Chapter Text
She should've known what she was getting herself into. She should've known when she typed the address Armand gave her into Google Maps and it led her to that tacky, white flight, gated community in Lakeview, which may or may not house some guy who plays for the New Orleans Saints, that what awaited her was out of her depth. She wasn't stupid... the scorpion sting she got during a mission trip in Pakistan, the mafioso she pissed off during a fact-finding mission to uncover corruption in the Illinois state government, the tarantula she ate in Cambodia in an effort to appeal to a woman she wanted to interview, court-ordered AA meetings; she'd gotten out of scrapes worse than this… right?
Danielle parked her humble, homosexual Subaru (only a handful of months old—thank you, D.U.I.) on the street next to, ostensibly, Armand's house. Mansion, really. She got out of her car, lowering her sunglasses and drinking in the enormity of the place. It wasn't to her taste—far too modern. Lots of gunmetal gray and artificial bamboo—almost like someone didn't really live there. Danielle's doc martens crunched on the pebbled walkway up to the front door. She adjusted the carabiner holding her keys attached to one of the loops of her jeans, fluffed her hair, pulled her tits closer together in her sports bra, and rang the doorbell.
"Are you a Madame Danielle Molloy?" a tinny, distinctly male voice spoke into the ether. Danielle looked around for the speaker and found it underneath a security camera angled directly at her.
"Um… yes? This is she," Danielle called out, probably far too loud.
There was a shuffle on the other side of the speaker, then, "Enter." A loud buzz echoed around the space and the door opened on its own. A man wearing all black stood in the entryway, nearly scaring the shit out of her.
Danielle stepped into the house, her eyes widening. The inside was about as severe and cold as the outside—all sharp edges, ergonomical, uncomfortable-looking furniture, and cold, marble flooring.
There were, however, absolutely beautiful oil paintings covering almost every wall Danielle could see. They mostly depicted Rococo and Impressionist-style scenes with blooming flowers, muted pastel colors, and happy, laughing children.
"Madame Armand de Romanus is waiting for you," spoke the servant? Butler? Personal assistant? Who stood at attention by the door. He had a posh British accent, not unlike Armand's, actually. He was hot too—inky black hair, a severe looking face, bushy eyebrows. Maybe Danielle would try to fuck him if she was younger. "She is in her bedroom a the moment. Shall I take you to the door?"
"That's enough, Rashid, you may leave for the day," spoke Armand from a second-floor door up a metal, spiral staircase, cracked open and leaking what sounded like Gregorian chanting. Danielle broke out in a cold sweat. "Ms. Molloy, please join me upstairs."
Once she blinked herself out of a mild trance, Danielle stumbled a little and walked up the stairs, turning and giving Rashid a sly little wave.
The Gregorian chanting or whatever demonic-ass music Armand was playing stopped abruptly, as did that same "heavy machinery" noise Danielle heard over the phone. Danielle rubbed her clammy palms on her shirt and opened the door.
Danielle's eyes danced around the room, unable to focus on any one part of it too long. It was… oddly overstimulating. Every surface was covered in knicknacks and half-burned candles. An old fashioned boombox sat teetering on the edge of a gigantic corner desk with expensive-looking desktop monitors and office supplies set on top of it. There were also long, floor-to-ceiling windows on three of the room's four walls. I feel like a zoo animal, Danielle thought. If she squinted beyond the trees and gigantic, unused backyard, Danielle could see Lake Pontchartrain.
Then, a murmur on the ground. Armand was stretched out on a yoga mat, legs spread, massaging a taut, sweaty calf. Well, all of her was sweaty. Her bangs stuck to her forehead and the hair around her neck curled into wet ringlets. The outfit she was wearing was practically indecent, even if she was working out alone—a sports bra that barely contained her breasts and shorts that maybe had a four-inch inseam. Maybe. Armand's long legs glistened. Whether that was from sweat, lotion, or some sort of divine influence, Danielle didn't know. Her eyes were closed, pinching together intermittently when she worked out a particularly painful muscle knot. Unfortunately, it was like something out of Danielle's (figurative) wet dreams.
"Danielle Molloy," she said, almost meditatively, like a mantra.
"In the flesh," Danielle said, clearing her throat and crossing her arms, attempting to ignore her heart beating out of her chest. Armand rose to her feet—bare and manicured with a deep red polish on her toenails. Her back was to Danielle as she raised her arms above her head, cracking her back.
Oh my God, Danielle nearly said aloud. If the front of her shorts were bad, the back was even worse. The spandex stretched across her ass, leaving nothing to the imagination. The seam, obviously ridden up during her exercising, hit the underside of it. Danielle was momentarily rendered speechless, only looking up once Armand turned around and put her hands on her hips with a scowl.
Her eyes were a deep brown and absolutely gigantic, like a cartoon deer. Any bigger and she would have looked like one of those adorable, wide-eyed tarsiers Danielle saw in Indonesia once. Armand blinked at her, unamused.
"I invited you over because I've grown tired of our back and forth. I deserve better than playing emotional phone tag."
"You sure like to talk my ear off for someone who's feeling put out."
"You're here now, aren't you?" Armand leaned down to pick up her water bottle, taking a big swig and swiping her upper lip delicately. "I'm the one who hung up the phone."
Danielle jumped a little bit in alarm as the treadmill started folding up on itself and reattached to its place on the wall—like some shit out of Star Trek. Armand turned around, padding over to her walk-in closet door, propped open by a teetering pile of books and art supplies. She peeled off her sports bra with some effort as she walked, throwing it onto her predictably gigantic bed. Danielle snorted—it was comical how this scene was turning very quickly into something out of a cheesy, girl-on-girl porno. That said, it was a shame Armand ever actually put a shirt on with such a toned back and elegant neck.
"What Lou and I have is none of your business, Ms. Molloy," she said, putting on a silk robe and turning back around to continue glaring at Danielle.
"Cut the Ms. Molloy crap," Danielle sniped. "You're stripping in front of me—practically throwing yourself at me in what I'm assuming is some hypersexual intimidation tactic." Armand, despite herself, did smirk a bit in amusement as she perched on a chair that looked both more expensive than Danielle's car and incredibly uncomfortable.
"Fine," Armand said, with a cold smile. "Danielle, what Lou and I have is none of your business."
"You made it my business when you bartered her away with your best friend like an object and then threw her away like trash. Did you ever consider how she felt? If she felt led on? Or is your head that far up your own ass? " Armand rolled her eyes, attempting to wrap her robe around the swell of her breasts with little success. There was no real hiding them.
"Watch your tone," Armand warned, flaring her nostrils like a tiny, sweaty dragon. "You're in my space. This is the first we've met. We hardly know each other."
"I doubt that, given your clear interest in me. You aren't slick. How much do you know?"
Armand sighed, flicking a wet strand of hair out of her eyes. "I know that you've been married twice, like I said. I know that you have two children with one woman—that Alice person, who, let's face it, looks more than a bit like me. You were discerning enough to get away from the ill-advised tryst with that horse-faced, blonde, bimbo, Bachelor contestant, without a kid involved—"
"—keep both of my wives names out of your mouth," Danielle snapped, interrupting.
"I know that you were a missionary," Armand continued, undisturbed. "I know that you were raised with religion in your life, like an overwhelming, omnipotent presence over your shoulder—informing you of who you should be and what you should do. I know that you've written a memoir about your atheism. I can assume that its reception—mediocre at best because the world knows you for journalism, which isn't even really for you, but for the people whose stories you steal and consume, like a parasite—was a form of ego death. I can assume that there is a void in your life where a lover once resided, placated with your affinity for younger, more fragile, female friends, hence why you've decided to stick your nose into my business. I'll keep digging. But I'm not hopeful there's much more to you, Danielle, other than a hole."
"Shut up."
"Prove me wrong then," Armand said simply, unaffected, shrugging her shoulders.
"Listen to me, you little freak. It seems like I'm not nearly as obsessed with you as you are with me, but I can also make some assumptions." Danielle stepped closer to her. Armand's pupils dilated.
"I can assume that you're addicted to your job—that's probably the only thing you have in common with Lou, right? I mean, at least she works for what she has, other than being handed everything on a silver platter." If Armand was hurt by this jab, she didn't give it away, keeping the same pointed glare and smug smile at Danielle looming in front of her. In any other context, it would have been funny. Like a mother scolding her daughter for staying out too late.
"You know you don't actually deserve any of this, right?" Danielle asked, cocking her head. "You can't be happy—no way in hell; this gated community, the empty, cold house, the ability to take work calls while exercising without being winded. You really fancy yourself to have your shit together, huh? It's a lie though. It's all fodder. Do you actually have any idea who you are? Or have you been licking your Daddy's boots for so long that you're used to being on your knees underneath him?"
Armand's eye twitched. "I've obviously struck a nerve somewhere in you, Ms. Molloy," she said, standing up to her full height and tightening the sash on her robe. She was taller than Danielle and looked down her nose at her. "Are you finished?"
"For now," Danielle said, stepping back with her arms crossed. Armand inched closer. Danielle blinked up at her.
"You haven't experienced nearly as many consequences for the mouth on you as you would if we lived in a just society where everyone got what they deserved," Armand sniffed.
"It gets me in more than enough trouble, thank you very much."
"You need to be corrected."
Danielle huffed a confused laugh. "You—you're not my fucking mother. Don't tell me what to do, kid."
"I'm not nearly as young as I look, Danielle," Armand murmured. "Don't condescend me."
"So what if I do?" Danielle asked. Armand squinted her eyes, thinking.
"I'd like to kiss you now, may I kiss you?" Armand asked casually.
"Wha—"
"Don't be over-dramatic. It's just a way to… blow off some steam."
Fuck it. Danielle surged forward, planting a firm kiss onto Armand's dainty little mouth. Danielle kissed like she talked—assertive, crass, dirty when the mood called for more decorum—but so did Armand. Her long, thin fingers found the soft curve of Danielle's jaw, squeezing its thinning skin and demanding that Danielle open her mouth further. With a low groan, she did, and Armand immediately began sucking on Danielle's tongue.
Armand tasted like wet nothing, but the effect was instantaneous. A typically bored and restless Danielle set her legs apart so that Armand could step between them, grounding herself. For the first time in a long, long while, a tiny part of her, coiled up like a snake, began to unravel.
"I have some ideas for your big mouth," Armand whispered, pulling away with a grin.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."