September 7, 2014

Beyond the plexiglass window of the RV the sun was starting to come up over the river. The air was still and arm and close and fragrant with them, the sharpness of sweat and the ocean-rich sweetness of cum and the bite of oranges in her perfume. The city was waking up, and the sun had stolen away the shelter of the night. They could hide no longer, safe here in the shadows; the light revealed them for what they were, and what they were was beautiful, but reckless.

She was beautiful, but reckless. Some time in the quiet hours before dawn she'd fallen asleep on his bare mattress, lying on her belly with her arms and legs spread out like a starfish, leaving him precious little room in the cramped bed. She was dozing, her body soft and relaxed, her breath whistling gently through her nose. Not a snore - though he intended to tease her for it anyway - just a sweet, steady sound that told him she was comfortable, here with him, comfortable enough to sleep. That comfort meant a great deal to him.

It was still too fucking hot for covers and so they'd both slept naked after a quick clean up with the jugs of store-bought water he kept on hand for hygiene. He'd let her use the bathroom in the RV, even though it didn't really work, had told her lemme worry about the septic later, sweetheart, because somehow he thought asking her to piss outside would've been a bridge too far, and she'd wrinkled her nose at him, but laughed, and stayed with him anyway. The hassle was worth it for the chance to hold her a little longer, the chance to look at her now, naked and soft and beautiful and safe, in his bed. The rise of her perfect ass made him long to sink his teeth into her there, but it was the slope of her back that drew his eye, the fearsome phoenix tattooed there capturing his attention, the way it was designed to do. The thing was black, the lines heavy and dark, and its wings seemed to beat in time to the lulling rhythm of her breaths. Its mouth was open, as if it were in the midst of crying out, its head proud and raised up almost in challenge. The shape of it was sinuous, following the curves of her body, and the way those feathers trailed over the cheeks of her ass only seemed to accentuate the suppleness of her, and he was spellbound by it, but its great beauty and its dreadful tragedy.

The thing had cost her a hundred thousand dollars. The same amount of money Wheatley had paid for four hours in her company, but in the days when the mark was made Elliot knew it had taken more than one customer to satisfy that cost. How much had she made off a customer in those days; a thousand? Two? How much of that money had to go to the house, and how much of it went towards paying for the mark, and how much of it was needed to keep her fed? He did not know the number of men it had taken to pay for the mark, but he knew the number was high, and that grieved him, for her sake, thinking of all things she'd had to do just to survive. All the men who'd looked at her, and seen only a pretty thing that was theirs for the taking, who never understood or never cared about the role they played in her subjugation.

Olivia wanted to be free, and he wanted to help her find that freedom, but she couldn't linger in the RV too much longer; if the Albanians found out she'd spent the night there would be questions, and Elliot wasn't ready to answer them, and he didn't think she was, either. So he began to very gently run his fingers over the lines of her tattoo, leaning over to kiss her shoulder, trying to rouse her as kindly as he possibly could.

Almost immediately she recognized his touch; her eyelashes fluttered, and her mouth settled into an adorable little pout.

"Time to get moving, sweetheart," he told her.

"Don't wanna," she grumbled.

She was testing the very limits of his resolve, because the last thing he wanted was for her to leave him. She had to, but he did not want to let her go.

"I got nothing for you to eat here," he said. "And you need to get back to Noah."

She'd told him the night before that one of the girls was watching her son, that he was safe and cared for, but Elliot had to find a way to get her moving and he was a father himself, and he knew the one thing that would motivate her when nothing else would; she'd want to see her boy, he thought.

He was right.

"I do," she sighed. She was lying with her head turned towards him, and she opened her eyes at last, those big, beautiful eyes that seemed to stare into his very soul. "Kiss me before I go."

"I can do that," he told her, grinning, and then he shuffled a little closer, cradled her cheek in his palm and kissed her long and slow and deep. Her lips opened to him, and his tongue danced against hers, the both of them straining to get close, closer, the fire of their desire banked for the moment but the affection they felt for one another still present, propelling them forward.

At last she pulled back, and rolled away from him, and he watched from his bed, lazy and grinning, while she went in search of her clothes.

"How are you getting back?" he asked. She hadn't really answered that question last night, the question of how she'd gotten here in the first place. She had appeared as if by magic, and there was magic still, he thought, in her presence, however it had come to be.

"I'll walk up to the road and catch a cab," she replied. It was early and in this neighborhood chances were good if she wanted a cab she was going to have to wait. It was better than her traipsing several blocks away to the subway in those shoes, but Elliot still didn't like it.

"Call a cab," he suggested. He was positive she had a car service on speed dial. "I'll wait with you."

"You don't have to do that."

He was already out of bed, though, rooting around in the mess of clothes and sheets on the floor in search of his underwear.

"Will you just let me pretend to be a gentleman?" he asked good-naturedly.

She had pulled on her thong and was in the process of sliding her dress over her head; as it settled in place she turned to look at him, something sad in her expression.

"I'm not used to gentlemen," she said.

I know, he thought.

At Elliot's insistence she called for a town car instead of waiting for a yellow cab, and he stood beside her on the street corner while she waited, bought them both strong black coffees from the bodega to sip while they talked quietly together, while the city woke around them. She'd never really done this before, the morning after; a few customers had stayed the whole night through, and Brian had stayed with her more than once, but in the morning they left her in bed alone, to face the start of a new day without them. The coffee was nice, and Elliot's chivalry was nice, and the way he kissed her cheek and held the car door open for her was nice, too.

The ride back to Oak House was silent; the driver knew he wasn't expected to talk, and Olivia just leaned her head against the window, watching the city flashing by, drinking her coffee and thinking about everything that had transpired the night before. Thinking about Wheatley and the money he'd given her and her plans to run, thinking about Elliot and the way he'd touched her and they way he made her want to stay. He was right not to let her linger, and he was right that she wanted to hold her son, but still. She hadn't wanted to go. She'd wanted to lie in his bed, and maybe fuck him again, and just talk; she'd wanted to be fucking normal, for once. Elliot had given her a taste of that normalcy now, and she desperately wanted more.

But the town car dropped her off at home, and she slipped through the door, back into life as she knew it. The house was silent this morning; it was Sunday, and Oak House took no customers on Sundays, and most of the girls had been up late the night before and so would no doubt spend this morning catching up on sleep. There was at least one person in the house who would not be sleeping, though, and so she went at once to Lucy's room, tapped lightly on the door and waited for it to open.

Which it did, after a moment. Lucy was still wearing her pajamas, and she smiled when she saw Liv's face.

"Noah!" she called. "Look who's here!"

Through the doorway Olivia could see that Noah was lying in Lucy's bed, watching cartoons on her little tv, but he perked up at the sound of her voice, and tumbled out of bed the moment he saw Olivia's face.

"Mama mama mama," he called, over and over, as his little legs carried him to her as fast as they could go, and when he reached the doorway Olivia scooped him up and settled him on her hip, held him close, nestling her cheek against his soft curls.

"I missed you, sweet boy," she murmured to him. She had not often spent a night apart from him, and it was hard be away, even when she knew that he was well taken care of.

"Did you have a good night?" Lucy asked her, grinning, something playful, teasing in her tone. Lucy knew where Olivia had gone, and Lucy knew why, and she seemed charmed by it, by the idea of her boss chasing after a man she wanted for once, instead of the other way around.

"I really did," Olivia told her. It was the best night she'd had in quite some time, and she was already wondering when she'd get the chance to do it again.

"I'm glad," Lucy told her earnestly. "We had a good night, no problems here. But little man hasn't had breakfast."

"I haven't either. Are you hungry, Noah?"

Noah clapped his hands and babbled a little, something like the word cereal bubbling up out of him.

"Ok," Olivia said. "Let's go get some cereal. Thank you, Lucy."

"Any time," Lucy assured her, and then Olivia was carrying Noah away, and Lucy was closing the door behind them, retreating into the privacy of her room.

There were two kitchens and three dining rooms in Oak House. The big, professional grade kitchen was most often used for parties, but there was a smaller, more homey facility on the second floor where Liv took Noah now. There was a long counter running the length of the far wall, and there were bar stools pulled up there where the girls often sat and ate sandwiches or snacks and laughed with one another. There was a highchair there, too; Noah was almost too big for it, but he was still too little to be trusted on a stool by himself, and so Liv set him down there, kissed his little forehead and then went to the pantry in search of their breakfast. She kept both kitchens stocked because she was determined that her girls would not want for anything, and there were muffins and many cereal boxes and all sorts of things tucked away on the shelves. She busied herself making Noah's cereal first, brought it to him and watched him hungrily devouring it while she started a pot of coffee.

There was something tantalizing about this, this easy domesticity. About waking up in bed with a man she cared for, about his gentle kisses, about feeding her son on a Sunday morning when cares seemed very far away. There was something peaceful about it, something enticing that made her want more of it, made her long to have it every day. If only.

"See you made it back all right," Brian's voice called out from behind her, and she turned to find him leaning in the kitchen doorway, scowling.

"I did."

He seemed mad and she knew why. Part of their agreement, when she'd hired him as her bodyguard, was that she wouldn't go anywhere without him, and that she wouldn't go anywhere he hadn't vetted. Brian saw enemies in every shadow, and she hadn't told him she was leaving last night. Obviously he'd figured it out; maybe he'd seen her go on the security cams, or gone looking for her after Wheatley left, or maybe Lucy had just told him. He knew, and it didn't really matter how.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"Would you calm down? Come have some coffee."

He was still frowning but he did as she asked, snagged a mug and filled it with coffee and then plopped down on a stool beside her, watching Noah just like she was. They were going to have to talk about this, she knew. About what she'd done and why she'd done it and where they were all going to go from here. For the moment, though, she didn't want to talk. She just wanted to sit, with her son and one of her closest friends, drinking coffee, enjoying the not altogether familiar sensation of feeling grateful to be alive on a Sunday morning.