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"This can't last, you know."
Franky turns her head, looks at Erica. They're on their backs next to each other, far enough for Erica to miss the feel of Franky's skin on hers, but close enough for Franky's body heat to warm her.
"No?" Franky reaches for Erica's hand and grasps it lightly over the sheets. Her tattoos stand out in contrast to Erica's unmarked skin, and she twists and turns Erica's fingers, inspecting each knuckle, the clipped nails, the smooth palm.
"I don't do... this." She nearly chokes on the words, feeling dirty as hell even as her body grows somnolent from the pleasure Franky has drawn from her body, the air redolent of what they have spent the last few hours doing.
"Often?" Franky watches her as she traces the life line on Erica's left hand. Her eyes are dark, studious; each time she looks at Erica, Erica feels as though Franky can read everything she's thinking about her in that very moment. She feels flayed by Franky's gaze, skin and flesh peeled away for Franky to read the words etched into her bones.
Am I the only one?
I need you.
Tell me how to quit you.
At all," she says, a little sharply.
"Ah," Franky says. Then, she laughs and turns towards Erica. For a moment, the sound cuts through the guilt that has wrapped itself like a blanket around her. The mattress dips where Franky moves closer, and Erica burns with want. Franky kisses her shoulder, and then her neck, and her hair tickles Erica's chin when she rests her head against Erica's collarbone.
Erica stares at the ceiling. This hotel room is grey, light grey, inset with soft lights that make shadows dance over Franky's body when she arches over Erica. She can remember every single night they have spent together, every lie she's told Mark to cover up the truth. The times, the days, the months; they are stitched into her marrow somewhere, and ache with the cold nights spent without Franky.
Lately, the cold nights have grown colder and colder. She doesn't know where Franky is on those nights, and tells herself that she doesn't care. But she can't continue like this, knows that she has to choose. Mark, or the prisoner on parole. Control, or the seductive freedom of Franky's easy arrogance.
If she asks, will Franky cut the cord for her?
"I can hear you thinking," Franky says, and Erica's heart skips along to the cadence of Franky's voice. "Pretty sure that's not what we're here for."
"What are we here for?" Skipskip, skipskip, skipskip.
"You tell me," Franky replies. "I'm not the one with a ring on it."
They are silent for a long while. Then: "I'm going to give it back," Erica hears herself say, and her voice sounds far away and not her own.
Franky laughs at that, a short disbelieving bark, and the sound cuts like ice in Erica's veins. She grows cold, and her heart beats so hard that she briefly wonders if she is going to die. Almost shoving Franky aside, she sits up and grips the mattress with both hands to ground herself, tries to keep her breathing steady. Goosebumps trail in the wake of her sudden movement, and she fumbles for her clothes, discarded without a care on the floor. She feels as crumpled and forlorn as the silk she draws over her shoulders, as expensive and meaningless, only she has given herself to Franky for free.
Franky sits up in the bed, watching Erica dress herself with shaky, unprecise movements. They stare at each other in silence, Franky calm with the sheets only half-covering her naked body, Erica furious at how much Franky doesn't seem to care.
"How did you think this was going to end?" Franky asks. "You said yourself that this can't last."
She wants to scream. "I've said many things." Her voice is raspy, cracking at the edges, just like the rest of her.
Franky scoffs. "Yeah, you have."
There's only one way this can end, only one way for them to leave not more fucked up than they already are. "I don't love him," she says, more to herself than to Franky. The words hang in the air. Erica waits for them to come back down and fill the hole that saying them has left inside her, but nothing happens.
She's free.
"You don't love me," Franky says. There is a warning in her tone, and Erica dares to hope.
"I want you more than I want him."
Franky looks away, draws the sheets around herself. Erica wants to go back to her, wants to throw everything out the window to touch her again.
"'Once the string is cut, kid, you can't uncut it,'" Franky quotes softly. "John Green."
Erica has no idea who that is, but she doesn't care. Her heart is a drum now, thudding against her rib cage. Does she dare? She moves to the bed and pulls the sheets from Franky's hands.
"Cut everything," she says, and pins Franky beneath her, gratified by the way Franky gasps in response. When Franky grasps Erica's hand and brushes the empty space on Erica's left ring finger with her thumb, she realises:
This is control.
END