RUBY LUCAS
Ruby cups the stocky twenty-seven year old's testicles in her right hand through his jeans. Teases him with a light squeeze. Will not venture any further until he answers her question satisfactorily. She adores her questions and quizzes more than intercourse. The only problem: guys never do. Still, she's equipped with twenty minutes until show time to acclimate him to her brand of foreplay. Words mean the world to her. She writes her own lyrics to the tune of her tumultuous life.
"Tell me one thing you like about me," Ruby demands, her back leans against the hard and hot brick of Storybrooke High's natatorium. She bows into the heaving broad chest of her latest conquest. Rolls a cherry flavored piece of gum around her tongue. Thinks to herself that six hookups is long enough to test his mettle. To see if he can overcome his plethora of shortcomings. She is filled with well-founded doubts.
"And don't say my butt," she adds pointedly. Kisses her brown haired paramour on this left cheek, precariously close to the corners of his lips, and tightens her smothering grip around his head, elbows at his ears. Her hands coil into the back of his neck like twin boa constrictors. His lower half bucks. She surmises that he'll come in his boxers in a few minutes. "Or my eyes. Don't be a walking and talking cliche if you want me."
Most guys she dates… no hooks-up with are cliches. Fun rides until they aren't.
She knows it makes her cliche. Easy for her to ignore until it isn't.
Right now it's a fun ride with implications that are easy to ignore. He coils one of her dangling fiery-red highlighted curls framing her lovely face around his index finger, admires with wide lustful eyes the volume of her loose and long chestnut tresses that mirror the voluptuousness of her body's curves on full display in tight black yoga pants, a red throwback tailored jersey - that squeezes her breasts so tightly it reminds him of an exploded biscuit roll package, he's said as much to her - and black heeled boots.
A slave to fashion, Ruby dresses to leave lasting impressions. Leaves a throbbing one in his pants. She squeezes his manhood harder. "I like…" she can practically see the words "butt" and "eyes" crowd his mind like NY Times Square billboard signs, he can't miss them but knows he should ignore the flashing lights, "I like your style. It's electric," he offers.
Ruby purrs, satisfaction flints across her green eyes; he's earned a prize, not her heart. She itches for his touch. A touch. Some sort of closeness. No contact. Her tongue expertly snakes its way past his lips, pillages his mouth of words and oxygen. His tongue insistent on claiming his air and language back from hers. A war of mouth flesh ensures; she wins. Giggles into his mouth. Steals back her gum.
He pushes his hand past the elastic hem of her yoga pants, dances his fingers into her thong. She's clean shaven for the most part, no puff muff, manicured. He presses their bodies against the prickly brick of the building.
"Watch the guitar," she admonishes. Strung over her shoulder with an red strap, her instrument is an extension of her body. It's never good to attach yourself to people, not in the long run, but you can trust the music. It allows you to be you. She hums in his ear. He growls.
"Who brings a guitar to D-hall?" He grouses in her ear. He will not win a Nobel Peace Prize, but his fingers border on legendary. Strumming her chords, hitting the right notes. She whines. He plays her body faster.
"I have a gig afterwards," she explains between moans and hiccups of breath. Detention is no biggie to her. Spends the time jotting down notes and the words to bring them to life. Even hopes to meet some new boys at this shindig from hell. Prefers a sausage fest and not taco party, although she will not rule out receiving attentions from another girl.
Still, past detentions were served under the 'I don't care what you do today just do it away from me' eye of their ex-gym teacher turned unpaid alcoholic beverages spokesperson, town drunk Leroy. Ruby laments scoring herself mandatory time with Reul. The woman is so uptight, Ruby wagers the only time a man willingly comes near her is when she visits her gynecologist for a pap smear test.
"What the hell did you do anyway to rack up D-Hall?" His other hand swims to her backside. Pinches it. She gasps. He relaxes his tango with her womanhood, switches to teasing her bikini line. "D-hall" must be what his generation calls detention in an attempt not to sound as old as they look.
"Move your fingers back to the promise land," she commands, lurching forward and resting her head on his shoulder. Celebrates the amount of trees and shrubbery that conceal their early morning debauchery with a smile. Her detention is her business, his business is her body. "And use small circles. Small circles are good."
"Like this?" He moves his fingers deftly. Heat lances across her abdomen, pools in the pit of her stomach and ignites the fires of her puckered bundles of nerves. She wants him to work faster. He complies with a fevered frenzy of up and downs, in and outs of his fingers. And those circles Ruby enjoys.
There is no better feeling, no more aliveness than the moment when her lovers extract her strangest, freest, loudest moans. She loves the sound of her voice. It's the only thing she loves about herself. She knows her inner songbird's release and its delicious melody are near. Can feel and hear it drumming in the pit of her stomach. In the heat building between her legs. The intensity always catches her off guard. Steals her breath. Seizes her mind.
Wrecks her soul.
She grits her teeth. Her eyes probe the air for a pathway to his. His eyes are off in oblivion. Might as well be; he's not looking at her but at some nearby fir trees.
Suddenly, she doesn't want the release. Doesn't want to her body sing. Not with him. But, her body responds to his ministrations and not to her will. And it pains her when it happens despite her mental protest.
The moment is intense, she buckles at the knees, sharp pleasure bursts through her, fire in her veins, fanning across her thighs, hitching in her throat, raging through her body like an uncontrollable volcanic eruption, like an atomic explosion ricocheting through soul, leaving an ashen doppelganger in its wake. Releases as a mellifluous song note from her vocal chords: "Oooooh."
Buzzes in her mind as she rides the last of its wave to shore.
The dwindling sound echoing through the shrubbery, dying out has he muffles her voice with a hand over her mouth. A hand dripping with her scent. With her taste. She bites him with blunted teeth.
"Ah, no marks," he giggles, feigns a injury by dramatically clenching his hand.
She catches her breath. Steadies her knees. Pushes him off her. She does not cuddle. Does not dawdle. Straightens her pants and shirt.
He laughs. Considers her with a wink and a command: "My turn."
"We gotta stop. I gotta rock."
He's disappointed. She notices it in his slouch. In his curled lip.
"Just skip it," he demands. He reaches out and squeezes her in a tight hug.
She doesn't wiggle away. Wants to but doesn't. Her body always betrays her mind.
"Can't. It's better than-" His invasive tickling of her neck temporarily robs her of initiative and agency to speak.
"Being with me, sexy?" He asks, grinning mischievously.
His mouth seals his death warrant.
Men's mouths always break the spell when not clamping onto her crimson lips.
Ruby can't stomach his simplicity or idiocy. Older guys are suppose to bring something to the table besides girth and length. He doesn't even possess those attributes. She likes his eyes and his fingers. A shame. He's not going to last the day with her. Not in love with him, so it doesn't hurt. Not as much as it can. If she loves. She does not.
Boys and men always want her. She always wants them. But wanting is never enough. She bores too easily and they hardly ever impress. She doesn't do relationships. Not always by choice. A 'don't ask don't tell' mutually assured destruction pact. They don't ask her to be in a real relationship and she doesn't tell them she wants one, eventually.
What's the point when everyone will disappoint you?
Her mother was right about that facet of life before she hit six feet of dirt. Ruby's five stepfathers were increasing abysmal as the selections paraded by her life in dodgy trailer park homes.
At least the last one before Ruby left for her grandmother's house in Storybrooke, Rick, brought her the guitar slung across her back. He could carry a tune too. Had a friendly, beautiful smile. Told Ruby that her beauty was her voice. That she should sing professionally and escape their trailer park. "Don't ever look back, little Red," he said as he taught her a complicated riff. Gave her that nickname.
No man has been as nice to her since.
"It's better than being here all day with back to back detention sentences. I can't miss my audition at five," she says, mustering up the energy to make a clean break for the front of the building. School is not Ruby's cup of tea; she has the aptitude for some of it, excels in her music and poetry classes, but her attention spans darts about faster than a five year old with ADHD at an amusement park after three rounds of cotton candy.
Music is the one constant in her life that's never let her down. Tonight's audition can launch her passion to the next level. Make her a regular performer at the Rabbit Hole. She'd better make today's punishment stick. Keep her mouth shut. Keep her eye on the prize. Not rack up any overtime. Her academic track record makes certain she won't be suited for any profession outside of music artist except for burger flipper at her grandmother's food truck.
"Come on, babe, let's get outta here," he says cupping her hand in his. Dragging her a few feet toward his Dodge Charger parked in the faculty lot.
She plants her feet firmly in the grass. She knows he wants to yank her away to his backseat. And she knows he knows she's not interested. Doesn't stop him or any of the others from trying. She usual caves.
"Meet me at the Rabbit Hole tonight. I get two songs for the audition."
He considers her visage for a moment. Her eyes aren't dancing in anticipation of his answer, more a cursory offer than an emotional request. But the frame of her body is always sensual even when her mood is not. She's beautiful and he can't let her go easily. She is young and there is much experience there. But reality is its own planner.
"No can do. Gotta pick up my girlfriend."
"Go away," Ruby demands, pulling her hand from his but his grip is firm. He readjusts and rubs her arm.
She adopts a petulant pout. Why? She doesn't want him want him. Never did.
"Come on, you know she's a rag. I told you that I'm dumping her for you soon," he coos, believing she'll eat up his lie as good as he goes down on her.
"Soon is neither a specific day of the week nor a definite time of the day," she says with enough acidity to dissolve a cow. She edges toward a clean break from his presence, pivoting her stance, moving most of her body away from him except her captured hand.
Who am I kidding? Always a break. Never a clean one.
"Jesus McChrist. I don't harp about all the guys you date." Shows how much he pays attention. She never dates. Prefers rendezvous.
"Move your balls or lose them," Ruby says to his eyes. He looks her directly in hers. Seeing her for the first time quite possibly. She's serious and deadly and broken and malleable. "A woman only needs to say 'no' once."
"You're only seventeen." He nudges the two of them back to natatorium's outside wall. The ping-pop of a broken guitar string as her instrument mushes into the brick wall.
Something in her snaps more easily than the guitar string. She knees him with the kinetic force of a wrecking ball in his crotch and trudges defiantly toward the front of the school.
"Ow, you stupid slut!" He yells after her, doubling over and grabbing his crotch.
She sure knows how to pick winners.
Good thing she picks her self defense classes with more expertise.
She spins around while continuing to walk backwards toward her destination. "I don't know what's more pathetic: your unoriginality or your tiny balls!"
She cackles like a witch after casting a curse, considers him no further, and dips around the natatorium toward her high school's Main Hall.
Stops at the front steps of the Main Hall. Collects her breath. Smiles at her handiwork and then immediately frowns when she eyes the broken string on her guitar. "Crap."
Eyes her watch, it's 7:10. Five minutes to D-Day. "Crap."
She spits out her gum and catches an eyeful of her school's shirtless varsity boys cross country team as they hightail it by the school. A whole herd of sweat glistened athletes keeping themselves more fit than should be legally allowed and humanely possible. One of them waves at her. She salutes him and giggles. She doesn't recognize him, but she'll take another look at the rippling muscles of his back any day of the week.
Broken guitar aside, the day is not yet in total ruin. She can restring during detention.
And she already zeroes in on another hookup prospect. All black clothing covers his angular build from head to toe. Expertly coiffed hair, a bit on the spiky side near his temples. His eye makeup and fingernail art game rivals any supermodel's. So does his silver jewelry choices. He oozes rock star swagger mixed with a healthy disdain for authority and bourgeois people. He's her new type of crush as she watches him enter the school building, profiling him like an FBI agent.
She doesn't know his name but has seen him around school, lurking the halls; a sulky apparition unencumbered by social norms. Hopefully he's at school on a Saturday for the same reason she is: to pay restitution for some slight against school rules and regulations.
Ruby smirks. Cradles her guitar across her chest. Feels a crush song building to a chorus in the stadium of her mind.
Boys and men pop up like wild weeds. Always crowding out the things you want, but hard to ignore as they grow out of your control right in front of your face.
Next up: Emma Swan then Robin Hood