A/N: I'm too eager to post this to wait till evening. If anyone was expecting happier times from this chapter, I am truly sorry for how mistaken you were, lol. Remember when I said this was probably the angstiest story I've ever written? I wadn't playin'. Once again, TW for potential dubcon and domestic violence. /TW Also, a couple people asked who the brunette next to Alex is in the part III cover art. Sorry, guys, I got overexcited to post it and forgot not everyone has seen my ramblings about the Devilishverse on Twitter. It's Daphne. I used the actress Caroline Dhavernas (Wonderfalls, Hannibal, Mary Kills People, etc.) as inspiration for the character, so that's a pic of her on the cover. But feel free to picture her however you choose. :) Um, happy hump day?
"But the Hebrew word, the word timshel—'Thou mayest'—that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man. For if 'Thou mayest'—it is also true that 'Thou mayest not.'"
- John Steinbeck, East of Eden
CHAPTER 22: Timshel
. . .
When Olivia tried to return the kiss, warring with the tongue that probed her mouth and grasping at Amanda's backside beneath the Oxford shirt, Amanda broke the connection, leaving them both open-mouthed and panting, a string of saliva trembling in the space between. She knew she was on the right track when Olivia huffed in frustration and knotted a hand in her hair, drawing her in for another kiss. Resisting the pull, she buried her face against the captain's neck instead, nipping and sucking warmly at the tender skin from shoulder to jaw. She detected a pulse beneath her lips and focused there, nursing it as avidly as Jesse had suckled her breast during infancy.
"You'll give me a hickey," Olivia said, too breathy to be discouraging. She hadn't let go of Amanda's hair or her ass, either.
"So?" Amanda burred, trailing more firm, wet sucks to the other side, and repeating the steps all over again. She was working on a necklace of hickeys, actually.
"So, you know I don't like those, cut it out." Olivia nudged at the elbow still pressing into her shoulder, though she sounded only mildly annoyed and made no attempt to pull away.
It was true—the captain had warned Amanda time and again not to get too overzealous with the love bites, especially where they would be visible in public. Tacky, she called them. As if it would be such a bad thing for people to find out she had a fiancée who kissed her thoroughly and passionately. Amanda had sported hickeys on the regular throughout high school; she could just imagine what her then-twenty-something captain would have thought about the little blonde tramp at the back of the classroom, daydreaming and doodling tits and cocks in the margins of her notebook. She could just imagine what Olivia would think of her now if she revealed half the things she had done before they were together.
"It's winter," Amanda gruffed, looping her arm behind Olivia's head, to sweep aside a curtain of dark hair and continue on with her quest. "You can wear a turtleneck. Your tits look amazing in those stretchy ones, anyway."
A grim laugh rumbled up from Olivia's throat, vibrating against Amanda's lips. The captain bunched her shoulder up near her ear, blocking any further kisses on that side, but leaving the other vulnerable. "They used to, when I was younger and less . . . busty," she said, with a note of irritation that might have been about her changing figure, but more likely had to do with Amanda leaching on to the unguarded side of her neck. "And didn't have so many hot flashes."
Speaking of hot flashes. A question burned like a soldering iron in the center of Amanda's already fiery brain: had those bygone days of turtlenecks and body confidence been while Alex Cabot was still around? It was a ridiculous thing to wonder, and she'd tried to take Olivia's word for it that there was never anything romantic between her and Alex. Not anymore. That was how Olivia put it during their argument on Christmas. I know you think there's something between me and Alex, but there just isn't. Not anymore. Every time Amanda reminded herself that Olivia loved her—chose her—she heard those words echoed back to her like Poe's infamous raven. Not anymore, not anymore . . .
Part of her wondered if Olivia also didn't want any hickeys because she was meeting Alex for lunch the next day. That had been the compromise they agreed on: Olivia would go alone, earlier in the day, her New Year's Eve night reserved just for Amanda. It had seemed more mature than whining about tagging along, and less controlling than telling Olivia not to go, but the lunch date was upon them now, and Amanda could barely contain her displeasure.
"Well, I like you hot and busty," she said, easing off of Olivia's shoulders to glide both hands down to her breasts for a possessive squeeze. "And I like you in turtlenecks, so wear one for me tomorrow, okay? If Al— if anyone comments, tell them to mind their own damn business, or your fiancée'll kick their ass."
The slip had been so brief, she thought the captain—already a little fuzzy around the edges from the wine, and drunk on Amanda's kisses—might not notice. But she did, of course. Captain Benson always noticed.
"Is that—" Olivia took Amanda by the wrists and tugged both hands away from her breasts. She used the grip to stand Amanda back a step, cutting short a heated suck just behind her jaw. "Is that what this is about? You're marking me so Alex knows I belong to you? Jesus."
She sounded more mystified than angry, at least at first. Unfortunately, Amanda had no great insight to offer. She only knew that she had started down the path and must keep going. Amanda Rollins was a lot of things—mean, broke, slut, gambler—but a quitter was not among them. "So, what if it is?" she asked, leaning towards Olivia's neck again, though it was already red as fire. The scar from Calvin Arliss' razor stood out more noticeably with the color contrast of the surrounding skin. She hadn't kissed that. "Would that be so terrible?"
"Not at all." Olivia kept her hold on Amanda's wrists, bringing both together in front of their chests and pushing forward, halting the descent upon her neck. "Why don't I just get 'Property of Detective Rollins' stamped across my ass while I'm at it? Would that be enough to convince you I'm not a philanderer like your father?"
"It might," Amanda shot back, and rotated her wrists outward and down, easily breaking free of the grip. She stepped toward Olivia, closing the space that had formed between them during the small skirmish and preventing her from moving away. This was just getting good. Olivia avoided the topic of fathers as much as possible, but now that she had opened the door, Amanda was curious to see where it led; what the captain really thought of Dean Rollins, the man she favored so strongly in looks, personality, and character flaws. "But you're the expert on fucked up daddies here, so you tell me."
Worse than the way Olivia shrunk back at the mention of her father, no matter how generalized, was the injured expression, the disappointment when she said, "My God, Amanda. You are being completely unreasonable right now. And you wonder why I haven't let you come back to work yet." She sighed wearily, as if it stung as much to say as it did to hear. But she wasn't finished.
"I'm only repeating what you said yourself—that your father cheated on your mother. I'm sorry it happened, but stop taking it out on me. I deserve a little more credit than that, don't you think?"
Amanda did think, but pride and irrational anger wouldn't allow her to admit it out loud. Nor could she abandon her spot when Olivia stated, "I'm done, move," and tried to brush past. She clamped a hand to either side of Olivia's waist and held her fast, meeting her exasperated look with one of defiance.
"Make me." Amanda downplayed the challenge with a smirk, but she had meant it. For too long, she had kept quiet about Olivia's inability to stand up for herself. The woman fought tooth and nail for other people, sometimes those she barely even knew, but seldom put the same effort into her own defense.
Oh, Captain Benson could, with a single glance, eviscerate anyone who crossed her in the squad room, but Olivia? Olivia still believed the lies her mother had told her: that she was a mistake, unlovable, unworthy. That she deserved to be slapped around and mistreated, because of some fundamental flaw she had no control over—her existence. There had been glimpses of it for a while now, whether it was her avoidance of food, her tentativeness about correcting Noah when he smarted off, or her determination to give Amanda whatever she wanted in bed, despite how it affected her.
But Christmas Day was the worst example. Not only did she let Beth Anne off scot-free for the slap, she'd actually apologized like it was her fault. The real kicker, though—the one that still put a knot in the pit of Amanda's already weak stomach—was hearing her tell Jesse that she had gotten hurt by accident, all the while holding a cold compress to her puffy pink cheek. It was the exact same thing Beth Anne used to tell Amanda and Kim when they were little and concerned about Mama's latest black eye or bloody lip (or broken wrist or the bruises, God, always so many bruises . . . ). "Mama just had an accident, ladybugs. I'll be okay."
Long ago, before any of the kids were even born, Amanda had vowed that her children would never hear those words coming out of their mother's mouth. Now, she'd failed at protecting them from it, and she'd failed at protecting Olivia from the violence that ran in her family, like blond hair or dimples. Well, no more. Her daddy hadn't always gone about it the right way, but he at least made sure she knew how to fight for herself. The tickle tortures and merciless teasing, being thrown into the deep end before she knew how to swim, learning how to throw a punch before she'd learned how to write her own name—it had toughened her up. Taught her not to take shit from anyone.
And now it was Olivia's turn.
"'Make me?'' Olivia repeated, incredulous. She looked as though she were on the verge of laughter, but it passed without producing a sound. "You're behaving like a five-year-old, you know that, right?"
"Don't know many five-year-olds who could do this," Amanda said, and slid her hands inside the seat of Olivia's slacks, groping firmly at the curves beneath. She inched the waistband down with each squeeze, until it pooled around Olivia's hips, ready to spill to the ground. (The belt jingled softly.) "Do you?"
"You can't seriously still be in the mood?" Olivia reached behind with her right arm to tug one of Amanda's hands off her ass. Since the surgery on her left shoulder, she occasionally had difficulty with that side, the range of motion more limited than on the right. She couldn't bend it back to catch at Amanda's other hand, and that appeared to frustrate her more than anything else. "I know I'm not."
"You sure? 'Cause I've noticed two very big inconsistencies in your story." Amanda glanced pointedly at Olivia's full breasts, the cleavage of which swelled from her bra and the drooping cowl, her nipples still stiff against the thin mauve blouse. With the hand that remained inside Olivia's slacks, she traced her fingers along the elastic waistband of the bikini briefs, following it to the front and pressing her palm to the captain's pubic mound. Just beyond lay a wet heat that moistened her fingertips when she grazed the fabric covering it. "Make that three."
Olivia folded her lips into a thin line, too late to muffle the whimper that passed through them. She closed her legs tightly together, barring any further exploration, but either wouldn't or couldn't push Amanda's hand away. Neither option was acceptable. "I'll cool down. And so will you," she said, a bit off balance in her tone and her footing. As if she were teetering on the inside. "You can sleep on the couch tonight."
"What if that's not what I want?" Amanda asked, gliding her free hand along Olivia's hip, up the length of her side, across the increasing ebb and flow of her cleavage. "The couch or the cool down."
"Too damn bad. You don't get any say in this one. Not when you're in this . . . state of mind." Olivia gestured vaguely outward, before balling her hand back into a fist at her side. She shied from the touch trailing along her shoulder and on up her neck.
"And what're you gonna do to stop me? You gonna fight me?" Amanda stroked the curve of Olivia's jawline, for a moment forgetting the task at hand as she admired its shape. She roved absently over the bikini briefs with her other hand, making no attempt to gain access, nor to draw away.
"Amanda. Stop it."
That sharp note of warning should have been enough to call Amanda off, but she was on a roll now. She could sense the tension mounting in Olivia with each second that passed (counted off by the incessant ticking of her watch on the dresser top), until the captain practically thrummed aloud. It was like playing chicken on the train tracks of Loganville, the rails vibrating beneath her feet so furiously she would feel it for hours afterwards, the whistle deafening as the freight approached at high speed, its conductor waving frantically for the damn fool kids up ahead to get out of the way. Amanda had always been the last one off the tracks.
"Come on, Liv. Fight me. Show me whatcha got."
Angry tears were forming in Olivia's eyes and she bore down visibly, clenched as tight as her fists, refusing to let the teardrops fall, refusing to defend herself. "Jesus Christ. 'Manda, please."
Amanda had come too far to turn back now. She knew Olivia would hate her next move—that, if this horror show of a seduction hadn't already triggered her terribly, this next part would—and she did it anyway. Somebody had to teach Olivia to protect herself, even if it was from her own fiancée. "Fight, goddammit," Amanda snarled, sinking her fingers into Olivia's lush brown mane, gathering a fistful, and jerking it taut.
Beyond snagging her fingers mid-stroke on an occasional tangle, she had never pulled Olivia's hair before. She never once considered it, not even in the throes of passion, when her mind shut off and her body took over. Some light hair pulling could be sexy, in her opinion, but her captain made it very clear early on in their sexual relationship that she did not enjoy the sensation. At all. Amanda hadn't needed to ask why. Lewis was a hair puller; she'd read it in the reports, listened to Mrs. Mayer describe it from a hospital bed, heard Olivia cry about it in her sleep. And now, Amanda had done the same thing on purpose, not to injure or to punish, but to get the desired reaction—which was just as bad, really.
They gasped in unison, Olivia wincing when her head crooked abruptly to one side, eyes squeezing shut on reflex and expelling the tears she'd just fought to contain. Immediately, Amanda released the hair, shaking off the strands that tried to cling to her fingers, as if that might also rid her of the deep shame she already felt. She opened her mouth to apologize, but the words wouldn't come. They were snatched away altogether, along with her breath, when the freight train finally made impact.
Actually, it was Olivia, but the burst of immense power that drove Amanda backwards so rapidly she couldn't find her footing—could do little more than hold on and ride it out—felt like she had always imagined it would, waiting on those railroad tracks and wondering what would happen if she hesitated a second too long. The train probably wouldn't have held her by the arms though, keeping her upright until she bumped against the foot of the bed and sat down heavily. It wouldn't have stood above her, panting and trembling uncontrollably while she tried to get her bearings after the sudden change of location. And it wouldn't have given her one final push onto her back, grabbed her wrists, and pinned them to the mattress above her head.
"Is this what you want?" Olivia demanded, leaning over her, a knee beside her on the bed. The captain's long hair, the beautiful wavy locks Amanda had just mistreated so, hung in the space between like a dark shroud for them to hide under. (How Amanda wished they could.) "It's not enough that we've barely spoken in five days, now you wanna get off on hurting each other? What the fuck, Rollins?"
The only time Olivia called her Rollins these days was at work or when she was making a point. And sometimes in jest, but there was nothing in her demeanor that suggested banter would be an appropriate response. Amanda couldn't have joked, even if she wanted to. Once the shock of being bodily moved from one side of the room to the other wore off, the pain had begun. Olivia hadn't been rough in her navigation—though Lord knew she had every right to be—and even now, she barely held Amanda down, her grip loose enough that baby Tilly could have escaped it. But that graceless plop onto the bed had set something off inside Amanda, like a kerosene lamp getting knocked over, and her gut was presently being consumed by the fire.
She tried her damnedest not to let it show, but the intense heat in her belly, the jolts like fireplace pokers stabbing into her lungs, kidneys, and intestines, were too excruciating to ignore. A weak groan gave her away, and she felt the pressure on her wrists instantly relax, a terrified expression crossing the face above her.
"What's wrong? Did I hurt you?" Olivia asked, her voice rising to the upper register. She seldom reached that pitch, unless one of the kids got injured or she was scared. It was the way she'd sounded at the bank, right after Amanda had been shot. "Honey, I'm so—"
No. Amanda didn't want to win that way, by playing on the captain's sympathies, by playing the sad little victim who couldn't take what she dished out. And as bad as the pain was, that was how badly she wanted Olivia right then. It had gone beyond desire and attraction, to someplace dark, ugly, and
(mean)
hateful. Amanda didn't like to think about that place. She'd done her best to avoid it for years, first drowning it with alcohol, cigarettes, sex, gambling—all of Daddy's habits, passed on to his Mandy girl—then she moved on to work, a string of meaningless relationships, her child, more work. And now: Olivia. She had never craved another person the way she did at that moment, the captain leaning over her with so much concern in those wide, dark eyes.
Amanda easily slipped her wrists free of their lax restraint, wrapped both arms around Olivia's neck, and pulled her into a deep kiss as she was still apologizing. God, it hurt to do it, but once Olivia was in her mouth, she hardly noticed the pain. The captain didn't respond at first, probably too stunned to do much besides ride it out as Amanda sucked hungrily at her tongue. Then she made a soft, indistinct sound that might have passed for arousal if she hadn't grasped Amanda's forearms and pried them from around her neck.
"For Christ's sake, Amanda," she cried, tearing her lips away from the kiss and holding Amanda at arm's length, like a small, feral animal. "Stop!"
"Please, Liv." Amanda gazed up pleadingly, fingers latching onto Olivia's forearms in return, preventing her from letting go entirely. She hadn't meant to work herself up to the verge of tears, but as her vision blurred, prisming the room and the woman above her, she found that she didn't want to hold them back. They could be used to her advantage. "I need it. I need you."
She gathered Olivia to her then, hugging her around the waist, face buried against the flowing mauve top that outlined the ghost of the abdomen underneath. "I just need you, darlin'," she murmured, pressing warm, apologetic kisses to the gentle slope of belly. "So much it's drivin' me crazy."
Olivia sighed deeply and for several moments didn't seem as if she would respond. But finally, her hand came to rest at the back of Amanda's head, smoothing the hair there with calming, repetitive strokes. "Can we just . . . " She leaned back from Amanda to look her in the eye and dry her cheeks with a swipe of both thumbs. "Can we slow it down a little?"
"Yeah." Amanda smiled and pecked at the heel of Olivia's palm as she gave another brush with her thumb, despite the lack of tears that had actually fallen. "We can do that."
But they didn't, not really. Amanda had Olivia out of the slacks and blouse in seconds flat. (Clink! went the belt as she kicked the clothes aside, even though she knew her captain hated it when she did that.) She looked Olivia in the eye while she drew the bikini briefs down her hips, these a bit more slowly than the others, and let them drop from her thighs.
It was clear from the empty brown irises and glazed expression that Olivia wasn't fully present as she
(ripped open)
unbuttoned the front of Amanda's shirt and tossed it on the floor with the rest. That was okay, though; Amanda herself had never felt so empty and detached as she did now, pulling Olivia down onto the bed, tugging off her own underwear, climbing on top of her soon-to-be wife. She faced Olivia's knees, crawling backwards over her until she was close enough for Olivia to hook both arms around, grab her ass, and jerk her downwards with such force she cried out in pleasure—and in pain. She was glad the captain ignored the sound. This needed to hurt.
Amanda needed to hurt.
Other than a few hasty kisses on the insides of the thighs, a few kittenish licks between, they dispensed with foreplay. There were no verbal cues or hums of approval to guide them, assuring their partner was enjoying herself. They had used this position numerous times and were in tune enough with each other's body to know what felt right
(none of this feels right)
so the sound effects were mostly unnecessary. Neither would have heard them, anyway. Amanda didn't even call out when she came, instead focusing her energies on Olivia's clit, probing with her lips, her tongue, her teeth, until the captain bucked twice, fitfully, and was still.
The orgasm might have been faked, but Amanda didn't think so. If Olivia was going to pretend to get off, she'd have to do better than that. She was wiping her mouth when Amanda hiked one leg over to join the other and turned to stretch out alongside her, both of them lying on their backs and staring up at the ceiling.
"Did you come?" she asked, for the sake of making conversation. Normally they held each other afterwards, chatting lightly about nothing until one or both of them drifted off to sleep. But she couldn't imagine doing that after what had just transpired. She'd had angry sex before, but never with Olivia, never with someone who mattered. And those relationships had always ended immediately after.
(Shit, what did she just do?)
Olivia rapped her fingers against her chest repeatedly, the only noise in the room—besides the women's heavy breathing—for a long time. It sounded like horse hooves pounding in the distance, or a racing heartbeat. "Mm-hmm. You?"
"Yeah. You know me . . . anytime, anywhere." Amanda winced at how poorly that had come out. She'd meant it as a compliment to Olivia's nearly flawless record at bringing her to climax, and as a joke about her own hyperactive libido, but it just made her sound like a slut. And kind of a dick, considering her fiancée's occasional difficulty reaching orgasm.
Sonuvabitch. She hated how stiff and awkward they were, lying there side by side without touching, hands folded to their chests like the dead awaiting burial. That hurt worse than the inferno blazing in her abdomen. Deciding to take a chance, she tapped Olivia on the shoulder and, when she had the captain's attention, invited her over with open arms. To Amanda's immense relief, the offer was accepted—after a moment's hesitation—and she guided Olivia belly-down into the space beside her, wedged snugly between her arm and flank.
Resting a hand just above Amanda's breast, Olivia propped her chin against the back of it and gazed up searchingly, her eyes darker than ever and filled with so many questions. They were questions Amanda didn't have the answers for, and she discouraged them with a drowsy smile, running her fingers through the part in Olivia's hair to sweep the strands back from her troubled face. She was relieved when Olivia closed her eyes and gave a long, weary sigh.
"Sleepy?" Amanda asked, knowing full well that wasn't it. Olivia didn't like to look people in the eye when she lied to them—or, if it was too painful to witness, when they lied to her. She couldn't bear the betrayal.
"Mm."
Well, Amanda had gotten her wish. Olivia didn't want to talk or hash out their feelings. It should have been a sign for Amanda to shut her mouth and just be happy she didn't have to explain herself (she couldn't), make excuses (there were none), or apologize (it would never be enough); but as she continued stroking Olivia's hair back, she caught a glimpse of the earrings the captain hadn't had the chance to remove before things heated up. It was a simple pair of studs, small, pretty, and nothing like the extravagant diamond-encrusted pair from Cabot. And yet.
"Plannin' on wearing these for your date tomorrow, are ya?" Amanda kept her tone light and playful, batting Olivia's earlobe back and forth gently with her fingertip. "I'm not sure they're fancy enough for her. Maybe you should wear the ones she sent. Or would that be bad luck? Like me seeing you in your dress before the weddin'?"
Olivia's eyes opened again with such little fanfare, Amanda's breath caught when she looked up and found them staring straight at her, unblinking and black as pitch. "Did you really just fuck me as punishment because you're jealous of Alex?" she asked dully, as if all the color had drained from her spirit, as well as from her eyes. "Is that how it's going to be between us?"
If I marry you. Olivia hadn't said that part, but Amanda heard it loud and clear. Her heart gave a wild kick inside her chest, and she shook her head adamantly. Try as she might to keep her voice under control, it came out harsh and much too high, too frantic. "What? No, that's not— is that what you think this was, a punishment? I thought not having sex was the punishment. And would you quit sayin' I'm jealous of that rich bitch? I'm not. If she wants to lavish you with expensive jewelry—"
Planting a hand on either side of Amanda, the captain pushed herself upright, scooted to the edge of the bed, and sat with her back turned, feet on the floor. She was still wearing her bra, the one piece of clothing Amanda hadn't stripped from her body. The pink indentations in her flesh, just visible beneath the straps and band, inexplicably made Amanda want to cry. She reached out to trace her fingers over the temporary marks, but the second she grazed skin, Olivia flinched from the contact.
"Liv, I—" Amanda drew back her hand as from sharp, gnashing teeth and let it drop lifelessly against the bed. For the first time since they had become intimate with each other, she wasn't sure if Olivia didn't want to be touched at all, or just didn't want to be touched by her. She really had destroyed everything, hadn't she? Same old Amanda.
She forced herself to prop up on one elbow, though the pain was tremendous and made her grunt with effort, left her shaky and panting. "I'm sorry. You're right, okay? I am kinda jealous. She can give you anything you want, but here you are, slummin' it with me. She sends you diamonds like it's nothing, and I practically have to sell my soul to afford your watch and— and stuff."
"I didn't ask you to fix the watch. I told you I would do that later, when we weren't saving up for the wedding." Olivia refused to turn around, instead directing the heated response outward, to the air, the walls, the carpet—anything but Amanda. It was difficult to tell from behind, but it looked like she might be crying. Her shoulders were rounded inward, posture sagging, head slightly bowed. Defeat.
"I know. I know you did, but I just . . . " Amanda ran a hand through her hair in frustration, clutching the strands close to the scalp and giving a vicious little yank. She deserved worse. She deserved for Olivia to walk out the door and never speak to her again. "I wanted to surprise you with something nice. Somethin' really special. Like you are to me."
"You sure you weren't just trying to one-up Alex?" Olivia asked bitterly, her profile coming into view as she glanced sidelong, though not enough to see Amanda or her anguish. "Show me you could spend as much as she does? Do you even love me, Amanda, or is this all some game—some bet—you wanna win?"
That one took the wind out of Amanda's lungs, leaving her gasping for air as she scrambled onto her knees and silently implored Olivia to look at her, like a supplicant in the pews begging for God to reveal himself. She had lost the right to touch, to ask anything of Olivia that she didn't want to give. "Of course I love you. Liv, please . . . " Amanda tugged anxiously at her bottom lip, racking her brain for the right words to undo this mess. She couldn't find them. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, darlin'. I love you so much I ache inside."
Finally, Olivia gazed over her shoulder, with the same searching look from before. If she had been crying, her eyes were dry now. The sadness was stitched into her features instead, like a fine gold thread that ran beneath the surface, as vital as any organ. "That didn't feel like love to me," she said, glancing down at the sheets they had just dirtied. "That felt like you wanted to hurt me. I don't know if it's because of Alex, or because your mom stirred things up for you, or if—"
She cut herself off there, biting at her lower lip, a sure sign she had more to say but doubted whether she should go on. She might as well; it couldn't possibly do any more damage than was already done.
"If what?" Amanda prompted.
"Were you trying to trigger me on purpose?" Olivia sounded more like she was telling than asking. She studied the bandage on Amanda's abdomen for a moment—mostly a means to hide the ugly, scabbing wound underneath, at this point—then looked her full in the face. "Sometimes I think you like me a little broken."
Now it was Amanda's turn to flinch back. Her hand instinctively went to the wound, the one thing she could protect. "What the hell are you talkin' about?"
Olivia tracked the movement of Amanda's hand with her eyes, but she didn't reach out with concern as she normally would. She only watched. "It's safer for you that way, isn't it? If I'm the one falling apart, you don't have to. You get to be the hero and ignore all your own problems."
"Oh my fucking—" Amanda groaned and threw her other hand up in exasperation, as if she had never heard anything so preposterous in all her born days. When she resorted to the big gestures, it meant she was losing ground. She could deny it all she wanted—and she would—but deep down she feared Olivia might be right. It did feel safer dealing with the captain's issues; usually the only person who got hurt by them was Olivia herself. In typical addict style, Amanda's issues always seemed to drag everybody else down with her. She couldn't even play a damn lottery ticket without ending up here, her engagement coming apart at the seams.
Yeah, Olivia was right. It felt a whole hell of a lot better being the one who held it together. The fixer, the hero. Amanda didn't know how to be anything else. "What problems?" she demanded, injury forgotten as she gave an exaggerated shrug, all hands and shoulders, then threw her palms down against her bare thighs. "I'm fine. No wait, that's your line, sorry. I'm fucking great. I have to be. Someone's gotta make sure you're still breathing in the middle of the night after your fourth glass of Merlot and the extra pill to help you sleep. Someone's gotta hold you when you wake up screaming."
Those were some really cheap shots. The pill thing had only happened once, months earlier, after a brutal case involving a mentally ill mother who set her children on fire, then tried to commit suicide; Olivia had held the little girl's hand, the one portion of her small body that wasn't burnt beyond recognition, while she died. The captain had insomnia for weeks after, and doubled up on her medication—liquid and capsule form—in a moment of sleep-deprived desperation that Amanda didn't find out about until she couldn't wake Olivia to migrate from the couch to their bed. As for the screaming, her night terrors were mild and infrequent now, and Gigi seldom let one slip by.
Truth be told, Amanda did miss rolling over, half asleep, to wrap her arms around a tentative and trembling Olivia, feeling her drift off within moments of settling into the embrace. It had made Amanda feel special, providing that comfort. Like she was giving Olivia something no one else could.
"If not me, who's it gonna be, Liv?" she asked, gesturing to the dresser she'd pinned her fiancée to no more than twenty minutes ago. The dresser with that damned expensive watch on top. A little pretty for my city girl - Love, Me. The dresser with those damned expensive earrings inside. Something blue. (All of this because of some overpriced jewelry and a few simple words.) "It ain't gonna be Alex Cabot, that's for damn sure."
Gone perfectly still and quiet, Olivia stared at Amanda like she didn't recognize her. No, more like she was memorizing the face of someone she would never see again. Someone to whom she must say goodbye. Then she stood up without a word, went to the dresser, and opened the top drawer, briefly rummaging inside. She withdrew the small box that contained the earrings from Alex, clutching it tightly in her fist for a moment before tossing it underhand onto the bed. It tumbled across the comforter and came to rest against Amanda's knee.
"What?" Amanda asked, regarding the box as if it were a dead rodent. She nudged it away from her knee.
"Take them. You're so goddamned convinced I can't live without them, without her . . . well, there's your evidence." Olivia waved sharply towards the box, with mannerisms similar to an obscene gesture. "They're yours now. Return them, pawn them, throw them off the fucking Brooklyn Bridge for all I care. I don't ever want to see them again."
Amanda scoffed loudly, snatching up the little box that had caused such big problems. And the note—why did it have to include that smug, monogrammed notecard? Two days after her mother left, she had broken down and snuck a peek through Olivia's purse while the captain was showering. Sure enough, the card was tucked away inside her wallet. The bag and all its contents smelled faintly of flowers.
"I don't want your damn earrings. Here," said Amanda, and thrust the box out on her upturned palm. When no effort was made at retrieval, she gave it a harsh little shake, the earrings skittering inside like heavy, agitated insects. "I'm serious, Liv. Here, come and get 'em."
Olivia hung back obstinately, arms folded tight across her chest. Any other time, it would have been a welcome sight to see her naked from the abdomen down, her long, golden legs pressed together almost demurely at the thigh, concealing all but a brief swath of pubic hair, black as ebony. She had one foot hooked behind the other heel, a knee jutting forward distinctly, punctuating the strong, sinuous sentence of her body—a clear and resounding no, from top to bottom. "Or what? You'll make me?" she asked, lips curled into a faint sneer. "Go ahead. Show me what you're really made of, Mandy Jo."
That fucking name. Amanda hated that name, and it was obvious from the way Olivia enunciated each syllable that she knew precisely how much it annoyed her. For one second, as they faced off with each other—Olivia standing at harsh, provocative angles, and Amanda seated ramrod straight on the bed, seething—the pressure began to build, and with it a kind of terror that surged through Amanda like boiling acid. She dropped her arm weakly at her side, the box dislodging from her limp fist and plopping onto the comforter. She had almost thrown it at Olivia. It wasn't heavy, just a leatherette case that opened by hinge to display the contents on a little velvet cushion. But with Amanda's aim and the dark, ugly anger driving her on, she could have made it hurt.
How many times had she watched her daddy hurl things at her mama? Lamps, full salt shakers, coffee mugs still dripping with soap suds, a telephone ripped from the wall, his children's toys, his fists . . .
Church, she thought desperately. Oh, please, church.
"Forget it," Olivia muttered, her tense posture wilting as if the charge that went out of Amanda had taken her energy with it as well. Arms gone lank at her sides, she turned away from the bed and shook the thick brown hair around her shoulders. She was facing the dresser, studying the open top drawer, the wine glass prone on the stained carpet, her blazer crumpled on the floor—the scene of the crime. And the Breitling ticking away above it all.
"You wanna know what she said to me?"
The silence had lasted for so long, Amanda jumped at the sound of Olivia's hushed and tearful voice. Another geyser of acid erupted in her guts, and she took a sharp breath, releasing it shakily. "Wh-who?"
"Beth Anne. Your mama." Olivia glanced back with a faint smirk, too much sadness in her eyes for the expression to have its typical impact. It faded into a lopsided frown, her vision slipping into the middle distance, that place where she couldn't be reached. She tilted her head to the side, like she was contemplating a strange, evocative piece of art, and repeated in a voice eerily similar to Beth Anne's, "I can see why your mama never loved you. And I broke your watch, you arrogant, crazy bitch."
That stole Amanda's breath away altogether, and she hunched her shoulders, forking a hand against her side the way she did when she got winded on a run. She'd known it was Beth Anne who broke the watch. She had known it all along. But having it confirmed by Olivia in such horrible words—and with that horrible blank look on her face—hurt worse than Amanda could have imagined. Maybe she'd still hoped she was wrong. That her own mother wouldn't be so cruel, especially to the woman she loved.
What a fool she was. Cruelty ran in the family.
"Oh, Liv," she whispered, choking back a sob. She couldn't go to Olivia and hold her like she wanted to—not now, and maybe not ever, after tonight. Finally, left with nothing else, she cried. Not the superficial tears she had mustered up before through sheer frustration and rage, but genuine tears that coursed down her cheeks so hotly they burned. "I'm sorry. I'm so goddamn sorry."
Olivia gazed at her, through her, for several moments, then with a pivot of the ankle, turned from the dresser and made her way over to the bed. Or at least that was how it appeared to Amanda through the haze of tears, until the captain continued on towards the bedroom door, her long stride carrying her there purposefully. She'd had no intention of stopping by the bed.
"Where you goin'? Don't leave," Amanda said brokenly, scrubbing her knuckles across her eyes and cheeks. She sounded as needy and pathetic as a child clinging to its mother's legs and begging her not to go, but she didn't care. If she had to get down on her knees and beg Olivia not to leave her, she would do it.
Just like Daddy, ain't it so, Mandy Jo?
Ain't it so?
"I have to pee, if that's all right with you," said Olivia, grabbing her robe off the hook on the back of the door and punching into the sleeves. She wrapped the silky material securely around herself and pulled the sash tight at her waist, ensuring there were no gaps in the robe. She had only succeeded in accentuating her curvy figure, the pink floral print on black appearing painted directly to her body, especially when she turned to open the bedroom door. "I'll sleep on the couch. You take the bed, you're the one who's injured."
"Wait. Liv—"
"Goodnight, Amanda."
And with that, she was gone, easing the door shut behind her. For at least a full minute, Amanda sat staring at the empty spot where her robe had been, willing her to return. But she wasn't coming back, that much was apparent after another four or five minutes yielded nothing more than the hiss of running water from the bathroom. Amanda had the sneaking suspicion that the active tap was to muffle the sound of weeping or vomiting, and it gutted her to think of Olivia hiding either of those things from her. She had brought it on herself, though.
Most of the last half hour felt like a dream—the worst Amanda ever had—but she remembered getting mad at her fiancée for crying. Her daddy used to do that, too. Snivelin', he called it, whenever his wife or daughters were too emotional for his liking. As in, "Quit snivelin', you dumb bitch, you're upsetting the girls." Once, Amanda had run to him, crying because she'd fallen off her bicycle; his solution was to make her get back on the bike and pedal while he jogged alongside, mocking her tears and kicking the wheels at random to try and knock her off balance. She never fell off her bike again after that, and seldom
(sniveled)
cried in front of her daddy. To this day, she seldom cried in front of anyone.
Just Olivia. And now that was over as well.
Amanda felt helpless sitting in the middle of an empty bed in an empty room, naked except for her bra, the ticking of that damned watch about to drive her insane. The watch her mother had smashed. The daughter that was smashed too.
She had to get out of here. Moving quickly, she collected her clothes off the floor and put them on her body, though it felt as if she were dressing someone else. Even her pants seemed tighter, and she switched them out for a pair of dirty jeans grabbed from the hamper. She left the belt and jacket on the armchair; her wrinkled Oxford, off by one button, would suffice. Onto her feet she strapped the first pair of black boots she scrounged from underneath the bed. The earring box was directly in her eyeline when she bent down to lace her boots, and she pocketed it without a second thought. Standing was the hard part, but she managed to boost herself upright by leaning heavily on the mattress and springing with her knees. They crackled like Styrofoam, stiffened from weeks without her daily run, or even just a jog on the treadmill. But they held.
She grabbed a coat from the hall closet on her way out the front door. To where, she had no idea, but she'd watched her daddy storm off after countless arguments with her mama, whom he left broken and bloody (and crying in the bathroom), enough times to know for certain: she'd figure it out.
After all, she was Dean Rollins' little girl.
. . .