of back alleys that would keep her far apart from her peers with their comfy tenures and "Professor" honorifics.
She settled on the mundane task of catching up on the email she'd been neglecting. She sat with her knees drawn up on her seat, circling the rim of her mug with a finger between sips. Irritated by her hair, she groped around for an elastic band and tied her locks back in a half-hearted ponytail.
Most of the correspondence she could ignore or politely extricate herself from. One though, she couldn't.
It had been fifteen years since the disappearance of her parents, and to commemorate their untimely loss, a new wing at the Delphi Archaeological Museum was being named after Richard and Amelia Croft. The Greek academic fraternity was up in arms over what they saw as arrogant British imperialism yet again. They couldn't dispute the fact though that continued annual donations from the Croft estate had made the museum expansion possible despite the rickety state of the Greek economy.
Then again, it could all have been a ploy to get Lara to show. Unwillingly, she had become an Archaeology megastar. Despite her general avoidance of interviews and refusal to appear in a reality TV show, she had developed a mass, mainstream fandom. People said a lot about her – most of it made up – but the truth was that her instincts paid off. Routinely the discoveries that she allowed to go public made world headlines.
Getting her to appear as the guest of honour at the wing opening was a coup for the museum. It was guaranteed to lure the press and generate free publicity.
Even now, reading over the following week's travel arrangements and event schedule, she was ambivalent about attending.
She'd agreed to it during a bout of nostalgia. She had been recalling her mother's amazingly vivid retelling of myths and legends at her bedside, and how safe she felt as a little girl in her father's arms – whether he was carrying her upstairs at Croft Manor, or to their tent in the middle of nowhere when they spent whole seasons on a single dig site. She distinctly remembered Roth sitting at the fireside and winking at her over his tin mug of whiskey. Half-asleep and clutching her scruffy teddy bear, she smiled back at him over her father's shoulder.
So many ghosts…
She sensed movement behind her, before he spoke. This was always the awkward part. It was better to just short-circuit the process, despite the risk of delivering a electrical burn that would cap the whole experience with a crusty blister.
She didn't bother to turn around. "May I call you a cab?"
"Uh-"
She glanced over her shoulder then. Her tonal coolness had frozen him halfway through the act of buttoning up his shirt. His god's stomach was partially exposed.
She arched an eyebrow, intensifying her look of disdain.
He blinked a few times, unsteady under her gaze. Eventually he found his footing. He smiled good-naturedly. "Nah, it's alright. The tube should be running by now."
He was Australian. She hadn't realized it last night over the noise of the club.
"I'll let you out."
Lara pushed back her chair and stood. She kept a physical and emotional distance. The last thing she wanted was his hands on her hips. Or even to make eye contact with him.
Once he retrieved all his clothes, they stood in the tiny entrance hall.
Lara stood with her arms crossed over her front.
He scratched the back of his neck. "Hey, if you ever want to – you know? – you have my number."
"I do."
That was a lie. She had pretended to add it to her address book. Feeling guilty, she initiated a clumsy hug.
"Thank you for last night."
She stepped back and looked him in the face. Evidently the embrace and similarly stiff expression of gratitude had been enough to placate him.
He grinned, "Cheers."
Then he was gone.
Just once she had brought home a woman. She'd been under the delusion that she could push Sam to the back of her mind if she crowded out the memory of her. Losing the documents when she stuffed more and more folders into the cabinet.
So while she was off the grid, spending a month in Massachusetts – chin-deep in Harvard's special libraries and collections – she acted on her theory.
She made herself up far darker than was normal for her. Thick eye liner, plum lipstick, leather bracelets, a low-cut black shirt that traced both her curves and layers of muscle. She supposed she looked fierce; though she felt foolish, like she was trying too hard. Miley Cyrus: The Archaeologist Edition.
At the gay club, her nerve failed her. It took three Jaeger Bombs at the bar before she could lift her head and begin hunting for what she wanted. The lioness too obvious in her intentions as stalked through the herd of wildebeest.
On the edge of the dance floor, a blonde was laughing with two other young women over alcopops. At first glance she had that immaculately made up beauty-queen-meets-spring-breaker appearance of so many WASPish American women. On closer inspection though there was an edge that Lara wanted to cut herself on – most evident by the tattoo that trickled down the side of her neck from an earlobe pierced several times.
She was perfect.
Lara sidled up and introduced herself.
Almost immediately, she was mortified by her misconceptions. The girl, a student, ticked all of Lara's physical attraction boxes, and intellectually she was no bimbo. The Englishwoman was surprised how much she liked her on every level. Articulate. Naturally confident in a way that Lara could only ape. Very sexy.
Back at Lara's apartment, they stood on either side of the kitchen island while the Englishwoman poured them each another shooter in highball glasses – the only tumblers she could find in her rented accommodation.
As the blonde raised her glass, she grinned over the lip. "I know who you are."
"Oh." So much for going incognito.
The girl whispered, "I think you're amazing. I can't believe I'm here with you."
Fucking a young groupie, Lara? The realisation brought a flush to her cheeks.
She chuckled over her embarrassment. "Well, cheers."
Silence followed their tequila toast. Lara put down her glass and rounded the counter. She went in for the kiss, which was reciprocated by soft, willing lips. The novelty of being able to make out with someone without needing to stretch up and teeter on the balls of her feet. She'd missed the relaxed naturalness of it.
They had discarded their tops by the time they entered the bedroom.
Lara lay the girl down and followed suit, pressing her bare torso against her companion. They continued to kiss and caress and writhe. Lara was loving the softness of the girl's skin, especially once she unclasped her bra. So much to play with; so much to touch.
She was especially enamoured with the blonde's short skirt. The easy, covert access it granted was a massive turn-on.
So not straight, Lara Croft.
The archaeologist slipped down onto her knees at the foot of the bed. Gripping the blonde's thighs, she slid the girl down to the edge of the mattress so her hips were jutting over the edge. In that position it was easy to peel off the younger woman's panties.
The blonde elevated herself on her elbows to watch. She chuckled, "You've done this before."
Lara blushed. She was trying to think of a saucy comeback when her companion reached out and clasped her by the neck. The Englishwoman was drawn back onto the bed, and into a deep open-mouthed kiss.
Eventually she recalled her original intention. She slipped her fingers under the blonde's skirt and was rewarded with a shudder beneath her.
The young woman broke from the kiss to cry out. "That feels sooo good."
Moaning, she arched up into Lara's touch. "Oh my God, sweetie, that's it! Keep doing that."
Sweetie.
Lara froze.
The girl took the Englishwoman's inaction as an invitation to reverse roles. She sat up, pushing Lara onto her back on the bedspread.
The archaeologist didn't resist. At that moment she couldn't do anything. She heard another voice, sultry and adoring.
I love you, Lara.
She tried desperately to get back into it as the blonde kissed and licked down her stomach. But suddenly all she wanted to do was sob. She was vaguely aware that the button at the waist of her jeans had been plucked open, and the zip drawn down.
Lara raised her head. The girl was tracing her companion's unscarred hip bone with her tongue. She looked up then; her eyes meeting Lara's.
Thinking the Englishwoman's suddenly anxious gaze was one of anticipation, the blonde flashed a naughty grin. Then she slid her palm into Lara's knickers. Her fingers began to explore.
The archaeologist closed her eyes. Maybe, just maybe, she could find her lost arousal?
Sweetie, you're the best thing that ever happened to me.
Lara seized her companion's wrist, halting her circular strokes. "Please…"
The young woman was confused. Her lips parted, but Lara pre-empted her question. "I – I thought I could do this. But I can't."
Frowning, her companion withdrew her hand.
Lara sat up. She didn't know what to say or do. No apology seemed enough, but she stammered out one anyway. "I'm sorry."
She felt so ashamed.
She actually sat for a minute on the edge of the bed, with her head in her hands, trembling. She could hear the girl scuffling around behind her as she dressed.
"Christ." Lara balled her fists and drove her knuckles into her eyelids. Sam... She kept seeing Sam. Standing in front of her, nude, looking down at her. Smiling softly. Stroking her hair.
The Englishwoman must have looked pitiful; enough for the girl to initiate a reassuring touch when they stood clothed again before the front door.
She stroked Lara's cheek. "Hey, you don't have to worry, you know. I won't tell anyone."
That wasn't the issue at all but it was certainly easier if the younger woman believed it.
Lara forced a weak smile. "Thank you."
The blonde cupped the archaeologist's face and kissed her one final time.
As soon as the young woman was gone, Lara took several swigs from the bottle of tequila. It gave her something to do that wasn't breaking down in tears. Once she was confident that she would be unable to fight its effect, she staggered through to her bedroom. Her legs failed and she flopped face-down on the mattress, waiting to pass out. She could feel her frenetic, memory-triggered heartbeat begin to slow. Oblivion arrived soon after.
Since then, she had stuck to the thrusting of men. Straightforward. Emotionally void. It was better that way.