Deb's spent the majority of her life playing second fiddle to her brother. She loves him. She really does. He's the most important person in her goddamn world, but she's getting really fucking sick of being everybody's consolation prize.
Her dad chose Dexter over her. Not at first—there were a few really good years at the beginning—but, as Dexter grew up, something about him just drew her father in until he seemed to forget that he even had a daughter. Dexter was the priority. Dexter was the benefactor of Harry's knowledge. Dexter got all the attention, no matter how hard Deb tried to impress, to stand out.
And, as if that wasn't enough to give her a huge goddamn inferiority complex, it just kept happening. Rudy, Brian—whatever the hell she was supposed to call him—the bastard was a master at faking emotion, but even he couldn't pretend that he wasn't more interested in Dexter than he was in her. He brought him fucking steaks, after all. All she got was a dead hooker's ring and a lot of bruises.
That wasn't true—not entirely—but she didn't like to think about the rest. What was true was what he'd told her on the boat ride before he'd choked the crap out of her. She should have seen what he was before, and the only reason she didn't was that she wanted so badly for someone to love her. To care about her. To focus only on her. It was pathetic.
But what the hell was she supposed to do about it? What could she do that she hadn't been trying to do for practically her entire life? Shit, even Doakes, who really seemed to like her sometimes, who'd sort of tried to ask her out once—whether he realized it or not, even he was probably just using her to get to Dexter. Doakes couldn't screw him for real, so he was settling for trying to screw with him by getting it on with his little sister. It was totally fucked up.
And now it continues, Deb muses, because she's pretty fuckin' sure it's not her LaGuerta is thinking about now, even though it's her fingers that are causing all those breathy little moans she's making. Bitch is all over Dexter most of the time, and Deb's pretty sure she's fantasizing that it's him who's fucking her. It's ironic because this is probably the only thing Deb's sure she can best him at.
Not that she wants to dwell on that shit because, Christ, he's her brother. But LaGuerta' eyes are screwed shut, and she's choking out "Morgan" instead of "Deb" as she gets closer, and fuck if Deb isn't smart enough to know why that is. And she hates it. She hates LaGuerta, and she shouldn't even be doing this. She should have just brushed it off as nothing when the sergeant—oh how she was loving that one—had cornered her in the bathroom and demanded to know what had happened out there at the crime scene. She should have kept her smartass comments to herself instead of making it a fucking pissing contest.
But she hadn't. Impulse control had never been her thing, so she said exactly what was on her mind: "I know how jealous you must be that you're not the one getting all the publicity for fucking the Ice Truck Killer, but just drop it, all right?"
LaGuerta's nostrils flared, and, for a second, Deb thought she'd actually managed to land a shot. But then LaGuerta just shook her head, smirked, and walked forward until they were standing almost nose to nose.
Deb thought about re-establishing her personal space. It was something they drilled into her at the academy, and she had been especially vigilant about it recently. But she could already feel the coolness of the wall a couple of inches from her back, and she wasn't sure if this was some battle for dominance thing. If it was, she didn't want to be the first to move. So, she chuckled.
"What, you gonna lay a big wet one on me?" she asked, mirroring LaGuerta's earlier smirk to conceal her confusion. "Because, I gotta tell ya, I don't make a habit of kissing other chicks."
"That surprises me, Morgan," LaGuerta replied, and Debs swore she saw her glance down at her lips. Her voice was unnervingly even and sort of low, and Deb started to wonder if maybe this might not be a test or a joke after all.
Has to be. She fucking hates me.
She'd play along, feel things out a little. "Why?" she asked, her tone conveying a bravado she barely felt. "Just because you'd fuck anyone who'd promote you, doesn't mean I would."
LaGuerta laughed and shook her head. "You think that's how I got where I am?"
Deb thought about saying, "Where's that, demoted?" but, even with the reduction in rank, LaGuerta was still over her in the food chain. Best to keep your goddamn mouth shut in those situations.
LaGuerta continued, "I'd never promote you, and you know it. You're too impulsive and…" she trailed off, giving Deb a once-over, "…disrespectful."
"Why are you surprised, then?" Deb practically choked out.
"Because you do everything else that people tell you you shouldn't," LaGuerta breathed out as she pressed her lips against Deb's.
This is fucked up, Deb told herself even as she moved her lips against LaGuerta's. Sure, she'd felt a surge of relief when she saw the senior officer on her first day back to work (even hugged her, for christ's sake), but that was only because LaGuerta's vitriol was familiar, manageable. She was the devil Deb knew, and that was comforting somehow. It didn't change the fact that she was still the fucking devil, though, and Deb should have just pushed her away right then. She would have, except that she suspected that that would be caving. She was never the type to tolerate losing well, and she wasn't going to say uncle for LaGuerta. No way. If this was a bluff, you bet your ass she was going to call it.
Only it wasn't, apparently, because things just escalated when Deb pushed forward until they were both stumbling into a stall. LaGuerta's hands found her chest—she would pick the one fucking spot Deb's least confident about—right about the same time Deb's fingers went to the button on the sergeant's pants. It's not like she really wanted to be doing it, but, shit, if this wasn't a bluff, it had to be a game of chicken. And, if LaGuerta wasn't going to swerve, neither was she. The only thing that mattered in that case was who came out of the collision less mangled, and Deb was going to make goddamned sure that it was her. If they were going to screw, she was going to be the one doing the screwing.
She felt victorious when she pressed LaGuerta against the divider and found wet heat with her fingers. She'd done that. The Ice Queen had responded that way to her. She had her with her pants down (literally), and it felt fucking awesome. It felt like control, which was something she hadn't experienced in awhile.
And now LaGuerta's doing the one thing that can take that from her, rubbing against the one raw spot that never quite heals for Deb. Dexter. Always Dexter.
LaGuerta doesn't say anything when she comes. She just sort of grunts and grabs Deb's wrist, holding her hand in place until she's done riding it out.
It takes Deb a minute to break the grip (defensive tactics maneuvers weren't exactly designed to be done from her position), and, when she's finally free, she's not sure what the hell she's supposed to be doing.
LaGuerta, of course, preys on that. "Let me," she says, sliding a hand to the zipper of Deb's pants. Her tone sounds weirdly gentle, but it also makes it damn clear that it's not a request.
It's over a month for Deb—far longer than she's used to going—and she can feel the familiar, insistent throb between her legs. But it's not happening like this. She's not going to lose the advantage, not to this woman that she hates. She's not going to flashback to neat cuts and bloodless chunks of flesh while LaGuerta's hand skims along her thigh. She's fucking not.
"Fuck you," Deb snaps. Before she even realizes what she's doing, she's shoves LaGuerta into the wall, watching as her face registers shock that quickly shifts to something else. Pity? Maybe. But that's not quite it. She's seen that expression before. Concern? Can't be. No fucking way…
As quickly as the look appears, though, it's gone, replaced by the usual condescending one. "You need some therapy, Morgan," LaGuerta snaps as she pushes her way out of the stall. "ASAP."
When Deb hears the bathroom door close, she sinks down to the floor and puts her head in her hands. She doesn't know what the hell is wrong with her or when it's going to get better, but she does know one thing: she recognized that look. It was genuine. And it wasn't fair. The one time in her entire goddamn life that she suspected Dexter was the substitute, and it had to be wasted on Maria fucking LaGuerta.