A/N: Been a weird day for me, full of migraines and family members exposed to the 'Rona, otherwise I would've posted this sooner. Thanks for smut-tastic reviews last time. Just for that, here have some more. ;)


CHAPTER 37: Hell or High Water

. . .

The ink had already set long before they got back to the SUV and cranked up the heat, but Amanda continued flapping the slip of paper in front of the vents like she was drying out a waterlogged manuscript. She brought the document close to her lips and blew a light stream of air over the black ink ("Register of Deeds won't accept any other color," the court clerk had explained, apropos of nothing), scrawled in her puffy, bubblegum script and Olivia's spiky pen strokes.

"I don't think our names are going anywhere, my love," Olivia said fondly, watching Amanda fuss from the corner of her eye as she navigated them out of the parking garage and onto Worth St.

Valentine's Day had fallen on Sunday this year, President's Day following immediately at its heels. Today was Tuesday, but the streets were Monday-busy, just as the City Clerk's office had been, after the extra long weekend. Love was in the air post-Valentine's, it seemed. But Olivia couldn't bring herself to complain; she was as guilty as the rest of the fools in love—and in line for a marriage license.

It had been an hour and thirty minute wait in the uncomfortable chairs with cracked upholstery that lined the wall outside the glass office, and another hour in similar chairs, these huddled together inside of a room no bigger than a closet, where they had recorded their life histories on paper and answered absurd questions recited by a clerk in monotone: Is either party under the influence of an illegal stimulant? Are both parties here of their own free will? Are they married to anyone else?

Even Olivia had rolled her eyes at that one, joining Amanda who had been wildly impatient with the whole process, though good-natured. Olivia recognized the antsy behavior—the pen-tapping and leg-bouncing, the wistful sighs and the reading aloud in an insectile whisper—not as boredom or disinterest in the proceedings, but as barely contained excitement. Maybe some nerves mixed in. She understood that, too. Her own belly had turned somersaults when the clerk handed them the license and said, "Congratulations. Twenty-four hours from now, you can officially become wife and wife."

They were still planning the wedding for next month, though it was tempting to just call in a favor to one of the many judges they knew personally and skip the whole to-do of a ceremony. But if they did that, Daphne Tyler would probably never forgive them. She was more excited about the upcoming nuptials than they were, her insistence that a queer wedding, especially one in which she was acting as witness and maid of honor, had to be "epic" a tad overwhelming.

The dual bachelorette party, a wholly unnecessary tradition in Olivia's opinion, had fallen into Daphne's tiny, exuberant hands as well, and there was already talk of hosting it in a strip club. Olivia wasn't strictly opposed—she had always appreciated the candidness and tenacious spirits of the strippers she'd met on the job, not to mention the mind-boggling athleticism—but she would soon be a married woman. The only hot blonde she cared to watch undress or have grinding in her lap was the one seated beside her now, beaming at the names Amanda J. Rollins-Benson and Olivia M. Rollins-Benson on the back of their marriage license.

"Can't help it," Amanda said, holding up the paper by its sides and peering over the top, just eyes, nose, and a side-sweep of blonde bangs. Kilroy was here. God, she was cute. "I like my new name. I still think we coulda dropped the Rollins altogether and kept it shorter . . . but hyphenated is good, too. It makes us sound trendy. And rich."

Well. They certainly weren't that. Despite the decision to make it a small, intimate ceremony at the church where Amanda had Jesse baptized—Olivia loved the stained glass windows and dark oak furnishings of the sanctuary, and the female minister was a nice touch—the wedding was proving more expensive than Olivia ever would have dreamed.

Even with modest floral arrangements, off-the-rack dresses (pants for herself and Noah the ring bearer), a musician friend of Fin's secured as pianist/deejay, and Carisi's mother (along with a gaggle of his sisters, no doubt) promising to cater her big Italian heart out, Olivia's bank account had taken a hit. They would be honeymooning on Staten Island at this rate. No wonder most people got married when they were young enough that their parents had to pay for everything.

And yet. Whenever Olivia saw that bright, beautiful smile Amanda wore with increasing frequency as the wedding date drew nearer, she felt her own anticipation growing, and an odd sense of calmness and security that was totally foreign to her. She'd expected to get cold feet, as she always did when life felt too easy, when she felt too loved; instead, she was more certain of her relationship with Amanda than she had ever been. Maybe the difference was that she knew things wouldn't always be perfect between them—but they were as close to perfection as two people had ever gotten.

"I like Rollins," she said, and pushed the flash drive she'd spent most of yesterday filling with music into the USB port with her index finger. From the display screen above the radio controls, she selected the appropriate media settings, swiped through the artists folder until she reached the D's, and chose the song she was searching for (each step taught to her by the Rollins in question). It wouldn't do as a wedding song, or even as an accompaniment for the first dance, but they might be able to sneak it in later during the reception.

"Here you come again
Just when I've begun to get myself together . . . "

"And Jesse should have at least one of her mamas' last names," Olivia added, as Dolly Parton's cricketlike vibrato filled the cabin of the vehicle, blocking out the sounds of the traffic jam they were solidly wedged into.

In the past couple of weeks, she had discovered, much to her surprise, that she didn't entirely despise country music. Amanda was really selling it lately, particularly since Olivia's birthday and that Dusty Springfield LP ("She was bisexual too, you know," the detective had stated sagely, while blasting "Son of a Preacher Man" on the turntable), in hopes of influencing the reception playlist. Little did she know, Olivia had been listening to the raspy-throated singer and her blue-eyed soul probably before Amanda was even born.

Dusty gave way to Linda Ronstadt, whose many collaborations with Emmylou Harris and Dolly Parton were the true gateway drug Amanda sought to administer. Before Olivia had known what hit her, she was listening to—and enjoying—Reba McEntire, Martina McBride, Alison Krauss, and the Chicks. Her favorite so far was Little Big Town, whose songs resonated most deeply with her. The lyrics of "Next to You" reminded her so much of herself and Amanda, she was considering putting it in the running for first dance.

You're my heart and my home.

"Yeah, at least until we're all officially Rollins-Bensons," her heart, her home was saying now, still smiling at the hyphenated names on the page. There had been some discussion of adopting the kids so they would all—mothers and children—share the same last name and parenting rights among the adults, but they hadn't settled on anything yet. Mostly because Amanda would have to contact Declan Murphy to get his consent for Olivia to adopt Jesse, and neither of them were looking forward to that conversation.

They had time, Olivia thought, and couldn't resist a wry grin down at her watch. They had all the time in the world.

"All you gotta do is smile that smile
And there go all my defenses . . . "

In the middle of harmonizing with Dolly, Amanda stopped short and gazed up at Olivia in amazement. She looked as if she'd just experienced a divine revelation, and she pointed emphatically at the radio display. "You picked a country song," she said in an awed, hushed tone. And when she had skimmed through the music library contained on the flash drive: "Oh my Lord, there's a ton of country on here! I see Lady A, LBT, Loretta, Reebs, Tanya, Wy . . . Babe, look at this, you are a bona fide country fangirl."

"I wouldn't go that far." Olivia playfully batted Amanda's hand away from the touchscreen. Traffic was flowing again and she needed to concentrate on the road, not on defending her so-called disdain for a music genre. Could she help it if the female artists of country music (not country and western) were actually talented, strong women with a message to deliver?

"But . . . I might have judged it a tad harshly. I still think most of the men are overrated and their songs are vapid noise, if not downright misogynistic. Except George Strait. And the guy with the high voice from Brooks & Dunn."

Amanda grinned from ear to ear. "Ronnie. Admit it, you looove him. You wanna marry him and have his woolly, falsetto babies."

Olivia snorted and raised a gloved finger at a time from the steering wheel, numbering her objections to that gross misrepresentation of facts. "Okay, first of all, shut up. Second, physically impossible. And third . . . " She glanced over long enough to trail her fingers down Amanda's cheek, ending in a little flourish under the chin. "I don't want anybody else's babies but yours, little pretty."

Together they finished out an impromptu singalong with Dolly as the SUV cruised towards Seventh Ave, Amanda crooning in her loveliest lilting twang, while Olivia hummed and, with a little prompting, warbled offkey:

"Here you come again
Lookin' better than a body has a right to
And shakin' me up so that all I really know
Is here you come again, and here I go . . . "

Fifteen minutes later (the length of three and half country songs, all of them chosen by Amanda and featuring some type of sexual theme), they were belting out Mary Chapin Carpenter's "Shut Up and Kiss Me" when Olivia pulled into the lot beside a building modestly sized by Manhattan standards.

"What're we doin' here?" Amanda asked, peering curiously out the windshield at the twenty or so stories above and drumming her thighs to the flirtatious beat.

Olivia gave her a moment to spot the logos of the businesses that occupied the building, clustered on a pylon sign at the edge of the parking lot. Among them was the blue winding river icon of Sterling National Bank. Obviously she'd chosen a different branch than the one where they had been robbed and Amanda nearly shot to death. She had almost scrapped the idea altogether, worried it was too soon for either of them to set foot in another bank or make significant financial decisions. But that was the fear talking, and Olivia had let it win for far too long.

"Ready to try this again?" she asked, angling a nod at the building. She hadn't silenced the engine or Mary Chapin Carpenter yet. If Amanda showed the least bit of trepidation, Olivia was prepared to beat a hasty retreat out of the lot and back to the precinct to relieve Fin and Kat for the afternoon.

But any hesitation on Amanda's part was short lived. She slid their marriage license back into the manila envelope in her lap and stowed it away in the footwell. "With you? I'm ready for anything," she said, and beckoned Olivia to follow as she hopped down from the vehicle. "Come on, Mrs. Rollins-Benson, let's go kick some joint-account ass."

"Ooh, shut up and kiss—"

. . .

February 27, 2021

I woke up this morning covered in glitter. But before I get into that, I should mention the other shiny news: they've been convicted and sentenced. Alpha and her accomplices—the ones who almost took Amanda away from me.

Her real name is Makiah Washington; she's just 24, an OTH discharge from the army. Came back to New York because of her brother, Martavius (aka "Kilo"). He would have turned 19 last month. She got 35 years for armed robbery and aggravated assault. It's not enough.

Larry Long (aka "Victor"), whose real name Amanda keeps laughing about because "it sounds like a porn star from 1989," got 20 years for armed robbery; Mike (his real name), dead on the scene, got a life sentence I guess you could say. Whiskey the getaway driver (Gabe Torres), whom I've barely laid eyes on, received a slap on the wrist: 6 years. He'll be out in three.

It's that same anticlimactic feeling I had when they found Orion's body. I tried to give Amanda the afternoon off when the call came in, but she wouldn't let me. Said we already burnt up enough sick leave lately, and if we do manage a honeymoon, we'll need the vacation days. Not to mention maternity leave eventually . . . Maybe . . .

She's right, of course. But I have to look out for her. Who would I be if I didn't do that? Certainly not Olivia Rollins-Benson. (We're sticking to our given names at work, just to cut back on confusion, but Amanda's practically announcing the new one to strangers on the street. And honestly? I'm not much better.)

Now, about the glitter. Last night was our bachelorettes party, and it was truly unlike anything I've ever experienced. That's what I told Daphne when she shouted, "Isn't this the best night ever?" across the table, dodging the stripper's scissor legs to see me on the other side. She looked like she was inside a zoetrope, trying to peek out the slits as they whirled by.

But first we started out at the karaoke bar. I really can't handle the hard stuff anymore, be it booze or ballad. I wouldn't say I was drunk, but there's no way in hell I would've gotten on that stage stone-cold sober. I was in good company, though. Over the course of two hours, I witnessed my officer, Kat Tamin, falling on her can while doing a hip hop routine to the Salt-N-Pepa song "Push It"; Daphne sobbing in the middle of her rendition of "Silver Springs" (it was actually a decent impersonation of Stevie Nicks mid-meltdown); and Amanda singing every word of "Abracadabra" to me as she sexy-danced her way to the table—they even followed her with the spotlight, like she was a Vegas lounge act.

It was ridiculous. And hot. And now I can't get that damn song out of my head: "Abra abracadabra, I wanna reach out and grab ya . . . "

And I did. A few times. But if she's gonna shake it in my face like that, really, who could blame me?

I tried my hand and my sad, sad little voice at some Aerosmith. "Crazy"—which I think is what I must have been to attempt Steven Tyler. That's what happens when I wear leather pants and drink tequila. And that is why I rarely do either. I vaguely recall Amanda shouting, "Yeah, baby! You sound so good!" at me from the audience; that's how I know she was completely trashed. I'm pretty sure Daphne filmed the whole thing on her phone, and I'll be forced to relive every horrific, screechy moment at some later date. For years to come, most likely.

Daphne's friend Natasha, who I'm almost positive has a crush on her (and in an ironic twist, Daph seems to have no clue), was our sober friend. She got us to the strip club in one piece, and cut us off after two pitchers of beer. And that's where the glitter comes in. Booty dust, I think, is the technical term. The lap dance was not my idea. Actually, if I'm not mistaken, Kat was the one who sent them over. They said their names were Cassie and Camara (like the car, but an "A" at the end instead of an "O"), and they thought it was "super cute" that we even bothered to ask.

I say we because they danced for—or rather, on—Amanda and me. It was probably the single most awkward moment of my life, and I'll be cleaning glitter off my skin and clothes until long after the wedding. Tamin is going to get a lot of extra paperwork on Monday. Even Daphne was surprised; after the dances ended, she leaned over to me and confided, "This is officially the gayest bachelorette party I have ever been to."

Me too, Daph.

I was a little worried that Amanda might be jealous, but she handled it well. Hard to focus on much else when a complete stranger is rubbing her ass in your crotch. But we made it through, tipped Cassie and Camara generously (they told us to "please come back anytime"), and I can officially say I'm no longer a lap-dance virgin. Receiving, at least. I owe Amanda one now . . .

Hers came after we got home. Performed in the middle of the living room because the kids are at a weekend sleepover with Uncle Sonny. Frannie and Gigi were extremely curious as to why Mama was climbing all over Mommy like they usually do. Gigi kept nuzzling in between us, and Frannie ran off with Manda's underwear (did I mention the lap dance was also a striptease?). I didn't even have to teach her that. What a good girl.

Both dogs hid when things really heated up between us. Apparently sex noises are just as traumatic to canine ears as fireworks. It definitely felt like some pyrotechnics were going off inside me. Or maybe that was just Amanda's tongue.

Kaboom.

. . .

The heels belonged to Maggie, although how a fictional femme fatale on the run from a brutish lover could afford Louboutins was beyond Olivia's wildest imagination. She had barely been able to afford them herself when she bought them on a whim for that night of roleplay a few months ago. A very expensive whim.

They were heaven on the feet. Like walking on pure sex. Amanda seemed to concur, leaning forward in anticipation, elbows resting on her thighs, which were cocked at a masculine angle. She laced her fingers loosely in front of her, eyes gleaming quicksilver-blue as they traveled up Olivia's bare legs.

The black blazer fell just past the tops of Olivia's thighs in the front, the undercurve of her ass playing peekaboo in the back. A swivel of the hips or a subtle arching of the spine was all it took to flash the dark groove, the fleshy swell beyond. There might have been some practicing in front of the mirror beforehand.

She'd tipped the black fedora over one eye, a la Judy Garland performing "Get Happy" in Summer Stock. But that was where the similarities to Ms. Garland's iconic musical number ended; whereas Judy had downplayed some of the eroticism in her big scene with a modestly arranged ascot and a cheerful gospel-inspired tune—it had been the fifties, after all—Olivia opted for a see-through black teddy and an AC/DC song that was anything but religious. Trash, her mother had deemed it when she overheard thirteen-year-old Olivia blaring "You Shook Me All Night Long" in her bedroom. Don't let me ever catch you listening to that disgusting swill ever again.

Sorry, Ma.

She went to work quickly, peeling the hat back from her untethered hair and flinging it into a far corner of the bedroom. Bat outta hell, she thought without any further explanation, and started on the blazer next. Simple enough, with only the top button cinching it at her middle. The panels fell open at the perfect moment—just as she'd planned it—and she gave her thighs a brisk slap, running her hands up the insides, in time with Brian Johnson's full-throttle screech: "Knockin' me out with those American thighs."

If the neighbors called the cops because the lesbians in E6 were disturbing the peace, Olivia would never live down this little foray into exotic dance. But the music needed to be loud to distract from the dancing. That was also why she ditched the blazer so quickly. Amanda would be too busy ogling her body inside the revealing teddy, its only coverage a garden of dainty flowers and vines embroidered on the sheer bodice, to pay any attention to her poor rhythm. And judging by the enormous grin and enormous pupils of the blonde in the armchair, that assessment had been one hundred percent correct.

Olivia had learned a thing or two from Camara, though. For instance, a lap dance wasn't so much about the actual dancing as it was about small, sensual movements that emphasized the breasts, the hips, the ass (especially that), the pelvis. And grinding. Lots of grinding. All things Olivia was more than capable of doing—she'd known how to use her physicality alluringly since she was a teenager—and quite well.

After a few moments of seductive strutting to the hard-hitting electric guitar riffs, Olivia swung her hips close enough for Amanda to seize them and pull her forward, shins bumping into the cushy front guard of the seat. "Uh-uh, that'll cost you extra," she scolded lightly, unbuckling Amanda's arms from around her waist. She lifted her fiancée's chin with the pad of her index finger, leaning in as if intent on kissing those sweet upturned lips. Instead, she murmured in Amanda's ear. "And I don't come cheap."

"Guh," said Amanda.

Smirking, Olivia lowered a knee onto the seat cushion and brought the other up to join it, straddling the blonde's thighs without sitting on them. She spent the next several seconds of the song rocking her pelvis in Amanda's face—close to it, anyway—arms slung over the back of the chair, hair hanging down and brushing their cheeks. ("Made a meal out of me and came back for more," Brian observed.)

Amanda was dying to touch her, that much was obvious from the fists clenched beside her calves, but Olivia drew it out a little longer, tossing her wavy locks and running her fingers through them as she wiggled. Finally, when the detective looked ready to burst, she climbed down from her perch and turned in the opposite direction, a heel firmly planted in the carpet at either side of Amanda's feet. Time to shake the moneymaker.

"'Cause the walls were shaking, the earth was quaking . . . "

From behind, a sound like steam hissing from a teakettle alerted her that Amanda was indeed about to blow. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph," whistled the blonde, converting on the spot when Olivia dipped forward and undulated her spine, hips, ass. She flipped her hair back over her shoulders—probably would have a kink in her neck tomorrow, but it was worth it—and lifted it again, letting it cascade from the bundle in her arms like a waterfall down her back.

Now, she seated herself in Amanda's lap and began the grinding. She had missed out by at least a decade or two on the dance crazes that involved rubbing one's ass against one's partner, but she had ridden a couple of the men she'd dated in this same position. She emulated the motion from those encounters, sliding her ass up and down Amanda's midsection, crotch to breasts and back again.

"Fuck, babe." Amanda splayed her hands wide to hover over Olivia's rippling torso. "I need to touch you. Please?"

" . . . knocked me out and then you shook me all night long . . . "

Olivia grabbed Amanda's hands and pressed them to her body, guiding them first to her breasts for a squeeze that nearly freed both nipples from the abbreviated cups of the teddy's built-in bra. Then down, down, down, to rub against her pussy, where a trio of discrete snaps in the teddy's—admittedly very wet—crotch made for easy access. Draping herself fully against Amanda's front and gazing coyly back at her, she manipulated the blonde's fingers into plucking open each snap. No coaxing required.

"Think I have a career in this, if the cop gig doesn't pan out?" she teased as she allowed Amanda to take over.

"Oh, darlin'. You'd make a killin'," Amanda rumbled into the thicket of dark hair at her neck.

Only a few more lines of the song remained by the time Amanda was inside her. You really took me, she thought, somewhere in the back of her mind, grinding again. Yeah, you shook me.

. . .

Olivia flipped to the empty space in her journal, below Amanda's name, written that night—two months ago, now—in a moment of desperation, of overwhelming loneliness.

She finally remembered what she had wanted to say to her fiancée when she'd jotted those letters at the top of the page. It wasn't anything new or fancy or wordy, as most of her entries tended to be, but it was the truth, pure and simple. It was the truest thing she had ever known.

Beneath Amanda's name, in a black pen like the one on their marriage license—permanent, binding—she wrote: I love you.

. . .