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Gemma got out of the building at 11:07 am on Tuesday. She reached the top of the staircase and there was Devon Scout, waiting for her. Devon sped down icy roads with tears in her eyes, running red lights and flying over speed bumps because nowhere in town was safe. Home was as close as they could get to safe.
Gemma was surprised when they pulled up to Ricken’s house and not her and Mark’s place, with its glass French doors, bay windows, and her small army of houseplants. God, she had missed it all.
“Where’s Mark?” Devon caught her off guard, just as they were entering the house.
“He stayed,” she numbly replied, “there was another woman, he went back in with her.”
Devon sucked her teeth. “No, Gemma honey, he-”
Gemma recoiled, “Don’t call me that,” her legs gave out, so there she knelt in Ricken’s foyer.
“Gem, that was his innie, it wasn’t Mark,” she knew that, it was obvious enough, but the image was burning a hole in back of her retinas, “Your Mark will be back, he will.”
Gemma took comfort in that idea, idiotically. She needed something to cling to. Yes, it was just his work self, and the work day has to end eventually, she—of all people—thought, they can’t keep him there forever.
Ricken hadn’t been in on the plot to retrieve her, so Gemma’s being in the house, very much alive, was his first real indication that she wasn’t dead. For some time they all wept together on the hardwood floor, but then he set his mind to the task of an exposé.
Lumon circled the wagons, so to speak. Entry and exit from the building were tightly restricted, any non-essential non-severed employees were put on paid leave, and their PR department kept a tight lip. They denied any involvement in Gemma’s disappearance, the police didn’t contradict them, and any evidence of her two year imprisonment was in their tightly closed hands.
None of them, except for the baby, slept at all that first night; Ricken was at his computer and on the phone nonstop, haranguing any of his journalist contacts he could get a hold of, who were all quite hesitant to take on a megacorp like Lumon. He didn’t eat or drink for the first 10 hours she was back; Gemma had to pull him away from the desk for a few crackers and a ginger ale split between them.
Devon was with Eleanor most of the time. Apparently planning this escape had taken up just about all of Devon’s time for the last week or so and she hadn’t seen her daughter in days. She was a little paranoid about kidnappings and ransoms, too—not unreasonably.
Gemma couldn’t bear to be in the room with that sweet baby and her mother for more than five minutes at a time.
Mark had sold their house, donated most of their stuff, and shoved the rest of it into his new basement. Devon had a set of keys, so they went over and collected a few familiar items from his barren duplex. Mark hadn’t even let the fish have any plants or decorations in their tank; Gemma gave them both a few flakes of food.
Devon collected his spare car keys and all of his important documents; it was Lumon subsidized housing, they could probably let themselves in at anytime to tamper and steal. Devon’s argument was sound, but what difference did it make? She was a whole fucking person and they took her—they almost got away with it.
They needed to go to the Lumon building to pick up Mark’s car, too—they probably shouldn’t give the company any more time to bug it or rig it with a bomb. Devon and Ricken took care of that as they took care of everything; nothing at all was to be asked of Gemma, of course.
She appreciated that, it was the natural response to someone in her circumstance—unnatural as it was—but it left her sitting around a lot, crying alone, going to the patio for some fresh air, and then dreading someone was going to come out of the woods and drag her back to Dr. Mauer’s Hell. It was a truly exquisite combination of claustrophobia and agoraphobia that left her either on the verge of a panic attack or fitfully napping in Devon’s bed with the door locked and all the windows open.
Ricken knocked. “Gemma, darling, are you awake?”
In lieu of a verbal response, she got up and opened the door. He fiddled with a neat little white envelope in his hands.
“This was on Mark’s windshield,” he presented it to her, it was addressed to Mrs. Scout.
She ripped it open immediately and pulled out its contents, which were a small pastel green card with the Lumon globe embossed on the front and a small laser disc in a baby blue sleeve; Gemma read the note first:
“Dear Mrs. Scout,
We are just chuffed to hear you have returned to Kier, PE! How it is you emerged from our HQ is beyond us, but we are delighted to have been part of your odyssey home. We understand that you are likely concerned with the whereabouts of your husband, Mr. Scout. We assure you he is safe in our care. He and his innie have decided to work out a better arrangement for who gets custody of their shared body when, so to make up for lost time, Mark S is getting a few consecutive months with the reigns. If there is a change in plans, we will notify you expeditiously.
With best regards to your loved ones,
Seth Milchick :)”
There was actually a little drawn smiley face in the corner; they couldn’t be serious. The disc refracted rainbows at her, teasingly. Ricken put his hand out to take it back. “We can play it in my office.”
She walked with him there—Devon was already in the room with Eleanor in her arms—and placed the disc into the tray herself. The computer swallowed it up and a video booted on the screen.
It was Mark, balancing some kind of scary farm implement across his lap. He was only in an undershirt and his dress pants—which were all still bloodied—his hair was mussed, bruises were forming on his face, but he looked chipper. He seemed to be surrounded by grassy hills, hemmed in by tall white walls. Ricken pressed play.
“Hi Gemma,” he spoke her name without any warmth or familiarity. There was no malice, but there was certainly no love, either. “My name is Mark S, and I am making this video to tell you that I am okay and that staying down here, for now, is my own choice. I’ve never really had much of a choice in anything before. Other innies are making different choices-” suddenly a little goat approached him and put its two front hooves on his lap, it bleated like a baby for milk. A redheaded woman came into frame and, with a wide smile, scooped up the kid and backed away, out of sight. Mark giggled and continued, “Other innies had no choice, like your innie, Ms. Casey. A lot of us down here knew Ms. Casey and we’re going to miss her, if I’m honest. I understand how you must feel, missing your Mark. So then, I hope you understand how I feel too. Gemma, I thank you for respecting my choice.” He then nodded to whoever was behind the camera and the video ended.
How could she argue with that? Devon and Ricken were already theorizing that maybe he was put up to this, maybe he really is under duress and they had to go get him, do something, but how? They were wrong—he wanted to be there, Mark S. Mark S got her out, but he wouldn’t follow. Mark S had his own lover down there: the woman at the end of the hallway, the woman with the baby goat.
She was Helena Eagan, Devon had explained, but she also wasn’t. She was the daughter of the CEO as much as the man in the video—blowing her off, telling her he understood what she was going through while he flirted with some other woman, positively antsy to be done with this formality and frolic about with her—was her husband.
Gemma’s in-laws were so focused on picking apart the video and strategizing next steps that they didn’t notice her leave the room. On the kitchen table were two sets of car keys. One had a few little tchotchkes attached to it, the other was completely barren besides the ignition key and fob. Gemma had gathered what kind of man her husband had been since she was gone; she grabbed the unadorned set.
She had no license to drive, because legally speaking she was dead. Legally speaking, she was in a box in Mark’s basement. They hadn’t gotten around to righting any of the whole “declared dead” stuff because going down to the police station just didn’t sound like the smartest idea at the moment.
Lumon could so easily erase her, kill her for real this time, discard of their industrial waste like the good, environmentally conscious global corporation they were. The note from Seth Milchick at least acknowledged her existence as Gemma Scout, but just as well could have been an attempt to lull her into a false sense of security. Ricken wanted them to skip town to protect Eleanor, but Devon refused to leave Mark behind. Gemma, really the most at risk of them all, had no opinion either way. She knew now that safety was an illusion, so she took a drive down the winding roads of Kier again.
It was just around this time of year it had happened. The sights around her were such that she could almost convince herself it was only the day after; she had played charades and gotten home around 10 pm like she said she would.
Driving came back to her easily, like walking had after they had finally unstrapped her from that gurney in the basement. They thought she would be all wobbly and weak, so the nurse had grabbed her arms to steady her. Gemma shoved her off instantly and went directly to the nearest door to commence attempting to rip it off its hinges.
Her hands were still bruised from banging on the stairwell door for Mark, dark purple on the pinkie-side-edge. She twisted a hand every once in a while into the steering wheel to aggravate the bruise; it woke her up a little, especially as she lost light to the mid-winter setting sun and ran on no sleep in over twenty-four hours.
She didn’t have a phone or map to navigate, so she tried to take a mental tally of all the turns she was making. Subconsciously, the path back to Lumon was the easiest trail to follow, as it turned out. She didn’t know that was where she was heading until the building was in sight.
The outside of the building wasn’t as triggering for her as she thought it should be; it was just the idea of the interior that made her heart race. That was where everything had happened, the aboveground portion really might as well have been any other corporate office, to her.
Most of the cars were already gone, it was past quitting time. She parked at the farthest end of the lot, close to the exit. She left the car running, didn’t even shift into park, just kept her foot on the break peddle in case of an ambush that never came. No, Gemma was confronted with another thing entirely.
Even from all the way across the parking lot in the failing sunlight, something orange caught her eye. It was her: Heleny’s outie.
The woman, dressed in a long charcoal winter coat, walked at a controlled pace down the main steps to an awaiting luxurious looking blue beast of a car. Gemma checked the internal clock on Mark’s dash; it was 5:17 pm.
The driver got out to open the door for her and she stepped inside. In no more than a minute, they were exiting the lot and Gemma was on their tail. She followed at a close distance, close enough that she saw the driver glance at the rear-view mirror rapidly, then the woman turned around. Gemma was so close, she could tell they actually made eye contact before Helena whipped her head back around and said something to her driver.
It didn’t matter what they were going to try, they didn’t need to lose her; Gemma knew she saw what she would see tonight. She passed them, crossing over the double yellow lines, and sped off back to where she came from.
Devon was kind of pissed when she got back—Gemma couldn’t really blame her—but she had been captive for two years; she legitimately could not take another second of it.
It had been a rush, too. She hadn’t sought it, but getting to finally push someone else around, make them feel unsafe, it was good—she thought she might have actually cracked a smile as she accelerated away.
She had successfully never resorted to self-mutilation while she was in that basement—no, her violence had always been externalized. But also, the idea of returning to the real world physically altered perturbed her. They did everything they could to keep her fit and healthy, so she always had a chance to remain unchanged, for things to one day go back to normal.
That was pretty stupid, of course she was changed. She didn’t really look any different from the day she left them—fuck, even down to the outfit—but who even was she anymore? She wasn’t a professor, she had no students or advisees, she could barely tolerate the books she had once dedicated her life to, she was an aunt now, but still never a mother, and was she even a wife anymore? Legally speaking, Mark Scout was not married. Legally speaking, she was nothing to anyone.
That was Wednesday evening, 31 hours after she had gotten out of the basement. At 5:00 pm on Thursday she was back in the parking lot, not quite at the edge this time but still far from the building, camouflaged between some cars that were actually supposed to be there. The same ostentatious blue chariot pulled up and picked up the same sleek woman from the same place at the same time.
Gemma followed them at a more respectful distance, but went farther down the road. Helena looked back more, but didn’t seem to say anything to the driver. Her eyes were so wide Gemma could distinguish the whites, even from that far away.
On Friday, she was parked in the center of the lot. Helena noticed her presence before she stepped into her Lincoln Continental—Gemma had done a little research on Devon’s laptop to find the make and model, but she wasn’t sure of the year yet—and was frozen for a second. If it was in fear, Gemma couldn’t quite read it from this distance. She imagined it was in fear, though—she hoped so.
Gemma got very risky today, as if any of this wasn’t insanely risky. She followed them right to the gates of the Eagan compound. The car in front of her stopped and the imposingly tall driver stepped out. Before he could close his door, Gemma was already making a three-point turn over their precise but currently lifeless landscaping and speeding off back to Chateau d’Hale, kicking up a muddy wintry mix in her wake.
Devon tolerated her outings because they were brief and she had correctly assessed that keeping Gemma inside the house would do more harm than good. They also made little group trips during the day together, but Gemma still needed her solo-sojourns, as Ricken called them.
They had activated an old cellphone from their junk drawer so that they could at least keep tabs on her. Gemma texted as often as she could, whenever she was stopped, just to reassure Devon of her continued safety.
The woman had a newborn, Gemma shouldn’t stress her out like this, but there really wasn’t another choice. She was drawn to this place like a stupid fucking moth to a beautiful flame. She also researched Helena Eagan, who had done a few interviews with various finance magazines in the past year, photoshoots included.
She was beautiful, enough to make Gemma a little sick, not so much that some more crackers and ginger ale didn’t soothe it. It wasn’t her Mark down there, her Mark wasn’t anywhere right now, he wasn’t betraying her.
His body was down there, though. The lips that had kissed her were kissing Helly—that was the innie’s name. They were probably doing more than just that, too. Devon had tried to play her questions off, but she had always been a shitty liar when it came to Gemma. Her avoidance made it clear just how deeply those two innies had waded in together.
She found herself feeling stiff on Saturday morning. She hadn’t done her calisthenics since she left. Ricken led her in a sunrise salutation which helped a little. He was still harassing his news contacts, but really to no avail. Gemma appreciated his efforts to bring light and justice to her situation, but what good would it really do? She wished he would just talk to her like they used to. Was that so impossible? He operated like a man atoning for something terrible, so she didn’t really have the nerve to break him from his work.
Devon was no comfort, even though she was doing everything right. It was Eleanor, so perfect, that drove the wedge between them. Gemma didn’t want to be jealous, but she was, which made it all the worse.
She could tell everything had been different in her absence; Mark had been depressed and empty, Ricken had gone off the deep end into his woo-woo tendencies, Devon was stretched thin, ready to snap, and she could recognize that her own behavior was looking a little stir-crazy, right now. Gemma really thought she had kept it together, all things considered, but now that she was on the outside again, she realized she had been waiting for something that was never to be.
Even if Mark returned, they would never have their old lives back. They had lived in ignorance of just how little say any of them had in anything, Mark had willingly sacrificed even more of his autonomy for some temporary relief, and now there was another person in his body with his own life and his own dreams they had to consider.
She wanted to kill Mark S, kill Helly, kill Ms. Casey and be done with it all, just like they had killed her—but then she felt bad. She should be able to maintain a level of selfishness after existing in pure servitude for the last two years, but it was not in her nature.
If Mark S and Helly’s lives were anything akin to her own down there, she couldn’t feel anything but sorry for them—it was all they had ever known. She wasn’t happy for them, but she couldn’t imagine taking their happiness away either.
This was much of what she chewed on while she drove around that weekend, wishing that, instead of this scenic park with its lovely sunset over the water, she could be studying a different shade of orange.
On Monday she pulled up to the Lumon lot and parked even closer, just a row away from the front stairs. She was going to get a real good look this time.
At 5:17, out walked the woman of the hour, but no chauffeur appeared. Gemma looked around, there was a fancy looking red car—parked terribly—in the same row as her. Plausibly, it could be Helena’s car, but Helena did not approach; she stayed at the curb, once again frozen—she’d spotted Gemma.
She would have to come closer in order to leave, but obviously Gemma had made herself a somewhat menacing figure. Good. Finally someone might think of her, not to control or mourn or fret over, but to make way, and she didn’t even feel bad about it.
Before she knew what she was doing, Gemma’s foot left the brake and found the gas. She crept forward, slowly, towards the edge of the lot where Helena stood, stock still. To her credit, she didn’t run back inside to safety, but remained rooted in place. Finally, Gemma pulled up, parallel to the sidewalk right in front of Helena.
For some seconds, the both just stared at each other through the passenger-side window. Helena’s arms were stiff at her side, feet perfectly placed under her, face taut, eyes wide, and rapid breaths betrayed her, even under the large overcoat.
Gemma was tense, hair a bit of a mess, hunched forward over the steering wheel, not wearing any makeup, and dressed in an ill-fitting tee-shirt and sweatpants combo Devon lent her. She examined the woman before her like she might’ve a sapling at a nursery, looking for a fault.
She rolled the window down, for another few seconds they regarded each other.
“Wanna go for a drive?” Gemma didn’t think she came off as friendly or particularly aggressive; that’s what she was aiming for, now. It was an honest question.
Helena looked around, not as if to ask, Who, me? but more so to check if there was anyone watching—there probably was. She looked back at Gemma and searched her face.
Certainly, Helena knew who Gemma was, knew where she had been, why she was there, and what was to come of it all. In that way, she knew a little more about Gemma than Gemma did. Maybe she had met Ms. Casey, or her innie had.
“Where to?” she asked, cautiously; another honest question. Her voice was quiet, even, and soft, not really what Gemma had expected.
Gemma hadn’t thought it would get this far, she wanted it to, but surely Helena wouldn’t be so foolhardy as to actually come with her.
“Hungry?” Gemma was starving. With a stomach in knots, it was hard to eat anything other than light fare, but all of a sudden, she was craving something heavy.
Helena’s face fell, she looked askance for a moment, she couldn’t seem to school herself into something neutral and guarded. She was like a child caught in a lie; all she could do was nod.
Gemma reached across and unlocked the door; Helena opened it and climbed in with little hesitation. Before her seatbelt was buckled, they were hurtling out of the parking lot. Helena grabbed the oh-shit handle and tried to steady herself by putting a hand on the center console.
“What,” Gemma took a hard left turn, forcing Helena’s body to lurch towards her, “just because I’m an Asian woman, I can’t drive?”
She took her eyes off the road to catch Helena’s reaction. She looked mortified, but didn’t dare release her grip. Her window was still down, so the wind was whipping her hair around, too.
When they reached the main streets of Kier, Gemma cooled it. The last thing she needed was to get pulled over with no license and a maybe-kidnapped heiress. With more landmarks, Gemma was able to way-find a familiar spot for a bite to eat.
After a whole lot of nothing but rehydrated Lumon-Lumps for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, Gemma had a long list of cravings that she needed satisfied: sugary breakfast cereal, white wine, a greasy burger with salty fries, and pretty far up the list was the combination fried rice at Zufu. Just the sight of its slightly shlubby exterior was making her stomach growl.
She put the car in park and started rifling through the glove box, leaning into Helena’s space. Helena tried to shrink back, press herself as firmly as possible against the seat with her hands tucked tightly in her lap.
Gemma fished out what she knew she would find: secret cash. Mark had stashed a money clip with what looked like about $50 in his owner’s manual sleeve.
Helena balked, “Oh, no, please, let me.”
Gemma smirked back at her, waggling the money between them. “Don’t worry, it’s not mine,” she got out of the car and added, “we don’t need a paper trail telling on us, do we?” before slamming the door shut.
She started walking to the restaurant and turned around to lock the car with the fob, but Helena was still in the passenger seat, looking more than a little shell-shocked. Gemma waved her over, impatiently. Helena shook herself and unbuckled her seatbelt, finally stepping out of the car and following Gemma inside.
They got a table quickly and sat on either side of a small booth. Gemma put in an order for hot tea before they decided on their mains. She knew what she wanted, but she’d be polite and wait.
Helena scrutinized the menu, eyes locked down and away from the other woman. They stewed in a bit of awkward silence.
“You ever eaten here before?” Gemma asked casually, as if this were a normal get-together between two normal people.
Helena, somehow, managed to tense up even more. “No,” she replied, still not meeting Gemma’s eyes.
“Shame, it’s really great. Mark and I came here for our second anniversary and for most of our promotions, straight to Zufu after our last class of the day.”
Helena still couldn’t look up from her lap. Gemma wasn’t the best at reading people, but to say the least, the woman seemed uncomfortable.
The tea came and the waiter asked if they were ready to order. Gemma affirmed and asked for the combination fried rice, extra beef. Both her and the waiter then looked expectantly at Helena.
“Oh, um,” she scanned the menu again, it did have a dizzying array. She rapped a manicured nail against the table nervously, “I don’t kn-”
Gemma extended her hand and pressed Helena’s into the table, stilling it. Their eyes finally met, the look between them much the same as it was when Gemma was tailgating her. “I know what I got is good, let’s share.” She squeezed her hand to punctuate that last word.
“Okay,” Helena breathed, she looked to the waiter and nodded to indicate her consent to such a scheme. He seemed to see nothing amiss with the display before him and cheerily jotted the order down.
Gemma slid her hand off of Helena’s to pour them both some tea. Out of habit she opened a sugar packet and poured half of it into her cup and the other into Helena’s, as she used to do with Mark. Gemma unwrapped her silverware from its napkin and used the handle of the fork to stir both cups, before pushing one towards her date.
That’s what this seemed to be, definitely what it looked like from the outside, despite their severely mismatched attire. Helena had at least removed her nice coat, revealing a business formal getup of a slightly clingy blouse and an above-the-knee pencil skirt.
Gemma took her cup and raised it, waited for Helena to follow suit, and then toasted her. Gemma put the cup to her lips and watched, waited for Helena to copy her again, and then they both drank, at long last. It was hot as hell, so Gemma only took a small sip before setting it down; Helena finished her whole cup in one.
“Refill?” Gemma offered.
Helena shook her head and instead took a gulp of her ice water.
Gemma did not wait for another long pause and simply launched in to the purpose of this meeting: “So you and Mark?” She expected Helena to comedically sputter on her water, but she managed to swallow and place the glass down with dignity. “Or I guess I should say, your innie and Mark’s innie.”
Helena nodded. “Yep,” she smiled tightly, “those two crazy kids.”
“But she’s letting you out, that’s generous of her.”
Helena actually laughed at that, or maybe it was just a sharp exhale, “I’m just so grateful,” she didn’t seem to mean that.
Gemma didn’t really care what she meant. She had wanted more information, but what was she really going to be able to get out of her? Was she going to threaten her? Bribe her with the change after she paid the bill? Did she even want to know?
So, Gemma decided to just have fun tonight, enjoy her time as a ghost bachelorette. She wondered if Mark—outie Mark, that is—had gone on any dates in her two years of absence. Had he taken someone here? Had they done anything more than eat together?
Devon had this contrite look in her eye sometimes that indicated to Gemma something had happened, but she didn’t push. Really, honestly, she didn’t want to know. She just wanted to act like the last two years hadn’t even happened and pick up where they left off, but obviously someone had gotten in the way of that.
The food came, steaming hot and fragrant with garlic and ginger; Gemma’s mouth watered. It was presented to them in a giant heaping pile and they each had their own plate to eat off of.
Helena made herself a modest little serving and grabbed a fork to start pushing it around. She looked like a kid again, guilty and nervous. Whatever, Gemma was famished. She piled her plate nice and high, shook on some soy sauce, drizzled on some chili oil, and got to work with her chopsticks.
The silence that fell then was not awkward, it was that natural kind which fell at a meal. Devon always used to pipe in with, “I guess we were hungry,” one of her many white lady aphorisms that used to kind of delight Gemma in their inanity.
The food was spicier than Gemma had intended, her tolerance wasn’t what it used to be; two years of paste will do that to someone. She coughed a little, took a big sip of her cooled off tea and finished the cup.
When she placed it down, Helena took a sugar packet and split it between the two of them and filled both of their cups, she used her clean knife to stir them. She looked up at Gemma—for approval?
Gemma took another sip of tea—she approved.
Helena scooped herself a bit more of the rice, specifically picking out a shrimp for herself. She eyed the condiments, but settled for what she had.
For some time longer, they ate together contentedly. At some point, the meal had became truly comfortable.
The check came and before Helena could make any surreptitious grabs at her own wallet, Gemma slapped the $50 into the folder.
“Keep the change,” she cooed.
He left them with their boxed up rice and fortune cookies. Gemma grabbed a cookie and pushed the remaining one to Helena, who cracked hers open immediately. Helena popped one half of the cookie into her mouth and read her paper slip.
“Love is like wildflowers—it is often found in the most unlikely places,” she spoke after swallowing, “I think that one was for Helly, not me.” She tried to chuckle through it, but there was a melancholic edge to her words.
Gemma still had her cookie in her hand, unopened. Helena looked at her a little expectantly. Gemma crushed the cookie in her fist and let the crumbs fall to the table. She unearthed the fortune like an archaeologist and read it silently.
Helena leaned in a little closer, not willing to ask, but clearly begging to be told what it said. Gemma turned the note around and held it up to Helena’s face; her eyes had to adjust before she could read the tiny print.
“Carpe diem,” she whispered.
Gemma shoved the note into the cup of her own bra, going through the loose neck of her tee-shirt to do so. She grabbed the leftovers and stood to leave, Helena followed dutifully.
Only once they got into the car was Helena brave enough to ask, “Where to next?”
Gemma passed the slightly warm box to her to hold, so that she could buckle up and start the car.
“I’m sure you’ve got places to be, Ms. Eagan, I won’t take up your whole night,” Helena deflated a little, not even trying to mask her reaction, “let me take you back to your car.”
Helena assented and stared out the windshield, forcing a more controlled reaction to her disappointment.
Gemma pulled out of the parking lot and drove at a reasonable pace back to Lumon headquarters. About halfway there, she realized there was no music on. Mark didn’t even listen to the radio anymore? She punched the buttons on the dash until the classical station came on. She thought it might’ve been Mozart’s Coronation Mass, but it had been a while; it wasn’t one of the songs they allowed her down there.
They were headed down the wooded road that lead to Lumon when an idea struck Gemma; it was far too good to pass up. At what looked like a service road, Gemma veered off and drove a several hundred feet into the forest. Helena dared not question her until they stopped.
“Are you going to kill me?” she sounded more resigned than frightened. Gemma snorted at the absurdity.
“No,” she said sweetly, “I’d rather not.”
Gemma put the car in park, its headlights were the only source of light they had, the sun had completely sunk while they were at dinner. Gemma had promised herself that if she ever got out, she would never miss another sunset again. Less than a week into “freedom” and she had already found a worthy excuse.
Helena stared at her, confused, anticipating just as she had with the fortune cookie.
“No, I was actually thinking,” Gemma hesitated, was she really doing this? Fuck it, carpe diem. “I was thinking I fuck you right out there, what do you think of that?”
Understandably, Helena was speechless.
Gemma didn’t need to sit here and torture her, so she added, “Up to you,” and stepped out of the vehicle, leaving it running. She walked around to the hood of the car and leaned back against it.
The cold air bit at her whole body through her single layer of clothes. Devon tried to convince her to throw on a cardigan, but she insisted that she wouldn’t be getting out of the car, anyway, so what did it matter? The warmth radiating off of the idling engine made it tolerable, at least.
She had left her door open, so the music hauntingly floated through the snowy forest.
Maybe a minute or so later, she heard the other door open and shut. Helena walked to the front of the car, a hand resting on the hood, as if it offered some level of protection.
“Are you serious?” One last honest question.
“Dead.” At that, Helena stepped forward.
“Okay, then,” she stood up straight, projecting a shade of dominance, “let’s.”
Gemma reached out and grabbed Helena by her coat’s lapels, turning her to lean against the car; Helena’s posturing melted like a snowball in Hell.
Gemma pressed her weight into Helena’s body, slid her hands down over her chest to her hips, getting under the coat and squeezing what little there was to grab through the thin material of her skirt. She rucked it up so that she could press her knee between Helena’s thighs.
Gemma’s hands immediately crept back up to her chest, grasping at small breasts through the blouse. She pressed her nose into Helena’s cheek and they both let out a shaky exhale, somehow in sync. Every motion drew a shudder from Helena and despite the cold, Gemma was burning all over.
Gemma shifted her hands again, one went down to Helena’s hip, the other found its way under the shirt, untucking it from the skirt, and shoving itself into Helena’s bra.
Gemma used the hip-hand to grind Helena down into her leg and increase the friction through her underwear and pantyhose and the boob-hand to find and pinch at her nipple. Helena moaned loudly and her own hands flew up, scrabbling at Gemma’s shoulders, grasping at the well worn material.
Helena was finding a rhythm in her thrusts over Gemma’s thigh; Gemma got some pressure from pressing herself against Helena’s hipbone, it was enough to spur her on. They rutted against each other like that for a while, Gemma’s hands exploring every inch of Helena she could, fucking up her pristine outfit and hair, and Helena holding on for dear life.
A climax really snuck up on Gemma; like the chili oil, deprivation had made her sensitive. She flexed her legs and went a little stiff, she let out a low, choked whine; it was enough for Helena to notice and slow down. Gemma let out another solid breath, the air condensing between them in the frigid night.
Helena’s grip on Gemma’s tee loosened, she actually stroked Gemma’s back lightly, tenderly.
In a second, Helena was flipped around, her front pressed into the hood of the car. Gemma pushed her fast, but Helena had pulled her arms up quickly to stop her face from being slammed into the metal. Gemma had one hand on her back, keeping her down—not that Helena was struggling in the slightest—the other grabbed at the edge of her skirt and pulled it all the way up and over her ass. She then reached for the hem of her pantyhose, pulling them and her underwear down around her knees, locking them somewhat close together.
Even in this odd light, Gemma could see the cold air bringing a flush to Helena’s pale ass. She ran a hand over it, it was firm and soft at the same time. She snaked that hand around to the front, easily finding the clit.
Gemma pressed her pelvis into Helena’s ass, so that she could trap her clit between it and her hand. She used three flat fingers to rub against the bud fast and rough. Periodically, she thrusted against Helena’s ass, spiking the pressure she could apply.
Helena keened and wailed into the night, Gemma had to trust they wouldn’t attract any night patrolmen or police officers because not for the world would she give up hearing those screams.
Gemma’s other hand slipped up Helena’s back as she leaned further and further into her maneuvers, eventually finding the nape of Helena’s neck, which she grasped firmly.
Suddenly, Gemma started laughing. She hadn’t realized how wide she was smiling until that moment—she didn’t relent for even a moment.
She tried to think of something very dirty to say, something mean or degrading, but there was really nothing better than the reality of the situation: Helena Eagan, Lumon CEO-in-waiting, was getting her brains fucked out of her by a dead woman in the woods on the hood of a Volvo 960.
When Helena came, it sounded like she was getting murdered. Good, good, good. Gemma kept stroking her, but lightened up, just letting her ride it out.
Over the panting, the music, and the hum of the car, Gemma heard a ringtone.
“Shit,” she pulled herself away from Helena—leaving her wet and bare—sprinting back to the driver’s seat and grabbing the phone. Devon was calling, there were 5 missed calls from Devon.
Gemma quickly wiped her fingers off on her sweats before tapping the screen to answer.
“Hey, Dev, I’m sorry, I was at dinner,” she explained. As she talked Devon down from a major panic attack, she got to enjoy the show of watching Helena straighten herself up.
It was an extremely delightful sort of reverse-burlesque. She pulled up panties and hose separately, she stretched out her legs which were probably sore, then she pulled her skirt back down, flattening it roughly with her hands. She wrangled the edge of her shirt back into her skirt, then she pulled her coat more securely around herself.
Helena finally looked through the windshield in at Gemma; she offered her a smile, which Helena returned gratefully.
“I’ll be back in 15 minutes, okay?” she reassured Devon. Helena reentered the car. Gemma finally hung up, all was well.
Helena stared at Gemma again with her obvious silent questions pouring out of her. Why did you do this? Why me? Why, why, why?
Gemma shrugged at her, “I took you out to dinner first, didn’t I?” and with that she turned up the volume on the music and shifted the car into reverse.
The drive back to the Lumon lot was short. Gemma parked directly next to the one remaining car in the lot and stared at Helena expectantly. What did she expect? Definitely not for Helena to lean forward and sweetly peck her on the cheek, but she’d take it.
“Goodnight,” Helena half-whispered. Gemma echoed her.
Daintily, Helena stepped out of the car, softly closed the door, and unlocked her own vehicle. Gemma was already rocketing out of the lot by the time Helena was sat in the driver’s seat.
She white-knuckle gripped the steering wheel, she tried to press her bruised hand into it but the damn thing was healing, now a mottled yellow-green. She smiled again, laughed a little, accelerated faster, and she screamed into the night, howling like a wolf.