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1
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You inspected your shooting range accuracy sheet with a critical eye. It was, needless to say, fairly fucked.
“Upon further inspection, I must say—I disagree,” you said, regardless. “I clearly won.”
“You did not!” Abby exclaimed. Her voice was muffled. Gunfire popped around you in the practice range, and your protective earmuffs swallowed the sound. “Look at this mess—”
She pointed to all the shots that had veered far right, scraping the sheet’s human silhouette on the side and not the middle.
It was not your best work. But you’d rather swallow your bullet casings than admit it.
You covered Abby’s face with your hand, blocking her eyes. “I don’t see anything of the sort.”
“You shoot like that today and we’re dead,” she said, fighting you off.
“Then you not better blow our cover with your fat-fucking-elephant feet.”
She shook her head. “That was one time—“
“Three times.”
You pulled down the paper sheet before Abby could critique it further.
“Guess they’ll let anyone be a commanding officer these days,” Abby said with a smug look as she leaned on the wall divider. You hated how good she always looked. Hated how much you loved looking at her.
“Guess so. You tell me, Anderson. I’ve been a commander for years,” you said.
“Yeah, cause you’re older than me.”
Yeah, not by much you wanted to say. But you bit your tongue. That was your secret. No one knew you lied about your age when you enlisted into the WLF except Perez, and the rest of your team.
“What can I say Anderson?” you said, eyes hooded. “You distract me.”
“Don’t I know it,” she said, because she did. She had heard it a million times.
“Ruse!” a voice shouted from the door. It was an old nickname, one that most people knew. That, and a slew of variations—some better than others. The range monitor was on your ass again, it seemed. “Anderson! Can you stop flirting for two seconds? We’ve got a queue. Your time is up.”
Abby’s face reddened as you retreated from the range. “We weren’t—“ she tried.
She avoided the gaze of all the WLF soldiers lined up, waiting to shoot.
But you looked at each of them, smug as you had ever been. Meeting their eyes. Yeah. She’s mine. Don’t fucking try anything.
Of course she wasn’t. The unattainable Abby Anderson.
“Did he really think we were flirting?” Abby asked you, perplexed—as if questioning her own judgement.
“Don’t worry about it, sweet girl.”
2
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“I’m driving—” you rushed to say.
“Yeah right,” Abby said, unconcerned as you both rushed to the garage.
“Franklin!” you shouted to the attendant. He was also your neighbor. But you didn’t know if that worked in your favor—or against. “Pickup for Echo and Bravo?”
Franklin tossed the keys. You and Abby both leapt for them, jumping, but she had some height on you. That, and she almost knocked you to the ground with a hip-check of atomic proportions.
“Hey!” you started.
She shook the keys in your face. “Check us out, pretty girl?”
You grumbled as you wrote down your units on the garage checkout sheet. “Come on Franklin, help a girl out,” you said to him. “Where’s your fucking loyalty?”
He had dark bags under his eyes. “I don’t owe you shit, Rusa.”
“Sheesh,” you said, jogging away. It wasn’t your fault the walls were so thin, and that Jennifer had been back from her rotation the entire last week. The bitch was loud. After being at the south lookout for four weeks, you could hardly blame her.
“You should let me drive,” you said when you caught up to Abby. You loved to drive.
“I really shouldn’t,” Abby said, sliding into the truck and slamming the driver’s door shut.
You draped your folded arms across the lowered window. If she wanted to play mean, you could play mean.
“Abby,” you drawled, slipping into a sweeter tone. “Come on sweetheart. Let me treat you nice. Drive you around. Pretty thing like you deserves it.”
“Talk slower,” she said, leaning forward. “I dare you.”
“For you, I can sure as hell try.”
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
“I’ve been told I can be very… persuasive,” you said, trailing a hand on her strong forearm. You could feel the eyes of your team on you, but you were beyond caring.
She started the car. “The answer is no.”
“Oh fuck you, Anderson,” you said, retreating.
“You wish.”
“Yeah, I do,” you said, darting back just as quick. Your eyes caught on her lips as she licked them. “Say the word and I’m yours. Wherever you want me.”
“Get in the truck, Rusa.”
You slapped her car door, smiling to see her avoiding your eye, and made your way back to your side. You didn’t see Abby’s hands flex on the wheel as she tried to clear her mind.
Perez grinned from the truck bed as you pulled out of the garage. Sasha and Yenny sat beside him—then three other members of Abby’s team across from them.
“These runs—they are my favorite kind,” Perez said in his thick Persian accent. “Both my mothers to keep me in check.”
“Excuse me?” you and Abby barked from within the truck, turning to the back window.
“Ah—I am sorry, mothers. I will be quiet.”
“I will turn this car around!” one of Abby’s team members mocked.
“Uh oh—moms are fighting again.”
“Jesus,” Abby said. “Knock it off, you guys.”
“Hey, I’m hungry. Do we have any snacks?” Yenny asked.
“I have some protein mix,” you said, pulling out your bag. “But you should have eaten before we left—”
It wasn’t until the backseat roared in laughter that you realized it was a mom joke. Well, you never really had a mom.
“Oh, haha,” you said, falling back against the seat as Abby drove you out of the FOB. “Fucking hilarious. Bunch of ingrates.”
“I’ll take some protein mix,” Abby said.
“Abby, you just ate.”
“I know.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
She scoffed. “I’m leaving you.”
You faked a gasp. This was your favorite—when she was goofy. You rarely saw it. Her dry sense of humor did something for you. “I knew there was another woman!”
“Abby, please take me in the divorce,” Perez said from the trunk.
“She fucking better,” you snapped. “Otherwise you’ll be a fucking orphan all over again. I refuse to be a single mother to that mess.”
“Goddamn, Ruth,” one of Abby’s team members said to you. “Why does Isaac have you paired with Perez if you two hate each other?”
“Oh, Perez is my best friend. I’d die for that rat bastard in a second.”
“Thanks, Ruthie,” Perez said, smiling. Then, to the boy, “I’m mom’s favorite.”
The ride was long—one spent with a hundred other mom and dad jokes. And, by the end of it, there were handfuls of protein mix passed through the backseat. And, of course, handful after handful funneled into Abby’s expectant hand as she kept her eye on the road.
Riding shotgun wasn’t so bad, you thought. Not when it just let you look at her.
“Moms, Sasha is touching me,” Perez complained.
“Perez, Sasha, so help me god—” you started. “I will fucking murder you little—”
“Language, Ruthie,” Abby said, stopping you. “Think of the children.”
“Sorry, dear,” you said. Then, “So help me god, I will freaking murder you little shits—”
3
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Caked in sweat and chest still heaving, you peeled off your clothes in the locker room. Abby’s new weight training routine was going to kill you. Mind a haze and hair a wet mess, you raced to get into the cold shower. The showers weren’t all that private. Some had wall separators or curtains for the more squeamish. You had only ever used them when you had company. It was always a race to see if you could get each other off before the water would shut off, but the thrill made it fun.
Today you just stumbled to the group shower—the singular pole with six heads—in the center of the room. Under the spray, you wet every part of you. Scrubbing your skin, washing your hair, getting the layer of sweat off. You hated that feeling—had gotten sick of it during your childhood spent in Sacramento.
And on top of it all, your cunt ached too. Abby knew how to get you riled. That was half of your issue. All the fucking sounds she made—all her little comments to you. The cold water poured over your skin, and you shuddered, trying to clear your mind as you worked the soap through your hair.
That was better. You could breathe again.
Figures came and went—the door opening and closing in the busy morning. Then you felt a pair of eyes on you.
You cleared the water from your eyes to see Abby Anderson standing across the room, eyes wide. She seemed like a deer caught unaware. She likely hadn’t expected to see you ass naked in the center of the showers. People rarely used this shower, as out in the open as it was. But you hadn’t been thinking too straight at the time.
“Uh, sorry—” she muttered, face red.
“It’s alright,” you said seriously, bending to pick up your soap bar from the ground. Against Abby’s will, her gaze anchored on the curve of your ass, and you smiled. “You can look if you want.”
Poor thing. She was looking. Rather dumbstruck, too. She had likely expected to walk in here to see you as you always were after a workout—red-faced and hardly able to grab your fucking towel as you stumbled toward the showers. Instead, you were clear-minded, hair clean as water rushed down your bare body. Abby usually showered in the far corner behind a curtain, private as she was.
You couldn’t tell if your nipples were hard from the cold water or feeling her unabashed gaze.
“See something you like?” you asked her, brow raised as you soaped your skin. Was Abby Anderson ogling you in the middle of the communal bathroom right now? Was this happening?
It was. Always an opportunist, you turned, soaping up the skin of your back, allowing your hair to fall to the side as water ran down your spine. “What?” you asked innocently. “Did I miss a spot?”
In Abby’s eye, you saw an expression you had never quite seen before. Hunger. Maybe even wanting.
You held her eye, standing tall in the spray, extending a hand to welcome her closer.
“You know, you can do more than just look,” you said, relishing in this. You had been at her mercy all morning as she trained you, and now she was at yours. “You can touch, too.”
A group of girls walked into the bathroom, the door slamming with a bang, and Abby was snapped from the spell.
Her hand slapped over her eyes with an audible crack. You winced.
“Sorry!” she said again, and the woman who had teased you all morning—who commanded the weight room with her presence—vanished in wake of this red-faced mess. You watched as she stumbled to her corner, hands still covering her eyes, as red spread down her neck. “I’m—fuck,” she said, slipping on the wry floor. “I’ll just be over here. Sorry.”
You chuckled. And despite the cold spray on you, your core was on fire.
You still had it, Rusa.
“Rusa!” one woman shouted at you from across the room. “Your girl know you’re out in the open like that for every bitch in the FOB to see?”
You smiled, feeling the water fall down your bare chest—still high on seeing Abby stare at you like you were the moon. “You complaining, Mansfield?”
“God, no,” she said, laughing. You laughed too.
“Who’s my girl?” you asked when she and two others joined you at the central shower. You weren’t seeing anyone consistently right now. Hell, you were never consistent.
“Uh, Anderson?” she said, as if it was obvious.
“Anderson?” you asked in surprise. Abby was still in the corner of the room, out of sight.
“Uh, yeah? Who else?”
“But we’re not together—”
At that moment, Abby darted from her shower toward the locker room, towel tight around her hips. Her strong upper body, and bare tits, still wet from the shower, silenced you. She avoided your eye, face and chest still flushed.
As she turned the corner, you realized you had grabbed the shower pipe for support. Your jaw snapped closed.
Mansfield shook her head at you in disbelief.
“Shut the fuck up,” you told her. “You’re no better.”
“Yeah,” she admitted. “That girl is eye candy.”
“Hey. You keep your eyes off.”
“But you just said—”
“I changed my mind.”
For that reason, you started using the front shower. And that shower only.
4
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You were woken with a rap on the door. Dragged from deep sleep, you looked at your clock. 2 AM.
Perez snored soundly in his bed. You flicked on the light, only to hear the rap again.
“I’m coming, I’m coming—” you said.
You swore to god if it was Angela, you were slamming the door right in her goddamn face. Three times she had come to you in the middle of the fucking night, wet and wanting, and you had given in every single time. She never reciprocated. And that was fine—but three times in a row? At this point, she just saw you as a mouth and three fingers. Yes, you were the rake of the QZ. But even that stung.
Still, by the time you reached the door, your resolve had wavered. It wasn’t like you were worth more than that, anyway.
But it wasn’t Angela at the door.
It was Abby.
Dressed in her sweatpants and a sweatshirt, hair askew, she looked like she had just woken from a dead sleep. Her eyes clung to you in the dark.
“Hey,” you said in surprise.
“Hey,” she offered, sheepish.
You blinked, trying to process. Abby Anderson was standing on your doormat. In her sleep clothes. At an ungodly hour. It wasn’t an unusual sight for you, of course, to see something like this at this time of night.
But Abby Anderson?
“Fancy meeting a girl like you here,” you said with a smile. You should’ve known it was a matter of time.
No, you couldn’t have known. Abby was straight, according to Manny, and had avoided your flirtation for years. You fought to take this in stride, regardless.
“You look like good like this,” you told her. She looked like shit.
She said nothing. Her eyes darted down the hallway as if she might sprint away—unease written over her features.
“Hey, what’s up?” you asked her, trying to appease her before she could flee. Was this… the moment? Had she randomly decided at 2AM on a Tuesday she was sick of not getting laid? Because if so, holy shit. This was a holy day. Forget Christmas and all that other stuff.
“If you’re here because you want to take me up on my many offers to eat you out,” you said, “my schedule just cleared itself for the next three hours. But you might need to let Perez take your bed. Unless you can keep quiet.”
“It’s uh—” Abby said, still uneasy. But at your words, her face flushed. “No, not that—”
“Abby, what’s wrong?” you said, concerned.
“I just—couldn’t sleep. Dreams and shit.”
She seemed so small as she said it.
In the wake of her nightmare, she had come to you. And you had just offered to eat her out when all she wanted was comfort. Good god.
“What do you need?” you asked. She had her shoes on. “Do you need to talk about it? I have some sangria leftover from two nights ago. We could head up to the roof—”
“I’m too tired to talk,” she said. “No I just need—god. It’s embarrassing.”
Oh?
“You need me to tire you out?” you asked, head cocking. “Because as I said, I would be more than happy to—”
“No,” Abby said. “I just… Do you remember the night on assignment, when we slept in the skyscraper?”
“That time we almost died?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, I have a faint recollection.” Completely alone, you had slept the night with Abby, barricaded in a conference room and had woken up to her clinging to you in sleep. The memory of her arms around you—her chest against your back—still kept you up some nights. You were so used to being a big spoon. It had been a nice change.
And the next morning, when you woke in Abby’s arms, her dark circles had seemed less deep. Less profound.
“Could we do that?” Abby asked.
Your heart skipped a beat. Abby Anderson wanted to sleep in your bed? Snuggle with you?
After a long silence you realized you hadn’t spoken a word. “Yeah, of course. Of course,” you said softly. “If you can put up with Perez’s snoring.”
“Good,” Abby said, leaning on the doorframe—likely not even hearing the second half of your sentence. She looked like shit. And you wondered how shitty she must have felt to be this desperate, to actually ask for help.
“You can sleep here anytime, Abs,” you rushed to say. “No sex required. Sorry I—yeah. I didn’t mean to push, I shouldn’t have assumed—“
“Rusa, stop talking. I know.”
So you led her to the bed—watched as she plopped down onto it. Her eyes were already closing, exhausted.
You knelt before her, taking off her shoes. “You always sleep with a braid in?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe that’s why you can’t sleep,” you said in disbelief. “It’s a miracle you don’t have migraines. You’ll be bald by thirty at this rate.”
“Maybe I want to be bald.”
“I wonder who will go bald first. You or Isaac. You’ll look like his fucking surrogate daughter.”
“Whatever it takes,” she said. Whatever it takes to be his favorite. It was a running gag between you. Isaac liked you both—but he particularly liked you when you returned to base with some vital Scar intel from your spy runs. He particularly liked Abby when she wiped out a Scar camp without any WLF fatalities. It was an ongoing battle.
“Well, I promise you can always share my bed,” you said. “Even if you’re bald as a fucking egg.”
Girl was wrecked. Couldn’t even respond. But tension furrowed her brow—the remnants of whatever dream had dragged her from sleep. As soon as she hit that pillow, you feared it would roar up for her again—this unnamed monster she fought in sleep.
So you undid her braid. Pulled the hair tie and unwound the strands with a careful hand. She didn’t even realize what you were doing until you were almost done. As your hands ran through her hair, she melted into your touch—nearly moaning. Her breath caught as she sighed, throaty sounds filling the silence.
Touch starved girl. You studied her face—her closed eyes, and blond eyelashes. Never had you seen her long, blond hair down. Unkempt and unguarded, she sat on the edge of your bed, head falling back into your hands.
“You’re beautiful, Abs,” you said before you could stop yourself.
“What?” she asked, half awake.
“Nothing,” you said.
You would treat her so good if she let you. But you would take what you could—treat her good now.
“Come on, pretty girl,” you whispered, leading her down to the pillow. She went without a fight. You flicked off the light, climbing in with her as she pulled off her sweatshirt. Half-awake, her arms reached for you, pulling you against her.
You settled with her behind you. One of her strong arms snaked around your waist—the other at the crook of your neck. Pressed firmly against her, feeling her hot skin behind you, your stomach was a storm of butterflies.
She threw a leg on top of you. You were properly smothered—and never had you felt so content. Spare the heat burning at your core. Goddamn. You really needed to stop sleeping with people who didn’t prioritize you. It left you a horny mess the rest of the time.
“Thanks, Ruthie,” she said, words slurred.
“Yeah,” you said sweetly, holding to her arm around your middle. “I’ve got you, Abs.”
The next morning, you both got up for training. Abby tied her hair back and you walked to the training room together—not another word said about the night before.
“Perez told me Abby was in your bed this morning,” Sasha said when you left for patrol.
“Perez says a lot of things,” you said, feeling protective of the girl that had sought you out in the darkest hour of night. “Keep that one to yourself.”
5
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It was supposed to be a small party.
And you were supposed to only have two drinks.
Yeah. That hadn’t lasted long.
Isaac had moved all the resources out of the west warehouse, which was a perfect spot just far enough from the FOB for a party. What he didn’t know wouldn’t kill him. So with enough moonshine to sedate half the WLF and a shit-ton of lights commandeered from a club in downtown Seattle, Perez and Manny had managed to pull off the greatest party of the year.
You helped, of course. Just a bit. If word got out that you had helped plan this party, and you got busted—damn. That would be bad. Isaac would be on your ass for months. Perez was just a soldier—one of the spies on your stealth team. But if Isaac found out a commanding officer had helped plan it? Had attended, and convinced almost every other ground team at the FOB to come? Yeah. Not good.
Music blared from the speakers around the room. One of Manny’s good friends had an insane collection of music, and had spent the last three years fixing up speakers he had found in a nearby music shop. The bass was deafening, and if Isaac didn’t find you out, the Scars surely would.
But at the moment, you couldn’t really bring yourself to care.
Lights blurred around you—a kaleidoscope of color. You could feel the music in your blood, surging through you—the bass in your heart. Or maybe it was just all the alcohol.
It was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of party. So you would drink like it was.
The girl on you—Rebecca, or June, or whatever—had her leg firmly between your thighs. She sighed into your hair as your hands anchored to her hips. You marked up her neck, humming along to the song.
“Hey, Rusa!” Manny called over the music.
“Little busy!” you shouted at him.
“Rusita! Now!”
“Ugh!” you shouted. “Sorry, sweet thing, one second—” you said, kissing the girl quick before you attempted to push through the crowd. It was like forcing your way through a thick bramble of bushes—pointed elbows digging into your sides like rouge branches. Everything was swirling.
“How many people did you invite?” Manny said.
You took the cup from his hand, trying to drink it. He swiped it away.
“I don’t know?” you said. “Not a lot. I hardly know anyone.”
“Hey Rusa!” a man shouted behind you. “Thanks for the invite—this is amazing!”
“Yeah, man!” you said, smiling, but that smile dropped as soon as you looked back at Manny. “I’ve never seen that man in my life.”
“It’s getting loud. If we get busted—we’ll need to grab all of Jose’s sound equipment and run. Could you handle the speaker on the west wall?”
Your body was so warm. Maybe it was the music. Yeah. Probably all the music.
“Rusita?” Manny insisted.
“What?” you said.
“Ay dios mío—you’re out of it. Never mind.”
“I’m fine! I’m so fine—” you said, but when you turned to face Manny again, he was gone.
Then there were other hands on you—another drink in your hand. Rebecca-June-girl was back, along with another girl. You drained the drink, dancing as the music filled up your body, arms in the air.
At some point, there was a hand in your back pocket. Maybe all the way down your fucking pants. You weren’t sure. But what you were sure about was that this girl’s tongue was about to strangle you, and you didn’t even know her name. You were going to fucking choke.
Your thoughts strayed to Abby as the girl’s hands felt up your sides. How Abby touched you in the gym. She wouldn’t kiss you like this. She was so fucking mindful. So stupidly perfect.
Perfect Anderson. She hadn’t even shown up, like the goodie she was. Most commanding officers hadn’t, spare you and Manny. Chickens.
Then there was a hand down the front of your pants.
“Jesus—” you said. You were drunk, but not drunk enough for this—to bottom some chick in a crowd of people.
“Want to go find a place, just the three of us?” Rebecca-June said. Then you remembered the other set of hands on you.
Go where? Outside and fuck in the bushes? You weren’t above that—but it was so warm in here. So were their hands—soft and pliant.
“Uh—” you said, only to be silenced by her mouth again.
Might as well, you guessed—swiping a drink from a random bystander and draining it. You’d need to be a bit more drunk for this.
Then a head of blond hair caught your eye in the crowd. A long, blond braid—and a pair of wide shoulders.
The swirling room centered around her, anchoring you.
“Hey!” June-Rebecca-tongue-lasher-extraordinaire called after you. “Where are you going?”
“Huh?” you said, not wanting to take your eyes off the blond. “I don’t know. Over here. Bye!”
The boys who had brought in all the moonshine had set up somewhat of a bar with overturned crates and planks—setting out cups for all. Those moonshine boys would make a killing with how much Manny was charging at the door. The tall blond stood against the makeshift bar, nursing a cup.
You leaned against the crate. The room spun around you, and you fought to stay in this one place—this point against the bar. The fixed point of this gorgeous, tall woman.
“Hey,” you said, smiling. She was fucking gorgeous. Fuck.
“Hey Ruth,” the woman said, hardly sparing a glance.
“You know me?” you said in shock. Then, trying to be cool, “Yeah. You know me. Of course you know me.”
Your eyes drifted to her arms. Goddamn.
“You alright, Ruth?”
“How much can you fucking bench?” you asked.
“You spotted me benching yesterday. We’re at 210 now.”
“I can bench 210?” you said.
“No, sweet girl. You’ve hardly touched a hundred.”
“Can I touch you?”
“What?”
“Sorry. What?”
The woman laughed. You smiled to see it—wanted to touch it.
“What’s your name?” you asked her, pulled in by her smile.
“Uh—Bethany.”
“Bethany,” you said, nose wrinkled. Moaning the name Bethany wouldn’t be great. You could make it work. Beth, maybe?
“So Ruthie,” Bethany said. “You wanted to come over here and talk to me?”
“How could I not? You’re my dream woman. You sure god didn’t make you for me?”
“Just for you, sweet girl.”
“Fuck. You are so fine,” you said. Your hands were on her arms, but you couldn’t remember putting them there. Bethany sure seemed to like it. Her smile was smug and pleased.
“Why’d you want to come over here to talk to me? Seems like you were having plenty of fun out there,” she said.
“No, I was choking on tongue. Not good. Abby would never kiss me like that. I bet you wouldn’t kiss me like that either,” you said. How was she here alone? “You’re not with anyone, right?”
“Me?” she asked, caught off guard. “Uh, no—”
“Good,” you said. She had so many freckles. You wanted to count them—wanted to see where else they ran. Kiss them all. “Want to get out of here?”
“Ruth—”
“I would take care of you,” you promised her. “I swear. I'll make you cum so hard you'll forget who you fucking are.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re already past that point, Rusa. How much have you had to drink?”
Her eyes were so brown. The party lights danced over them like comets in the sky.
“Rusa? You with me?”
“I could watch you all fucking day,” you said. Then, pressing even closer to her, “I think I’m in love with you. Is that crazy? Can you fall in love with someone you just met? Let’s go back to my place—”
“Ruth,” Bethany said, face flushed. “Jesus.”
She took a swig of her drink, draining it.
“What? You don’t like me?” you said, crushed. Of course she didn’t like you. You could cry. Met the love of her life and lost her in the space of a single conversation. You were meant for the Junebeccas of the world. Not fucking female Goliaths with soft hands and sweet words.
“I like you,” she said, and your smile burned your cheeks. “That’s the problem.”
“That’s a problem?” you said, confused. That sounded like the opposite of a problem.
“You won’t even remember this tomorrow, Ruthie.”
“Then help me remember,” you said, leaning up. She was holding you—keeping you steady. The haze of your brain was so overwhelmed by her. How mindfully she held your waist. Her concern and kindness. “Give me something good to remember. Please.”
Her lips brushed yours. You surged up, putting your whole soul into that bit of contact—all the warmth in your chest turning gold.
Then, miracle of miracles, she kissed you back. Strong arms circled around you—holding you up. It wasn’t like any kiss you could remember, not that you could recall many. Your body was liquid fire.
This was just as you had wanted to be kissed—just like you knew Abby would kiss you. Like you were special, and wonderful, and kind, and a thousand things you weren’t.
Your perfect girl, who hadn’t even bothered to come. You wished she had come.
“Mph—Abby,” you moaned into her mouth, panting.
“What?” the woman said, pulling away, chest heaving—terror in her eyes.
“Hmm?” you hummed, smiling. Then, “I think you smell like a tree. I do like trees.”
“Rusa, do you know where you are?”
“Fucking heaven, I guess? Can I fuck you?”
“Okay, Ruthie. Let’s get you home.”
“Bethany? Bethany,” you said, ecstatic. This was going to be the lay of your life. “Let’s go. As soon as I remember… where my house is. I don’t think I have a house?”
“Hey!” a voice shouted in the back of the large warehouse. It echoed, and the music stuttered to a stop. “Party is fucking over! Clear out! Patrol is on the west side, fucking run—”
Your hand reached for another one of the moonshine cups as Bethany pulled you away from the bar.
“Jesus,” you said as she jostled you. “What’s the rush? My tits aren’t going anywhere—”
It was all elbows and sprawling arms. Her strong hands ushered you along, and then you were lifted on someone’s shoulder. Bethany’s shoulder. She was running through the forest alongside others, carrying you like you weighed nothing, off to your house that didn’t exist. Or maybe her house. Or maybe she lived in a tree.
Either way, your smile almost split your face.
“This is the best fucking night of my life!” you shouted.
And, just as Abby predicted, you didn’t remember a lick of it.
You woke up in your bed the next day, hair askew, hangover like nothing you had ever known—meanwhile Perez and Manny had spent all night being chewed out by Isaac for the unsanctioned party.
When the boys asked what the hell happened—how you escaped in the chaos when so many others had been written up and taken to headquarters—you honestly had no clue. Just memories of some woman dragging you home as if she didn’t fuck you right that second, she would die.
“Some bitch named Bethany carried me all the way home. Literally my dream woman,” you whispered to the boys and Abby over breakfast. “And I don’t even remember fucking her!” you lamented. Your head pulsed with your killer hangover and your own raging disappointment. “I’m never drinking again.”
Abby smiled into her cup, shaking her head.