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“God, you suck at this.” Patricia tugs at Allison’s blonde hair, drawing her out from between her legs. “I mean, I’ve been a dyke for like a week and a half and I can eat pussy better than that.”
Allison sputters for a second, then draws herself up by her shoulders, composes herself — “Just give me a second, okay? I’m — figuring out the hardware.”
Patty scoffs, smoothing the hair back into place. “Figuring it out? What, K**** never goes down on you?”
That name roars through Allison’s ears in a surge of static blood. She finds a smile, sticks it on. “Can we not talk about — him? Now? And uh, no, he doesn’t. He says if DJ Khaled doesn’t, he won’t either.” She mimes a DJ spinning a record with two glistening fingers. “We tha best music!”
Patty does not look impressed. Her mouth twists like she’d rather be smoking a cigarette. Her hand is still in Allison’s hair.
Allison widens her eyes. “Please, Patty. I don’t know how to do it. Can you teach me how to be good for you?”
She sees it, that little twitch of the mouth, the hitch of breath before Patty rolls her eyes. Years of experience have taught Allison to keep her face open and desperate when she’s convincing someone else they’re the one in charge. She’s good at it, she knows she is.
“You are such a little faker,” Patty says, fisting her hair and driving her back down.
—
Allison would like to tell herself she didn’t know that Patty was — interested. That she never led her on. Hell, she’d love to tell herself that Patty is the reason she’s with Kevin, blame her for this mess of a marriage, for not warning her what she was getting herself into. For Christ’s sake, Patty knew! And all she had to say was good luck, punctuated by a terse plume of smoke.
But there’s some part of Allison that clenches tight whenever she calls and Patricia comes running. Away from her uptight cop girlfriend, away from stupid Neil. There just for Allison, when she needs to be plucked from a grave, when she needs a cigarette, when she needs to hide a body.
At her disposal.
In Allison’s house, everything happens on Kevin’s terms. She’s swept into a backyard luau, a paintball tournament that shatters her grandma’s vase, hometown elections, drinking binges, and fights, fights, fights where all he does is laugh at how stupid she’s being. You’d have to be an idiot to argue with the center of the entire universe. Allison the idiot, asking God to put his underwear in the fucking hamper.
She would never treat Patty that way. But she cups the feeling like a flame in her breast, the flickering thrill of having someone at her beck and call. There’s the terror every time Patty says she has plans, like Allison is getting left behind, and then the licking heat of reassurance when Patty folds, always way too fast, saying something like: I can’t leave you alone.
Don’t want you getting lost.
You can’t do this yourself.
Allison knows just how to make herself open, open, open. She’s such a stupid girl. Allison the idiot. Please help me. I can’t do it without you.
There’s always this second where Patricia pretends to decide to help her. Allison will never tell her, but in this second she always stares at the corner of Allison’s mouth, like some secret truth is about to come leaking out of there.
In those moments, Allison leans closer. She puts a hand on Patty’s shoulder, not for too long. After all, she doesn’t want Cop Girlfriend getting upset. She and Patty are just friends. Girl-friends. Neighborly. Ride or die. Blood sisters. Conspirators.
What’s all that compared to dating?
—
“Fuck — yes — like that.” There is a thin sheen of sweat between Patty’s breasts, and her hand is still twisted in Allison’s hair. “Slower — good girl.”
Allison feels that like a hook through her chest. She wants to go faster, and has to work hard to slow down, to be deliberate and thoughtful and good.
That hand scrapes down the back of her neck, freeing damp hair and scratching at her nape. “That’s right. I’ve got you.”
Patty tastes salty and rich. Her hair is nearly trimmed, which somehow doesn’t feel like her. Allison wonders if she did it for Cop Girlfriend, then licks deep into her, inside, grinding her clit against her nose.
“Fuck!” Patty yells, grabbing her by the back of the neck. Her grip pulls on the tiny hairs there; Allison fights the urge to sneeze. Salty liquid drips down her chin and she sticks her tongue out to taste it, satisfied.
“Fuck,” Patty says again. Allison takes the opportunity to snuggle up beside her. Definitely not smirking. Just smiling because she’s happy. She loves doing things right.
Rudely, Patty rolls her eyes at her and puts a hand over her face. “Yeah, yeah, you’re a fast learner.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Allison protests, trying to roll free of the hand covering her eyes.
“You thought it,” Patty says sardonically. She moves her hand away and Allison is suddenly very scared, because her eyes are soft in a way she’s never seen before. “Good job, blondie.”
—-
Time passes. It feels like ten minutes or two hours. They share a cigarette and the smoke curls between them, sinking into the sheets.
Patricia is the first to break the silence, always ready to say something Allison isn’t. “So… what was this?”
Allison raises her head, brushing sweat-damp hair away from her mouth. “What was it? I think we just had sex, Patty.” Her laugh feels forced out of her, squeezed from below her ribs.
“I mean, what do I tell Tammy? Are you going to — Kevin?” She already knows the answer. The tip of her cigarette glows bright and dims with ash.
“Patty,” Allison starts. “I don’t think we should — If Tammy starts looking into me, like really looking…”
“Right,” Patty says flatly. “Sure.”
“And if Kevin found out — well, he’d probably try to get us to do it in front of him,” Allison finishes with a hint of hysteria in her voice.
“I got it,” Patty says. She tries not to smoke in the bedroom, but this cigarette is already half-filter. She jams the butt into an empty Dr Pepper can on the bedside.
Allison rests her forearms on Patty’s chest and gazes up at her through those stupid long lashes. “I knew you’d understand. We’re in this together.” She buries her face in Patty’s shirt, smells her, trails fingers up her thigh. She turns her face up towards her and with that watery, half-broken smile, breathes —
“Hey, have you talked to your oxy guy recently?”