dark blue

Quinn hummed out a long sigh; the sound vibrated against the inside of her teeth. She felt impossibly relaxed, smooth upholstery pressing against her hot skin, knuckles massaging deep circles into her bare back.

Things always changed in the afternoon. The sun got warmer, the air conditioning cooler. Sneaking around became easier— they couldn’t shoot in 2 pm sunlight, so no one really noticed their absence. And besides, the season was only just beginning, which meant post-lunch siestas were long and stress was low.

It was all relative, however, and low stress for Quinn was what any normal, sane person would consider moderate to high, evidenced by the knots that ran, gnarly, up either side of her spine. Lying on her stomach, her cheek pressed against the cushions of her office couch, she felt the weight of her make-shift masseuse against the backs of her thighs, where Rachel perched, straddling the width of her.

For her part, Rachel truly couldn’t complain. Her needs were satiated and her hands were busy. Touching Quinn wasn’t exactly a chore— her skin was warm and soft and the muscle that ran in thick bundles beneath it was satisfyingly sculpted. It took her true will power, in fact, to keep from leaning forward and covering it with her mouth all over again. But she knew better. The afternoon was only so long, and Quinn was already beginning to grumble beneath her touch.

“I have to go soon,” it was a mere purr, and it didn’t sound very convincing.

“Mmhm,” Rachel hummed. She continued her massaging, making her way up Quinn’s back.

“I’m serious, Rach.”

Rachel had now reached her shoulders and was leaning forward, flattening her torso against Quinn’s body and running her hands back down Quinn’s sides, grazing the sides of her breasts, her waist, finding her hips.

“We can’t start this again,” Quinn groaned as lips moved lazily across her shoulder. “Seriously.”

She twisted beneath her lover and found Rachel staring down at her, a smug expression tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“Why not?” Rachel whined, and here she lifted her weight off of Quinn, allowing her to roll over completely. When Quinn had settled once again, Rachel flopped in faux-exasperation down next to her. In truth, it was just a game for her. She knew Quinn had work to do and meetings to attend, but putting up a fight was much more fun.

“I have a meeting with Chet,” Quinn batted away a wandering hand that had been running playfully across her bare chest.

And here, Rachel felt momentarily stunned. She had been fully prepared to let Quinn get up and go on with her work day, but this was a bit different.

“With Chet, huh?” She could not hide the hint of bitterness in her tone.

“Yes, with Chet. Now let me up.”

Quinn wriggled out from beneath a dejected Rachel and began her quotidian search for her clothing across the office floor. And though she could feel Rachel steaming behind her, she hadn’t the time to tend to it— she would kiss Rachel better at some later date, she decided. For now, Rachel was just going to have to lick her wounds in solitude.

Instead, Quinn chose to fill the room’s gaping silence with information she knew full well Rachel was already privy to— she couldn’t think of much else to fill it with, really.

“We’re pitching to the execs for next season.”

“Already?” Rachel asked, absently. She already knew the answer. She knew how a television season worked.

“I’m fighting for a female suitor.”

“Huh,” Rachel bit off and spat out a finger nail, wiping the dot of blood that spring forth across her naked torso. She would not allow a lure to her feminism slip beneath her bristling exterior. She had been stung.

“What’s crawled up your ass, Goldie?” Quinn was annoyed, now— it never ceased to amaze her how quickly Rachel could transition from a sensual lover to an unruly teenager.

“Nothing,” Rachel quipped. “Get to your meeting.”

But it wasn’t nothing. It was Chet. Somehow, it seemed, Quinn always managed to bring him into things. Here, Rachel could not even enjoy the end of their afternoon together without his name leaving a sour taste in her mouth. She didn’t care that it was only a business meeting— she didn’t want to hear about it. Period.

**

Being with Adam was easy. He was ever-available, especially when the cameras weren’t rolling, and even when they were, he often managed to make things all about Rachel. Most of the time, Adam’s constant affections were annoying, but truly, she couldn’t complain— they made producing him just that much easier. Not to mention it meant he was always ready for her when she decided she wanted him.

And though this wasn’t often, it was frequent enough. He was there and he was cute and he offered sufficient respite when she needed a physical distraction from her mental instability and when Quinn was no where to be found. Or, like tonight, when Quinn was fresh at the top of her shit-list.

She knew she had no real reason to be angry; Chet was Quinn’s boss and there was no avoiding the fact that they had to work together. But Rachel was growing tired and the knowledge that Chet and Quinn were, in fact, more than just boss-and-subordinate was wearing her thin.

Mostly, Rachel and Quinn didn’t talk about it. They’d been going on like this for a while now and discussing things they both knew would never change seemed useless. Quinn was tied to Chet— he possessed her creativity and controlled her paycheck. And above all this, she’d been young and impressionable the first time he’d coerced from her the sex she wasn’t sure she’d wanted to give. He had imprinted on her; she could not simply leave him. No other man felt as familiar between her legs— except Rachel. And Rachel was no man.

Rachel was soft and sensual and teary-eyed. And oh, how wonderful she made Quinn feel. She was a small piece of reprieve in a busy work day. She was a comfortable place to lay a tired head.

All this, it was worth mentioning, was on a good day. Sometimes, Rachel was angry. And sometimes, Quinn was angrier. In fact, it was under these circumstances that this whole mess had begun in the first place.

It wasn’t that there hadn’t always been some kind of something between them. It was no coincidence that it had always been Quinn’s couch on which Rachel had ended up when her head felt like it was in ten different places at once, Quinn to whom Rachel had disclosed that which she feared would deem her unlovable to any other person in her life.

There had always been a strange push-pull of love and hate between them. Rachel knew she disappointed Quinn often, knew that Quinn felt responsible and irate at her every fuck-up, but she also knew that Quinn was monumentally screwed without her. No person, Rachel was sure, could go through life in complete emotional isolation, and without her, Quinn would be in just that. Sure, she lent her body to others (Chet, to be more specific), but never her heart.

And so it was peculiar that what had triggered this perpetual tango that existed between them now had not been either party seeking comfort (or maybe it had been, deep down), but instead the deep-seated rage that Quinn had felt the previous season when Rachel had disclosed to her the unshakeable contempt she felt for her job, her desire to sabotage it all and run away (this coming only days before she did just that). It had begun as a scolding and suddenly it had moved from fighting to fucking and all that lay beyond.

The sex then had not been effortless, as it was now. Neither had yet learned the courtesies of sex with other women. Rachel had let herself be pinned, stomach to wall, and Quinn had yanked her jeans only halfway way down before sliding her hand between Rachel’s spread thighs. When she’d finally plunged in, it had been three fingers thick and down to the knuckle, no coaxing.

“Is this how you wanted it?” Quinn had growled, hot against Rachel’s ear. “All along?”

And Rachel had struggled out a gutty yelp, Quinn’s fingers curling inside of her, the stone of the ring Chet had given her last year scraping with each thrust. The pain had been almost welcome— it had seemed only fitting that Quinn’s love would come twinged with at least a little sting.

These days, Quinn knew her way around. She took off her rings, filed her nails. She’d learned to slow down, learned to kiss and to treasure. Learned to keep her palm pressed against Rachel minutes after she’d come, to tuck her face into the crevice of Rachel’s neck.

And so it went, and they carried on. They shared cigarettes and power and one another and they avoided talk of their infidelities. Ignoring the issue had always felt easiest. If this was going to be infidel, if Quinn felt no commitment to her, Rachel had decided long ago, she would refuse any in return.

And here, now, Adam was available and she was angry. Try as she might to ignore the problem, she could not quell her jealousy. And if she could not yell at Quinn, fucking away her troubles seemed a preferable second best.

Sinking down on top of him, she squeezed her eyes shut and wondered briefly how many other girls he’d had in his bed like this. Quite quickly, she concluded that she didn’t care.

It felt good for a while— with her eyes closed, she could almost pretend he wasn’t there at all. When he grunted out her name, she had to fight the urge to cover his mouth with her palm. Instead she leaned over and kissed him, her hair falling like a curtain around her face.

And grunting again, he shooed her off, as he always did. It wasn’t pretty, wasn’t a thing of fairytales. Here, she knew her job; she kissed him as he finished and fell back with a sigh. And then she rolled over, pulling the covers up around her; she was perpetually dissatisfied with his love. He would never compare to Quinn, the way she kissed, the way she coaxed from Rachel the deepest of tremors. The way she touched Rachel’s hair in a fashion that conveyed: you’re not too fucked up to love.