Thank god for Velocity Black, Beca thought as she walked out of Posse. She had never used it since they sent her a free membership, but without Luke, Kommissar and Ray to coordinate her spontaneous evening plans, the celebrity concierge app was her lifeline. So far it found her a town car and a driver in five minutes. It also snagged her a last-minute reservation at Pasquale Jones.
Common sense dictated that they wait inside, but Beca didn't want to risk letting Aubrey out of her sight again. The alley they emerged in was thankfully devoid of brownnosers and paparazzi. It seemed to be the designated smoking area, however: glamorously-dressed models, designers, buyers and hangers-on were lighting up everywhere, chatting among themselves as they waited for their cars or simply took a break.
"The car's gonna be here in a few," she told Aubrey. It suddenly occurred to her that she was taking Aubrey away from this – the beautiful people, the high fashion, Martha Hunt in one corner waving to her just now – and it was solely up to her to show the blonde an even better time.
This had to go well. It just had to.
The thought filled her with anxiety, and before she knew it she was clenching her teeth. It was cold, she was wearing a thousand-dollar shirt under a two-thousand-dollar blazer so she really shouldn't be sweating, and her feet is seriously starting to hurt in these new Prada boots –
"Where are we going?" Aubrey asked, interrupting her thoughts.
"Um," Beca cleared her throat, "Pasquale Jones."
"Italian?"
"Yeah. I don't know about you, but I like eating pizza when I'm drunk." Beca searched Aubrey's face for a reaction, but it mercilessly remained blank. "Is that cool? I can still change it to La Esquina or Nobu –"
"Pizza sounds great." Aubrey walked forward, picking an empty patch of wall next to a sullen-looking group of twinks. "It's not like I would know where to go. I've only been here for a year."
"Shit. I just moved."
"Then we are doomed." Beca must have made a face, because Aubrey finally smiled. "Beca, I am teasing you." She started rummaging in her purse, missing Beca's small exhale of relief. "You wouldn't happen to have a lighter?"
"You…smoke?"
Aubrey responded by placing a cigarette on her lips. The sight was so unlike what she remembered of Aubrey that she almost dropped her Zippo. She lit the cigarette, Aubrey's eyes illuminated by the flame for a moment, until there was a stream of thin smoke and Aubrey nodded in thanks.
Beca found her Marlboros in her chest pocket and joined in. "Where did you move from?" she asked, figuring that sounded like a reasonable question.
"Boston."
"Oh, yeah. You went on to Harvard Law, right? Why'd you move?"
Aubrey blew a puff of smoke before answering. "I wanted to be at the center of it all. You?"
"LA."
"Why did you leave?"
"Kombucha prices were rising. It wasn't for me." That made Aubrey snort. "Are you enjoying New York?"
"In many ways." Aubrey chewed on her lip thoughtfully. "There's no other place where I've gone out for drinks and ended up going to a Marc Jacobs show, for free, with a fabulous gay man. It's a modern-day fairytale."
"Yeah, RuPaul's pretty cool."
"I meant Luke."
Hoo boy. Beca's machinations the entire evening was so Aubrey would find Luke materialistic and unbearable, but this was even better.
"Luke's not gay."
Aubrey's eyes went wide.
"Was it the tight shirt? The touch of bronzer?"
Aubrey blinked, realization slowly setting in. Then finally, "Oh my god."
"He's, like, zero on the Kinsey scale," Beca affirmed gleefully.
"But he was so passionate about the oddest things – puffy sleeves, dinner parties –"
"He's like that all the time."
"And he guessed all the designers of Alexa Chung's ensemble right, even RuPaul was impressed. Oh my god," Aubrey gasped, more to herself, "was he trying to –?"
"Take you home? Yeah."
"He kept pointing out all these guys with clothes that he'd kill to have – his words, not mine – and he told me with absolute certainty I would look good in mustard yellow…"
"He shops with Stacie a lot."
Aubrey shook her head ruefully. "I've been someone's beard before. You'd think I would know better."
"You could go back inside," Beca offered, half-jokingly.
"Oh, no. I'm still not interested."
"Why?"
"I don't go for those types."
Not 'I have a boyfriend' or 'I have a fiancé'. "Huh."
Sitting next to Aubrey in the car gave her an intense sense of déjà vu. It didn't seem so long ago when Aubrey drove her home across Atlanta, only the blonde couldn't be more different and sophisticated now: her black dress simple but certainly expensive, the makeup and loose hair carefully styled, the houndstooth coat fitting so well it had to be tailored. The haughtiness was gone, replaced by something all at once composed and wry – like she had seen enough of the world, and had long ago ceased to be surprised by it.
It made Beca all the more excited to know her.
"Where do you live?" Aubrey asked, looking out at Seventh Avenue. "I've been thinking of moving."
"Tribeca."
Aubrey whistled. "I hear the rent is as low as five thousand."
"Yeah. A bagel's, like, five dollars."
"An everything bagel?"
"A plain one."
"My god."
"I know. Where do you live?"
"Bed-Stuy. It's nice, but sometimes it takes two hours from work."
Beca couldn't help herself anymore. "Hey. About Luke…" Aubrey glanced at her. "He's great." And then, like that wasn't self-sabotaging enough, "He's not gay, just…worldly. And he never ghosts girls."
"Do you want to go back?" Aubrey asked, undeterred by the sudden change in topic.
"No."
"Good. Neither do I."
Beca actually picked Pasquale Jones for one reason: it was casual. The lively SoHo restaurant was surprisingly un-stuffy despite being frequented by her industry friends; they also had great food and an extensive wine selection, which Beca thought Aubrey would like.
They were immediately showed a table for two, the server addressing Beca by name as she did so.
"They have the best clam pie," Beca said as they were handed menus.
Aubrey nodded appreciatively at the sixteen-page wine list. "Would you like to split one?"
"Sure, if you'll split the charcoal-grilled rib eye."
"Done. And Perrier for the table, please," Aubrey told the waitress.
"Clam pie, charcoal-grilled rib eye, and Perrier," the waitress repeated brightly."How about some red wine?"
Beca skimmed the list. "Is the 1961 Travaligni Gattinara any good?"
"That's…actually an excellent choice," Aubrey said. Beca silently congratulated herself for recalling that tidbit.
"I'll be back. Oh, by the way," the waitress said, winking at Beca, "I'm a big fan."
"Thanks."
"So," Aubrey started primly, once they were left alone. "Aside from messing with photographers, what do you do?"
Beca blinked. She did not just ask that question, did she?
"I make music."
"Very nice. How are you faring?"
It was like asking Frank Ocean what he did for a living. However, Aubrey seemed perfectly serious.
"Okay," Beca replied, in the most noncommittal way possible. Luke's presence would have been very handy right now – he liked throwing numbers at people, from Beca's net worth to the amount of Spotify playbacks she had last month. "Sometimes I get to travel. Sometimes I –" A camera flash popped once, twice, from her left. Beca glared at the table next to them.
The culprit was a smug-looking dude in a black boater hat and a silk collared shirt. "Hi," he gushed breathlessly, and Beca took a deep breath, her right jaw spasming a little as she did her best not to deck this impolite asshole. "Are you STOKR?"
"Yeah."
It sent gasps and titters among Boater Hat's friend group. "Wow, man!"
"I'd appreciate it if you stop taking pictures of me in my private time. It's a dick move." Beca said it in her most measured manner, but the guy was still taken aback – he looked around his friends, beet-red, like he was expecting them to defend him.
"We were just –"
"Thanks," she cut firmly, giving him a broad fake smile before turning back to her table. Aubrey was looking at her strangely.
Beca knew exactly what it was: the same wary appraisal Stacie gave her whenever her known-cokehead associates approached them in the clubs. "Sorry. Sometimes this happens," she said, attempting a smirk to smooth the situation over. "You were saying?"
"How often does 'this' –" Aubrey tipped her head a fraction of an inch towards the other table – "happen?"
"Often enough," Beca admitted. She may know very little about Aubrey, but the blonde was definitely not a famewhore, based on their interaction with the party photographer earlier. If Aubrey truly had no idea how well-known Beca was, then she deserved an out. "Listen," she said, suddenly finding it hard to focus. "I'm not bragging or anything, but the whole invasion of privacy thing could actually get worse. So, uh, if you don't want to be on Just Jared tomorrow…"
Aubrey's expression remained more or less the same.
"Don't give me that look," Beca hastily added.
Aubrey crossed her leg, the tip of her shoe inadvertently catching Beca's pants cuff under the table. "Beca, I don't live under a rock," she said lightly.
"...right."
"I knew what I was signing up for when I agreed to dinner. You're friends with Gigi Hadid, for God's sake."
"Oh." Beca blinked. "Then why were you acting clueless about what I do?"
"I wanted to see if you'd brag about it." Her tone was glib, and sure enough, she was smiling when Beca looked up.
"Unbelievable."
"What?" Aubrey arched an eyebrow good-naturedly. "I've heard stranger things have happened."
Beca remembered the first time she snorted coke: with an ex-girlfriend in Ibiza, beginning with little key bumps in the bar of Pikes Hotel and then, fingers in Beca's mouth. Elke telling her to always rub leftovers in her gums. Sometime in the night some guy crashed a Ferrari into the hotel pool.
"Yeah," she agreed. "Stranger things have happened."
"How do you know Luke?"
Aubrey traced the rim of her now-empty wine glass. "We met in Clandestino a few months ago," she cleared her throat delicately, "while I was drunk."
"Huh."
"Save it, Mitchell. At least I wasn't that drunken idiot who punched a guy at Coachella."
"Touché," Beca conceded. A couple glasses of wine had taken the edge off – she felt more relaxed, enough to recognize Aubrey's blithe jabs on her celebrity as nothing more than an attempt to put her at ease. Her college self would have found the irony hilarious. "What pick-up line did he use?"
"Oh, it wasn't like that. I fell asleep at the bar and he woke me up. Then he booked an Uber for me, despite all my attempts to fight him off."
Beca snorted.
"He also paid my tab."
"Well, that's Luke for you."
"Indeed. I was so embarrassed that it took me a while to pay him back. A month, I believe." Aubrey gave a little laugh. "I finally called him today, arranged to meet him at Clandestino, and…well, here we are."
"You were the last thing I expected out of today, you know?"
"I do. I thought we'd never meet again."
Aubrey's matter-of-fact tone bothered Beca – something the blonde noticed, because she added in a softer voice, "You never went to any Bella events since you moved away. Then you started appearing on all these interviews…it only seemed more and more unlikely."
Beca swallowed uncomfortably.
"That doesn't mean I'm not enjoying this," Aubrey continued, motioning between them with a smile. "Congratulations. I'm happy for you."
The sincerity in her voice threw Beca further off-guard. "Thanks. I, uh, I didn't really have the chance to check in in the past few years. A lot of things were happening." Drugs, mostly – although that sounded way too much for a first meeting, so what could she say? "But this is great. I've been trying to make an effort lately. On reaching out to old friends. Trying not to be a twat. The whole…thing."
Aubrey somehow understood her less-than-eloquent response. "To being better at the whole 'thing'," she said, raising her glass. "Whatever that means."
"Cheers."
"Why didn't you leave with your girlfriend?"
They had just ordered their second bottle of Travaligni Gattinara. Aubrey's question made Beca spill a little of it on the tablecloth. "What girlfriend?"
"Oh. Is it one of those opportunity cost situations? Forgoing emotional attachment in lieu of sexual intimacy?"
"That's the nerdiest definition of FWB I've ever heard."
"Whatever. She's one of the models, right?"
Beca narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out where the conversation is headed.
"What's her name?"
"Stella," Beca answered warily. "We're friends."
"Mmm-hmm."
Aubrey's knowing glance indicated that it wasn't the only thing she wanted to say. "Alright. I've heard about a hundred lectures on my lifestyle, Posen, so power through yours and move on."
"I was going to say you might want to check again, because your 'friend' Stella seems invested in you in a completely different way."
"…huh."
"I am not interested in giving you a lecture."
"I see that," Beca muttered grudgingly.
"Good. Because as someone who was constantly criticized for my actions when I was younger, it gets old very fast," Aubrey said. "It is less exhausting to let people be what they want, unless they're being something truly repugnant. Like racists. Or sexists."
"That's…progressive."
"Thank you."
"…wait, how did you even know about Stella?"
"Proxemics, mostly." The corner of Aubrey's mouth twitched. "So why aren't you with your slam piece?"
Aubrey Posen saying 'slam piece' with a straight face was truly something, and Beca laughed accordingly. "She wanted to party, I wanted to go home." That was, at least, seventy percent of the truth.
"Hmm. How do you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Have a slam piece."
Beca felt her own jaw drop. "Holy shit, Posen, are you cruising for a –"
"No," Aubrey interrupted indignantly. "I was genuinely curious on where you get the mental fortitude to live with such a small fraction of a real relationship."
"Well, I don't start with that attitude." Beca smirked, ignoring Aubrey's eye roll. "Don't you have a boyfriend?"
"I did."
"Ex-boyfriend, then." The words gave Beca a thrill, and she didn't have the vaguest idea why. "Since when?"
"January."
"That's –" fairly recent, Beca wanted to say, considering it was just March – "unfortunate. What happened?"
"I caught him in bed with his cousin."
She had expected cheating or family disapproval or any other sort of drama except that one. "…fuck."
Aubrey only nodded, biting her lip.
"Christ…that is rough."
"It's fine."
Beca could tell by the way she stiffened in her seat that it wasn't exactly true. "I'm sorry."
"No, no, it was just all-around ridiculous. I…well…"
Beca waited, but Aubrey simply trailed off and drained her wine glass. She wanted to kick herself for asking; as well-adjusted as Aubrey seemed, this was obviously something she was still sore about.
"You know what?" Beca started hesitantly, feeling it was up to her to rescue the mood. "It happens."
"That's reassuring."
Beca let the sarcasm pass. "No, I mean some people can be the worst. And it's always the ones you end up dating, too. Like, when I was eighteen, I caught my girlfriend with her forty-year-old professor."
"You've mentioned it before."
Beca couldn't remember ever telling anyone that story. "I have?"
"The professor was British…an animal."
"A cougar, yeah," Beca snickered. She must have told Aubrey about it on her last night at Barden. "You have an excellent memory."
"I've been told."
"Okay, how about this? I once took this girl to the Bahamas. I picked out a nice villa, threw her a party, basically pulled out all the stops. At the end of the night I proposed –"
"Whoa."
"Not yet. She said yes. The next morning I woke up, and she's in bed right next to me – humping our drug dealer."
"That's….really something."
"It gets better. She was furious I interrupted them, and we yelled at each other until I told her to go fuck herself and left. An hour later I got this call from the cops…she fucking set the villa on fire."
Aubrey's cloudy expression dissipated as she chuckled. "My god, Beca, what kind of women are you into?"
"Ones with daddy issues, mostly."
Aubrey chuckled some more at that, and Beca would chalk it up to the alcohol if the blonde wasn't also looking at her somewhat warmly.
"You wanna get out of here?"
They were down to their last dregs of wine. In her hazed mind Beca was still willing to bet Aubrey would find the suggestion unthinkable; however, the blonde didn't even blink.
"Where're we going?"
"I can get us into Vox Populi."
"Is that a club?"
"Yeah."
"Sounds sleazy."
"It is. Think animal heads and the occasional influencer dude in fishnet. But the music's okay."
Aubrey laughed breezily. "Where?"
"Walking distance."
"I thought walking isn't a good idea?"
"I'll risk it."
That made Aubrey blink. "I really should be going," she hedged, looking at her watch. Knowing her, she was probably already thinking of the subway ride or the two-hundred-dollar Uber charge.
"What's the rush? Netflix and wine waiting at home?"
"I am not –" Aubrey rolled her eyes. "Oh, who am I kidding? Go fuck yourself." It was said with no real bite.
"Come on. Two hours, and I'll give you a ride home."
"And if you pick up a girl?" Aubrey's tone was smug.
"I won't."
"You say that, but the waitress has been flirting with you all evening."
The server had indeed been checking on their table every twenty minutes, offering Beca dessert or cocktail menus with a lingering stare Beca knew all too well – but she was at most a six, and also the kind of girl who would tell all her friends the moment Beca so much as lifted a finger in her direction. "I'm not interested."
"Seriously, Beca …"
"Seriously. I'll take you home." Beca said it without thinking, and only when Aubrey's self-satisfied smile faltered did she realize how it sounded. "To Brooklyn," she quickly added. "You know what I mean."
Aubrey's eyes fixed on the approaching waitress.
"One hour," she finally said. "Then Brooklyn."
They took the car anyway, because Beca wasn't out of her mind. The new driver played Arctic Monkeys so loud the riffs felt like water in her ears. Well you cured my January blues; yeah you made it all alright. I got the feeling I might have lit the very fuse that you were trying not to light –
She snuck a glance at Aubrey: her head was tipped back on the car seat.
You were a stranger in my phonebook I was acting like I knew, 'cause I had nothing to lose –
She had the strangest certainty that she could stroke Aubrey's bared knee right now, and the blonde's eyes would stay shut.
She could save them all the trouble and tell the driver to head to Tribeca right now.
When the winter's in full swing and your dreams just aren't coming true, ain't it funny what you'll do –
Fuck. She forced herself to look away, convinced it would take Aubrey one look at her face to read her thoughts. Or maybe that would be better. One bump of coke was all it took for her to get Stella to bed; one bottle of wine in and she still didn't have the courage to whisper a dirty proposal in Aubrey's ear.
All her posturing, all the girls, all the years – it all came down to a powdered stimulant she used to jam up her nose.
She felt like a total dirtbag by the time they arrived at Vox Populi. Aubrey, oblivious to her predicament, saw the line of hopeful partiers snaking from the door and made a little noise of dismay.
"How are people still trying to get in past midnight?" Beca stared at her dumbly, aware it was now or never – the moment she stepped out of the car she'd be lost to the herd of man-buns trawling the club. "Shall we?" And before Beca could decide on an answer Aubrey was pushing the car door open, the din of honking cars and busy crowds drowning out the car stereo.
That's never, then.
#WANGFEST, Alexander Wang's annual rave commemorating the end of Fashion Week, was on tonight at Vox Populi (stylized as VOXPOPVLI). The guy himself sent Beca the invite – and it really said something about her new work ethic that she didn't miss that email – so it only took a "hey" from Beca before the bouncer dropped the velvet rope.
Inside, Beca was momentarily disoriented: booming house beats rattled off the walls and strobe lights flickered aggressively through the darkness, searing right into her eye. The floor was so packed people jostled them even at the edge of the room. One step forward and she would be in on the secret – the music, the complicit anonymity, the immediate gratification.
Emboldened by this, she took Aubrey's hand.
Beca cut through the crowd, Aubrey closely trailing behind. Alexander Wang sat on a couch in the VIP section, dressed entirely in black, surrounded by a gaggle of skinny girls while an impossibly good-looking guy poured them Patron. Beca tapped the designer on the shoulder.
"Great party," Beca yelled over the music.
Alex looked around. "STOKR!" he shouted, standing to hug her with one arm. He noticed Aubrey and paused for a moment, trying to place her. Then he noticed their linked hands and greeted her in the same manner. "Hi."
Aubrey let go of Beca, patting Alex on the back with equal insouciance. Alex, still beaming, gave Beca a once-over.
"Dope. Who dressed you?" Beca only rolled her eyes; he himself hovered over Beca's fitting at his studio two weeks ago. "Oh, wait. I did!"
"Alex, that's so lame," one of the girls behind him called out. "You're the third he's…" the rest was lost to the noise, but whatever it was, it made Alex laugh.
Shots of tequila were passed around. Alex pushed one in Aubrey's hand, then Beca's, before taking one for himself and raising it over the group. "House of Wang!"
"House of Wang!" they roared, knocking back the shots. It burned Beca's throat. Eyes watering, she glanced at Aubrey.
She could hardly see her, but Aubrey's breathless laugh at the end of her glass was so close it tickled her nape.
"Let's dance."
"No."
"Aww, Stokes. She's long gone."
Beca searched the dance floor for what seemed like the nth time. After the second round of shots Aubrey disappeared with one of Alex's girlfriends; Beca was left pouring Hennessy for an inebriated Zoe Kravitz. "Who?"
"Delorean." Zoe shook her head. "Delameme. Cara."
"Delevingne," Beca corrected absently. "She was here?"
"With Gigi and Zee."
"Huh."
"Zee thinks you're the worst." Zoe glanced at her phone; the next moment it was plummeting to Beca's boot. "Fuck! He's at the door."
"Zee?"
"My handler, stupid."
Beca handed the phone back. "You mentioned Zee."
"He doesn't like you." Zoe tried to type before promptly dropping the phone again. "It's not your fault."
"What did he say?"
"He's jealous."
Beca stared at Zoe, then laughed. Zayn Malik didn't like her. What a surprise. "What, of me and G?"
"Of every-fucking-body. Fuck, I'd turn for Gigi."
"Right."
"He doesn't think you're a good influence."
Beca was barely listening earlier, but that caught her ire. "He doesn't know me," she retorted defensively.
"Eh. You know how it is."
"I don't. I've never even met the guy."
"It's not your fault," Zoe repeated, hardly placating. "Will you look out for my handler? He's six-eight, goes by Vaughn."
Zoe found her handler and Beca was finally left alone. She polished off the rest of the Hennessy, glaring at anyone looking her way.
She spotted Aubrey near the stage – the blonde had to be the only one still wearing her coat in the entire fucking club – and before the strobe lights can flash in her direction again Beca was up and stumbling her way to her. Close-up, Aubrey was dancing to Hippie Sabotage with some guy in honest-to-god harem pants. Beca's insides dropped at the sight.
"Hey." Aubrey was too engrossed in Fuccboi's tattooed biceps to register Beca's presence. "Hey!" This time she grabbed Aubrey's shoulder.
"What?" Aubrey snapped. Spit flying in Beca's face.
"You said one hour, then Brooklyn." Beca tugged at Aubrey's arm, trying to force her to look at her watch. It only succeeded in throwing Aubrey off-balance. She reeled sideways, hard, and if Beca wasn't standing in the right spot Aubrey would have been face down on the floor.
Fuccboi's eyes wandered between them.
"Fucking lesbos," he sneered. Aubrey whirled around unsteadily. By the time Beca straightened them out, he was gone.
They haven't taken three steps off the dance floor when the DJ cued up a new track. It pulsed around them in terse beats: fast and moody, something Beca thought sounded like Kraftwerk crossed with Michael Sembello, the dim silhouettes blocking the door succumbing to its urgency.
Aubrey pressed into her, rammed by someone dancing in the throng. It felt like being prodded by a live wire but Beca fought against it and kept moving. The next time it happened, Beca turned around. The vocals husked about fading hope and fearing home the moment Aubrey murmured one word in her ear.
"Stay."
When Aubrey's arms settled around her shoulders, she didn't resist.
When Aubrey pulled her close, hips grinding to the quick pace of the music, she didn't resist.
Her pulse raced and she knew what was coming. But when Aubrey leaned in, kissing her with parted lips – delving deep, like they've done it all before – she couldn't resist.
They broke apart long enough to dash into the car. Aubrey practically slammed her into the backseat. She didn't had time to breathe before Aubrey straddled her – a whole evening of unacted fantasies at last coming to life – and her head spun at all these new things she was learning: this little sigh Aubrey made as she ground down on Beca's knee, this taste of liquor in her mouth.
"Aubrey –" Aubrey's too absorbed with pushing Beca's coat off her shoulders. She grabbed the slender wrists, forcing them still. "How drunk are you?"
Aubrey locked eyes with Beca, irises blown.
"Don't do that." Aubrey's voice was low. She pulled one wrist free and proceeded to open the top button of Beca's shirt.
"What?"
"Pretend like this isn't what you do."
Beca dropped the other wrist. "What do you mean, I…"
But Aubrey was taking her hand, slipping it under her dress. The skin of her inner thigh felt so impossibly smooth Beca sought out more of it before her cement-filled mind could register what she was doing. The movement inadvertently hiked Aubrey's dress up. Her legs paled beautifully against the black leather seat.
Beca's fingers grazed higher, pushing past lace and garters and coarse hair. Above her Aubrey thrust forward and she touched her for the first time.
After all the posturing, all the girls, all the years, the slick, scalding pool of desire between Aubrey's legs still floored her.
Only then did Aubrey's words click into her head.
She was just using her.
Beca pulled away her probing hand. "The Palazzo," she called hoarsely to the driver. She no longer knew how to feel. The car began to move and Aubrey unmounted her.
"Nice place."
Beca turned around. Aubrey was further than she expected – the blonde had barely taken two steps off the elevator. In the stark light of the foyer she looked thoroughly bruised; the blonde locks in complete disarray, the self-assured mask throughout the night worn down into something suspiciously vulnerable.
"Come here," Beca commanded. It came out softer than she meant. She suddenly had this irrational fear that Aubrey would see through the words, that she would somehow decode her abrupt iciness in the car.
Aubrey crossed the living room. For a moment, right before she took Beca's outstretched hand, Beca thought she saw the blonde's expression crumble. But she blinked and the mirage was gone – Aubrey was merely watching her, face completely devoid of emotion.
In the dimly-lit bedroom it was overwhelmingly silent as Beca unzipped Aubrey's dress. She didn't bother to take her time – Aubrey had been clear on what she wanted – and while Beca fully intended to deliver she was determined not to derive any real pleasure out of it. Her mouth was thick with the taste of metal by the time she pushed Aubrey roughly onto the bed. Beca took a long look at the naked woman before her, pulse racing at how much she looked like art: a long stroke of cream on crumpled gray sheets. It made it harder to pretend this was just a routine piece of ass.
She climbed over Aubrey, slowly, deliberately. The mixed scent of expensive perfume and sweat on Aubrey's skin rose up to greet her and if she wasn't drunk before she certainly had drunk an entire fucking distillery now. Aubrey mistook her frenzy for lust and attempted to undress her. Beca evaded her hands, pinning them above the bed; her knees gave out at the effort and her full weight sank onto Aubrey without warning.
Aubrey gasped – more out of surprise than anything – but it was a submission, and Beca wanted to hear it again.
She dragged her lips along the length of Aubrey's neck. The blonde thrashed under her, straining for more friction as she bit and licked the sensitive skin. Beca breathed heavily as she made her way down the sculpted collarbones, down the swell of one breast, capturing a dusty-rose nipple lightly in her teeth.
"Fuck," Aubrey exhaled sharply, her entire body going taut. Beca sucked once and Aubrey arched desperately, her whole being concentrated at the tip of Beca's tongue.
She was in control. And she was going to use every ounce of it to torture Aubrey.
She was going to fuck her so hard and good she wouldn't be able to enjoy this with anyone else.
The image of Aubrey splayed out for her, begging for her orgasm as Beca fingered her pitilessly, was so visceral it flooded her core. It was all the distraction Aubrey needed. With one lithe movement she swung her leg around Beca's hip; at the same time her tongue pushed viciously into Beca's mouth. Aubrey's leg clenched as she lifted herself up – and then she was grinding forcefully on Beca's thigh, her loud, drawn-out moan tearing into Beca's lips.
Aubrey's defiance was the last straw. Beca pushed off her, skin buzzing unnaturally in all the places they touched. She twisted Aubrey's face to hers in a brutal grip, seeing red. She was going to make her come on her own terms or die trying.
And then she saw something that made her stop in her tracks. Aubrey was crying.
It wasn't the kind women do in music videos; the kind where one tear languidly rolled off their cheek, waiting for a hand to brush it off. Aubrey was full-on breaking down. Her sobs shook both of them in its intensity, flooding out so fast they choked into harsh, wet sucks for air in her throat, not unlike a person drowning. It was all at once incomprehensible and human. The sight clawed at Beca's chest, and her hands fell limply to Aubrey's side, all the fight suddenly drained out of her.
What the hell are you doing?
She couldn't believe she wanted to hurt her. Even considering how small and insecure Aubrey made her feel, she fucked up one step too far. It was sickening. Even worse, it felt irrevocable.
She gathered the sheets and draped them around Aubrey, careful not to touch her. The bare shoulders were still heaving and Beca had the strongest urge to kiss them. She felt the air in the room closing around her and stumbled backwards.
She barely made her way out before vomiting on top of the stairs.
She splashed water in her face once, twice, twenty times – but her eyes remained bloodshot in the bathroom mirror, stinging every time she blinked.
Her coat lay discarded on the couch. She found her phone in one of the pockets, teeming with missed calls. She dialed and sank on the carpet, aware her hands were badly shaking.
"– Hello?"
"Stella."
Stella didn't answer, although Beca could hear her breathing on the other line.
"Are you alone?"
"Fuck you."
She didn't hang up, however, and Beca found herself trying again. "Stellie," she said hoarsely, using the special nickname she often reserved post-coital. "I'll make it up to you."
More silence. And then, "I'm so high right now."
"Can I come over?"
Stella sighed. Beca pressed her forehead against the couch. If Stella refused she wouldn't know what to do with herself.
"I'm at The Pierre," she finally said. "The reservation is under J. Stewart."
Notes.
Songs used in this chapter:
Arctic Monkeys – Knee Socks (in the car)
Junior Boys – Over It (at the club)
Please don't hate me.
Also, has anyone already pieced together who Stella's girlfriend is?
