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After recovery, when she’s forced to stay home, the shame eats away at her; Sam died because she was too eager to get to Castle. Billy — she was blind when it came to Billy. She should have known, she should have intuited it somehow. The shame ebbs and flows, of course. Some days she is so angry she doesn’t know what to do with herself. She wants to go to the hospital where Billy is and she wants to strangle him. She wants to strangle Castle too, for not just putting a bullet in him. Shame and anger settle heavy on her chest and around her lungs and she finds herself clawing at her throat, trying to catch her breath.
Yes, there’s the shame and yes, there’s the anger. But there’s hatred as well. She wakes and she hates Billy. She runs and she hates Billy. She eats and she hates Billy. When she lies in bed and stares at the blank surface of her white ceiling she hates him even more. Her hatred becomes alive, it becomes actionable and deliberate and tactile.
When she gets back to work, she pretends. She’s good at pretending. She’s on desk-duty while Rafael cleans up her mess. At least, that is what he tells her. She glances over at Sam’s empty desk and she wants to vomit.
She’s still the Agent in Charge and it’s still only supposed to be an interim position but no one seems particularly in a rush to find a new replacement for Carson Wolf. So, she moves out of her parents’ penthouse and rents an apartment. Clearly, she’s staying in New York indefinitely. The apartment has one bedroom, kitchen and living room in one, and a bathroom. It’s all she needs even if her dad looks at it and tells her that she could easily afford something nicer and bigger. She doesn’t want anything nicer or bigger.
She buys a new bed. She buys new sheets and covers, too. Puts Billy behind her for good and it feels like a victory until the bed dips next to her at night and fingers card through her hair. “Maybe it was Sam’s own fault,” he says and presses his finger to the scar on her scalp. Hands settle around her throat, pressing, pressing, crushing her, and she can’t breathe.
In the morning, she takes a shower and stands naked in front of the mirror in her bedroom. Her own body looks unfamiliar. She’s been running every day and most evenings she goes to the gym for kickboxing. She doesn’t think she’s ever been so muscular. But it’s hard to eat — she rarely finds the appetite, she actively has to remind herself, or it’s hard to keep it down. She looks like a wild, mangy dog.
She doesn’t drink a lot and she certainly doesn’t drink often, but when she does, she likes it. She likes getting drunk. It’s a small vice, all things considered. She finds a bar, gets drunk, finds someone to fuck. Their place, never hers. Soft bodies, yielding bodies, lips covering hers, and then she goes home and ignores Billy whispering in her ear.
/
“Madani.”
Dinah is startled out of her thoughts and sees no other than Karen Page coming up next to her, settling on the closest barstool.
“You’re keeping a trace on my cell or something? Spying on me?” Karen says, her voice dry and measured.
“That would be the NSA. Allegedly.”
Karen gives a small smile — really just a slight upturn of her lips. “So it’s simply a coincidence you’re here?”
Dinah looks around. The dive bar is disgusting. It stinks, its patrons look like bad caricatures of alcoholics, red noses, flushed cheeks and beer bellies. It’s hot in here as well, New York’s one big cauldron in the summer, sweltering August heat, and these kinds of bars rarely have functioning air con. “I guess.”
Karen eyes her suspiciously before raising her hand at the heavy-set woman behind the counter and calling, “Hey, Josie. Can I get a beer and another of whatever she’s having?”
“That’s Josie?” Dinah whispers and Karen chuckles. It’s a nice chuckle.
“Really, what are you doing here?”
Dinah sighs. “I needed a drink. Somewhere I thought I wouldn’t meet anyone familiar.” She gestures idly at Karen and shrugs. “I was wrong.”
Karen smiles, wider this time, and says, “Of all the gin joints…”
“What — that makes you Rick Blaine?”
“If the shoe fits.”
Dinah gesticulates with her empty glass and makes her voice deeper; “Who are you, and what were you before? What did you do and what did you think?”
Karen looks at her for a moment, eyes glinting.
Josie sets their drinks in front of them and they clink their glasses together as Karen says cheers, and Dinah says thanks. Dinah drinks the whole glass of tequila down in one go and maybe she shouldn’t have done that, it burns all the way down her esophagus, and she coughs.
“Jesus,” Karen laughs and tells Josie to get another round, this time make it four shots and give us some limes and salt as well. Josie looks decidedly unhappy with the extra request but obliges, and gives them a pitcher of water as well and two glasses. Dinah is about to pour some water for herself — should probably remember to drink water, considering the pace she’s setting — but Karen places her hand over the glass and says, “I wouldn’t do that… the water here is not exactly… sanitary.”
Dinah laughs. “Fuck. What a place.”
Karen leans a little closer. “The trick is to buy the cheapest, watered-down beer and drink that inbetween.” She slides her bottle over to Dinah and Dinah takes it without second thought, taking a long sip while maintaining eye contact.
“Seems like the perfect place to get absolutely shit-faced.”
“Oh yeah. It is,” Karen grins. “I used to come here a lot with my… my previous colleagues. Well, they were — are — my friends too. Just haven’t seen them in a while.” She bites her wedge of lime, takes a shot, licks the salt off the back of her palm. She makes an exaggerated aah and smacks her lips though the grimace on her face gives away what she really thinks. “So, I guess I’m here because I’m feeling nostalgic. What’s your excuse?”
Dinah follows suit with her own shot. Tequila always was her drink of choice, though this one isn’t exactly top-shelf. The limes and salt help. “Let me see… the guy I dated turned out to be a psychotic war criminal who shot me in the head. I think I’m allowed a few drinks.”
Karen gets a forlorn look in her eyes. “He shot you in the head?” she asks.
Dinah parts her hair where the bullet hit her, showing the tiny bald spot and wound. Karen’s eyes go wide and she says, holy shit, can I? She’s holding out her hand so Dinah nods and Karen’s fingertip touches the scar gently, tracing the jagged edges. Dinah’s throat feels tight.
“Come on. Your newspaper ran an article about it. Several, actually.” Karen looks a little guilty at that, retreats her hand, and fiddles with her empty glass. “Have you spoken to Castle since?”
“Uh, no,” Karen says and Dinah doesn’t know if she’s lying or not, she decides that she doesn't care.
“How come you’re so close?” she asks.
Karen’s mouth twitches and she runs a hand through her long hair. It looks very soft. “I don’t know. We just have an understanding. His story, I mean, his life has been so tragic. I just gave him the benefit of an open mind.”
Dinah nods and takes another swig of Karen’s beer, placing her mouth on top of the traces of Karen’s lipstick. Her eyelids are heavy. “I should — should probably order a coke or something. Unless you tell me that that is undrinkable too.”
“I think a coke is probably safe. Emphasis on probably.”
Dinah feels herself smiling and orders that damn coke, two actually, just in case, now that she’s been drinking from Karen’s beer, and Karen might want something other than cheap tequila. She orders two more shots despite them both still having one left and Karen shakes her head with a laugh, saying, damn, it’s that kind of night, huh?
Karen’s wearing a tight pencil skirt — Dinah tries to remember if she’s ever seen Karen in anything other than a pencil skirt, the few times they’ve met. It hugs her thighs and ass and Karen’s pretty tall too, got legs for days. They take another shot and Dinah tries not to stare at the way Karen’s lips close around the lime wedge, not to stare at the long line of her throat as she throws the shot back, not to stare at the way she licks the salt away.
“So,” Dinah says. “You working on anything interesting as of now?”
“Oh, you know. Just trying to expose a little fraud here and there. The classics.”
“The classics,” Dinah repeats and grins.
“What about yourself?” Karen asks, opening the top button of her shirt, baring more of her collarbone. She waves a hand in front of her face, trying to cool down. There’s a small freckle there. Dinah gets the urge to bite it.
Dinah can’t help but smirk. “Sorry Miss Page. That’s classified information.”
Karen puts her hair up in a bun and grins, her eyes bright and clear. “Of course, Agent Madani. How silly of me. So what do we talk about instead then?”
“We could commiserate about our childhoods,” Dinah suggests as a joke but the way Karen visibly bristles makes it clear that she’s hit a nerve. “Or not. The weather? It sure is hot, huh?” Dinah tries, she really does, and maybe it works because Karen’s shoulders lose a bit of their tension.
“Sure is,” Karen says slyly and sips her coke. It’s one of those kind of old-school looking bottles. Probably could be an actual relic from the 1950s, the way this bar appears. They still both have two shots each in front of them and because Dinah doesn’t know what else to say she lifts one up, arches an eyebrow, gesturing for Karen to do the same and she does. Karen lets out a single cough, does a little whoo and says, “Seems to me they get easier to get down every time.”
“Trust me, this isn’t even the good stuff. Next time, I’ll make sure we get the proper shit, shit that actually tastes good.” Dinah snaps her mouth shut, realising what she’s just said. Presumptuous, she tells herself. They didn’t even plan to meet this time, it just happened.
Karen nods, not even looking at her, says, I’d like that, I’ve never been big on tequila but maybe I’ll come around to it, certainly if you’re paying. Dinah turns on her stool, her knees brushing up against Karen’s thigh and says, without thinking, of course I’m paying, I’m the one asking you out. Karen faces her at that, their eyes meet and Karen looks — surprised. Which surprises Dinah in turn because weren’t they flirting? Wasn’t that what this whole thing was? Presumptuous, yet again. Dinah forgets how tiring flirting with women can be. Men are easy. Men are animals, really. She doesn’t even really need to flirt, just bat her eyelashes and then the deal’s done. With women it’s like walking over a minefield, never really knowing if they’re actually interested. Billy was easy, too. Maybe that should’ve been a warning. She should have known better. Billy was the one who batted his eyelashes at her, and she fell for it. Billy. Billy who had said that maybe Sam was to blame for his own death. Billy who had wiped the blood off her face. Billy who she had invited into her bed. Billy who—
“You okay?” Karen places a soft hand on her arm, thumb moving back and forth. Dinah stares at it.
“Yeah. I’m alright.”
Karen moves her hand away again, mutters “Sorry” and drinks the last shot. Dinah follows suit. Karen gets up and stumbles a little over her own feet and Dinah grabs her shoulder. Karen leans into it, leans into her, presses her body just so against Dinah’s, braces herself with a hand between Dinah’s shoulder blades, and chuckles. “You don’t really notice yourself getting drunk when you sit down and then you stand up and it hits you all at once,” Karen says, slightly amused. “I’m just… heading to the restrooms,” she says as her hand on Dinah’s back moves upwards, her fingers brushing against the nape of Dinah’s neck before she takes a step back.
Dinah sits still in her chair, watches Karen leave, can’t help but stare at her ass, and then she’s gone from view. Dinah turns her attention to the array of empty glasses, sucked-dry lime wedges, small salt packages that are ripped open, and thinks fuck it. She gets up, feels a bit whoozy, walks, and stands in front of the door where she knows Karen is, shifts back and forth on her feet, and the door opens. Karen says, “Oh,” and then Dinah pushes her back inside and locks the door behind her.
Karen’s staring at her, not saying a word and Dinah moves closer — not that there is much space in here anyway — and kisses Karen on the mouth. She grabs Karen’s head with both hands, digs her fingers into her soft hair, loosening her bun. Karen kisses her back immediately. She presses Karen against the door, moves one hand along her thighs, around, grabs Karen’s ass which elicits a moan and Dinah smiles against Karen’s lips. She starts opening the buttons on Karen’s shirt and kisses down along her throat and cups one of her breasts with her other hand. Karen says “Oh,” again and hitches up her skirt, the thing was too tight anyway, Dinah couldn’t get a thigh between Karen’s legs but she can now so she does and Karen moans again. It’s a good sound. She wants to eat it.
Karen’s hands tentatively reach for the buttons on Dinah’s shirt and Dinah pulls back, taking it off in one swift movement, placing it in the sink, hoping it won’t get too dirty there. Karen stares at her, eyes tracing over her body, and swallows. “I haven’t — with a woman,” Karen says.
“I’d say it’s pretty intuitive,” Dinah whispers and kisses along Karen’s jawline, grabbing her hip with one hand encouraging her to rub against her thigh. Karen tenses, exhales, catches Dinah’s mouth with her own, and Dinah licks into it. Her head is spinning and Karen tastes of tequila and limes and her body is so soft, invitingly so, and Dinah tilts her head down and kisses her breasts, mouths and licks at the skin, Karen’s grinding against her, breath stuttering, Dinah pulls the fabric of her bra down, exposing her nipple and licks over it. She notices that freckle again and she bites at it. God, she hasn’t felt like this in ages, overwhelmed with desire, she feels warm all over and she’s so wet, she can feel it, so she opens her pants, takes one of Karen’s hands and guides it down where she needs it.
“Fuck,” Karen says as she slips her fingers inside her, her palm grinding just right.
“Yeah — like that,” Dinah groans against Karen’s neck and Karen says, kiss me, holy shit, kiss me. Their lips press together and Dinah feels so damn good, Karen is so soft, her hair is so smooth. She grabs Karen’s wrist, angling her hand a little better and she gasps. She doesn’t really notice if Karen’s still moving against her, all she can focus on is the pressure against her clit, how it builds, how Karen’s fingers make her feel full in that perfect way, they’re kissing sloppily, Dinah’s mostly got her mouth open, panting. It's been a long time since anyone has seen her like this and who would’ve thought it would be here, of all places, with Karen Page, of all people.
Dinah comes and leans into Karen, grinds against her palm in stuttered movements, until she makes Karen remove her hand. Karen wipes it on her skirt, eyes locked on Dinah. And then she laughs, hearty and sweet, a little disbelievingly. “Holy shit,” she says.
Dinah just nods, still recollecting herself. She’s got both hands on the wall next to Karen, essentially caging her in. She makes Karen turn around, bracing her hands against the door, grabs her by the hair, pulling her head back, and slips a hand into her panties. Karen arches back into her, presses her ass against her, and Dinah bites the soft junction between neck and shoulder as she slips two fingers inside her. Karen whimpers, and Dinah shushes her, come on, you don’t the want the whole bar to hear, do you, and Karen bites her lip, moving her hips as Dinah fucks her with her fingers.
“God, you’re hot,” she hears herself saying and Karen knits her eyebrows together, trying to suppress her noises. Dinah fists her hair tighter and says, “Think you can come?” Karen nods, yeah, don’t stop, it’s so good. Dinah lets Karen set the pace, lets her move her hips the way she wants, and Karen starts moving faster, breath stuttering, and Dinah slaps her other hand over Karen’s mouth just in time as she comes. Karen chuckles against the palm of her hand, breath hot and wet and she darts her tongue out, licking it. Dinah huffs out a laugh and lets her hand slide down over Karen’s chin, smearing her spit down her face and throat. Karen’s leaning her head back against Dinah’s shoulder, and Dinah moves her hand down to cup one of her breasts, kisses the side of Karen’s face as she pulls her fingers out.
“Mmh,” Karen sighs.
Dinah can’t help it, she slaps Karen’s ass and Karen yelps, whines, then says, “Now who’s the one making noise?”
“I’ve wanted to do that the whole evening,” Dinah admits and does it again. Karen writhes a little and says, please…
“Please what?” Dinah breathes.
“God — your place? Mine? I don’t care. Just not here.”
Dinah laughs at that. “Fair. Mine?”
/
Dinah wakes, her sheets soft and comfortable beneath her even if it feels like she’s got about a million tight rubber bands wrapped around her head. She opens her eyes slowly as she recalls the night, turns her head, sees Karen next to her, strawberry blonde hair fanned out over her pillow. She has a very strong urge to smooth her hand over it. Doesn’t. Instead she carefully lifts her covers and sneaks into the bathroom. She showers quickly, wanting to get the grime of that godawful dive bar out her skin and hair. She haphazardly throws on some comfortable clothes and when she enters her bedroom again, Karen’s sitting on the bed, blinking blearily, looking just about how Dinah feels.
“Feel free to take a shower,” Dinah says and instructs her where to find clean towels, and maybe, if you want, you can borrow some clothes too, only if you want to of course, and Karen nods and heads for the bathroom.
The last person who was in her bed — her stomach clenches at that thought. At least it wasn’t this bed. She heads for the kitchen and places her palms on the fake marble countertop, breathes in and out. She didn’t have a nightmare, didn’t dream of that familiar face looming over her, grinning. She didn’t dream of Sam choking on his own blood. She closes her eyes, remembers them stumbling into her apartment last night, remembers skin and curves and lips, remembers the noises, remembers fucking Karen with her vibrator, and Dinah exhales a little shakily and starts making coffee to distract herself. She hasn’t really got any food to offer, rarely eats at home, though there is a carton of eggs in there.
Karen emerges, hair wet, wearing a pair of Dinah’s pyjama pants and a top, and it’s making Dinah feel some kind of funny way. She gives her a smile, hoping it conveys a little of what she’s feeling. Karen sits down at her table, sighs, and mutters a thanks as Dinah hands her a cup of coffee and sits down too.
“Christ,” Karen bemoans. “I can’t remember the last time I drank so much. Certainly not tequila. Were you trying to kill me?”
“You were the one who started it,” Dinah says. “Ordering four shots and all.”
Karen leans back in her chair and closes her eyes. And Karen’s wearing her clothes and they look good on her, despite being taller than Dinah, the top is a little too short, showing a sliver of skin and Dinah bites the inside of her cheek before sliding down her chair, crawling the short distance between them and kissing Karen’s knee.
Karen parts her legs, looks down at Dinah, “What —”
“Pretty obvious, isn’t it?” Dinah mumbles against Karen’s thigh. She hooks her fingers underneath the waistband and Karen lifts herself up a little, letting Dinah remove the trousers. And — and Karen’s wearing one of Dinah’s panties as well. Dinah laughs, “You really just helped yourself to all of it, huh?” But fuck, if it doesn’t turn her on like crazy.
“You said — you said I could,” Karen breathes as Dinah mouths at the thin fabric. Karen removes the underwear and Dinah presses her mouth between Karen’s legs. Karen arches her back off the chair, grabbing Dinah’s hair with one hand, and Dinah slides two fingers inside her and presses her tongue flat against her, and she feels like she’s going crazy, doesn’t know if she’s still a little drunk or if it’s the hangover that is making her feel this way. Karen comes and Dinah climbs onto her lap and Karen fingers her until Dinah is dizzy with it.
Afterwards, Karen pulls her — her, as in Dinah’s — pants up again and glares at her.
This is the awkward part. Dinah hadn’t thought this far ahead, she really hadn’t been thinking at all, certainly not last night and certainly not… fifteen minutes ago. She turns around and takes a long pull from her coffee and she can still hear Karen breathing loudly behind her, still sitting at her table. It’s confining.
“I’m actually busy today,” Dinah says, still not looking at her.
“Yeah. Okay. I think I’ll just — I mean, thank you for the coffee, but I’ll head home.”
Dinah moves to face her again. “Okay.”
Karen’s lips are kiss-bitten and her hair is mussed and Dinah now knows how soft her hair is. It’s really not fair that she knows that because now all she wants to do is run her hand through it. Karen walks back into the bedroom to put on her own clothes and Dinah just stands stupidly in the kitchen, rooted to the spot.
“Maybe we’ll see each other around,” Karen says as she comes back out.
“Sure,” Dinah follows her down the hall and opens her door. Karen stands in her doorway, close to her, shifting on her feet, before she smiles and heads out. She’s still wearing Dinah’s underwear.
/
Dinah is on desk duty. Getting shot in the head will put you on desk duty for a long while, it seems. At least she has her office. Though her office overlooks Sam’s desk and one morning she actually sees him there, and when she realises that’s impossible, she throws up in her trash can. So there is that.
She wakes at 5.30 AM, runs from 5.40 until 6.40, outside if the weather allows it, inside if not, stretches, showers, gets dressed, drinks a coffee, drives to work. She tries to eat a bagel and drinks another coffee at her desk. She reviews surveillance footage, logs, and transcripts. She holds meetings or joins meetings where she presents her memos about the surveillance footage, logs, and transcripts, and then she drafts memos about those meetings. She has lunch at her desk — typically some kind of salad. Then it’s calls and check-ins to D.C and Langley. She goes home around 7 PM, heads to the gym, does some grocery shopping or orders food. She doesn’t have friends so she doesn’t go out. On Fridays she’ll have two glasses of wine with dinner and then she’ll drink a good glass of Mezcal afterwards. Or she’ll indulge her vice and she’ll go out to the dingiest looking bar she can find and drink herself stupid. Though she hasn’t done that since she stumbled into Karen.
Rafael keeps an eye on her and she knows he’s talking with her mom behind her back and it infuriates her. It makes her feel like a teenager.
She’s on surveillance on some white power group. There aren’t really any active ones in New York but, well, blue-collar, angry, unemployed men are everywhere in the county, even in a metropolitan city. ORION, they call themselves; Our Race Is Our Nation. They’re Aryan Brotherhood wannabes and they’ve got the attention of Homeland after some colourful threats on online forums towards some democratic representatives. It’s not that serious yet, but the tide can turn on a moment’s notice. Stochastic terrorism, and all that.
Her mom invites her over for dinner a lot now. Dinah supposes it’s only fair, given everything that’s happened the last few months. And it’s nice to get home-cooked meals.
“My love,” Farah says, “how was your week?”
“Fine.” Dinah gives short answers when she speaks to her mom. It’s really not fair, she knows that, but having a psychiatrist as a parent means closing off sometimes.
“Dinah. I know you’re struggling”
It doesn’t mean it works. Maybe it even has the adverse effect. She sighs for emphasis. “My week was fine. I’m desk-bound. It’s boring but it’s okay. I get a few headaches.”
Headaches, she says. As if she doesn’t wake up most nights feeling Billy’s hands around her throat. As if she doesn’t see Sam in the doorway to her office.
“Are you sleeping enough?”
“Yes,” she says in Farsi. “Yes, I’m sleeping. Yes, I’m eating. Yes, I’m working. Yes, I still spend an hour on the treadmill. Anything else?”
Her mom doesn’t respond. She gives Dinah The Look — something between sympathy and pity — and fills her glass with wine.
She takes a cab home and stares out at the people and the lights and the buildings that pass her by. She cranes her neck and looks up at the sky. It’s cloud-free but you can’t see a single star. It’s too bright here to ever see stars. She thinks of Kandahar, how the stars there seemed so brilliant, so vivid.
Her apartment is empty and cold compared to her parents’. It doesn’t feel lived in yet. She heaves her body to the bathroom and undresses, leaving her clothes crumpled on the floor, and steps into the shower. Trailing her hands down her body, she’s leaner, more angular, thinner, than she’s been in a long time. There aren’t bruises left but she still feels them. Still feels the bullet grazing her head too, sometimes. She looks down at the water rippling down, looks as it turns red, looks as big hands roam her body, down along her stomach and her thighs and the big scar she’s got there, and she closes her eyes.
“You’re okay,” he says.
She swallows. Her body shakes.
He wipes the blood from her face. “How did Sam manage to get himself stabbed when he was the one holding a gun to his killer?”
“Don’t,” she whispers.
“It’s not your fault.” Rough hands cradle her face. “Look at me, Dinah.”
“I can’t.”
“If you can’t do it, maybe it’s time to call it a day.”
She stands in the shower with her eyes screwed shut until her palms start to prune. She doesn’t want to see his face. He’s not actually there, she knows that, but she can hear him, see him, feel him, so he’s still here. Her breath comes in short, it’s hard to fill her lungs with air. Slowly, she opens her eyes and there is no blood. She doesn’t look up though, keeps her gaze trained on the ground, sees as her feet lift from the acrylic bathtub to the soft bath mat. She spreads out her toes and inhales deeply.
/
The world moves on. For Dinah, time has stood still since Kandahar. Or maybe it’s moved so fast she hasn’t registered time has passed at all. Events; that’s how she keeps track of things since coming back.
Ahmad Zubair — Carson Wolf — Billy Russo — Car crash — Frank Castle — Cerberus — Billy Russo — Sam Stein — Billy Russo — Central Park —
She hates him.
There’s something to be said about hate. You obsess long enough and hard enough and the line blurs. She sees him above her in bed and she hates him, she does, but her hand is between her legs and he’d read her like an open book. He’d let her push him against the wall and she’d bitten his neck and he’d made these keening sounds but he’d taken control too, he’d fucked her and it made her crazy, all she had to do was think about him and she’d be dripping, he’d lick at her jaw like he wanted to eat her and maybe he did. Maybe she wanted him to. He’d wrap his hand around her throat and she comes.
— Karen Page and the first (and last) time she has had a full night’s sleep since Kandahar.
/
It’s September when she’s introduced to her new colleague.
“Dinah, this is Carey Webster,” Rafael says and raises his eyebrows, essentially saying play nice.
He’s a little older than her, blonde, classically handsome. Sam was a lawyer before, he was soft around the edges, funny. Carey Webster carries himself as a military man; staunch and stern.
She shows him around, tells him to call her Madani and he says yes, ma’am. When they’re at his desk — Sam’s desk — he says, “It’s a real pleasure to get to work for you, Agent Madani.” He sounds so sincere.
“You drink, Webster?”
They’re sitting in the corner of the bar by a small table, his knees brush against hers and if she were more inclined — if she were more self-destructive — if Billy and Sam and Kandahar had fucked her up even more — she’d go home with him. Instead she tucks her legs away and tells him to get them another round.
“I was in Afghanistan, too,” he says when he puts down their beers. “Only briefly though. I was mostly in Iraq. A little all over the place.” He shrugs and looks at her for a moment. “I was in Pakistan. I’ve been stationed in Berlin. I liked it there. You ever been to Berlin?”
She shakes her head. “Had a brief layover in Frankfurt but I can’t say I’ve ever seen the country.”
“Berlin’s better than New York,” he mumbles into the bottle.
“So why are you here?”
“They pulled me out. Said I ‘needed a change of scenery’. I know you know what that feels like.”
Dinah nods slowly. “Kandahar.”
“Yeah. I read your file. I mean it when I say I’m looking forward to working with you.”
She blinks at him. “I’m not gonna pull you out of New York. Not unless you ask me to.”
He grins and leans back in his chair. “Good. And I’ll do your bidding.”
She laughs. “That’s not what—”
“You’re the Agent in Charge. And I’m the guy with redacted files. Why do you think I’m here?”
Dinah breathes in. “I didn’t ask for that.”
“You didn’t have to. Someone higher up the chain decided it for us,” he shrugs nonchalantly and gestures up towards the ceiling. “All I need… is to trust you.”
“Trust is earned.”
“Indeed it is,” he lifts his bottle; “Here’s to trust.”
/
Webster is good. And Dinah can’t deny it’s nice to have someone in her corner at work, someone to bounce ideas off. He fits in easily, he makes friends easily. He’s self-assured, sits with his thighs spread apart, leaning back, there’s machismo there Dinah wishes she had. She’s made her claim and she’s respected by her colleagues but the masculine will always be privileged.
They’re both in her office, he’s looking up names and possible records of ORION members. She’s going through their website. It’s all very ‘underground smuggling tunnels in New York’, ‘the Democrats run a pedophile-ring’, ‘the Jews control Wall Street’ and her eyes are starting to hurt from looking at the screen. Calls of violence against lgbt-establishments, against politicians, journalists, they’re really keeping it broad. She shuts her computer off and rubs at her eyes. They’re trying to do a threat assessment; how likely is it that one of these lunatics will make good on his bomb threats? How likely will this asshole actually take to shooting that feminist podcast host? So far they seem more like basement dwellers than people who’ll take to the streets. Leaning back in her chair, her gaze drifts to Webster.
He looks up at her. “Had your fill of hate speech for one day?”
She rises and stretches. “You could say that.”
“Want to get a beer?”
And it’s easy not to compare him to Sam because they’re so different. A different species, almost. And, more importantly, she never fucked Sam. So much for not being inclined.
Later, she’s lying on his bed, watching him button up his shirt. They never spend the night together.
“This is a terrible idea,” she had said the first time.
“Terrible,” he had murmured and kissed her.
It was a month after he had been instated. A month of him sitting behind the glass and looking at her. A month of him proving his worth — and he was so eager to prove that he was worthy of her trust.
Now, he’s closing his hand around her ankle, pressing his thumb into her heel.
“I should leave,” she says.
“Mhm. You should,” he agrees.
He lifts her leg and kisses the arch of her foot. He moves to sit on the bed and kisses up her calf, his hand sliding up along the outside of her thigh, past her scar.
He’s good at sex. She comes fast and hard but then again, she never had a problem with that. She prefers being on top or being on all fours — it’s either all the control or none of it.
The first time they fucked it was over the desk in her office which was, as they both agreed on, a terrible idea. It was late and the blinds to the hallway were pulled down and it seemed like they were the only people left but you never know. She was bent over it, hands slipping on loose papers and folders, and he was behind her, efficiently opening his pants. Efficient — no fumbling. Efficiently, he had tugged her pants down. Efficiently, he had stuck two fingers into her mouth before sliding them into her. She had gasped and arched her back and he had whispered fuck fuck, and then pushed inside her. They didn’t even use a condom and the thought was so hot that it was stupid and he had a hand down her front as well, applying just the right amount of pressure and she came, efficiently. She liked that she couldn’t see his face, liked that she couldn’t see his cock. She imagined it was someone else, she didn’t want to, but she did. Someone she doesn’t want to name, someone who keeps whispering in her ear.
“Pull out. I don’t want it in me,” she had said.
“Fuck, I love it when you tell me what to do.”
And then he pulled out and came into his fist.
It’s become routine. They’ll head for the elevator after work, drive in separate cars and then meet at his place. She thinks he’s a bit of a masochist. He likes it when she tells him to strip down, when she tells him to get on his knees, she’ll scratch her nails through his hair, pull it, she’ll slap his face until he’s hard and aching and sometimes she’ll imagine it’s someone else.
/
Webster is not in. The desk is empty. She hasn’t gotten a message or notification that he’s either sick or otherwise occupied so she’s fidgeting with her pen staring at the empty desk. Because once it’s empty it’s Sam’s desk and she keeps seeing him in the corner of her eye.
Where are you, she texts.
Got called away. Langley. I’ll be back on Monday.
She knows he’s ex-CIA. He’d said Pakistan and what was visible in his files had said Islamabad and she can put two and two together.
She spins in her chair. None of this is particularly healthy or sustainable. She doesn’t need a fuck-buddy, she needs a friend. She’s lonely and she’s bored and autopilot can only take you so far. The best decision she’s made recently, the decision that truly felt like hers, was Karen Page.
She goes to her parents’. Her mother looks mildly concerned when Dinah asks if she can stay the weekend.
"Anything wrong with your apartment?” her father inquires.
“No, I just need…” She’s not sure what she needs. Familiarity, perhaps.
“Your room is as you left it,” Farah says.
Dinah isn’t hungry when they eat dinner. She pushes the vegetables around on her plate and the thought of meat makes her queasy. Her parents exchange glances and she puts the cutlery down noisily. “What?” Farsi is the better language to be angry in.
“Is the food not to your liking?”
Dinah rolls her eyes and pierces a piece of chicken with her fork, chews it loudly. She wants to gag.
“Dinah,” Hamid says, scoldingly, like she’s a kid.
Later, in bed, she can’t sleep. She tosses and turns, feels hot and then cold, and she wonders how Billy’s doing in his hospital bed. She gets up and paces in a circle. She ends up sitting down in a corner of the room, her back to the wall, facing the door until 6 AM.
When her mom goes to pilates in the morning, she’s alone with her dad in the living room. She’s sitting on the sofa, looking out at the sun rising over the city. Gold spearing through the clouds, reflecting on the windowed surfaces of the high rises. Hamid hands her cup of tea and she takes it without looking. She sips it and the taste of black tea, cardamon and cinnamon hits her all at once. She looks up at him and he’s smiling down at her.
“I put saffron in as well,” he says.
“Do you have the sugar cubes?”
“Of course, darling.”
They drink their tea in silence, Dinah passes the cube back and forth in her mouth. Memories of summers in Teheran, the snowy mountaintops in the distance, she’d always drag her dad to visit Golestan Palace with her and she’d spend hours looking at the ceilings and the tilings and the mosaics. Or when they’d go there in March for Nowruz and the house would be filled with tulips and hyacinths. She wants to cry. But she can’t.
/
Webster texts her, I’m back, Sunday night. She tells her parents she needs to go home anyway. When he opens the door for her, she pushes her way in and shoves him to sit on the couch and she straddles him. She takes his hand and places it on her throat. He exhales loudly and looks at her, genuinely curious, when she squeezes his wrist and pulls on his arm, meaning; come on, come on, harder.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Dinah,” his voice is tight.
“You never asked me if I wanted to hurt you.”
“I didn’t have to. It was pretty evident.”
She slaps his face for that. “Shut up,” she says. “Shut up,” it’s breathy and eager when she feels him pressing, squeezing once. “Come on,” she’s shaking. And then he closes his hand around her, hard, and fear bolts straight through her. She fights it. She looks straight down at him. He’s not Billy. It’s not Billy. It’s not. He releases his grip and she slumps forward against him, gasping. She stands up and takes her pants off and he works his fly open, only managing to shove his jeans half-way down his thighs before she’s back on him, sinking down on his erection — so much for not wanting to hurt her.
“Again,” she says and this time he obeys. She rides him hard and digs her nails into his shoulders the way she knows he likes it and he squeezes around her throat. “More,” she wants more. They get her t-shirt off and she’s not wearing a bra and he slaps her breast with the palm of his hand.
“This is what you want?”
“Yes,” she says. “Yes, yes—”
She comes with his hand around her throat. And it’s not Billy.
“We should stop this,” she tells him afterwards.
“Yeah, no shit, Madani. What the fuck was that.”
She doesn’t answer him, instead she gets up from the couch and finds her underwear on the floor.
/
It’s November when she gets a text from her friend in the NYPD; Billy Russo’s been released from the hospital. He’s being held in Sing Sing penitentiary until they know what to do with him. She stares at the message for what feels like hours. She calls in sick from work and spikes her coffee with the bourbon her father gave her for her birthday. She doesn’t want to eat. She drinks until her mouth is numb with it, until her arms and legs feel heavy. She lies down in bed. Her eyes blink; the world goes dark then light then dark.
She wakes because she can’t breathe. He’s pressing down on her, hands around her throat. There’s blood on him.
“What’re you doing,” she hears herself mumble.
“You have to admit that you like me.”
She shakes her head, unable to form words.
“It’s okay. Go to sleep. I’ve got you.”
Light then dark.
When she gets up in the middle of night, stumbling to the bathroom, a dull pain spreads on her chest like she’s been stabbed. She splashes water on her face and looks at herself in the mirror. She is sick and nauseous. She peels off her t-shirt — it feels too tight — and dread, hot and thick, curls inside her as she sees carved onto her chest:
B I L L Y
She lurches forward and vomits in the sink. She hasn’t eaten all day so it’s pure liquid, spewing out of her. She gags and gasps and touches her chest and looks up again.
Unblemished, untouched skin.
/
“You should stop sleeping with your employee,” Rafael tells her and she nearly chokes on her salad. “And you should eat lunch in the cafeteria. It would do you good to socialise a little.”
She looks around and stands up so abruptly that her chair topples backwards. “Have you bugged my office?”
Rafael’s brows furrow. “What—”
“You — Did you send him to keep an eye on me? Is that it?” She’s already fumbling through her shelves looking for the device.
“Dinah. Dinah, take a few days off.”
She looks at him then. “No. Absolutely not.”
“You’re spiralling.”
“Fuck you.”
She instantly regrets it. She watches as Rafael’s face falls, she can see the disappointment, and the shame of it almost crushes her.
“Your office is not bugged,” he tells her, voice flat, “and Carey was hired because he’s an excellent agent and I thought the two of you would get along.”
“Rafi…”
He scoffs and shakes his head, hands on his hips. “I saw you two in a bar. That’s it. Now, Dinah, take a few fucking days off.”
She goes home and buys two bottles of wine on the way. She feels defeated. Empty. She likes getting drunk. She’s drunk right now. She thinks it’s an excellent way to pass the time, actually, and she’s pretty tipsy when there’s a knock on her door.
“Webster,” she says when she opens.
“I thought I’d come by to cheer you up,” he holds a bottle of wine and waves with it, “but I can see you already had a head start.”
She lets him in. “I’m not in the mood to fuck.”
“Jesus, I’m here as a friend.”
“Except we’re not, are we?”
“Ouch. Okay,” he sits down on the couch and she gets another glass for him.
“Red or white?” He wants the white, Chardonnay, and she gets down next to him. “So, what now?” she asks.
He shrugs. “I don’t know. What do friends talk about?”
She chuckles. She starts laughing and it turns more and more hysterical. He looks at her and awkwardly joins in. “We’re fucking pathetic,” she says and drinks. It’s hard to swallow when you’re laughing.
“Yeah. Well.”
“I don’t know anything about you,” Dinah turns her head towards him.
He nods and puts on an exaggerated serious face. “Let’s see… I’m from Miami, born and raised. I didn’t go to college, went straight to the army. I was a Ranger before I was an analyst. I’m divorced — no kids. And my favourite colour is green.”
She smiles. “How long were you married for?”
“Three years. We were together for six.”
“What happened?”
“Berlin.”
“Are you ever going to tell me about Berlin?”
“Mm. Nope,” he drinks the whole glass of wine in one go and fills it again. “Your turn.”
“Alright. Born here, I did go to university — Fordham and then Columbia, I have a master’s in Islamic Studies, never been married, and my favourite colour is red.”
“Fitting.”
“Don’t flirt with me.”
“I’m not!”
“We’re not fucking.”
“Good. I don’t want to.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Do you?”
Dinah chuckles. “Yes. But not you.”
“Who, then?”
She shrugs. “I’ll take just about anyone.”
“But not me.”
“So you do want to.”
He laughs. “I think if we fuck now, it’s going to be really weird.”
“Yeah,” she nods. They clink their glasses together and he smiles at her, warm and friendly, and she chews on the inside of her cheek.
“So, who?” he asks.
Dinah fiddles with her glass. Drinks some more. “I had a… one night stand a few months ago. I don’t sleep well. I slept well that night.”
She hears the click of his throat as he hesitates. “I don’t think — I don’t think you should look for someone else to fix your problems.”
She scoffs, stammers; “I don’t.”
“It’s what you did with me.”
“What, like you don’t have any issues,” she spits, venomous. She hates conversations like these. Psychoanalysis-profiling bullshit.
“I have so many issues, don’t get it twisted. But I’m not treating sex as a band-aid.”
It’s instinctual to roll her eyes at that. “We should talk about something else.”
“Alright,” he chuckles and acquiesces. Dinah tells him about growing up on the Upper East Side and private schools and piano lessons and how her parents wanted her to do ballet but then she made them take her to kickboxing instead but she can still do the five basic positions and if he asks nicely she can show him the sauté.
“I’m askin’ nicely,” he drawls and leans back on the sofa. Dinah finds him very irresistible right now but she’s also keenly aware that the alcohol is affecting her.
She stands up and pulls her shoulders back, straightening her spine, does the movement and even goes for a pirouette, seemingly forgetting that the alcohol is affecting her because her ankle bends and she falls onto her floor.
He shakes his head disbelievingly and tells her about shootin’ gators with his confederacy-loving, holocaust-denying uncle and Dinah listens from the floor with her mouth agape. He tells her about all his crazy relatives and his drunk father and how the military was his only way out.
She crawls forward and sits between his legs. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“Don’t,” and she’s not sure exactly what he’s referring to but he doesn’t stop her when she’s opening his pants and he doesn’t stop her when she’s taking him in her mouth. He groans and her throat convulses, she pulls back and coughs, and it’s worth it for the way he looks at her. He keeps saying her name like it pains him and she’s so turned on, it makes her stupid.
“Let me come on your face,” he pleads.
“Absolutely not. Fuck m—” she doesn’t even get to finish her sentence before he’s right down there on the floor with her, tugging her pants down, and she wants it so badly, she even tells him that, and he curses when he enters her.
He fucks her hard like she asks him to, and a hand ghosts over her throat. “You want me to—?”
She tenses, panics. “Yes.” She barely registers how it builds within her and she’s (quite literally) gasping for air as she comes. She’s definitely crossing some wires in her brain.
“Dinah, God, please…”
She pulls his hair hard directly at the roots, and she pinches at the skin just beneath his nails. He makes a whimpering sound and pulls out and comes into his hand.
She sleeps fitfully. A finger is pressed to her scar. The bed dips. “Dinah,” he whispers and drags her name out, “you really think all that fucking and drinking can keep me out?” She wants to scream, but she can’t.
The next morning Carey is still there, asleep on her couch — she didn’t want him in her bed. She stands over him, a cup of coffee in her hand, and looks at him; his slack, sleepy face that’s pushed into the pillows, his arm that hangs down the side, fingertips grazing her floor, his spread legs. He’s hot. He has a fucking six pack, for Christ’s sake. He’s strong and lean, just like her men always are. She pokes him with her foot and he startles, his whole body jerking awake.
“Fuck, man, giving me a heart attack.”
“There’s coffee,” she says and goes over to pour him a cup.
They sit side by side, watching the news.
“So,” he starts. “Dinah.”
“God, just say it.”
“We really shouldn’t do that again. I truly only came here as emotional support, you know. As a friend… colleague… whatever.”
Despite knowing he’s right, it still stings to hear it. She nods into her coffee and looks at him. He meets her eyes head-on, he’s never faltered underneath her gaze, and she likes that about him. He’s not intimidated. All that confidence and he’s even got the dick to back it up with. But he doesn’t provoke or question her abilities either. He respects her.
“Look… I know about what happened in Central Park and I know you were involved with him. Shit’s not easy.”
“That’s understatement,” she barks a hollow-sounding laugh and looks away. All of a sudden she finds herself in a hug, he pulls her close to his chest, and she goes rigid.
“I’m terrible at talking about feelings,” he says.
She tries to blink the tears away but she feels his t-shirt getting damp next to her face so she realises that she must be crying. She hugs him back. “Thank you,” she says and slowly pulls back.
“Yeah. Anytime,” he pats her awkwardly on the back and she slaps his hand away.
“Oh my God, don’t do that,” she chuckles and wipes at her eyes.
/
Carey knocks on the door to her office, pops his head in and says, “You know Karen Page, right?”
Dinah’s heart stutters. Whatever manifesto she was reading forgotten the instant that name is mentioned. “Yeah. Why?”
“Her name’s come up.”
“What — Where?”
“ORION forum chats.”
It’s suddenly hard to breathe. “Carey—”
“I just thought you’d want to know, since you had her in for the Castle case,” he turns back around to his desk.
She sits for a minute, digging her nails into her palm, before walking over to him. “Show me,” she says and clears her throat, hands on her hips, realising she’s posturing a little too much and then lets them hang by her sides again.
“Well,” he looks up at her, shrugs, and finds the chat logs. “I mean, it’s nothing unusual, you know? Lots of colourful, misogynist language and threats to her person, but nothing we haven’t seen before.” He scrolls through it and she chews on the inside of her cheek. “It seems like they’re angry at her for the way she wrote about Lewis Wilson — remember him? Christ, kid blew himself up after bombing several federal institutions. They see him as some sort of martyr.”
Dinah remembers. She was in the goddamn building and Billy was there, Billy is always there, somehow. “I’m — I’m just going to head out,” she says and gets her jacket.
“You need any help,” she hears him say but she’s already in the elevator.
She finds Karen’s address in their system and it feels a little unethical but it’s not like she can’t access those when she has a good reason to and it feels like she has a pretty good reason right now. Knocking on the door, now that she’s in front of it, is an all-together different beast. Confidence and urgency leave her body and that shame settles in her again. A desperate and presumptuous thing, is what she is. She has no reason to be here.
She takes a deep breath and rings on the doorbell. Karen opens.
“Oh.”
“Hi Rick.”
“Hi,” Karen says slowly, eyeing her with furrowed brows.
“I’m here on official business,” Dinah’s voice sounds weird coming out of her mouth, “Do you have a minute?”
Karen hesitates, shifting on her feet in the doorway. “Sure,” she says, “come in.”
Karen’s place is… messy. More messy than Dinah had thought it’d be. Small, cramped, yet warm and comfortable. She feels like she gets to peer into Karen’s mind; chaotic yet inviting and beautiful. Karen leads her to the small kitchen and Dinah sits down in one of her chairs.
“You want, uh, tea? Beer?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
“Right. So, beer.”
Dinah laughs. It sounds stupid and almost coquettish and she stops herself. Karen gives her The Look when she puts the bottle down in front of her.
“Well? Why are you here?” Karen leans against the counter as she drinks.
Dinah’s mind spins. She acted on impulse. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “Have you heard of ORION?”
Karen shakes her head, staring down at her. She’s wearing a pencil skirt. Dinah wants to run a hand up her thighs.
“They’re a white nationalist group. They’ve — they’ve mentioned you,” Dinah stammers.
Karen’s eyebrows shoot up. “Am I in danger?”
“No. No. I just…” she trails off and watches warily as Karen sits down in the chair opposite of her. Karen’s face turns sterner.
“I can take care of myself.”
“Of course,” Dinah drags a hand down her face and leans back. “I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”
Karen’s eyes narrow and she fiddles with the sticker on the bottle. Her eyes trace along Dinah’s face, down her body, subtly, but Dinah catches it. “I’m good,” she says after a while. “What about you?”
“Oh, yeah, alright, I’m alright.”
“You look like shit.”
A laugh is startled out of Dinah. “Okay, wow. Thank you.”
Karen grins and Dinah can’t help but smile back. “You look like you haven’t slept since I last saw you.”
“Probably haven’t,” Dinah says.
“Work?”
“Sure, yeah.”
Karen bites her bottom lip. She has her legs crossed and one foot is dangling out from underneath the table, clothed in shiny pantyhose. Karen is curves and softness, her hair cascading down her shoulders and her blouse silky. Dinah, on the other hand, is a jagged surface, rough and hard and uncomfortable.
“I was thinking of ordering Thai. If you want to stay?”
What Dinah wants is to jump out of a window. “I’d like that,” she says instead and she finds that she means that, too.
They sit, sipping their beers, waiting for the food to be delivered and Dinah looks around the kitchen. “Your place is nice,” she says.
Karen snorts. “It’s livable.”
“No, I mean it,” she slides her hands over the smooth surface of the table, it’s good quality, she can tell.
“Yard sale,” Karen quirks an eyebrow and Dinah nods, smiles.
When the food arrives and Karen starts unpacking, Dinah realises that she’s hungry. She eats fast, slurping the noodles, savouring the crisp vegetables, the meat is still unappetising, but other than that it might be the best thing she’s eaten in months. It’s carbs and oils and it tastes amazing.
“So. Tell me about that group,” Karen wipes her mouth with a napkin and smears lipstick down the side of her lips. Dinah gestures at her mouth, telling her that she’s got something there, fighting the urge to wipe it away with her own thumb.
“We’re just keeping an eye on them, for now. It’s a lot of hot air.”
“Why me?” Karen asks.
“Lewis Wilson.”
“Jesus,” Karen leans forward and places her head in her hands. “I saw him blow himself up — I can’t—”
Dinah reaches over and rests a hand on her shoulder. She wants to say I got you, I won’t let them near you, I’ll be there. But she doesn’t. She says, “You’ve got a gun.”
Karen laughs, it sounds choked up. “Yeah.”
“You know how to use it?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“Why — You think I’ll need it?”
“No. I mean, I’m pretty damn sure you won’t.”
“Great.”
Karen tilts her head up and Dinah inhales deeply as those icy blues stare at her. She allows herself to wipe her thumb over Karen’s cheekbone. Christ, her skin is soft, the colour of fucking porcelain. Her stomach clenches and she — she —
“I feel—” Dinah runs to the bathroom, her knees landing hard on the tiles, and she lifts the lid just in time to puke straight down the toilet. She’s shaking and Karen comes up behind her, bundling her hair away from her face. It’s so embarrassing and humiliating that she wants to actually jump out of a window now. She groans and heaves again. “Oh, fuck,” she bemoans, “fuck, I’m sorry.”
Karen hums and pets her along her spine, “I’ve done this for plenty of friends during high school parties. Do you think you’re sick?”
Dinah shakes her head which is a terrible idea and she gags. “No, no, I—” I don’t eat but I drink and my body might be rejecting food. “No.”
Karen gets her up and Dinah washes her mouth, swishes some toothpaste around, and Karen leads her to the couch, gets her glass of water. Karen pulls her knees up to her chest and says, “An ex taught me how to shoot,” she shudders, “It wasn’t a good relationship. It was back in Vermont, and I was… I wasn’t doing good. I wasn’t taking care of myself and I — I did drugs, I couldn’t sleep or eat,” she eyes Dinah.
Dinah’s mouth feels thick and dry. “I’m not—”
“I’m not saying you are. But I do know what it looks like when you’re standing on the edge of annihilation, wanting nothing to do with yourself.”
It’s a horrifying thing to be seen, Dinah thinks and she grinds her teeth. “I’m sorry for never reaching out again. You know, after.”
Karen actually blushes. A pink hue spreads on her cheeks and she looks away. “It’s okay.”
Silence settles around them as Dinah turns the words in her mind. She glances over at Karen again, her rosy cheeks and slight sheen to her face almost make her look orgasmic. “I could take you to the gun range?” Dinah hears herself saying and clears her throat. “If you want to brush up on your skills?”
Karen smiles briefly, it’s a small, shy smile and Dinah desperately wants to see it again. “And you say I’m not in any danger.”
“You’re not — I mean, the group is real but you’re not, I just — I guess I wanted to see you,” she admits. Karen smiles again.
“Alright. Yeah. I’d like that.”
Something settles around Dinah’s chest, it’s both light and heavy at the same time. It’s a confusing, terrifying feeling. “Great,” she says.
/
“Shit’s fucked up,” Carey shakes his head.
Dinah hums in agreement, scrolling through the manifesto. It’s not long, thankfully, but it’s… inspired. Inspired as in absolutely vile.
“So we’re moving out, yeah?” he asks.
Their eyes meet. “Oh absolutely we are.”
She’d been cleared for action a few weeks prior. She had thought she’d feel more. That it would feel like some sort of revelation when Rafael came into her office and said, “You’re good to go.” He was still a little tense and he was looking at her like he disagreed but she’d been through their mandatory psych evaluations. She was resentful of it even if she knew it would do her good. But she was born with an air of dismissiveness in regards to psychology, she’d squirm when her mother would say we hear you, and we understand you, but try to see it from our perspective.
So, she was resentful but she did it because she wanted her clearance back and she wanted to be out in the field again. The psychologist had asked her about her relationship with Billy — on account of him being the one who shot her in the fucking head. She’d said what they wanted her to say and absolutely not said that she was imagining him in bed every night and how she’d get off on the memories of them together. But also how she’d get off on thoughts of him finding her in her new apartment, how she liked to imagine being pinned underneath him, how willing she’d still be, despite everything. The psychologist had advised against her seeing him or visiting him. At least that she agreed on. The thought made her sick.
So now she has her clearance and she’s on the phone with SWAT and they’re about to bust down the door of one Tate Christenson who wrote five very inspired pages about shooting the city’s mayor and then sent them to his fellow nazi buddies and because nothing is truly private anymore Dinah and Carey are looking at said pages.
“Let’s go,” she says.
The van is crammed and she sits between two decked-out tactical officers, they’re tall, leaning back casually with their thighs spread, and the van turns, jostling them about. It stinks of plastic and metal and sweat. Ten steaming men and Dinah, cramped into the van, their faces obscured by their helmets. Her shoulders knock against their arms, their breath hot against the top of her head as they speak over her, sharing some inside joke. She digs her nails into the palms of her hands.
The raid itself is over quickly. The build-up is always more nerve wracking. The tactical unit goes in first, battering ram and all, Carey and Dinah hang back. They even use a flashbang which might be overkill but she’s not about to argue with them. They zip-tie Christenson and two of his friends whose names Dinah recognises from the ORION forums. Plus, there’s a shit ton of assault rifles and knives, lined up, shining metal, silver and sharp and long.
“Damn boys, are you preparing for war?” Carey asks and looks down on them where they’re sitting on the floor, hands behind their backs.
“War is God,” one of them says. “War endures. War was always here, before man. Man is born for war. War is a game of skill and strength and will lead to the humiliation of defeat for the loser and the pride of victory for the champion.”
“And who is it you’re at war with?”
They stare at Dinah and spit on the floor.
“Alright,” Carey scoffs and the men are escorted away.
She picks up one of the knives, slides her thumb along its sharp edge. “You’ve seen it on my leg, right?”
He nods. She’s got a long, jagged scar on the outside of her left thigh. It was a small blade but the pain was like nothing she’s ever felt before or since. Carey never commented on it, Billy licked it, and Karen was probably too drunk to notice it. Others have looked at it in disgust. She’d rather have indifference than pity.
“Good call,” he tells her when they’re going through the place, rifling through blueprints and empty pizza boxes. “With the raid.”
She doesn’t answer. There are other names, other people they intended to hit and Dinah’s heart is in her throat, she can feel the blood rushing in her ears, roaring, looking for one particular name. She doesn’t find it but she still fumbles for her phone and texts Karen.
/
Karen’s an adequate shot, she does a lot of things that people who don’t usually use guns do. Like closing her eyes before shooting, wincing at the loud noise, body jerking back at the recoil.
Dinah keeps her distance, she doesn’t do the cliché move of standing behind her, chest to back, Karen’s ass against her, Dinah breathing down her neck. No she doesn’t do that. She does however, once, brush Karen’s hair back over shoulders.
Karen is flushed prettily, a peachy hue colouring her cheeks, the soft fabric of her blouse moving steadily with her breathing. Dinah has never found guns very erotic, she never understood men’s obsession with them, their phallic symbolism too obvious. But now Karen’s holding one in her delicate hands, the metal contrasting her supple skin, and suddenly Dinah finds it very titillating.
“So,” Karen gives her sideways glance, “there was a raid earlier today. From what I’ve heard it seemed pretty extensive. You want to tell me about it?”
Dinah crosses her arms and smiles. “Are you asking as a friend or as a journalist?”
Karen shrugs with one shoulder, “I mean — whichever one I’m allowed to be.” The air in their little booth turns thick and stuffy. “You’d tell me if I was in danger, right?”
“Of course,” Dinah says without missing a beat. She closes her eyes and —
How did Sam manage to get himself stabbed when he was the one holding a gun to his killer?
“Reload and go again,” Dinah puts her hearing protection back on. Karen’s mouth twists and she aims down the track, shooting. Dinah isn’t focusing on it. The noises are muffled and distant and Karen becomes a blur of pastel in front of her — untouchable and unreachable.
Karen grins when the target is rolled back to them, a couple of shots at center mass. “Not too shabby,” she says.
“You learn quick.”
“You’re a good teacher,” Karen’s eyes are gleaming and Dinah finds that she can’t breathe. The world narrows, her clothes are too tight, Billy whispers in her ear—
“You ever been in a knife fight?”
Karen looks at her, startled. “Uh, no…”
“I have. It’s filthy. It’s exhausting,” she grabs Karen’s wrist and pulls Karen to her, Karen stumbling forward until they’re close, the warmth of Karen’s body radiating, beckoning them together. “You need to know where to hit.” She raises Karen’s hand until her fingertips press against the side of Dinah’s neck, at the jut of her jaw. Karen’s eyes focus on the spot, mouth parted. “Here is good,” Dinah tells her, “the carotid artery. Quick.”
She drags Karen’s hand down her neck to her chest. “Here? Not so much.” She lets Karen feel her ribs, guides to the middle, “Sternum. Too hard. You’ll need a lot of force to break through.” Karen’s breathing shallowly and her fingers are hot against Dinah’s skin.
She pulls her hand lower, across her stomach. “Here? Messy. Often people can keep fighting. So, not ideal.”
For a brief moment their eyes meet. Karen’s lips are glossy and she rubs her thumb over the inside of Dinah’s wrist. Dinah inhales shakily as she guides Karen’s hand to her inner thigh. “Femoral artery,” she whispers. “Just as good as the neck.”
“Dinah…”
“Do you want to kiss me?”
“Yes.”
Dinah tilts her head so that their lips brush against each other. “Go on.”
Karen slides one hand to Dinah’s waist, with the other she brushes hair behind Dinah’s ear, smoothes her thumb along her brow. “You look like you want tenderness so badly it would break you if you actually got it.”
Dinah closes her eyes and exhales. “Do you want to break me?”
“I want to kiss you. But I don’t know if you know the difference.”
Blood rushes in Dinah’s ears, roaring loudly. She shivers. “I — I’m not—”
Karen kisses her then. Soft mouth, yielding mouth opening up to her, hands cradling her face. Dinah wants to disappear into her. She sighs into Karen, leans against her. She wraps her arms around her and she wants to get her hands underneath Karen’s clothes desperately.
Karen pulls away first. She takes a step back and looks at Dinah like she’s challenging her. “You should follow me to my car.”
They make their way down to the garage in silence, Dinah’s heart is in her throat and her whole body is throbbing. When they reach Karen’s car, Karen grasps at her and pulls her close, Dinah arches into it, pressing Karen against the car. She noses at Karen’s jaw, pure animal instinct and she smells her, breathes her in. She feels it, urgently, violently, moving through her body and she strokes along Karen’s arm, not caring about the staggered sound of her own breathing. Karen opens the door to the backseat and they stumble in, Dinah crawls on top of her, nips at her jaw, pulls her sweater up under her armpits and kisses and bites at her breasts.
Karen gasps, “Dinah—”
She kisses down along her stomach, her velvety skin, looks up and says, “Maybe I want you to break me.”
“Come here,” there is urgency in Karen’s voice and Dinah goes back up so they can kiss, filthy and desperate. “Fuck me.”
Dinah moans at Karen’s words and she opens Karen’s pants and dips her hand into her underwear. “God,” Dinah says when she feels how wet Karen is. Karen throws her head back and Dinah uses her free hand to pull at her hair. Spit smears on Karen’s throat as Dinah licks at it, skin damp where she breathes over it. She wants to fuck her desperately. The inside of the car is sticky and warm, her body is thrumming and she circles her fingers, presses them flat between Karen’s legs, slides them into her, she wishes she could rip their clothes off, she wishes she could—
“Give me your tongue,” Dinah says.
Karen opens her mouth and sticks out her tongue. Dinah isn’t stupid, she grew up with a psychiatrist as a mother, she knows penis envy would be painfully obvious for a woman like her to have. And yet right now she wishes.
She grabs Karen’s chin. “You want it?”
Karen nods, eyes heavy-lidded. Dinah slowly lets spit dribble from her mouth into Karen’s before leaning down and kissing her open-mouthed and messy. She’s entered Karen, bodily fluids and all, the best way she can. Karen whines and writhes and Dinah can feel her tensing around her fingers. Dinah clamps down around nothing, painfully empty and dripping, as she watches Karen come.
“Let me — let me,” Karen’s fumbling with Dinah’s fly and it’s not very elegant but they manage to get her pants off, bundled around one ankle and she climbs right back onto Karen. The angle is not working for either of them, so Karen sits up against the backrest and Dinah straddles her lap, Karen’s fingers inside her, she’s grinding against the heel of her palm, while Karen kisses her throat. She wants to have her, to eat her face, to have Karen inside her is not enough. Dinah has always loved whole-heartedly, aggressively.
“I want it too,” she hears herself say and Karen’s eyes go wide. “Spit in my mouth.” It might be the most insane thing she’s said during sex but Karen is already leaning forward to push spit from her own mouth to Dinah’s and it feels like an even more perverse form of blood pact. She moans into her mouth, twists her fingers into Karen’s hair, swallows.
Karen strokes down Dinah’s body, down her breasts, the side of stomach, her hand is warm and she grabs Dinah’s hip, kisses her, down along the outside of her thigh. She traces the scar and Dinah gasps, clenches around the fingers inside her and she slumps forward, riding out the wave of her orgasm. Karen cards her free hand through Dinah’s hair and she grabs it, sticking Karen’s thumb into her mouth and closing her lips around it. Karen’s eyes go large as Dinah swipes her tongue over the thumb before releasing it and moving on to the next finger. Karen whimpers. Dinah wraps her hand around Karen’s wrist, taking another finger into her mouth, and guiding them deeper and the fingers still inside her twitch, making her whine around the fingers in her mouth. Karen’s staring at her lips and Dinah feels sick with hunger like she wants to lick all of Karen, swallow all of her down.
Somewhere a car alarm blares and Karen pulls her hand away and looks around. The windows are completely fogged up, the air damp and thick. Dinah can’t help but laugh, just once. Maybe she’s got it wrong. Maybe she’ll break Karen.
/
Dinah has amended two things since then; First, she actually likes Karen. She likes being in her company, she likes making her laugh. She likes flirting with her and she really likes kissing her.
Second, all of the above is terrifying. Squirmy, hot embarrassment sneaks through her body, feeling too much like arousal.
So, Dinah does what she’s gotten really good at. Ignoring her feelings and maybe having a drink or two. And working. It’s a good method — the thoughts are there, then gone. The office is her safe space. She doesn’t allow herself any self-reflective thoughts.
“Why aren’t you home yet?”
Carey looks up, surprised. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“I don’t have anything better to do.”
He chuckles. “That makes two of us.”
They chat. Dinah hops up to sit on the table, he tells her another one of his stories about growing up in Florida — this time about another uncle who tried to run a drug empire out of his shack — and Dinah laughs, how did you turn up even somewhat normal, she asks and he says, the military is a great outlet for masculine insecurity and aggression.
“How do you do it? Walking into every room like you own it, all that dick-swagger giving you an ego boost?”
“You’re attributing a whole lot of my personality to my dick.”
She shrugs. Problem is that she’s thinking about Karen swallowing her spit. Problem is that she’s looking at her desk and thinking about that first time. Problem is that now she’s thinking about his dick.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Dinah, don’t be stupid.”
“I’m trying.”
He laughs and drags a hand down his face. “I think you should find someone else to have a weird, unhealthy sexual relationship with. Preferably healthy, actually. Maybe a pretty blonde journalist?”
She stiffens. “Are you following me?” No one seems to be able to leave her the fuck alone.
“What? You were all weird when I mentioned her name and then you took off. I don’t know about you, but I can put two and two together.”
She taps her fingers on the table. “I think I’m being paranoid.”
“I think you’re traumatised.”
Dinah frowns. “Shut up.”
He holds up both hands. “Hey, what do I know. I’m ninety-nine percent sure that I suffer from PTSD and I’m divorced. I’m not a paragon of mental health. Don’t ask me for advice.”
She narrows her eyes at him. “I’m not. You’re giving it — unsolicited, I might add.”
“Alright,” he gets up and stretches. “Here’s some more unsolicited advice; go to therapy, kiss your girl, maybe stick around after sex because knowing you, I feel like you’ve bolted every time.”
“Asshole,” she grins.
“Yeah, you too. I’m getting the fuck home. See you Monday.”
She thinks about her own past relationships. There haven’t been a lot. She has dated a few people, typically lasting a few months. Her most serious relationship was in her twenties — five years with Mehdi. He was perfect; funny, intelligent, a doctor as her parents liked to emphasise. He wanted kids, she didn’t. So. And Billy. Dinah often wrecks her brain as to how he somehow managed to get under skin so quickly, why she trusted him instantly. Maybe it was because she saw part of herself in him — ambitious and headstrong.
She’s nothing like him.
She’s nothing like him, she thinks when she opens the door to her apartment and gets ready for bed.
She’s nothing like him, she reminds herself when she feels that telltale hand carding through her hair and pressing against her scalp. She sits up. She’s alone. Of course she is. She might be hallucinating but she’s not insane. She tries to cry but she can’t. She presses her eyes shut, she takes a stuttering breath, she wills the tears to come. She gives up after a few minutes.
The clock on her phone reads 1 AM, blue and pale light blinding her momentarily. Inhaling deeply she touches her scar, remembering Karen touching it at the bar, and she shudders. Hunger creeps up and she heaves herself out of bed, walks to the fridge and opens it. It’s a sorry assortment. There’s some leftover pasta and she reheats it in the microwave, eating it straight out of the container, standing in her kitchen. She reads, she scrolls through social media, she stalks Carey not really sure why, but she’s a little curious about his failing marriage. She stalks Karen, sees photos of her with Murdock and Nelson when she still worked for them, and reads one of her exposées on the Bulletin’s webpage. She masturbates twice.
At 5 AM she changes into her running clothes and heads outside. Surely, she must be punishing herself because it’s December and it’s dark outside and it’s cold as all hell. She buys groceries on her way back because she’s actually hungry and she has a real craving for that particular muesli her mom would buy sometimes. She eats in front of her TV, seated comfortably on her sofa, takes a long, warm shower afterwards.
At 10 AM she’s been awake for… 28 hours. She drinks some more coffee, making a mental note to thank her dad for the fancy nespresso machine.
At 11 AM Karen calls. Dinah stares at the screen for a solid twenty seconds before picking up.
“Hi Rick.”
“That’s sticking, huh?”
“What else should I call you?”
“I think Karen’s a pretty good name.”
“It’s got a nice ring to it, yeah.”
Karen chuckles. “Look, the reason I’m calling… I’ve had a shit week and I remembered that you still owe me a drink.”
Dinah blinks. “It’s 11 AM.”
“I’ll reiterate; I’ve had a really shit week.”
“Alright,” she laughs. “Do you know any places that are open?”
“Josie’s.”
So, Dinah is at Josie’s at 11.45 AM. At least it’s Saturday. When Karen comes up next to her she’s not sure if they should kiss or hug or nothing at all. Karen smiles at her, warm and inviting, and Dinah does kiss her.
“Oh,” Karen is still smiling though.
“Sorry. Too much?”
“No. Just unexpected.”
Anxiety twists her insides and her body feels warm and alive with it. She clears her throat. “So. Tell me about your shit week. I’m all ears.”
Karen sighs, orders two beers. “I was just chasing this story about health insurance fraud and I spent so much time on it and I’ve completely hit a wall. I feel fucking defeated.”
“I’m sorry.”
Karen waves a hand around. “You’re here,” she tips her beer in Dinah’s direction, “and there’s beer. It’s all I need.”
They settle into companionable chatter, Karen talks some more about the insurance company and missing pay outs. Dinah tells her about her little group of neo-nazis that seemed to have tamed down and desperately want to distance themselves from the raid.
“They’re yours now?”
“Fuck no, I’m not claiming ownership.”
They drink beer and they eat the stale complimentary peanuts.
“Tell me about that ex that taught you to shoot,” Dinah says, boldened by the alcohol, feeling loose and brave.
Karen shakes her head. “He was — a piece of shit,” she avoids Dinah’s gaze, “nothing more to it.” There’s definitely more to it but Dinah won’t press for details.
“I know a thing or two about those,” she says to lighten the mood but Karen pales. Maybe referring to getting shot in the head isn’t all that funny. “Is he why you moved to New York?”
“Yeah. I needed a fresh start, you know? And I just—” she chuckles and shrugs, “my life hasn’t been easier here, I’ll tell you that. But at least I’m not alone.”
Dinah has never had a lot of trouble with being a more solitary creature but as she sits and chats with Karen and Karen touches her elbow or the small of her back or puts a hand on her thigh and Dinah leans in close, smells Karen’s perfume which smells like roses — not too much though, fresh and subtle — and the tips of her fingers ache to reciprocate, it is then that Dinah thinks maybe she’s missed out.
Sam, she let in. Sam was her friend. Maybe Carey is her friend too. It’s starting to feel like it. Karen too, though Karen is a different thing entirely.
It’s snowing when they go outside. Karen gasps happily and tilts her head up, snowflakes sticking to her lashes, her face illuminated by the orange streetlights. Her cheeks quickly react to the cold and redden against her pale skin and there’s a dream-like air about her, like she’s diffused around the corners, something far-away, something intangible. As if saying; come closer, but not too close.
Dinah, on the other hand, is wound tight and coiled like a spring. Hard and unforgiving and uninviting.
Karen shows her her favourite pizza joint and they both get huge slices of margarita that they have to eat standing at a tiny table pressed up against the condensed window. Outside again, the wind has picked up, biting at their faces, as Karen leads them to her apartment building. She pulls Dinah close to her on the doorstep, holds her face in both hands as they kiss against the solid wooden door and Karen’s breath is hot against her lips. She invites Dinah up and she goes. She sits on Karen’s couch, sinking into the pillows, looks at the time on her phone and realises that she’s been awake for thirty-five hours.
“I’ve been awake for thirty-five hours,” she announces.
“Christ. Why?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Are you having a lot of trouble sleeping?” Karen sits down on the couch too.
“Hm. It’s not a recent thing.” She lets her head tip to the side and rests it against Karen’s shoulder. “Is this okay?”
“Yeah,” Karen’s lips brush against her hairline. “This was nice.”
Dinah feels breathless. “Yeah,” she says. It’s not even late but she’s tired beneath it all. She’s a little tipsy — in a good way. Karen kisses her again, cups her face, it’s slow, unhurried, as they undress, shedding their clothes on their way to the bed.
Dinah sits naked on the edge as Karen pulls down the zipper of her own pants and lets them fall to the ground. Karen is wearing black panties with a lace detail, a tiny bow on the front. They’re Dinah’s, she realises.
“Oh my God,” Dinah grabs her hips and pulls her to stand between her thighs, she strokes along her back, kisses her stomach, and in a feat of strength pulls her down on the bed, flat on her back and Karen giggles. Dinah cups her breasts, kisses her hips until she reaches the waistband of her underwear and tugs it down with her teeth.
“Turn around,” she says and Karen does and Dinah bites at her ass. Karen yelps, arching her back and Dinah smacks her once, twice. She braces herself on the bed and kisses Karen on the back of her head, nose and lips rubbing against her hair, and she slides her fingers along her, hot and wet and slick, and Dinah breathes in her ear, Karen lifting her ass off the bed, begging for more. It doesn’t take long to come. Afterwards, Karen drapes herself over Dinah, lithe and slender and soft body, giving and taking, Karen licks her, clutches at her hips, and she comes, twice, just from Karen’s tongue. Karen dries her face on the inside of Dinah’s thigh, rubbing her wet chin along the thin skin, she crawls back up, and she lies down against Dinah’s body.
“I don’t think I can move,” Dinah says.
“Then don’t,” Karen whispers and brushes a piece of hair away from Dinah’s sweaty temple, “stay.” She holds Dinah’s face in her hands and kisses her, long and searching. Dinah makes a small noise like she wants to say something but she doesn’t. Instead she kisses back as if begging, asking, and Karen nods, covering her face in kisses. “Stay,” she repeats, one final blow to Dinah’s oppressive defenses.
Despite everything her self-preservation and self-understanding has taught her, she stays. It feels like a victory.