"Oh, it must be nice to love someone who lets you break them twice."
Maybe this whole riot thing isn't so bad after all. Nicky had admittedly been concerned at first, but sitting in the back of her and Lorna's makeshift pharmacy, hands folded across her lap, she's beginning to think that maybe she'd been wrong.
The Weeping Woman—for the life of her, Nicky can't remember the woman's real name—is looking at her with hope in her eyes, and for once Nicky feels as though something she's done has real value. It's not much, she knows, but maybe her role as de facto prison therapist can brighten a few days while all this shit goes down around them.
"Thank you!" the woman exclaims, and then Nicky's eyes widen as she gets up and pulls Nicky into a warm hug.
"Whoa! Boundaries, right?" Nicky's already pulling her hands off, trying to disentangle herself from the Weeping Woman's grasp. "So, there you go. Let's keep it professional."
She gives the woman a little wave as she walks out the door, then settles herself back into her seat. But the next person who walks through the door isn't who she expects.
It's Lorna, flouncing in with a playful bounce to her step that can only mean trouble. She's got that light in her eyes that Nicky has always adored—that little spark of mischief that tells Nicky that Lorna is not, in fact, the good little Catholic angel everyone assumes her to be.
"Hi," she says. There's an arch to her eyebrow, and her tone is loaded—Nicky would say flirty, almost, but she refuses to let herself go down that rabbit hole again.
So she keeps her tone purely friendly. Professional, like she'd told the Weeping Woman. "Hi."
"My name's Lorna. Morello. Muccio." After the pause on Morello, Nicky half thinks she's going to end it there. But no; she's married. God forbid Nicky ever forget it.
Still, Nicky can't help but play along with the little game Lorna has started: Nicky as doctor, Lorna as patient. Three months ago, Nicky would have jumped at the chance to tell Lorna she knew exactly what was the matter with her—she was clearly suffering from Nicky Nichols withdrawals, but not to worry, Dr. Nichols could prescribe her a few orgasms to solve her problem. Now, though, she knows better than to push it that far. Lorna has made it abundantly clear that regardless of what's happened between them in the past, they'll never be anything more than friends again.
"Is that German?" she deadpans, carrying on the charade, and is more than a little amused at Lorna's resulting giggle.
"N-nooo, I'm Italian."
"Yeah, I know you're Italian. Your name may as well be Lorna Lasagna." She says it with fondness, not malice, knowing that Lorna's laughter shouldn't be so endearing to her but unable to stop her mouth from quirking up on one side. She can't help it—Lorna looks so alluring sitting there across from Nicky as she settles back in her chair, their eyes locked on one another. Nicky forces herself to go back to thinking safe thoughts—to continue their little playact. "Anyway, miss… continue."
"I've been having these dreams."
"Go on."
"Well, they're kinda like… sexy dreams?"
Nicky knows they're heading for the danger zone when Lorna says that, so she tries to discourage it in the only way she knows how. "Do these dreams, uh, involve… penises? Because that is going to drastically reduce my interest in the subject matter."
"No penises," Lorna says quickly. The way she looks down and then back up at Nicky is almost bashful, but her words are confident. "Well, not exactly. It's a little embarrassing, honestly."
Nicky should stop her. She knows she should, but Nicky has never been good at doing what she should, which is the weak justification she gives herself as she stays silent and lets Lorna continue.
"Um, I'm riding a whale. In the ocean." Her voice changes, and Nicky shifts uncomfortably in her chair because she knows this voice, this is Lorna's sex voice, and she can't let it have the effect on her that it always does. "And the water on my skin, it feels sooo amazing. And, you know, they have those… those blow holes…"
"Hey, come on," she tries, but Lorna just keeps on going.
"...and it's aimed riiight..."
"Hey, hey," Nicky interrupts, not at all sure where this is going and even less sure that she wants to find out. "I think we're out of time."
Be professional, she reminds herself, even though she's not really a therapist and Lorna's not really her patient. Professionalism isn't the real reason she should keep her distance, but with the way Lorna's looking at her, it's the most compelling one.
Lorna's next words are breathy, full of a desire that makes Nicky shiver: "Please fuck me."
Nicky almost thinks she's heard wrong at first, but then her brain catches up and suddenly it's like her nerves have been set on fire. Every fiber of her body wants to reach out—Lord only knows it would be easy enough. They could both use a break from all the chaos surrounding them. Just to ease the tension, that's all, it doesn't have to mean anything. Nicky's good at casual sex, good at keeping her emotions in check, isn't she?
She knows she's lying to herself. She can do casual, but this isn't just sex, this is Lorna, and Nicky can't let herself do this again. Not if Lorna's not all in.
"What about Vinnie?" she asks. She's not sure what she wants Lorna to say—you're right, I'm married, this is a bad idea. That would be the simplest. Or maybe something else. Maybe Nicky wants her to say, fuck Vinnie. I need you. I love you—it's always been you.
"I really need your help," Lorna says, and then she's climbing into Nicky's lap, and Nicky's mouth goes dry. "I'm so fucking horny, and I can't stand it, and I need you to fuck me."
Nicky's heart is already beating ridiculously fast. They haven't been this close in so long—not since Lorna got married, that's for sure. She hates to admit how much she's missed it, how much she's longed for Lorna's touch. And now she's here, sitting right in Nicky's lap, fingers curled around Nicky's jawline and thumb stroking her cheek, and everything somehow feels okay again. She can feel herself getting lost, but she can't bring herself to look away from the earnest glimmer in Lorna's eyes.
Her words come out almost in a daze, but she still manages the cocky nonchalance she knows is a turn-on for Lorna. "You're begging me?"
"I'm begging you."
"You're begging me?"
"Yeah," Lorna gasps, and then again, low and under her breath: "Fuck me."
And god, it feels so good to hear her say that. It's not I love you or I'll leave him or I want to be with you forever, and Jesus-fucking-Christ, she knows deep down that it's no more of a promise than any of the times before. But as it turns out, Nicky Nichols is still the very same sucker she's always been when it comes to a certain Lorna Morello. It's enough for her. She's in.
"You know I'm a doctor, right?"
"Yeah."
"You serious?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm really serious," Lorna says, and she must be, because the next thing Nicky knows, Lorna's moving her hand up and over her breast. Her next words come out in a whine of desire. "Look after your patient."
Nicky's next words are tinged with desperation, but she can't bring herself to feel ashamed. "Your tits feel amazing."
"Oh my god, I missed you so much." Lorna's words are vulnerable, more of a whimper than anything else. It's everything Nicky has wanted to hear since she'd gotten back from Max—everything Lorna has denied her, again and again, since she'd married Vinnie.
She can't help herself; she crashes their lips together, desperate to taste Lorna again. It's a little awkward at first, Nicky realizes with a shock—it had always used to be so effortless, but it's been a long time since she and Lorna have kissed. But they find their rhythm before long, hands entangled in one another's hair, Nicky's arm coming around Lorna's back to draw her in closer.
"What happens in a riot stays in a riot?" Nicky asks when they break apart. Maybe some part of her hopes Lorna will let Nicky love her forever, but now's not the time for that conversation. Right now all she needs is Lorna's body beneath her hands—her nipples under Nicky's palms, her warmth on Nicky's tongue, her voice echoing in Nicky's ears. Lorna is the one begging, but Nicky knows she'll be the one on her knees.
"Yeah," Lorna says, and Nicky kisses her again.
She strokes her fingers over Lorna's cheek, tucking her hair back behind her ear in a gesture that can only be called tender. It's almost too much for her, this moment—Lorna's legs wrapped around her waist, the softness of her lips sliding against Nicky's, her breasts pressed close against Nicky's chest. Maybe Nicky is making it something it's not, but kissing Lorna like this makes all her feelings come rushing back.
She slides her hands down Lorna's body, not missing the opportunity to give her ass a teasing squeeze as she lifts her up. Nicky's small, but she's strong; she's had a lot of practice over the years. She carries Lorna easily, walking her backwards until Lorna's back hits the wall a bit more roughly than she'd anticipated. But it doesn't matter; they're too wrapped up in each other to care.
Nicky loses track of how long they stay like that, with Lorna pinned between her body and the wall. For once, they aren't worried about the time—there are no other inmates to judge their messy shower sex or poke fun at the sound of Lorna's moans issuing from behind the pulpit. More importantly, there are no guards to break them apart or send them both to the SHU for "inappropriate behavior."
At last, Nicky has the luxury of taking her time. She can feel Lorna trembling where they're pressed up against each other; she wishes she could use her hands, but they're a little busy holding Lorna up at the moment. So she puts her mouth to good use instead, nipping at Lorna's neck in a way that will surely leave marks later. It makes her burn inside, seeing the red welts her teeth leave behind, knowing that they'll linger even after this is all over. Everyone who sees Lorna will know who did this to her.
It's satisfying, too, that Lorna's mouth is just as needy. When Nicky abandons her neck in favor of those cherry-red lips, Lorna kisses her back with shocking fervor. This is almost the way it had been in the beginning—almost the way it had been after Nicky had come back from the SHU, the same kind of desperation in every touch. Nicky tries not to let it get her hopes up, but there's a swell of emotion in her chest as Lorna brushes one of Nicky's stray curls back out of her face. The way Lorna's looking at her—the glimmer in those melted-chocolate eyes, the dreamy smirk playing across her smeared mouth—almost makes her want to cry.
But she doesn't. She can tell from the way Lorna's breathing, from the little sighs and the way her legs are clenched tight about Nicky's waist, that the brunette is anxious for them to get to the main event. Nicky is, too, but there's a part of her that wants to just savor this moment. It's not that she's not turned on—her body is reacting to Lorna the way it always does, whether she wants it to or not—but kissing Lorna has always been something special in and of itself. Nicky can count on one hand the number of times they've kissed without it leading to sex. She knows she shouldn't think about it, but sometimes she wishes they could have done this relationship the romantic way.
"Nicky, please," Lorna whimpers, and the spell is broken.
Nicky pulls back. Lorna's biting her lip, cheeks flushed and hair disheveled. Her lips are red—a combination of the remnants of her lipstick and the result of Nicky's aggressive teeth. Her eyes shine with desire, and that's all the urging Nicky needs. Slowly, she lowers Lorna down, hands tugging at the hem of her shirt. It's up and over her head in a flash, and her bra follows shortly after.
And Christ, but she's beautiful. Nicky has to stop herself from staring; it's not like she hasn't seen it all before, but there's something different about this time. For the first time, the reality of this situation hits her in full force. Lorna is married. To Vinnie. She's never going to leave him, not for Nicky, because no matter what she does, Nicky cannot be the cardboard cut-out of a man that Lorna craves. Maybe it's not her fault, but Nicky will never, ever be good enough.
She hates herself a little bit in this moment. She hates herself as she pulls down Lorna's khakis and then the white, prison-issued underwear that are the farthest thing from sexy she could've dreamt up. And she hates herself even more for the little voice in the back of her head that tells her that Lorna could make anything look sexy, even a potato sack.
Lorna will never belong to Nicky. She's even not the same woman she'd been when they'd first met. She's Mrs. Muccio now, the good little Italian housewife with the perfect hair and the immaculate lipstick and the fake suburban paradise and fuck, Nicky knows exactly what's going to happen next.
She's going to touch Lorna the way she always does. With her fingers or her tongue, maybe both, it doesn't matter. She'll touch her and Lorna will see stars because Nicky is just that fucking good, and it still won't make a difference because Lorna will come screaming her name, and then she'll fix her hair, smooth down her clothes, reapply a coat of that scarlet lipstick, and she'll leave. She'll leave and go call Vinnie, and Nicky will be alone all over again.
But Vinnie isn't the one who's here, is he? He's not the one with his hands on Lorna's breasts, running his fingers down the smooth expanse of her creamy skin. He's not the one tugging at a handful of Lorna's curled brown hair so he can bite at her bottom lip and delight in the gasp she makes, half pain and half pleasure.
Some twisted part of her wishes Vinnie really were here, just so he could see this. Does he know the meaning of every sound Lorna makes, the way to read her whimpers and sighs and moans? Can he recognize the ecstasy that crosses her features just before she comes? How can he possibly understand what it's like to love her like this—to give her pleasure without expecting anything in return?
Nicky channels the simmering self-hatred she feels into her movements. She can tell she's being rougher than she usually is, but Lorna doesn't seem to mind; in fact, quite the opposite. One of her hands has made its way to its favored position in Nicky's hair, the other cupping her own breast as she moans, back arched and hips pressing themselves up towards Nicky's face.
Nicky's head is buried between her thighs, one hand feeling the slickness there. The other hand is wrapped around Lorna's hipbone, grasping so tight she threatens to leave fingermarks there. It's bruising, the way they both like it to be when Nicky's the one in control. In the beginning, Nicky had expected Lorna to like movie sex—all cinematic, romantic, with soft lighting and choreographed movement. But then one day she'd raked her nails down Lorna's back just a little harder than intended, and Lorna's resulting squeal had been out of pleasure, not pain.
"Fuck yes, Nicky, please, please…"
Nicky had chuckled: "You do have a dirty mouth, Morello, don't you?"
So much has changed since then, but that, at least, has not. Lorna still likes saying her name, over and over above her, and Nicky can't help but glance up to watch her. She's lost, wild, so clearly turned on that Nicky can't help but feel smug.
She knows it's naïve. But part of Nicky still clings to the delusion that if she fucks her good enough, Lorna will finally love her back.
She was the most gorgeous girl Nicky had ever seen. They'd met at a frat party—Nicky detested them on principle, but she always went anyway. There was something thrilling about it, knowing they'd let her in solely because she had a pair of tits and a pussy, when she had no intention of going home with any greasy frat boy. No, Nicky went there to beat the boys at their own game, and if she did say so herself, she was quite good at it.
So Nicky had left this particular party with a gorgeous redhead hanging on her arm—tall, leggy, with the kind of glossy hair that seemed straight out of a shampoo ad. Nicky didn't normally like them tall—she liked being the one in control, in all aspects of the situation—but for this girl, she'd make an exception. She had the body of a supermodel: graceful neck, slender waist, tits that were small enough for her to go braless in the strappy little black number she was wearing but still, Nicky knew, big enough to grab with one hand while her other hand went to work between those long, long legs. Even her name was exotic: Calypso, she'd said with a giggle, like the Greek myth. You know, like in the Odyssey?
Like the Greek myth. Nicky had had to rein in her little snort of laughter at that; it was possibly the most pretentious name she'd ever heard, and that was coming from someone who'd grown up on the Upper East Side. But it didn't matter. With a body like that, Nicky wouldn't have cared if she'd said her name was Little Bo Peep.
"I've never done this before," Calypso was giggling. They were sitting together on Nicky's bed, both of them drunk. "I mean, I've made out with other girls before, but…"
"You've never gone home with one?" Nicky took the opportunity to sidle closer, brushing a strand of ginger hair out of the other girl's face. She let her hand linger there slightly longer than necessary, pleased when Calypso leaned into her touch. "Don't worry, baby. All you have to do is relax. I'll take care of you."
Calypso was already awake when Nicky opened her eyes the next morning, looking fresh and unfairly cheerful. She was sitting up in the bed, cell phone in hand, only the sheet to cover her naked body.
In the daylight, head pounding from the alcohol she'd consumed the previous night—had it really been that much? Nicky hadn't thought it had been that much, but her headache now was telling her otherwise—Nicky felt positively ratty by comparison. Her hair was fanned out like a giant lion's mane around her head; pushing it back with a groan, she rolled herself over to face Calypso and fixed that trademark smirk of hers on her face.
"Morning, beautiful."
Nicky moved to caress the smooth skin of Calypso's shoulder, letting her hand skate dangerously low across the redhead's collarbones, just above the sheet. But Calypso didn't look up from her phone. Fingers flitting across the buttons, she sent whatever message she'd been writing before closing the flip phone with a loud snap.
"Who're ya texting?"
"Oh, it's just my boyfriend," she said brightly. "I'm meeting him for brunch in an hour." She smiled. "Why, did you want to come? I think he'd really like you."
Calypso was giving her the once-over, eyes appraising, and Nicky hated the way it made her feel like a piece of meat. There was nothing sexy about this look; it was purely analytical, as though Calypso was trying to picture Nicky propped up in bed with them, sandwiched between herself and her boyfriend.
"Boyfriend?" Nicky echoed, ignoring the rest of Calypso's little speech. "You didn't say you had a boyfriend."
"Didn't I?" She was frowning, not really paying attention, eyes glued to her little screen once more.
"Does he know about—this?" Nicky gestured between the two of them.
Calypso finally looked up, meeting her eyes with a look of mild surprise. "Oh, of course he does."
"And he's okay with it?"
"Why wouldn't he be?"
"Uh, I don't know, maybe because you just had sex with someone that's not him?" Nicky threw her hands up in the air in frustration before running one through her hair in a futile attempt to tame the frizz.
But Calypso just laughed. "You're silly. It doesn't count as cheating if it's with a woman. Besides, Michael says he thinks it's hot. I already told him all about last night."
"Your boyfriend's called Michael?" What a stupid fucking name. Even stupider than Calypso, which Nicky was beginning to think was one of the stupidest names of all time.
"…yes?"
"Fuckin' A," Nicky muttered under her breath, throwing back the sheets with more force than was probably necessary and eliciting a little hey! from Calypso when the movement exposed her naked body to the cold air. "You could've told me about Michael last night, don't cha think?"
Calypso was blinking her pretty blue eyes at Nicky as though she didn't understand. "Why are you freaking out?"
"I think you should go," Nicky said bluntly.
"O-kaaay." Calypso dropped the sheet to the floor—clearly, she was confident about her body—and picked up her discarded dress from where it lay next to the bed, shimmying back into it. Turning to look at Nicky over her shoulder, she bit her lip, giving Nicky bedroom eyes. "Would you mind zipping me up?"
With a huff of annoyance, Nicky crossed the room, unceremoniously pulling up the zipper while making a point not to touch the other woman any more than was strictly necessary.
"Bye," she said pointedly, giving a curt wave in the general direction of the door.
Calypso was already slipping back into her high heels from the night before. "Call me? I'm sure Michael would like to—"
But Nicky had already let the door slam behind Calypso. With a heavy sigh, she stomped over to the kitchen area, rummaging through her junk drawer. As usual, it was an absolute mess, a clutter of paper clips, old receipts, and various knick-knacks. Eventually she found what she was looking for: a bottle of Advil, a lighter, and a pack of cigarettes. She knocked back two of the pills without water, too lazy to get out a glass and fill it.
"Fuckin' straight girls, man," Nicky muttered to herself, then lit a cigarette.
Walking over to the balcony, she slid open the glass doors and stepped outside. The noises of the morning city echoed up around her as she puffed on the cigarette, dangling one hand casually over the railing. The combination of nicotine and New York was instantly comforting; much as she hated her absentee mother (if she could even be called a mother—Nicky didn't know if she deserved the dignity of such a title), Nicky had to admit she was grateful for this apartment.
Well, fuck. Last night had gone spectacularly, in the moment—she'd made Calypso come five times, which wasn't a record for Nicky, but still. Pretty decent. The redhead had been into it, too; not enough to reciprocate, but most of the girls Nicky picked up at parties weren't. She was okay with that, usually. It would be generous to call most of those girls bi-curious, and besides, Nicky took pride in her identity as a top. She was a giver—that was her whole schtick.
But she didn't fuck with girls who had boyfriends. It was all fine and good to take a straight girl home and rock her world for one night, but Nicky wasn't about to be a homewrecker. It made her feel dirty; used, almost. She knew, then, that it didn't mean anything, that she was only good enough for a little fun on a drunken night. Not that a one-night stand was supposed to mean anything. But Nicky still hated watching them run back to their boyfriends the next morning without a care in the world.
And it was even worse when it was a guy like Calypso's boyfriend—Michael, apparently. If there was one thing Nicky hated, it was straight men acting like pigs. Sure, she did a fair bit of objectifying women herself, just here and there, but that was different. She hated the thought of Calypso texting him with Nicky asleep in bed next to her, telling him all those intimate details that were meant to be between the two of them alone.
It doesn't count as cheating if it's with a woman.
And why didn't it? Because love between two women could never be as real as love between a woman and a man? Men like Michael—and women like Calypso—would never take her seriously. She didn't know why she bothered being upset by that anymore.
Nicky loved women; she was a self-proclaimed card-carrying lesbo, as she'd proudly declared back in high school (much to the chagrin of Marka). She'd long since stopped feeling ashamed for it. But this. This made her feel dirty all over again. Worse than that, it made her feel worthless.
Dropping the cigarette butt over the edge of the balcony, Nicky went back inside to shower and wash the scent of Calypso off her once and for all.
She walks into the shower with all her clothes on. It's a useless, melodramatic gesture, and some part of her knows that, but Nicky is incapable of caring at the moment. There's no one here now to tell her not to; she can wallow in this feeling for as long as she wants. And she thinks it's going to be a long while.
She's an idiot, that's what it is. She'd known exactly what would happen, so why is she even surprised now that everything has transpired just the way she'd thought it would? It's always like this with Lorna, every fucking time, and she just lets herself repeat the cycle because she's a sucker with a masochistic streak and a thing for cute brunettes with red lipstick.
I didn't mean to lead you on, honey. It's the hormones. The hormones, they made me do it with you.
Nicky wants to yell, bullshit! But she can't even bring herself to be angry, just deeply hurt. Because Nicky knows Lorna, maybe better than Lorna knows herself sometimes. And Lorna had meant every word she'd said back there in the cafeteria—she always does. That's one of the things Nicky likes best about her; there are no pretenses with Lorna. She's unfailingly genuine.
The thing is, Lorna's also fucking delusional. Even when she's saying things that aren't true, her goddamn head circus twists and molds them until they become her reality. And so she can sit in front of Nicky and tell her that it's the hormones and think she's being one hundred percent honest when Nicky knows the real truth: Lorna is just a fucking coward. She has always been too scared to choose an uncertain future with Nicky over the comfort of her fantasies, and this time isn't any different.
Nicky had known it as soon as Lorna had come down from her climax, as soon as she'd pulled her clothes back on and stammered something about wanting to freshen up before bolting out the door of the pharmacy. She'd known it even before she'd fucked Lorna, but she'd let herself go through with it anyway because Nicky, deep down, is still a junkie. And Lorna is her drug of choice. Every encounter leaves Nicky aching, hungry, desperate for one more hit. She's not stupid; she knows it's killing her slowly. But just as with the heroin, she finds herself unable to stop.
I don't want to do it anymore. This was the last time.
Those are the words Lorna had said to her back in the chapel, but they're Nicky's words now. She promises it to herself: this is the last time she'll sleep with Lorna Morello. It's over between them. If that means they can't be friends anymore, so be it. Nicky has spent so long looking out for Lorna; it's time for her to take care of herself now.
What happens in a riot stays in a riot.
Nicky hadn't meant it, but Lorna had. Beautiful, precious, sweet Lorna. She lets herself think about Lorna fondly one last time; her mind runs back through all the little moments that have led up to this, watching the story of their relationship like it's a film. The innocence of their first kiss, the Christmas present she'd made for Lorna with her face on the groom as a "joke," their perfect Valentine's Day. Those are the parts she sees with rose-colored glasses before she forces herself to remember the rest.
The way it stung to hear Lorna choose her fantasy fiancé over Nicky, time and time again. How it had felt coming back from Max and learning Lorna was married. That afternoon in the bathroom when Lorna had almost kissed her before turning her head away again, saying she had to stay faithful to Vinnie.
Are you sure he wouldn't get off on hearing about you with another chick? Nicky had asked her, but Lorna had called her bluff immediately.
It's cheating if I even think about somebody else.
Nicky remembers the way she'd felt hearing Lorna say that: disappointed, but maybe a little satisfied. Because it had meant that it counted to Lorna, that sleeping with Nicky now that she had a real husband would actually be a betrayal. It meant that whatever was between them was real.
But not real enough for Lorna to choose Nicky over Vinnie. So it's not really a victory, after all.
And now Lorna thinks she's pregnant. She's batshit crazy; Nicky has known that for a long time, but she's always chosen to overlook it. Part of her is worried for Lorna, but she tries to harden her heart. Lorna will be okay living in her fantasy world; she's done it for her entire life.
And look where that landed her, whispers a little voice in the back of Nicky's mind, in prison.
But it's not Nicky's problem anymore. She, too, had meant what she said back in the cafeteria: any good therapist would tell Nicky to move on, forget Lorna, never let her break her heart again. Nicky knows that from Lorna's point of view, Lorna really hadn't meant to hurt her. But that doesn't change the fact that she has, maybe irreversibly this time.