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The frenetic thrum of Deborah’s heart, the roar of blood racing through her veins—it’s all enough to drown out rational thought, leaving her with nothing but anger, hot and heavy and thick, daring her to reach out across the table and throttle Ava before she can turn that smug, self-satisfied little smirk on Deborah another time.
The meeting is one gut punch after another. She listens as Ava, her new head writer, spins a story about Deborah’s “change of heart” to everyone in the room. So glib. A breath of laughter and a mouthful of lies.
No one says a word about it, of course; they’re all smiles and congratulations. But Deborah knows what they’re thinking. She’s already sinking, falling, drowning. A show on the verge of collapse before it’s ever even aired.
But no. No one says a goddam word. And Ava gets to sit there, gloating, taking it all as proof that Deborah was wrong to worry. Because she doesn’t know yet. Even now. She doesn’t know what it means to feel the old guard shuttering closed in front of her. All she sees is a room of flashing, too-white teeth arranged in magazine cover smiles. Deborah, though…she can smell the tang of copper still lingering in the air from their last sacrifice to a world Ava so desperately wants to scoff at even as she clamors for more.
“A drink to celebrate?” Rob asks as everyone else filters out, his eyes darting between Deborah and Ava.
“I’d lo—”
“Of course,” Deborah cuts in. She flashes Ava a too-wide smile. “I’d say you should join us, Ava, but you have a show to work on, don’t you?” She doesn’t give Ava a chance to reply before she’s sliding behind Ava’s chair. Her fingers itch to reach out and touch Ava, grab her, shake her—anything. She settles on a squeeze of Ava’s shoulder that veers toward bruising. “Wouldn’t want to be a disappointment on day one.” Deborah laughs loudly enough that Rob joins in, shaking his head and looking vaguely bemused as Deborah sidles over to him. “Can’t prove Nina right, hmm?” Deborah calls over her shoulder as she and Rob slip out the door, leaving Ava all alone.
---
“Get me out of this,” Deborah hisses into the phone, her gaze darting to the frosted glass pane only half-hiding her from her writing staff.
“What’s she done now?” Marcus asks, sounding less aggrieved on her behalf than usual. (There’s something going on there. She knows it. But she’s been far too preoccupied with Ava’s bullshit to sort through whatever hand-holding Marcus needs these days.)
“Not her,” Deborah huffs.
“Oh?” His voice lilts upward like it’s a question, but Deborah would bet good money he’s barely listening to a word she says.
“HR, Marcus! They’re making me take sexual harassment trainings.”
“Maybe it’ll be good for you.”
Pulling the phone away from her face, Deborah glances down to confirm that yes, it is still Marcus on the other line. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing. Did you get that calendar invite I sent you?”
Oh. That’s what this is about. “I don’t think I received it yet.” The little red icon blinks accusingly up at her from the calendar app.
“Right.” He’s using the same voice he uses with Ava, and Deborah burns at the indignity of it. “Well, it should be there when you refresh your email.”
Deborah had been planning to extend him the courtesy of pretending it had just arrived, but she decides against it. “I have to go. One of the network execs is here.” She hangs up before he can say another word.
After another painfully slow five minutes of videos about what not to do in the office—and jesus, were there ever a case to be made for self-employment, this is it—Deborah opens Marcus’s calendar invite. It reads little more than, “One on one, D and M.” With a roll of her eyes, she RSVPs “maybe” out of spite.
---
“That kind of shit hasn’t been funny since the 70s,” Ava huffs, scowling across the table at the same pube-beard who’d suggested a bit about Deborah’s inability to do anything but set her desk on fire during her guest spot.
“Bits like that kill every night. But you wouldn’t know, would you?” Pete shoots back. “You just waltz in here and act like—”
“Like it’s my job,” Ava cuts him off, spine stiffening as she fixes him with a hard glare. “A job I earned, and you didn’t. Probably because I’ve written a joke this decade.”
“Please, I’ve actually written jokes for this show this decade. Whole seasons of it, in fact.”
“They’re just words if no one’s laughing!”
Deborah bites down on the inside of her cheek to keep from smirking. Ava doesn’t deserve the victory. Instead she clears her throat and pushes back from the table. “Don’t call me in again until there’s something workable.” She holds Ava’s gaze. “Get your team in order, or don’t come back from lunch.”
She can see the muscles working in Ava’s jaw, the little vein by her temple throbbing.
She spins on her heels before Ava can see the satisfaction in her eyes.
---
“Deborah,” Marcus greets her, his hands folded in front of him and his tone even, like he’s practiced this in front of his mirror a dozen times.
Deborah lets out a loud huff of an exhale. “Look, I really don’t have time for this. We start taping in four days, and the writers’ room is a mess. None of them respect Ava, of course. I could have told her this would happen if she’d listened.”
“They would if you set an example for them.”
Deborah’s eyes narrow as she turns slowly back toward Marcus. “What did you say to me?”
“You set the tone now. It’s not just your room for a day or an afternoon this time. It’s your room for good. And if you want it functional, that’s on you, not her.”
“No one coddled me like that.”
“Fine. Then live with the consequences.”
“You don’t even like her!” It bursts out of Deborah with too much feeling. Her head is buzzing, and everything feels wrong, like she’s caught in the heart of some mutinous plot, having missed a dozen signs along the way. “Why are you taking her side?”
“I’m not…” Marcus rubs at the bridge of his nose. “I don’t like her. Didn’t like her. You’re right. But she’s the person you chose, and—”
“I didn’t choose her,” Deborah spits out. Ava’s quivering lip flashes in her mind. Ava’s voice pleading with Deborah to choose her, fight for her. The tears welling up and spilling down Ava’s cheeks.
“You chose that girl over everything.” It’s one of the only times Deborah has ever heard Marcus raise his voice, even slightly. “Over your QVC contracts. Over your old act. Over the advice of your lawyers, your staff—everyone, Deborah.”
Deborah swallows hard. “I didn’t choose her for this.”
“No. But you two handcuffed yourselves to each other from the start. And either you live with the consequences, or you give up again now that you have someone else to blame.”
It’s just far enough over the line that the whisper of guilt she’d been feeling goes up in flames, anger burning it to ash in an instant. “How dare you? I could fire you.”
“If you don’t want me to work through my two weeks, then fine.”
Something uncomfortable prickles under Deborah’s skin at the air of finality in his words, the sense of resolve turning them into cool, unbending steel. “Don’t be so dramatic,” she huffs.
Drumming the card in his hand against the glass of the tabletop, Marcus shakes his head. “You have your new chance. What you do with it is on you. But I’m taking mine. Finally.” He drops the card—a pale blue envelope, Deborah can see now—onto the table. “I’ll work through the next two weeks unless you tell me otherwise.”
Deborah’s made her career on witty repartee, but somehow all she can do is watch Marcus walk away from her in silence. When a noise finally comes, it’s little more than a broken gasp as she drops down into the chair he’d abandoned.
You’re lonely all the fucking time. And you’re gonna die that way too.
“Barry! Cara!” Deborah calls out, her voice echoing in the empty room.
Nothing.
“Barry!” Desperation—thin and reedy—cuts the word. “Come to mommy!”
The silence seems to reverberate through the whole house. Only then does Deborah remember that Josefina has the dogs out for their monthly grooming appointments today. The third Saturday of every month.
Right. Well, that settles that. There’s no harm in going to the office on the weekend.
Glancing around for her phone to summon Ava to work just for the satisfaction of refusing to acknowledge her, Deborah spies the small blue envelope still on the table. Her name is written on the front in Marcus’ handwriting—all caps, perfectly even. She debates burning it for old time’s sake, but curiosity finally wins out. (No one says you can’t burn an opened card anyway.)
Deborah,
Thank you for taking a chance on someone with no experience to overhaul your brand. These years have taught me so much. I may not be building your empire with you anymore, but I’ll always be there supporting it.
Marcus
There’s nothing particularly sentimental about it. And yet the tears Deborah had so carefully swallowed down watching Ava walk away come now. Irrepressible. One after another. Rolling, unimpeded, down Deborah’s cheeks until her collar is damp with them.
She’s halfway to her bedroom to avoid having anyone catch sight of her in this moment of weakness before she remembers.
There’s no one here to see her.
---
It is one day out to the first show, and the writers’ room is in worse shape than ever.
Deborah dons her highest stilettoes and slips into one of her favorite sequined blazers before throwing open her office door and marching into the suddenly silent room.
“You.” She points at pube-beard.
“Me?” Pete asks.
“Him?” Ava accuses.
“Tell me the funniest thing you’ve pitched today.”
“I…what? We’re not on air tonight.”
“No, but we’re blocking the opening monologue today, and you’ve all known that for days.”
“She’s your head—”
Deborah cuts him off with a little noise of censure. She gazes around the room, holding each writer’s gaze for a long moment before moving to the next one. There are a few familiar faces, people from Danny’s time who’d stayed on to help with the transition. There are a few new ones, too—network hires, Deborah’s concession to soothe any ruffled feathers after Ava’s self-appointment. The new ones (mostly) look appropriately nervous. “There’s a learning curve,” Deborah says, “I get it. But do you know what happens on a track when you don’t figure your way around the curve?” She pauses for a long moment for dramatic effect. “You slam into the fence.” Rounding back on Pete, Deborah flashes him a magnanimous smile. “Now, Peter, why don’t you pitch us something that shows us all that you can round that bend?”
Deborah can see the bob of his Adam’s apple beneath his beard.
“Nothing?” She arches her eyebrows in disbelief. “Give me the last thing you pitched. Whatever it was that turned into the absolute shitshow I had the misfortune of witnessing from my office.”
“Go on,” Ava goads him. “Tell her, Pete.”
Sweat prickles at the back of Deborah’s neck at the tenor of Ava’s voice, the cruel, cutting edge it’s taken on. It’s achingly familiar and utterly foreign all at once, and Deborah wants to hear it again.
“Fine. A current affairs quiz game you’d play with the audience. Only it’s, like, all stuff from the 70s.”
Deborah gives a noncommittal little hum. “Because I’m so old?”
“I mean, you are. Older. And if you’re going to pretend you’re not, then we can’t write jokes that fit.”
“Oh, absolutely.” She watches as the fight goes out of him, shoulders sagging with a sigh of relief. “I want jokes written for me. For my show. Not whatever version of the show you think this once was.”
Pete is squirming again. Good. Some sense left in him after all.
“Now get to writing.” She turns to head back to her office, spinning on her heel at the doorway. “Oh, and the key thing here: do make sure the script is actually funny. Otherwise you can join Peter down in HR to collect your severance package.”
“What the fuck?” It bursts out of Pete like a miniature eruption.
Deborah arches a single eyebrow. “Did anyone laugh at your ideas today?”
“Writing isn’t funny!”
“Not with you here it’s not.”
“You know what? Fuck you, I quit.”
“Great!” Deborah calls at his retreating form. “HR’ll be delighted!” She glances back at the rest of her writers. “As I said, there’s an open invitation for any of you to follow. Otherwise get to work.”
Without intending to, Deborah catches Ava’s eyes as she heads back to her office to call down and warn HR.
There’s something in Ava’s expression Deborah can’t quite parse, but it sends a ripple of pure feeling racing down her spine, and she can’t hide the shiver that runs through her before she manages to tear her gaze away from Ava’s.
---
For the first time in a long time, Deborah is petrified. Subbing for Danny had been one thing. A last-minute, salmonella-wrapped gift with no stakes beyond a single night’s glory. Her final show at the Palmetto was too tinged with bitter regret and anger, the decision to do the new material too spur of the moment for the fear to have time to settle deep in her gut.
But she’s had too many long weeks to build today up in her mind. Christ, she’s had a whole lifetime to build up the idea of this moment. A second chance at a late night premier.
This time, at least, the betrayal has already happened. A one-two punch from Ava, then Marcus. God knows bad things come in threes, but she dares to believe she’s braced enough to barely feel the impact of the inevitable next one.
(Still, she sends up a little prayer: Not tonight. Not the show. Not again.)
A knock sounds at her door, and Deborah takes a shaky inhale. Standing, she smooths down non-existent wrinkles in her silk blouse and plasters a smile on her face. Never let them see you sweat.
“Oh.” Deborah scowls. Annoyance (Ava doesn’t deserve the full weight of her anger) replaces apprehension in an instant. “It’s you.”
Ava flashes her a closed-lip smile. “It’s me.”
“What do you want?”
“Got a full script for ya. I called the team in early today. Thought you might want the extra time with it.”
“That’s you, isn’t it? Little miss presumptuous.”
“I…” Ava gives a wry little huff of laughter. “Whatever you say, Deb.”
“It is whatever I say. It’s my show.” Every tick of the clock feels like it’s dragging her closer and closer to the moment when that sentence transforms into a question, her glittery show makeup flaking away to nothing. Until then, she’ll clasp it closer and closer, hugging it so close to her body it couldn’t possibly fit anyone else after this.
“Do you want the script or no?” Ava’s so relaxed, even now, her body draped across one of the two cushioned chairs in front of Deborah’s desk. Deborah loathes her with every fiber of her being.
“Why are you hand-delivering it? Isn’t this a task for the whole room?”
“I don’t know if you remember, but you fired two people yesterday.” Ava’s tongue runs slowly along the edge of her teeth as her gaze flutters away from Deborah’s. “I’ve been appointed our sacrificial lamb.”
“One of them quit,” Deborah points out. She hopes he’s out there somewhere cursing himself and his big mouth full of bad ideas for losing himself a cushy little severance package.
“Sure. Anyway.” Ava nudges the pages onto Deborah’s desk. “I flagged the stuff I thought you might want to workshop.”
“Couldn’t even manage a final draft on your own?” Deborah arches an eyebrow but refuses to look up at Ava. Instead, she scans the page in front of her—eyes unseeing—until Ava shuffles her hideous boots into Deborah’s field of vision.
“If you want this to be your show, then act like it. Don’t just shut yourself up in this fucking cage of an office and bitch about hating the jokes we come up with.” Ava shrugs. “Or stay in here. Give up before you even try.”
Marcus’s parting shot comes floating back to Deborah, leaving a bitter taste in the back of her throat that not even a long sip of her Diet Coke can wash away.
Ava’s gone before Deborah can settle on an appropriate rejoinder.
Still, Deborah forces herself to read what’s in front of her. It’s…fine, she supposes. She can see Ava’s giant fingerprints all over it—the punchline to a mediocre joke that’s not Deborah’s style, swooping in to salvage it at the last second.
She hates every trace of Ava in the script. Hates even more that those traces make her laugh despite herself. Hates the most that they’re the only lines she actually cares enough about to want to workshop.
---
“To Deborah,” Rob toasts, holding up a glass of champagne at their very first post-production party.
The whole room is awash in the glittery afterglow of the first day, and all eyes are on her.
Deborah breathes it all in, holds her glass high, and basks in her moment.
She knows she should toast her head writer or the writer’s room at the very least. But she can’t bear to share the limelight this time. Not when… No, not this time.
So she takes a long sip from her glass and watches as the room lets out a collective sigh, the final whispers of stress seeping out of them until all that’s left is to drink and eat and wait for the show to air and the numbers to roll in.
The champagne soon gives way to liquor, and Deborah waves away a glass of something stronger for the time being. Even knowing that they’ve finished filming both halves of her two-day introduction and will have a long weekend to recover before the grind truly begins, Deborah feels like she needs to stay sharp, keep her wits about her. The numbers aren’t in yet. The axe could always fall. Best to see it coming.
Still, she lets herself be swept up in the pull of casual conversation and warm congratulations. She smiles just right at Rob, smokes a cigar outside with Winnie, listens as the social media team outlines all the press they have lined up to go out for her this weekend.
Then finally—finally—it’s time.
Deborah waves away offers for a chair, pacing restlessly in the back of the room as the final commercials play before they’re on.
Her breath shudders out of her at the sight of herself. Her show. Not a borrowed show. Not a guest segment. Not a taped, unaired pilot collecting dust in a basement. Her late night show.
She knows exactly where Ava is sitting, but she doesn’t dare look over. She doesn’t want to know if Ava is looking back at her, for her.
If her eyes happen to dart over in Ava’s direction once they’ve all settled into the rhythms of the show, well, that’s different. She’s scanning the whole room to see if the jokes are landing well, and that’s just crowd work—nothing personal.
She doesn’t expect to find Ava staring right back at her.
Deborah wrenches her gaze away before she can read anything into Ava’s expression. She’s sure it’s little more than smug satisfaction at the laughter in the room. Some sad little attempt at an “I told you so” that still won’t understand that a room full of laughter in the network headquarters in a blue city in a blue state isn’t the network’s priority in making decisions.
Shaking herself out of it, Deborah forces herself to take a seat and enjoy the rest of the show surrounded by the crew.
She lets herself laugh with them, gives a little bow in the face of their applause when it ends, smiles like she had no fear when Rob and Winnie congratulate her on a job well done.
The drinks flow even more freely then, the night turning into a proper party as spouses and partners and talent from other shows stream in to celebrate a new addition to the network.
Deborah might not have anyone coming there to join her, but she’s hardly alone. Ava has no idea what she’s talking about. Never has.
As if drawn into the light by Deborah’s wandering thoughts, Ava is suddenly there at the edges of Deborah’s periphery. She’s laughing too loudly over the music, clutching a glass of something amber-colored to her chest as she leans in to better hear the woman beside her. Deborah doesn’t recognize the woman, and a little twinge of annoyance prickles under her skin at Ava’s audacity—inviting in some stranger who has no idea what this night means to her.
“Deborah! Congratulations!”
“Thank you,” Deborah coos, letting herself be pulled into an air kiss by another man in a suit with enough money to keep her attention.
By the time Deborah’s freed herself from the last of her well-wishers, Ava is nowhere to be found. Good, Deborah things, even as a small, well-buried part of herself that she despises panics at the abandonment.
Deciding to take that as a sign that she’s had enough of the crowds and the drinks and the attention—especially as it’s slowly dissipating away from her, losing its center of gravity—Deborah does her rounds, thanking all the right people, blowing air kisses, and promising they’ll be back to do it again come Monday morning.
The wave of cool night air that hits her as she pushes open the studio’s glass doors is a welcome feeling, and Deborah takes a moment to believe that this is all real, that it’s not going anywhere, before she fishes her keys out from her purse.
Only to find two people leaning up against her car, hands wandering.
She presses the alarm button and watches with pleasure as they jolt apart. Or, more accurately, as one of them jumps.
She should have guessed she’d know the other.
“Oh, shit,” Ava says, using that slow drawl she puts on when she knows exactly what she’s doing. Her ass is still pressed against the car door. “Is this your car?”
“It is the host’s spot, isn’t it?” Deborah shoots back with an arch of her eyebrow and a saccharine smile designed to kill.
“Would you look at that,” Ava breathes out. Her mouth is coated in lipstick that isn’t hers, and Deborah wants to sneer at it, mock it, but she knows Ava would only ever misunderstand her.
“Don’t you have a home to get back to, or are you still out on the streets?” Deborah doesn’t ask when Ava’s coming to get the rest of her shit from the guest room. It would sound…untoward. Like something it never has been.
“Thank you for your touching concern. I’ll be sure to write a joke about your latest philanthropic interest in Los Angels’ unhoused population for Monday’s segments.”
“We’re just waiting for our Uber,” the blonde woman chimes in, clearly trying to deflect from the tension that’s positively crackling in the air between them as she drags Ava up onto the sidewalk and out of Deborah’s way.
Deborah doesn’t dignify it with a response, simply walking past them and sliding into the safety of her car. The engine turns over with a quiet purr, and Deborah takes a deep, settling breath before flicking on her high beams, illuminating Ava in a too bright beam of light that makes her squint for a moment before she can adjust.
It’s bright enough now Deborah to see everything in perfect detail as Ava pulls the woman back into her space, gargantuan hands caressing the dip of a perfectly toned waist as she whispers something into the woman’s ear that makes her shiver.
Not once do Ava’s eyes leave Deborah’s.
---
The reviews are good. The numbers are good. The tweet counts or whatever the fuck are good.
It should feel good.
Instead it feels safe.
The jokes are fine. They’re funny enough for middle America, vaguely progressive enough for the coasts. They’re mostly inoffensive with hints of sharpness. It’s all perfectly fine.
But it’s not enough.
Marty does not get it.
Marty shouldn’t be here, but he is. Well, really, Deborah shouldn’t be there, but she is.
Because Marcus is gone—officially now, as of 5pm—and Ava is a traitor, and for all his faults, Marty can listen well enough.
And listen he did. But he doesn’t get it. He sees the success, the good numbers and the good crowds and the good laughs, but he doesn’t get that it’s hollow. Then again, Vegas is nothing but hollow fun with the world’s best PR spin. She should have anticipated this.
“Come on, Deb,” Marty cajoles. “Come down to the Palmetto for old times’ sake.”
“And make you a million off of viral tictac videos?” She shakes her head. “Not a chance. I’m just in town to pick up a few things I left behind.”
He flashes her a knowing smile, and a little part of her softens despite herself. “You’ve got a whole entourage to run your errands now.”
“Yes, well… You know how it is. Can’t have them damaging the fine silks.”
His mouth twitches. “Of course not. Well, if I can’t tempt you with the Palmetto floor, can I at least tempt you with a glass of wine? I’ll even let you pick the vintage.”
For the first time that evening, Deborah feels good about her choice.
She lets him pour generously for enough glasses that when Late Night’s air time rolls around, she doesn’t protest the idea of watching together. He’s got some hideous monstrosity of a leather sofa that sucks her half into it, but she’s just drunk enough not to mind how unflattering it is.
“That’s a good look on you,” he says, voice low enough not to break the spell the television seems to have cast over them.
Deborah hums. “Always be nice to wardrobe.”
“I meant the host’s desk.”
Something old and dormant rouses at that. He’s engaged now—she knows it—but it would be so easy to lean into him, let instinct take over. Some pang of conscience stays her hand, though, and she contents herself with a breathy laugh. “I made them buy a whole new desk for me.”
“Good.” His hand lands—briefly, so briefly—on her thigh, a gentle squeeze of his fingers before he’s pulling it back to his own space. “You deserve it.”
Deborah swallows hard and watches in silence, listening for Marty’s laughter, making sure it lands at all the right places.
When it switches over to commercials, he turns ever so slightly toward her, propping his weight onto his shoulder. “You know, I’m surprised that kid of yours doesn’t have you pushing America’s limits every night.”
“That—? Oh.” Ava. “Well, it—it’s different now. National television’s a little different than a self-funded comedy special.”
“Sure. But still.” He swirls his wine around his glass. “Didn’t think she was one for the nuance of that distinction,” he says around a laugh.
Deborah wants to tell him he’s right. Ava’s not one for that distinction. But something’s gone out of her. Like she doesn’t care anymore. Like…
Deborah jolts upright. “I need to go.”
“What? Now?”
Deborah remembers she’s in Las Vegas. Even if she leaves now, it’ll be the middle of the night by the time she gets back to LA, and she doesn’t even know where Ava lives anymore. Unless she’s been clambering through the windows to the guest room every night. But no, the security system would have caught that. Unless Josefina… No, Josefina’s too loyal for that.
“Deb?” Marty looks concerned now, his blue eyes crinkling at the edges as his brows draw together. “You look a bit flushed.”
She flicks a hand through the air. “A call I just remembered. You keep watching.” She manages a proper smile. “I want a list of all the compliments I’ve missed when I get back.”
That finally convinces him she’s fine, and he eases back into the couch, looking relieved. “You got it.”
The phone is already ringing as Deborah strides back out to Marty’s terrace, and she paces while she waits for Ava to pick up.
“It’s Friday night,” Ava answers. “There’s no way you already need us back in the office.”
“You’re slacking off!” Deborah’s voice is sharp, cutting through the still night air.
“What?” A bubble of incredulous laughter bursts over the line. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m union now, Deb. We have rights.”
“Not—not you precious little Friday night. The show. You want it to fail.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re phoning it in. It’s fine, but when have you ever been good with fine?”
“Isn’t fine safe?” Ava shoots back, a taunting edge to her words. “Aren’t you the one who’s all about safe and careful these days? You got one taste of success, and suddenly everything we worked on went right out the goddam window.”
“That’s not the same,” Deborah growls. She feels caged in by the wrought iron fence running around the terrace—catastrophic even under the sprawling night sky. “I need to be safe with the network. The show needs to be good. Beyond good. And you’re not getting it there.”
“Maybe because you’re always holed up in your fucking office.” Ava’s voice is rising in volume, and Deborah thrills at this sign of the old Ava, at the way it rouses the anger deep inside her chest back to life in turn.
“You told me you’d make this show good if you were head writer, and all I’m seeing is the same old shit,” Deborah bites out, steamrolling right over Ava. “I could have kept any of those hacks, and I’d be getting the exact same scripts on my desk.”
“Fuck you.” There are no tears in Ava’s voice this time—just bitterness veering toward good old-fashioned loathing. “I told you this show would be better for our relationship, but news flash: we don’t have a relationship anymore. And don’t you dare pretend like I haven’t been salvaging something decent out of the absolute fucking shitshow of a writers’ room you left me with.”
“If you were good enough, you’d manage better than decent.”
“I am good. You want to see how good I am? Leave your office and fucking face me at the table instead of behind some red pen scratch marks on an already finished script. Get in the goddam room and act like you’re someone who can do more than read off a cue card.”
“Don’t you dare insinuate—”
“I don’t have to insinuate! You’re so fucking butthurt that I—”
“Is that the talent I’m paying for? Butthurt?”
“There you go again. Nitpicking a single word without even listening to the substance.”
“Words matter!”
“I know! I’m a fucking writer!”
“You’ll excuse me if I have a hard time remembering that these days,” Deborah sniffs.
“Oh my god, just say what this is really about.”
Deborah’s brow furrows deeply enough that she has to take a conscious exhale to release it. “This is about the show. I didn’t wait half a century to blow my last chance.”
“Hey.” Ava’s voice gentles, and Deborah’s hackles are up in an instant.
“Don’t you dare.”
“Fine. You want a good show? Stop pushing me away. I don’t care if you like me. I don’t care if you hate me. Just sit down at the table.” Ava’s breathing is ragged, loud enough that Deborah can hear it over the line. “Do you not remember prepping for your guest set?” When Deborah doesn’t answer, Ava plows on. “Half the staff writers literally left the room, Deb. And I think one of the ones who stayed started playing Shrek on his laptop. What made that show good was you and me together. And I think deep down you already know that.”
Deborah hangs up before Ava can say another word.
---
If Deborah is sitting at the head of the writers’ room table on Monday morning, that’s entirely her choice. She could say something about having wanted to give the writers a chance to find their way toward cohesion before she stepped in, but she doesn’t need to explain herself. Besides, they’re nowhere near cohesive. They cobble together a hodge-podge of workable jokes for Ava to stitch into some Frankensteined corpse of a perfectly fine show for Deborah to deliver with just enough charm and panache that it masquerades as good.
But all that’s about to change.
“Go,” Deborah barks at them when they gawk up at her.
A smirk is playing about Ava’s mouth, and Deborah studiously avoids looking in her direction.
“Um.” One of the new hires—one of the better ones, Deborah thinks—dares to raise her hand. “Do you want us to pitch to you or Ava?”
“I don’t want you to pitch to anyone. I want to know what you think is funny. Lisa, right?”
“Lizzie,” the woman corrects her.
Normally Deborah would make a comment about its being close enough for someone who might not be there tomorrow, but those pesky HR tutorials about appropriate workplace conduct are still fresh enough that she forces a polite, closed-mouth smile and nods at the girl. “Lizzie, tell me what’s funny in the world.”
“Oh, um, I mean—”
“Anything,” Deborah says, her patience already wearing thin. “Give me a bit.”
“There’s this TikTok trend where, um, where people are doing this whole dressing for the male gaze versus dressing for the female gaze. And we could riff on that. Like, dressing for the barista gaze. Or the Chipotle guy’s gaze.”
“What says gimme that extra guac, no charge, my man?” Ava chimes in, laughter threading its way through her words.
The jokes roll right over Deborah’s head, but she can see the table starting to come alive, so she nudges them, prods them into talking.
And they’re…a mixed bag. There are some duds who will either get their act together by the end of this week or meet Sally down in HR, who’ll get a fruit basket if she doesn’t utter a word of complaint about the deluge of paperwork. But there are a few sparks of promise in there, too. People who aren’t just giving her Danny’s old bits but with “female edition” stamped on them. So she pushes, coaxes, prods, tries to pull on those threads of promise until they calcify into something genuinely funny.
But it’s still missing bite.
The thing is: it’s safer this way. It’s safer and easier. But she’s starting to believe it might not be better.
---
“You listened,” Ava says, daring to barge her way into Deborah’s dressing room the Friday after they’ve finished taping. The rest of the writing team is probably long gone, and Ava could have been, too. Should have been. But instead she’s lingering exactly where she’s not wanted.
“I believe you’re violating HR policy,” Deborah calls over her shoulder, shrugging out of one of the many blazers that wardrobe leaves pressed and ready for her to change into at a moment’s notice.
“You keep stripping, and you’ll be the one breaking the rules, lady.”
Deborah spins on her heels, already glaring. “Why are you here?” They’ve been sharing space all week, but Deborah hasn’t deigned to so much as look in Ava’s direction.
Ava squirms uncomfortably under the weight of Deborah’s sudden attention. “I just…I know you’re pissed at me, but I’m glad you’re actually giving this a chance. You—the show…it matters. I know that. And I want it to work.”
“Yeah, well, this week was barely funnier than last.”
Ava grits her teeth, the mask of collegiality slipping faster than BP’s stock numbers had after those oil-slicked penguins paraded all over the nightly news. “Do you really need me to put a fine point on it for you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The words float over Deborah’s shoulder as she packs her bag.
“Maybe because you don’t look at me!”
Deborah can feel a hot rush of heat climbing up the back of her neck, curling around her throat. “I just did, didn’t I?” She won’t turn back around and face Ava now, won’t prove her point for her.
The door slams shut, and Deborah lets out a shuddering breath, her hands darting out to clutch the edge of the vanity.
Except that when she pushes herself upright, ready to shake off the grief-tinged rage, Ava’s looking right back at her in the mirror. “What the hell—”
“You and me, baby,” Ava taunts, stepping much too far into Deborah’s space, holding Deborah’s gaze through the glass.
“I’ll call HR and have you fired before you can so much as open your mouth to try to blackmail me,” Deborah rasps, rounding on Ava.
“For what? Having the audacity to want to talk to you?”
“Oh yes, that’s what this looks like.”
“This”—Ava gestures between them, chest heaving with the force of her anger—“is what works. Like, yeah, whatever, we’re both funny enough people. But that thing you’re missing? That’s us together, Deb. Like it or not.”
You two handcuffed yourselves to each other from the start. Marcus’s taunting words echo in Deborah’s mind, ringing uncomfortably true, and her stomach cramps at the image.
“Sure, you get all the expected laughs at all the right places this way. But you and me together?” Ava lets out a little sound that’s all feeling on her next exhale, and she’s close enough that Deborah can feel it dancing across her lips. “That’s the kind of laughter you can’t help but give in to.”
“It’s all laughter,” Deborah shoots back, even though she knows it’s not true.
“Yeah, okay. And a sneeze is the same as an orgasm.”
“What?” Shaking her head, Deborah flings an arm through the air between them. “You know what? No. I don’t want to know what happens in your brain. That’s between you and your priest. Or do they just go straight for the exorcist with you?”
Ava snorts with laughter, and something in Deborah preens at the sound of it. “That’s what I mean. I shouldn’t be laughing, but I am. Because I couldn’t help it.”
“Go have your inappropriate workplace orgasm laughter elsewhere.”
“Oh come on, Deb,” Ava whines, drawing the syllables out like sun-warmed taffy. “You know it’s not the same without you.”
“You seemed to be just fine at the premier party.” Deborah regrets the words the moment they leave her mouth. Even more so when Ava lights up at them. She should have just sent the girl away, shooed her on home to whatever sad couch she’s sleeping on these days. But no, the opening was too obvious, and she’d fallen right into it, leaving herself looking sad and desperate.
“A sneeze is a sneeze, but sometimes you still want one,” Ava says with a wiggle of her eyebrows.
“I don’t want to know.”
“Fine. Why don’t you tell me why you flew your private jet all the way down to Marty’s instead, hmm? Know a little about sneezing yourself? Or is that just, like, a sniffle?”
“Are you stalking me or something?”
“Don’t you wish. But no, you never turned off find my friends.”
“And?” Deborah makes a mental note to have Marcus show her how to turn it off before remembering he’s gone. Well…she can always throw the phone into a puddle and get Damien to buy her a new one. “I’ll have you know, HR says virtual harassment and stalking still count.”
“Glad you were listening. You might have noticed that slapping and throwing healing crystals at your employees are also forbidden.”
Deborah rolls her eyes. “Does this have a point?”
“The point is that you know! I know you know this show could be better, and I know you know that we’ll only get there together.”
“I’ve done this on my own for a hell of a lot longer than you’ve even been alive.”
“Fine.” Ava shakes her head. “If that’s the way you want it, have at it.”
This time, Deborah watches to make sure Ava leaves.
---
The next Monday’s and Tuesday’s shows are the worst they’ve ever had.
Nothing so horrendous that Rob is breathing down Deborah’s throat—yet—or that media outlets are picking up on it, but enough for Deborah to feel it somewhere deep in her bones, this sense of everything slipping away from her. The audience’s laughter is shallow and uneven, and Deborah wants to roll her eyes at half the shitty, overdone punchlines she’s forced to deliver.
On Wednesday, Deborah tells her writing staff they have five minutes to get whatever food and coffee they’ll need for the entire day, then hauls Ava into her office, practically throwing her against the door as it slams closed behind them. “Fix this,” she growls, one perfectly manicured finger pressed directly into Ava’s sternum. “Fix this or I will have you out on your ass with so many network NDAs shoved down your throat that not even TMZ will risk printing your little stories about me.”
Deborah can feel the thud of Ava’s heart, the rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath her finger.
Ava’s tongue slowly curls around her lower lip, her teeth chasing in its wake.
Deborah trembles with rage and fear and grief all tangled up in a catastrophic tidal wave of emotion.
“I can’t fix the show because I can’t fix you,” Ava finally says. Her eyes are as hard and flinty as they had been that first day in the writers’ room.
Deborah wants to claw at her until she breaks, struck suddenly with the absurd image of tearing into Ava’s flesh until she’s left as raw and exposed as Deborah feels now.
Some hint of the impulse must show in her gaze because Ava seems to shrink back ever so slightly, and Deborah thrills at it. Never one to let a good thing be, she pushes further into Ava’s space, teeth bared and aimed at her jugular. “You want my attention on you? You want me to look at you?” Her mouth pulls back into a terrifying approximation of a smile. “Fine. Then brace yourself.”
Ava swallows heavily. Her gaze drops away from Deborah’s heated stare, one of her hands twitching at her side like she’d just barely bitten back the impulse to reach out.
The swish of the door to the main writers’ room breaks whatever spell had fallen over them, and Deborah wrenches herself back, shooing Ava out of her office without another word.
They spend the whole morning at each other’s throats. Every mediocre bit, every trite, tired joke—all of them get thrown back to Ava until the rest of the room is nothing but background noise, the other writers doing little more than throwing tinder onto the pyre blazing between the two of them.
It should be a disaster.
Instead, for the first time since they’ve started, the show has bite, the jokes sharpened to deadly precision.
Two of the writers quit before filming has even finished.
Deborah goes home and fucks herself to the sound of the crowd’s roaring laughter.
She comes harder than she ever has.
---
On Monday, Sally from HR calls up to Deborah’s office about scheduling a morning meeting.
Deborah assumes it’s about filling the now three vacancies on the writing team. (Not that they need to be filled. Honestly, the show’s sharper without the dead weight.)
At least, that’s what she assumes until she sees Ava seated in the other chair in front of Sally’s desk.
“I’ll—I’ll be right back,” Deborah gasps, a cold sweat chilling her to the bone and her stomach lurching violently at the sight of what can only be the end.
She’s staggering out from one of the stalls when Ava walks into the bathroom.
“No,” Deborah manages, her voice hoarse and deadly. “Don’t—I don’t ever want to see you again.”
“Hey! Look, I—whatever you think this is, it’s not. I swear to you. I didn’t—I wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Deborah taunts, letting her voice go hard and cold and cruel.
“Maybe,” Ava hedges, with a little shrug of her shoulders. “But not like this.”
Deborah’s breath rushes out of her in an instant, and she has to clutch the sink to keep from collapsing under the weight of whatever is happening.
Deborah can still taste bile—sharp and bitter—in the back of her throat as she and Ava walk back down to HR. A united front, if only for show.
“Ava, Deborah,” Sally greets them, her gaze flitting between them. “Please, sit.”
They do.
“I’ve called you here today about the writers’ room staffing needs, as well as to address a few complaints we’ve had about…well, what’s been seen by some as ageism and insubordination on your part, Ava, and targeted harassment on your part, Deborah.”
Deborah blinks dumbly across the desk at Sally.
“I realize there’s a longer history with your past writing partnership than what we normally have here at the network, but in the office it would be best for you both to remember that the staff see you as supervisor and employee, and there are certain expectations and responsibilities that come with those roles.”
Deborah relaxes back into her chair, adrenaline still pulsing through her veins but the panic seeping out of her body. “Of course,” she says in her most placating tones.
The rest of the meeting washes over Deborah like a gray haze, and it isn’t until they’re in the elevator that Ava speaks to her again. “I told you, Deb. Not like that.” She steps a little closer, voice lowering to a husky whisper. “I’d do a lot of things I never thought I’d do. But only to keep you.”
---
The pared down writers’ room remains something of a blessing. The ones left are the smartest and the sharpest—and, most importantly, the ones who’ve realized just how easily they could be hawking their resumes on LinkedIn the next morning.
It’s as if something has finally clicked: the realization that they’re no longer writing for a 15-year-old show that can coast on good will and inertia. No, they’re finally writing like there’s something at stake, and they’ve got even more to prove.
Deborah isn’t quite so coddling anymore, either, calling out bad ideas when she hears them, but those are less frequent these days, too. The other writers have finally started to learn the intricacies of Deborah’s voice, catching the rhythms of her particular brand of humor. Apparently watching her and Ava spar across the head of the table has been good for them. Who said the children of divorce couldn’t thrive?
They’re just about to break for lunch one day when Angel, one of the fresh hires, cracks a joke that’s just skirting the edges of propriety, and Deborah can’t help the cackle of loud laughter that bursts out of her like a bubble popping in her chest.
Angel looks delighted, practically floating on air out the door to lunch.
Feeling rather magnanimous in light of the productive morning, Deborah turns to Ava, only to find her glaring daggers at Angel’s retreating back.
Deborah should feel like gloating. She should laugh at Ava’s pityingly obvious fit of jealousy.
Instead something hot and heady blooms deep in her gut, spreading outward until its pulsing in her very fingertips. “Jealousy’s an ugly color on you,” she manages once they’re the only two left in the room, but it comes out all wrong. Her voice is rough, evacuated of all the callous mockery she’d intended.
It’s too much, all at once, and Deborah flees before she can say something she’ll regret.
---
The next morning, though, Ava shows up late. With Angel. In the exact same outfit she was wearing the day before.
She locks eyes with Deborah from across the room as she leans in and whispers something in Angel’s ear that makes her giggle and knock her shoulder against Ava’s.
Deborah sneers at them and spends the morning reminding every last one of the writers exactly how high her standards are.
At lunch, she hauls Ava into her office. “I could have you fired,” Deborah hisses the moment the door is closed.
“For what?” Ava drawls. “It’s not against my contract to make another woman laugh, is it?”
A nearly inhuman sound wrenches its way out of Deborah’s throat, and an answering pink flush blooms high on Ava’s cheeks, her eyes gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
“Or are you ready to admit why it is we’re both still here? Why the show’s suddenly working?”
Spinning, tilting, the world flips over on its axis. “Get out.” The words are strained and brittle. “Get. Out.”
---
Despite it all (because of it all? Deborah doesn’t know anymore), Friday’s show is one of their best yet. The opening monologue is spot on. Their special guests match Deborah’s vibe beat for beat. And Deborah, having finally given in to Ava’s continual attempts to push her toward more overtly political territory, lands a series of zingers against the Republican presidential nominee that has the audience on their feet, cheering and howling with laughter long after the cameras cut.
Deborah had been certain Ava would find her after that. She’d even lingered in her dressing room, waiting for what felt like the inevitable.
She’d waited. And waited and waited and waited.
Her mood had darkened considerably by the time she got home, and it was only a particularly well-cooked dinner and a generous glass of wine that had her feeling slightly more herself by the time Late Night came on.
If nothing else, reliving the crowd’s glee would help. She didn’t watch the show every night anymore, but most night she still found the time to put it on, notebook in hand, ready to clock all the minute adjustments they’d need to make moving forward if the show was going to be its best.
Tonight she leaves the notebook in her office, pouring herself another glass of wine instead. Settling into the couch in her favorite silk pajamas, she allows herself one night to play at being just another viewer at home.
Just as the closing monologue is really building to a head, though, Deborah’s phone chimes. With a growl of annoyance at the interruption to the flow, she pulls it up to her face, finding Ava’s name on the screen. Of course. Always there to ruin the moment.
Ava: I told you the political stuff would work.
Ava: when it’s so good you just can’t help it
Deborah: Yet you couldn’t even stay through the end of taping.
Deborah glances up to watch herself land another joke. She can see the pure delight etched on her features in HD as she cackles right along with the studio audience. It may as well have been a crowd at a proper comedy club the way she was working the room.
Ava: I couldn’t stay. Not after that.
Before Deborah can start to type a response, her phone rings. Deborah scowls. She already knows who it’ll be. The only person it could possibly be.
“Calling with your excuse at the ready?” Deborah answers.
“How was I supposed to look at you after that?” Ava asks. Her voice is thin and reedy, and Deborah’s eyes narrow. “How was I supposed to do anything but…?” Ava’s voice hitches, a stuttering whimper of an exhale making its way out of her.
Deborah’s heart skitters to a halt before lurching into triple time. “Ava,” she manages, the word clawing its way out of her throat—a warning and a plea all at once.
“Look at you,” Ava orders. On screen, Deborah is taking a bow, waving and blowing kisses to the roaring crowd. Over the phone, Ava lets out a keening whine.
Deborah should hang up.
The camera pans around to show the audience. They’re on their feet clapping for her.
“Fuck,” Ava gasps, followed by a choked-off sound—the answer to a question Deborah should never have let herself ask.
Deborah scrambles to end the call.
She has her hand between her thighs in an instant, fingers slipping around cool silk to where she’s hot and needy underneath. Her breath catches in the back of her throat.
She can hear the television switching to a new program and fumbles with the remote until the screen goes black.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Deborah desperately tries to drown out the world until it’s nothing but her and the feeling of her fingers slipping along hot flesh.
She can still hear the memory of Ava’s whimpers echoing in the silent room.
Unbidden, thoughts of what could have been drift before her. Ava, cheeks flush with pleasure, waiting for Deborah in her dressing room. Ava, unable to wait, her fingers already deep inside her cunt. Ava, so desperate for her—only for her.
Deborah comes with a loud groan.
Her back protests as she pushes herself back up, and she gives herself a moment to catch her breath. She doesn’t dare give herself more than a moment, though, can’t let herself dwell on what has happened, on what it means.
She’ll take some of those CBD melatonin gummies Josefina continues to rave about and forget everything for a solid seven hours.
Patting around for her phone, Deborah finally pries it out from between two of the couch cushions only to see that her call with Ava is still connected. She blinks down at the screen. With a shaking finger, she hangs up.
Well, Ambien is just as good. So what if it’s closer to twelve hours of unconsciousness? It is the weekend, after all.
---
Come Monday morning, Deborah has resolved to act like everything is completely normal.
Until Ava walks in and trips over her own feet at the sight of Deborah leaning back in her desk chair. Ava’s eyes go wide, cheeks flushing a brilliant shade of pink, and all Deborah can think is that she knows what Ava sounds like when she comes.
“I’m not feeling well,” Deborah croaks out. “Run the room today.”
Ava manages a jerky nod, and Deborah slams her office door shut before she can give it another thought.
---
After two more days of feigning at illness—not that anyone thinks she’s faking a thing, what with the flushed cheeks and glassy eyes—Deborah forces herself back out to the writers’ room with a long list of notes from the past several shows. The list is good. It keeps her focused. Pointed criticism that’ll keep everyone on track. No room for distractions.
Each morning that week and the next she comes in with a new list that she reads from without once looking over at the woman sitting beside her.
Aware that she can’t quite afford to bleed people unless she wants her writers’ room to dwindle down to little more than her and Ava locked in a glass cage together day in and day out—she shudders for all the wrong reasons at the thought of that—she keeps it constructive, and she can feel the team getting better each day. Tighter, sharper, funnier.
Confirmation of that progress arrives in the form of an announcement directly from Rob the next Friday morning: the show has been renewed for a second season.
The writers’ room is positively buzzing with the energy of it, and Deborah’s feeling benevolent enough to treat them to lunch with some of the surplus budget their early-season firings had opened up while she goes out to a celebratory lunch with Rob and some of the other higher ups.
There’s still a show to film—they all know that—but she won’t say no to a toast to her future at the network. And if she comes back a little looser, well, all the better for the writers whose enthusiasm for a second season and a future at the network hasn’t quite translated into enthusiasm for settling down to work and finishing a script for today.
She stops short in the doorway to her office, her purse halfway down her arm.
“Script,” Ava says by way of an explanation, holding out a packet of paper.
“Very funny.” Deborah jerks her head in the direction of the writers’ room, where her staff is still laughing too loudly over stupid videos playing on someone’s computer. “I know we’re running behind. We’ll…we’ll manage. We always do.”
“They’re running behind,” Ava clarifies. “But you just got renewed.” She shrugs. “You deserve a good show to celebrate.”
It’s sweet without being saccharine, and Deborah’s just tipsy enough for it to land with all the weight the gesture deserves. She takes the pages from Ava and pauses. “I’m glad you’re here.” A breath. “As head writer.” Another breath. “Now get out before you ruin the moment.”
Ava’s laugh reverberates through the room as she slips back out the doorway, and Deborah can hear her calling out, “You assholes better not have finished the cupcakes without me,” before the door to her office clicks shut.
---
The show is good, of course.
Deborah had run her red pen through the script, but she hadn’t bothered bringing it back to the full room. Let them brainstorm for next week. Today’s show is just her and Ava on the page. Their voices grown too tangled, too inextricable to parse out whose humor is whose anymore.
On stage, it’s pounding through her veins: her, Ava, and news that still feels just a little too good to be true, even when she’s announcing it live to their studio audience.
The laughter, though, that’s real. The punchlines that land and the applause that follows her off the stage—all of that is too viscerally, palpably there to be anything but real.
Deborah pauses for a long moment outside her dressing room door, unsure of whether she wants to find someone already in it.
The pang of disappointment that lances through her at finding a quiet, empty room is something of a surprise. Because it’s better this way—safe and appropriate and all the things that will protect this show from going the same doomed way as her last.
Shaking off the sudden melancholy mood, Deborah scans the room for her purse before realizing she must have left it up in her office.
The writers’ room is silent and dark when Deborah arrives, and she breathes it in, slow and deep. This level of peace and quiet is rare these days, and even if it’s not exactly what she’d wanted today, she isn’t immune to the allure of it.
“You left your bag up here,” Ava says from the doorway to Deborah’s office, startling her out of whatever quiet moment she’d been enjoying.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“They were gonna surprise you with a little party,” Ava says, nodding out at the empty room. “I told them to go find a nice bar with a private room for tonight. Thought you might want some space to sit with the news.”
“Presumptuous.” (Not wrong, but presumptuous anyway.)
Ava shrugs, offers a casual, “Yeah, probably,” before disappearing into Deborah’s dimly lit office.
It’s a bad idea.
Deborah follows Ava anyway.
Ava’s eyes are bright in the low light. “I didn’t want to share you yet.”
Deborah’s breath catches in her chest.
It’s a terrible, terrible idea.
Deborah shuts the door behind her. Turns the lock until it clicks, the sound reverberating through the space.
Without a word, Ava pulls Deborah’s chair out for her.
On shaky legs, Deborah makes her way around the desk, settling in and glancing up at Ava. She’s backlit by the setting sun, nearly glowing in it, and Deborah’s heart pounds a little faster.
Ava drops to her knees.
Heat floods Deborah’s body even as her gaze flickers toward the door.
“No one’s here,” Ava murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of Deborah’s thigh, her breath warm enough that Deborah can feel it even through the fabric.
“But Rob…the producers…”
“Have all been invited to tonight’s drinks. They know you’re heading home to get ready. Why would they come looking for you here?”
“My car,” Deborah chokes out around a whimper as Ava mouths at her through far too many layers.
“I took the liberty of moving it.” Deborah’s head jolts up at that. “Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about where you might be.”
It’s beyond bold, beyond presumptuous. And all Deborah can do is whimper, “Please.”
Ava is on her in an instant, her mouth hot and insistent against Deborah’s own as she arches up to reach her.
Fisting her hands in Ava’s shirt, Deborah drags her back up, pulling a low groan out of Ava.
“We don’t have much time,” Ava manages, even as she dives back in, dragging Deborah’s lower lip between her teeth before soothing the sting with her tongue.
Time has stopped meaning anything to Deborah. All she knows is the feeling of Ava’s hands groping at her chest, the press of Ava’s knee at the juncture of her thighs, the taste of Ava’s tongue in her mouth.
At some point, Ava pulls back. She’s panting, her pupils blown wide with want. “Let me,” she pleads, sinking back down to her knees and fumbling with the convoluted series of buttons and slide closures and zippers on Deborah’s dress pants until she’s got them undone and can slide them down Deborah’s legs.
Ava’s hands drag up Deborah’s thighs, then rake back down. Again and again until Deborah’s hips are rocking up into nothing. But then Ava’s there, before Deborah even has to ask, nudging away the damp strip of silk until there’s nothing left between her lips and Deborah.
Clamping a hand over her mouth, Deborah melts into the chair, into Ava.
And in some ways it’s not perfect. In a perfect world, she’d be in a bed that wouldn’t send pangs of discomfort up and down her spine, and she wouldn’t still be in a blazer that’s growing wrinkled beyond the point of repair, and she wouldn’t already be anticipating having to walk out of here with soaking wet silk pulling uncomfortably between her legs.
But in this word, Ava is murmuring “Couldn’t help it,” into her cunt again and again.
“Couldn’t…?” Deborah trails off, shivering as Ava flattens her tongue and drags it up the length of her.
Ava pulls back ever so slightly. Her mouth and chin are soaked in a mixture of saliva and Deborah’s own arousal, and her eyes are so deadly focused she looks half wild with want. “Couldn’t stay away from you.” Her fingers take over for her mouth as she holds Deborah’s gaze. “I couldn’t let you have this with anyone but me,” she whispers as she slides a long finger inside of Deborah.
Deborah clenches around Ava, bites down on her knuckle to keep from making a sound.
Her free hand curls around the back of Ava’s neck, tugging her forward. And then Ava’s lips are wrapped around Deborah’s clit, her finger curling inside Deborah, and Deborah comes with a shudder, teeth digging into her knuckles hard enough to draw blood.
“Fuck.” Ava’s eyes are wide and glassy, and it’s only then that Deborah notices her panting, squirming on the ground between Deborah’s legs.
“Show me,” Deborah orders, looking meaningfully down at Ava’s hand.
It disappears beneath Ava’s waistband in an instant, and Ava practically crashes into Deborah with a sobbing wail of pleasure.
Deborah can’t see anything, but she can feel the frantic, desperate movement of Ava’s arm against the inside of her thigh, and she tips Ava’s chin up to face her.
Before Deborah can find the words to tell Ava that she knows, that she couldn’t help it either, that she can’t—won’t—share this with anyone else, Ava is coming, hips stuttering forward, her face contorting in what looks like pleasure so intense it’s verging into pain.
The air is thick and humid between them, the room filled with little more than the sound of their labored breathing.
“We…we have a party,” Ava finally manages.
“I can’t go like this,” Deborah says around a huff of laughter.
“I don’t know.” Ava’s lips curl up into a lazy smile, her gaze dragging down the length of Deborah’s body. “I like it. Just a little debauched.”
With a roll of her eyes, Deborah shoos Ava away. “Go. Get my car from wherever you hid it, and I might even let you back into the house to get the rest of your shit.”
“Oh, Josefina already—I mean, yeah. Awesome.”
Deborah narrows her eyes. “What exactly did Josefina do?”
“You know, I think I hear footsteps! I better hustle on outta here! Meet you outside!”
And somehow there’s nothing for Deborah to do but shake her head and wait.