Shaw

It turns out, I'm not only not bad at eating pussy, I'm kind of a natural. I made her scream until she was hoarse, and then I did it again. It helps that Root didn't mind telling me exactly what she liked and how to do it to her. I learned fast, making her coming for me easily. Although, according to her, she can't help coming easily at my hands, even if I didn't try. I don't know that I believed that, but I did try. Because torturing her for hours, withholding her orgasms and taunting her with the power I held, was well worth my own delayed gratification. More importantly, and most shocking, was how much I liked it. Fucking her, making her come, making her scream for me. All of the above. In one night, I was thoroughly swayed from my incorrect assumptions about how a woman can fuck. Neither have us failed to find satisfaction, and far from being left wanting, I'm sure I've never been so spent.

We were up the whole rest of the night and well into the morning, fighting each other for dominance, though we both came in the end, each and every time. Certain nonverbal cues I take very well, and I paid close attention to what she liked. And she played me like a fiddle. She knew things about me that I didn't, did things I never even imagined.

For all my big talk that not only could she not satisfy me, but that I had no interest in her, I couldn't seem to keep my hands to myself. Even when I was breathless and limp, I wanted more. And I quickly came to have the same control over her that she seemed to have over me. I savored every orgasm, inordinately pleased to be the cause of each one. There was a certain victory in it. Maybe it was how good she made it for me, that I felt she earned it. It doesn't matter. As it happens, you can get fucked just as hard by a girl as you can by a guy. Even better, if she knows what she's doing. And fuck does she know. I'm not even sure how many things she taught me that night.

I get hot every time I remember it. It's been four days, and I've thought of her at least a couple times a day since. That was sex worth having again.

So I don't know why I haven't tried to contact her.

I could. She left me her number. I woke up to a slip of paper on my nightstand in simple handwriting that said:

Last night was incredible. I knew you would be. Let's do it again sometime.

Her number was beneath that.

I didn't mind waking up alone. I prefer it that way. But a part of me was disappointed it was over. Even when my hot shower made my raw skin sting and I realized how many bruises I would need to conceal and I could barely stand to wear pants from the sensitivity of my vagina. I almost didn't cover up those bruises. I like them. They scream that I spent all night having hot sex that was so good, everyone should be jealous. I'm not ashamed of them, by any means. But coworkers are nosy and I don't like talking to people. So to avoid a litany of questions, I reluctantly hide the evidence.

But still. I went into work in a mood I can't explain. Why do I hate the world so much more today? Because she was gone? Because I didn't text her and tell her to come back and stay in bed with me all day? I've no idea, but I took it out on everyone around me. I also got sent home early by my chief resident for it.

I was stalking home in an angry fit when I heard it.

"Shaw!"

I'd paused at the sound of my name being called out. Fuck. I hate Sharlene. She giggles too much, flirts with every man she meets, and quite frankly, I have no idea how she got into this internship program at all, because she doesn't have nearly enough brain cells to make a worthy doctor. I hope she picks out really good malpractice insurance. If she doesn't flunk out.

She was too close already for me to pretend I didn't hear her. So I forced myself not to growl audibly as I turned to face her. I was immediately tense at the sight of her smiley face.

"Hey! I saw you leaving. Long day, huh?"

I didn't answer. I didn't care to, and it's not like she cares. We both acknowledge that we don't like each other and anything other than a barely civil working relationship will never form between us.

"Um, I've actually been wanting to talk to you, but we've both been so busy..."

Or you had to find the balls to speak to me socially... I just waited.

"Right, well. Okay, I was just wondering if, the other day, after the party at my place, if you, um...took Root home?"

My eyes had widened ever so slightly, the most reaction she's ever gotten from me. Of all the things I might have expected from her, that wasn't one of them. I don't talk about my sex life like she does. To everyone who'll listen.

"That's none of your fucking business."

She'd flinched. "No, of course not. It's just that, well, she's my friend."

"So?"

"And..."

I'd almost grinned at Sharlene, holding back only because I know she'd get even more scared if I did. She was worried I'd hurt Root? How cute.

"And as her friend, I was...concerned. She asked me about you, so I knew she was interested. But I told her you wouldn't be, so I was kind of surprised when she left with you."

I didn't say anything. I knew she'd fill in for me. And she did.

"Look, she's really nice. I just...don't toy with her, okay?"

She really did find a pair, didn't she? I might have been impressed...if she hadn't been inquiring into my sex life. Finally I did grin, flashing something more akin to a threatening baring of teeth. She'd stepped back, eyes widening. "Toy with her?" I'd laughed darkly. "Honey, maybe she likes being played with. And trust me, if I did take her home, there wouldn't be any protests about what I might have done to her."

"Oh. Um. Well...I told her you were straight."

"So?"

"Yeah, so, did you think to disclose that to her first?"

I was this close to hitting her. Seriously? I took a step forward, enjoying the way she scrambled back. "Who I fuck is none of your business. Who I take home is none of your business. What I do with them there is none of your business. And if I decide to have sex with another woman, that's none of your fucking business either." I'd grinned ferally. "But don't worry. Your friend, who doesn't give two shits about my sexuality, had a great time."

I'd walked away before she could gather her wits to say anything else. The nerve of her. Even if she and Root are friends, which I find hard to believe, who is she to ask me to be careful with her? Root is a grown ass woman, she can decide for herself. But more importantly, I'd like to know why thinks I should disclose my sexuality to a potential partner before engaging in anything physical. Who does that? I'm pretty sure no one, and I'm usually bad at guessing how these sorts of things are supposed to go. But honestly. Besides, if Sharlene had told Root that she thought I was straight and therefore wouldn't be interested, and Root decided to hit on me anyway, what does it matter? She obviously thought it was worth the risk of rejection. Or of being mocked, or whatever else homophobic people do these days.

I'd scowled and fumed the whole way home. That would be why I cover my bruises and I don't make small talk and I don't go for drinks with my coworkers. They ask stupid questions they expect me to answer, for social reasons I just do not get. Which not only kills off precious brain cells, but somehow makes me the asshole for not wanting to divulge. Fucking morons, the lot of them.

My phone chimes just as I'm leaving work, but I ignore it. No one has followed me out today and I want to keep it that way. If it was the hospital, it'd be my pager they'd call, so it must not be important. And I do not want to talk to anyone I don't have to. I strip off and head for the shower.

I only remember it later, after dinner, when I go to set my alarm for the night and see the notification. It's a text from an unknown number.

I'm disappointed you haven't texted me.

I scowl at the words. Who is this?

A laughing emoji. And then, You already know that.

Root. I'm suddenly very sure. It must be, simply because I don't know anyone else brave enough to do such a thing. Plus, it sounds just like her. I can practically hear her saying it.

How did you get my number?

Your phone.

Stalker

Another laughing emoji.

Am not. We had sex all night long and I got your phone number. Much more creepy things have happened.

I didn't give you my number willingly, that makes you a stalker.

It was a precaution. I suspected you wouldn't text me.

I sigh heavily. And you took my not texting as wanting you to do it?

I'm a go-getter

Another text follows right after. And I want you. Again.

Not interested.

I don't know why I've said that. Lying is one thing when it serves a purpose. But here? Not so much. I am actually very interested. Root is undeniably hot, and the sex was hotter. We went all night, until neither of us could move, and I still wasn't done with her. I can't remember the last time I had so many orgasms in a single evening. If ever. I would definitely be up for round two. That text was an unusual show of impulsiveness I think I might regret.

But I should know better than to have thought it would deter her.

I think you do.

And how would you know that?

Because sex that good doesn't come along every day.

Just because you had a good time doesn't mean I did.

Another laughing emoji.

I scowl at that one, too. But minutes pass without a follow-up text, and my scowl turns sour. Weirdly enough, I think I like that she isn't easily turned away. And I want her to keep going.

Which is an odd thing for me. I don't like to be pursued. A little, perhaps, from someone I'm mutually interested in, but not too much or too hard. And from someone I don't feel the same way about, it's just a good way to get punched. I suspect, with Root, her persistence might be a part of the appeal. The way she came on to me at the party, even when I was short with her. The way she practically invited herself to my apartment, into my bed; the way she just told me that we should have sex and see how it goes. She's...honest. Brutal. Forward. Confident. I like all of those.

But I refuse to initiate. There's a reason I haven't texted her myself...even if I have no idea what that is.

It takes endless minutes before I get anything else, and I'm almost eager as I check my phone again. Except, I don't get eager, so that's not it.

Want to get a drink?

I try not to text back too quickly.

Why would I do that?

Formality. But I'm fine skipping that part if you are. Personally, I like jumping right in, myself.

I don't do relationships.

Fancy that, neither do I. Besides, who said anything about a relationship? Having sex more than once isn't...anything at all. Just sex.

As long as we're clear on that.

It's a capitulation and we both know it, but I don't care. All I feel right now is anticipation.

Very clear. And to keep things clear, if we hypothetically did this a third time, that still wouldn't be a relationship.

Very clear, Sameen.

I can picture her cheeky grin, her eyes twinkling as she types it.

You're pushing it.

Always.

Well, don't. Twice is okay, three times...maybe. But that's my limit. I feel better making that known now. I never hide it from anyone I get involved with.

Why?

Because people get clingy.

I'm surprised that the next text is a list.

I don't do relationships

I don't like romance

I've never asked anyone for monogamy in my whole life

I like sleepovers, but not a lingering morning

No PDA, and I don't tell my friends who I'm fucking

I've no family for you to meet, and I don't want to meet yours

These rules...look an awful lot like my rules. But they only make me tense. I don't know what to do with this woman. Other than fuck her. Which suddenly feels more dangerous than before. I like that she's straightforward, but still. People always say they can do casual better than they actually do. And with her...it's different. If she gets clingy, I already know I won't be rid of her easily.

But I want this to work. That's why I'm allowing it now, why I allowed it at all. Could her needs really be so much like mine? Could this be...a thing? That doesn't seem possible, but Root clearly isn't like anyone else I have ever met. No question. She's dangerous, sure, but she's also unattached, in all the right ways. And the things that turn most people off to me only intrigue her. Despite the risk, I could see this being quite fun for both of us. What if it does work?

I'm not good with people, but there is something about her. Something I want more of. The kind of something that makes me think she is like me, more so than anyone I've ever met. Plus, she's hot. Really hot. And the sex was fantastic. I have to admit; I want more, dangerous or not. In fact, that added element is kind of a draw.

So, drinks? Or should we just skip the prelims?

I smirk as I text back.

Skip

Root

I could take a chance at the hospital. Might be in and out before they catch me. But then I won't see her again. I could let it ride. It's through and through, I should be fine, barring an infection. If I'm not... Well, there's no one to miss me. Not really.

I go to her apartment, anyway. If she kicks me out, I wouldn't blame her. Some things you just don't bring to the doorstep of your sometimes-lover, almost-friend.

I brought this on myself. Getting involved with her was a mistake. I don't regret it, of course. Nothing with Shaw is regrettable. On the contrary, the last seven months with her has left me more alive than I have ever been. The thing about being dead inside, if you've been that way long enough, is that you stop noticing it.

But I met her.

It's amazing how fast things have changed. The mistakes I've made. All at my expense, so that I could spend as much time with her as possible. I come into town maybe a few times a month, spend a few, exhilarating, blissful days with Sameen, and then I'm gone again. I've not completely forgotten how to be careful, and I never follow a routine. But just returning to the same city over and over, the same apartment, that is a pattern. And it was enough.

I pause outside her building. Even with the blood loss, I'm still cognizant enough to have checked the perimeter first. Nothing is amiss. None of my alarms I set up here have gone off. If the FBI had gotten to her first, I would know.

That's good. They haven't found her yet. But they will. I can't linger. I make sure my jacket is covering the wound and my hands are clean before I go inside. No DNA, I remind myself. No trace at all.

I could never resent Shaw for the bullet holes currently riddling my body. I chose this. I'm the one who kept coming back. I'm pretty sure she wouldn't have missed me if I hadn't returned after leaving town the first time. It's just how she is. I don't resent her for that, either. No, I missed her. And so I came back. And when she opened the door and found me standing there, she let me come in. It was as much an admission of this thing between us as I was allowed to have. I savored every second she gave me. I only hope those memories last the rest of my life, however long that may be.

I knock quietly. No footsteps sound; she is perfectly silent, like a well-honed predator. I can't help grinning. My little jungle cat. I know she's home, though. I always know. I checked before coming here, anyway, just to be sure. And I can feel her. Like a magnet through the door, I'm drawn to her. I could find her in a crowd, I'm sure of it.

She isn't surprised. She just steps aside to let me in, like always. I accept the invitation, trying to figure out what comes next. I'm already second-guessing coming here. I should have just left. I could disappear, never to be seen again. She'd never know, and maybe that would be better. But I'm too selfish for that.

"Where are you hurt?"

I whirl to face her, unable to disguise my surprise.

"I know what pain looks like on your face, Root. I've caused a lot of it. And you're carrying yourself too carefully."

"I assume you have medical supplies here?" She nods. "Go get them, please."

When she comes back, I'm on the couch, a blanket underneath me in case the blood drips. She'd be pissed if I ruined the leather. I'm gently edging the jacket from my shoulders, trying not to wince. Shaw takes in the blood on my clothes the same way she takes in everything else. Blankly. Even now, after all this time, I still can't read her. When there is even something there to be read, and that is rare.

"It's through and through," I tell her. "I just need stitches."

"First time you've ever come here for that." Her tone is sarcastic, almost mocking.

I shrug lightly. "First time for everything."

"And is it?" Her dark eyes pierce me knowingly. "Your first time for bullet holes?"

I shake my head in slow motion. If she feels surprise, and I doubt she does, she doesn't show it. She looks back down at her hands, gently cleaning my skin. I say nothing as she injects the anesthetic. She says nothing as readies the needle. I try not to wince. Once the needle is in, though, it gets easier. My skin goes numb, taking the edge off the pain that has been scattering my thoughts for the last hour.

"You might need blood," she tells me as she bandages me.

I've fallen into such a lull in the silence and the tug of the needle that her words almost startle me. I take a moment to respond. "No time."

"Why not?"

I don't answer.

"Will you tell me who did this?"

I shake my head.

"Are they going to come here?"

"Probably."

"Am I in danger?"

"No," I whisper. I don't look at her as she puts the pieces together.

"What do I tell them?"

"The truth." I meet her eyes, steady and calm. "You did nothing wrong. They won't want you."

"But you did."

I pull my shirt back down and slowly shrug back into my jacket. Both are sticky with blood. I have to force myself to speak again, and even then, the words are so quiet, I almost shouldn't have bothered. "You were right, you know. You pegged me pretty quickly."

She knows what I'm talking about; I know she does. The night she confronted me about who I really am. Posited her theory about my illegal activities. She noticed the way I avoid cameras and law enforcement, even on the street. I just smiled then and let her theorize, confirming nothing.

"There's more."

"We all have our secrets, Sameen."

She doesn't let up. "Do you hurt people?"

"I survive," I tell her simply. She just lets the silence sit. "I grew up in Texas, in a town so small, it didn't even have a postal code. I rode my bike ten miles to the nearest town just to go to school. I didn't know until I was older that that wasn't normal. Just like I didn't know that most people know both their parents. And that most kids don't lose their childhood to caring for the one parent who stuck around.

"When I realized that, life got a little harder. Kids grew more cruel. I realized that the world is a cold, harsh place, and you can either take it lying down, let it break you, or you can become cold and harsh, too. I started young. It was easy. Computers always made more sense to me than people. Binary, ones and zeros. I could work with that. The money covered the medical bills. And then it paid for me to get out."

I look down at my nails, the black paint chipped. "I learned to survive. Perhaps it's not exactly above the law, but hey. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do."

"And now you're shot. Guess survivin' is catching up to you."

I stand slowly, wary of my new stitches. "It was always going to. That's what happens when you stop moving." I look down at her. "Or come back to the same place over and over."

She jumps to her feet. "This is because of me?"

"No, it's because of me, sweetie. I made a choice. I created a pattern, something for them to find." I sigh. "And now I have to go."

"You're not coming back." It's not a question.

"No." The answer isn't a surprise to her, and I don't elaborate.

"So you came to say goodbye?"

I smirk at her, knowing with an ache in my heart that it'll be the last time. "No, just the medical care."

She smirks back. "Glad I could help."

"You have." I step toward the door. "And now I say goodbye."

She follows a step behind, nodding. "I'll never see you again."

"It isn't safe. For either of us. I..." I shouldn't. I can't. But the words pour out, anyway. "Unless you come with me."

She stares at me, silent and impassive. I stare back, waiting, trying not to seem anxious. But I have never been more nervous in my entire life.

"You want me...to come with you?" I don't answer, letting her work through it. "Leave my life here? My job?"

A laugh stutters out of me. "Life? Sam, you don't have a life. A job, yes. Which you hate."

"No, I don't."

"Right, of course. You just hate the patients. And all your coworkers. And your superiors." She rolls her eyes. "Don't you ever feel trapped?"

Now she's scowling. "I worked hard to get here. I'm not going to throw it all away so I can, what, run away with you? Turn to a life of crime?"

"Not if you don't want to."

"Oh, so you'll be out working, committing whatever illegal shit got you here with bullet holes, and I'll just...wait around for you to come back? I'll be your travel-along sex toy?"

I knew she wouldn't do it, but I'm still disappointed. "You've never been just that for me."

She scoffs. "No way, dude. I have bigger aspirations."

"I know you do. And for what it's worth, I hope you get them all. You're brilliant and so talented, and this hospital is lucky to have you, even if they don't realize it." She's staring at me impassively again. I force myself to say the one thing I never wanted to. "Goodbye, my beautiful girl. I think I'm really gonna miss you."

She doesn't say it back. She doesn't say anything. I walk out that door, closing it behind me without a peep from her. I don't expect one. She isn't emotional enough for that. And goodbyes aren't her thing. That's okay. Coming here was for me. The goodbye was for me. Seeing her one last time was for me. It was the only way I could walk away for good.

The thing about surviving is, you get really good at sucking it up and accepting the short straw. Because complainers can't handle the coldness of the world. I learned that early, too. In high school, when the bullying was at its worst, I learned. When my mother died, I learned. I'm an excellent student. And I will take this lesson and learn from it, too.

The other things about survivors is that they're really good at getting out of traps. I've been in a few. None quite so tight, but it doesn't matter. I make it across the border without being stopped. And then I start over.

A/N: I always find Root's aloofness hard to write. How much of her attitude toward Shaw was because she truly didn't care about the hurtful things Shaw said, and how much was her being a really good actor when Shaw pushed her away? Tell me what you think! I live to hear your thoughts!