They’re hanging out on the grass in the gap between buses, Gee’s head in Frankie’s lap. It’s hot and quiet and the line between day and night is just starting to blur. Frankie loves this time of day.
“Would you still be into me if I were a guy?”
Frankie looks down at Gee’s face. She’s wearing these ridiculous fucking sunglasses - they used to work, but with the blonde and the spikes they make her head look completely square. She has on gray jeans (Mikey’s) and a dirty plaid shirt. “If?”
Gee rolls her eyes – even behind the shades, Frankie can tell – and sits up. “I’m serious.”
“Of course you are.” Frankie feels around in the grass for her smokes. “You’re always serious.”
“Except when I’m hilarious.”
“Except when you’re a spaz.”
Gee clicks her tongue irritably and looks away.
Frankie watches the fussy, unsatisfied line of Gee’s shoulder for a minute, and then relents. “The thing is, that you’d be a guy.”
“And you’re not into that?”
Frankie lights two cigarettes, hands one to Gee because she never buys her own now she’s ‘quit’, the skank. “Never really tried it. I get offers, you know, but my girlfriend’s all possessive and shit.”
Gee smiles finally, a little sideways one that she can’t quite hide by pursing her lips. “That must be a real drag.”
Frankie shrugs, wincing when her shirt catches on the latest scabbed-over scrape on the back of her shoulder.
“You have got to start staying upright when you play.” Gee’s blunt fingers fiddle with Frankie’s collar, slip inside to press tenderly around the sore spot.
Frankie tips her head forward, sighs a little bit. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“The fun’s in not dying, asshole.”
Frankie laughs at her knees, because Gee is such a fucking drama queen and Frankie loves her so damn much she could spit. Gee strokes the back of Frankie’s neck; her hand is hot and strong, her ragged nails catch every now and then against Frankie’s hair and Frankie rolls forward, tugs Gee down to the sweet, damp grass.
“Like I could not be into you,” she says, and Gee grins a little bit, pushes her face into the grass like she thinks it’s stupid to be happy and she doesn’t want anyone to see.
Frankie reaches out, takes Gee’s cigarette, crushes them both out in the grass. She slides the sunglasses off Gee’s face and Gee blinks a little in the fading light, her eyelashes damp with heat and her cheeks flushed pink.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” Frankie says, and before Gee can make a face or snort or turn away she crawls on top, pressing her mouth against Gee’s and sighing at the dirty-sweet taste, cigarettes and Diet Coke. She tugs at Gee’s bottom lip with her teeth.
“We could still do this, if I were a guy,” Gee says, and her voice is wistful but her hands are pressing restless at the small of Frankie’s back. “It’d be the same.”
“It wouldn’t.” Frankie presses her cheek against Gee’s throat, runs the tip of her nose down into the hollow between her collarbones. Gee’s shirt has twisted sideways and Frankie pops a couple of buttons. “It wouldn’t.”
Gee says, “Someone could see,” but she doesn’t stop Frankie, not when Frankie palms her tits, not when Frankie rubs her thumbs over Gee’s nipples, slow and hard the way she knows Gee likes, not when Frankie slides down between Gee’s legs and yanks down her stupid too-big jeans.
She doesn’t stop Frankie, she just says, “Oh, oh, oh,” and afterwards they lie on their backs together and Gee makes a story up about a star they can see.
“Would you still tell me stories, if you were a guy?” Frankie says when Gee’s gone quiet.
Gee takes Frankie’s hand, links their fingers together. “Like I could not.”
“Yeah,” says Frankie. “Yeah.”