Chapter Text
From this distance, she can only catch glimpses of a vague Beatrice-like shape moving in the keyhole spaces between people’s shoulders. The way she charts her path around the makeshift ring, chin dipped, and eyes of a predator. Ava pushes through the crowd to get closer to the front where the light is harsher and the noise of the audience becomes almost overwhelming—the taunts and cheers all intermingling into one loud static buzz where you can’t even hear yourself think.
But tonight, Ava’s only goal is to watch. So she braces herself against her cane and sets her hungry eyes on the fighting cage in front of her. Her heart pounds loudly in her ears, her body thrumming with the energy of the room.
Outside of the bedroom, Beatrice’s body in motion always feels like a sight of betrayal. Ava feels compelled to look away but can’t. The way Beatrice moves around her opponent is disciplined, even when she is taunting them. It speaks of years of formal training that she never talks about. Sparring partners whose names are never mentioned, even as footnotes of a buried history. Every move of hers is calculated. And it’s rare to ever see her style shift into something reactionary.
Ava doesn’t need to press her face against the bars of the cage to recognize that Beatrice in combat is a vision. Her opponent is bigger—they always are—but she fights them all with the same determined focus.
A fight is only won if the crowd is pleased. And Beatrice knows how to work both her opponent and the audience in her favor. After spending so long watching her, both inside and outside the ring, Ava can follow what hits Beatrice allows and which ones are lucky. On the days that Beatrice is more tired, and worn out from long days of work, her defense is tighter. She spends more time blocking shots than throwing them. On those nights, she is more determined to win the fights, even if she comes out of them half-bloody and limping.
When she’s angry and needs to feel something more before Ava’s hands can touch her skin, she’ll go three or four rounds before leaving the arena finally satisfied. On those nights, Ava can take her time exploring her body, knowing that most of Beatrice’s agitation has already been expended in the ring. She can kiss every bruise and run her fingers over old scars without Beatrice’s body tensing up to guard the stories behind them.
Tonight, Beatrice is enjoying herself. She fights with the same focus as she always does, but there is a relaxed nature in the hits that she throws. Glancing over at her opponent, Ava can see why. He is all aggression and arrogance. Thinking himself too good to ever lose to a woman, especially one that’s half his size.
For a split second, Beatrice’s eyes meet hers over her opponent’s shoulder, and Ava grins, recognizing the look for what it is.
Beatrice is going to wipe the floor with him.
The pot tonight isn’t as big as it was last weekend, but it’s a Wednesday fight and Ava knows that Adriel likes to fix the heavy fights over the weekend—when he can make the most money on multiple fronts.
Ava has always considered herself a betting woman, so she flags down the bookie and puts her name behind Beatrice’s with a decent amount thrown in that she’ll end up with just enough cash for the week where she won’t have to choose between making her rent for the month or refilling her prescription.
Ava turns her attention back to the fight just in time to catch Beatrice unleashing a deadly combo that has her opponent taking a few steps back to regain his bearings. The two of them begin to circle each other again. Beatrice moves fluidly around her opponent, side-stepping his kicks, and leading him where she wants him to go before throwing a one-two to play with his defenses.
When her opponent moves closer, trying to restrict Beatrice’s arms by trapping them, he says something to her, lips moving close to her ear. Ava curses under her breath, regretting that she didn’t learn how to lip-read from Chanel’s jerk-friend, Zori, after it was offered to her in a rare moment of kindness.
Whatever he says to her has Beatrice reacting in a split second to throw an utterly devastating right hook that has the guy’s head snapping so fast that Ava almost feels bad for him. People start screaming louder, their drunken jeers rising with every blow exchanged between Beatrice and her opponent. Some yell the nastiest things that have Ava physically restraining herself from pushing through the crowd to find them and bash their heads bloody.
For a second, Beatrice’s gaze wanders and Ava follows her line of sight up to the catwalk that sits above the ring, near the rafters. There are a few guards posted at the corners of the walkway while the most esteemed guests linger there, discussing their stakes in the fight and other business matters. Among them, is the man who organizes these fights—arguably the most important one, depending on who you ask. He has one hand loosely curled around the rail, the rings on his fingers glinting in the light. He’s watching the fight with a leisurely gaze, feigning disinterest in the event and whatever is being whispered into his ear.
Ava turns her attention back to the fight just in time to see a sucker punch delivered to Beatrice’s jaw as a punishment for losing focus on her current fight. Beatrice stumbles back against the cage, taking a few seconds to shake off the hit before assuming her guard again.
When Ava glances back up at the catwalk, the man isn’t there anymore. She doesn’t catch Beatrice looking up there for the rest of the fight. Her jaw is already red and Ava knows it's going to leave a nasty bruise that will take a few weeks to heal. Beatrice is fighting a war on two fronts, but there’s only so much that Ava can do from the sidelines.
—
With dark eyes, Ava watches how Beatrice methodically breaks up her prize money. She puts a stack inside a pocket sewn on the inside of her jacket, another in her pants, and then tucks the final one inside her left sock.
Beatrice straightens up. Her eyes are alert, doing a quick scan of their surroundings for any loitering guests before she finally meets Ava’s gaze, stepping close enough that their jackets brush. Ava’s body instinctually relaxes at the proximity, lungs taking a deep breath to fill her senses with Beatrice—the way her sweat coalesces with leather and iron to create a heady scent that immediately lights up Ava’s body. In the dark, the whites of Beatrice’s eyes are sharp, just like her posture. And under the dull orange of the streetlight, Ava can spot a faint discoloration already starting to form against Beatrice’s jaw from the lucky hit. Her eyes trace the mark before trailing down the slope of Beatrice’s neck where beads of sweat still linger.
“Were you waiting long?”
She asks that after every fight. And every time, Ava’s answer is always the same.
One hand grabs the lapel of Beatrice’s jacket to pull her close, while the other settles itself on the back of her neck. “No,” Ava breathes, chin tilted up and body pressed against Beatrice. In this position, she can feel the muscles in Beatrice’s body all coiled and calculating—the way she gets in the ring. Their lips are only millimeters apart, and the urge to taste Beatrice is overwhelming. But Ava has been so patient, and this final move is always Beatrice’s to make.
Her eyes flutter closed. She hardly has to wait before there are hands on her hips and a mouth against hers, and Ava wants.
Her fingers tangle themselves in Beatrice’s hair, scratching against her scalp in a motion that has Beatrice shivering against her and deepening their kiss as she sinks her teeth into Ava’s bottom lip, not hard enough to draw blood—not tonight—but enough that Ava releases a whimper, knowing what it promises.
She’s already so wet, if it was anyone else she would find it embarrassing, but the fact that it’s Beatrice only makes her want to bare herself more. Ava begins a slow grind against Beatrice’s thigh which has managed to slot itself between her legs, muffling her moans into Beatrice’s shoulder with kisses and teeth.
And before she can think twice about it, Ava drags her tongue down the column of Beatrice’s throat, drinking in the sweat that clings to her skin, eliciting a low, hungry moan. “Fuck,” Ava gasps. Beatrice’s pupils are blown from desire and it fills Ava with an indescribable high and heat pooling low in her belly.
“We have to get out of here,” she gasps.
Beatrice nods, pulling back and picking up Ava’s cane off the ground from where it had fallen. “You’re right. This is too… public.” And too close to the fight venue. If the police decide to come, this is the last place they want to be.
Ava murmurs a quiet thanks and runs a trembling hand through her hair. “My place?” She’s still trying to regain her bearings, trying not to imagine where things might have led had they not stopped. Probably with them propped against a wall and Beatrice’s lips on her neck and fingers working circles against her clit. Not exactly a bad position to be in.
Fuck. Focus, Ava.
When they get back out onto the main street, it is quiet, with most of the crowd having dispersed from multiple exits earlier when Ava and Beatrice were too busy getting reacquainted with each other to worry about something as stupid as the police showing up.
When they pass under a brightly lit section of the street, Ava reflexively looks down to make sure she isn’t walking around with her pants unzipped and accidentally flashing people with her underwear. “XYZ,” She murmurs to herself, a half-laugh escaping from her lips.
Beatrice makes a noise of confusion, an adorable crease appearing between her brows.
Ava can’t help the mischievous grin that stretches across her face. “Examine your zipper gurllllllll,” she hollers into the night.
Beatrice’s immediate response is to curl her shoulders inward as her cheeks flush from secondhand embarrassment despite there being no one around to witness this. Ava just laughs and spins on the empty sidewalk with both arms stretched out and cane dangling from her hand. She stumbles back into Beatrice’s side who catches her weight like she was already prepared for it, rolling her eyes good-naturedly at Ava’s antics.
Memories of the past come to the forefront of her mind as she recalls a rave that she attended inside an abandoned jailhouse. Her foray into a very interesting bathroom and Chanel yelling that phrase into her ear was enough to cut through the haze of molly and techno. It’s a bittersweet recollection, one that chases the smile off of her face as quickly as it came.
That was a different time. With a different her.
Beatrice, sensing the shift in mood, hesitantly asks, “Are you alright?”
Ava hums. “Just thinking about the past. My old friends.” She thinks of Chanel’s intelligent eyes, how sweet and kind she was with Diego. She had been nothing if not a problem-solver.
Some nights, Ava still wakes up with the feeling of blood on her hands. She will run her hands under hot water and scrub vigorously until her skin is red, thinking back to the night that everything changed. She’ll remember the gentle way that Chanel had helped her wash all of the blood off of her hands, helped her change out of her stained clothes, had mopped up all of the blood off the kitchen floor so that Ava wouldn’t have to see it when she woke up the next morning.
Most of all, she remembers the hospital. The way that Chanel held her when the surgeon delivered the news to them. How she held onto Ava like she knew Ava was going to run away.
That was the last time Ava saw her.
“Ava?”
Her chest feels heavy, but she tries to shake it off. “I’m alright,” the smile she gives is weak and Beatrice must see right through it but doesn’t dare comment. She opens the door to her building, letting Beatrice in behind her. They take the elevator in silence, standing together with their shoulders brushing. Ava’s hand hovers by her side, wondering if she should bridge the distance and tangle her fingers in Beatrice’s, but the elevator doors are already opening and Beatrice steps away.
The trek from the elevator to her apartment is short. Ava fishes out her keys, fumbling with the locks, never remembering which key goes where even after all this time. As soon as she and Beatrice step inside, she clicks the locks back into place, giving the handle a firm tug to make sure. She leans her cane against the wall and drapes her jacket on the wobbly hook that she had DIY-ed after a night of one too many drinks. With fluttering hands around Beatrice’s wrist, she nudges her into the living space. Ava squeezes her shoulder, “Sit,” she commands, nodding at the couch. “I’ll be right back.”
She brings out the small box of first-aid supplies from her bathroom and takes a seat on the edge of the small coffee table in front of Beatrice. Their knees are touching and Ava’s lips twitch into a soft smile. She clears her throat, busying herself with finding the supplies she needs from the box.
Ava tilts Beatrice’s chin to the side where a nebula of green and yellow is already starting to bloom into view. She swipes her fingers through some arnica and begins to gently massage the cream into skin through slow methodical circles.
“I had a brother,” Ava says into the quiet because something about this time of the night and them in this position always leads to them being more honest with each other. Their faces are barely visible in the low light that shines from the sliver in the curtains, but Ava doesn’t need sight to see the expressions on Beatrice’s face when she could map them through touch alone.
It’s a face that she has memorized and relearned in her dreams over and over again.
“He was very sick. I couldn’t save him,” she finishes because it's a story told in three, very short parts. Brief, just like his life. Her final memories of him are tainted by the wet, wracking coughs that left him with blood dripping down his chin and frightened eyes. Her hands so red. Only her dreams are merciful—his face is always bright, untouched by pain as he flutters in her vicinity like a bird. A child just settling into boyhood before he was ripped away from her.
Beatrice lets out a heavy exhale, avoiding meeting Ava’s eyes in favor of choosing to focus on the pendant that rests against the hollow of Ava’s throat that she always catches Beatrice glancing at with unspoken questions behind her eyes. If only she would ask them. Ava would lay bare her soul to Beatrice. If only she asked.
“For a long time, it was just me. And then, it wasn’t,” Beatrice murmurs. And all Ava can do is watch as Beatrice’s hands curl into tight fists. “My complacence cost me.” Her eyes squeeze shut, if only for a moment. When she next speaks, there’s gravel in her voice. “A sister. My dearest friend.”
She thinks that this must be the first time that Beatrice has ever dared to say it out loud—to acknowledge the missing parts of her life that she’s been desperately trying to forget through the nights she spends in the ring. Somedays, Ava wonders if Beatrice likes coming home bruised up and bloody because it’s a reminder that she’s still here. She was spared, so now everything she does to survive must be in penance to make up for something she believes to be her fault.
It’s only the first clue in a long line of mysteries that Ava assumes have something to do with texts that always light up Beatrice’s phone in the middle of the night when she’s asleep next to Ava. A certain number that always goes unanswered before Ava is fucked hard enough to still feel it the very next morning.
Slowly, as if faced with a cornered animal, Ava lays her hands over Beatrice’s curled ones as she rocks forward to lean their foreheads together. She runs her thumbs over grazed and scarred knuckles, feeling the release of a shaky breath against her lips.
“Not your fault, baby,” she whispers. Something wet falls onto the back of her hand and Ava tries not to jerk in surprise. “Not your fault,” she repeats. And slowly, Beatrice’s hands unfurl into her own and Ava rubs soothing circles into her palms, whispering a litany of it’s okay, it’s okay. Baby. Baby. Baby.
Ava lets her eyes fall closed, allowing Beatrice this modicum of privacy while she remembers. She doesn’t know how long they sit like that, skin pressed against skin, bodies curled towards each other as the unsteady shake of Beatrice’s shoulders grows smaller and smaller before it finally stills. Still pressed against her, Ava can almost feel the way Beatrice’s chest rises and falls, steady and strong.
When she pulls back to look at Beatrice, her mouth is captured into a hungry kiss. Beatrice’s tongue sweeps into her mouth and Ava follows the motion, lets herself be called back into a familiar territory—one that they both know how to navigate. This, she understands. Theirs is a love with teeth. It’s the only way they know how to survive.
“Enough talking,” Beatrice murmurs, voice low with intent.
Ava grunts against her mouth, fingers fluttering down to curl around the silver chain that sits heavy around Beatrice’s neck. She tugs on it, anchoring Beatrice to her. “Bed,” she confirms.
That’s all the agreement Beatrice needs to pull Ava into her lap in one smooth motion before she lifts them both off the couch and carries Ava to her room. Ava takes this time to disconnect their mouths and start working down the column of Beatrice’s neck. She teases her with tongue and teeth, sucking and biting marks into unblemished skin before catching her earlobe between teeth in a motion that sends Beatrice’s hips rocking into hers and bracing them against the doorway for a moment.
“Ava,” she growls in warning.
“Oops,” she giggles, hiding a smile against Beatrice’s throat, not at all sorry for the reactions that Ava will be pulling out of her tonight.
When they enter her bedroom, it is already bathed in low dancing colors from her lava lamp. As soon as Beatrice drops her onto the bed, Ava starts working on getting them both undressed. She pushes Beatrice’s jacket off of her shoulders and starts undoing the buttons of her shirt. Her shirt gets pulled off by Beatrice’s wandering hands, bra quickly undone after.
Her hands skate across Beatrice’s waist, as she deftly undoes the button of her pants and pulls down the zipper. Then, she lifts her hips off the edge of the bed so she can take off her pants, too. When they’re both finally undressed, Ava can’t resist pulling Beatrice close to her again.
“I want you inside,” Ava murmurs against her jaw, hot and needy. “Want you to fill me up,” She arches up into Beatrice to further her point, even as the motion sends a dull echo of pain down her spine. She feels Beatrice shift against her, hand moving down between their bodies to brush over Ava’s front.
Ava catches her wrist. “Bedside table,” she directs. She wants Beatrice’s hands occupied in other ways tonight.
Beatrice leans over to retrieve the strap-on and harness. She steps off the bed and puts on the harness. Ava passes her a small vibrator that Beatrice slips inside a pocket that sits behind the O-ring. Then, she takes the dildo and clicks it into the center of the harness. Ava sits up and grabs a condom packet. She moves closer to Beatrice, rips open the packet, and expertly rolls it down the toy. The last thing she wants to do is worry about clean-up after she’s been fucked into an orgasm so good it removes all sane thoughts from her mind.
When Beatrice makes to grab the lube, Ava stops her with a hand on her arm. “You won’t need that.”
Beatrice hesitates, making no move to put the bottle down, “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Ava reassures her with a gentle kiss against her jaw and takes the bottle from her grasp to set it back on the table. “You won’t,” she punctuates with a small push against Beatrice’s sternum, motioning for her to lie back.
She follows into the motion, propping herself on her elbows, an unspoken question still in her eyes but choosing to patiently wait this out. Ava swings one leg over Beatrice, bracketing her thighs. The strap sits between them, brushing against Ava’s front and she wants nothing more than to grind against it till she comes, but the night is still young and there will be time for that later.
She climbs up Beatrice’s body, a hand traveling up a chiseled torso, feeling the toned muscles writhe beneath her roaming touch. She finds the small remote for the vibrator and clicks it on, Beatrice’s hips jerking up as soon as she feels the toy buzzing against her clit. Ava leans over Beatrice, waiting until their noses brush to tease her further, “Feels familiar?” She asks with a playful grin.
Beneath her, Beatrice is breathing heavily. “Ava,” she urges, her voice rough and just as wrecked with arousal as Ava, no doubt recalling a similar position they were in just two nights ago.
Beatrice is such a vision. The angles of her face, her flushed cheeks, skin glistening with sweat, and eyes following Ava’s every move as colors dance across her face, painting her skin in a swirling mosaic of blues and pinks. “You’re so handsome,” Ava breathes, heart caught in her throat.
Beatrice’s eyes flutter shut, “Ava,” she repeats more urgently this time, the muscles in her neck tensing as she shifts underneath. Ava is well aware of how fucking needy she is for Beatrice all of the time, but it’s in moments like these, serving as reminders that Beatrice is the same for her. And the want in her voice—the way Beatrice’s mouth gives shape to her name like it's something holy—fills Ava with an unimaginable high.
She can’t wait any longer.
Ava traces a thumb along Beatrice’s bottom lip before crashing their mouths together for a bruising kiss. She feels fingers moving against her scalp, playing with her hair before there’s a sharp tug and Ava can’t help the sinful moan that slips from her mouth from the pleasant burn of having her hair pulled. She lets Beatrice take back control of the kiss, if only for a moment, and then she abruptly separates them before the temptation to give in to Beatrice is too much to resist.
She starts working her way down, eliciting low sounds from Beatrice as she peppers kisses across her chest, sucking on her breasts and teasing with teeth. Ava rakes her blunt nails down Beatrice’s stomach, hungry eyes drinking in the way her muscles flex under exertion and arousal before Ava soothes the burn of her scratches with soft kisses.
She stops when she reaches the strap. Ava gives it an experimental tug, running her hand up and down the length. With hooded eyes, she looks back up at Beatrice who is watching her every move with eyes blown and bottom lip caught between teeth.
Ava swallows. She maintains eye contact, mouth hovering millimeters above the length as she parts her lips to drool all over the tip.
“Fuck,” Beatrice grits out, chin tipping back to expose her pale throat marked with Ava’s spit and love bites.
Ava swirls her tongue over the tip, polishing it with her spit. She grabs the base of the toy, grinding it into Beatrice, whose hips immediately jerk forward with the motion as she gasps. She wastes no time in taking the silicone dick inside her mouth, running her tongue along the length. Ava makes sure to keep one hand wrapped around the base so that she can work it in a steady rhythm against Beatrice’s clit along with the vibrator as she bobs her head up and down the toy.
Beatrice’s hands immediately tangle themselves in her hair as she starts snapping her hips up to meet Ava’s motions. She’s still controlled, being careful not to accidentally hurt Ava by thrusting too hard or deep. But her movements are getting sloppy. Ava can feel Beatrice’s body tensing under her as the hands in her hair push her down completely, the tip of the dildo hitting the back of Ava’s throat. She reminds herself to breathe through her nose, and lets Beatrice keep grinding against her mouth, letting her take whatever she wants.
Beatrice releases a low moan, hips jerking for a few seconds before her body stills. The hands on Ava’s head gently push her off the toy. One hand searches the bed for the remote. As soon as Beatrice finds it, she immediately turns the vibrator off, panting.
Ava hovers over her, surprised, “Did you just—“
Beatrice grabs her by the neck and cuts her off with a hard kiss. “You have no idea what you do to me,” the confession tumbles out of her mouth, half-mumbled, but still loud enough to be heard by Ava. Her heart stops in her chest, every muscle in her body freezing long enough that almost has Beatrice pulling back in confusion before Ava resumes the kiss.
Ava straightens back up. The toy shines, slick from her spit. She gets in position, one hand braced on Beatrice’s chest and the other on the toy. As soon as she is about to begin sliding down, Beatrice stops her.
“What are you doing?”
“Wanna ride you,” Ava whines.
Beatrice sits up and studies her. Ava feels a hand rubbing soothing circles on her lower back. It feels quite nice, and Ava leans into the touch more, eyes fluttering.
“No,” Beatrice decides for the both of them and promptly reverses their positions. Ava blinks and ends up on her back, Beatrice’s hand gently cushioning her spine from any pain felt during the movement.
She runs her fingers through Ava’s folds and Ava can’t help the needy whine that escapes from her throat, wetness dripping down her thighs. “Be good,” Beatrice warns before she brings her fingers up to her mouth to lick them clean.
“Holy fuck, Bea,” Ava moans. She’s not going to survive this.
By the time Beatrice lines herself up against Ava’s entrance, she is trembling from want. Beatrice runs a soothing hand over her thigh, dragging the tip of the toy over Ava’s clit. Then, slowly, she starts pushing the toy in. Ava inhales sharply, head falling back. Her fingers press hard into the skin around Beatrice’s hip. The strap slides in more.
Ava forces her eyes to focus. Stares up at Beatrice. She’s concentrating, gaze firmly locked on Ava, who immediately has to look away, finding the scrutiny to be too much. She knows Beatrice is looking for the first sign of pain, reading her face so that so can stop at the first sign of discomfort. Ava could distract her, instead, she closes her eyes and focuses on the sensations, completely handing herself over to Beatrice.
Beatrice’s eyes narrow. She pushes inside of Ava further. There’s a pleasant stretch and Ava’s vision blurs. “Ah,” she gasps. Ava trains her focus on the slow drag toy of the toy sliding against the walls of her cunt. She feels Beatrice pull out. Push back in. Deeper with every thrust. And then, she feels full. Her chest feels tight. Warm.
Fuck.
Her eyes snap open, finding Beatrice’s hips pressed flush against hers. “Fuck, Bea,” she gasps. Beatrice’s left hand comes up to cup Ava’s jaw and her eyes flutter at the touch. She turns her head to press her lips against Beatrice’s palm.
Then, Beatrice places her hand back on the bed. She pulls out of Ava, fully. Then slowly pushes inside, not stopping until she’s all the way in.
Ava’s eyes roll into the back of her head. She’s so fucking needy for Beatrice. She can’t control the way her hips jolt up to meet Beatrice’s second thrust, even as the motion causes a dull throb of pain down her spine. Then, there’s a palm on her stomach, pushing her hips down. “Stay,” Beatrice commands, holding her there.
“Baby, please,” Ava moans, begging for Beatrice to start fucking her senseless.
Then, Beatrice snaps her hips up.
“Fuck!” Ava shouts, nails digging into the soft skin of Beatrice’s back, curled around flesh as the strap hits her in just the right spot. She has no time to process it before Beatrice is thrusting up again. Her mouth falls open, whimpers escaping her. Beatrice always makes her feel so good. Always knows how to take care of her right. Ava feels so full from her. So connected to her. Beatrice all over her. Beatrice deep inside of her. Their hips colliding with every thrust, breasts brushing whenever Ava grabs her by her chain and pulls her down to steal kisses. But Beatrice never stays long, always pulling away to snap her hips harder, changing the angle, grunting every time Ava begs her for more.
Beatrice gives everything she asks and more. Ava’s throat is dry, scratchy. Her thighs are shaking, her entire body trembling with pleasure. She’s almost there. Close. So close. Beatrice feels so good against her.
“Look at me,” Beatrice commands, voice low.
It takes every ounce of effort she has to open her eyes again. But Ava will always do what Beatrice tells her to. Above her, Beatrice looks beautiful. Sweat collecting at her temples, muscles rippling with every thrust, and determined eyes focused on one thing only—Ava. She looks untouchable.
“Come for me, darling,” Beatrice rasps, voice rough with exertion.
It’s all too much. It’s everything at once. Here, she is, with Beatrice looking at her like she is the focal point of all her desires. Like she is the only thing that matters. When Ava comes it’s with the whole of her body pressed against Beatrice. Pleasure rocks through her. Wave after wave. She clenches around the toy, body spasming with pleasure. A litany of, “Bea, baby, Bea,” falling from her lips.
It takes a while before she comes back to herself. There’s wetness collecting at the corners of her eyes, and Ava has to squeeze them shut and tilt her head back to regain her bearings. She feels fluttering fingers against the apple of her cheek, gently brushing her hair back. Fuck. She wants to shake Beatrice by the shoulders. Wants to yell at her, you fuck me like you love me, but never say it. Wants to ask, what are you so afraid of me seeing that I haven’t already?
“How are you?” Beatrice whispers.
“Good,” Ava chokes out. “All fucked out,” she tries to joke but coughs this time, eyes still slammed shut.
Beatrice chuckles. There’s a weight shifting off the bed, then light footsteps on the carpet before they disappear. When Ava finally opens her eyes, Beatrice is there, holding a glass of water.
“Thanks,” she croaks. She takes it with a slight tremble in her hands, draining the whole glass, her throat finally soothed. Then she hands it back to Beatrice, who sets it down on the side table, before crawling back into bed with her.
When Ava pulls her close to kiss her again, she discovers that Beatrice has already removed the strap. Beatrice kisses her softly and Ava feels heaviness tugging at her eyelids. When they break the kiss, Ava turns to look at the clock. It’s very late. Or early, depending on who you ask. 3:07 am.
Sensing that she’s tired, Beatrice finds the discarded blanket and pulls it over them, getting comfortable on her side of the bed. Ava hums, wondering if she should ask Beatrice to stay for breakfast in the morning. She opens her mouth, then thinks better of it.
As the pleasure washes away, the dull throb against her spine starts to come back. Ava reaches over to the table next to her side of the bed, hand blindly patting the surface until it knocks against a pill bottle. She grabs two pills from it and swallows them dry. And as the low pain against her spine dulls, so does the uncertainty.
Ava dreams in bright flashes and colors. She looks down at her hand and it’s Beatrice’s, thick steel rings adorning her fingers. She blinks and the scene changes. Someone is talking to her. No, that’s her voice. Is she speaking? Or is it Beatrice? Everything is so warm. There’s an orange glow behind her eyes and Ava can’t help but be pulled deeper into the comfortable haze.
When she wakes, Beatrice is still there, curled over Ava’s body with her own and one arm slung protectively over Ava’s side. Her shoulder throbs after being slept on so Ava rolls over so that she is pressed against Beatrice. She tucks her face into Beatrice’s neck and breathes.
“I had a dream,” she murmurs, voice still heavy with sleep, knowing that Beatrice is already awake —always up with the sun.
The arm around Ava shifts, hand rubbing slow circles against her naked spine.
“What about?” Beatrice’s voice pleasantly rumbles against her cheek and Ava can’t help the satisfied smile that crawls onto her face.
“I don’t remember,” She breathes. “We kept…We were the same thing.” What she wants to say is that we kept merging into each other. I was you and you were me. Your heart beat in my ribs and mine in yours. Have you become so intertwined into my life that I can’t be without you even in my dreams? But these are not the kinds of things that would keep Beatrice in her bed the morning after, so Ava saves them for herself.
Instead, she says, “It just made me miss having you inside me again.”
The fingers against her back still. “Ava,” comes the sharp, heavy reply. It’s meant to admonish but the rasp in her voice it only makes Ava’s thighs clench tighter and fuck, she could come from just the sound of Beatrice’s voice.
She feels Beatrice's hand snake down her back and to her hip, gripping hard enough to leave a bruise before she’s roughly pushed down into the mattress and Beatrice’s familiar weight settles on top of her.
Yeah, this isn’t a bad way to start her mornings either.
—
J.C. [12:20 p.m.]
need help w a pickup at 337. meet by hot dog mural. got my back?
yo wtf kind of time is 337? why not 330?
it’s just a time, bro. same as any other.
i’ll bring the strap
whatev
mine’s bigger than yours
tf? like a beretta or sumn?
do u even kno how to use it?
im alr bringing mine dw
Ava takes the job because she’s been in this scene longer than Beatrice—and because being told no is never something that’s stopped her before. And like a true businesswoman, being a brat is one of her most endorsed skills on LinkedIn.
So she goes and meets JC by the hot dog mural—a twelve-foot-wide graffiti piece that showcases an anthropomorphic hotdog winking salaciously at you as it promotes sliced bakery buns. Whoever at Pepperidge Farm thought of that marketing idea needs to be given a raise for how hard it makes Ava laugh every time she has to walk past it.
J.C. meets her at the corner of the street with a messenger bag hung around one shoulder and two burritos in hand. “Thanks for coming, man.” He pulls her into a one-armed hug, “Randall’s got a tooth hurting real bad. Had to take him to see Frankie.”
Ava snorts. “He still gonna have all of his teeth by the time Frankenstein is done?”
J.C. shrugs, handing her one of the burritos. “Good thing they still make baby food,” he says and they both share a grin. He nods at her cane. “Bad pain day?”
Ava grunts, shifting the cane under her arm so that she can unwrap the warm burrito. “Nah, just felt like it leaving the house with it.” She takes a huge bite, letting the flavors explode in her mouth. Beans, spiced rice, the crunch of tomatoes and lettuce, the juiciness of the meat, fresh tomatillo salsa, and guacamole. Yeah, that hits the spot. Sauce dribbles down her chin and she tries to catch it with her tongue before giving up and wiping it with the back of her hand. “We’ll see how the day goes.”
J.C. nods, having no problem understanding what she said with a mouthful of food. “Respect,” bringing his arm up for a fist bump that Ava returns, both of them miming an explosion when they pull their arms back.
They finish their burritos on their walk. JC leads them down three blocks, through the back roads where there’s only delivery trucks and the occasional person stepping out for a smoke break. He brings them to a stop near the back entrance of one of these buildings. A man is leaning against the front of one of the cars, a scuffed-up blue Toyota Camry. The engine is still running as it sits parked in one of the empty parking spots that are for staff and other personnel.
“It’s him,” J.C. confirms under his breath.
Ava straightens up as they approach the man. She follows a half-step behind J.C., keeping her head on a swivel for any unwanted visitors.
The man is tall, and bigger than J.C. He has a scruffy beard that sits heavy on his face. The man looks between her and J.C., no doubt wondering if they are the ones he’s supposed to meet. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment before, “My friend called saying he was sick.”
J.C.’s shoulders relax as he repeats the partner phrase. “We heard. Brought him some oranges to cheer him up.”
Then, there’s a predatory gleam in his eyes, and his mouth curves into an unnatural grin that has warning bells going off in Ava’s head. Her grip on her cane tenses. She’s heard stories of deals gone wrong, but she’s never been in a situation like it before. Beatrice has been caught in a few. On one of the nights she felt like sharing, Ava remembers hearing a story about one of her scars. A bullet clipping her during a drop-off gone wrong.
J.C., sensing some of her tension, shifts his feet and crosses his arms, one hand sneaking to rest behind the flap of his open jacket. From her position, Ava can make out a small bump under his left armpit from where his Glock might be. She shifts to his right side, keeping herself out of his direct line of fire.
“So where’s the money?” J.C. presses. “These oranges cost a pretty penny,” He keeps his tone light, but Ava hears the undercurrent of nervousness in it.
“Oh I bet they do,” The man starts walking towards them and Ava has to resist the urge to shift back. He stops once he’s close enough to her to be within arm’s reach and Ava’s jaw is clenched so tight she’s pretty sure that she’s going to grind some teeth into dust. His partner opens the passenger door and steps out, making no move to close the door. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Should they run? Ava tries to catch J.C.’s eyes.
The man drops a hand to his waist. “But you know what? I think you can afford it, pretty boy.”
They say that time moves slower in the seconds before something bad is about to happen.
J.C.’s hand fully disappears inside his jacket as he turns his body facing towards Ava. At the same time, the bearded man and his partner both pull out their guns, aimed at both of them.
Ava doesn’t think. Her cane swings up to knock Beard’s hand to the side, hoping the force behind the hit is enough to change the direction of one bullet before her name’s on the radio for being another victim of the week in a drug deal gone wrong.
She doesn’t know if one gun is fired or two. There’s a loud bang as something rips past her and Ava immediately hunches over, her ears are ringing—one more than the other, but she’s too disorientated to figure out why right now. J.C. stumbles into her and somebody’s gun clatters to the ground—or maybe that was her cane, it’s hard to tell in the cacophony of sounds between the screeching, screaming, and ringing. The sound of a gun going off is still reverberating inside her head. Maybe this is what it feels like to be shot. Ava just hopes she doesn’t bleed out before they get out of this clusterfuck.
Her hands clutch her head and Ava has to force herself to open her eyes, not even realizing that they were squeezed shut.
The engine of the car is still running, but the passenger window is smashed and Beard’s partner is on his hands and knees, behind the open door, but slowly getting back up. Beside her, J.C.’s mouth is moving and saying something, but everything sounds like she’s underwater. There’s a gun on the ground a few feet away from her and Beard is staring at her with wide eyes.
Ava’s body is on autopilot, limbs moving on their own accord as one hand reaches down to pick up her cane off the ground. As soon as she straightens up, there’s a slap across her face that sends Ava back to the ground, crying out in pain as a sharp, hot sting blooms across the side of her face.
“What the fuck, man!” J.C. yells from somewhere by the car where he’s struggling with a few problems of his own.
Beard is moving to grab the firearm on the ground and Ava is running out of time. She’s on her knees with her cane in hand. She tightens her grip, waiting until his back is facing her before she shoots up off the ground and whips her cane across the back of Beard’s head. He doesn’t go down completely, just stumbles to the side. Ava hits him again.
This time, he collapses, his knees folding out from under him as he crashes face-first to the ground.
“Ugh, motherfucker!” Ava grits out, grinding the heel of her palm into the bone above her right eye, where a headache is starting to form. Everything is spinning and she feels like she might throw up.
“—ammit, Ava? Are you okay? Fuck, shit—“
“‘m fine,” Ava mumbles. Her vision is starting to clear now. Her hearing is coming back in some capacity, but her ear still throbs with a buzzing pain. There’s blood pooling on the ground beneath Beard’s head and he’s not moving but all Ava can do is spit on him and call him a fucking bitch for ruining her perfectly good Thursday.
With her adrenaline fading away, the rest of the pain comes rushing back to her body. Her muscles sting as every motion sends shockwaves of pain down her spine. She can’t make the walk back to her apartment in this state. Fuck.
J.C. stands next to the Toyota, watching in dismay as Beard’s partner also lies on the ground, unmoving, and with blood pooling under him from a bullet-sized hole in his chest.
“He is most definitely dead,” Ava says, still in shock.
“I think they both might be,” J.C. swallows.
Ava starts to shake her head to disagree but realizes what a supremely bad idea that is as soon as everything starts spinning again. She doesn’t think she hit the guy hard enough to kill him, anyway. Probably enough to keep him in the hospital for a few weeks. And maybe rethink his life choices and proceed with a little more honesty in the future.
One thing that cuts through all of the fog is Beatrice’s voice in the back of her mind. Don’t stop and think. Just run.
And while ninety percent of the danger may have already happened before Ava’s mind recalled this advice, they still have to get out of there. Fast. Shots were fired in broad daylight. There are still a few cars parked around them. Whoever is in the building in front of them, just heard everything. They have to make sure they’re gone by the time anyone shows up.
“J.C., we have to go,” Ava tugs on his sleeve, dragging him away while J.C. is still examining the back of his jacket with growing dismay.
“I just bought this jacket,” He complains, poking a finger through the bullet-sized hole above his ribs.
Ava doesn’t answer, focused on getting them out of this area without running into any people. They don’t retrace their original path but still keep to the alleys, keeping their heads down and away from any cameras.
As soon as they’ve put at least two blocks of distance between them and shooting, J.C. starts speaking again. “Man, you should have brought your strap.”
“What?” There will be plenty of time to process what the fuck just happened, but right now, they need to get as far away as possible. Ava looks around. Should they take another left?
“You said yours was bigger. I’m sure the guy wouldn’t have had the balls to try that shit if we pulled out a beretta in the first place.”
Ava’s hearing is still going in and out, and a cloud of angry bees is still buzzing in her right ear. She’s having a hard time understanding words. Fuck it. They’ll just take a left again. “What the fuck is a barracuda?”
J.C. gives her a bewildered look. “Your strap?”
Ava blinks. God help the straight men. From the end of the alley, she sees cars passing by. The sounds of a busy street rush back to them. Her body relaxes. They’re almost there. “I was making a joke about my dick, J.C. You know—bright purple and plastic?”
“Oh fuckkkk. Man, that must get mad confusing.”
“Not really.”
They make it back out onto the main street, J.C. with his arms wrapped around his body and Ava walking as purposeful as possible, pretending that her heart still isn’t thudding in her chest, speed-walking around people. They finally stop when they reach the sexy hot dog, but Ava doesn’t feel like laughing anymore.
J.C. brushes his hand against her elbow. “Listen, I—“ He pauses. “The guy had the money in the car. After I, you know?” He mimes a shooting motion with his hand. “I went over there to make sure he wasn’t going to shoot again—and I saw a small bag on the seat so I…” A guilty look overtakes his face, “I took it.”
“Oh my god, J.C.!” Ava is never going anywhere with this man again. “Fucking hell!” Her headache grows worse.
“They shot at us! We deserve this much at least!”
“And you didn’t think someone might come looking for their money after a drug deal gone wrong?” Ava wants to bash her head against the sexy hot dog.
“Uh,” J.C. says nothing else before resuming his apologies for the clusterfuck back there.
Ava ignores him, trying to figure out their next steps. Today wasn’t a bad pain day, but Ava is lucky she brought her cane because it was the only thing standing between a six-foot hunk of brick and her. Would she ever bring a knife to a gunfight? No, but she might consider bringing her cane next time.
Regardless, she’s in no condition to be making a fifteen-minute walk back to her apartment. The day is already shot to shit. She might as well suck it up. Fuck. Ava takes out her phone and drops her location pin to Beatrice, asking for a pickup.
“Beatrice is going to fucking kill me,” Ava mutters, seeing that her text has already been answered with a short, Ok, just seconds after sending it. She might as well just throw herself into traffic now, because facing Beatrice is going to be infinitely worse than getting run over by a car.
“Is she on her way? She’s going to kill me. I brought you into this mess. I’m fucked, man.” For a second, Ava thinks J.C. might bail just so he doesn’t have to face Beatrice, but he stays, choosing to pace around on the sidewalk with his head in his hands.
Her phone lights up again. Here, comes the notification from Beatrice. Ava adjusts her grip on her cane, stepping closer to the road, keeping an eye out for a black Hemi Cuda. The engine of her car has a distinct sound, one that Ava loves. Every time Beatrice starts her car, the seats vibrate under her as the engine hums, low and smooth. Usually, Ava has no trouble picking out her car by sound alone. But right now, every sound is accompanied by a static buzz and throbs of pain in her ear.
Beatrice’s Cuda rolls up to them. The car sits idle for a minute as Beatrice rolls her window down. Ava watches as the curious expression on her face molts into something dark and angry as she takes in J.C.’s. presence, the bag around his shoulder, and the way they both look with bruises and cuts on their faces.
J.C. immediately steps forward, “Beatrice, listen, I’m sorry—“
“Shut up,” Beatrice snaps, climbing out of her car in sharp, angry movements.
J.C.’s jaw snaps shut.
“Ava, get in the car,” she commands. Her voice is brusque, and Ava can feel the anger radiating off of her as she brushes past Beatrice to stagger into the passenger seat. When Ava turns to look at Beatrice, the door slams shut on her. Ava silently watches as Beatrice walks over to the driver's side and gets in.
(In hindsight, she really should have listened to Beatrice. At least, then, she wouldn't have to do the walk of shame to her car. Head hung like a puppy that got caught trampling through the flower garden.)
Ever courteous, Beatrice waits for J.C. to walk away and find his own mode of transportation before she begins unleashing the brunt of her anger on Ava.
“What the fuck were you thinking? Don’t answer that, I know you weren’t. At all. I told you not to—In fact, I expressly forbade you from doing these runs anymore.” Her eyes are furious. Her voice is threaded with a lightning current of rage. Everything about her is fucking pissed.
“J.C. asked, and—the money was good,” Ava says, the excuse sounding dull even to her own ears.
“And just what do you need that much money for? If you’re in some sort of trouble or if you need—“ Beatrice takes a deep breath, “Just tell me what you need. You don’t need to do this kind of work. I can take care of it.”
What goes unspoken—what Ava needs to hear from her is—I can take care of you. But that’s not the Beatrice she knows.
“Why?”
“What?” Beatrice replies, bewildered.
“Why should you do this work? Why do you have to?” Ava presses, desperate to know. “You can do something else, too.” She wants to hear it from Beatrice. Needs her to finally admit why she’s always throwing herself in the ring. Why she has to be covered in bruises almost every night so that they can pretend everything is alright. Why hers are the only hands that can be scarred. Needs her to finally tell Ava so that she can help.
Beatrice’s jaw works in frustration. With every second that passes in silence, Ava’s chest grows heavier with disappointment. She looks away, eyes drawn to a laughing couple that passes by them, arm in arm. Ava is not sure how much more of this she can take if this is how it will always remain between them. A pressure starts to build behind her eyes and she tries to blink it away. “Whatever. Like I said, it was paying well,” is what Ava repeats in a dull tone.
“I said no.”
She can’t help the hot swell of anger that rises inside at hearing that word again. Ava immediately rounds on her, shoving Beatrice by the shoulder, and knocking her back against the window. “Oh fuck off Beatrice, you’re not my mother! And she’s fucking dead so even she can’t tell me what to do!” Beatrice is still braced against the window, eyes wide in hurt, and all of the anger fizzles out of Ava as quickly as it came. “Just stay out of it,” Ava mumbles, guilt starting to set in.
“No.” The muscles in her jaw tense again. “No,” Beatrice repeats, more defiantly. “I won’t stand by and watch you put yourself through unnecessary risks because you’re too stubborn to accept help.”
Ava laughs. It’s loud and ugly and twisted into all kinds of wrong. The absolute nerve of her—
“That’s fucking rich, coming from you! Take a long hard look in the mirror, Beatrice. You think I don’t know what you’re doing in the ring every night? Who you’re always following? Newsflash, Bea, this goes both ways.”
Ava is begging her to give her something. To help her understand. But Beatrice refuses to meet her eyes, and there is nothing that she can do anymore. Beatrice has drawn a line in the sand. And Ava has tried and tried and tried. But perhaps these are the parts they’re meant to play.
When Beatrice speaks again, her voice is gentle, lined with remorse, “Listen, Ava—“
But Ava isn’t interested in talking anymore. She grabs Beatrice by the collar of her shirt and pulls her in, crashing their mouths together. It’s a mess. Their noses knock together and teeth hit teeth, but it gets Beatrice to shut up. Beatrice starts returning her kiss immediately, her hands hovering over Ava's shoulders for a few seconds before settling in their familiar positions as she lets Ava keep the lead.
Sometimes, it’s just easier to fall back into old patterns.