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She rarely smiles these days.
It is with careless abandon that she peers into his dune-colored eyes, witnessing the same profound semblance of pain she had seen in Ema’s eyes when their parents had died in that car accident. Darkness has enveloped his irises, which had burned and shone as brightly as the sun until two weeks ago; they now sink deeply into a perpetual, lifeless night.
Lana neither particularly enjoys stripping nor tasting the shiny lip gloss layered against Angel’s mouth. She instead looks at Jake, who is naked, with muscles rippling against his bare back and chest, down his thighs and biceps. His old-west vestments, a symbol of his cool, quiet persona, now lie abandoned behind the door, his tan fedora embellishing the solitary pile. He now stands pensively like a Greek statue, handcuffed to a table, obedient and subservient.
Angel is in her dark tight black cameo, baring her cleavage, which is now partially obstructed by a glistening bronze badge. “It is my last day,” the Cough-Up Queen had laughed bitterly into her cup just a few minutes ago. “Come on, join us, Lana,” she had tugged on her sleeve. “We’ll never do this again, the three of us.” The temptation had been too hard to resist, to allow her slightly buzzed, guilt-ridden mind to numb the pain, grab her hand, just follow her downstairs.
She knows that if she had said no, she would probably be crying into her pillow at home by now, like she has done every night since Neil’s death.
And while the older woman pulls off Lana’s epaulet-covered coat adorned with three medals, unties her ponytail, and loosens her skirt, Lana wonders why she is doing this. Perhaps she wants Angel again in her arms, like she is now, locking her lips with hers and breathing in her dusky fragrance. Perhaps she also feels as though she owes Jake for what she has done to his brother, and that her body is the quantum of atonement that she can give him.
She just wants to forget herself in this moment, to take in a new life, to shed who she was before.
The heady thrum of Angel’s soft kisses against her neck mingles with the ambiance of reality through the ceiling. She hears laughing and chuckling upstairs, a celebration to commemorate Neil Marshall’s short, prestigious life and the death sentence of a man whose name they refuse to mention. The old men, surrounding the new police chief, laugh while clinking together their glasses of whiskey and champagne, immersing themselves in the bubbles of complacency. She closes her eyes.
Joe Darke, Lana wants to cry out to the stupid masses above, who drone on about how a husband, a father, a businessman could turn out so bad. He didn’t kill his final victim, she wants to scream. But her voice would fall on deaf ears, and Damon would look straight at her with his falcon eyes: brooding, omniscient, threatening. And so she withdraws, to the only thing she knows, the only people with whom she can escape reality.
The fog of guilt has not passed from the air when she opens her eyes. Angel is now hugging her naked body, and she suddenly shivers, and huddles against her cotton fabric and fur coat. “Yes… that’s it,” the woman whispers into her ear, stroking her bare spine, reaching toward her lower back. She guides Lana onto the metal table, sitting her on top of the cold steel surface, and frigidity erupts through her body.
But the howl emerging from her throat passes when she sees Jake’s paper-thin mask of shame and pain. He is trying to smile, to gaze at her lustfully, but she knows that even if he were not mourning his brother, he would not ogle at her well-maintained figure, her perky breasts, the partition of her legs. He is standing, his right hand cuffed to the bar to the side of the table, his left hand weaving through his long curly hair, twisted and frayed like an acacia.
“Well,” he drawls, trying to spark some life, a drop of sunlight into his abysmal irises, “I’m sure this’ll be the last time you ever decide fuck a faggot.” Lana gives a snort of laughter at his self-deprecation, at the alliteration in that phrase, despite the fact that it is a hurtful epithet. It is the first time she has found humor in the past couple of weeks, after the conclusion of that disastrous case. But there is an edge to his voice; it sounds as though he is trying not to cry.
M-maybe I’ll be the last dyke you ever do, cowboy. She wants to mimic his Western accent, to reciprocate his sarcasm, but cannot; her teeth chatter because of the cold. He hugs her closer with his free hand, platonically and protectively. Her heart pounds in her chest, not from her proximity to him, but from the overwhelming guilt she carries. Here she is, an older sibling, bound by her duty to protect her young…
And she cannot protect him, to reveal to him that Ema killed his older brother.
Lana remembers Neil, suddenly, not for the martyr he is, but for the man he was. She recalls how Jake had been in the closet for the longest time, almost having to quit the force after rumors about his sexuality emerged, and how Neil had fired some of the best police officers for making inappropriate comments. She recollects how he had taken the heat after Angel interrogated a witness too harshly. Lana bites back tears when she remembers the chrysanthemums he would give her on every anniversary of her parents’ death since she joined the force…
And she clenches her teeth when she realizes that she is harboring his murderer, who is happily allowed to complete her freshman year in high school.
Angel is finished preparing the setting, having drawn the blinds of the one-way mirror, having lubricated and licked the long pink dildo. Lana reluctantly pulls herself away from Jake and mimics the older woman, languidly, tasting the cherry cobbler Angel has just eaten. She surveys the dank gray walls of the room, a sole incandescent light bulb hanging from the ceiling just inches above her head.
Lana feels only remotely titillated as Angel touches her clit, whispering careless nothings into her ear, moving up and down its length with the tips of her fingers. She has to remind herself to keep sucking the rigid, silicone toy as though it is a mere task to be completed, with barely an ounce of pleasure to give to the procedure. She almost thinks that she sees Neil in this room, watching over her, accusing her of hiding the truth, of obstructing what little justice the world has left to offer.
“That’s enough, counselor,” smiles Angel, with the slightest hint of bitterness in her voice. Lana’s lip gets bitten a little too tightly after she takes the toy from her hand and kisses her. She grits her teeth, knowing that Angel needs to have sex much more than either of them does. The older woman feels compelled to dominate a man with a dildo, slap him against another woman, while getting off at her own authority from their validation, their pleasure.
Lana wants to hate her for desiring superiority, but she cannot. The remnants of respect, of adoration, linger in her eyes, colored with two contrasting contact lenses. Angel has given her esteem, reverence, even love at one time; the least she can do to appease her is this.
She wraps her fingers around Jake’s flaccid member, unfazed by the presence of two beautiful women in the room. Angel secures the strap around her waist, still fully clothed, and attaches the silicone toy to the clasp at the front. She pulls his bandana around his eyes, so that he would not have to look at Lana while being boned from the back; the thought somewhat repulses her, that he would not be looking at what he is sticking himself into.
Jake gasps softly as Angel pokes him with the head of the rod, playfully, teasing him around his anus and scratching him gently around the cleft of his ass. It hurts him, but he wants this… he jerks ever so slightly forward, probing the edge of the table with his left hand, ensuring that he does not buckle his knees too far. He is whispering a man’s name under his breath, over and over again; he is immersing himself in a false reality where he is not making love to two women, a reality where he is not merely pretending to be straight.
His dick rapidly hardens in Lana’s hand. She jerks him, hard, just the way he wants, and he yelps at the combined stimuli from both halves of his body. As Angel softly enters him, he leans forward, gasping, huffing from the pressure, and Lana kisses him hard, carefully biting both his upper and lower lips, leaving marks soft enough that they would not bruise.
Angel grips his waist and moves in closer to him, bending his back even further; because his right arm restricts his movement, Lana has to struggle to push her body down with him, ensuring that he keeps his hips bucked forward. The position tests every muscle in Jake’s body, for he must reconcile the pain he feels with the position he is in, the pleasure he wants with the sacrifices he is willing to make.
“Come on, Jake, sweetie,” Angel says, her voice dripping with honey. Lana is straining her abdomen, trying to keep her legs straddled and aloft, feeling just his tip circle around her. Angel’s left eye sparks green, a ruthless, sexy color, emblazoned with the desire to leave the two of them chewing at her heels. Lana ignores her, her mind made set toward finishing this act, if only to give Neil – no, Jake, she quickly corrects herself – what he wants.
Finally finding a niche, she is able to wrap her ankles around his flank and pull him closer. He shuffles his feet in, moaning, clawing at the metal table as he pushes himself inside of Lana with animalistic zeal. She sees Angel’s face, now triumphant, moving slowly in and out of him, rocking him back and forth.
It is different, welcoming Jake into her body. She shifts uncomfortably, acknowledging that a man – albeit blindfolded and mourning his brother – is pushing himself inside of her. It feels different: not warm or sexy, but not intrusive, either, especially since he is also reticent, having never done this to a woman, either. His organ is pulsating now, and it feels revolting to her, but she struggles to welcome him in, stretching out her tightness, trying to open herself up wholly.
Jake suddenly starts to cry. He is heaving against Lana’s shoulder, his senses overwhelmed, soaking the fabric of his red bandana. He is weak, now, but still voracious; she can tell by the way he grunts under his breath, how he guiltily does enjoy this, as he imagines himself being ridden by two men. She decides to ride him from the bottom, counteracting the older woman’s movements. His strong body now becomes battered between the women’s aggressive passions, as they slap him back and forth like a volleyball.
Lana notices the way Angel’s lips curl perfectly, her face pure and gorgeous, just like those years ago, when they had casually made love, whispering careless nothings to each other. Hey, Ange. You’re beautiful, you know that? She wants to say this to her as they push Jake around, but cannot bring herself to let the words escape from her mouth. She feels no intimacy from this act, for it is alien and almost nauseating.
She tries to close her eyes and imagine that Angel is fucking her, is thrusting in and out of her… but she cannot.
She comforts Jake when she gets tired, turning her eyes toward the drab ceiling, patting his back between lunges of her hips, kissing his hair. She wants to know what is going through his mind, if he still houses memories of his brother, if he is still thinking of him even in his confused state of mind. She misses Neil more now, and she lets some teardrops run down her cheek and touch his neck before starting back up again.
Lana then feels his body tense, his muscles clench. She braces herself, anticipating what might come next, even if the male body is still foreign to her; sure enough, she feels hot liquid spurt inside her, filling her up. She sees the appeal of being straight, of the beauty of a man planting his seed inside of her, but she suddenly realizes that she will now have to use birth control for the first time.
But her concern is momentary. She watches Angel pull out of him and throw her dildo off to the side. He falls onto the concrete floor on his knees, every part of him probably aching and exhausted. Angel, now, lowers herself against the table, still fully clothed, and begins to eat Lana out.
She moans, her voice rising like a crescendo, and she feels like a young teenager with her virginity being taken. Her sweaty palms slide against the metal surface while Angel licks and slurps, squelching cum from her. Perhaps the thought of that does disgust Lana, but the older woman is so experienced that it doesn’t really matter.
She is closing her eyes, feeling like a boat out at sea, while Angel voraciously pleasures her, loudly makes love to her. She convulses again and again, feeling through Angel’s soft hair, now smooth as satin along with her warm tongue. It is out of desire that Lana suddenly wonders if she truly feels anything besides dominance, whether this woman truly loves her now… the thought excites her.
Mind racing, Lana embraces this high; she watches the spots dancing on the ceiling, the bulb blinding her eyes, the angelic rays pouring across the dark walls. She pushes her head down even further now, her long tongue sinking deep down her vulva, smoothly touching her G-spot. She screams her name as though it is a prayer, to the heavens above.
When she does come, Angel rides her even further, pushing her thighs against the table, continuing to lick her through the climax. She squirts all over Angel’s face, feeling her heart race fast, then faster; she is challenging her, to push herself through much harder and more strongly than before.
When she is finished, Lana rolls off the table, dizzy, quickly escaping the metallic surface. She quietly dresses while Angel wipes her mouth, surveying the mess the three of them made, smirking. Jake can hardly walk; he is shuddering now, even with his boots and pants on, feeling neglected but satiated. He just smiles at the two women gathering their bearings, blushing from the sex, at once united in experience but separated in paths.
However, girls do not touch, talk, or kiss on their way back upstairs, while the detective, now demoted to patrolman, whistles off-key behind the two of them, waddling against the railing. Lana wants to grip Angel’s hand, to reciprocate their love, but she feels withdrawn and detached, and coldly looks forward. It was never meant to be; all she had wanted was dominance, and Lana had let herself be weak for her sake.
She cannot bear to look back at Jake, to hum along to correct his key, and she wonders what she was thinking, allowing herself to use a gay man like this just to satisfy some depraved sex game. And she feels violated, raped by his penis, feeling naked again, like something foreign and nasty had entered her and will never leave. And she suddenly realizes that he had come inside of her, and he might impregnate her if she doesn’t take action.
Only forty-five minutes, at most, has passed in that eternity they spent in the interrogation room. The party is still in full swing, officers still letting champagne flow into their glasses, some even kissing behind corners. Lana grabs a cup of club soda; she knows that alcohol may render a pill ineffective, and it suddenly obsesses her, to go to the nearest drugstore to buy a packet.
But she is the Chief Prosecutor, after all, and she has been missing from the party for nearly an hour. Damon grasps her wrist as she tries to walk out the door, and introduces her to all the prestigious judges, prosecutors, attorneys, detectives, and officers. They all enthuse about the most insipid, horrible things, all with the same intimation: that she slept her way to the position, since she has had no trial experience beforehand.
“So, Madame Attorney, how do you feel about Neil Marshall’s death? Was he… special to you?”
“Any plans for later? Get married? Have children?”
“Who do you think is the hottest guy here? Come on, don’t be shy…”
In the midst of her uncomfortable, constraining conversations, she watches Angel unclasp her badge from her lapel and throw it into the punch bowl. She watches her latch her arm against Jake, who is now tipsy and more confident, and walk out the door with him. She feels her heart freeze.
It is as though all of Neil’s work has been undone with his death. He could not keep Jake proud of his sexuality, for he continues to pretend to be straight. He could not calm Angel’s inherent need for dominance, for she has played a gay man and a lesbian woman for her own purposes. He could not let Lana adhere to the truth, for she continues to protect her sister for that murder…
She gazes toward the ceiling, toward the heavens above, the angels hovering through the air. The sun is setting through the skylight, blackness enveloping the clouds. The womb in her body begins to shrivel; the wounds in her mind begin to deepen. Her eyes feel as small and insignificant as the bulb in the interrogation room below.
Lana bites away the tears.