The smell of formaldehyde in her bed is an unexpected turn-on.
Embalming fluid and rotting skin and unwashed hair and death. The fucking
beauty of it all makes her bite at the shoulder beneath her until she draws
blood. Until she tastes metal. And this is her fucking religion, this salt and
sweat, and underneath it all the tang of iron. This is her fucking god.
(The curve of a breast under her hand, and she tries to erase the feel of
Nate's chest.)
And, no, her life isn't fucking manageable (thank you very much), but it's
hers. So a stranger in her bed is better than nothing, and two of a kind beats
one. The dealer passes the cards. Another and another and all she needs is.
Nate, no, not anymore. Not here, anyway, not with the glaring lights of the
strip and the vibrating bed and the slot machines going full blast only a few
floors away.
No. Not Nate, not tonight. Maybe ever.
Still. The smell of death is familiar.
*
It started, as such things (always) do, with a breakup. Petal to the metal and
a few hours through the desert; it seemed appropriate, somehow, to run away to
Sin City. And the first casino, the first vodka, the first thousand dollars all
blend together now, hours later, as perfectly manicured fingernails trace the
length of her spine.
But, then, it was all about driving too fast. Drinking too much. Gambling.
Excess. Conquest.
"Men." Half-sigh, half-curse, and the shorter one lifted her glass in a toast.
"Tell me about it. Self-righteous-"
"-self-absorbed-"
"-fuckers."
They laughed, the three of them, and came too close to tears.
"No more of this paint thinner shit, okay barkeep? I mean, fuck, this is
fucking terrible vodka." The short one- Dina, Deena, Dana- quirked an eyebrow,
and the tall one full out laughed.
"I'll second that," and Colleen, Candy, Catherine smiled at the bartender,
"hey, Jules, pull out the good stuff, won't ya?"
A foot sliding against her calf, "only for you, Cath" blurred in the
background, and she wasn't sure it wasn't her imagination. The vodka or the pot
she smoked in the car or. Just her sex-fucking-addled brain working overtime,
but it felt good, so she tried not to overanalyze things.
"So you're both law enforcement, right? Ever kill anyone?"
And Carly Cathy just drank her vodka while Darla Dana smiled enigmatically and
traced the rim of her glass. Stood up, wobbling in her too high heels, and
downed the rest of her vodka in one go.
"More than one," and her smile was fucking tragic, "you?"
*
Baby powder and rotting flesh, slightly sour skin under her tongue.
Red hair fanned across the pillow.
*
If she was still writing it, this would make a fucking brilliant chapter in her
novel.
(And if she couldn't be happy, she thought, she could at least be sated.)
Legs tangled and everywhere, and a strand or red hair stuck to her cheek. A
tongue tracing the rim of her ear; teeth on her breast. Scraping. A sharp bite,
and the pleasure and the pain fucking melt together like a (*fuck*), like a
tattoo. She turns her head to bruise the mouth closest to hers.
Fucking like fighting, and two times five is twenty. Twenty callused fingers
against her skin, and she takes more than she gives every time. Every. Fucking.
And a mouth and a tongue and teeth, and she's never not kissing someone. Never
not being touched. Her fingers always on warm flesh and in warm flesh and
always (always) moving.
Even as she lies there, watching them kiss each other, there's a fingernail
inching up her thigh.
The room is too hot, and she closes her eyes. Convinces herself that the tears
are from the ecstasy, that Nate's not out there somewhere getting his head cut
open, that her life isn't a fucking mess. Her orgasm is sharp and sudden and
she welcomes the white light.
*
It started (as such things will) with two men, a baby, and an empty house.
*
A vodka martini, free, and she didn't care whether it was shaken, stirred, or
served straight from the fucking bottle. Hell, screw the martini bit and get on
with the vodka, she was ready to yell, fuck it all and hand over the
motherfucking bottle.
She was only drunk enough to make the world vaguely surreal.
Barely even tipsy. And a short redhead a tall redhead and redheads all around
her. The smell of latex gloves and death under the sting of the alcohol.
"Buy you a drink?" One of them, the tall short one, and the other flicking a
cigarette.
Her tongue numb and heavy, "sure. Fuck, yeah."
Two names, one after the other, and two handshakes. Then they, tall and short,
turned to each other. Another handshake, a laugh. "So, what do YOU do for a
living?"
The room undulating, and she didn't know which was which, but somehow she came
up with two names. Dana. Catherine. And that was enough because, well, it's not
like she was giving anyone her fucking name. So, a Dana and a Catherine, a Tall
and a Short. And never the twain shall meet.
Both of them smelling like death.
One on either side.
*
Her head is pulsing, and the slot machines echo in her ears.
[finis (et laissez les bon temps rouller)]
[once more into the fray]