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“Fuck off,” she says, not glancing away from her cellphone.
She’s saying it to this dude, of course. He’s scraggly, acned, a beanpole of a guy, with leery eyes that keep wandering down to her chest. Another perverted limpdick; nothing new, nothing fun. His name is a word she can’t be bothered to remember.
“But, Nicole-" he starts, but she cuts him off.
“Listen. You’ve got a shitty band t-shirt on. I hate that band, you know that? How could you not know that about me? How can you stand there and ask me out without even considering the hateful thoughts that run through my little girly head?” She contorts her face into one of mock despair. “Do you hate me? Do you want me to die? I want to die. Do you want to die with me? Do you want me to suck you off before we go?”
The fucking idiot actually nods.
“Okay,” she says. “Abandoned place by the mall, six o’ clock, sharp. I’ll see you there.”
He brightens. She makes a note to tip off the police about a potential drug dealer around the area as he scampers off.
“That was interesting.”
Jecka, blonde and crop-topped and perfectly bitchy, plops into the seat before her. She has a half-eaten sandwich in cling-wrap with her. (If Jecka ever manages to finish her food, Nicole will have to shoot her, because it’s probably not Jecka. What’s the word for it? Doppelgänger?)
“That’s like the, uh, third, fourth guy today? You could have an army of slaves doing your bidding, you know?”
Nicole shrugs. “You’re not wrong,” she says. She has a panoply of dick pics that she keeps categorised by shape and colour. They’re kind of like the daily affirmations that married women who emotionally cheat love, except they’re dicks. Married women love those, too. “But I can’t fucking stand men, though.”
“Neither can I,” says Jecka. “But they’re sometimes cute to have around. Kind of like an accessory. Or a hamster.”
“I like that. Hamsters always die in like, the most fucked up ways. Which is how I want men to die.”
Jecka nods serenely. She’s never fazed by anything. “I had a cousin whose hamster chewed through a wire and got electrocuted. They didn’t find out until the neighbour’s cat ate it and died.”
“Ooh, burn.”
“Don’t say that. You sound like Crispin.”
Nicole smirks. “I bet I could pull off an accurate impression of Crispin.”
Jecka smiles prettily at her. She sparkles, like the sun on rhinestones.
“Fuck no,” she says.
“Oh, wow, hey, uh, that’s like, super cool-"
“Ugh, and you’ve turned me off,” says Jecka. “Could you like, never do that again?”
Nicole raises a brow. “Turned you off?”
“I’m into anything,” says Jecka. “I’m not fussy. I eat my veggies.”
“Seriously? Also, slut.”
“What do you mean, seriously? Ari confessed to you, didn’t she?”
“Yeah, and I haven’t answered her, but-" Nicole stops herself. She’s not you; you’re funny and cool and sexy, she wants to explain, but that’s probably what lotioned virgins say, so she doesn’t. “Are you fucking with me?”
“Why’re you making such a big deal out of this? Don’t you want to make out with your friends sometimes?”
She in fact, does. “Well, yeah. Emily exists.”
“Exactly.” Jecka yawns. Her teeth are sharp. Nicole sees this, wonders what it would feel like if Jecka bites down on her neck. Which is such a gay thought, so maybe she’s lesbian. It’s a sweet idea- for once, she’d like to exist in a way that doesn’t revolve around boys.
“So you want to fuck me?” Nicole asks.
Jecka pauses.
“No comment,” she says. “Are you being homophobic?”
“I’m too hot to be homophobic,” Nicole says dismissively. “That’s for divorcees who has to sell off their couch to pay for the alimony.”
Jecka laughs, tilting her head ever so slightly, so that her self-satisfied gaze settles on Nicole like a skin over hot milk. “You’re such a bitch. Anyways, want to skip remedial English? I don’t feel like going through another hour of listening to Kylar learning to differentiate bs from ds.”
“Because he wants his d in a b. But I have detention.” This was because she’d made an irrelevant comment about busting during Mr Burleday’s lesson about spontaneous combustion.
“Since when did you care about detention?”
“Since my mom threatened to kick me to the curb if I don’t get my shit together.”
Jecka makes a face. “That’s… surprisingly fair.”
“But I also kind of don’t care.” She stands. Her mom can go fuck herself. Which she probably does, given that she can’t get any financially stable bitches. “Let’s go, homo.”
•••
They don’t go to the mall because the last time they were there, Nicole got shot, and they don’t go to Jecka’s house because the last time Nicole called in, Jecka’s dad hit on her. Instead, they go to Nicole’s house, where Nicole assures Jecka that her mom will be on a date.
“Your brother isn’t in the basement?” Jecka looks out of place in her house, a bright splash of colour against the monotony of the average suburban home.
“My brother’s in jail,” says Nicole, kicking the door close.
“Oh. Right. The pedophilia.”
“You want anything?” For once, Nicole is trying to be an adequate host, but of course Jecka has to be a perpetual smartass.
“Money,” she says.
“You think we’d fucking be here if I had money?”
“Most likely, no,” says Jecka. “Where would we be?”
“An MSI concert, probs.” Jecka loves MSI.
For a moment, Jecka looks touched. Which absolutely will not do.
“I’d be there,” Nicole amends. “Not you. You’d be stuck at home with your dad up your ass.”
Jecka pouts. “Come on, really? And I was about to say that I do want to fuck you.”
“Conditional sex, yay. Love me a good transactional relationship.”
“Would you mind if I smoked in here?”
“No,” says Nicole. “My mom, however, would probably disembowel me and sell my organs to the black market. She’s been looking for an excuse for ages.”
They go outside. The sky is darkening, the rainclouds rolling in like blackout curtains. The air is sweet and thick with imminent rain. Arms crossed over her chest, Nicole watches Jecka flick her lighter open, light her cig, take a drag. It’s habit for Jecka; she moves with a practiced confidence that makes Nicole almost envious. She has nice hands: slender fingers, painted nails, wrist adorned with a well-worn scrunchie.
“Nicole,” says Jecka.
“I don’t want a toke.”
“No, not that. Have you ever thought about dating?”
“Sure I have,” says Nicole. “I think about dating the dickheads pedophiles who come after me so I can get them to buy me the latest Avril Lavigne album. At least then I’ll have something to show for my sacrifice.”
“We,” says Jecka, sounding exasperated. “I’m saying that we should date.”
Nicole frowns. Somehow, she isn’t the slightest bit surprised. “Dude, that’s so gay.”
“No, think about it.” Jecka exhales smoke through her nose. The view makes Nicole swoon inwardly. “We’re never going to find guys who are sexy and dependable enough for us anyway, because the patriarchy engineers entitled men who’re born to disappoint.”
“You sound like you’re trying to get me to join a pyramid scheme.”
Jecka ignores Nicole. “We’ll probably end up as divorced lesbians like four decades later, living alone in duplexes with five different cats. So why not skip all of that?”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested,” says Nicole. “What happened to not wanting to be sexed-up abusive lesbians?”
Jecka pauses. “I have new kinks now.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so? Jesus, you think every rapist in our school has a sad backstory?”
“Do you have a crush on me?”
Jecka laughs. It’s a familiar sound, comforting in the sense that Nicole knows that it belongs to Jecka.
“You really think I’d have a crush on you?”
“Yeah, because you wouldn’t be tolerating so much of me otherwise.”
They look at each other. Overhead, the sky rumbles with thunder. Jecka’s heart-shaped face is naked, uncreased by unaffected humour. She’s actually being serious. Awkward. Nicole has spent so much time being unserious that she has no idea how to respond. Instead, she pretends to stretch. Scratches her arm like it’s a substitute for a belated rebuke.
Jecka’s still looking at her. “Why would it be so impossible for me to want to date girls?”
Nicole shrugs helplessly. She doesn’t know why Jecka isn’t being Jecka today, is being pushy and magnetic instead of officious and slutty. “I don’t fucking know? You’re Jecka. You like guys, you want to fuck guys, you’re going to get married to a guy. A girl’s a pretty heavy detour from that track.”
“Meh,” says Jecka, flicking her cig. Glowing embers crumple off the end. “There’s my dad.”
Nicole sighs. She caves.
“Yeah, fine, let’s date,” she says reluctantly, and Jecka grins in victory. “We’re girlfriends now. We’ve just unlocked a whole new world of bullshit, like scissoring and piano and theatre. What do you want to do?”
“I want to hear you play guitar,” says Jecka, dropping her cig and crushing it beneath her heel. “Also, scissoring is literally impossible. Have you considered the angles needed in order for that to work?”
“We’re both pretty flexible.”
Jecka makes a face.
“Take me out for dinner first,” she says. “You’re so uncouth.”
A pittance of rain has begun to fall, dashing open against the ground in tiny round splotches. Nicole sticks out her tongue to catch some of the droplets. She hopes that ingestion of the dissolved pollutants from Jecka’s cig will hasten her imminent death.
They go back inside.
So Nicole has just brought her girlfriend of ten seconds home. Great. She’s thoroughly unprepared for everything that’s about to happen.
“Want to watch Mythbusters?” Nicole tries.
“Nah,” says Jecka.
“Then what do you want to do?”
“You, obvi.”
“Sure. Start stripping.”
Jecka laughs.
“Serenade me, and I will,” she says, and mimics strumming a guitar.
Nicole sighs again. It’s obvious that Jecka’s hooked on the guitar thing. This is turning out to be a horrible first date.
They go upstairs to her room. Nicole kicks a pile of dirty laundry under her bed, and sidearms two bras into her open closet.
“Charming,” comments Jecka. “You have the room of a horny teenage boy.”
“Shut up,” says Nicole.
Jecka gets settled on her bed, leg crossed over a knee. Nicole picks up her least favourite guitar, sits beside her.
“I haven’t played in a bit,” Nicole warns. “It’s going to sound fuckass.”
“It’s still better than Hunter’s beatboxing mix tapes,” says Jecka.
Nicole plays a song that used to be popular. It’s true that she hasn’t played in a while, but muscle memory is a big help. Her fingers move over the strings with fluid ease. It’s initially embarrassing, and even more so when Jecka leans on her shoulder, but she gets over it and plays a second song after the first. Only by then does she realise that Jecka has fucking fallen asleep on her- she’s deadweight on her side.
“What the fuck,” Nicole mutters. She’s living in a clichéd nightmare. She considers shaking Jecka awake, but there’s also the nascent factor of her being a girlfriend. She’ll be a bad girlfriend, no doubt about that, but this is Jecka they’re talking about. She actually likes Jecka.
So Nicole does the most disgusting, cheesiest thing she’s ever done since complimenting her mom’s casserole: she manoeuvres Jecka onto her side, letting her head loll back on the pillow. It can’t be comfortable to sleep in a ponytail, so she gently undoes Jecka’s hair, lets it tumble free. Nicole wants to congratulate herself for being such an impressively compassionate human being, but her cellphone buzzes in her pocket.
Jecka mumbles nonsense as Nicole takes her phone from her pocket.
Some guy has just sent her a message. Something about already being at the building. She recalls the idiot from earlier, snorts. He’s two hours too fucking early- so she won’t call the police, but she can still have fun. She messages back that she’s cuddling her girlfriend right now. She takes Jecka’s hand, intertwines their fingers, sends a picture of it.
“Didn’t take you to be such a romantic,” Jecka mutters. Nicole shows Jecka her screen. Jecka peers at it for a moment, then sighs in dismay. “Fuck, never mind. At least you didn’t tell him we were scissoring.”
“Wait, that’s so funny though. I’m going to say it.” Nicole begins to type the message, but Jecka snatches her cellphone from her hands.
“Send it later,” she says, tossing Nicole’s cell onto her nightstand. She pulls Nicole down until they’re on their sides, facing each other. Jecka puts an arm around Nicole’s waist, juts a leg between Nicole’s thighs. She buries her face into Nicole’s neck.
“Fine,” says Nicole.
For an instant, all is still. Then-
“Bitch, are you meditating?” Jecka’s voice is muffled. “Fucking hug me back.” She squeezes Nicole’s ass for emphasis.
“No, I’m masturbating,” says Nicole.
“I swear, if we weren’t dating…"
Nicole holds Jecka close. She enthusiastically slides her hand beneath Jecka’s shoplifted shirt, toys with the elastic of her shoplifted bra. Jecka is nice and soft and smooth. Her hair smells good, like artificial fruit, and the grungy aroma of smoke burns sharp in Nicole’s lungs. In juxtaposition to men, who usually give off the noxious scent of something dead, it’s a huge improvement. It now occurs to her that Jecka may have used the guitar as an excuse to come upstairs and cuddle.
Feeling abused, Nicole voices this. Jecka shakes her head sleepily.
“I wanted your bed,” she mumbles. “Had to pull an all-nighter for an assignment. Can’t fail another class. Dad’ll hang me on the wall by my thong.”
Nicole scoffs. “Nerd.”
“Whatever. Just keep me company while I doze.”
It takes another minute for Jecka to fall asleep. Outside, the looming clouds finally break, and the downpour starts. The rain pummels the roof loud enough that it drowns out the repetition of Jecka’s light snore, which Nicole admits is kind of cute. With some mild difficulty, she turns off the lights, plunging them into loud, cool darkness.
Nicole has always been empty. Sometimes, she fancies that she was born hollow. Some people come to be on this mortal coil without arms, hands, feet. They go about their lives without ever fully experiencing what it would be like to be other people. They learn to love their disabilities. They learn to be happy for where they are hollow.
But those people, at least they have proof of their struggle. They have the x-rays, the painkillers, the physiotherapy. They’ve got the receipts. All Nicole has to show for her hollowness is a burgeoning apathy and a mercurial temperament. Bitchiness and sickness, attitude and symptom- when it comes down to it, it’s all the fucking same. It makes life harder than necessary.
Maybe the proof’s inside her. Maybe, just maybe, she’ll go to the doctor, and they’ll run their tests and chew their pens and tap their checklists and they’ll say Oh my God, Nicole, we’re so sorry, it turns out that there’s a decade-old tumour growing over your heart. It’s the reason why you’ve struggled to feel the way everyone feels. How did you go so long without calling attention to it? You must be very resilient. You must be one-of-a-kind.
It’s a consoling thought. The kind that losers have.
Nicole must have been thinking for some time, because Jecka begins to stir in her arms.
“You’re still here,” she says groggily. She touches Nicole’s face, confirming that she’s truly here. “What a surprise.”
Nicole is slightly offended. Sure, she fucks up from time to time, but she can’t have a reputation this shitty. She draws back from Jecka, trying to make out the outline of her face. All she can see is the black glimmer of Jecka’s eyes. “Yeah? Where else would I goddamned be?”
“Dunno. Downstairs, maybe.”
“I thought you wanted me to keep you company.”
“Since when have you cared about what I wanted?”
“Since we’ve met?”
Jecka is quiet.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “That was mean.”
The apology throws Nicole off balance. They’re not friends who do shit like this. They don’t own up to their mistakes, don’t practice accountability, don’t caricature good people, because they just aren’t. Simple as that.
Jecka can’t see in the dark, but Nicole makes a face anyway. “You’re acting so weird. Did you develop a conscience in your sleep?”
“I haven’t,” says Jecka. “I’m far from one, actually.”
“So am I,” says Nicole happily. “Let’s fuck.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. Didn’t you say you wanted to do me?”
“Why?” Jecka sounds dubious. “Are you that bored?”
“No. I want to fuck because I’m being overwhelmed by nihilism, and I want a distraction from my fatuous life. One that isn’t fantasising about shooting up the school, that is.”
Jecka heaves a sigh.
“Sure, why not,” she says, sounding defeated. “You’ve already tanked my reputation, might as well give you my virginity, too. To hell with purity culture.”
“You’re a virgin?” That’s pretty much the biggest shock of today.
“Like you’re one to talk.”
“Can you blame me? We live in a gated neighbourhood and go to a school full of retarded fucks who would have sex with a pineapple if it had tits and a high-pitched voice. There’s no one around worth fucking.” Nicole promptly reflects upon her tirade. “Except you, maybe. You’re hot.”
“Exactly,” says Jecka.
“And Ari. And Emily.”
“Yeah, I’m not worried about you cheating on me at all.”
“I wouldn’t cheat.”
“Sure,” says Jecka comfortably. “But you know, I wouldn’t mind if you did.”
Nicole can’t comprehend the paradox. Jecka doesn’t seem the slightest bit distressed, but neither does she sound particularly convincing. Aren’t girls supposed to be obsessed with loyalty and monogamy and whatnot? Like Megan with Hunter; she’s seen the honour-roll bitch claw another girl bloody for smiling at Hunter. She’s read more than a couple of chainsaw murders where the guy’s infidelity got him in hot water, too.
These thoughts occupy her brainspace as she considers discarding them. She might regret shrugging off Jecka’s feelings later, but it really doesn’t seem all that important now. She’s drowning in curiosity and hollowness: rather than ponder society-imbued morals, she wants to taste the second-hand smoke on Jecka’s lips.
Fuck, but that’s the thing. Nicole’s hollow, but Jecka isn’t. Jecka feels stuff that Nicole doesn’t. She cries when her dad hits her, gets mad at dumbass politics, has dreams of being a cosmetician with illustrious clientele. Whereas Nicole would hit back (if her dad hadn’t shot himself in the face, that was), would preach leftwing shit just to get a rise out of her mom, can’t see a future where she isn’t forever six feet deep.
Shit. Maybe she’s the one who’s developed a conscience.
Rather than keep thinking, thinking, thinking, Nicole reaches out for Jecka. Jecka lets Nicole lift her shirt, lets Nicole slide a hand down her stomach slow. Her belly is especially soft, and her skin is hot to the touch. A small sound gets stuck in her throat when Nicole slips her fingers beneath the band of her high-waisted denim shorts, the elastic of her panties.
Nicole begins to undo the button of her shorts. Outside, the torrent has eased into a lazier trickle of rain. Their proximity makes it easy to hear Jecka’s light, even breathing, to imagine the undulation of her chest.
“Christ, not like this,” Jecka says lowly, swatting Nicole’s hands away from her pants. “We need foreplay, dammit. Haven’t you ever touched yourself before?”
Surprisingly, Nicole hasn’t. Figuring her own vagina out just seems like such a monumental task for something as dubious as an orgasm. Her silence must give voice to her thoughts, because Jecka sighs loudly.
“Do this.” Jecka props herself up on an elbow, arches back to undo her bra, drawing the straps through her sleeves and tossing it onto the floor. She takes Nicole’s hand, presses it to the marshmallow swell of her breasts. “Rub the nipple.”
Nicole begrudgingly does as she’s told. Turns out, being pretty doesn’t automatically make you great at sex. But she must be doing something right, because the tips of Jecka’s nipples are stiffening.
“This is embarrassing,” Jecka mutters. “You know you can do it harder, right?”
Dammit. “I know,” says Nicole.
“Are you even trying?”
“What? no, I am, I swear. I just don’t really know what to do.” It isn’t the pleasure that’s the issue, but more the strength of her hands. She’s afraid that she’ll do something wrong; that she’ll be the fumbling dipshit who ends up hurting Jecka during her first time. (Holy shit. She is developing a conscience.)
“Maybe you need direction.” Jecka pauses, oblivious to her dilemma. “Huh.”
“Spill.”
“Nicole, pretend I’m a guy.”
Nicole is beyond bewildered. “Excuse me?”
“Just do it,” says Jecka impatiently. “Like, pretend I’m Kyle or Crispin. Hell, pretend I’m Jeffrey. Yeah, let’s go with Jeffrey.”
“I’m not going to think of that cartoon-porn maniac while I’m fucking you, Jecka.”
“Come on, just trust me. We can stop if it sucks.”
Nicole grumbles invectives beneath her breath, but resolves to obey. She replaces Jecka’s statuesque form with Jeffrey’s chickenshit frame, imagines his stick arms and his microdick. The vision is such a vile one that it makes her want to throw up: it makes her want to be meaner, harsher, crueller, which is- ohhhh.
She understands.
“This is some psychological bullshit,” says Nicole. “Just say you like it rough, damn.”
“You don’t have to treat me like I’m made of glass,” says Jecka impatiently. “My dad hits me on a regular basis, for fuck’s sake. Everything is hotter when you’re decisive.”
Fine. Sure. Whatever. So she should do whatever she wants, right? But foreplay.
Nicole grabs the collar of Jecka’s top, yanks them together, kisses her, hard and abrupt. A silent gasp escapes Jecka, and her hand creeps to the back of Nicole’s head, fisting in her hair. Her lipgloss is strawberry flavoured, chemical and sweet, mingling with the tangy haze of cigarette smoke. Experimentally, Nicole slips her tongue into Jecka’s mouth. Jecka receives it unusually well, greeting it with her own, and the messy exchange of saliva is something that Nicole should hate, but she surprisingly doesn’t. This is actually sort of hot.
They’re both panting when they part for air. Jecka’s hand is on Nicole’s face, her neck. Nicole doesn’t give Jecka time to comment on how good/bad the kiss was. Decisiveness. She pushes Jecka onto her back and clambers on top, inserting a knee between her legs, hands on either sides of Jecka’s head, pressing her deep into the mattress. Their faces are close. Jecka rears up to kiss her, looping her arms around Nicole’s shoulders as they makeout. It’s cold, but the little sounds Jecka makes with each kiss is heating her very core.
“You’re like a microwave,” Nicole says.
Jecka pauses. She sighs, turns her head away.
“Way to ruin the mood, genius,” she says, deadpan. “Just when I thought shit was getting good.”
“It still is,” Nicole argues. “I was doing well, but my intrusive thoughts and impulsiveness collaborated to ruin me.”
“Do you hear yourself? You sound like a seven-year-old who got caught in a shitty game of tag.”
“Wow, Jecka, didn’t know you were such a cougar.”
“Kill yourself, Nicole.”
“Gladly,” says Nicole. “Want to help? I’ll pay you to choke me to death.”
“I’d do that for free, bitch.”
She can be rough. She seizes Jecka’s chin, forces Jecka to look at her. Jecka will see nothing but an abyssal silhouette, a void of nothingness for a face, and that is what Nicole discovers that she likes about fucking in the dark. If you can’t see the person you’re touching, you can let everything in the world fall away, imagine your hands as someone else’s hands, imagine your lips as someone else’s lips. There is power in being desired, and it is amplified by anonymity, by the lack of identity. Because being yourself is the second worst feeling in the world, and remembering who you are the first.
Nicole crushes her mouth against Jecka’s. Despite their banter, their hands meet and intertwine tight on the pillow. Jecka rolls her hips, grinding against Nicole’s knee. Her cellphone buzzes on the nightstand.
“Leave it,” Jecka says, reaching down to unbutton her pants. “Probably just that dipshit from earlier.”
Nicole wouldn’t have stopped even if the street was on fire. “Hm? I thought I ruined the mood.” But Nicole helps Jecka all the same, shifting just enough that Jecka can shuck her pants off, joining her bra on the ground.
Well, here they go. Nicole puts her hand between Jecka’s legs. Jecka’s panties are damp; she’s already wet, which comes as a genuine surprise. Nicole didn’t think that Jecka was actually into this at all.
“You do have a crush on me,” Nicole says into Jecka’s ear, nipping at her earlobe, kissing at her neck. “You do want to have sex with me.”
“Fuck off,” Jecka mutters.
She can tell that Jecka wants to cuss her out, to say more, but can’t. It’s hard to think of a witty riposte when someone is touching where you’re most vulnerable, after all. And she’s right. Jecka sighs when Nicole strips her underwear away, running her hand over Jecka’s coarse hair, sliding two fingers between her wet labia. Her fingertips brush against something small and slippery and pert, what she assumes to be the clitoris, and Jecka makes a noise like a puppy. The sound is erotic and alien and wow, Nicole thinks that they should do this more often.
“Nicole,” Jecka breathes. “Go slow. Slow circles.”
Holding this position with one hand is exhausting. Nicole shifts them so they’re back to lying on their sides. Jecka clamps her thighs around Nicole’s hand.
“Do you think about me when you do this?” She follows Jecka’s instructions: she goes slow, teasing her clit in light, firm circles. “It’s a riveting thought, isn’t it?”
Jecka’s only reply is a shaky exhale.
Jecka clearly isn’t up for conversation, so Nicole settles for kissing her instead. For a moment, Jecka pants against her mouth, her hot breath fanning over her face. Then she hides her face in the crook of Nicole’s neck; it’ll be horrifically cute if it’s because she’s shy. She’s holding Nicole tight enough to bruise.
It’s amazing. See this? See how Jecka, electrifying and self-assured and confident, has been reduced to a gooey mess in her hands?
Her breathing grows louder in proportion with Nicole’s speed. Is Jecka close? Shit, Nicole can’t tell; Jecka’s been quiet so far, discounting the occasional moan. All she can do is keep rubbing, keep her downstrokes measured and her upstrokes quick. She’s lost track of time. Hasn’t it been like, ten minutes?
Then Jecka says Nicole’s name, soft, tinged with desperation, and she presumably comes. Nicole guessed this is because the circulation in her hand is being cut off (that’s how hard Jecka’s gripping it), and Jecka’s entire body has gone rigid. Nicole doesn’t know what to do like this, so she just holds Jecka until her muscles loosen and go lax again. Then Jecka rolls away onto her back, and they lie there together in the dark, silent.
“I think I get why some people stay in shitty-ass relationships now,” says Jecka eventually, long after she’s caught her breath. “Sex is fucking addictive.”
“If you’re going to compliment me, you know you can do so in a less roundabout manner, right?” Jecka’s slick has dried on her fingers, which she draws to her lips. It tastes salty, underscored with the undeniable tang of sex.
She expects Jecka to take the bait, but she doesn’t. Instead, Jecka rolls over to embrace Nicole, breathing in her scent deep. And by all accounts, it really doesn’t make sense. The only thing Jecka should want is a quick fuck and a nap. She should be losing interest now that they’ve did it, but-
“I feel like you’re in love with me,” says Nicole casually, sketching a heart on Jecka’s back. One that’s halved by the ridge of her spine. There’s a metaphor in that, but Nicole can’t be bothered to assign meaning to every little thing in the world. “Just a gut-feeling.”
Jecka snorts.
“First a crush, then sex, then love. Never change, Nicole,” she says. “It’s cute when you’re conceited.”
See? She doesn’t exactly deny it.
Her cellphone buzzes again. Annoyed, Nicole reaches over to retrieve it. She’s got six messages in her inbox, all from the same recipient, each titled something vaguely ridiculous, each of varying length. But the last one, delivered a minute ago, is titled fuck you.
“Look at this,” says Nicole.
Jecka doesn’t move. She’s too preoccupied where she is, face pressed into Nicole’s ribs. “Read it out to me.”
Alright. Aftercare is important. She selects the last one-
“It’s been nine minutes past six and you’re not even here yet”- Nicole checks the time on her phone. It’s 6:10. “Oh, shit.”
“Go on,” says Jecka.
“I thought you were actually serious about me, blah blah blah, willing to look past the joke if you say you’re sorry- ugh, he’s so annoying.” Nicole skims the rest of the paragraph. “Jecka, can I take a picture of your-"
“No.”
“Come on, tons of girls wear the same shit you do-"
“Absolutely not.”
“Fine.” Nicole settles for simply texting him back. “Hi, just finished fucking my girlfriend, fuck you, you’re ugly and I think you should kill yourself. Jecka, how’s this?”
“Abhorrent,” she says. “Send it.”
Nicole sends the message. She gets a response almost instantly, and it’s a detailed threat about how he will jump, and that she’s a whore/dyke and won’t ever amount to anything more than a prostitute/housewife.
“Someone’s gotta tell him about moonlighting,” says Nicole. “Though I doubt he’ll be aware of anything even closely related to employment.”
“Tell him we scissored,” says Jecka. “That’ll probably get him riled up.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Nicole does. And she doesn’t get a reply back.
Jecka spends the night at Nicole’s house. In the morning, news of the sophomore Jacob killing himself has spread like wildfire. Some of his friends theorise that he fell from the building, but others argue that he left his shoes on the roof. The police ruled his death as a suicide, given his poor academic performance, troubled home life, and lack of bitches.
Nicole and Jecka, however, know the truth. His cellphone hasn’t been discovered, but they plan to sneak into the cordoned building to retrieve it that night. Jecka thinks it’s a fucking horrible idea, and Nicole thinks that’s exactly why they should do it. She’s excited for it, even.
She and her girlfriend is going on a date.