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Weakness. That’s what this was.
A crack in the foundation, a slip of the leash, a succumbing. At the end of the day, she would not stick her head in the sand about it, the fact that even she can’t entirely escape such a craving, rare as it was. It didn’t mean she was any less disappointed in herself for caving to it.
L'arbuste reads letters aged onto a glass window out front. A strange name, a joke she feels she isn’t in on, and not anywhere she’s been before, but she would not go to the same dive she normally did, the one men at the same company went to piss away paychecks. A recommendation, though the person who gave it to her had sneered it in a way that made it seem derogatory. She half wonders if she’s getting tricked to a different kind of establishment, or something else entirely.
Hellen hesitates on the sidewalk, staring in, at what seemed like a busy crowd and unnatural lighting. But she sees bottles on the wall and glasses in hands, so it must not be that far off if not a proper bar. When she walks in, aside from the ever repeating, awkward instance of becoming the tallest person in the room by a long shot, two things are immediately noticeable: the clientele is primarily female, but more than anything, far, far younger, visibly so. It’s such a sharp contrast that she is not yet letting go of the idea she may have been sent here to make a fool of herself.
Whatever. She’s stepped in, and to turn around would be as pointless as this may be regardless. She is here, she wishes for a drink, and if she gets one and then leaves, it won’t have been for nothing.
The menu consists almost entirely of custom cocktails, her noses wrinkles. The bartender has no reaction either way to making an old fashioned instead. She doesn’t process the price but wouldn’t care if it was overpriced anyhow.
The place is small, tightly packed, making her stature even more an oddity and a burden to navigate. People bump into her, elbows and shoulders, and Hellen grits her teeth until there’s one of sparingly few empty chairs in a tucked away corner.
She has not done this before, she would not fool herself or anyone into thinking she would know what to do with herself, or that this would be successful. Bars were typically a means to an end, a few drinks a rare pleasure that quieted things otherwise unable to be shushed. To exist in a public space, in the presence of others, even if not a participant, was similar.
She could not, would not partake. To do so only ever hammered home how every different and incapable she was, perpetual elephant in a room. She would, like many times, sit and nurse a drink or two, stare her dead fish gaze into the grains of the table, and then take her leave, with alcohol to dull the lingering, inescapable to at least a sliver, uniquely painful isolation of being so fundamentally, incompatibly different. Even if not for her other vices.
Except listening to background chatter of others wasn’t enough, and in the blue moon occasion of craving skin that’s alive under hers and not cold, deprived of life, she has ended up here.
The longer Hellen sits, the more she begins to regret, unable to pretend it doesn’t sting. She mostly chastises her own foolishness– she is sitting there, quiet, in her dark work clothes she didn’t take off and her behemoth form hunched onto the table, her eyes she knows lifeless and off-putting. She can not in her right mind expect to simply sit there and hope for something to happen, and yet, she doesn’t know what else to do.
So may as well sit, take the chance, however rare, that something may just happen to her, and if it doesn’t, she had a drink she paid for to finish, and that would be that.
She’s sat there at least an hour or so, she’s sure, at one point sipping only vaguely bourbon flavored melted ice. There’s a certain peace in slipping into the background, at least, a sort of ever constant dichotomy– on one hand, she drew attention with her size, and on the other, she remained completely able to slip away and be entirely forgotten, if only via avoiding her. Her presence in her dim corner relegates her to more of a statue than any patron likely to be noticed. All and all, what she expected, accepting versus disappointed, scooting her glass forward and prepared to leave.
Hellen looks up to do so, just as, against all odds, someone approaches. She hears them before she sees them. Some tall, blue skinned, raven haired, willowy thing.
“Is this seat taken?”
She is leaving, making the table free. Acknowledged by someone only by the relief of her moving on, she could almost laugh. “Does it look taken?”
The woman– a girl, really, she realizes –widens her eyes, and Hellen only realizes seconds later she sounded unintentionally harsh with her flat tone. The vitriol was not necessary.
Except, she smiles, this mystery girl, the tiny gap between her front teeth as black as the lipstick framing them.
“Heh. All mine, then.”
And she sits. At first, it’s that which stuns Hellen, it occurring to her only far too late and with a dash of a cringe that she’d replied rudely to what was, ultimately, an invitation to sit down. But, once the thought passes, a different kind of epiphany renders her unable to move.
She knows this girl. Well, no, she doesn’t know her, but she knows some things about her.
Floor 1. Lives alone. Drives a motorcycle. Has people over at odd hours and plays loud music. Sometimes smokes outside at night. Balcony faces front flowerbeds.
It’s someone else from the complex, a neighbor.
Someone who could recognize her, may recognize her, if they have seen her in passing. Hellen made extensive efforts to be invisible even to other residents, doing her laundry and getting her mail at absurd times, rarely leaving except for work and necessities. Quiet, unassuming, unproblematic.
When you do the things she does, it is better to not exist in anyone’s mind, to be implacable and vague. Not being caught did not stop being a concern once a body is buried, her lifestyle was shaped around this fact.
“Do you mind?”
I was just leaving, actually. “It’s all yours–”
“Oh, good. Name’s Jeanne, by the way.” Unaware or uncaring Hellen was clearly about to say more, her arms come to rest on the table, just short of the little glass jar with an electric candle inside. “Never seen you around here before. You local?”
Or maybe not. She was unrecognized, blissfully, unbelievably luckily. There was an out in here somewhere. If she just told the girl to piss off and let her leave, letting out not a single detail, she can get out unscathed.
And yet, for reasons she doesn't know either, her mouth betrays her. “Yeah. Grew up around here.” What the fuck are you doing? “Got recommended this place.”
“Oh! Well…hopefully not by whoever stood you up. Gives a bad impression. I promise most folks here are nice.”
“...Stood up?”
The girl– Jeanne, winces, her smile getting a little clumsier, a hand running through locks of straightened black.
“Oof. Sorry! I just assumed, you’ve been sitting here alone for awhile…Well, there goes my fun relatable ice breaker. I got ditched too. My friends took off without me.”
She needed to go, now. Just by sitting here, letting Jeanne get a good look at her face, she was risking so much.
And yet. And yet. Something, something Hellen should be able to, by all means, with plenty of practice, stuff down and ignore, keeps her sat there. Not yet surrendering, not yet fully giving in. But at the least, she doesn’t look away, doesn’t rise from her seat.
The words struggle to come out, knowing better fighting against whatever impulsive urge is making her stupid. “Some friends.”
“Tell me about it. Assholes…Kinda stranded here now, but, nothing to do but make the best of it, right?” Though it’s clear there’s some anger boiling under the giggly surface, Jeanne seems relatively unbothered, sighing soft and somewhat theatrically. “Let me buy you another drink, miss…?”
Danger, danger, danger. To let this one have her face, nonetheless name, is too severe a risk. Her leaving for the bar gives the perfect opportunity to flee, to disappear into the night and return safely home, hardly anything, not even a memory lost to a bottle.
She could ditch this girl like she has already been ditched, young and intoxicated and too friendly for her own good and alone.
Hellen was under no impression she was a good person by any means, but she had morals and principles outside her…hobby, which she would not compromise on. She didn’t often find herself driven to altruism, rather just not harming unless necessary or to satiate, but the thought of doing exactly what has already been done to Jeanne, for reasons unknown, leaves a bad taste in her mouth.
“Hellen.”
“Hellen.” Jeanne repeats it back, slow, unaffected by the otherwise tipsy drag to her tone. She says it like she savors it, something lurches in Hellen’s stomach. Her fingers– nails long, pitch black, plastic shiny, take the toothpick with a cherry that’d laid forgotten across the rim of the glass and pop it into her mouth, the thin wood dragged beneath her teeth before coming out clean. Her eyes stay rested on Hellen’s, full of intent. “Be right back.”
The wait makes her sweat. It’s hardly any time at all, but the longer she lacks the other presence, the more it sinks in just what is happening, and how far from her fine control she is straying. How badly she has trapped herself, unless she wishes to just make the run for it, no matter how it comprises her values. What more was another black stain on her being, when it was already nothing inside but a deep void?
Too late. Another old fashioned is slid in front of her, Jeanne sitting once more with her own drink, some colorful concoction that looks sickening even just to look at.
Like this, in dim, warm artificial light, she can make out more of Jeanne’s features– her thin brows, dark liner around her eyes and fake lashes that clumped into near-spikes, something that sheens at their inner corners and the height of her cheekbones. Her eyes crinkle with the force of a genuine of sort of bubbliness when she speaks, her makeup exaggerating her full lids, she laughs with snorts and gestures as she speaks.
Hellen is content to just let her talk, having little to say herself, fine listening. It fills gaps in her observations– the strangers who’d come by her apartments were friends or fellow bikers or both, she has tattoos of various sea creatures she names by species, her parents disapprove of her lifestyle. Nothing useful, yet her mind doesn’t drift. Hellen lets out only what details don’t matter, few and far between– she doesn’t go out much, she works in landscaping, she likes the outdoors.
Jeanne talks past and over her stiffness, her reluctance, her ineptitude. It’s strikingly, startling easy, to cease to think a little, to let alcohol blur the edges and soften them.
It feels startlingly normal, perhaps the first time it ever has. Human.
“Gardening…That’s cute.”
She grunts into the final sip of the gifted drink, Jeanne straightens in her seat.
“I’m not making fun! I mean it…I’m not gonna lie, you caught my eye cuz you seemed a little…dangerous, kinda intimidating. So imagining you have such a…I dunno, dainty hobby, it’s cute.”
Dainty. That’s not what Hellen would call it, but she doesn’t refute it, cheeks warming. “Dangerous. And yet you approached me.”
“I think you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. And I was right. You’re really nice. Besides…”
Jeanne leans forward, head propped in her hands, eyes lidded. Her glass sits empty in front of her, droplets dripping down the straw. It swivels in when she points the tip of a nail at its opening, fidgets idly with it.
Hellen startles slightly when something brushes her ankle, at first only briefly, then again and lingering. Pointy, hard, starting at the bone and then drawing up the length of her calf– the tip of one of Jeanne’s heels.
“What if I like danger?”
The way she’s sat, the neckline of her dress, something black and clinging, steep, droops– visible most is the imprints of ribs, but just barely, the shape of her breasts, small and mostly contained by something equally dark and lacy, peeking out the edges. Just a little bit further, and…
Hellen isn’t stupid. Awkward, yes, but not stupid. Kind as Jeanne appeared to be, she doubted this was entirely a charity case. She has watched the way the shape of her arms through her turtleneck is appreciated, lingering stares at her hands, licked and bitten lips and flips of hair. What the other sees is beyond her, but she isn’t going to deny the obvious reality of being found attractive.
She doesn’t know what she looks for, she does not usually pursue such a thing, but she finds herself drawn to Jeanne regardless. She imagines how easy she looks to push around, shapely under the dark fabric if scrawny, all dolled up to ruin and rip apart. There’s a certain appeal to the concept of corrupting, in a sense, or at least messing up, that sweetness.
The tip of the shoe lowers, before breaching the edge of her trousers, now raking up bare skin. Hellen shudders, her grip on her waterlogged glass tightens.
“I’d tell you that sounds like a bad idea.”
“I don’t see my mom here with me.”
I may as well be, that’s one detail that hasn’t escaped her notice, that she may well be twice Jeanne’s age. She’s not dumb enough to not realize that is, for some reason, likely part of the appeal. The other seems to know what she’s after. Perhaps it’s on her to be responsible, to entertain but ultimately turn down the drunk 20-something, see her safely home and forget it ever happened.
She’s done worse things. To seize the moment is by far the softest of her sins. Her head tips back, eyes narrowing, a challenge. An attempt to be suave of sorts back, if she even knew how.
“You really think you can handle it?” Handle me?
“Mm, I’m made of tougher stuff than you think.” Jeanne’s head tilts, voice syrupy, drawing circles on the skin she can reach. “But I guess it would be sorta mean to leave me here, where anyone could take advantage…You wouldn’t do that, would you?”
She should, she really really should. “No. I wouldn’t.”
Those fake nails crawl the table, faintly perch on Hellen’s wrist, before trailing up and down what isn’t covered by her sleeves in a short pet. The hairs on her arm stand on end. “You’d take me home?”
No– that was, if anything, the one thing Hellen would retain, keep her grip on. No one short of the landlord on an occasion has been inside her apartment. She doubts anything incriminating would be found, she was certain of it, but it served as something of an almost sacred space to her as a result. Much of what she knew about self-reliance she knew in order to avoid such a thing– no need to call a plumber, an electrician when you could fix it yourself. No one has entered her door save for her, and it would stay that way. To even be seen with Jeanne could be a liability, something that makes her spoken about. Something that makes her a real and tangible presence in the eyes of others, who may look for her again.
“I don’t take anyone home.”
“Aw…Where do you take them, then?”
That, for all she’d…not quite intended, but allowed for, for something to happen tonight, she hadn’t thought that far ahead. It was unlikely to happen at all, and she’d planned to play it by ear. A brick wall tucked away was as impersonal as anywhere, she’d supposed. But now she’s on the spot, and this locale is on a main street, too public, too tucked together. She was used to adjusting on the dot, but while not nearly enough to make her even tipsy, the drinks were slowing her thoughts regardless.
“I have a truck.”
Whether she means using it, or to go somewhere else, she isn’t even sure. It’s the first solution that comes to mind. Jeanne snorts and giggles. “Works for me. Not like I can go anywhere anyways, left the hog at home.”
Yeah, she’d hope so. Jeanne seemed reckless, but not drunk biking reckless, at the least.
“Lemme pay my tab…” Hellen has to wonder what amount might be on that, but probably doesn't want to know. The hand on her arm lingers until it can’t as she stands. “Wait up for me?”
Jeanne disappears through the crowded counter to pay, Hellen slips on the duck jacket hung over the back of her chair, hands in her pockets to fend off Montreal’s cold night with the rough material. She waits by the door, inching out of the way for other leaving and entering patrons, feeling once more out of place without distraction incarnate in front of her.
Enough to, perhaps, make her reconsider, if she’d stayed there. Instead, just as the thought occurs, a slender arm is slipping around hers, grabbing greedy and unabashed at her bicep even through thick fabric. “Good to go.”
Hellen squints, the hand on her quivering. It comes as no surprise– Jeanne is in only her netting, her little dress, stilettos she wobbles on, despite the fact their breath being visible on the exhale it was so cold. Was she stupid? She was coming increasingly to that conclusion.
Her truck is down the street, parking late on a Friday night wasn’t exactly ripe with opportunity. She huffs, rolls her eyes, slipping the jacket back off.
And tosses it over Jeanne’s shoulders, her letting out a quiet oof, it far too big and heavy on her, sending her forward a bit. It stuns her, momentarily, letting go to grab the open front of the article, confused…Before smiling, and not in the mischievous, seductive smirks she had thus far, something small and almost shy. “Oh. Thank you.”
It’d be fine, Hellen’s sweater was thick enough, and she was used to the elements. She’d survive a few minute walk to her car. She lets the arm slip back around hers, pretty sure the stability was needed to keep the other from eating pavement. Jeanne presses close the entire walk, nearly leaned entirely into her side like an affectionate cat– she doesn’t push her away, feels no need to, quietly savors such a thing until a dirt-splattered pick-up comes into view.
She stops her at the passenger door, reaches for the key in her pocket–
Jeanne tugs her shirt, and shouldn’t be able to do much but the street’s at an incline and it takes her off guard, makes her weight press the smaller girl against the metal. Her skinny legs wrap around one of hers.
“Behave.” Hellen grumbles, though something in her fizzles at the act. “Not right here.”
“Parking's til midnight, but if you insist…” Deft, sharp hands are trailing idly up her sides. Still, playing along, she props herself with a hand on the roof of the truck, pushes against her. Jeanne gasps, laughing. “Don’t worry, I know a spot.”
A spot, as it turns out, means a vacant, mildly overgrown parking lot, only a few minutes drive from the bar. The abandoned and unkempt behind-building parking spaces of a business long closed down, illuminated only by some of the streetlight’s faint reach and the light pollution of nearby apartments and establishments. Close enough to a woodsy patch to hear crickets chirp, leaves beginning to overtake the chainlink fence that contained it.
The drive there is blissfully short for how mildly awkward it is, Jeanne just sharp enough still to take in the little details and what they say– the fine dusting of dirt on the footmats, the lack of anything on the radio, the rattling change in the middle console.
“This is not what I expected.” Hellen says when she puts the truck in park.
“Heh, yeah…well, you know…You really don’t wanna use any of the motels around here. Don’t ask how I know.”
A hum, noncommittal, the other busy scanning the immediate area through the driver’s side window. Jeanne snorts, rolls her eyes. Worried? I think anything here should be scared of you…
Any normal person, she’s sure, would find Hellen terribly intimidating– taller than she’d realized once she wasn’t sitting, her brows thick and heavy in a constant furrow, eyes dark and bagged, hands scarred and dry. Silent, like a gargoyle nursing her drink, entirely out of place in the location she was in. Even still, it invoked a certain pity, Jeanne familiar with that sort of feeling she imagined in the other– othered.
Maybe, at first, it’d been a bit rueful– approach the rough, somewhat menacing looking character, a real unmarked-van type if you wanted to be particularly mean. Imagine the look on her asshole “friends” faces when her missing report is on the news, forced to fess up how they’d left her in the dust. Drink in the adrenaline of looking danger in the eye like one of her several drinks, the same chase of speeding down empty highways on her bike, of dingy bars and dives.
But as it turns out, the woman she’d taken on, even if a little…coarse had been nothing of the sort. A little tight on details about herself, which was disappointing but fine, Jeanne just liked to learn about others, took a sort of admiration to how very different people could be. She would settle with what details she wrung out, and feast instead on what was actually very attractive up close– dark, frizzed out curls in an almost mullet, a wide, round and study jar under a permanent scowl, a few speckled moles. The thick, cable knit turtleneck obscured much, but even through it Jeanne caught the implication of muscle and fat, fitting her wide shoulders and thick arms. She’d found herself craving, once she got close, that sneaky strength, the telltale signs of someone used to hard labor, using their hands.
“Hey,” anything but her, reaching out to put her hand on Hellen’s jaw, tempt her head to the side, towards her. For all that expected rush of danger, she finds herself without a drop of doubt, quite comfortable in fact. Surprisingly, she’s allowed to do so, though she feels the initial jolt when the touch lands. Hellen didn’t seem someone who did this much, if at all, had been rigid but not unwelcoming of her touch thus far. “Nothin’ to worry about. Trust me?”
She doesn’t give a chance to answer, leaning forward to bridge the gap over the middle console, press their lips together. She hadn’t gotten the impression it was welcome, per say, her mysterious beau didn’t seem particularly sensual, but you never know until you try.
To Jeanne’s surprise, the action is matched, though. Only lightly, at first, almost unsure, and it tickles her that someone so surly seemed almost…shy?
But only almost, and only for so long, them only seconds into the kiss before Hellen’s tugging her over, helping her over the seat to clamber into her lap, not breaking the contact once. Jeanne has to crane over her slightly, making a happy little noise at the blatant manhandling, and again when her enthusiasm is reflected back in tongue and teeth. Her lower lip is bitten badly enough to threaten to bleed, the pressure kept until the kiss breaks so lips can roam over her neck instead, teeth grazing but not biting down, even when she angles herself into it, inhales slightly each time she thinks they will. She knows little about the lap she’s on but she knows Hellen must be holding back, and that wouldn’t do at all.
Her night’s been shit up until now, and frankly, she wants all memories of everything before sitting at that table forgotten in favor of ankles past her head and an inability to walk the next morning. Hellen had seemed the right type, simmering with a suppressed ferocity, a dark look in her eyes.
“You can bite.” She pretends not to notice the neediness in her own voice, the statement coming out more like a plea than a statement. “I won’t break.”
Another hum, this time of wordless acknowledgement, Hellen taking no time at all to act on that permission. Sucks the delicate skin of her throat before biting hard, much harder than Jeanne had expected and just as hard as she had hoped. The whimper she makes is all the praise needed, a shaky yes tumbling out of her when the act’s repeated, just below the first mark. All the while hands holding her waist begin to wander, first up, then back down, only to wander back up, enough to grab the neckline of her dress.
Hellen pulls it down, the straps falling as far down Jeanne’s arms as they can with the jacket on, but enough to get it caught under her breasts. A few moments is spent appreciating the garment underneath, now not only just a peek of lace along the cups, but only for the time needed to reach around, undo the clasps, tits falling out over the cups. Jeanne leans back, flicks her hair over her shoulders so its out of the way, grinning– she wasn’t big, but she was shapely, perky and soft, all natural thank you very much. So maybe she was a little vain, but it was one of her favorite parts of herself, only encouraged by the clear hunger in the eyes on her, a long stare trained on them.
“Huh.” A pause. It’s no mystery what she catches on– Jeanne’s had them pierced for years by this point.
It’s a little amusing, to see her seemingly taken off guard by it, lip drawn between her teeth when Hellen’s thumb presses against one of the little black barbells, testing the movement of it through the skin– only to gasp, jump when she ducks down and takes one of her breasts into her mouth, tongue replacing her finger, pressing on Jeanne’s back to push her into the motion further.
The touch goes straight to Jeanne’s dick, already chubbing in anticipation, but making itself far more apparent now that she finally had those thick fingers groping her, the rough texture of tongue and drag of suction against what’s most sensitive. Her own fingers wind themselves in Hellen’s hair on mere instinct, pull when she sucks, hips jerking when she can feel the resulting grunt against her bud. When she yanks it in a fist again, harder, teeth clamp down, enough she actually can’t help crying out, feels it send sparks down her entire body, feels her nipple pressed against the delicate metal in a flicker of pain that inspires tears.
Hellen pulls off her with a wet pop. Fuck Jeanne thinks upon taking in her expression, stark, hungry, almost animal. She was tapping into something, clearly, tempting her into something just as primal and lusty. “Thought you said you could handle it.”
“I-I can, just.” Words seem a skill above her ability, between the alcohol and being so hard she can’t think. She bucks intentionally in a way she hopes comes across as enticing, if only because she lacks any way else to display just how badly she needed the other woman on every part of her. “Please.”
Hellen doesn’t laugh so much as exhale hard through her nose, tilts her head in the direction of the backseats. A crude, almost bruising grip squeezes her ass, causing a groan. “Get back there.”
Jeanne yelps as she more or less picked up, plucked from her spot and somewhat tossed already in the direction of the seats. As soon as she stops being momentarily dizzy, she scrambles to obey, small enough to climb over the interior of the truck. The other not so much, the driver’s door opening and closing loudly. She just manages to get herself across the connected seats before the side door opens as well. It shuts behind Hellen, though she’s big enough to block out the faint light regardless. She has half a mind to wonder if there will be enough room before the faint realization it’s just going to press them closer together shuts every other thought except FUCK YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS down.
Once over her again, Hellen wastes no time getting back to work, again catching throat between her teeth, earning a moan when she leans to suck all manner of bruises across her breasts. Jeanne jitters and jumps at every new nip, making the other further pin her with her weight, hands snaking under the fabric of the dress. She feels entirely consumed, ensnared, soaking in the helplessness that sends electricity up her spine. It’s a struggle, with how tightly it conforms to her body, and she feels the woman grunt in frustration as it hinders her movements.
They retreat, grab the hem of the article tight and yank up. Jeanne laughs as it struggles past her ass and hips, not helped by the tight quarters, and the fumbling clumsiness of someone clearly unused to undressing someone else– it was endearing, the little ways that scary demeanor cracked.
The thought that follows that one, however, as the dress actually pops past her widest point, is sobering.
“Wait!”
She does. Hellen stops, pauses all her movements entirely, save for lifting her head up with a raised brow, as if to say yeah? She waits, patiently, with growing confusion as no follow up comes, Jeanne stuck and suffering for her lack of planning.
“I, uh…”
…Hellen has to know, right?
But then again, this woman seemed very…simple. No. That wasn’t quite the right word, she wasn’t stupid, she just seemed a little…not in the know? Kind of a blockhead? Naive wasn’t quite the right word either, but Jeanne wasn’t known for her vocab and most of her knowledge of language is failing her and the time restraint she’s imposed on herself counts down.
She just got the feeling that whatever led this woman to a gay bar was not the knowledge it was a gay bar, though she obviously liked women, and she had an even greater feeling certain norms or terminology would be lost on her. She’s still not sure if Hellen even realized where she was, though she’d always thought the name was rather on the nose.
She feels it’s pretty obvious regardless, though she thinks she passes well, but it doesn’t erase the risk, the very real possibility that…
Jeanne swallows, hard. There’s a million different ways she can present this information, all jumbling together in her brain due to a mix of her intoxication and the countdown of Hellen managing past her fishnets, the pattern somewhat obscuring the shape of her bulge. What she says, instead, is:
“I have a dick.”
Hellen pauses, eyes squinting in a way that immediately makes a well of panic begin to rise, a furrow of her brows. She’d wanted danger, yes, but not of this sort. Yet just as quickly, once something seems to click, her expression falls back to utter neutrality,
“Okay.”
A look which, Jeanne realizes, is just that of confusion, of so? It only looked much worse due to her naturally severe expression. It’s so radically mundane, such a non-reaction, it honestly stuns her for a moment…Before breaking into a big, toothy, relieved smile.
“Oh!” What had she worried about, really. At what point had this stranger ever seemed particularly close-minded? “Um, continue, then.”
Continue she does, the hands that’d snaked up Jeanne’s dress gripping her ass hard and yanking, pulling her forward across the seat closer and sending her onto her back with a small eep! that breaks into surprised and delighted giggles. Her dress a bundled wrap around her waist, the fishnets come next– only to present an even worse, unexpected challenge, the waistband so high up it’s still under the tight confines of the fabric. She watches with badly held back amusement as Hellen tries and fails to get a good grip on it and pull it down, only for it to slip free and snap back into place, is about to offer help–
Nearly growling, Hellen instead winds her fingers through some of the holes in the netting around the crotch, and yanks. The delicate material, already pockmarked in places, tears easily and with audible snaps, ripped open to expose everything between her thighs.
A normal person would perhaps be pissed about their clothes being ruined, and maybe if she was a bit more sober she would be, but they were cheap and she had other pairs and more importantly it was hot. The sight makes her heart stop, her breath catch in her chest, entire face warming and with it a faint lightheaded feeling. She twitches against the front of her panties, more turned on than she can remember being in awhile. File that under things she didn’t know she liked, but now that it was happening, she’d let this woman rip everything else off her if she wanted.
Jeanne whines accordingly, opens her legs– aided by Hellen picking them and throwing them over her shoulders, heels locking behind her, prodding into her back shamelessly. She’s manhandled easily, already so light, but nothing to Hellen’s strength and it makes her swoon. With no apparent need to worry it isn’t hard to slip back into delirious horniness, falling back against the seat, head raised only enough to watch as her underwear is pulled down enough to spring free.
Her dick stands up, pink and wet at the tip against the border of her blue skin, already twitching just from exposure. Hellen’s slow to take it in hand, the most delicate with her she’s been, but closes her fingers around it and doesn’t move, even when bucked into. Jeanne could nearly scream.
“You fit entirely in my fist.” She says, with no real clear emotion behind it. “It’s cute.”
Okay, okay okay okay, she really had no horses in this race and as such Jeanne figures she’d be ambivalent to any attempts to shame a dick she doesn’t really want but it’s clearly not an insult, or not intended as one at least. And the comment sends a whole new headrush over her, makes her pulse under the hold, whimper and buck pathetically again. It was true, she was small enough to be obscured by the fist, totally encompassed in Hellen’s rough and warm palm. The first jerk makes her body bounce, her lip caught between her teeth.
It lets go, through eyes she didn’t realize she closed Jeanne hears the other spit, and then it’s back, warm, slick, and perfect. Her nails dig into the seat cover, press-ons threatening to pop off, hips rolling into curt, experimental thrusts of the hand on her, trying to find a rhythm. It’s imperfect but she hardly cares, still so good, gasping her pleasure and feet wandering the other’s broad back for purchase. It’s been far too long since she’s had a touch other than her own, and she’s drunk and sensitive and the rough, utilitarian strokes would and should be enough to get her off but right away she just knows she needs more. She’d source her lack of shame to this fact, if she pretended to have any to begin with.
She doesn’t. Jeanne bites her lip hard and forces her eyes open, watery, flicking up to meet. “M-more, please-”
Hellen’s hand speeds up, mercifully, and it takes a moment to speak through the spike of pleasure it brings, but she’s clenching tight with want and she intends to get what she wants, if she can.
“More.”
Another grunt, but it’s obeyed, the other lowering as much as she can and taking Jeanne between her lips. She wails, deathgripping the faux leather beneath her, because while she’d had certain wants for the night this nearly makes her cave,. Her back arches, overcome by the rough texture and lavishing of Hellen’s tongue, the briefest hint of teeth, the heavenly wetness of being sucked to the hilt and a nose in the coarse hairs just above. “Sh-shit, no, I mean– More, please–” Despite her own begging, she fusses when she’s let go of, dick falling sticky and damp against her skin.
“Like?” There’s a hint of baffled frustration in Hellen’s voice, she knows she’s being difficult and cryptic but it’s hard to think through her arousal and brain fog. Desperately, she uses the vision of it to force the words into existence and out.
“Your fingers,” fingers thick, strong, used to work. She’s been thinking of them all night. “Please, want you in me– Need it—”
A loud exhale, the taut muscles of her throat visibly swallowing, the most of an inkling Jeanne’s gotten this entire time she’s getting under Hellen’s skin in the best way. She won’t fault the lady for being stoic, her eagerness showed in her actions, but what a treat to see that lust outright, even only in little details perhaps only she would catch.
“Yeah, alright.” She nearly sobs when she’s let go of, though she knows what will come will feel so much better, but it breaks off into a surprised yip when Hellen grabs her hips once more and roughly flips her over, onto her stomach. Jeanne instinctively tries to prop herself on her arms and knees but a hand winds itself in her silky hair on the back of her head, forces it down, though her bottom half is still up in the air and oh god this is everything she’s ever wanted. Her face is pressed into the seat smelling like dirt and dust, thrown across it like a discarded doll, and she keeps it there even when she’s let go of, though she wishes desperately the hand would stay, would grip and tug.
The change of position and gravity sends her bundled panties down her legs, no longer hooked under her cock, and when they fall, there’s another pause. Against the seat, Jeanne grins.
“...You always go out like that?”
What she’s referring to, as is no doubt gracing her vision, is the base of the silicone plug in her ass, inserted well before the night had started, before going out. She’s been feeling it the entire time, though it was small and most of all slender, not meant to do much more than keep her open and reminded, not wanting to walk around hard all night. It’d been difficult to ignore once in the throes of their drinks, once she’d decided she really liked Hellen, brushing up in places and tightening around it, looking forward to the possibility it’d be replaced with her. She hadn’t brought it up, both not really thinking to, but mostly not knowing if it would even head in that direction.
Now, she’s glad for her own horny foresight. Both because it’ll speed things a long, growing impatient, and because taking Hellen off guard with her dirtiness is quickly becoming an addicting drug of its own.
“No…Just, when I’m expecting to, ya’know…” Her voice can’t carry the smugness over, wobbly and worked up. “Means you don’t gotta stretch me.”
“Mm.” Her skin prickles, waiting for something to happen next. “Shame.” Fuck, she would’ve wanted to? Isn’t that a thought, Hellen being the one to loosen her up.
She feels the base get gripped, sighs shakily when it’s tugged on gently, consistently until it pops free of the ring of muscle, pulled out slowly–
Just before it’s out entirely, it slams back in, the heel of Hellen’s palm smacking her when it hilts. Jeanne cries out, not attempting to muffle her surprise, forehead pressed hard against the surface and nails scrabbling.
“You’re noisy.”
Heart beating rapidly in her own ears, she does her best to mutter the brattiest tone she can. “Gonna shut me up then?”
No comment, no reply save for the toy pulled out again, much faster, and plunged back into her with the same amount of force. Then again, again, thrust with her hand. At the same time, Hellen’s other one makes impact on the outskirts of her ass, not quite able to reach the right spot with their cramped position but eliciting the same reaction nonetheless.
“...Slut.”
It’s obvious the mockery doesn’t come naturally, that just that word took a great deal of thought, comes out flat and awkward. A wild guess at her hook-up’s taste, maybe.
Jeanne couldn’t care less, skin burning because yes, she was. Not a bad thing, and she was exactly where she wanted to be– face down with a pretty stranger, hair moused and makeup getting smeared, dick hard and ass full and utterly irresistible for it. She’d come out of it a mess but satisfied and victorious.
The plug is pulled out fully, a string of lube falling messily on the seat, the toy discarded by its side. Jeanne croons and pushes back when two fingers prod at her entrance, needing barely any effort at all to slip in. Hellen’s fingers are thick, moving, warm and alive. The toy feels like nothing in comparison to something real, thrust roughly and with care only to what made more noises spill from her. The other seemed to be letting go of any notions of being gentle thank god, she’s sure she’s made it clear enough just how badly she wants to be used, roughed up, the messier the better. It seems like she’s snatched some invisible leash and she’s all too excited to see the tower of a woman off it.
God, she wishes she had her strap. Mostly for other’s use than hers, but one time she’d leaned forward and it felt out of her purse, making a loud slap on the floor of a bar bathroom. She’s sworn it off since then, but regrets it now, when the thought of Hellen putting all that burly strength into plowing her seems the most heavenly thing on earth. What she wouldn’t give to get her hips grabbed and her entire, smaller body pulled into the thrusts.
But Hellen isn’t kind, at least, already working a third finger into her, sinking to her knuckles and basking in the long, girlish wail it gets her at the stretch. Her other hand sits on Jeanne’s asscheek, pulling the bit of fat aside to get a better look of her opened up around her, thumb massaging idly on the skin.
Jeanne does what she can to push back into the motions, try to goad her to putting that other hand to better use, dick still aching and dripping, hanging in her thigh gap. She needed it, needed it and a body against hers, needed to drown in the touch of someone who wanted her, even if only in passing. Someone who wanted her and not some shitty fling out purely for their own pleasure, or the piece of shit “friends” who left her, or someone chasing her unique anatomy. Someone who’d listened to her talk and flirt and treated her right, didn’t ask what other parts of her were blue, didn’t offer to make her a real–
Hellen curls her fingers, just right against a spot that sends stars into her lack of vision, and Jeanne’s moan must be closer to a true sob because the touch stops. It’s a devastating, a desperate groan leaving her, hips raising and shimmying to get it back and she doesn’t know why the hell she stopped until she breaths in through her nose and realizes she can’t.
She isn’t sure when she started crying, but she hadn’t even realized it happened, her breath snotty and unsteady. Blearily, she wipes her face against the seat cover, not even thinking of what might come if she does.
“Uh.”
Hellen doesn’t seem to know what to do with the reaction, but Jeanne’s still hard and wanting and has no intentions of stopping there. She turns herself enough to look over– and she’s faintly aware of what she must look like. Her eyes must be watery and red and glittery in places they weren’t before, her sharp eyeliner is so no doubt smudged and now trailing down her cheeks, lipstick cracking and chewed off, foundation rubbing away and her deep flush breaking through. She’s seen the aftermath of sleeping with the makeup on, among other activities, and is sure she must look extra pathetic, with tears all over her to boot.
Except not in a bad way, perhaps, because she sees Hellen’s pupils get big, her chest shifting under her sweater with an intake of breath, and the fingers inside curl involuntary in a way that forces her head back to the seat, makes her full body shiver.
“It’s cuz it’s good–” It’s not a lie, it partially was, but the emotions of betrayal and hurt and loneliness of life in general wasn’t useful here, there was no need to make her aware. Not when it’d taken the sharp turn, when she’s been having one of many times of her life, delighted by surprise and unknown. The only thing that mattered is she’s hard, feeling whole and herself for the first time in awhile, and if Hellen feels so good that if she doesn’t keep going she might just go insane. “Don’t stop, please, please, please–Ah.”
Hellen renews her efforts, doubles them, fingers spreading her wide open and deliberately only brushing where they were wanted most, other hand returning to jerking the girl off. Her body violently trembles, movements going jerky, torn between which stimulation to lean into. Jeanne sings, a chorus of short cries and whines falling from her lips, not caring to even attempt to keep them contained. It’s overwhelming in the best way, her orgasm closing in dangerously fast and she wishes she was in any condition to fight it off, doesn’t want it to end, wonders if she can tempt Hellen into hanging around for a round two–
The fingers become more pointed, more rough, pressing harsh and dragging on her prostate, fist closing in and tightening and releasing in a pattern that leaves her dizzy. Jeanne mumbles a warning of being close, though it’s lost to the cushions, and that alone would be enough to send her tumbling over the edge soon.
Then there’s a tongue, licking the flat plane of her perineum before stopping to join the fingers, slipping in between them, adding to the slick movement of the thrusts. She swears under her breath, thoughtlessly reaching a hand behind her to grab at a random lock of curls, at the shoulder of the sweater, anything to sink her nails into as orgasm rips through her like a tsunami, feeling as if she’s splitting apart as she cums.
Hellen doesn’t stop or slow, even as the dick in her hand throbs, even as Jeanne spills white ropes over the seat, tenses all over as her legs shake before going slack. Her breaths pause and restart, near hyperventilating, Jeanne feels her fingers tingle from lack of air, unsure how long she’d held it between getting it knocked out of her.
Hellen doesn’t stop, perhaps even pushing further when it rips deep, throaty noises of pleasure-pain from her. Several seconds more and the touch on her cock is overstimulating enough to edge into being truly painful, and oh, it’s very tempting, as an idea in general, to let her make her sore and unusable, but in that moment, feeling drastically unsteady of all a sudden, it’s just too much.
“E-enough, oh god…”
Thankfully, Hellen obeys, though she had no real fear she wouldn’t except if her own voice failed her. Fingers pull out of her with a sloppy noise, and despite her nerves fraying at the edges the feeling of being empty makes her sob, enjoying the unmoving and steady stretch of those fingers even when still.
But all things come to an end, as much as she wanted to stay here all night, and the other isn’t sharing the same hold-ups. She gets the impression the woman’s not the type to linger but she at least isn’t rushing her, if anything helping Jeanne lay flat and roll onto her back with surprising gentleness. She appreciates it, unsure if she can get her own body to work, sapped of everything it had.
Other movement, something light and barely detectable against her legs. She manages her eyelids open just enough to see Hellen pulling her panties back up her legs, lifts herself up enough to allow them on properly– sort of, it’s sitting on her junk kind of awkwardly, given it’s not meant for the garment and needed intentional arrangement, but it’s a sweet gesture that brings a dazed, dizzy little smile to her lips.
Between her legs, Hellen wipes her mouth first with her sleeve, then her hand on her pantleg. Her gaze roams, taking in the sight of her–and Jeanne grins further, preens in all her fucked-out glory, licks her lips she didn’t release til doing so are definitely bruised.
She was exhausted, but she was treated so, so good that she wouldn’t dream of not returning the favor. Almost as appealing as getting taken care of was wondering if she could get her hands under that sweater, feel those muscles firsthand, if there was a limit to that stoic exterior. What noises did she make if she did? What a delicious challenge, to snake her way under those walls and in, show her gratitude with her mouth perhaps, let her know how that tongue piercing felt.
Painstakingly, she pushes herself up on her elbows, brushes away a strand of hair stuck to some drool on her cheek. “So…How do you want this?”
“...Want what?”
Still lagging behind, lazy with alcohol and afterglow, Jeanne matches her confused stare and silence. “Uh, you don’t want, like, a reach around or…?”
“...Oh.” Hellen stiffens, though, for a moment, she likes to think she sees a flicker of temptation. “Nah. I got what I wanted.”
Ah, stone, huh? She doesn’t ask this, she gets the feeling the reply will be something about an actual rock. It’s not like you needed labels to know one’s preference anyhow, and she was content to leave at that, especially because the longer she lays here the more she feels like drifting off. Were she in a bed and not a truck, maybe she would have. Hellen’s been nothing but proper to her, still gentlemanly in a way that makes Jeanne giggle as an arm is offered to help her up, walk her to the passenger side door on unsteady heels, nearly carrying her, step into the seat.
She’d always been a good judge of character, and somewhere floaty and dreamlike, she thinks she’s just right again. The lady in the driver’s seat might’ve looked gruff and scary, but had been nothing but surprisingly sweet, if a little charmingly clumsy. She’d only needed a chance, and it wasn’t to boost her own ego or some savior complex, it really wasn’t! It just tended to turn out that the oddballs– the other, just as she, in many ways –were interesting, often nice, her own kind of people. She knew a thing or two about being judged by your cover.
The engine roars back to life, the truck overcome with a faint vibration, the bounce of a gravel parking lot further rocking her to drowsiness. It’d gotten a bit colder in the cabin with the heat off and no body flush against hers, but when she pulls the loaned jacket back up over her shoulders and puts her arms through it proper, it’s still somewhat toasty with Hellen’s body heat, insulating against the chill. The hood is thick and the lining within soft enough when she leans her head against the window it’s not so bad. Warm air blows on her when the heat’s turned on. Her eyes fall shut without her input.
“If you’re going to nap, tell me where to drop you off first.”
Ah, right, she’d yet to tell the red-flag filled stranger– a combination of words that makes her want to laugh now, having had said stranger’s lips on hers and fingers inside her –her living address, something she imagines recounting to real friends with horrified reactions. Too bad she couldn’t tempt her into Hellen’s place by the end, maybe convince her she doesn’t need to go to whatever job she had tomorrow– she’s sure she’ll struggle to walk the next morning but who needs to if you don’t plan on getting out of bed?
But she does, accepting that this good turn to an awful night has to end eventually, and lets highway hypnosis lure her into sleep.
She knows Jeanne is asleep without even looking over. Hellen drove with the radio off, if not on talk radio at the lowest volumes, and the girl snored slightly. Still, once pulling off onto a side road, empty so late at night, she glaces over to watch the flashes of face in the passing illumination of streetlights.
Out like a light, leaned against the glass, lips parted and silky hair tangled in places, the ends sticking out oddly over her shoulders. Faint, thin lines of crusty grey trail downward from her eyes, eyeshadow blinked into a solid muddy color. The black lipstick she’d worn was barely holding on, fleshy pink peeking out of the cracks, like an old leather couch. Her was curled up in the seat, legs pulled up, utterly dwarfed by and cocooned in the jacket many sizes too big.
It would be easily, almost comically so. A wasted, overly trusting, willingly risk-taking young woman with hardly enough muscle to fight off a weighted blanket, knowingly taking an intimidating, powerful nobody in an old generic truck to a dark and abandoned locale with no witnesses– hell, even now it’d be easy, passed out like that. Hellen’s mind supplies the imagery automatically– those doe eyes snapping open, her false lashes fluttering in shock like butterfly wings, barely able to comprehend what happened before life is draining from her face. That sharp stare suddenly vacant, lips painted black parted and slack. Maybe from a knife to the heart, maybe from a hand around her throat.
It makes Hellen’s stomach twist in her body. She wills the thoughts aside in favor of focusing on the road, counting the dashes in the center lane.
Unbeknownst to her passenger, she hardly needs to think about where she’s going, having driven herself home for such a long time. It’s a good thing, because her mind is elsewhere– not just on thoughts of crunching bone and warm blood, but also soft skin and roaming hands. She catches herself trying to recall the feeling of a person under her touch instead of the steering wheel and frowns.
Weak. She’d been weak. She could’ve been weaker, having wanted in that moment, under layers of hesitance and reason, to see what the other would do if she let it happen. Would Jeanne mind the nails? Would she still make pretty noises with her mouth busy elsewhere?
But this, this was indulgence enough. Foolish, risky indulgence, a rare moment of animal desire overcoming her practiced control. To have done such a thing once or twice in the past, far from home, was one thing, but…
To knowingly bed a neighbor, even if Jeanne might not be aware of their shared residence, who could theoretically recognize her, even seek her out. Someone privy to her existence, because she only existed when perceived and that wasn’t ideal when any amount of time outside tending to the complex’s flowerbeds and courtyard could also be spent hiding bodies and eliminating evidence. She needed to not exist, to be unidentifiable, a cut-out in people’s memory. Even passing others in the mailing room or laundromat made her grit her teeth, though by now people didn’t tend to stare, accepting that there was a strange loner haunting the building who at times wore coveralls and held shears to the shrubs. Faded into the background despite her appearance by unspecified familiarity, more a piece of furniture serving its use than someone in the room. Good.
With any luck, perhaps, Jeanne will wake up with a hangover and no recollection of her face or voice. Maybe she could get lucky, maybe this could have, in a sense, never had happened.
But such a thing was not certain, and only time would tell. She had much planning to do. She made this bed, she would have to lay in it.
The truck pulls up to the front door to the complex, as close to it as she could get short of the sidewalk. Even once no longer in motion, the slight jerk to the park doesn’t stir Jeanne, head tipped back and falling out of the hood. For a moment, Hellen dares to admire the reflection of the front lights on her high cheekbones, and the way it hits whatever glittery powder was applied to them, hand hovering between the seats.
She rights herself, reaching out to grasp Jeanne’s shoulder, shake her gently awake. She expects a startled gasp, a jump, a brief moment of disoriented terror.
Instead, those fake lashes lift slowly, blearily, eyes squinting at the bit of light spilling into the vehicle. After a few seconds of adjusting, her pupils drift over, head turning slightly to remember her driver.
A processing, then a slow, lazy, perhaps even fond smile. Hellen’s other hand grips the steering wheel tighter.
“You’re home.”
“...Mmm, I gotta go?” Getting a flat look, she snorts, too drowsy for a real laugh. “I know. M’fine. Gimme a sec.”
Jeanne rubs at her eyes before leaning over the console to fish for her purse, having fallen between the seats somewhere– she opens it, digs through in a quick check of her belongings, Hellen’s eyes avert when she sees the glint of something flared and black –and pulls out her keys, several attached keychains jingling as she frees it from the depths of the bag.
“...Soooooooo, you’re sure I can’t get your number or something?”
“Even if I told you, I doubt you’d remember.”
“Hmph. Well, it was worth a shot.” The bag is slung back over her shoulder, secured closed. Her hand falls on the handle, but stalls. “...Um, thank you, by the way. I really enjoyed myself. You made a shitty night better.”
Mentally, Hellen flails like a fish out of water. She already wasn’t in many social situations to begin with, nonetheless ones that end in gratitude, and something discomfortably genuine and personal at that. It…feels nice, she thinks, probably. That’s probably what the nausea is. She’s just not used to it.
“I liked it too.”
That, she had, for better or for worse. Involuntary reactions have largely worn off by now, but she’s sure it’ll be different when she’s back in her own apartment, laid in bed and trying to recall the brief experience of feeling another person, back in a vacuum, real and existing only to herself.
Jeanne was sweet. It’s a funny thought, but in the moment, she only hopes the girl finds better friends. She could be doing much better things than seeking risks in bars.
Again, that front tooth gap makes an appearance when she grins, wide and wrinkling. Before Hellen can even register what is happening, her vision is filled with blue and black, something soft and faintly wet pressed against her cheek. A kiss.
“Bye. Thanks for the ride.”
Finally, the door opens, and Jeanne hops out onto the pavement. She wobbles a bit, and Hellen watches, admittedly mildly concerned through being stunned, as she attempts to walk but sways. She wasn’t a dick, she’d get out if the poor thing fell into her well cared-for hedges. However, it seems to be her shoes more than anything, the pointy heels getting caught in the grout of the pavement. After some visible frustration, she stops, then prompt kicks the heels off, bends over to retrieve them. She nearly tumbles doing so, but gets the pair in one hand, using her other to peek and wave over her shoulder before making for the door.
Oh, she was just…walking barefoot. Okay. Well.
Hellen stays put, wanting to see her safely to the doors. No mystery danger appears in the short walk to them, though, and with a sigh, she puts the truck back in drive. She swipes at her cheek, her hand comes back with a smudge of black.
It’s paranoid, but she drives a full loop around the complex, to bide time, and give the appearance of taking off, before pulling into the parking garage. Even then, she remains in the driver’s seat some time longer before emerging. The air hits, and she wonders when it got so cold.
…Damn. My jacket.
Well, shit. Oh well. It wasn’t like she didn’t have others, and there was no identifying items or markings on it, but she’d liked that thing. Not enough to risk her cover, however. There would be others, on hooks beside her apartment door, ready to keep the wind away as she prepared plots for colder seasons.
She’s almost on edge, entering the building, expecting to turn a corner and see Jeanne there, perhaps lost or passed out or something. She takes the stairs, certain there’s no way the girl had taken them, and thinking it a waste and lazy when she was only on the first floor anyways.
Safely home, Hellen sheds what else she had. Her shoes, her watch, her keys, her wallet.
The knife. Nothing fancy, just a folding hunting one, but you never know.
She pulls the turtleneck off, and it’s not until the fabric drags over her nose she realizes she smells of perfume, of faint cigarette smoke and artificial musk, acrid fake chocolate. Certainly not her own scent, if she even bothered to apply such a thing.
Grunting, she throws it aside, trying to ignore the flicker of interest between her thighs, the alien sense of…something washing over her, a wanting of sorts. A drawing towards something, but what, she doesn’t know.
(A yearning, if she only knew what that word was, and what it meant.)
But it persists, even as she undresses to her shorts and crawls beneath the sheets, even as she tries to will thought away as though that’s ever worked with a mind such as hers, even as her hand slips under the elastic waistband.
Jeanne misses the keyhole three times before it makes it in. Frustrated, she casts the bundle aside, letting it land noisily in a bowl beside the door.
Tired, she drops her heels beside the doormat, pulls off her purse to hang up, and then her jacket.
…Jacket?
Oh, shit! Waking ever so slightly, at the realization she still has Hellen’s coat, she stands, stunned and lost on what to do, before rushing for her balcony, facing the front of the building–
The truck is gone. Of course it was, why would she just sit there after dropping her off?
Man. She actually feels kind of bad.
…And yet, also doesn’t, toying with the puffy material of the sleeve between her fingers. She grabs the collar, lifts, sniffs, takes in the scent of dirt and earth, feels the material weathered by exposure.
Who knows. Maybe they’d cross paths again. Maybe, if she just wears it back to the bar, she can return it someday.
For now, though, she’s sleepy, coming off the adrenaline and emotion and a good fuck, with the reassuring knowledge she had a day off tomorrow and nowhere to be except cutting some ties. She should shower, should at least wipe off the makeup and brush out her hair, change out of her dress and tights, wipe the pebbles from her soles beyond just scratching them against the mat.
She doesn’t. The coat is hung on a rack, and with teetering steps, Jeanne makes it to her bed, flops onto it, and dozes back off, imagining she does so to the sound of a rumbling truck.