April 22, 2021

His voice is rattling around her head, and she can't seem to drown it out, can't seem to stop the shaking of her hands.

I love you.

It's not supposed to hurt, she knows. Someone says I love you, that's not supposed to be a bullet. It's supposed to be a good thing, a joyous thing, but this is a wound. It stings and it burns and it has torn her wide open. Half-mad with eyes full of sorrow he says I love you like it's an accusation and then he runs away and what the fuck is she supposed to do with that? Alone in an apartment full of his children who just heard him say the one thing he was never supposed to say out loud, what did he think she was gonna do? Did he even think, the selfish son of a bitch, or was he, as ever, moving too fast to stop and consider the consequences of his stupid ass decisions?

I love you.

She knows. They both know. They have both always known. That doesn't mean he's allowed to say it. That doesn't mean he's allowed to blindside her with it, a bare few weeks after he stumbled back into her life, angry and vengeful and turning everything upside down.

The nerve of this prick, she thinks, angrily throwing back the rest of her glass of wine, catching the bartender's eye and gesturing for another. Noah is safe at home with the sitter; she didn't know how long the intervention would take and all night wasn't out of the question so she's got Lucy until 8 am tomorrow and that means she doesn't have to rush home. Doesn't have to, and doesn't want to; the apartment will be quiet, deathly still as Noah sleeps, and she is too kinetic for that. Trembling hands and a frantically churning mind and a heart that's screaming in her chest; she can't go home and sit on the sofa, she'll explode if she tries, and she knows it. So instead she's here, in a bar a few blocks from the extended stay hotel where Elliot is living, drinking more wine than is wise. Maybe when she's done she'll stumble back to his hotel and see if they'll give her a room for a night; maybe that's the closest she'll ever come to sleeping beside him.

Stupid, she thinks. She feels so, so stupid, right now. The intervention was Kathleen's idea and Olivia knew it was a bad one, knew Elliot never reacts well when he's backed into a corner, knew his pride wouldn't let him listen, but Kathleen was so earnest, and Olivia agreed, mostly because she figured Kathleen would do it with or without her and at least if she was there she could manage the fallout. And Jesus, there was fallout, and she is, managing it. Elliot stormed out on his children and it has fallen to Olivia to hold them together, and she is. She helped Eli pack his things, bundled him into Maureen's car. He'll be better off staying with his sister than alone in some hotel, and God only knows when Elliot will come back. Olivia calmed Kathleen down and watched Lizzie slip away without a word, wondering, and tried not to meet Dickie's eye.

Ever sleep with your partner, detective?

Dickie probably hates her now. Dickie probably thinks this is the final proof of the truth he knew all along. She's always wondered, what made him ask that question, what he thought he knew, what insults and accusations he heard his parents lob at one another. It doesn't really matter now; Elliot's gone and blown the whole thing wide open.

The bartender brings her another glass, and she takes it gratefully.

What she really needs right now, she thinks, is a distraction. She doesn't want to think about Elliot, and she wants, just a little bit, to hurt him. To hurt him the way he's hurt her, to make him feel even an ounce of the rejection, the abandonment she's been dealing with for more than a decade. Back off, he told her, and she didn't, but a spiteful part of her wants to, now. Wants to say fine, watch what happens when I do. She wants him to crumble, and see how much he needs her, and come back. Just once, she wants someone to come back because they want to, because they want her. She wants him to come back.

The best distraction, the best revenge, she thinks, would be a good fuck. Trevor's always game when he's single, which she thinks he is now. They've been fucking on and off for longer than she'd care to admit, and it always goes the same. One of them gets lonely and makes a phone call, and maybe they spend the night together or maybe it's just an hour or two but when it's over they go their separate ways, satisfied and wanting nothing more from one another than what they already got. It's easy, with Trevor; they care for one another, like each other's company, but neither of them is what the other wants in a long term partner. Trevor is too soft for her, and she's too hard for him, and it works.

But she doesn't want Trevor, tonight. Trevor won't manhandle her, won't ever tangle his fingers in her hair, never leaves a mark on her skin. Trevor will go down on her for an hour if she'll let him but he's never tried to fuck her through the headboard and that's what she needs - what she wants - tonight. Gentle won't do; gentle won't turn her brain off. She needs sensation, and lots of it, needs adrenaline, needs to scream.

There's no one in the contacts list on her phone who can give that to her, and it's frustrating, the realization of how bland her life has become. Brian would, she thinks, but Brian's moved to Florida and it's always messy with him, anyway. He loves her, and that makes things complicated. He loves her, and Elliot does, too, and it isn't love she wants tonight. It's love that's filled her heart with grief.

She's on her third glass and finally feels centered enough to look around the bar, take stock of the other patrons. It's been a long, long time since she picked up a one night stand in a bar, and idly she wonders if she's too old for it now. The kinda guys who go looking for a lay in bars are looking for girls like the one she used to be, lean and fit and sparkling; they aren't looking for a fifty-something broad with wrinkles around her eyes. She's happy with the way she looks, always has been, knows exactly the figure she cuts through a crowd, but she knows that she's changed, too. Maybe that's for the best. Maybe she shouldn't -

Maybe I should, she thinks, because she's just caught the eye of a man at the other end of the bar. He looks about her age, plus or minus a few years either direction, she's not sure. He's got dark hair and broad shoulders and blue eyes, just like the man who left her tonight, the man she wants to beat to death with her purse. Those blue eyes shine at her, something like curiosity in them, and she returns his gaze steadily.

He might be all right, she thinks. He's handsome enough; big nose, big ears, but a nice square jaw like she likes. And he's confident; he's not looking away from her, and she likes that, too. She doesn't want a man she'll have to direct or reassure. She wants him to be assured enough for both of them.

With his eyes locked on hers he rises slowly to his feet, and she sees that he's tall, and she likes that, too. She's been tall for a girl since sixth grade, and she likes a man who doesn't make her feel like a bull in a china shop, makes her feel delicate instead. Not that she is, or ever will be, delicate, but it's nice, sometimes, to let someone else be the strong one.

The man moves towards her slowly, purposeful but not threatening, telegraphing his intention to join her and giving her a chance to turn him away. She doesn't. The man is fit; not hard and heavy like Elliot, but he's got some muscle on him, and good, she thinks. If they're gonna do this, she wants him strong enough to move her where he wants her. He's wearing a white button down under a casual blazer, blue jeans and brown boots. The clothes are nice, not cheap but not showy like the three piece suits she's seen Elliot wear since he's been back.

Who the fuck does he think he is, she wonders about Elliot then. Elliot is blue jeans and a grey hoodie, not a tailored Italian suit. Asshole, she thinks.

The man leans up against the bar next to her; he doesn't sit, but he crowds her a little, his broad chest close to her shoulder. For now she's ok with that; if she decides she's not interested she's pretty sure she could come up off her barstool and give him a hell of a fight, and she's pretty sure it would feel good. Either way this goes, she thinks she's about to work off some of the nervous energy that's eating her alive.

"I wanted to compliment you on your taste," the man says, and it's a nice opening gambit. Not hi, or how are you, or what's up, sexy; he is starting a conversation and he's doing it with confidence and that bodes well for him.

"I heard you ordering your wine," he continues, "and I like a woman who knows what she wants."

She ordered an Italian red, one of her favorites, but Elliot's ruined that, too, because now when she thinks of Italy she thinks of him, of him and Kathy, blissfully happy in their little flat while Olivia was screaming and bleeding and lonesome on the other side of the world.

But she doesn't want to think about Elliot; she wants to think about the tall stranger with the subtle, expensive cologne whose blue eyes are boring into hers now.

"I don't settle for second best," she tells him. It's a lie; she's been settling all her life. Even now, with him, she's settling, because if she's honest he's not the one she wants to fuck her, but she'll never have the one she wants, so what difference does it make, really?

"Neither do I," he tells her. "And you're the best vintage in this place."

Ok, that's corny. It's extremely corny, but it's flattering, too, because there are other women, younger women, sitting in this bar with hungry eyes, but he's chosen her. Maybe she looks easy; maybe he can scent her loneliness, her desperation floating on the air. Then again, maybe he really does like what he sees. Not that he can see much beneath her sweater, but still.

"You got a name?" she asks him. She wants to know because she doesn't want to moan Elliot while she's in bed with him.

"Joe," he says, holding out his hand for a shake.

She almost doesn't take it.

Joe was her father's name. Joe was Elliot's father's name. Both their fathers were mean, violent assholes. It feels like a bad omen.

Fuck it, she thinks.

"Nice to meet you, Joe," she says, and takes his hand. He doesn't let her go; he keeps holding her hand, gently stroking his thumb across her skin, still looking into her eyes, and this guy is good, she thinks. He's got a game plan. He's done this before. Somehow she finds that reassuring.

"And you?" he prompts her when she doesn't offer her own name.

"Olivia," she tells him, and immediately regrets it. She should've lied. It's dangerous for her, professionally; she's not exactly a public figure but she's on TV often enough, is in the papers often enough, that she doesn't want her real name connected to stupid decisions like this. She doesn't give him her last name but he didn't offer his either, and maybe that's a good sign. Maybe his name isn't even Joe.

"Beautiful name for a beautiful woman," he says. He's still holding her hand.

"Tell me something, Joe," she says then. Her eyes rake over him and she spots a wedding ring and her stomach twists.

Fuck it, she thinks. She'll regret this in the morning, but right now a blue eyed, broad shouldered man with a ring on his finger is exactly who she's thinking of, and the man in front of her, he's the one who made the choice to come to her tonight. If she doesn't fuck him he'll find someone else; he'll be unfaithful to his wife one way or another. It's not really her fault.

"What do you want?"

He mulls the question over for a moment. She likes that he takes the time to think, doesn't immediately come back with a cheesy line. She likes that he isn't pretending this is anything other than what it is.

"You," he says without equivocation. "You're sexy as hell and I think you know that-" she does, but still, it's nice to hear it. Elliot's never once said anything like that to her - "and you look like you got something on your mind you want to forget. I do, too. I want us to forget together. What do you want, Olivia?"

It's a profoundly uncomplicated transaction. Everything with Elliot is so complicated, their every conversation a minefield, and she's tired of being ripped to pieces. Joe can look at her, and tell her he wants her, tell it to her plain, in a way Elliot will never be able to. She can look at him, and tell him to fuck her, and it won't hurt. Maybe this is what she needs.

If Elliot ever finds out, it'll hurt him. If he ever finds out that the night he told her he loved her she went and fucked a stranger she picked up in a bar, he'll be hurt. She wants him to be, though, because he walked out on her first, ten years ago and tonight, and he needs to learn, she thinks. He needs to know if he doesn't hold on to her someone else will. He needs to know she won't always be there, pining for him, waiting for him to come to her.

She will be, though. She will be waiting for him, always. She always has been.

"I want to forget," she tells him.

That's all he needs to hear.

He pays her tab and closes out his own, and he keeps his hand at the small of her back as they walk out of the bar. He's staying at a hotel - not Elliot's, although she thinks that might have been better, imagines Elliot's face if he were to see her in the morning, stumbling through the lobby of his hotel in yesterday's clothes - and he's got condoms. He admits to the wife, while they walk, tells Olivia his wife has grown cold, that he hasn't fucked her in over a year and he's losing his mind. She's not sure if she believes him; she's not sure it matters.

Or, it does matter, but not enough to make her stop. It's fucking stupid, she knows, going to a hotel with a man she just met, but there's something about the danger of it that's intoxicating to her, more than any of the wine she drank tonight. Lindstrom has been concerned about her penchant for recklessness since they met, has tried countless times to get her to confront the reasons why she so often throws herself headfirst into danger without thought for consequences. Do you want to die, Olivia? He asked her that after she walked into yet another standoff she didn't really have to, faced down another gun when she could just as easily have stood back. And the answer is no, of course not; she wants to live, needs to live, for her son as much as anything else. But the danger is sweet. The danger hits her veins like a drug, makes her feel alive. And nothing, nothing feels as good as surviving. Each time she walks away on her own two feet, each time she survives, it's another victory over William Lewis and all the other ghosts that haunt her. If things go bad in Joe's hotel room she'll have to fight, and part of her wants the fight. Wants to know if she'll win.

It's probably something to talk about with Lindstrom, the way fighting and fucking sate the same need in her. She probably won't, though.

The second the door closes behind them Joe's hands are on her; he takes hold of her hips, draws her in close, and then he kisses her, and she wasn't expecting that, somehow, the kissing, but she likes it. It's more tongue than she normally wants but that's kinda nice in its own way; he's possessive, overwhelming, and she wants to be overwhelmed. His hands roam over her, slow at first, warming her up, but when she relaxes in his grip and lets her body mold to his he gets bolder.

Things move pretty quick, after that. They strip each other bare and he pushes her back onto the bed and she's barely stopped bouncing before he settles between her thighs. If he notes her scars he doesn't mention them, for which she's thankful. He sucks a mark into the curve of her breast while his fingers play over her pussy; she doesn't get wet as fast as she used to but he doesn't seem to mind, and he doesn't rush to fuck her before she's ready. He touches every part of her, kisses every part of her, sucks her nipples like he loves it, and works her with his fingers until she throws her hands above her head, presses her palms against the headboard and uses the leverage to rock against his hand. His fingers draw desperate, panting little sounds out of her and it's good, but it's not really what she wants.

She's still thinking about Elliot. She's wondering how he'd touch her, if he ever got the chance. She's wondering how it might feel to cast her leg over his shoulder, instead of Joe's. She's wondering if he'd put his mouth on her.

Maybe Joe can feel her distraction; he slows the movement of his hand and raises his head from her breast to look her in the eye.

"What do you want, Olivia?" he asks her.

"Make me scream," she tells him.

And he does.

Deftly he catches her by the hips, flips her onto her belly and helps her draw her knees up under her, ass in the air. It's a vulnerable position and anxiety skitters across her skin while she waits to see what he's gonna do.

What he does is stand, and let her watch as he opens a drawer in the bedside table, as he pulls out a box of condoms, as he slips one on. Elliot wouldn't wear a condom, she thinks. She wouldn't make him. But it's a point in Joe's favor that he lets her watch, makes sure she knows he's true to his word. She appreciates his consideration, but then he's sliding behind her again, and she lets her head drop to rest against the mattress.

"I wanna hear every sound you make," he tells her, and then he grabs her by the hips, and buries himself inside her with one smooth, deep thrust that makes her cry out. She wasn't quite ready but she's ready enough, and as he begins to move her body responds, wetness rushing to ease his way, and the initial sting is what she wanted, anyway, a pleasurable pain that makes her mind stop churning.

Joe fucks her with determination, hard and fast and deep, and she isn't quite screaming but she's not quiet, either, rocking back into him. It's good; he's not the biggest she's ever had but he's enough to fill her, stretch her, distract her. He pounds into her for a minute or two or three, she's not sure, and then, as if he could read her mind, as if he's known all along what she wanted, he tangles his hand in her hair and draws her head up, pulls her up until she's kneeling, leaning back against his chest.

There's an art to it, the hair pulling. Joe does it right, threads his fingers through a thick lock of hair close to her scalp so he's not in danger of pulling any of it out, keeps the pressure steady and doesn't yank. He keeps his hand there, and kisses her neck, nips at her but doesn't mark her, and she appreciates that, too. He's left enough bruises on her chest, she doesn't need any more.

"Rub your clit," he growls at her. "I want to feel you come all over me."

She does, and she does, just like he told her. With his cock plunging inside her and his body hard at her back and her fingers rubbing at her clit she comes, breaks with a wail, and then he pushes her down flat on her belly, and ruts into her until she comes again and he finishes inside the condom with a groan.

It is exactly what she needed; for five whole minutes she doesn't think of anything at all. Just floats on a sea of sensation, warm and loose with Joe at her back, warm and comforting like a weighted blanket. That's all the respite she gets, though, because then he kisses her shoulder and pulls out of her, careful to keep the condom in place until he can get it to the trashcan, and as soon as he stands up she starts thinking about how she ought to go home. Her car is at Elliot's hotel; she'll catch a cab, she figures, and she can worry about the car in the morning. Real life is starting to set in, and there are things she needs to do. It's helped, though; she's tired, now, and her hands aren't shaking - her thighs are trembling a little as she rolls over, but that's thanks to Joe - and she thinks she'll be all right, thinks it's safe to go home and try to sleep now. She'll worry about Elliot in the morning.

By the time she sits up Joe's back in front of her, holding a washcloth, and he kneels at the edge of the bed, runs his hands over her thighs while he looks up at her.

"Let me clean you up," he says.

What she needs is to go to the bathroom, but she indulges him for a moment, lets him run a washcloth over her cunt while she watches him. It's a little more obvious here in the hotel than it was in the bar, how much he looks like Elliot. No wonder she chose him. She'd feel guilty but for that wedding ring of his; they've both been unfaithful tonight.

"You're something else, Olivia," he says, kissing her thigh. "Can I see you again?"

"No," she tells him, without hesitation. This was one night only; she can't afford to keep doing stupid shit like this, and doesn't really want to, anyway.

"Ok," he says, and doesn't fight her. "Will you stay, at least? We could order room service. Maybe go again."

It's tempting. After all, Noah won't know the difference if she comes home now or at 6 am. He's safe, and there's nothing for her to do at home but sleep. Joe knows what he's doing, and he's made her feel good, and she is a little hungry. But her desire is dormant, now; two orgasms have cleared her mind, and she's done. Done playing this game, done feeling petulant. She just wants to sleep.

"You're sweet," she tells him. "But no."

"Ok," he says again, easily, and then he rises to his feet, and holds out his hand to help pull her up. When she's standing he kisses her again, gentler this time, and doesn't try to hold on when she steps away. He does smack her bare ass when she walks by him on her way to the bathroom, and she yelps and turns to glare at him, but there's a childlike mischievousness in his face that reminds her once more of Elliot, and she doesn't have the heart to tell him off for his casual affection.

She goes to the bathroom, she gets dressed. She kisses him, and lets him fuck her with his fingers one last time against the door, and then the cab arrives, and she leaves. She goes home to her son, she falls into her bed, she sleeps. She forgets all about Joe.

Or so she thinks.