The Arrangement
It was the same restaurant. The maitre’d nodded, recognizing her and not knowing that he was supposed to be surprised. Why should he be surprised? Once a month, regular as clockwork, she was there. That was how it went. She’d missed the last few month’s meetings, and still felt a little guilty about it. But really, sometimes things happened. Sometimes you didn’t have a choice.
The woman seated at the usual table leaned on her hand, looking bored and lazy. She looked like she ought to be playing with a PDA or smoking an unfiltered cigarette in a long-stemmed holder. But no devices were part of the rules, and cigarettes had been banned in restaurants a year ago.
Emily hesitated. It felt strange, her chest tight, throat constricted. She wasn’t the sort of person to hesitate, not recently at least, but she had been on then, working her ass off, just trying to get this thing finished, and now it was finished, the blood washed off her hands, and she was back.
Even if they all hated her for leaving.
The woman looked up, the light from the chandeliers shimmering off her glossy blonde hair. Her eyes caught on Emily. An eyebrow rose.
And that was what made it strange, that it felt good to be recognized, after months where if she was recognized she’d be killed.
“I’d heard you were dead,” said Emma.
Emily slipped into the chair across from her and shook the folds from her napkin. “Well,” she smiled. “Rumors of my death seem to have been highly exaggerated.”
Emma just nodded. Her eyes flicked over her, almost assessing, no missing limbs, no internal injuries, no lost fingers or toes. That was all. The rest didn’t matter to her. That was what was good about this arrangement, it was always formal, always polite.
Sex wasn’t supposed to be polite, people said. But that was no excuse to act like animals. There was always dinner, champagne, a cab to the hotel. Then only luxurious privacy remained.
The door on the suite clicked shut behind them. Emma drew the curtains, then joined her, offering another drink from the ensuite bar. Emily shook her head. She cupped her face and their lips met. Emma’s mouth was soft, more affectionate than usual.
Emily broke the kiss and looked at her. “Were you sad?”
“Would you be angry if I said I was?” The words were light, casual. They broke the rules. But rules were for the breaking.
Emma kept her eyes averted though, not allowing anything to be seen in them.
“No. But,” Emily ducked her head. “You’re not angry with me?”
And Emma laughed, leaning closer, fingers tracing over her ear and across her cheek. “Why should I be? For lying? I never asked you to tell me your secrets. For risking yourself? You know I have no hold on you, no ownership of what you so delightfully offer. I’m not your team. You call them your family, not me.”
Emily relaxed, resting her head in the crook of Emma’s shoulder, breathing in the unrepentantly chemical scent of salon-quality product. “You don’t know how wonderful it is to be with someone who doesn’t make demands.”
“Oh, I make plenty of demands.” Their bodies were close, lightly touching. Emma’s fingers ran up the backs of her arms, and then closed unsteadily around her biceps. “Do you want to be here?”
Emily looked up, looked into blue eyes that had never been anything but casual, and saw a slight hint of worry. The fingers pressed into her arms. The faintest line cut the skin at the corners of her eyes. It wasn’t cold and formal, not that cold had ever lasted once the door shut behind them. But it was so impossibly perfectly polite. She lifted herself up on her toes and bit lightly at Emma’s lower lip. “I’ve been everywhere else,” she murmured, lips so close they brushed as she spoke. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
“Then welcome back.”
The woman seated at the usual table leaned on her hand, looking bored and lazy. She looked like she ought to be playing with a PDA or smoking an unfiltered cigarette in a long-stemmed holder. But no devices were part of the rules, and cigarettes had been banned in restaurants a year ago.
Emily hesitated. It felt strange, her chest tight, throat constricted. She wasn’t the sort of person to hesitate, not recently at least, but she had been on then, working her ass off, just trying to get this thing finished, and now it was finished, the blood washed off her hands, and she was back.
Even if they all hated her for leaving.
The woman looked up, the light from the chandeliers shimmering off her glossy blonde hair. Her eyes caught on Emily. An eyebrow rose.
And that was what made it strange, that it felt good to be recognized, after months where if she was recognized she’d be killed.
“I’d heard you were dead,” said Emma.
Emily slipped into the chair across from her and shook the folds from her napkin. “Well,” she smiled. “Rumors of my death seem to have been highly exaggerated.”
Emma just nodded. Her eyes flicked over her, almost assessing, no missing limbs, no internal injuries, no lost fingers or toes. That was all. The rest didn’t matter to her. That was what was good about this arrangement, it was always formal, always polite.
Sex wasn’t supposed to be polite, people said. But that was no excuse to act like animals. There was always dinner, champagne, a cab to the hotel. Then only luxurious privacy remained.
The door on the suite clicked shut behind them. Emma drew the curtains, then joined her, offering another drink from the ensuite bar. Emily shook her head. She cupped her face and their lips met. Emma’s mouth was soft, more affectionate than usual.
Emily broke the kiss and looked at her. “Were you sad?”
“Would you be angry if I said I was?” The words were light, casual. They broke the rules. But rules were for the breaking.
Emma kept her eyes averted though, not allowing anything to be seen in them.
“No. But,” Emily ducked her head. “You’re not angry with me?”
And Emma laughed, leaning closer, fingers tracing over her ear and across her cheek. “Why should I be? For lying? I never asked you to tell me your secrets. For risking yourself? You know I have no hold on you, no ownership of what you so delightfully offer. I’m not your team. You call them your family, not me.”
Emily relaxed, resting her head in the crook of Emma’s shoulder, breathing in the unrepentantly chemical scent of salon-quality product. “You don’t know how wonderful it is to be with someone who doesn’t make demands.”
“Oh, I make plenty of demands.” Their bodies were close, lightly touching. Emma’s fingers ran up the backs of her arms, and then closed unsteadily around her biceps. “Do you want to be here?”
Emily looked up, looked into blue eyes that had never been anything but casual, and saw a slight hint of worry. The fingers pressed into her arms. The faintest line cut the skin at the corners of her eyes. It wasn’t cold and formal, not that cold had ever lasted once the door shut behind them. But it was so impossibly perfectly polite. She lifted herself up on her toes and bit lightly at Emma’s lower lip. “I’ve been everywhere else,” she murmured, lips so close they brushed as she spoke. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
“Then welcome back.”