Chapter Text
“Don’t tell me you get car sick.” Deborah looks annoyed. That’s not unusual. She’s wearing her glasses. They're perched on her nose as she works. Ava thinks it’s cute.
It’s pretty well established in Ava’s mind that she has a crush on Deborah. It would almost be weird if she didn’t. Ava doesn’t remember a time in her life she was around a mentor figure and didn’t harbour a crush on them. This is just a little more intense.
It probably has nothing to do with Deborah herself. She’s going through a lot right now. Maybe Deborah is just replacing the algorithm that used to provide the majority of her serotonin. Or this is just a manifestation of parental neglect and loss. She’s just self-soothing by imagining acting out intimate moments with an older woman because her mother never stopped freaking out long enough to give her the attention she deserved. God… that’s so much worse than just having a fetish for older women.
Maybe it all started way back on the retreat in Vegas — holding someone’s hand as they pee is pretty intimate. Or maybe it was when Deborah slapped her and it sent memories of her mother slapping her scattering all over the floor in the direction of Deborah’s open palm. That definitely screams fucked up sense of intimacy. Or maybe your dad dying just fucks you up no matter what.
She rearranges her face after realising she’s been staring at Deborah with a creepy look of longing.
“No, no, I just ate an entire bag of peanut m&ms.” That isn’t even a lie.
“God. Have I taught you nothing?”
“Well, I could’ve got regular m&ms but I thought you’d appreciate me upping my protein intake.”
Deborah snorts without looking up from her iPad and Ava feels that now-familiar buzz whenever she gets even a noise out of her. It’s the classic approval-seeking behaviour of someone who didn’t get told they were doing a good job enough as a child. Ava’s officially off metal health TikTok but it’s still pretty tough to let go of the self-analysis. Really, this whole trip is like immersion therapy for conflict resolution and mommy issues.
“Alright, I’m calling it.” Deborah finally removes her glasses.
Being on the bus is different to staying at the Cheesecake Factory. It’s too intimate. And not just between her and Deborah — listening to Damien dream about the QVC schedule is way too revealing. It puts her on edge. She’s sleeping like shit anyway thanks to her coffin-like bed and various dresser drawers assaulting her, but now she’s nervous about talking in her sleep, five feet away from her boss. That dream about Deborah wasn’t a one-off.
“You going to bed?”
“Yeah. It’s late. I want you to get an early start on the abortion bit tomorrow.”
“God if only you had a dick, so could’ve used that in my legal defence.”
Deborah gives her that I-refuse-to-concede-that-was-funny look. “I don’t think that's what they mean by whistleblower.”
Ava grins. Watching jokes fall so effortlessly out of her is always thrilling but her heart leaps this time. Maybe it's the relief of knowing they can still joke like this. Maybe it’s the sexual nature of the joke that makes her heart thump a little harder than usual. Inventing a flirtatious undercurrent between you and your crush is a classic sapphic move Ava is not immune to.
She gives Ava’s shoulder a quick, friendly squeeze before she disappears into her room.
“Night,” Ava says but it’s weirdly quiet and Deborah’s door has already slid shut.
Damien’s been asleep for awhile and she considers touching herself in her coffin but she can still hear Deborah moving around in her room. She’s watching something on her iPad and Ava wonders if it's something naughty and then rolls her eyes at herself.
“You gotta get laid, girl,” she mutters to herself and then fights the urge to rollover until she falls asleep like Dracula.
The bus is empty when she wakes the next day. It’s early and they’re parked in a mall parking lot. She can’t even remember which state they're in.
She doesn’t have any messages on her flip phone so she relaxes for a minute, enjoying the sleepiness that fills her head. With no internet to keep her occupied, she lets her hand drift south.
It’s kind of thrilling touching herself when she can hear people outside, feel the soft breeze through the bus windows. With the curtain pulled back there’s no separation between her and the living space. Having a thing for public masturbation isn’t really a point of contention or shame when you have a crush on your 70-year-old boss. Bigger fish to fry.
She knows she’ll be quick with the first touch. She melts with it, whole body simultaneously waking and relaxing. Then she’s thinking about how this is really Deborah’s space — it has her fucking initials on the side. She’s surrounded by her; her decor choices, the smell of her clothes, her light therapy bed.
It nudges her along as she quickens her pace. Her eyes slide shut and she feels her cheeks flushing and her legs tensing. She lets out a moan — the first one is always tentative, you have to check how the sound carries — and then another. It gets absorbed by the carpeted roof a few inches from her face. For the first time she appreciates how much her bed kind of feels like being inside a womb — close and warm and still.
The mix of sleep and the summer breeze and Deborah has her spinning and she’s so fucking close, so fucking close…
Deborah’s door slides open with that swooshing sound and Ava almost misses it over the sound of her own pathetic orgasm thrumming in her ears.
“Oh, fuck, no—” The adrenaline shoots through her like someone just stabbed her with an epipen. Her body forgets that it’s still in the coffin and tries to sit her up, which causes her head to collide with the carpeted roof. “Fuck!”
There’s literally no where she can go. She just has to lay there while Deborah, in one of her more casual wigs but still done to death, gives her a disapproving look.
She takes in the scene, eyes scanning the full length of her, a slight hitch in her eyebrow. Thank fuck it was just a hand below the pants job and Ava hadn’t stripped off. She can almost taste her heart in her throat.
“I—“
“Get ready,” she cuts her off. “Damien’s found 15 more bottles of Black Pashmina in this decrepit mall. May as well have a look around while we wait. Your idea of keeping yourself busy clearly isn’t very productive.”
“Oh my God. Um, y… Yeah. I’ll be ready.”
Then she’s walking away and God, Ava wishes this was a real womb and someone would fucking abort her.
“Oh, and wash your hands first!” Deborah calls over her shoulder as she exits the bus and Ava can hear the smile in her voice.
And to think she’d called manifestation bullshit when Ruby had tried explaining it to her. She should try thinking about solving world hunger the next time she comes.
“Jesus, took you long enough. Did you go back and finish?” Deborah is sat on someone else’s car — she’s radiating that air of superiority that Ava annoyingly finds quite thrilling — by the time Ava is scrambling down the steps.
“Would you stop, that is wildly unprofessional! And also, I’ll have you know, I actually did finish so…” Not really the retort she was looking for.
“Brilliant. Maybe you’ll actually have some good ideas now you’ve released some tension.”
“God, we need an HR person.”
“You’re telling me!” She’s off marching again, leaving Ava to hurry behind.
The mall is surprising busy for a… whatever day it is. It’s easy to lose track of time when on the road. Ava’s mostly focused on keeping up with Deborah, who is making a bee-line to the shoe department.
This is absolutely not how she wanted the day to go. She’s dreading the tsunami of masturbation jokes headed her way, let alone the bordering on homophobic fashion critiques she’s confident Deborah is about to give her.
“Can we at least get breakfast?” Ava trails behind as they wander through the department store.
“Later, later. Look at these.” Deborah is holding up the glitteriest pair of pink stilettos Ava’s ever seen.
“They look like a Vegas show girl threw up on Barbie’s feet.”
“Hmm, you’re right about the colour. With your complexion, you’d look terrible in pink. Ah, here,” she says, thrusting a pair of velvet rust heels at her. Ava doesn’t hate them.
“I’d rather you just break my ankle now so we can get it over with.” But Deborah holds her gaze until she drops down to unzip her boots. Ava wonders if there’s anything she wouldn’t do if Deborah asked sternly enough.
Deborah takes her hand for the first few steps. Ava acts like that isn’t the hand she was using this morning. It feels for a moment like they’re slow dancing and Ava suddenly wants to try on every dangerous looking shoe they have.
“Oh come on, DJ was staggering less than this when she was overdosing on oxy.”
Ava can’t help but laugh at the horrible joke. Every other step her foot wobbles on its new pillar. It takes her a few laps down the aisle and then she thinks she’s got it, striding with confidence despite the fact her legs feel twice as long as they should be.
Deborah laughs at her as she makes a show of extending each leg like a show girl for the bit.
“Christ, Liza Minelli had more subtly.”
Ava completes her final lap by tripping on a tile and staggering forwards. Deborah catches both her arms, her hands warm on Ava’s forearms, and she feels a surge of affection for her right in the back of her throat.
“I don’t think these are gonna work,” she says, looking down at the shoes past their clasped hands. They look ridiculous paired with her worn-out black jeans.
“Oh, they’ll work. You just gotta practice.”
Ava looks up at her and is met with such assuredness that she starts believing it herself. Maybe she is a stilettos girl and just hadn’t found the right pair yet.
“I don’t have anything to go with them.”
Deborah gives her arm a tug. “Dresses are this way.”
“…I was thinking more of a pantsuit situation would be more my thing.”
Deborah rolls her eyes. “What is it with your generation and wanting to dress like politicians?”
“First of all, it’s called the ‘clean girl aesthetic’. And second of all… don’t diss AOC. She’s literally on my style inspo Pinterest board.”
“I only understood about half of what you just said but I’m struggling to believe you heard the words ‘clean girl’ and thought that could apply to you.” She gives her a look up and down — enough to make Ava blush.
Ava gives an exasperated sigh. “That’s getting a little close to slut shaming, Deb.”
“Close? Let me try harder. I’m surprised your ‘aesthetic’ isn’t a boob tube and a mini skirt.”
“God, that is so archaic! Even your insults went out of fashion in the naughties. You know, you don’t have to dress fem to be a slut anymore.”
“So what, I’m supposed to believe the sluttiest thing a woman can do these days is dress like a man?” She gestures to Ava’s outfit. Which honestly isn’t even that masc today.
Ava lets out a chuckle of laughter. “Oh man, I love it when you go so far in the wrong direction you actually end up being totally correct.”
Deborah shoots her a doubtful look over the rack they’re rifling through.
“Okay, like this, maybe,” Ava says, pulling out a double breasted blazer. She quickly finds the wide-leg pants to match and acts like she doesn’t see the price tag. “One sec.”
She doesn’t have a dress shirt to go with it and her koala tee is probably going to ruin the look for Deborah so she just goes with the black bra she has on. She glances in the changing room mirror and is so relieved to see she looks fucking amazing.
Deborah turns when she pulls back the dressing room curtain and gives her an extremely judgemental once-over.
“Huh?” Ava does a few moves she’s seen fashion models do on instagram, popping her hip and giving her a twirl. “Not bad, right?”
She can tell Deborah likes it by the surprise around her eyes. “…Is it expensive at least?”
“It’s so expensive.”
“Okay, you can have it but I still wanna look at dresses.”
“Yesss,” she says with a pump of her fist. She didn’t even realise she was campaigning for Deborah to buy her the suit to begin with, which is hot but also so problematic. Who lets their boss dress them? This is definitely giving men in tech. She’d panic about slipping into some weird sugarbaby dynamic if only that wasn’t exactly what she’s hoping will happen. Christ, capitalism is so fucked up.
Deborah picks out a dress that makes her look like she’s cosplaying a young Diane Lockhart and Ava keeps her mouth shut because she wants to keep the suit off the chopping block. She makes three more jokes about Ava’s insatiable sex drive and only one about how desperate and lonely she must be. Overall it’s a nice bonding experience.
The show actually kills that night. They’re in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere but Ava’s leaning into the idea that Mr Joe Public might actually have taste. She’s gleeful that Deborah finally seems up for a celebratory drink.
“So, what do you think?” She’s wearing the dress Deborah bought her.
“Little much for a dive bar.”
Ava shrugs. “You always look nice. Thought I should up my game.”
“Your game does need improvement if you’re working out your frustrations on the clock.” Make that four.
Ava bites her lip to stop herself snapping too aggressively. “My game is actually impeccable. I’m just readjusting for an older audience,” she says, waving a hand in her direction.
“Is that supposed to be insulting?”
“Not at all. I love older women.” Ava lets it hang in the air a moment, grinning at Deborah's mildly exasperated expression. “So seriously, what do you think?”
Deborah sighs. “I don’t know how this is possible without turning you into a foetus but it somehow makes you look even younger.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Only one of us has established a preference here.” It's a little stupid, waiting around for Deborah's approval while she looks like a kid playing dress up in her mom’s heels. “You know, I’m just gonna change. I don’t wanna get some old trucker’s gum stuck in the beading.”
It’s easier said than done when one of the said beads gets stuck in her hair and she’s trapped inside an itchy death trap.
“Fuck.” She’s getting hotter and hotter inside the dress. Deborah’s bedroom for some reason is kept at 80 fucking degrees.
“Struggling?” She can already here the chuckle in her voice.
“Will you just help?” She sounds a little flustered. Probably nothing to do with the fact the rest of her is just in her underwear.
Deborah peels the dress off her head with annoying ease.
“Jesus.” Ava blows sweaty hair off her face. “It’s hot as fuck in here.”
“I run cold.”
“What are you, a fucking lizard?”
Deborah shrugs and her eyes roam freely over Ava’s body as she shakes the dress out. Her skin tingles wherever her eyes scan.
“You know this is why we take nudes, they last longer,” she says but it comes out a little strained and quiet.
“Well, you’re the expert at that, aren’t you?”
“I’m willing to give you any pointers, if you need them.” She holds Deborah's gaze, smiling confidently despite her state of undress.
“Because you’re so good at getting responses?” Deborah scoffs a little but shakes her head. “There aren’t enough tips in the world to make 70 look like 25.” It’s an oddly earnest thing for her to say and then she’s busying herself hanging Ava’s dress up in her closet.
“Right. Because the only possible way a woman can be attractive is if she’s under 30.”
“You’re telling me that isn’t the case?” Deborah really looks like she believes it too and that just makes Ava sad.
She perches herself on the foot of the bed. It feels like kind of a power move just sitting in her underwear. She watches Deborah steal glances every now and then. There’s probably some unpacking she has to do here that makes her think her age gives her some kind of advantage over Deborah. As if she wouldn’t collapse if the roles were reversed.
Or maybe it's just that she knows even if Deborah doesn’t like women, she clearly values youth, and Ava really just wants to be valued.
“You know I’m gonna be 70 as well one day. You’re not just insulting yourself when you say shit like that. You want me to be miserable and alone when I’m 70?”
“You’re calling me miserable and alone now? I’m not the one too sexually frustrated to wait until she has four walls around her before getting herself off,” Deborah cocks an eyebrow. Five.
“I…” Ava’s jaw flaps for a second while she tries to compute Deborah saying the words ‘getting herself off’. “That is not what I was implying. Miserable people don’t laugh as much as you do and you’re not alone — you’ve got me.” She leans back on her hands, batting her eyelashes.
“Jesus, get dressed would you? We don’t need anymore lawsuits around here.”
“Yes, boss,” Ava concedes, jumping up to slip her regular pants back on. “You know you really are like, still a total smoke show. Professionally speaking.”
“And you’re a pain in my ass. Professionally speaking.” She looks a little bashful as she says it, slipping onto the chair in front of her vanity to touch up her face.
Ava leaves it there, not wanting to push too much. Despite how much she wants to continue dousing her in compliments.
They talk for hours in a shitty dive bar in Green River. Ava laughs so hard her stomach hurts. They only argue once and it’s about the sum of Deborah’s annual charitable donations that she refuses to disclose — which forces Ava to assume it's embarrassingly small for how wealthy she is.
“Charity is the worst thing you can do for a society. It’s a bandaid over a punctured artery!” Deborah’s a little drunk at this point.
“You know what? You’re entirely correct. If only we lived in a democracy and there was even a slight chance our capitalist overlords would hold-off lobbying long enough for the government to implement any kind of social policy that could replace it.” Ava is drunker.
“God, I thought that sentence was never going to end.”
“I’m way too drunk to get into the prison industrial complex with you right now.” That earns her a bark of laughter.
Ava wants to keep going. She wants to drink enough that she gathers enough confidence to kiss her. She wants to drink enough that they fall into bed together. Then she feels the twinge of heartbreak knowing that it’s never going to happen. So then she wants to drink to cover that up. She ends up doing shots at the bar whenever Deborah sends her to get another round and then forty minutes later she’s throwing up in the bus toilet.
“Don’t breathe through your nose. Trust me, I was a bulimic in ’84.” Deborah is being less than supportive about it.
“Don’t watch.” There’s a specific kind of humiliation to vomiting without the sympathy of being actually ill.
“Decided you’re no longer an exhibitionist?” She grabs a washcloth. “Here.”
Deborah wipes Ava’s face with the damp cloth. It’s immediately soothing and takes away the gross clammy feeling of having just thrown up an organ.
“That’s nice,” she sighs. It reminds her of having the flu as a child and finally being looked after the way she’d always craved. She wonders if Deborah ever did this for DJ when she was sick but quickly nips the thought in the bud before it spirals into something like jealousy.
Deborah loads her toothbrush up with toothpaste while she sits on the toilet lid and then hands it to her. It's quiet apart from the hum of the light and it all feels a little too intimate. Ava can’t stop smiling but she also kind of wants to cry. God, alcohol is the worst.
“Hey,” she says and her eyes must drift as they struggle to focus on Deborah's face. “Bet you’re glad you brought me with you.”
It’s an admission that she’s a fuck-up framed as flirting.
“If I wanted a drunk asshole to keep me company I would’ve dated Johnny Carson when he asked,” she says, a joke in the place of a pardon. She gives Ava’s arms a pull to encourage her to her feet and guides her through the bus, hands on her hips. It’s weird that she’s being so gentle with her.
“He asked? How progressive.”
Deborah gives a low chuckle behind her head and it sends a shiver down her spine. There’s no way she’s is getting up to her bunk in this state. Thank God Damien and Marcus have managed to make themselves scarce for the night.
“Jeeze, buy a girl dinner first,” Ava slurs as she lands a little less gracefully as she’d like on Deborah’s bed.
Deborah rolls her eyes. “Who’s the hack now?”
Ava laughs as she undoes her jeans and clumsily shimmies herself out of them. It’s really all she can manage and she lays there as the room spins, her pale legs against the sheets.
Deborah must be a champ at knowing her limits because she does her entire nighttime routine. She takes out her earrings and carefully places her wig on a mannequin head. Her skin looks so soft and delicate as she applies her La Mer. Ava’s all but dipping in and out of consciousness she’s so lulled by the process.
“This is like ASMR but IRL,” she quips and then lets out a laugh at Deborah's confused expression.
“You’re drunk.”
“Duh.” Ava can feel the dumb smile on her face but can’t quite conjure the embarrassment she logically knows will come crushing down on her in the morning.
Deborah changes in the toilet, which is obviously disappointing, but she does slip into bed next to Ava without hesitation. Deborah's under the covers, Ava isn’t, but it feels so intimate it makes Ava’s heart swell three times its size.
They’re plunged into darkness when Deborah flicks the lights off. Ava can just make out the contour of Deborah's hair on the pillow next to hers. She thinks about running her fingers through it.
“Night, Deb,” she whispers.
“Shhh,” is the only reply.
And then, feeling bold, Ava throws one long, bare leg over the shape of Deborah's body. She curls herself into the Deborah-shaped lump and to her great surprise doesn’t get immediately told off.
Devastatingly, Deborah’s gotten up before Ava is conscious. She smooths her hand over where Deborah should be and winces at the throbbing in her head.
“Oh good, you’re alive. I was getting nervous I’d have to find another writer who doesn’t write.”
“I’m one of a kind, baby,” Ava cracks but it's way too early for jokes and she winces. “Are the drinks in dive bars somehow stronger than in LA?” Ava pulls herself up until she’s resting against the headboard. “I feel like that episode of SpongeBob where he gets all dehydrated.”
“You know, you can just say you feel dehydrated, not everything has to be a reference.”
“Huh, you know, I kind of forgot about adjectives.”
“Here.” Deborah hands her a mug of coffee. Home brewed.
“Did you… make this for me?” Ava takes a sip. “With oat milk?! You do love me!”
“Please, you and Damien take it the same way. You’re not the only gay person on board.”
Ava gives a genuine laugh at that. It’s nice when Deborah makes a gay joke that isn’t actually offensive.
She cocks an eyebrow suggestively. “You got something you wanna share?”
“No,” she deadpans, looking at Ava in the mirror. “Drink up. We’ve got a lot of work to get through today. I want DJ’s second overdose tightened up, it’s too long winded. I need it to be punchier.”
It doesn’t feel like a morning-after at all. Ava honestly forgets to be embarrassed about any of her advances. It just feels natural. Like maybe they’ll start doing this all the time. Sharing a bed. Waking each other up with coffee before getting to work. Even if things never go beyond this, it feels something like a marriage.
They have three shows lined up in Memphis and the first two go so badly Ava has to convince Deborah that the third one’s a charm.
They’re staying at some swanky hotel that has antique paintings and giraffe heads on the walls. It’s a jarring change of scenery to the clubs Deborah’s played at the last two nights.
The bar is lit by chandeliers and Marty Ghilain is sat on one of the emerald green stools nursing a bourbon.
“…Marty?” Deborah laughs in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”
Ava instantly feels her chest deflate. She’s usually the only person in the room who knows how to make Deborah laugh but not when Marty is there.
“Deb. I’m actually here—Well, in the state on business. But I heard you were close by. I thought I’d see if I could snag you for a drink, for old times sake?”
Deborah looks at Ava like she’s almost embarrassed that she actually wants to see him.
“I guess I’ll see you later?” Ava offers and really hopes Deborah will say ‘no, no, we have so much work to do’. But she doesn’t. “I can work on the business manager bit and have it back to you before tonight?”
“Let’s just call it a day.” She waves casually like she’s fond of giving Ava the afternoon off and does this all the time. “I’ll see you in the greenroom before the set?”
“You don’t wanna run these adjustments?”
“We’ll find out if they work if people laugh.”
Fucking great. A whole afternoon to kill in Memphis while Deborah fucks some old dude that cut her residency. For a woman who holds grudges, she sure is being annoyingly forgiving lately.
“Great. Marty,” she says in her butchest tone, giving him a nod.
“Good to see you, um…”
“Ava.” She can’t help the anger behind it.
“Right. Hope she’s been keeping you busy.”
“Not busy enough,” she laughs passive aggressively and Deborah laughs like she’s trying to mediate and Marty laughs like he has no idea anything is even going on. Oblivious as always.
She scurries away to her hotel room and it feels like she’s being banished while the grown ups talk. Which is also like, exactly what the fuck is happening. She’s insane to think she can crush on a straight, 70-year-old and then be surprised when she’s into a 65-year-old man.
The mini bar is nicely stocked with a wide variety of spirits. She mixes herself a double vodka soda.
God, he’s just so boring and unattractive. His carbon footprint is probably responsible for the deaths of thousands of polar bears. Like, way more the Deborah’s. And he’s just not funny. Ava works her ass off everyday trying to make her laugh and he just gets to swan in and make the most obvious joke imaginable?
She crunches the ice between her teeth and makes the next drink just vodka on the rocks. The spirit warms her cheeks a little and she decides to dedicate her afternoon off to some self-care. Which mostly involves plucking her eyebrows for the first time in six months.
This isn’t even a jealously thing. It's fucking misogyny conditioning women to accept the bare minimum from mediocre men who think they can get away with anything because they own a fucking casino.
It’s not about how much Ava wishes Deborah would just tell him to fuck off. No, this is about getting angry on behalf of all women who think they don’t deserve better. Who think they have to twist themselves into dainty little objects to be consumed in this hypercapitalist heteropatriarchy.
“God, what am I doing?” She throws the tweezers back into her bag and shakes her head in the mirror. “I should totally do a thread about this.”
She grabs her laptop but then remembers she doesn’t actually know her twitter password because her phone usually just remembers it for her.
There’s a word doc already up on her screen so she just gets to work doing line edits. Which are a little tricky when she’s tipsy but whatever. It’s not long before she’s laughing at the jokes she and Deborah wrote together.
She finds an old joke about Marty fucking her with his shirt on. She spins between finding it hilarious that he’s so bad she’d consider trying women and feeling utterly deflated that he’s so bad and yet she’s still downstairs with him instead of up here with her.
“Put your money where your mouth is, Deb,” she mutters to herself and cuts the joke from the document.
Nine PM rolls around faster than she thought it would and she’s soon walking backstage at the comedy club to see Deborah before her set.
“You look like shit,” is the first thing out of her mouth. Ava kicks herself for not changing. At least she bushed her teeth.
“You look… normal, actually.” Ava was half expecting a post-coital glow. “How was Marty?” His name is accidentally expelled with some venom.
“Why don’t you like him?” She’s sat on a sofa that looks about as old as Ava, her notebook on her lap.
“He took your residency!”
“The residency you thought was a hill not a mountain?”
“He’s… I don’t know, he’s just not funny.” Ava grabs a water bottle from the mini fridge and sits on the table opposite.
She’s quiet for a moment then. “No. He’s not.”
“Then why do you always laugh at his jokes?”
“Because I’m a woman who wants to keep her foot in the door. God, are you that naive you think I can just have a career this successful without fluffing the egos of the men who own half of Las Vegas?”
Ava scoffs. Deborah can be a real hypocrite sometimes. “And you called nudes degrading.”
“Yes, it’s degrading. You don’t think I fucking know that? You think I don’t hate every second I’ve had to bite my tongue at some joke a man like Marty has made? Usually at my expense?”
Ava’s usually better at seeing structural inequalities but there’s something about Deborah that radiates such a level of confidence, it’s hard to imagine her ever consciously surrendering herself. Ava wonders when she’s finally going to learn the lesson that Deborah is just a person.
“I—Sorry, I didn’t mean to… You just come across so much like you have your shit together I didn’t think it affected you.”
“Of course it affects me. It affects all of us. And I do have my shit together. It’s how I know how to laugh just enough to keep them hoping but not enough that they think they’re gonna get laid. Then you have to reject them and it ruins a nice evening,” she says, tone a little more forgiving.
“So did you… reject Marty today?”
Deborah rolls her eyes. “That’s what you took from that?” Ava smiles over her water and tries not to blush. “No. I didn’t reject him. He’s happily married, so.” She seems kind of sad. That doesn’t fill Ava with confidence.
“So you do like him?”
“Jesus, this isn’t high school, Ava. Marty and I have history but that chapter is well and truly over.”
She wants to ask exactly what kind of relationship they had and when and how long did it last. But there’s no way she’d like the answer.
“Did he get new veneers? He’s looking more and more like Mr Las Vegas everyday.”
Deborah barks over her notes. “What happened to not joking about people’s appearances?”
“That’s observational!”
Deborah finally kills in Memphis. Ava definitely won’t accept that it has anything to do with Marty sat in the third row. Either way, she has the crowd roaring with laughter and Ava feels like every one is a kind of prayer. With the stage lights and her sequin blazer, Deborah looks almost angelic.
“Thank you, Memphis!” She blows a kiss to the crowd and Ava stands from her seat to catch it.
It’s a rough tumble through the stage door and Deborah doesn’t stop waving and signing things until they find a seat at the dive bar across the street. Ava is on drinks duty and that suits her fine, anything to avoid bearing witness to her and Marty.
But she can’t seem to look away, either. She’s sneaking shots at the bar as she watches them across the room. They look good together. Or, not good, but understandable. They look like every other rich boomer couple Ava’s ever seen. They make perfect sense.
Deborah’s laughing at one of his jokes but she sees it now; the way she throws her head back to highlight her bone structure and doesn’t scrunch her face up the way you can’t resist doing when you’re really laughing. It’s fake. It’s a performance to lure him in. Ava doesn’t know why Deborah wants to lure him in anymore. Maybe she really does like him. Maybe she still thinks she’ll end up back in Vegas soon enough and this is all strategic. Maybe it’s just reflex. Ava probably does the same thing around men her age, whether the notices or not. It’s what they were raised to do. Smile, laugh, fawn.
She slips back onto her stool and it’s like she’s apart of the audience again, sat next to Damien and Marcus. She starts to appreciate why neither of them seem to like her that much if they feel at all like this when it’s just her and Deborah. Like spectators to a two-man show.
“You soared up there, Deb. Really.” She goes placid at his compliment. “I mean, I had no idea you had so many stories.”
Surprise, surprise, Ava thinks.
“Well, they were a hit with my therapist, I thought why not take ‘em on the road!” Deborah laughs, always a performer.
“Hey, lucky guy,” he jokes and tilts his glass as if to cheers the man. That fucking creep. Ava sees red.
“Are you fucking serious?” She doing that thing where the words are out of her mouth before she thinks them.
“Ava.”
“She’s talking about being sexually harassed and that’s your take away? Is that you wish it could’ve been you? What the fuck is wrong with you?” She’s drunk enough that her mouth feels wet as she talks but the words come out sharply.
Marty lets his jaw hang for a second and gives a little passive chuckle. “I didn’t mean—“
“What exactly did you mean? You wish you were back in a position of power over her again? Didn’t take advantage enough last time?”
“Ava, enough!” Deborah barks.
Ava slides off her stool to feel a little more grounded but it just makes her shorter.
“Jesus, is that what you think happened?” Marty looks genuinely perplexed.
“Would you even notice if it did? Did you ever actually care about what she wanted? Or stop to ask? Because it doesn’t sound like you did in bed, so I’m just wondering—”
“Ava!!”
Maybe that one did cross a line. She starts feeling smaller and smaller, stood in front of two boomer millionaires who are looking at her like she’s their fuck-up kid. Damien and Marcus aren’t sticking up for her. Or for Deborah. Why don’t they do that? They sit awkwardly, watching everything unfold. Well behaved.
It’s just fucking unfair. If she would just stand up for herself. Just see that Marty’s shitty jokes aren’t meaningless. Stop brushing him off as harmless. Take a fucking stand. Don’t make her look like she's over exaggerating.
“Jesus, Deborah, come on! Fuck this guy!”
“Pull yourself together. Not everything has to be a gender and sexuality case study,” she adds the last bit like a punchline and looks around the table to see if it landed. Marcus looks almost ready to intervene. Damien keeps his eyes on his drink.
The more she brushes her off the more Ava wants to scream. She looks at her like she’s just a kid having a meltdown over ice cream. Almost bored. But Ava can see it’s a facade, can see the fear and anger underneath.
“It kinda does when your ex-boss is making jokes about your actual abuser.”
There’s a flash of uncertainty behind Deborah’s eyes and then she looks like she wants to slap Ava again for using that word. By Ava’s definition that’s exactly who that shitty fucking therapist was but Deborah’s been brushing it off probably since the moment it happened. There’s some power to be had in reclamation but it feels like Deborah never even acknowledged that what she experienced was an abuse of power.
“It’s only ok for your employees to, right?” She digs but Ava can sense the insecurity, the panic. She’s flustered, lashing out.
“What the fuck? That is not the same!”
“Just walk away, Ava. Go get yourself another drink.” The dig at her failed sobriety doesn’t go unnoticed and Ava scrambles to make a joke about Deborah giving her twelve steps too but it doesn’t come fast enough.
She lets go. “Fine. What else am I good for?”
They’re fucking welcome to each other if that’s really how Deborah views the world. Internalised misogyny is still just misogyny at the end of the day. Fuck her for fucking over other women.
There’s still that nagging part of her that hates to turn her back on Deborah.
“Fuckin’ feminist.”
It’s not Marty. He’s the wrong kind of asshole to make such an on the nose remark. It’s some fucking redneck with a black bandana and a jean jacket. Ava had almost forgot what state they were in. She couldn’t have written a more stereotypical male chauvinist if she’d tried. He’s so type-cast, it almost feels offensive to the biker community.
“Who the fuck even are you?” She asks genuinely. What kind of entitlement must someone posses to make a comment like that after eavesdropping?
He stands almost a foot taller than Ava, using his size to intimidate her. His lips are wet and she can tell by the way he moves he’s blackout drunk. She’s so over it at this point, she doesn’t even feel scared.
“Oh, I get it. You’ve been waiting your whole life to find a woman you think is fair game to hit.”
Something she doesn’t actually see coming is getting punched square in the face by a man twice her size.
Ava realises, right as she’s falling backwards past table tops and chair legs and other people’s knees, that despite being a staunch advocate against male violence, she never really expected it to happen to her.
Ava is a pro at falling. She’s fallen out of Ubers and down stairs and into the best job she never wanted. And now she’s falling in Deborah’s opinion as the world spins and she feels the hard smack of the beer-covered floor against the back of her head.
“You don’t talk like that around here, bitch.”
If it wasn’t for the sharp pain bouncing around her skull and the warm blood that’s gushing from her nose, Ava would think this was a bit from an SNL skit. There’s something about being so far removed from real life misogyny that makes it almost comical. Like, who actually thinks like this? Her defence mechanism has always been comedy, it’s not surprising her first thought as she looks up at the dim bar lights is to look for the joke.
If I wanted to get assaulted by an old misogynist with an attitude problem, I would’ve started working for Deborah Vance years ago.
There’s all kinds of crashing and shouting then. Ava’s too stunned to absorb any of it. It’s like a calm has suddenly washed over her. It’s almost nice down here on the floor, the only thing in her line of sight being the exposed pipes in the ceiling, people’s arms waving, the occasional splash of spilt beer.
Then Deborah’s face.
“Ava? Ava? Ava?”
Deborah grabs her face with both hands and turns her head to look at her.
“Jesus, Ava? Look at me?”
“He fucking hit me,” is the first sentence out of her mouth, like maybe no one noticed.
“We gotta get up, honey. Someone call a fucking ambulance!!”
“I don’t need an ambulance—” There’s something in her mouth as she’s talking and it’s crunchy and wet. She spits out a half of her tooth as she sits up and it glistens on her fingers. “My tooth.” God, why is she talking like a toddler that just learned how to point and name things?
The man who hit her is lying on his stomach and Ava cant really see him because there’s another man sitting on his back, keeping him restrained. But his boots are by Ava’s feet and they look like they belong to a giant.
Deborah is hauling her up by her arm. She’s guiding her out of the bar, her hands firm around her waist. She’s in the cold night. She’s sat on the end of an ambulance rig. There’s a man shining a torch in her eyes and then inside her mouth when she brings up the tooth again. The tooth feels important. He feels her face and presses on the sides of her nose. They feel her skull and she winces when they find the egg around the back. They talk to Deborah. Deborah is calm and speaks clearly and handles the situation with care.
Ava feels stupid sitting on a stretcher when it’s just her face that’s busted. She could easily sit in a chair. She mostly feels like a massive inconvenience, not helped by the fact she’s seemingly lost her voice. If only that could’ve happened an hour ago.
Deborah holds her hand the whole ambulance ride but Ava’s too scared to look her in the face.
The wait at the other end is long. Sometime Marcus is there, sometimes Damien is there. Deborah is always there. She does a baby tickle on Ava’s forearm. Ava stairs at the light fixture and it feels like sleeping.
The x-ray of her jaw it tricky. She can’t close her mouth all the way like they want her to.
There’s a cop in the hallway and his radio crackles but Marcus blocks the door and sends him away.
They put five stitches in the back of her head because apparently she has a cut there.
It’s three AM before they discharge her with a prescription for Vicodin, orders to be monitored for the next twelve hours and to see a dentist as soon as possible.
“We can go?” She asks quietly.
“We can go, honey.” Deborah looks more tired than Ava’s ever seen her.
Ava can’t shake the feeling that this is all her fucking fault. If only she had heeded Deborah’s initial warning and let the whole thing go. Why does she do that? Why can’t she just let it go?
They walk out of the emergency room right onto the bus.
She slips between the crisp sheets of Deborah’s bed. Deborah hands her a pill and places a glass of water in Ava’s hand and whispers little reassurances.
“Okay. There you go. You got it, honey.”
Every one makes Ava feel worse and worse.
She’s still thinking about how she’s possibly going to fall asleep by the time she’s waking up. The swelling in her cheek presses up against her eye.
Deborah is snoring next to her. Like, really snoring and it almost makes everything worth it. If she didn’t have a dumb phone and wasn’t totally in the shit with her she’d absolutely record it. But it hurts to smile and when she starts hurting the pain floods in like a dam is breaking.
She sits up and grabs the pill bottle from the bedside table.
“Wow. Now you really look like shit,” is the first thing out of Deborah's mouth as she wakes. She looks nervous after the joke like she’s waiting to see if Ava can take it.
“Would you believe me if I said I actually feel worse than I look?” It feels odd using her voice again after so many hours.
“It’d be a tough sell.” Her voice is gravely with sleep. Ava uses her right cheek to smile.
“I really don’t know how to thank you for getting me the fuck out of there. And looking after me,” she says quietly. “And, um… I’m sorry,” she says but her voice breaks on the sorry.
Deborah eyes her suspiciously before she sits up too. She still looks exhausted. “Who’s victim blaming now?”
Ava scoffs. “I’m not blaming myself. I just… I was out of line with you. I shouldn’t have—“
“Shouldn’t have stood up for me? You believed it then,” she shrugs. “Don’t take it back now just because some asshole didn’t wanna hear it.”
“And who exactly is the asshole you’re referring to?” She asks cautiously. Maybe this is as close as Deborah gets to admitting she was wrong.
Deborah looks at her for a long moment and it’s the only answer she needs.
“Okay.” Ava nods to herself. “Then I’m not sorry. And fuck that guy. Jesus. Who hits people?”
Deborah tuts and rolls her eyes. The irony lingers in the air. Ava wants to clarify she didn’t mean it like that but Deborah takes it on the chin. They share a smirk. She breathes easy knowing they both see the humour in the situation. What else left is there to do?
“Shit. Am I gonna have to make a police report?”
“I have Marcus on it. That piece of shit isn’t gonna see daylight for a long time, don’t worry.”
Ava almost feels sorry for the guy being at the opposing end of Deborah’s wrath. Almost. She lets herself feel what it’s like to be under Deborah Vance’s protection for a minute — and it feels fucking amazing.
Deborah disappears to get coffee and comes back with pancakes. She doesn’t let Ava eat them in bed.
Getting out of Tennessee is a fucking nightmare. They pretend to work and it helps distract her from the gooey, metallic part of her mouth that used to be tooth. It’s now a wobbly shard in the side of her gum that she can’t help put poke at despite the sharp nerve pain that arises every time she does.
Deborah really didn’t switch to a health plan that covers dental. “Don’t worry, you’ll fit right in in Alabama,” is all she says on the matter.
She thought maybe Marcus would be mad at her for causing such a scene but he slides into the booth across from her, wincing when he sees her face.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like a million bucks.” She can’t keep the sound of the swelling out of her voice.
He laughs sympathetically. “I’m dealing with the Memphis police department. You’ll submit a written statement when you’re ready.”
He’s so efficient, it makes her want to cry. “Thanks, Marcus.”
“You know how to take a hit. Very impressive,” Damien chimes in and it feels nice to just let herself be looked after. For once, being surrounded by Marcus and Damien and Deborah makes her feel like she’s apart of a unit. She is a penguin and they huddle around her in her time of need. They keep her warm.
She looks up when Deborah chuckles, expecting a new joke to roll off her tongue.
The Philadelphia 76ers have won the championship. This is cosmically pretty meaningless to Ava apart from the fact that when Deborah shows her the news article on her iPad she suddenly bursts into tears.
“Oh Jesus, I didn’t think it would make you cry,” Deborah looks at her accusingly for a moment before giving in with a sigh.
“I’m sorry, I just—I guess this is the first… event that he hasn’t been here for?”
Her dad was always the person she went to when she got hurt. Her mom was a disaster but her dad always knew how to make things feel manageable. This is the first time since he died where she thinks she actually really needs him. Feels him missing like a void.
Deborah wraps her arm around Ava and tucks her into her side. Ava lets her head rest on Deborah's shoulder as a few more tears track down her face. Her dad would’ve told her she’s got a nice shiner, that it makes her look tough — Deborah tells her she looks like Mickey Rourke in post-op.
It’s not long before Deborah is stroking Ava’s hair, carful to avoid her stitches. She’s scribbling notes with her other hand, her attention nowhere close to being fully on Ava but it gives her the privacy she needs to fully enjoy the feeling of Deborah’s fingers brushing across the side of her scalp.
Marcus does his best to avoid looking over from where he works. At first she expects him to be jealous that Deborah has seemingly reserved physical comfort for her, but then thinks that’s really fucking revealing. Plus, she has no idea whether or not Deborah has ever stroked Marcus’s head when he’s hurt. She cant imagine it but it might’ve happened over their long history. She’ll admit the thought makes her a little jealous.
How long has she wanted to be comforted by her? It feels like she’s been waiting her whole life for a moment like this; tucked under the wing of a woman as important as Deborah. Still. Being cared for. It sends a new wave of tears to her eyes.
She wipes away a tear drop from the end of her nose and it makes Deborah pull back to look at her.
“Okay, honey?” It sounds so unlike how Deborah usually talks to her, it makes her blush. It’s honestly humiliating how much the smallest drop of affection gets to her. It must be so fucking obvious.
“I—Yeah. Sorry, I’m usually way better at just stuffing my feelings down until they’re never seen again,” she half-jokes.
“Hey, not everyone can be this good.” It draws out a little laugh from Ava. She’s always forgetting how alike they are.
She feels the urge to go into some long spoken-word piece about how grateful she is to Deborah for looking after her without any hesitation but she can already picture her rolling her eyes and saying ‘well, don’t make me regret it’.
“You working on the National Enquirer bit?” She says instead.
“Just tossing a few ideas around. Nothing solid yet.” She puts her pen down. “Why don’t you go take a nap?”
“My face is kinda fucked up already, I can’t risk another concussion if one of you see a yard sale.”
“Take my room again. I’m gonna be up for a while still, it’s only 5.”
“Are you sure?”
“It already smells like hospital and 3-in-one shampoo in there.”
“I use Lush! …Thank you,” she adds but Deborah is waving her off.
She slips into that space between thinking and dreaming, nudged along by Vicodin and the smell of Black Pashmina.
She remembers all the jokes she should’ve said that don’t make sense anymore now the conversation’s moved on. She remembers Deborah turning the bus around to go back for her dad. Deborah trying to make her jealous by complimenting another woman’s hands. Deborah teaching her how to swim. Deborah doing her nails. Deborah’s laugh. Deborah’s fake laugh. Marty’s face. How tall that man had been. His giant boots. Her blood. Her tooth.
She jolts awake.
It’s darker than earlier. Deborah is sat at her vanity, taking off her makeup.
It feels like they’ve slipped into this silent state where they’ve mutually agreed not to acknowledge Ava’s blooming crush. Deborah probably thinks it’s all just a joke and honestly, Ava’s happy to let her. The weight of the last 24 hours has been enough to crush her, she can’t take the thought of this becoming anything real. Real gets rejected. Jokes are fine. Jokes are what they do best.
Reality slips away again. Deborah’s presence stays with her as she crosses from one realm to another.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” Ava smiles as Deborah dips down to kiss her.
Something aches in her chest, heavy and hot. It’s like her body knows how ephemeral dreams are, knows how little it would take to have the moment snatched away. One jolt of the bus and she’ll be back to her waking life where this can’t happen.
She just wants to be closer. Deborah is in her arms, finally. She wants to relish in the contact, squeeze every last drip of experience out of it.
Dream sex is always a little confusing but whatever dream Deborah does, it works like a charm.
Ava can feel the vibrations of a moan in her chest. Her hips rock against nothing and she can smell Deborah’s perfume. Frustration is the dominant emotion. She sways between that and a subconscious fear of waking up, not wanting to let the moment go.
Deborah is everywhere — kissing her neck, between her legs, hands in her hair — yet nowhere.
She searches for more until her hips find an ounce of friction against the mattress.
“Sweet girl,” she hears Deborah's voice, clear like it's being whispered right into her ear.
She comes with Deborah’s name on her lips and it echos through her chest.
The pulses of pleasure are enough to wake her up, finally tearing away the veil of sleep. Her eyes flutter open gently but nothing prepares her to see Deborah sat in the bed next to her, scrolling idly on her iPad.
“Oh my God—” Her whole body physically recoils from the bed. The room sways a little at the sudden movement and her head pounds.
“Jesus,” Deborah looks startled by the way Ava suddenly rises.
“What are you—How long have you been there?” She doesn’t look like she knows what just happened but Ava’s pretty confident she said Deborah's name out loud. “What time is it?”
“It’s late.” Ava realises she’s in her pyjamas and has her under-eye night strips on. She must’ve been in here getting ready for bed while Ava lay two feet away having a sex dream about her. Let alone the orgasm she just had right next to her.
She can feel the left over tension in her belly and the wetness between her legs. “I…”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing. I’m fine, I’m totally fine. Just the Vicodin, I think, making me a little woozy,” Ava says unconvincingly.
“I’ll talk to Marcus about stopping at a hotel. Give us all a night to ourselves now you’re out of the woods,” Deborah offers but she’s completely unreadable.
“Yeah, yeah. That’d be great.”
“Get you some walls with soundproofing.”
Ava’s jaw hangs open. She can feel herself turning crimson and for some ungodly reason it makes her ache even more. There’s not a joke in the world that can make this situation feel lighter. The silence seems to stretch out longer and longer.
“Oh what, now you’re embarrassed? Like I havant heard it before.”
“Oh, my—That’s a little different to just… Why didn’t you wake me up?”
Deborah shrugs, a smile playing at her mouth. “You looked tired.”
“I looked tired while I was asleep?”
“You know how many years I’ve spent in tour busses? You’re not the first person to have inappropriate dreams.” She’s taking her glasses off and putting her iPad away.
That does actually make Ava feel a lot better about the whole thing. Sex dreams are a normal part of life, why should she be embarrassed?
Deborah flicks the light off and settles down and this is the first time they’ve gone to bed together without being drunk or (newly) injured. Ava vaguely feels like a guest over staying her welcome but Deborah surely wouldn’t have turned off the light if she wanted her to leave. She lies back down cautiously, trying not to rustle the sheets too much in case it reminds Deborah that she’s not supposed to be here.
“Flattering to know you’re thinking about me though,” she speaks casually into the dark. Ava can hear the shit-eating grin in her tone. It’s like finally breaking the fourth wall and every brick comes crumbling down around her.
“Oh my God.” She covers her face with her hands. “I’m so sorry, Deborah. Seriously, that’s so embarrassing. I—I clearly need to go and have sex with someone more appropriate and…” The air feels so thick, Ava can’t breathe properly. “…You’re being like, really chill about this which is confusing.”
“You prefer I make a scene and wake Damien up?” She asks with a snort and the way they’re whispering makes this all feel like a secret between the two of them.
“No! God, no. I just…” Just what? Ava has no idea what she’s even trying to say or ask.
Ava can just make out the curvatures of her face, the light reflecting in the whites of her eyes. She can barely hear anything over the sound of her own pulse in her ears and she really convinces herself for a moment that Deborah would let her kiss her right now.
“Go to sleep, honey. I’m exhausted.”
She all but holds her breath in the dark, waiting for Deborah to pull the rug out from under her and kick her out. But it never comes. She just lays there and listens to the gentle sounds of her breathing for what feels like hours until eventually it gets deeper and heavier and Deborah is asleep. A million theories burst through her sleep-riddled brain and she eventually whittles them down to four:
Deborah feels sorry for her after getting literally assaulted so isn’t making a big deal out of it. Deborah is too mature to give a shit about Ava’s interior sexual fantasies. Deborah likes that she’s fantasising about her. (This is Ava’s favourite hypothesis, for obvious reasons). Deborah likes leverage. This is all the leverage she needs to get Ava to do anything she wants; work long hours; go on takeout runs; be her rare antiques mule. Keeping Ava in sexual limbo could prove to be an effective way of keeping her in line.
Sleep doesn’t greet her again until the early hours of the morning.
She doesn’t see Deborah again until after Marcus has dropped her off at Southern Smiles Dental and she’s down an entire tooth. The gap will only be visible when she smiles extra wide but it’s still an insecurity. Apparently you can’t get an implant until gum has healed.
“Jesus, didn’t think I’d be seeing another grand canon this trip,” Deborah digs before Ava’s even sat down. At least she isn’t being weird about last night.
“You can’t even see it yet! Have you just been thinking of dental jokes all morning instead of doing actual work?” She mumbles through numb lips.
“Came up with a few but I’m gapping out now you’re here.” Ava gives her a disappointed look. “Yeah, okay, that one was bad.”
They slip back into a productive silence. Well, productive for Deborah. Ava is mostly sleeping with her eyes open, legs up on the bus couch, the local anaesthetic making her heart jumpy. Deborah has her headphones in as she rewatches her last show. She still looks a little worn out but Ava loves the look of concentration on her face as she works. The little crease between her eyebrows. The way she can see the cogs turning behind her eyes.
She jots down notes every few minutes, her fingers flexing around her fountain pen. Ava feels that urge to be as close to her as possible. It doesn’t feel explicit. It feels like hunger. Like an overwhelming desire to be entirely wrapped up in her. And if the climax of that is an orgasm, then so be it.
“You’re drooling.” Marcus pops up beside her and it makes her jump.
“Sorry,” she blurts, quickly snatching her gaze away from Deborah and sitting up.
“No, literally.” He hands her a tissue. “It’s bloody.” Gestures to her chin.
“Oh, shit. That’s—Sorry, I can’t feel it.” She wipes her chin.
“Are you…” He takes a seat next to her, blocking her view of Deborah across the bus. “What is going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…” He takes a serious breath and lowers his voice. “Are you sleeping with her?”
Ava’s jaw swings open and another worm of bloody saliva slips from her mouth. She quickly wipes it away. “What?!” She’s very conscious of the fact Deborah is only a few feet away. “Why would you… What do you mean?”
“I’ve worked with Deborah a long time. You’re the only person I’ve seen share her bed. I mean, I know about Marty but that was different. Traditional. This is…” He gives her a confused once-over.
Ava’s heart hammers a little. It’s nice to have her suspicions affirmed. This isn’t normal. There is something going on between them.
“You think she likes me?” She feels stupid as soon as she asks. So high school.
“I’m asking you. Lord, why are queer women so bad at picking up on vibes? You’re the one in her bed.”
“Okay, great read, but also fuck you, you know her better than I do!”
“Clearly not.” Marcus shakes his head. It must be hard for him seeing someone else swan in and change her after so many years of it just being the two of them. “Just be careful. Either with her or with you… I don’t know who’s at more risk here but it feels very temperamental and I don’t have time to clean up another mess with my current workload.”
"Um, thank you for the support?” It comes out a bit more vulnerable than she’d like.
Marcus sighs. “Are you…?” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Ava grasps his meaning by the sympathetic look in his eye. He’s gotten softer around the edges since falling for Wilson.
Deborah is scribbling down a note and nodding to herself like she’s just had a great idea. All Ava wants to do is get up and ask what it was. What made her laugh?
Yes. She is. She might not be able to say it or even think it yet but yes.
“Jesus.” Marcus reads the answer written all over her face.
“She’s gonna me so pissed at me,” Ava laughs despite her eyes welling up.
Marcus scoffs too. “Yeah. Probably. She always forgives you though, for some reason.”
They stop at a hotel in Tallahassee. Ava is disappointed because it means she gets her own room away from Deborah. She can’t tell if Deborah is just scared of letting her sleep in the bunk with her face still busted, but she’s quickly gotten used to falling asleep next to her.
The hotel smells like clean linen and fig room spray. Ava stands under the waterfall shower, letting the heat almost scald her. Her face is looking less swollen, more bruised. The greenish-yellow contusion is slowly sinking from around her eye and down her face as if it's melting away. She doesn’t bother covering it with makeup. She likes the way it reaffirms what she went through. She almost wishes it would stick around a little longer, until she’s ready to look normal again, feel normal again.
She’s so fucking tired she doesn’t even fully dry her hair before slipping between crisp sheets and passing the fuck out, her belongings strewn across the covers.
Two hours later Deborah is stood at the foot of her bed, yanking the curtains open.
“Oh my—What are you doing?” Ava hides her face from the midday light.
“I need to do a run through.” The show’s not until tonight but she already looks stage-ready; hair in a glam up-do, blazer sleeves rolled to her elbows.
“No you don’t, Deb. It’s perfect.” She rubs the sleep from her eyes.
“You’re just saying that because you’re too lazy to get up.” Before Ava can grumble, Deborah grabs the bottom end of the comforter and gives it a harsh yank.
“Deborah!!” Ava squeaks as soon as she remembers she is very much naked underneath the covers. She scrambles to gather the sheets back up as quickly as possible, her back hitting the headboard with a punch.
Deborah seems momentarily stunned but then quickly resumes her regular demeanour, throwing in a restless sigh for good measure. She eyes Ava’s vibrator in amongst the pile of her belongings.
“Least one of us is making the most of the Hilton.” She seems a little annoyed but Ava can’t tell if it’s just nerves or defensiveness. Is that a blush?
Ava’s jaw hangs loosely as she holds the sheets up to her chin. “I mean, smoke ‘em if you got ‘em. But also… I didn’t even… I was too tired.”
Deborah’s giving her a look like she’s insane. “I don’t care about your masturbatory habits, Ava. I really know enough about them already. Let’s go!” She waves her arms about impatiently.
Ava has a tendency to lose track of where the line is when people push her buttons. Deborah has a knack for pressing them all at once. Marcus’s concern swims in the back of her head but she’s just annoyed enough at Deborah’s accusatory tone to test a theory. It’s not like Deborah’s making any attempt to offer her privacy, so…
“Fine,” she says and peels the covers back, swinging her legs out of bed as if she isn’t fully nude.
It’s funny how quickly Deborah goes quiet. Ava can see the cogs whirring behind her eyes trying to find the best joke that doesn’t make her seem like or prude or worse.… gay.
Ava hadn’t really anticipated how much standing stark naked in front of an almost stage-ready Deborah would make her heart pound. She must be blushing from head to chest but she powers through. Maybe she should try stand-up after all.
“Excuse me,” Ava says innocently, wandering right up to Deborah.
Deborah takes a few awkward shuffles backwards so Ava doesn’t touch her when she grabs her bag. Her mouth opens, either to say something that flutters away or maybe just to take a breath, Ava doesn’t know.
She could take on anything right now. She’s never felt so simultaneously powerful and vulnerable.
“So, what are you nervous about?” Ava asks as she perches on the foot of the bed to pull on her underwear.
“What?”
“About the set. What do you think needs work?”
“Oh… I… Just all of it. I just need to know it flows.” She knows the set flows, she’s been on a hot streak the last two gigs. It’s really fucking nice seeing her scramble for the right words. Her eyes can’t help scanning across her body, eventually finding a home at her knees. Professional.
Ava’s underwear snaps against her hip and she pulls them up and that seems to knock Deborah out of whatever trance she’s in because she suddenly rolls her eyes.
“Christ. Just come and find me when you’re ready.”
She tries to leave but they do that little dance two people walking in opposite directions on the sidewalk do and Ava laughs at how annoyed it makes Deborah.
“Move!”
“Okay! Jeeze. Maybe don’t break in here next time,” she calls after her.
“Using your naked body as a repellant is very inventive. Wish that had worked for me,” she throws over her shoulder as she goes.
“Hey, you’re more than welcome to try!” Ava doesn’t catch her response when the door shuts and she’s left with nothing but the grin on her face.
The thrilling weightlessness of throwing caution to the wind feels like flying. Even if hitting the ground is inevitable, Ava decides to soar for a while. Fuck it. She’ll take whatever joy she can from Deborah until the hard smack of the floor snatches it away. Until then, she’s happy to scurry away with the scraps she collects.
She finds her in the hotel’s meeting room. The conference table’s big enough to seat twelve. Deborah sits alone by the window and something about the image pulls at Ava’s heartstrings. Man, she’s so fucked.
“Finally. I barely recognise you with your clothes on,” she says, glancing up from her laptop.
“That’s fair. Must be jarring after not seeing someone topless for a decade.” Ava perches herself on the table next to Deborah's screen as if there isn’t ample seating.
Deborah gives her an impatient sigh. “There have been other—Are you ready to work? Can you get your head out of the gutter long enough?” She cuts herself off.
“I—You brought it up!” The insult does its job and Ava is left replaying the first half of her sentence too late.
“I don’t like the transition from broken foot to Claus collector,” she says.
“Okay. Let’s figure out a better throughline.” Ava leans back on her hands, definitely leaving fingerprints all over the glass table. “Moon boot, snow boot… debt collector… I don’t know, something about medical bills?”
“Could work.” She jots it down, scrunching her face up as she thinks.
“So these other people…” Ava starts and Deborah immediately rolls her eyes. “What? I’m just thinking maybe we can use some of those stories. Maybe that could be the throughline for the whole set we’ve been looking for?”
“I thought you wanted me to move away from the depressing… what did you call it?”
“Heteropessimism? Come on, you don’t have one funny sexual experience that isn’t about a man disappointing you?”
She shoots her an annoyed look. “I’ve got a few about a Millennial who can’t keep her thoughts to herself.”
“I mean, you’re welcome to make fun of me for the bit but I don’t think you’re ready for the gay allegations. Sharing a bed with a hot, young gen z? That’ll be the talk of the town, Deborah.” She adopts a scandalised expression. The joke really doesn’t really land. Her eyes are stuck to the laptop. “Or we could just… forget about the throughline. I think they’re honestly overdone, anyway.”
Years of living in Vegas has afforded Deborah an excellent poker face. She taps her pen between her finger and thumb. Ava stares at her hands. Her lip quirks when the joke comes to her.
“I caught my employee masturbating on the bus the other week. I don’t think she understood what I meant when I asked her to come on tour with me.”
Ava gives a beat for her own dignity before she burst out laughing. “That works… shit,” she laughs. “Okay.”
“She’s on a ‘social media detox’ and got rid of her smart phone. Apparently that’s why she’s dialling the operator so often.” Deborah has that teasing look on her face Ava finds irresistible.
“I don’t get that one?” She laughs despite herself.
Deborah mimics the process of dialling 0 on a rotary phone, a swift, confident circle with her middle finger. Ava’s mouth goes a little dry. The vivid imagery makes something in her click.
“Oh, my God, Deborah!” Finally she blushes.
“Too outdated?”
“Maybe. But you could punch it with ‘I’m kidding, I’m kidding. She’s so lonely she just calls to chat.’”
Deborah cackles. “This is the girl that’s always getting on at me about my carbon footprint. I told her she’s masturbating so much we should hook her up to a generator, her thrusting alone could run the tour bus from Reno to Wyoming. How’s that for renewable energy?”
The harder Ava laughs the longer Deborah looks at her with that twinkle in her eye.
“I’m the throughline!” Ava chuckles. “You can use me cataloguing your archive as the vehicle on this trip through your whole career. Interspersed with jokes about my giant hands or whatever.” It feels good. It feels like progress. It also feels like an honour to be memorialised in Deborah Vance’s work for eternity. They share a look through their laughter. That one Ava lives for when they create something good together.
“Okay, this works.” Deborah starts typing. “You don’t mind me using you like this?” The sincerity is sweet.
Ava leans forward on the table, giving her a sly smile. “Hey, you can use me however you like.”
There’s a flash of real concern behind Deborah's eyes. Her eyebrows pull together in what Ava can only read as guilt. Her heart drops inside her chest a little. That look sobers her up quicker that an icy blast of air to the face.
“Ava—“
“Oh, God, no. Serious tone. I hate that.”
Deborah sighs, pursing her lips. “I don’t mean to—“
“Nope. Got it. Honestly, I fully hear you and I will stop with the jokes. I—“
“Is it a joke?”
Ava panics. Not that question. That’s the question she really doesn’t want to answer.
“You saying I’m not funny?” She chuckles nervously. This is when it all comes crumbling down. This is her head smacking against the floor after soaring for so long. This is where the skit ends. “I just…”“ She should deny everything. Tell her she’s joking. Maybe that would allow her to salvage the relationship. Go back to normal. “…like you.”
It hangs in the air for a moment in its pure, unadulterated form. The honest, pathetic truth.
“I don’t expect you to reciprocate in any way. Really, I’m like surprising even myself about it. I can stop with the jokes or whatever if they make you uncomfortable. I just… We’ve got a good thing going here. I don’t care what form it’s in.”
Deborah is fucking unreadable. She doesn’t look mad, which is good. She doesn’t look happy, either.
“I think you’ve established a preference,” she points out and that’s the understatement of the year.
Ava gives a nervous smile. She was so close to believing that Deborah might actually let her inch closer and closer until they eventually woke up one day, married with a Labrador (to keep Barry and Cara company, obviously).
Even now Deborah isn’t rejecting her. Ava studies her face. Hears Marcus’s voice in her head. There’s something here between them. She’s sure. She can’t be that delusional, can she?
“Can I just try one thing?” Ava asks quietly.
Something shifts then and the air feels thick. Her mouth is dry and she can feel herself thrumming with energy.
Deborah must feel it too. She goes quiet. Ava’s eyes drop to her lips. Deborah’s stillness is her endorsement. When did they get so good at communicating without words?
Ava wheels Deborah's chair closer with her foot until it's tucked between her knees. She feels strong. She feels terrified. She pauses before their lips touch, her hands on the back of Deborah's chair, letting herself memorise exactly what this moment feels like; the look on her face, the table under her thighs, the pinch in her neck from the odd angle. She’ll remember every detail.
Then she places a chaste kiss on Deborah’s mouth. Her lips are soft and she doesn’t move away. It’s the most she’s ever felt in her body for such a modest act, her heart hammering, her stomach squirming.
She’s never kissed anyone so gently before. It feels like this is her one opportunity to express all the love she holds, all at once, wrapped up into one single moment. As much as she tries to focus, the moment's over before it's started.
“Fodder for your dreamscape?” Deborah murmurs when she pulls back. Ava takes in her face; slightly flushed; her breathing slightly heavier; that shrewd look still in her eye.
“Absolutely.” Ava smiles.
The cutting noise of Deborah’s phone ringing sends them jolting backwards. Ava’s stood up before she even knows what’s happened. Deborah’s office chair has wheeled itself three feet backwards.
She coughs to get the surprise out of her voice as she answers the call. “Marcus. Yep… Okay. Be right there.” She hangs up. “Uh… Showtime,” she says with a faux blasé tone. It feels eerily similar to waking up.
It should bother Ava, but it doesn’t. She’s seen behind the curtain now. Their intimacy is her secret to keep and her performance reads as comical. It makes her want to push her up against a wall and kiss her.
Sitting in the audience makes her feel like she’s watching a show inside a show. Deb performing Deborah performing Deborah Vance.
It must be radiating out of her because when Deborah catches her eye — she’s twenty-five minutes into her set — her words get jumbled. Ava’s never seen her fumble on stage before, she feels a rush of panic on her behalf.
Deborah looks out into the crowd and gives a nervous laugh, trying to get herself back on track. She takes a deep breath.
“Sorry, I just thought I saw my ex-husband’s ghost. I like to say his name three times in the mirror when I think the crowd’s looking a little sparse.” The crowd laughs and then she’s back on track.
There's a lump of unease in her stomach as she wanders backstage. This is definitely her fault. She has the footage on Deborah’s iPad to prove it. The stumble had happened right as they’d locked eyes. Her pathetic love-struck face must’ve sent her into a spiral.
“You okay?” She asks. Marcus is already there.
“Yeah, yeah. Not my best, not my worst,” she shrugs. Marcus looks equally unfazed.
“We’ve got that interview with Harper’s tomorrow. We should also go over the QVC schedule for next week.”
Ava spends the Uber ride back to the hotel waiting for the other shoe to drop. Deborah doesn’t say bye as Marcus guides her towards their table reservation and Ava is left stood in the lobby, almost disappointed she didn’t get yelled at.
It’s 10:53pm by the time she gives into her urge to go and find her. She’s starting to feel like maybe she’s misremembering their afternoon. Maybe Deborah never actually let her kiss her and that was all just a vivid fantasy. Maybe she really did see Frank’s ghost in the crowd. That feels more likely than her giving a shit about what Ava was doing.
Deborah’s hair is wet when she opens the door. She’s wearing one of the hotel’s robes.
“Hey, sorry. I figured you’d still be up.”
“I am.” She waves Ava in. “Needed to wash the smell of Virginia slims out of my hair.” The room smells like shampoo and shower steam. Ava suddenly feels sleepy.
“I, um, sorry if that was my fault.” She sits on the end of the bed as Deborah bushes her hair.
“Your fault?”
“You know, if I distracted you or anything.” It’s starting to sound like wishful thinking.
Deborah snorts without breaking eye contact with herself in the mirror. “Please. I’m not infallible. I was bound to fuck up eventually. It’s just part of the job.”
“Right. Yeah, totally.” Ava hates how disappointed she sounds. Does she really want to have gotten so under her skin that she fucks up the show they’ve been working so hard to perfect? Maybe the desperate, love-sick part of her does. “Wanna watch SVU? There’s a new episode out tonight.”
“Sure.”
They settle back into their routine. Deborah guesses who the real perpetrator is in the first five minutes. It doesn’t ruin it for Ava anymore.
“You didn’t even see the credits this time!”
“That actress did three episodes in NCIS last year, she’s the most famous.”
“You should totally try and get a cameo.”
“They’d probably cast me as Amanda’s grandmother.”
“That’s not true, you’d make a great cradle-snatcher.”
Deborah gives her shoulder a harsh shove. “You little shit!” Ava cackles.
There’s a scene where a man in a bar gets aggressive, looming over Detective Rollins. Nothing happens but Deborah squeezes Ava’s knee. Neither of them look away from the screen.
They chat mindlessly after the episode ends. Ava snuggles down into the plush pillows like if she looks comfortable enough, Deborah will feel too guilty to send her back to her own room.
Deborah tells her a story about the time she got arrested in Spring Valley for throwing a drink at a man, glass and all. She got let off because the cop was a fan of her show and she’d flirted with him.
“The irony was I could’ve just flirted with the first guy until he left me alone but I’d just had enough.” She looks lovely like this, in her pyjama set with the snakes on them. “It’s a hard habit to break when it’s so convenient.”
“No, it’s smart. Look where being honest gets you,” Ava says about her gap tooth with an apathetic scoff.
“Maybe if my generation had been louder…” Deborah shrugs. “Held people like Marty to account, it’d have trickled down a little more by now.”
“I don’t know. I think people just do what they can under their circumstances.”
There’s a moment of honest exchange. Deborah accepts Ava’s truth and Ava extends her understanding. It feels like forgiveness.
Deborah gives that sigh that means she’s ready to go to sleep. Ava silently reaches up to the light switch on the headboard and flicks it off.
She gets a good few hours before she stirs again.
Even with her eyes shut she can sense Deborah in the bed beside her. The weight of her. The warmth. The bedside light reads 3:37AM.
She turns to look. It’s a habit she’s adopted, whenever they share a bed, to roll over in the early hours and check she’s still there. Only this time Deborah appears to be doing the same. The clock light illuminates the contemplative look on her face.
Ava almost speaks but something about the look in her eye tells her not to. The rapid increase in her heartbeat happens before she cognises anything is about to transpire.
Deborah kisses her. It’s not like how Ava kissed her. Her mouth nudges Ava’s lips apart and she kisses her without reservation, her hand on Ava’s cheek.
It takes Ava longer than a moment to reciprocate but when she does she’s urgent. Her drowsy brain catches up in an instant and then she’s drinking her in.
She feels Deborah's tongue on her bottom lip and it would’ve taken Herculean strength Ava doesn’t posses to hold back the moan that erupts from her throat. In some ways it feels like she’s taken a sedative the way her muscles relax with arousal.
Deborah pulls her closer. Ava throws a leg over her until she’s straddling her hips. Kissing her feels like coming up for air, it makes her giddy and she almost pulls away just to laugh with joy. She kisses her messily. It feels fucking insane.
Ava lets her hand run down the neckline of her pyjama shirt. She plants a kiss on her collarbone. Her fingers reach the top button.
“Don’t,” Deborah says. Not harsh, not final. She guides Ava’s face back to kissing her.
Ava can’t control the way her pelvis searches for something solid. Any kind of friction to release the mounting tension inside her. She does her best to stop her hips bucking, to stop herself moaning. She’s out of her depth — unsure where the line is.
Deborah lifts her right leg. Her hands are on Ava’s hips and she guides her down until, with an illicit gasp, her core makes contact with the top of Deborah’s thigh.
So there’s the line. Ava runs right up to it.
With Deborah’s encouragement, Ava grinds herself down onto her. Her breathing staggers. It feels primal, vaguely animalistic. On the third thrust she moans loud enough to break their kiss. With every movement, her cheeks get pinker, her head swims with pleasure. She feels like a zippo lighter, sparks flashing with every flick, waiting, waiting until she finally catches fire.
She opens her eyes and Deborah’s looking at her open mouth.
When their eyes meet, a whole new reality clicks into place. This is everything she’s ever wanted.
“Oh my… Fuck.”
Ava comes on top of Deborah’s thigh, her body going taut, a shudder dancing through her.
Deborah’s eyes widen at the sight. She looks up at her from her pillow and tucks a strand of hair behind Ava’s ear. Ava lets out a laugh she just can’t keep in. It fills her stomach and bursts out of her mouth. Pure joy. She kisses her sweetly.
There’s nothing she can say to improve on a perfect moment. So she collapses back to her side of the bed and they look at each other for awhile. Ava traces the outline of her lapel. Deborah doesn’t make a move to take things any further so neither does Ava, abiding her earlier command. She lies with her and it feels like she’s on a cloud, the pleasure sedating her blissfully.
Ava wakes up five hours later to an empty bed.
The only evidence of their midnight dalliance is the way her sleep shorts stick to her uncomfortably. One side of her brain is sick with anxiety that Deborah has fled, never to be seen again. The other is utterly ecstatic. She had sex with Deborah Vance. She touches her lips to feel the smile on her face.
She finds Damien waiting on the bus. Apparently Deborah is doing her interview. She waits until 12, slowly dying of impatience, before asking when she’ll be back.
“Oh, she’s done. She’s walking around Old City Cemetery.”
“By herself?”
Damien shrugs. “She likes grave yards.”
That is surprisingly unsurprising. Ava finds her on a dead man’s bench next to a mausoleum.
“Window shopping?” She asks and Deborah laughs as she takes a seat next to her. “How was the interview?”
“Oh, fine. Boring.” She has her hands in her jacket pockets and she watches passersby.
Ava’s leg bounces. “Are we gonna have a conversation about… any of this?”
She hears Deborah tut, feels her eye roll. “Not everything needs to be therapized.”
“I’m not suggesting therapy — although, you know how I feel about that. I just think it would be helpful to get some clarification?”
“You’re free to say whatever you wanna say.”
So often talking to this woman feels like pulling teeth.
“Well what if I wanna ask things?”
“Like what?”
“Like… is that going to happen again? Or are we just going to pretend nothing happened until it does? I mean, I’m totally down to do that, it's just for practicality’s sake I’d love to get a hold on whether I should be showering everyday.”
Deborah scrunches her face up. “You weren’t doing that anyway?”
“I’m more of an alternate days kind of girl. But, hey, if that’s a boundary for you, I totally get it.”
“God, you’re exhausting.”
“Regretting all those jokes about dating women?”
“We’re not…” She trails off but her rejection of the word dating still stings.
“Right. But we're…?”
“I don’t know, Ava. Jesus.” Her exasperation feels like a cover for something else. “…You can’t tell anyone,” she adds quietly. All those years between them seem to melt away then and Ava is left looking at someone nervous. Someone shy.
It cracks something open in Ava’s chest. It’s guilt. A crowbar pulling her ribs apart. She’s betrayed her before. Why would Deborah think Ava isn’t capable of using this against her as soon as they breakout into another argument?
“Trust me, I learnt that lesson. I’m never doing that again.” She turns to face her, Deborah stays looking at the park-goers. “Plus, outing is like the number one gay sin.”
“That email was just a different kind of outing,” she points out.
“I know. I’m sorry.” If only she knew just exactly what she was fucking up when she sent it.
“I know,” she says like she wants to forgive but she’s just not used to it. Like she’s really trying.
Ava wants to ask so many questions. Is she okay? Does she want her to leave? Did she like it? Is this going to go any further? Something stops her asking. She’s not sure which Deborah she’s talking to. Not sure which answer she’ll get.
Two Corgis come bounding up to them then. Ava looks up to see Josefina in a dress and sunglasses. She looks like she’s on holiday.
“Hello, my babies!” Deborah coos as Barry puts his paws up on her knees.
“That pilot you have is a real charmer,” Josefina says. “I got his number but I don’t think I’ll call. His ears are too big.”
“You flew the dogs across the country?!” Ava is filled with love at the sight of this insane woman patting her beloved dog’s head. She’ll have to have a serious conversation with her about her fuel emissions later but right now Cara is licking her hand.
Josefina catches them up on what’s going on in Vegas. Kiki apparently is seeing someone new. Ava feels bad about not calling. She can’t face lying to her about the vast amount of gossip she can’t tell her. They have dinner together as a family before Josefina flys back to Nevada. Ava’s admonishments about CO2 emissions get laughed off, which pisses her off for at least twenty minutes.
Deborah sits next to her on the bench at the sushi restaurant they’re at. She’s so fucking close but Deborah makes no move to touch her. No palm on her thigh. No brush of their hands. She’s going to explode if they don’t get a moment alone.
They’re back on the road that night. It gets too much in the early hours. She’s back in her coffin. She’s not resting peacefully. All she can think about is the widening of Deborah’s eyes when she came on top of her. It’s driving her insane.
Apparently giving up drugs to curb her impulsiveness is futile when her brain is capable of creating chemicals just as powerful.
She slips out of her bunk as quietly as possible.
Deborah is still sat up in bed, working on her iPad, when Ava slides the door open. She gives her an expectant look, like she’s waiting for Ava to explain why she’s just barged in. It shifts to understanding when she shuts the door behind her.
Ava marches right up to her and plucks the iPad out of her hands, she chucks it haphazardly on the bed and peels back the covers.
“Ava—“
“Deborah,” she imitates her tone, not hesitating before climbing into her lap much like Barry had earlier in the day.
She kisses her left cheek. Her right cheek. Her mouth. Deborah sighs, a mix of indignation and relief.
“Is this okay?” Ava asks. She so desperate for some kind of contact, she barely acknowledges how bold she’s being.
“Nothing about this is okay.” But she can’t stop the little smile around her mouth. “We can’t. Damien—“
“Damien is dreaming about a flight schedule.” Ava dismisses her worries quickly. It feels like she’s been drugged she wants her so badly. Deborah’s mouth hangs open when she sees Ava squeeze her thighs together. “Do you have any idea how I much I want you?”
“Why do you do this to me?” She mutters. There’s a flush on her face. It’s the admission Ava’s been waiting for. Verbal acknowledgment that Ava has an effect on her.
“What exactly do I do to you?” Ava raises a confident eyebrow. Deborah looks away. “You’re cute when you’re shy.”
“I’m not shy.” A boldfaced lie. In Ava’s fantasies Deborah had been dominant, almost degrading towards her. She’d imagined her scolding comments, teasing her as she fucked her. Making Ava wait, making her beg. The fact that she’s the opposite thrills her.
“You like watching me come,” Ava states and watches the truth of it flash across Deborah's face. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
She holds her gaze. It feels a little like a stand off. Ava wins by pulling her shirt off over her head.
Deborah looks at her chest like she can’t quite comprehend what she’s seeing.
“What do you want me to do?” It’s almost accusatory. How’s this my problem? What do you want me to do about it?
Ava smiles. “Just watch me,” she says. That’s familiar territory. She slips her hand down inside her shorts. “I think about touching you all the time,” she says, a little strained over the spike in her blood pressure. The pleasure sinks into her skin, spills out in waves.
Deborah reaches up and tentatively cups her breast. She rolls her thumb over her nipple.
“Fuck, Deborah.”
“I don’t even remember having breasts like that.” She looks contemplative. Ava wonders whether that’s all this is, if Deborah’s attraction to her is just her exploring an unmeetable longing for youth.
“Pale and sad?”
Deborah chuckles quietly and pinches her as her retort. It makes Ava jolt.
“Would you let me touch you?” She sighs as she bucks into her own hand.
Deborah looks at her face. She looks confused like this whole scenario is baffling to her. “Why would you want to do something like that?”
Ava takes it upon herself to prove a point; prove to Deborah just how much she wants her. She grasps her hand and guides it to her cunt.
“Jesus, Ava.”
A whine escapes her lips when Deborah cups her. The heel of her palm presses up against her clit, her fingers finding how soaked she is.
“Do I make you wet like this? Does this turn you on?” She must look insane. Her pupils dilated and her cheeks pink. Her chest heaves.
Deborah doesn’t answer. She slides her middle finger inside Ava instead.
“Oh, fuck.” She can feel herself clutching around her. “Keep… stay there.” She rubs her own clit while Deborah’s inside her, focuses on how connected it makes them.
“This is crazy,” Deborah mutters, Ava’s not sure if it’s to her or just a general observation. Her voice is low and heavy. This is fucking crazy.
Deborah gropes at her breast, more confident than before. The melding of sensations drives Ava insane. She rocks against Deborah’s hand — gasps when she feels her add another finger.
She whines when she comes, quickly covering her own mouth before Deborah can scold her. She’s still for a moment. Lets Deborah feel her flutter as she catches her breath. Then she pulls her fingers out. Deborah stares as she tastes herself, planting a kiss on each fingertip. Then her palm, then her wrist.
“What do you want?” She looks speechless. “Whatever you want, I want to give it to you.”
Deborah guides her hand down past her waistband. Ava feels like she’s winning the lottery, over and and over again.
She shuffles down the bed and pulls Deborah with her. She catches a glimpse of Deborah's stomach when her shirt rides up. God, she wants to see her so badly. She doesn’t ask to. She lets her fingers slide delicately through her. She feels like she’s going to go into cardiac arrest.
Deborah’s quiet. She turns her head, covers her own mouth with the knuckle of her index. Ava works with desperate precision. She circles her clit, adjusting pressure and speed until she sees her breath catch. Fuck writing as a career, her life’s ambition now is to make this woman feel good.
“God, you’re so hot.” She smiles at the way Deborah looks ready to reject the compliment but can’t because of how far gone she is.
There’s a moment where her anxiety creeps in. Maybe Deborah doesn’t actually like her. What if this becomes a failed experiment? She’s just experiencing a later-in-life crisis and is using Ava to feel something.
But Deborah gasps and it knocks the thought away. Her head tips back. Her body shudders underneath her. It lasts longer than Ava expects, her eyebrows pinched with pleasure. She doesn’t moan but she trembles and shakes. Watching Deborah Vance orgasm is the highlight of her life.
Then she’s pushing her hand away.
Ava kisses her pyjama-clad shoulder, the patch of exposed skin on her chest, her neck. “Was that good?”
She looks a little bashful. “Don’t fish for compliments.”
“I wouldn’t have to if you ever gave me feedback.”
Her thumb traces the barely-there bruise on Ava’s cheek. “That was good, honey,” she says. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Ava flushes at the praise. “Finally putting those catcher’s mitts to good use.”
Ava should know better than to expect a compliment without an insult tagged on the end. “I knew your obsession with my hands had erotic undertones.”
Deborah smiles. She looks tired in a deliciously sleepy way. Ava's heart wants to burst out her chest. There are so many things she wants to say, wants do to, wants to try.
“Can I sleep here?” She feels bold enough to ask now. Confident for the first time that her answer will be yes. “I’ll wake up before Damien and Marcus.”
“Sweetie, with the noises you just made, don’t bother. The entire east side of the i-10 knows you’re here.” Ava can feel herself blushing. She was so confident she’d kept quiet. Deborah softens at her embarrassment, strokes her face. “Don’t worry. I trust them.”
“Marcus already asked if we were fucking.”
“I know. He implied I should get you to sign a legal waiver before anything happened,” she laughs.
“Oh my God. I mean, I totally would if you wanted me to. I’m all about encouraging safe work environments. …Nothing to do with wanting to see Marcus’s face as he’s forced to get that document written up.” She smiles when Deborah laughs.
For the first time, Ava curls herself around Deborah as close as she possibly can. They usually sleep side-by-side like a married couple, long past physical intimacy. Now she wraps her arms around her, feeling her ribs through soft silk, pushing her face into the crook of her neck. It’s funny how they seem to be doing everything backwards.
“You think we’re gonna like, be okay?”
“Go to sleep, honey,” she whispers and strokes the top of her head.