Chapter Text
Carmen didn’t much like the Tops Casino.
Not for any fault of its own, not really. The place was decent enough, decently staffed, decently decorated. The wine was decent, the food was decent, as was the entertainment. She’d been before, just once, but it had been more than enough for her then. The events that had transpired here, the things she’d done, the man she’d done them with, the memories that no matter how hard she tried she just couldn’t shake, that’s what stopped this place from ever earning her favour.
It had been several months by now, since she’d first woken up in Doc Mitchell’s home in Goodsprings. She'd had no memory of who she was, where she was even. But she’d had a purpose, that at least she’d remembered. She’d been a courier, one of six, and she’d been delivering something, something of utmost importance. Beyond that, she had only her name, the clothes on her back, and the memory of the man who killed her. And all she knew then was to find that man and pay him his Devil’s due. She was a courier, after all, and this time she’d be sure to deliver.
And she had. She’d found Benny, the son of a bitch who’d shot her in the head, tracked him down to this very building. This was where she’d killed him, and then retrieved what he’d stolen from her, but not before he stole something else from her, something she would never get back. She didn’t like to think about that.
But that was why she didn’t like this place, why she hadn’t come back in so long. She’d sworn then the first time would be the last. She’d sworn she would never return.
But Raul had never been. This wasn’t his first time on the Strip, but it was the first where the two of them had a little extra time to spare, and he’d been rather excited to go in. She didn’t feel right letting him go alone – most folks around the Strip didn’t take too kindly to ghouls. And she couldn’t refuse without explaining why, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to that just yet. Maybe after they got to know each other a little better. Besides, she figured, enough liquor and she’d forget where she was soon enough.
Which she certainly did, a few glasses of whiskey and some shots of tequila later. Sure, it was the same swill they served at any bar out in the Mojave, but it was at least nice to just sit and drink out of a clean glass, without having to worry about fishing dead flies out of her drink, or the place getting ambushed by raiders, or some buckshot sticking his gun to the back of her head and demanding she turn over all her caps, something that happened far too often out in the desert. But she couldn’t always blame those who did. The Mojave Desert was a hostile place in more ways than one, and most folks were just looking for any means to survive. And as many times as she’d faced down the barrel of a gun, other times she’d been the one behind the trigger.
Those raiders knew where they could stick it, though.
Still, it was nice to just sit and drink without all that in mind. And it was nice to be here, with him. Raul. Raul Tejada.
It had been a while since they’d first met, since she’d rescued him from captivity. He’d been holed up in a radio station up on Black Mountain, held prisoner by the Super Mutants and Nightkin infesting the place. It had been a nightmare having to plough her way through the lot of them, and even though she’d had help, Cass and Ed-E and their new Mutant friend Neil by her side, she’d come close to death more than once on her way to the top. Though she supposed that was nothing new. She’d cheated Death countless times by now.
After she’d rescued him, Raul had offered to tag along with her. He was a fair shot if they ever ran into trouble, and he was a fair repairman, if the need ever arose. And if it didn’t, well then, if nothing else he was fair enough company. He’d sounded a little sheepish when he’d said that, and she’d guessed why. He’d been up for here for so long, he’d almost forgotten what it was like to really interact with other people. But even if he’d been a terrible shot and piss-poor repairman, she wouldn’t have felt right leaving him on his own. She liked him, she’d realized then, even though they’d just met. Besides, she’d been lonely too.
They’d been travelling together on and off since then, some months by now. Sure, she supposed it hadn’t been very long, but they’d already faced many dangers together, fought by each other’s side more than once. They had quite a few things in common, too. They were both Spanish, for one, though of course Carmen didn’t know if she was Mexican like him or if she’d come from somewhere else. They both struggled with identity, their pasts, their presents. They’d both done things they regret. It was enough for her to really like him, trust him even, and it was a relief to be able to trust someone else, anyone else, in this world of seemingly unending chaos and violence and hostility, when most days she didn’t know if she could trust herself.
The two of them quickly slipped into easy chatter and banter, sitting at the bar. It was pretty effortless once she’d gotten enough alcohol into her. Though Raul never ran short of complaints and sarcastic remarks, should the need arise, they didn’t really talk much out on the road. They were usually too busy to chat, attending to the needy or running errands or, more often than not, having to defend themselves from raiders and fiends and wasteland creatures alike. But Carmen wasn’t very good at small talk. Even in the rare moments of calm, when they found themselves simply walking the long stretches of road, her mind was often busy with other things, memories, wishes, fears, regrets. There were things she wished more than anything she could remember, and things she would sell her soul to forget. They were never things she could easily say aloud.
Even then, Raul usually filled in the silence with his mindless chatter; thoughtful musings, thinking out loud, his many stories, comments on the weather and the landscape. He never seemed bothered that she rarely responded, though he’d thrown a jibe or two her way for it. And of course there were his unending complaints whenever they ran into trouble, or whenever she veered off the trail to pick through a discarded campsite, or whenever they found themselves walking for hours under the scorching hot sun. She could continue, but honestly the list of things he complained about was almost as long as his list of complaints.
Nevertheless, she knew he enjoyed travelling with her, never hesitant to join her should she request it. She knew he loved being out on the road, loved the sense of adventure, of doing good for those who otherwise couldn’t help themselves. And he liked being with her. He’d spent years being held prisoner by the Mutants and the Nightkin. She was a more than welcome change from his captors.
She liked him too, liked his sarcastic remarks and quick wit and funny little moustache. She liked the stories he told, when he elected to, over the campfire or out on the road when they weren’t shooting at anything, of his life and his captivity and the old world.
He’d lived before the Great War, seen it firsthand, and though he wasn’t apt to tell her much of that, nor was she apt to ask, he’d lived through a good deal else in his long life. He’d travelled to many places, seen many things. He’d seen technology come and go, watched entire species go extinct, watched new creatures pop up in their stead. He’d known a lot of people, watched them die. He often told her stories from before the war, stories of his family, of his day-to-day life on the family ranch, what the world had been like back then. She was most intrigued by the food. There’d been a lot more food back then, so much so that most people had things in the fridge and the cupboards they might never even use. And the variety! They had all sorts of produce, all sorts of things in boxes. Rice, and strawberries, and lettuce, and porridge, and countless other things, all in quantities enough to feed multiple people, all untainted by radiation or the blood of whoever you had to shoot to snatch it off. Raul had tried his best to describe all these things to her, but even then, she just couldn’t imagine it for herself.
She had to say, out of all the friends she’d met so far, even though she’d only known him for a few months, she decided she liked him the best.
Boone, well, she had mixed feelings about Boone, honestly. There wasn’t much there to think about to begin with. He was so closed off most of the time, which she supposed she couldn’t blame him for, not when she acted the same around Raul. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d said more than two words to her. She was sure the most he’d ever talked to her was back when they’d first met, and that had only been to ask for her help with tracking down his missing wife.
He was nice enough, she supposed, and loyal, and he followed orders to a t, but that was just it. Out on the road, though he was more experienced than her, more commandeering, more proficient with his weapon, he still looked to her as a leader. And she didn’t want to be a leader, didn’t want to be anyone’s boss, not when she’d seen firsthand what leaders like Caesar did to the people of the Mojave, not when she’d found on old terminals the horror stories of what those who oversaw the Vaults did to their very own people.
As for Cass, well, what else could she say? Cass was great. A great fighter, a great friend, a great drinking buddy. She was smart, and tough, and awesome, and she was easy company. As long as you weren’t pointing a gun in her face or directly trying to steal from her, you were more than fine in Cass’s book, which were fine standards to live by. It worked out well for the two of them, and Carmen enjoyed her company, but honestly, Cass reminded her too much of herself to stand being around her for very long. Carmen didn’t remember much at all of her life before she’d been shot in the head, but the months since then had been rough, to put it lightly. Cass had had a rough time of it too, recent hard luck destroying Cassidy Caravans, her family business, and with it the only memory of her father she had left, beyond the necklace she wore around her neck.
She had a lot of pent-up anger, and like Carmen she had more than her fair share of sorrows and regrets. She had her own fire, her own ghosts. But Carmen could barely stand to face her own ghosts most days, or most nights, when they crept up on her when she tried to sleep. She’d faced many a sleepless night out in the Mojave, eyes burning from exhaustion, body cramped from lying still for hours on end, begging her mind to shut down finally, just for a little while. But when she did sleep she dreamed, forgotten memories she couldn’t cling onto no matter how hard she tried, waking to the scrape of a shovel somewhere above her, dirt surrounding her on all sides, the things she'd once done in a pink silk slip. Come morning she would wake with her hand on her gun, or on the knife she kept beneath her pillow, in the places she slept with one.
She guessed what bothered her most about Cass was how upfront she was. From the very beginning she hadn’t hesitated to lay all her cards down on the table, let Carmen know exactly who she was dealing with from the get go. And Carmen had appreciated that, but it had put her in a position where she couldn’t do the same, even if she’d wanted to. She’d told Cass about her circumstances, getting shot in the head, losing her memory, losing who she was, and Cass had understood wholeheartedly, but Carmen still wished she could offer her more than that. She hoped Cass didn’t think it was all bullshit, or that Carmen was trying to hide anything from her.
But Raul, Raul wasn’t like that. He’d been upfront with her too, sure, never shied from saying how he felt in any given situation, which could get frustrating really quickly, though all his sarcastic remarks never failed to make her laugh. Beyond that, though, he’d only ever really shared what he felt was necessary. She knew his name, his circumstances, what he could bring to the table when the two of them travelled together, beyond that she didn’t really need much more. She knew he’d lived a long time, that there was so much about him she didn’t know, so much she might never know, but she’d never felt like he was trying to deceive her. If anything it was a comfort. It meant that he’d never put her in a position where she was at a disadvantage to him, never gave her what she couldn’t offer in return. He had his own secrets, and she supposed so did she, known and unknown.
And he was kind to her, from the beginning he’d been so sweet to her, honestly seemed to care about her, never once expecting anything in return. Most folks out here rarely had much kindness to spare without some underlying motive. Cass and Boone, they’d wanted things from her too, back when she’d first met them. She wouldn’t judge them for that, never. For most folks, kindness was a luxury few could afford. People were just doing all they could to survive. But it made it hard to really connect with people when you couldn’t be sure exactly what they wanted from you, when you didn’t know who was smiling at you out of honest intentions, and who was just biding their time until they could stick a knife in your back.
But Raul wasn’t like that. Honestly, Raul wasn’t like anyone else she’d ever met. In this world she’d woken up in, this world of seemingly unending chaos and violence and hostility, where most folks were just doing whatever it took to survive, Raul was something else entirely. He was gentle, thoughtful, peaceful. He didn’t like senseless violence, tried to avoid it wherever possible. He’d lived before the war, knew firsthand what that kind of behaviour led to.
It fascinated her to meet someone like that. He’d lived so long, seen so much, he must’ve endured so much pain, watching the world burn to a crisp, outliving everyone he’d ever known. Most folks out here were bitter, hardened by the lives they’d led, every day a struggle, never knowing which day might be their last. Raul had every reason to be just like that, as cold and bitter and cruel as any other poor bastard out here in the wastes. But he was still kind. He could still laugh. And he could make her laugh.
And he was handsome, too, very handsome, which was one of the first things she’d noticed about him, back when they’d first met.
The first was his voice. When she’d found him, he’d been holed up in some tool shed, hidden behind shelves of parts and equipment and all sorts of junk. She’d heard him before she even saw him. He’d called out to her, made some sarcastic remark about how many toasters she had for him today – obviously he’d been expecting someone else. His voice was coarse and low, and it had a playful edge to it. Before she even saw him, she knew she would like him.
She was more than a little surprised when they finally came to face. She’d had plenty of run-ins with feral ghouls out in the Mojave, but she’d never met a regular ghoul before, not then. He was huddled on the floor next to some kind of machine, and once she got over her initial shock she noticed the handcuffs around his wrists, chaining him to the thing. He’d had congealed red marks on his wrists from where the cuffs had cut into them, giving her an idea of how long he’d been kept in there, dark circles around his dull, fatigued eyes.
When she got him back to Novac, the first thing she’d done was run an alcohol-soaked cloth over his wounds. After he’d had something to eat, they’d drunk the rest of the bottle together, passing it back and forth on the bed. He’d told her the story of how he’d been imprisoned on that mountain in the first place. Years earlier, he’d been living in a run-down old shack some distance away, alone, not much to do but listen to the radio. One day, while he’d been tuned in to Black Mountain’s radio station, the signal had cut out. He was a mechanic then, among other things, had been for some time, and he’d decided to make his up way there, see if he could help them out.
He’d helped them out all right, and in return they’d made him their prisoner, locked him up in that fucking shed for years, no food but the occasional slab of raw molerat, no company but the Mutants’ crazy leader Tabitha and her ridiculous pet robot, whenever the two of them popped in to throw him a pile of old toasters to fix. He’d still had no idea what they were doing with all those toasters, had said it wasn’t like they had any bread. When Carmen had asked him then what bread was, he’d only laughed and said, “Exactly my point, niña.” She’d been too angry at his story to see what was so fucking funny.
And then he’d slept. She’d let him take the bed. He’d looked he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep as long as he’d been imprisoned, which was far longer than she’d initially thought. She’d curled up with a blanket and pillow in an armchair next to the window, watched him for a while before nodding off herself. She couldn’t remember now what Cass and Ed-E had gotten up to during all that. She’d been so focused on taking care of Raul. She knew they’d followed her back to Novac, possibly Cass had spent the night with Boone. The two of them seemed close. Boone had spoken to her once.
Carmen laughed aloud, and then frowned. No, she shouldn’t make fun of Boone. He’d been going through a lot the past few months, the same as her. She wouldn’t like it if he made fun of her now, would she? Though she couldn’t imagine him laughing at all, let alone at anybody else. God, did she even know Boone’s first name? Had he ever told her? She couldn’t remember, the wine was getting to her head. Just like she couldn’t remember anything else.
“Hey, boss,” Raul spoke then. His hand was on her arm. God, his hands. “You feeling okay?”
Did she look upset? She smiled at him, touched his hand. His eyes were gentle, his hands were warm like his smile. He didn’t expect her to answer, just wanted to let her know he was looking out for her, like he’d been since they’d first started traveling together. She hoped then, whoever she’d been, whoever she was now, that she’d done enough to deserve him as a friend.
God, she’d give anything to remember who she was.
She finished her drink. Enough. Enough of that. She’d come here to relax, to spend time with Raul, to enjoy her few hours of relief from her duties around the Mojave, and so she would. She’d gotten lost in thought too easily. She just needed to take her mind off of things.
She poured out another drink of whiskey, finishing the bottle, waved to the bartender to fetch them another. She turned back to Raul, looked him up and down.
He was clad in his vaquero garb, though considerably dressed down, holsters and chaps removed, wide sombrero slung over the back of his barstool. He’d had to leave all his weapons at the door when they’d first arrived, stalling them for an absurdly long amount of time as he pulled a seemingly unending supply of knives and guns and pistols and, inexplicably, two machetes, from his jacket and jeans and boots and the Devil knows here else. The machetes must’ve been strapped to his back, beneath his jacket. She couldn’t remember ever seeing them before.
She hadn’t been subjected to the same treatment, having cleverly hidden one of her smaller pistols and a selection of knives beneath her dress skirt, strapped to her thigh. Raul, despite the small arsenal taken off of him, had apparently had the same idea; when they’d finally been given the go ahead to move on and settle down at the bar, he’d turned to her and given her a cheeky wink, as he lifted his leg just enough to let her catch a glimpse of yet another blasted knife still hidden in his boot! And later, when he reached across the bar to snatch up a shot of tequila, she’d spotted one more poking out of his jacket sleeve! She’d nearly spit out her drink.
Over the next hour, as the night grew warm and the stack of empty glasses before them grew ever higher, he ended up shucking his jacket and scarf, joining them with his hat, slung over the back of his chair. The knife must’ve been tucked into a holster inside the jacket, for it was nowhere to be seen on his shirt sleeve. She wondered how many more he still had hidden away in there.
Another few shots of tequila, and he was rolling up his sleeves, loosening the top few buttons of his shirt. He looked good like this, she thought, relaxed, clad in the simple garb, glass held loosely in his hand. She wondered if this was how he must’ve been before the war, before everything changed, if he was more or less guarded now than he was back then.
He’d told her once, shortly after they’d first met, that he was more or less an open book. Sure, he’d said, the book was written in Spanish and some of the pages were falling out, but still, an open book. But she found herself thinking then that she really didn’t know much about him, not really. He’d told her he used to go by Old Miguel, also shortly after they’d met. For all she knew, Raul wasn’t even his real name.
Not that she thought any less of him for it. For all she knew, Carmen wasn’t even her own real name. When she’d first woken up, when Doc Mitchell had asked for her name, it had come to her in a flash, but how could she know she hadn’t just seen it on a sign or clothing label, or heard someone else get called by it, and the memory had just been one of the few that lingered after she was shot in the head? It was almost a comfort, then, to know that Raul had once lived by other names, that one could form their own name, their own identity, that they didn’t have to be shaped by their past. But even then, at least Raul remembered his past. At least he knew who he used to be.
In the weeks that followed she’d come to know a little more about him – he’d lived before and through the Great War, something she’d already guessed when she’d first seen him – he was a ghoul, after all. He’d had a big family, lived on a ranch out in Mexico. After the war, he and his little sister had lived on their own for a while; he’d first donned the vaquero garb because it made her so happy, the two of them having come across it while scavenging an abandoned costume shop for supplies. Soon enough the clothes just felt like home to him, because they reminded him of her, and he kept wearing them long after she died.
Beyond that, she didn’t know much else about him. But she supposed again that they hadn’t been travelling together very long, or even very frequently. And it wasn’t as though she didn’t hold secrets of her own. She knew he’d lived a long time, and so he must have a lot to tell. Perhaps one day he’d decide to share it with her.
She didn’t know what happened to his family, supposed they must’ve died during the war, or that he’d simply outlived them. And he must’ve outlived his sister, since he’d never made mention of her becoming a ghoul or anything of the sort. She wouldn’t ask, though. It had been a long time since the war, and it must’ve been a long time since his family died, but she was sure it must still hurt to think about.
She wondered often if she’d had a family, before she’d been shot in the head. Though no one she’d ever met out in the Mojave seemed to recognize her, she knew they must be out there somewhere, whether they were dead and buried or alive and missing her. But she didn’t know who she’d been before. How could she know she hadn’t been vicious, sadistic, cruel? What if she’d been a monster? What if she’d been the kind of person a family would sooner forget than see her again, that her being shot in the head and losing her memory was in fact a blessing for them, an answer to their prayers, if they indeed prayed? What if they’d never existed to begin with, and she was truly all alone?
She sipped her drink. She didn’t like to think about that much, of course. She had no way of knowing if it was true, and at the very least she knew she wasn’t completely alone. She’d made friends here, out in the Mojave, on the Strip, out in Freeside. She had Raul, and Cass, and Boone, though she supposed travelling with Boone was more like travelling with an extra arm to hold a gun.
She laughed again, took another drink. Peering down the rim of her glass, her gaze lowered to Raul’s hands. He had one hand settled on the bartop, fingers tapping along in time with the music. She couldn’t remember what the song was called, too buzzed by now to recognize more than the tune, but it was one she heard all the time on the radio. The Tops, like most of the other establishments on the Strip, mostly stuck to playing the radio out on the casino floor, though every now and then they played recordings from the performances in the Aces Theatre. Carmen hadn't been. Perhaps someday she would.
His other hand he had loosely grasped around his bottle of whiskey. She found herself staring intently whenever he raised it to his lips, his lips when they closed around the rim of the bottle, the tilt of his head when he took a swig, the movement of his neck when he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. She found herself wondering about that. Why was it called an Adam’s apple? Who had come up with that? And who was Adam, anyway? Some pre-war fellow? She supposed he must’ve had a rather impressive neck. Raul had come from before the war, she remembered. Perhaps he might know, if, like so much else, the information had been lost when the bombs fell. She almost opened her mouth to ask, but then he took another swig from his bottle, and she was too distracted by his hands and his lips to care for much else.
God, his hands would be the death of her.
That was the second thing she’d noticed after they’d met, the next morning over breakfast. She’d let him sleep in as long as he needed, set about making breakfast ready for when he woke up. She hadn’t been as busy then as she was now, could afford to spend the time making an effort on things like that. These days she was lucky if she managed to snatch a few bites of apple before heading back out on the road.
He’d looked much better then, once he’d had a decent night’s sleep and gotten some food into him, enough for her to realize just how handsome he was. She’d found herself gazing after him as he busied himself around the hotel room, insisting on setting the table and making the bed, took in his shoulders, his waist, his arms, his hands. His hands most of all.
He had good, strong hands. Experienced hands, hardened by the life he’d led. Long, broad fingers, calloused palms, strong nails, protruding veins and knuckles. She remembered the first time she’d held them, as she led him back down Black Mountain. He’d been too weak to walk for very long, but he had, not stopping until they reached Novac, though she’d practically been carrying him on her shoulders by then. The second time was in her hotel room, while she patched up the wounds on his wrists. He’d been very pale, and sweaty, and his hands shook the whole while, and they shook when he ate, and whenever he took the bottle from her later. He’d been through Hell up there.
But he was here with her now, she reminded herself, before she started to get angry all over again. Despite all he’d been through, he would hear nothing of revenge, nothing of going back up there and finishing what they’d started. He’d just wanted to move on with his life, leave the past behind him. And while she couldn’t understand it, she could respect it. She’d taken care of him then, and he’d been taking care of her ever since. And he was here with her now. Now, if nothing else, they had each other.
She put her hand over his, where it was resting on the bar top. He paused, bottle halfway to his lips, glanced over at her. His eyes.
More than anything, she’d noticed his eyes.
When she first saw him, she’d thought they were grey, dulled and fatigued by his imprisonment and the lack of any sleep or a proper meal. But the next day, after he’d gotten some food and rest, there’d been a new life in them, a light that hadn’t been there before, and she’d seen they were blue. As blue as the sky, unclouded by dust or sand or radiation, as rare as such a sight was out here. Even the water, as blue as she’d heard it used to be, now ran grey or brown or green, tainted by pollution and radiation. But all she had to do was look into Raul’s eyes to see the sky. It was beautiful. He was beautiful.
Especially his hands. God, she couldn’t get enough of his hands. She’d fantasized about them many times, about him. On the sleepless nights out in the Mojave, or holed up in her hotel room in Novac, or tucked into her bed at the Lucky 38, her thoughts often drifted to those hands. And on those particular nights, of which there were many, if she were sleeping alone, she’d let her hands drift to her breasts, over her skin, between her legs, as did her mind drift to thoughts of him. She would tug on her hair, soft and then hard, squeeze her breasts, pinch her nipples, all as she slipped her fingers in and out of herself, thinking of nothing else but his hands. How must they feel inside of her? What would they taste like, if she were to take them into her mouth? How would they feel against her skin? And what must his skin feel like, pressed against hers? She did her best to imagine it was Raul doing those things to her, his hands inside of her, his lips against her skin. But she knew she wouldn’t be satisfied until she felt him for real.
God, she had to stop thinking about him like this. Raul was her friend. Most days he acted like her Abuelo. He was always looking out for her, always complaining about his knees. She laughed aloud. God, he meant so much to her. She didn’t want to wreck what they had. But she couldn’t help it. He just drove her insane.
Their hands were still touching. He’d taken her hand in his by now, his thumb running over the gap between her thumb and forefinger. His skin was rough, his hand warm, the gesture soothing, all just like the rest of him. He turned to look at her then, having noticed she’d grown quiet. She was already staring back, eyes bright from the liquor, dark with desire, drink forgotten in her hand, eyeing him with the same intensity a wild animal watches its prey. For a moment, he was a little taken aback, but then he relaxed and flashed his usual cheeky grin at her, before saying, “Heh, you see something you like, boss?”
Yes. Everything. He laughed a little, and then he smiled at her, that beautiful smile, those beautiful eyes, this beautiful man. And then she leaned forward in her seat; her hand on his leg, his hand still holding hers, she pressed her lips to his.
His lips were rough and warm, the inside of his mouth was so hot. He tasted like liquor. His moustache tickled. His eyes were wide open, shock, surprise, disbelief. All she could see was blue. Endless clouded blue. This close, she could see the rings of his irises, his pupils, as pale as they were. His hand, caught in mid-air, came to rest a little unsteadily on her arm, like he wasn’t sure how exactly to touch her.
She pulled away, just enough to break the kiss. There was a soft, wet sound when their lips pulled apart. They were both panting a little. His eyes were wide, unfocused. He looked shocked, stunned, like he couldn’t believe what had just happened. She could barely believe it herself.
“Raul?” He wasn’t looking at her, wasn’t looking at anything really. His hand still rested limply on her arm. She hoped what she’d just done was okay.
“Raul,” she said again. “Was that alright?” She leaned back in, put her hand on his cheek. His skin was warm and waxy beneath her hand. Immediately he put his hand over hers, and then she couldn’t wait for an answer, couldn’t let him answer in case the answer was no. She needed him, all of him.
She kissed him again. The second time was even better than the first.
He kissed her back this time, leaning forward in his seat to better press his lips to hers. He’d done this before. How long ago had he last been kissed? He put one of his hands on her leg, high enough on her thigh to send a shiver running through her. The other hand he tucked beneath her chin, angling her head just so to meet his lips. Her tongue was touching his. She could taste his breath, whiskey and tequila. All the times she’d thought about it, she’d never imagined it would happen like this, but it was still everything she’d imagined and more.
She held his head in both hands, rough, mottled skin beneath her fingers. His tongue was hot in her mouth. His warm breaths tumbled past her lips. His skin almost burned to the touch. Everything about him was so hot, hot enough to send beads of sweat running down her cheek. Or maybe that was the alcohol. Or the central heating. She wasn’t sure which, everything was a haze. She felt lighter than air. This was all she’d wanted for so long, and the way things were happening now he’d clearly felt the same. How long? How long could they have been doing this, how much time had they wasted? She swore then she’d never waste a second more.
The next thing she knew, she’d hopped down from the bar stool, taken him by the hand, led him away from the bar. People were staring at them, she realized, other patrons peering scandalised and appalled at them over their glasses, waiters pausing to gawk in the middle of pouring out drinks. The bartender had stopped stacking up the mess of empty glasses they’d left just to stare. She paid them all no mind, let them stare, let them talk, let them think whatever the hell, obviously they had nothing better to do. She knew somewhere they could continue this with a little more privacy.
And then they were in the elevator. Before the doors had even closed she was jumping into his arms, sealing her lips back over his. He fell back a bit, his back hit the closed doors with a thud that made her giggle. His hands were tight around her waist. Her arms were slung around his neck, pressing her body to his, her breasts against his chest, her hips against his, kissing him like she was trying to deprive him of air. They didn’t have to worry about potential onlookers from this point on. The elevator only led to one room, her room, she barely remembered through the alcoholic haze. How did she get it again? Ah, what did it matter? What mattered only was that from here on they would be completely alone.
The elevator dinged and they practically fell back into the room once the doors opened. He stumbled back under the weight of her kiss, tripping over his own legs until his lower back hit the pool table, dropped his hat and scarf and jacket somewhere along the way. In a moment of clarity she thought to unclip the holsters from her thighs, barely registered them hitting the floor before she was throwing her arms back around him. Her lips never left his the whole while, her arms tightening around his neck even as she tripped over her own feet, losing her shoes in the process. She wasn’t letting go of him that easily. Here, pressed against him like this, she could feel him against her leg. He was already half hard. She could feel his warmth through his jeans, through the fabric of her skirt.
There they stopped, took a moment to breathe. Her hands loosened around his neck, came to rest on his upper arms. He was panting. They both were. It flashed into his mind then that perhaps they might be going too fast. They’d never done anything like this before. Maybe they should slow down a little. He opened his mouth to say this, but then she kissed him again and the words were lost in his throat. She kissed his lips, his cheeks, the corners of his mouth, trailed hot wet kisses down his throat. He smelled like alcohol. He tasted like dust and sweat and something else, a bitter undertaste, lingering but not unpleasant. Her hands gripped the edge of the table, trapping him there between it and her. His hands rested loosely on her waist. His head was tilted back, letting her have her way with him.
She let go of the table, almost falling against him. She kissed and ran her tongue down his neck, delighting in the little sounds that tumbled from his mouth. She put her hands on him, ran her hands up and down his body, felt the warmth of him, his hard muscles through his shirt. Everywhere she touched felt like fire. He was wearing too many clothes. So was she.
She yanked her dress down hard enough to break the straps, buttons flying every which way. She took his hands and pressed them to her newly exposed breasts.
“Touch me,” she growled. “You dirty old man.”
He groaned, both at the words and tone in her voice, and the feeling of her breasts beneath his palms. Her breasts were small and soft. She had dark little nipples. He held them gently in his ruined hands, began to massage them as best as he could remember how. He hadn’t done this in a very long time, worried that he was too unpracticed, that his skin might too rough, but given the sounds she was making, he seemed to be doing just fine.
She pulled him into another heated kiss, let him pleasure her while she made quick work of his clothes. As rough as she’d been with her dress, she was careful with undressing him, knowing how much the clothes meant to him. She carefully unbuttoned his shirt, loosened his belt, pulled down the zipper of his jeans. He pulled away from her enough to tug the shirt down his arms and drop it the floor, leaving him in just his undershirt, clinging to his skin with sweat, and then his hands were on her again.
His hands felt like heaven against her, hot and rough and yet gentle. He held her breasts like he’d been made for it. He cupped them expertly in his hands, massaging them gently, his thumbs applying pressure to the undersides. He stopped to give them a gentle squeeze, ran little circles around her nipples with his thumbs. Occasionally he flicked a nipple with his thumb, making her gasp into his mouth. She reached down between them, touched his cock over his jeans. He was so hard. He was so hot. He jumped a little, his hips bucking against hers. She broke the kiss to moan and in an instant his lips were on her neck, kissing, biting, sucking. How had they never done this before? How had she kept her hands off him for so long?
He ventured his lips further down, grown confident from her pleasured reactions to his touch. He kissed his way down between her breasts, kissed and ran his tongue around her nipples, felt her shiver against him, all as he continued to massage her breasts in his hands. She cupped the back of his neck in one hand, the other held his head in an iron grip, holding him in place. And the sounds she was making, he’d never imagined he would hear anything like that again, that he could make anyone feel that way again.
It hit him again that perhaps they were moving too quickly. Maybe they should slow down. Maybe they should stop. He didn’t want to stop, because right now she was making him feel things he hadn’t felt in so long, but he didn’t want to spoil their first night together. He cared about her too much to let her do something she might regret. Sure, she seemed just as eager as him, but how could he be sure it wasn’t the alcohol driving her movements, clouding her judgement? She’d never seen him before, not really, not like this. A few minutes on, once she’d sobered up a little, who’s to say she wouldn’t recoil in disgust once she sees what’s beneath his clothes? He wouldn’t blame her, never. She was so passionate, so beautiful, she deserved better than him, deserved better than some old ghost, but he didn’t want to think how that would make him feel. He tried to speak, tried to tell her these things, in between her kissing him like she needed him to breathe, but he was too drunk to properly get the words out, and she was too drunk to really listen.
At some point they backed away from the pool table. She could barely stand, clung onto Raul for support. She glanced around for the bedroom, her surroundings barely registering through the wine-induced haze. She hadn’t been in here in a while, forgotten just where it was. The Suite seemed set up in a way to deliberately confuse her, lounge room leading into kitchen into bathroom. They stumbled drunkenly about, half-carrying each other, giggling between kisses. She stopped on the way to back him against the bar, the wall, the door to the bedroom, couldn’t last more than a few seconds without him under her tongue.
And then they were in the bedroom. She’d never imagined she would end up in this room again, not after what happened here, especially not like this. Hadn’t she sworn she would never come back? And now here she was, with him. She pushed him into the armchair next to the door, barely let him get his bearings before she was dropping to her knees before him, pushing up his oil-stained undershirt to get at his skin. She lifted herself up on her knees, gripping his thighs to steady herself, attacking his skin with her lips and her teeth, kissing, biting, sucking, hungry for every bit of him she could reach. His skin was burning hot, tasted of sweat and salt and the faintest bit of whiskey from when he’d spilled his drink earlier that evening, and that small undertaste she’d noticed before, bitter but not unpleasant. And the texture of it, mottled and scarred all over, it felt so unique under her tongue, almost like the ribbed underside of a cave fungus, but beyond that she didn’t know how else to describe it.
She lifted her hand to grip his shoulder, better steady herself as she rose back up to meet his lips. She kissed him hungrily before pulling away too soon, wasted no time in marking her way down his neck, down to his chest. He relaxed back in his seat, hand resting on the back of her neck, letting her have her way with him. She ran her tongue down his abdomen, careful to avoid the open patches where the skin had rotted away completely, exposing the muscles beneath. She didn’t think they were particularly horrible – his skin was certainly in much better shape than Beatrix Russell’s, for instance, and Carmen had had no issue going down on her, but she felt it would be like licking an open wound.
Her knees were starting to get a little sore, as was her back, curled over him on the floor like this. There was a clean, freshly made bed not two feet away from them, but she’d burn in Hell before she climbed back into that bed again. That was where…
She turned her attentions back to his neck, nipped and licked and sucked at the ruined skin. She ran her hands up and down his torso, felt his warmth, his hard muscles beneath his skin.
She got up off the floor then, ignored the numbness in her knees as she climbed up into the chair on top of him. His hands rose up to touch her face, he kissed her as she settled herself in his lap. She could feel his cock through his jeans, hot and hard beneath her. She ground down onto it and he groaned. “Shame on you, querida,” he gasped. “Teasing this poor old man.” That made her laugh. She ground down onto him again and this time he lifted his hips to meet hers, making her gasp. It already felt so good, just like this. She could only imagine how it must feel inside of her.
She pulled him into another heated kiss, grinding down onto him. His hands were on her breasts again. The rough fabric of his jeans dragged up against her cunt with every thrust of her hips, making her moan and whimper past his lips. She was so wet. Her underwear was already soaked through, just from this. He swallowed all the little sounds she made, drank them down like whiskey. His hands played a little rougher with her breasts then before, kneading and squeezing, paying extra close attention to her nipples.
He kissed her, her lips, her cheek. “Querida,” he whispered. His lips brushed against her ear when he spoke, hot breath ghosting over her skin. She gave a little moan. “Should we go to the bed?”
Oh God no, she thought. “No, no,” she silenced him with another kiss. “This is good. I like this.” He tried to say more, but she hit down hard on his neck and he broke off with a groan, his hips bucking up against hers.
“Easy, veijo,” she smirked, mouthing over the spot where she’d just bit.
“You’re not making things easy, niña,” he grunted. She laughed, but the laughter was short lived, her mind now drifting to the bed behind her. Not the bed, she thought then. Anywhere but that bed. That was where… that was where…
That was where she’d killed Benny.
It was like she’d been punched in the throat. All of a sudden she felt completely sober, became all too aware of where exactly they were. The Presidential Suite. The Tops Casino. The bedroom. How could this be? How had she ended up here again? She knew, of course, but she couldn’t believe she’d let it happen, could’ve kicked herself, for her carelessness, her foolishness, her blind, stupid lust. She swore she’d never come back here, not after what she did. Not after who she did it with.
This was where she’d killed Benny, all right. But not before she’d slept with him.