Miranda's hands below her top were all tentative, but determined, sneaking up her sides and lightly, so very lightly cupping Jack's breasts.
"That's a high quality touch, too," Jack muttered softly against her lips.
"Oh, good."
Miranda smiled.
"How about this?"
Jack's fingers crept below Miranda's skirt, slowly tracing a line from Miranda's knee to the inside of her thigh, marveling at how soft she was.
"That is... a bold touch," Miranda whispered.
"Too bold?" Jack asked, letting her hand rest there, even though she really wanted to continue its quest.
"I, well..." Miranda bit her lip. "It's just that I've never..."
Jack's eyes widened.
"Oh. Oh."
"And that's just a little too fast."
Jack let her hand trace the same line back to Miranda's knee.
"I didn't think... I wasn't expecting that at all. You were so enthusiastic."
"Sorry."
"Fuck, don't say you're sorry," Jack said quickly. "Nothing to feel sorry about, okay?"
"It's just... I want to, but not right now."
"There's no rush. Really." Jack pulled her close and kissed her cheek, wondering where Miranda's sudden timidity came from. She'd thought if anyone could easily and uncompromisingly have said what she wanted, it was Miranda.
"What are you thinking about?" Miranda asked after a moment.
"Dinner! I'm hungry."
Miranda gave her a skeptical look, but then said:
"Me, too, actually."
"I can cook for us."
Miranda raised her eyebrows.
"I honestly didn't expect that."
"Born out of necessity. If you don't want to eat microwaveable shit all the time. Nothing too fancy, though. I take it you can't cook, then?"
"I'd probably burn water."
"Do you have a maid?"
"What do you think?" Miranda replied, a hint of defensiveness in her voice.
"Must be nice."
"I'd actually prefer being able to do these things myself."
"Well, watch and learn," Jack said with a cocky grin.
. . . . .
"You know," Miranda said in between bites, "You could come over this weekend. If you're really interested in seeing my place."
Jack's stir-fry was remarkably good, albeit a little too hot.
"Your dad won't eat me alive?"
Miranda sighed and let her fork sink again.
"He might try."
"Well, let him try," Jack replied belligerently.
Miranda smiled a little at that, but then looked rather anxious.
"He has driven away a lot people he didn't like."
"And he's not going to like me."
It wasn't even a question.
"But I don't care!" Miranda said fiercely. "I like you. That's what matters."
Jack looked at her, silently, not quite able to still the voice inside her that was wondering who Miranda was trying to convince.
. . . . .
"So this is it?"
Jack looked around. She'd met a nervous-looking Miranda on the edge of a park, in a part of town that made her feel preemptively defensive. It was too green, too clean and too well-kept, and the houses were way too big and spaced too far apart. And there were security guards pacing the streets, for fuck's sake, staring at her warily, even as she was walking beside Miranda towards one of the villa-like houses.
"This is it."
"Big."
"Hmm."
"Your dad's home?"
"Yeah."
"Did you tell him I was coming?"
"I said I was bringing someone."
"Huh."
He was not the mustache-twirling villain Jack had imagined, mostly for her entertainment. He actually looked much younger than she'd expected. But she didn't like him at all. Okay, of course she didn't like him, she had been very predisposed not to like him, but he was the smooth, arrogant business man type that made her skin crawl. And he looked at her like she was somehow both nasty and vaguely amusing. And he had Miranda's eyes, which was disturbing. Just that his were colder. Much colder.
"So that's your friend." And he could turn an innocuous sentence into the most condescending of sneers.
"This is Jack," Miranda said lowly.
"Jack?"
"Yes, Jack," Jack replied, too loudly. "It's short for Jack."
"Interesting company you keep these days, Miranda."
With that he turned and walked away. Miranda squared her jaw, then took Jack's hand, quickly, and pulled her up the stairs.
"Are you okay?" Jack asked.
"I'm fine. Actually, that was really rather good, considering."
She frowned as she said it, then took a deep breath.
Jack looked around, then made her way through Miranda's room. It was oddly clinical. White walls, black and white furniture, everything in perfect order. There were a few delicate touches. Heavy white drapes with a silken sheen and orchids on the window sills. Jack didn't like them. Orchids were flowers that somehow looked inherently fake. There were neat rows of books (ordered alphabetically, by author), but the thing that stood out most was the violin. Jack didn't know shit about instruments, but she was sure it was expensive, and she really wanted Miranda to play it. Wanted to watch and take a few sketches. She really wanted to paint Miranda.
"No ballerinas," Miranda said and Jack turned to her again, gave her a crooked smile.
"I bet you hid them all."
She could swear Miranda blushed at that.
Jack let herself fall onto the black leather couch and looked up at her.
"What do you think?" Miranda asked, motioning towards the room at large.
"Do you have secrets hidden away in the drawers and wardrobe?"
Miranda frowned at her.
"I don't think anything in there qualifies as a secret. The one or other fashion mistake perhaps. Why?"
"Well, after what you said on Wednesday, I was wondering whether your place is like you. And on the outside it is. A little. You know... shit, I don't know how to explain it. Immaculate, but not giving away much. But that's just the surface."
Miranda gave her an odd look, and Jack shrugged.
"Deep thoughts," she said with a wry grin.
"I am not immaculate."
Jack couldn't help but snort.
"That was supposed to be my point. You're not. And I wouldn't want you to be. You're deeper than that."
Miranda looked to the floor, shook her head, then walked over and sat down beside Jack, leant against her, her head on Jack's shoulder, lips brushing her neck lightly. Jack shivered and dug her fingers into Miranda's hair.
"Your dad's not going to come bursting in here, is he?"
"Unlikely," Miranda muttered.
Before Jack could stop herself, she said what had been nagging at her for a while now:
"Is this all just an act of defiance?"
Miranda let go of her and sat up straight.
"What?"
Jack averted her eyes, then asked:
"Are you doing all this just to piss off your dad?"
Miranda stared at her.
"Why would you think that?"
She sounded really hurt, and Jack looked up.
"Well, am I?"
"Of course not! Do you really think I could be that shallow and petty?"
Jack rubbed her forehead, feeling like an idiot.
"No, I... Sorry I asked, okay?"
She knew it wasn't okay, Miranda's lips were pressed together tightly, brow furrowed.
"It has actually taken me a lot of guts to invite you here," she said coldly after another moment of tense silence.
Jack recoiled.
"I'm a fucking idiot."
"Yes, you are. Not everything I do is motivated by him. Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit!"
She glared at Jack, who closed her eyes and said quickly:
"I've never done this before, okay? Never dated. Just screwed around and... I had to ask. Because this is getting kind of serious. I think. Is it?"
"Enough to hurt," Miranda muttered, arms folded in front of her chest, but she didn't look as angry as a moment ago.
"If you want me to leave..."
"No, don't. Don't run off. I want you here. I just can't stand the idea that you could think I'd use you like that. That I could be this calculating. I'm not like that!"
For a moment she looked like she was about to cry and that made Jack want to bolt. But instead, she reached out tentatively and put her hand onto Miranda's shoulder.
"I'm sorry, okay? I didn't want to imply any of that. I didn't think."
"It's okay. I... Do you want something to drink?" she asked suddenly, moving away from Jack, who let her hand sink again.
Under different circumstances, Jack would have asked where the maid was, but so she just shrugged.
Miranda got to her feet.
"I'll see what we have."
Miranda closed the door behind herself, then just stood there for a moment, her stomach in knots, before quietly making her way down into the kitchen.
"That was well played, Miranda, I'll give you that."
She gave a start, then turned to glared at her father.
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Oh, don't be ridiculous. You can't really expect me to believe you're going out with that aspiring juvenile delinquent." He raised an eyebrow. "Did you pay her?"
Miranda felt like vomiting.
"I really like her," she said lowly.
"Who are you trying to kid, Miranda?"
She took a deep breath, then replied:
"It doesn't matter if you believe me or not. I couldn't care less."
With that she just turned on her heels and raced back up the stairs.
Jack was still sitting on her couch, still looking crestfallen.
"No drinks?" She frowned. "Something wrong?"
"No drinks," Miranda replied quietly, absent-mindedly, trying to stop her hands from shaking. Then she crossed the room in a few strides and bent down to kiss Jack, who was too surprised to react for a split second, but then pulled Miranda onto her lap and requited the kiss enthusiastically.
"What made me earn your pardon?" she asked after a moment.
Miranda put her finger to Jack's lips.
"Let's just not talk right now, okay? I can't."
There was a hitch in her voice she hated.
Jack looked at her, those beautiful eyes unfathomable, then she shrugged and gave a small nod. Miranda felt bad for cutting her off, for not being able to put her confused thoughts into words, but she'd been this close to tears, and she was afraid of falling apart entirely. Neither of them would be able to deal with that.
And Jack didn't trust her. Not really. That realization had stung. But it was also clear, even though she didn't yet know why, that Jack didn't trust easily. Even less so than Miranda herself. So she'd have to be patient. She could do that, couldn't she? She'd been patient much of her life. And nothing before had ever felt that important.
Her fingertips traced a line to Jack's cheekbone, cupped her cheek lightly, then she brushed her lips over Jack's eyebrows, the tip of her nose, then over those soft, full lips that parted for her tongue at once.
If Jack minded having been silenced, she didn't let it on.