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maybemitch · 5 years

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ARE YOU WITH ME (MITSIM)

DESCRIPTION: Mitch is injuried and taken to Delta. Aasim has to attend to his wounds.

WARNING: AU, Mitch lives. Blood. Swearing.

WORD COUNT: 4290

━━━⋆☆⋆━━━

The courtyard was a small war zone, the picnic tables were turned, creating a small walkway on the crack cobblestone road, where the raiders stood. The gate was busted, the barricade which was pushed against it now tossed to the sides. On the patch of grass the flagpole was located at, three makeshift scarecrows sat stabbed into the ground, the decaying walker head had bluebottle flies hovering above them, intrigued with the smell

Clementine was keeping the raiders preoccupied, holding them at arrow point whilst Willy and Mitch snuck behind the cart, placing the bomb down.

Aasim wasn’t keen on the idea, he didn’t like that Mitch and Willy were risking their lives to cause a distraction. He didn’t like the potential risk of losing them both, especially when the raiders had weapons. Aasim peered slightly over the wall, automatically ducking his head when a raider turned towards him, his heart erratic in his chest.

Aasim clenched his eyes shut, the sound of footsteps hammering down on the floor made him panic internally, however his nerves were soothed when he saw the shaggy hair of Willy and the brunette fringed hair of Mitch appeared next to him.

Mitch found himself sitting besides Aasim, his back also pressed against the half brick wall. He turned to face Aasim, a small smile on his lips. Mitch moved over, pressing his lips to Aasim’s cheek.

“Told you I’ll make it back in one piece,” Mitch spoke in a hushed whisper, “You should’ve trusted me.”

Aasim smiled at Mitch, “I did trust you. I didn’t trust the raiders.”

Mitch gave another smile as he slightly flinched when the explosion went off. Mitch could smell the smoke in the air as he moved from where he was sitting out into the open, wanting to inspect the area in more detail.

Orange embers danced in the sky, from where the explosion went off. Smoke went high into the sky, as if it was sending a signal to someone.

“Whatever you’re thinking about,” Aasim whispered over to his boyfriend. His words were soft and welcoming, a tone Aasim always used when speaking to Mitch. Aasim still had his back pressed against the crumbling half-brick wall, his head turned ever so slightly, yet his eyes were sharp as they lingered on the bomb loving boy, “Don’t you dare do it.”

Mitch was crouched in the opening, close to the support beam on the shelter they were fighting from, his hands were on the floor, giving him more stability. His gaze fluttered to Aasim, the look of distress was plastered all over his boyfriend’s face, his heart twinged in a slight pain, he had always hated that look from Aasim.

Mitch turned his gaze to Tennessee for a brief moment, the woman behind the boy began to get to a stand. One fist balled as he shook his head, he opened his mouth.

“Cover me,” Mitch ordered the people behind cover, most of the other teens nodded their heads and ready themselves for whatever was about to happen. Aasim bit down on his lip, a hand extending trying to grab ahold of Mitch before he did anything reckless and dangerous. Mitch looked to Aasim and the boys open hand and gave a small smile, “I’ll be safe, just have my back.”

Aasim let out a shaky breath, before nodding his head ever so slightly. It was a small movement, something everyone could have missed if they weren’t paying attention. Luckily, Mitch was.

Mitch gave him a small reassuring smile, “Trust me, Aasim. I’ll make it back in one piece.”

Mitch pulled himself up into a stand, Aasim snatched up his bow which was resting on the floor and loaded the weapon with an arrow. Aasim peered over the wall, watching intently as he got his arrow trained on Mitch. He had his back, now matter what.

Mitch ran at a small jog to begin with, his hands free off weapons. After a few small steps in the jog, he broke out into a sprint. Mitch let out a small shout as he got closer to Lilly.

Mitch could see the knife in Lilly’s belt, that what he needed. He paced quicker, Lilly got up into a stand her hand being to wrap around her blade.

Shit. Mitch thought as he began to run faster.

Lilly turned to face the boy, bringing the knife out in self defence, jerking it in Mitch’s direction, mainly towards his neck.

Mitch’s hand went up, grabbing ahold of Lilly’s wrists, his grip was strong as he tried to overpower the women. Lilly kept trying to push the blade closer to Mitch’s neck, however, Mitch pulled the knife away from his neck, leaving it above his shoulder, his grip loosening.

Lilly took that as an opening, lunging the knife forwards into Mitch’s shoulder, a small splatter of blood coated her face. Mitch staggered back, his shoulder throbbing. Mitch knew Aasim was probably scared right now.

Mitch groaned as he grabbed the knives handle and pulled it out. Lilly took a step back as Mitch took a step forwards. The woman was defenseless right now and even if Lilly didn’t want to admit it, she was quite scared right now.

Mitch took another step towards the women, but was interrupted by a loud bang. A shoot pain went through his abdominal and a wet substance started to coat his T-shirt.

“Mitch!” Aasim gasped, when Mitch fell to the floor, holding his abdominal. Aasim went to run over to his boyfriend, wanting to hold him in his pain, but an arm tugged at him, keeping his at bay.

“You’ve got to stick to the plan,” Louis whispered to Aasim. Louis knew Aasim was in a panicked state, Louis would try and calm him down, but Louis knew it would be difficult considering the circumstances.

Aasim gulped and shook his head no, “I… I can’t. M-Mitch. I need to go help him,” Aasim tried to pull his arm out from Louis’ grip, Aasim kept shaking his head, “Please Lou. I need to go to him. Please let me go to him.”

Louis slowly released his grip from Aasim, “O-okay. I’ll make sure no raiders get to you. Promise.”

Aasim turned to smile at Louis, “Thank you.” Aasim looked at Louis for a moment, before turning away, making his way slowly out to a bleeding out Mitch.

/———\

Aasim awoke when painful hand gripped tightly at his shoulders, yanking him to his feet. His head was thumping, whilst a trail of warm oozing blood trickled down the left side of his face. A muzzle of a shotgun was pressed to Aasim’s lower back, sending him rigid. His breath caught in his throat, the undeniable fear running through his veins. They’re going to shoot him.

“Move,” a guard sneered from behind him, the sound of the safety being clicked off sent shivers down Aasim’s spine. The guard pressed the muzzle harder into Aasim’s spine, their finger resting lightly on the trigger, “Or else.”

Aasim released a shaky breath and gave a brief nod, before walking inside of the boat. The shotgun was making his nervous, yet, he had to do as he’s told unless. Underneath the feet of Aasim and the guard, the floorboards creaked, a sign that the wood was beginning to rot from old age and constant water exposure.

Aasim’s brown eyes analysed the area, a small rounded silver table was situated to the right of the banister, a pile of poker chips in the middle and playing cards lay down with the numbers facing the table; whoever was playing must have left the game in a hurry. There were boxes piled against the wall, a few gas powered lamps resting on top, sending the room an awful yellow tinge. There were also several brown empty beer bottles on the floor, most of them rolling around whenever a wave hit the boat which was docked at the pier.

Aasim stumbled over a nail which stuck out on deck. His arms jerking out before him, ready to prevent himself from colliding with the floor, yet he never fell. The guard behind him rolled his eyes and snatched the jacket which belong to Aasim’s tightly, yanking him back up. The guard moved his hand to Aasim’s upper arm, holding him tightly. Aasim winced at the hand, before snatching his arm out of the vice grasp.

“Stop.” The guard ordered, as they turned to face the first cell door on the left. Their hands wrapped around the lock, snatching the door open. Their hands grabbed Aasim’s jacket, pulling him backwards so he was aligned with the door and pushed him in. “Sit there,” the guard snapped, slamming the door shut, locking it back up, their eyes staring Aasim down, “And shut up. That’s if you know what’s best for you.”

Aasim groaned from the impact of hitting the floor, a small splatter of blood stained the wood from where his head hit the floor. Aasim began pushing himself up, turning his head sending a bitter glare towards the guard which stood with a smirk behind the locked door. The guard locked eyes with the boy momentarily, then turned on his heels, going to collect the next teen.

Aasim sobbed silently as he began to crawl slowly to one of the corners, his heads sore, a minor graze on his palms. Once in the corner, Aasim turned around, pressing his back to the wall, the wallpaper being to curl from the bottom. He leaned his head back upwards towards the ceiling, his teeth gnawing on his bottom lip in fear and frustration.

Aasim couldn’t believe it. Delta had basically won. For now at least.

He brought his knees to his chest, then lowered his head to them, resting it on them. His hands wrapped around the back of his neck, leaving them there as he began tugging a few strands of hair.

Mitch. He though. Oh, God. Mitch. He was stabbed and shot. Aasim couldn’t help but worry over his boyfriend, he always worried over him. Even when Mitch went hunting or when he played with his carving knife, Aasim always worried over Mitch. He was just thankful he wasn’t dead, he wouldn’t know what to do if Mitch was gone, he probably wouldn’t be able to function correctly without him, Mitch was his rock most of the time.

Aasim stuffed when he heard footsteps and groans from outside the cell… footsteps… plural. It sounded like their was only two guards this time round, which was unusual considering Aasim, Violet and Omar only had one guard with them. Therefore, curiosity spiked a little in Aasim, causing him to sit still and listen, too scared to move.

Outside, the two guards walked down towards the cells, holding an unconscious male in their arms. Their eyes were coated with disapproval as a sticky crimson substance laced with uniform.

One of the guards huffed as they pulled at the unconscious male, “He’s too heavy. Why did the sniper get his abdominal? They should’ve just went for the head.”

The other guard scoffed and replied harshly, “Lilly didn’t want to kill the kids. We need recruits, not body bags.”

“So why did we bring him? He's of no use to us if he’s injured.” The first guard admitted, beginning to open the door to Aasim’s cell, “He’s going to die of blood loss and we aren’t wasting supplies on him.”

“He tried to kill Lilly,” the second guard told, they witnessed everything back at the school, “He has the potential to be a soldier. That’s why he’s with us. He heals on his own, we train him. We send him to war. It doesn’t matter if he dies out there. It’s better him than us.”

The first guard let out a chuckle as their face broke out into a grin, they placed their hand on the wound on the boy’s shoulder and shoved them into Aasim’s cell.

Their body crashed to the floor, an excruciating sob fell from their lips at the impact. Both guards let out a sadistic chuckle at the boy in cowering in pain. Aasim scowled at the people; they couldn’t see him luckily. The sound of footsteps pounding down the deck caused Aasim to crawl over to the body tossed into his cell.

His heart split into two as he blinked, taking in Mitch who was sickeningly pale. His lips wobbled, as he hesitantly moved his right hand. His right thumb brushed against Mitch’s cheek gently. Mitch groaned at the touch, and began to lean away in his unconscious state, before a small whimper left his lips as too much pressure was applied to his abdomen.

“What did they do to you?” Aasim whispered, his hands moving to cup Mitch’s face, despite his boyfriend moving away from the contact moments ago. Aasim’s hands shook as he slid them down Mitch’s face and down to the stab wound on his left shoulder; it wasn’t too deep, but still could end up getting infected if not looked after.

His hands slowly lowered down Mitch’s body, down to the relatively large blood pool on the right side of the abdomen, caused by a sniper bullet. Aasim’s hands were wet with blood as he clenched at Mitch gunshot wound, Aasim knew there was an exit hole, mainly because the small pool of blood beneath Mitch. That’s a good sign at least.

“Mitch…” Aasim mumbled, his hand applying pressure to the gunshot wound, trying to restrict the blood flow, “Don’t die on me…” his voice cracked, words weak, water brimming in his eyes, threatening to send salty tears down his face, “Please… Please don’t die on me. W-wake up…”

Mitch mumbled something in his unconsciousness, then released a small hiss of pain, which caused Aasim to frown, “Mitch… Stay with me okay. Please. Just stay with me…”

Aasim leaned back on his feet, his hands still resting on Mitch’s wound. He looked around the room, the scruffy bedsheet on the camp bed caught his eyes; it could be used for bandages. The bedsheet wasn’t exactly clean, yet they would be able to soak up the blood until they get home to Ericson, if they get home to Ericson.

He sighed, “I just need to find something to clean the wounds,” he mumbled as he pressed harder onto Mitch. Aasim knew he wouldn’t find disinfectant in the cell, Delta wouldn’t allow it. Delta wouldn’t allow if Aasim asked for it, they even said so when they were bringing Mitch down. “Water would work,” Aasim whispered, his eyes shifting to the door, “But I’ve got to ask… shit.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, removing his hands from Mitch and pushed him to his feet. He took a deep breath and walked over to the door, his blood red hands wrapped around the bars, giving them a shake, causing the sound of metal hitting metal to bounce around the room.

A guard groaned from outside and marched to the door, their shotgun held high as they aimed it at Aasim through the metal bars, “What?” They spat, “I told you to shut up if you knew what was best for you. Or do you need to be taught a lesson?”

“I… I need water,” Aasim whispered, his eyes looking at the guard, “I just need water.”

“Water?” They asked, taking a step back to look down the hall, as if they were looking, “Why do you need water?”

“I’m parched.” Aasim bluntly said, “That's why I need water.”

“Someone get Lilly,” the guard ordered to someone down the hall, before turning their attention to the male, “You’ll speak to the boss. She’ll be the one which determines if you get your drink or not.”

Shit. Aasim thought. He wasn’t expecting the guards to get Lilly involved, he didn’t want that. Especially considering Lilly was one of the people which harmed Mitch. Aasim didn’t want Lilly anywhere near his boyfriend.

The sound of walking boots clicked down the hall, Aasim’s heart began to race in his chest and his ears began to ring. Aasim took a deep inhale when Lilly appeared at the door, a scowl on her lips. She wasn’t impressed with Aasim at all.

“What is it?” Lilly asked, her arms crossed over her chest. Aasim’s eyes were trained onto the guard standing behind the woman, who still held the gun up high. Lilly followed his gaze, tutting when she looked at one of her soldiers, “I can handle him, stand to the side.”

“As I said to the guard,” Aasim began, looking Lilly in the eyes, “I’m parched. So can I please have some water.”

Lilly bent down, unlocking the door. Aasim took a step back, standing protectively besides Mitch’s unconscious body. Lilly entered the small cell, crossing her arms over her chest, her lips twisting into a sadistic smirk, “You’re not thirsty, you want to save your boy toy.”

Aasim mimicked Lilly, his arms over his chest, “He’s not my boy toy,” his words were harsh, as he slightly rolled his eyes, “And it's not for him. I’m parched.”

Lilly took a step forwards, “Are you sure?” She questioned quietly, cocking her head to the side slightly, “You don’t want to clean his wounds? You don’t want to treat his fever? You don’t want to make sure he lives?”

Aasim bit down on his lip, looking at the woman before him. Lilly chuckled, taking a step forward again, beginning to close the gap between her and the teen, “If he’s,” her eyes linger down to Mitch, who’s forehead was beginning to be matted with sweat, “Not attended to in the next twenty minutes or so, an infection will set in, his body will fight it but he will be too weak. And do you know what that means?”

Aasim gulped, “W-what does it mean?”

Lilly sighed, “It means his body will stop fighting it, allowing the infection to overtake. Eventually turning into a walker. And you’ll have to be the one which will have to bash his brains in as you’ll be locked in this room alone with him.”

“H-he’s not going to die.” Aasim stumbled over his words, uncrossing his arms, fist balling. Aasim was letting anger overtake him, “I-I won’t let him.”

“You’re not going to let him die?” Lilly asked, eyebrow arching, “How are you going to save him?”

Aasim sighed, his eyes clenched shut before a soft plea passed through his tight lips, “Please. Please can I have some water.”

Lilly smiled, she had finally gotten what she wanted to hear, “Why?”

“So… so I can clean his wounds,” Aasim reopened his eyes looking up to Lilly, “So I can make sure he lives,” a tear slowly rolled down his cheek, Lilly chuckled softly at the sight of it, “Please, let me have some water. I… I can’t lose him.

Lilly looked down the male on the floor and shook her head, “What’s in it for me?”

“What?” Aasim asked confused, recrossing his arms.

“It’s a simple… deal. I give you something, you’ve got to give me something in return,” Lilly explained, beginning to lean up the wall, “So, what’s in it for me?”

Aasim turned slightly, looking down at Mitch then back to Lilly, “What do you want?”

“I want your word,” Lilly said, “I want your word that you’ll fight the war. That you won’t let your relationship get in the way. That if you lose him, you’ll cut your losses and be a soldier.”

Aasim scoffed, “So what you’re trying to say is that you want me to be an emotionless asshole like you?” His words were harsh, the end of the sentence was spat out, “What you want is me to forget my boyfriend of two years, if he dies fighting your war?”

Lilly tutted, “That's no way to speak to your new leader. But yes, that’s exactly what I want you to do. You want the water, you’ll give me your word.”

“Fuck you,” Aasim spat, shaking his head, “No. I’m not giving you my word.”

Lilly frowned, pushing herself off the wall and opening the door to leave, “Well, I guess you’ll have to say your goodbyes now then. He’s not going to make it.”

Aasim watched as the door shut behind Lilly. Aasim’s knees buckled as he dropped down to the floor, a small cry leaving his lips. He slipped his hand into Mitch’s giving it a small squeeze. Aasim couldn’t. He couldn’t give his word to Lilly. Aasim didn’t want to cut his losses if he lost Mitch in the war. Aasim didn’t even know if they’d make it to the war, Clementine could be coming to get them.

Aasim moves from his knees and sat down on the floor, he slowly pulled Mitch up, resting his boyfriend’s head on his lap. He laced his fingers through Mitch’s hair, soft assuring words fell from his lips as tears kept brimming in his eyes.

Mitch mumbled something in his unconscious state which made a sad chuckle pass through Aasim’s lips as a tear fell, landing on Mitch’s face. Aasim was quick to wipe it away.

“You’re going to be okay,” Aasim whispered, his hands moving to cradle Mitch’s face. His heart was still aching at the sight, “You hear me, you’re going to be okay.”

Mitch mumbled something softly again, Aasim arched an eyebrow at him as he sniffed, “What are you talking about, Mitch.”

“I love him,” Mitch mumbled in his unconscious state, now his words were more clearer, it gave Aasim hope he was coming round. Mitch’s head tilting into Aasim’s hands, his lips pressing against them, “Huh?”

Aasim looked down to Mitch, curiosity filled his eyes and his heart began racing in his chest. He preferred his heart racing then aching.

“What do you mean who?” Mitch mumbled, a small hiss of pain left his lips. “M-my boyfriend. A-Aasim. I love Aasim.”

Aasim’s heart leaped in his chest. Mitch loved him. It was the first time Mitch had ever said it, the first time either of them have said it. Neither of the boys wanted to rush their relationship, they wanted to take their time, they wanted to ensure they didn’t mess up.

Aasim released a shaky breath, his fingers tugging at Mitch’s hair before removing his boyfriends head from his lap and standing back up, moving over to the door. He stuck his hand out giving it a small wave, Lilly walked back down.

“Still thirsty?” Lilly cackles, crossing her arms when Aasim pulled his arms back into the cell, “Or are you asking for something to bash his brains in.”

“No.” Aasim gulped, “I’m… I’m giving you my word.”

“What changed your mind?” Lilly asked as she waved her hand down the hall, signalling someone to get her a bottle of water.

Aasim sighed, “It’s none of your business.”

Lilly huffed, her hand holding tightly on a bottle which was handed to her. She raised an eyebrow at Aasim, waving the bottle in front of his face, mockingly, “Tell me what changed your mind, soldier.”

Aasim looked up to Lilly and gave a deep sigh, “I… I love him and… and he mumbled that he loves me too.”

Lilly handed the bottle to him, a smirk on her lips, “Young love. Just remember, you gave me your word. He dies, you move on.”

Aasim nodded and turned around quickly. He snatched the scruffy bed sheets off the camp bed and dropped down to besides Mitch. He looked over his boyfriend, biting down on his lip. How was he going to do this?

“Mitch,” Aasim whispered, as he grabbed his boyfriend from underneath his arms, pulling him up with all his strength so he was sitting up the wall. “I’m sorry if this hurts.”

Aasim pulled Mitch’s jacket off his body, throwing it to the side before giving a sigh when he saw Mitch’s shirt sticking to his wounds. Aasim licked over his dry lips, then began removing Mitch’s shirt.

Mitch groaned when the shirt was removed.

“It’s okay,” Aasim hushed as he tore apart of the bed sheets, beginning to use it as a wipe. He poured a small drop of water on the fabric and then began to dap at the wound on Mitch’s shoulder.

Aasim concentrated on cleaning the wound, he wasn’t a nurse, he didn’t know how to do this like Ruby, but he had seen her clean other kids wounds, so he had something idea on it. Aasim bit down on his lip as dropped the blooded rag, he snatched up the other part of the bed sheet and wrapped it around a Mitch’s shoulder, creating a bandage.

Mitch groaned when Aasim pushed down on the wound. A tear in the corner of his eye.

Aasim frowned, “Just one more,” he reassured as he began repeating the actions from before. He poured the water, dapped the wound and held it there for a moment.

Aasim removed the rag, beginning to wrap the bed sheet around Mitch’s waist tightly, covering the wound securely. The bullet wound was much more worse than the stab wound.

“You’ll be okay,” Aasim whispered when he was finished patching Mitch up. Aasim moved to besides him, pressing his back to the wall. Aasim slipped his hand into Mitch’s as he then rested his head on his uninjured shoulder.

“And for the record, I know you can’t hear me,” Aasim whispered, licking his lips over in nerves, mainly incase Mitch hears him, “But I love you too,” Aasim squeezed Mitch’s hand tightly, “So much. So please… wake up and stay with me.”

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faveficarchive · 5 years

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Mayonnaise and Its Discontents

(The tres exciting third part of a "White Trash" trilogy)

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Zina and Gabrielle head out on a road trip, and trip up on Zina’s exes along the way.

1. Precious and Few are the Moments We Two Can Share

The firefighter filled out the broken-down plaid couch with her long body. A walkman lay against her muscular stomach, and a wire traipsed seductively over a swelling breast, galloped down into the valley of muscle, skin, and tendons around the neck and shoulder, blended into dark tresses, and climbed over the crevices of the ears, where it was attached to an earpiece blaring out beautiful musical dissonance: Black hole sun, woncha come, and wash away the raaaaaaaain….

Her eyes were closed tightly against the world. It had been a long, horrible day. Three fires in one day. Flames, dirt, near-death. She came right home after the third one, exhausted, took a bath, and flung herself on the couch. She craved the oblivion of loud music, so she put on her walkman, since she knew Gabrielle was upstairs studying.

And she calls me insensitive, Zina thought grumpily. I can be kinda sorta sensitive when I want to be. She had drifted off into a light sleep when she felt a familiar weight straddle her lap. The weight wriggled around suggestively. She smiled and opened her eyes.

"Hey stud," Gabrielle said. Her beautiful girlfriend wore a t-shirt that said FIREFIGHTERS DO IT WITH RUBBER HOSES (better than the last such shirt she saw, which said FIREFIGHTERS DO IT WITH DALMATIANS) and a pair of Daisy Dukes—the shortest of blue jean shorts. It's like she's takin' fashion tips from Callie or somethin', thought Zina. (Not that she minded that much.) Gabrielle held a dirty slip of paper in one hand. "I found this attached to the bottom of your work boot."

Zina peered at it. "Uh…looks like my pay stub."

"Thought so. You want it?"

Zina gave her a Look. Then she shoved the earphones back in her ears.

Gabrielle wriggled again. Zina opened her eyes again, and plucked the 'phones out of her ears…again. "What?" A thin line of patience was threatening to snap.

"Zina, do you ever look at these things?"

"Why should I? I know how much I get paid. Plus I really don't want to know how much money the goddamn government is stealing from me." Maybe I should join the Militia…her eyes darkened at the thought. Sure, they were all a bunch of fat wads who could barely pull a trigger, but give her two weeks, she'd whip those pussies into shape, and soon, they'd be chanting her name as they took over the county courthouse…

A slap stung her thigh. "Zina! Stop having daydreams about the Militia!" Gabrielle barked.

The firefighter sulked. Of course, I'm kinda whipped myself.

"Now listen to me. There's this column on your pay stub, says 'Vacation'…"

"Uh huh."

"And under it is a number: 1,055."

"Yeah."

Gabrielle blinked in astonishment. "So…you have over a thousand days of vacation coming to you?"

"No."

"Oh." The little poet hid her disappointment.

"It means I have over a thousand hours of vacation." With this, Zina placed the phones back in her ears, and her head started thrashing in a very Beavis-and-Butthead-like fashion to "Spoonman."

"Holy shit! Over a thousand hours of vacation???" shrieked Gabrielle. Alas, her beloved could not hear her joy. She wriggled again, but got no response from Zina. Then she yanked the earphones out of the lovely ears all by her own self.

She was rewarded with a glare worthy of the most disturbed serial killer.

"Sorry, baby, but I'm trying to talk to you. " Gabrielle replied patiently. Love means never having to expect social skills above a third-grade level, the poet realized.

Zina's black bangs flew as she released an air of exasperation. "All right," she growled.

"Since you have so much time coming to you, why don't we have a vacation?"

The blue eyes blinked at her in utter incomprehension.

"Oh, wow," Gabrielle breathed with awe. "You've never had a vacation. Have you?"

"Vacations are for wimps, Gabrielle," muttered Zina.

"Bull. Every summer, my parents took us on a vacation. Sure, it was usually camping, or Graceland, or something like that…but we always went, every year." And every year it was hell. Her parents always argued, they always got lost, and Lila always won every back-seat slugfest they had. But Zina doesn't need to know that.

"I guess that sounds nice. But my mother's idea of a vacation was following around the Grateful Dead." Zina winced, trying to quash the memories that flooded back: greasy smelly hippie guys pawing at her, portable toilets that—mystifyingly enough—smelled better than the guys did, spilled beer going rancid in the harsh sun, pot, acid tabs, and more pot, and those goddamned fifteen-minute drum solos.

Hmmm, Gabrielle thought. It sounds like we've both had sucky vacation experiences. "Hey, I've been thinking. Like, as a vacation, maybe we could go visit Effie and those guys. Whaddya say?"

"I've been to Memphis, though."

"And so has Lyle Lovett, baby doll. Well, they aren't in Memphis right now. They're out in the country, recording their second album, at some studio in Tennessee. It’s real pretty, Effie says."

"That sounds cool."

"Yeah, it would be fun, baby. I'm dying to see Effie. I miss her so much. And you—well, Hank would be there…"

"And we could go fishing!" Zina perked up.

"Yeah!" Gabrielle loved to see her happy.

"And then we could play horseshoes! And golf! And basketball! And football! And I'll beat him every goddamned time!!!!" shouted the firefighter triumphantly.

"Honey, I love you, but you are a fuckin' maniac."

Zina beamed at what she perceived to be a great compliment.

***

"Hey, what the hell you doin' on my Harley?"

—Serge Gainsbourg, "Harley David Son of a Bitch"

They simply could not agree on what vehicle to take. Gabrielle thought it too dangerous to ride a cycle all the way there, and Zina said that it would only be over her dead body that they would take the Escort.

"I can't be seen in an Escort. 'Sides, we'd be lucky to make it to the county line in that thing."

"Well, I'm not riding a Harley all the way there. We won't have room to take anything. And my ass will be numb and fall off by the time we reach the county line." Gabrielle rubbed her perfect posterior for emphasis.

The firefighter scowled, deep in thought. "I have an idea." She stood up. "Come on, we're going to Ed's."

***

Ed stood in his bedroom, thoughtfully examining the two bras that he held, one in each hand. He loved the black one, but the material was so scratchy, on the other hand, the red one was a little too red, but it felt so silky…

A banging on his door caused the entire house to shake. Only two people he knew were capable of that: Hank, who was not in town…and Zina.

A squeak of distress came from his lips. Frantically, he stuffed the bras under his mattress and ran downstairs.

Indeed, the sullen beauty stood at his door, wearing her trademark outfit: black shitkickers, a black t-shirt, and faded Levis. This time the t-shirt showed a mutilated cartoon figure and the caption I KILLED KENNY. Well, I wouldn't put it past her, Ed thought. But he sighed with relief when he saw Gabrielle peeking out mischievously from behind the tall firefighter; the thought of a tete-a-tete with Zina was simply too much.

"Hi Ed!" Gabrielle chirped.

"Hey, Gabrielle…hey, Z."

Zina raised an eyebrow. Her knew her well enough to know that this was her way of requesting entry into his home.

"Sure, come on in, guys." The happy couple sauntered in. Zina flopped down in his recliner. She raised another eyebrow. "Beer?" he stammered. She nodded. "Gabrielle?"

"No thanks," replied the poet. "Got anything to eat?"

He ran into the kitchen, grabbed a can of Bud and a bag of pretzels.

Gabrielle tore open the bag. "Got any mustard?" she asked.

He ran into the kitchen and came back with a jar of French's.

"No Grey Poupon?"

"What the hell's that?" Ed said, face pulled into distaste. Why anyone would want to put something gray on a perfectly innocent pretzel was beyond him.

"Never mind." Gabrielle cast a look at her soulmate, who was chugging Bud. "Shall I?" she asked. Zina nodded. She began. "Okay, Ed, it's like this. Remember when you hit the cow?"

He winced. "Oh…yeah."

"Well, you know, Farmer Draco came by the other day…"

"Shit!" Ed blurted.

"Yeah, and he was asking us if we knew who killed his little Bessie Sue…" Gabrielle shook her head sadly. "It just about broke my heart, to see a big ol' grown man like that cry." And it did, although on Zina’s part, the firefighter had giggled at the way the huge, dramatic feathers in Draco's cowboy hat bobbed up and down as he sobbed. "Right, Zina?" The big firefighter nodded dutifully. "And he cursed, and he cried, and he said, 'If I ever found out who killed Bessie Sue, I'll de-ball the fucker with my own teeth!' "

Ed blanched. His vision dimmed and he felt woozy. I won’t faint! I won’t!

"And do you know what we told him?"

Ed bit his lip in fear and agony.

"We said we didn't know. And you know why we said that, don't you, Ed?"

Ed nodded.

"Because you're our friend, and we don't want to see you de-balled. Right, Zina?"

Zina burped in the affirmative. She did concede to herself, however, that she wouldn't mind seeing Ed de-balled...it might be kinda fun, actually.

"And that's what friends do for each other. They take care of each other. They support each other—"

"They cover each other's stupid hairy asses after drinking half the county," Zina interjected.

"That's right," Gabrielle said soothingly. "So! That brings us to why we're here…"

"Whatever you want, take it!" he cried.

Zina bared her teeth in a feral grin. "We want the Impala."

Agony. He knew, someday, that she would ask. Years ago, he, Hank, and Zina had pooled their paltry financial resources and bought a decrepit 1968 Impala. Together they had rebuilt it into a gleaming icon of big, American simplicity. By the sheer good luck of having a garage, he was Keeper of the Impala. Hank was far too reverent of the vehicle to actually drive it, and would only come over and gaze wistfully at it every once in a while. Zina, however, had been "shut off" from the Impala after a particularly strenuous "test drive" that resulted in the tragic death of several chickens (property of the unlucky Framer Draco). But that was two years ago, and Hank had since declared his best friend fit to drive the beloved vehicle, if she chose to do so. And Ed knew that, one day, she would come around and ask to use the car that both he and Hank were too chickenshit to even drive to the Uni-Mart. She was that kind of woman. Fearless. Confident. Powerful. Perhaps a bit of a sociopath.

He sighed, and headed for the garage. The women followed him silently. When Ed flung up the garage door, he whispered reverently, "There she is."

The 1968 Impala, a dark, royal blue, glinted as afternoon sunlight hit its hood. It sat regally, patiently awaiting their ecstatic worship.

"Isn't she...magnificent?" Ed prompted, using one of the biggest words he knew. His eyes misted over.

"Oh…yes!" Zina gasped, delirious with joy.

Gabrielle shrugged. "It's cute," she said flatly, jealous that something other than she could make Zina gasp with delight. It was another annoyance; she already had to battle the Harley for superiority in the firefighter's affections: "Look, missy, what would rather have between your legs—that cycle or me?" she had demanded of her lover one fine afternoon.

The firefighter had frowned and contemplated the question for a long time.

"Let me put it another way," Gabrielle had interrupted the laborious mental process, "can that Harley give you an orgasm?"

Zina nodded vigorously. "It depends on how fast I'm going, and how bumpy the road is."

And now, she frowned at the harmless Impala. This thing probably does her so good she smokes a pack of Lucky Strikes afterwards, Gabrielle thought in a most discouraging way, while two pairs of horrified blue eyes stared at her.

"Cute?" roared the firefighter. "Gabrielle, this is, like, the Super Bowl of cars!"

"Yeah!" Ed cried. "I rebuilt this thing three times—"

Zina turned on him. "My ass! The second time Hank helped you, and the third time I practically did it myself!"

"No, you didn't!"

"Yes, I did!"

The poet rolled her eyes. She leaned against the car.

"Get off the car!" shouted the firefighters in unison.

2. The Ex Files

After procuring the Impala for their impending trip, they went to the grocery store.

It was not Zina's favorite place to be. The fluorescent lights gave her a headache, as did the canned music (currently warbling "I'd Really Love to See You Tonight" by England Dan and John Ford Coley), and Gabrielle wouldn't let her pop wheelies with the cart. So she leaned against the shopping cart while Gabrielle tossed box after box of Pop Tarts into the metal receptacle. "Blueberry, brown sugar, fudge, cherry…" she rattled off each flavor as they landed in the cart.

The firefighter sighed, and looked to the end of the aisle. What she saw there caused her blue eyes to narrow into such hardened blocks of ice that not even Sharon Stone in her Basic Instinct incarnation—armed with her trusty little icepick—could have cracked them.

Gabrielle was not totally oblivious, in her Pop Tart delirium, to notice her girlfriend's change of mood. "Zina…what's wrong?" she asked as Zina stormed past her, toward a display in the frozen food section. Pulling the cart behind her, she followed Zina to the end of the aisle.

Many plastic containers of a strangely colored liquid formed a small pyramid, which paid homage to an arrogant-looking young woman featured in the cardboard poster that loomed over the plastic cups. The poster read thus: "Julie Caesar, Olympus County's very own Martha Stewart and host of WAR-TV's 'Conquering with Cooking,' presents the latest delicacy from her kitchen: Barbecue-Salsa Mayonnaise!"

"Ya want some, Zina?" the poet asked.

The firefighter regarded her with eyes of rage and incomprehension. "Do I want some?" she hissed violently at her small companion. "Do I want some!!" she repeated incredulously.

"Baby, chill out, okay? If you don't want to try it, don't sweat it."

"Gabrielle, you don't understand," growled Zina, waving at the display, knuckles pounding the cardboard image of the smirking yuppie goddess, "this BITCH stole my recipe!!!"

The little poet blinked in disbelief. The only culinary effort she had witnessed her girlfriend perform had been to mix Rolling Rock, Heineken, and tabasco sauce together and declare it a "cocktail."

"She stole my idea! She betrayed me!" wailed Zina.

"Oh no…" Gabrielle moaned. "Don't tell me…another ex-lover, right?" How many were there? On top of Artie (loser!), Hank (can’t fault Zina here, the man is flawless), Ed (doesn't really count)…there was Callie (bitch!), Midge from the gas station (who kept calling Gabrielle "little lady," whenever she got gas—bitch!), Nancy, who managed the automotive section at the Wal-Mart and still gave Zina "discounts" not to mention lingering, lovestruck glances (bitch!)….

And then there was Lao Ma.

Lao Ma, the beautiful woman who ran the Green Dragon, the Chinese take-out restaurant, whose Hong Kong movie career did not take ("Don't even say the name Michelle Yeoh to me," she once murmured in her calm, menacing way to a customer who dared to ask), who always gave Zina vaguely obscene fortune cookies ("Lick a pearl every night to refine your oral skills") and who offered Gabrielle cryptic commentary whenever she would pick up their order ("Noodles are soft, but who could withstand the raging lo mein?").

Gabrielle sighed and seethed, hands on hips. "Well?"

I'm not talkin' about movin’ in...

Zina rubbed the back of her neck in that way she did when she was uncomfortable.

...and I don't want to change your life...

"Look, Zina, just tell me. Did ya lay her or not?"

...but there's a warm wind blowing and...

"Aw, shit, Gabrielle." Translation: Yes.

...blah blah blah blah...

"Jesus H. CHRIST in a frigging HAYSTACK, ZINA!!! How many are there? Will the REST OF MY LIFE be plagued by the PERIODIC UNCOVERING OF SOME PIECE OF ASS YOU SCREWED WHILE YOU WERE THE BIGGEST HO IN THE COUNTY?"

...and I'd really love to see you tonight...

"Uh, yeah, quite possibly," mumbled Zina.

***

"Oh, man," Cyrene moaned, burying her graying head in her hands. "Zina said I'd tell you everything about her and Julie Caesar?"

"Yeah, Cyrene, she's way too pissed to talk about it. We kinda fought about it." Gabrielle was in the farmhouse kitchen with Cyrene, Zina's mother, who sat at the kitchen table while Gabrielle put away groceries.

"'Kinda?'" Cyrene echoed sarcastically. When she had arrived on the scene Zina was tearing off on the Harley while Gabrielle was screaming after her, "You suck! And I don't mean in a good way either!" from the porch.

"Okay, you saw it. We fought. But just before she left she said you could explain everything." She tried to mask the nervousness in her voice. What would the raging Zina do? Would she get thrown out of "Hooters" again? Would more of Farmer Draco's errant livestock suffer at her murderous wheels? She needed the full story, so that she could help her lover rein in those sociopath tendencies. Not to mention her own jealousy.

"I need my bong," the older woman muttered, digging through her purse. With expert hands, she loaded the bong with pot contained in a little black plastic film canister. She lit up, and offered it to Gabrielle.

"No thanks, I only smoke when I study now." Gabrielle had decided to cut back on the pot-smoking for a while, ever since making the declaration in her Film Aesthetics course that Baseketball was "A Citizen Kane for the 90s."

"Okay," Cyrene sighed, "here we go. It all happened, oh, about 10 years ago. Or maybe it was 8. Or 5…."

Gabrielle rolled her eyes.

"Anyway, it was when Zina was still Bad." The way Cyrene said it, one automatically knew that "bad" began with a capital B.

"Oh…" replied the poet. While her voice retained a forced tone of neutrality, she squirmed in delight. Ooooh…bad = sexy. Sexy sexy sexy. Hello, my name is Gabrielle and I'm addicted to Bad Girls. I realize I am powerless over my addiction to sullen brunettes…

"Yeah, honey, she was Bad. What I'm about to tell you won't be pretty. But we Amphipolittis—like most Italians—have always been a honest, proud family, unashamed of our mistakes."

Gabrielle frowned. "I thought you guys were Greek."

"Whatever." Cyrene waved a bejeweled hand.

3. The Obligatory Flashback

As the Harley tore down the street, Zina was comforted by the cool .45 nestled against her trim waist. Ever since the last time she got out of jail, she had stopped carrying the gun all the time, just in case she got busted again, but whenever she saw her parole officer she brought it along. It was very effective to let the sweaty bastard catch a glimpse of the steel. It kept him off her back.

She pulled into the parking lot of the municipal building, where the his office was. She parked the bike and started to swagger toward the main entrance when an altercation near a white Volvo caught her attention. A grungy young man was trying to divest a yuppie-ish young woman of her ownership of said Scandinavian vehicle of marvel.

"C'mon, lady, hand over the goddamn keys. I got a gun." The dude had his back to Zina, who crept over to them, unnoticed.

The woman had a stylishly messy, Beatlesque haircut, and wore a blue rain slicker, chinos, and those very preppy LL Bean kinda shoes. Hey, is she a dyke or what? Zina thought, as she watched the woman arch an imperious eyebrow at her would-be assailant.

"I'm sorry," she replied in oily, unctuous tones, "but I'm unable to comply with your...rude request. You see, I just had my car cleaned, and I don't allow vermin inside."

"Vermin? What the hell are you talkin' about, lady? I ain't a deer!"

"Let me amend that. Stupid vermin."

The man gave a growl of rage, and as he reared back an arm to hit her, he found his limb ensnared in Zina's powerful grip.

"Hey, ya need this?" growled Zina, squeezing and twisting the arm painfully. With her other hand she pulled out the .45 and grazed it against his sweaty cheek. "I dunno if you have a gun, but I sure do, so I think you should get your sorry ass outta here right now."

Perhaps she only imagined it, perhaps it was wishful thinking, but Zina later thought that, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a rather fascinated—and pleased—look on the woman's face. Almost like she was turned on.

"Okay! Okay! Lemme go!!" he cried.

"No, no, wait a minute. First, you gotta squeal, like a pig."

"What? You outta your damn mind?"

She pressed the barrel into his cheek.

"Weeeee! Weeee! Soooo-EEEEEEE!!!"

Zina unleashed a demonic laugh. She released the sad man, this victim of her recent screening of Deliverance, and gave him a boot in the ass as he stumbled, then ran away. She was still laughing as she turned her attention to the woman who, despite the fact she wasn't blonde, was still kinda cute.

The woman examined her from head to toe, with no discernible emotion on her face except a detached yet intent curiosity. "Hmmm, I suppose I must thank you for your assistance," she murmured regretfully, as if she hated the thought of being indebted to anyone.

Zina transformed her smirk into a dazzling grin, as she decided to do the "aw shucks" routine, which usually charmed the pants off these suburban mom-potential-lesbo types. "Weren't nothin', ma'am. Glad to help."

The woman was not instantly charmed. She continued to look at Zina in that same dour, supercilious manner. "You're...interesting, for someone of your class."

"Class? I'm not in high school anymore, ma'am. But when I was, I would usually cut 'em."

"What's your name?"

"Zina."

"How intriguing. Like that strange alcoholic drink they market nowadays."

"Don't start with that." Zina dropped the cute act. She'd had enough Zima/Zina jokes to last a lifetime.

"I won't," the woman responded coolly.

Zina skulked a little. This wasn't going her way at all. "So, uh, what's your name?" she mumbled, striving for politeness.

The woman looked shocked. She smirked. "You mean you don't know who I am?" she asked, tone dripping with condescension.

Zina frowned. "No. Should I?"

"You should. For someday, the world of TV will be mine."

Zina wanted to roll her eyes. She'd heard this on a regular basis from Artie since his religion kick started.

"Tell me," the woman continued, "do you like steak au poivre?"

"Huh?"

The woman sighed. "Steak. Do you like steak?"

"Shit, lady, who doesn't?"

A business card was pulled from silver holder within the jacket. The card was handed to Zina. "Come to dinner this evening. We'll become aquainted." she nodded. "Until then." Then she was in the Volvo and driving away. Zina looked at the card. JULIE CAESAR. CHEF. CATERING. INTERIOR DECORATING. LIFE CHANGES.

The sexy felon gave a confident roll of her shoulders. "Damn, I still got the touch," she drawled to herself.

***

Usually she was reluctant to drive through the more affluent towns because she got hassled a lot by the local gendarmes. But she felt secure as she drove down a winding road in the scarily perfect village of Port Rome; she had a feeling that the business card nestled in her leather jacket would make any pig back off. This suspicion was confirmed when she pulled into the driveway of Julie Caesar's large, mock-Tudor home. She stopped the bike in front of the garage door, next to the Volvo parked there, and no sooner had she hopped off than she heard the furious barking of dogs.

Two large Dobermans rounded the corner of the house. The dogs paused and regarded her in the same supercilious manner that their owner had earlier in the day. Then, as if a light bulb went off over their collective little canine heads, they charged toward her.

Zina barely had a moment to jump, with unerring grace, on top of the Volvo. The dogs were deterred by this; they seemed reluctant to jump on the car, probably because she trained them not to, guessed the worried con. But they jumped and bounced around the vehicle unceasingly, barking, their jaws snapping. A vicious line of dog drool splattered angrily against one of her boots. Shit, I wish I brought my gun!

"Pompey! Crassus!" A woman's voice boomed from the walkway along the side of the house. Julie appeared, wearing a denim apron, frowning with disapproval at the beasts. "Heel!" she commanded.

Immediately the dogs were transformed into meek, whining creatures. They both sat down obediently, awaiting their mistress's next order.

Julie pointed toward the backyard. "Go!"

Tails between legs, the dogs galloped away.

Zina took a deep breath to calm her pounding heart. "Jesus, that's a real suburban kinda greeting."

"I'm sorry about that. They're angry that the steak I'm making is for you, not them." Julie smiled. Zina blinked. No, wait, she really smiled.

"Yeah, I guess they were just doing their job."

"They were. They don't get much excitement out here. They haven't attacked anyone in long time, poor dears." Julie sighed, and stroked her chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps I should go back to catching live rabbits for them...."

Zina's baby blues went wide with horror. "Rabbits?" Bunnies? Little fluffy bunnies? And people think I'm some bad-ass psycho?

"Yes," drawled Julie. "And once they kill them, I can make a lovely rabbit stew. Now do come inside."

"Okay." The con did not budge.

"Zina."

"Huh?"

"That means you have to get off my car. Please."

Once inside, Zina was sitting on the immaculate counter in the well-equipped kitchen, the kind she had only seen in magazines, where copper pots and pans hung from ceilings, where little chopping machines were neatly lined up like sentries, where there was a dishwasher...where everything gleamed. She fully expected her new friend to yell at her to get off the counter, but Julie merely smiled indulgently and handed her a cold bottle of beer. "Want a glass?" the hostess asked.

Zina's eyebrows furrowed. "For what?"

"Never mind."

Shrugging, Zina tried to read the label of the bottle she'd been handed. Except it was in French or something. "What the hell's this?"

"It's a pilsner."

"A what?" I thought she said it was beer.

"It's a kind of beer, my dear Zina. Try some. It's actually quite good."

"I will." She looked at Julie. "So, uh, you cook for a living?"

"Not exactly. I do many things. I cook. I entertain. I show people how to make their miserable lives worth living. I think it's useful."

Zina snorted. "Sounds like you got all the bases covered."

Julie raised a triumphant eyebrow. "I do. It's all one big marketplace when you look at it, but if you break it down, it's quite easy to conquer. Just remember, Zina: divide and conquer."

"Whatever." Zina sniffed the bottle suspiciously, and took a tiny sip. "Mmmm...not bad," she said with grudging surprise.

"I'm glad you like it. Now come into the living room."

Does she talk to everybody the way she talks to her dogs? wondered Zina as she followed Julie into the huge, rustic-looking living room. A fire blazed. The con stood and surveyed the living room with the same awe she did the kitchen. "Wow. Nice."

Julie indicated the couch next to the fireplace with a wave of her arm. "Sit."

"Uh, I'm okay standing."

"Really?" Another arching of the eyebrow.

I gotta learn to start doing that, it's kinda cool. "Yeah."

She wasn't prepared for the playful shove from the domestic dominatrix. "I said...sit." Zina landed on the couch with an oomph. Through much skill and experience, she managed not to spill the beer.

But Julie had a skill all her own. Before Zina knew it, her belt was unbuckled, then her jeans were unbuttoned, unzipped, and flying at half mast, around her knees.

Her body contracted in delight at her hostess's firm ministrations. I'm drinking beer and getting head all at once. I think I'm in heaven. If only the TV were on....Her eyes flickered to the remote sitting on the coffee table, just out of reach. She stretched out an arm in vain.

***

Gabrielle nearly choked on her fourth Pop Tart. "Ugh, Cyrene, she really told you...about the sex stuff?"

Cyrene had propped her weary head in one hand. "Yeah, honey, she did. Like, during that whole time period we both gave dysfunctional a bad name, you know? And she was so taken with Julie, so...she just couldn't help herself. I think she really dug the power trip Julie was on. She always liked chicks—and guys—like that: Powerful. So it's kinda surprising she fell for you."

Gabrielle scowled.

"No offense, honey. You know I think you're the best thing that's ever happened to her."

The poet was assuaged for the time being. "Thanks, Cyrene. But, uh, I was wondering—"

"What, Gabrielle?"

"Um. Well, Zina doesn't, you know, still tell you, uh, intimate details, does she? You know, like about her and me?"

Cyrene laughed and waved a hand. "Oh, no way, honey. We don't do that anymore."

"Heh." Gabrielle chuckled with relief. "That's good."

"I mean, she doesn't have to."

"What?" Gabrielle asked uneasily.

The older woman snorted. "Hell, honey, the fact that you have her limping and bowlegged about every week speaks volumes, doesn't it?"

Gabrielle buried her face in hands. Shit, I bet no one buys that "I hit a really bad pothole on my cycle" story....

There was a knock at the kitchen door. From the window both women could see red flashing lights. "Uh-oh," Cyrene mumbled, shoving her marijuana and all its accouterments in her purse, and making a mad dash for the upstairs. Gabrielle waited patiently for the older woman to make her getaway, then answered the door.

Zina stood scowling, arms folded, with a tall female police officer behind her, who was grinning under the penumbra of her big state trooper hat.

Gabrielle sighed. "Hi, Officer Minya."

"Hi, Gabby!" responded the cop enthusiastically. "I believe this big bundle of joy is yours." She tapped Zina’s arm with a nightstick. The firefighter snarled at her.

"Yeah," Gabrielle groaned, "it sure is. What was it this time?"

"Not drunk. Just disorderly conduct. Punched out some dude at the Saddle who said Sammy Sosa sucked."

"I’m tellin’ ya, McGwire is nothing but steroids!" roared Zina.

"Yeah, yeah, put a lid on it, smart ass. So whaddya wanna exchange for her this time, Gabby?" Two months ago, after a similar incident when Zina was accompanied home by Officer Minya, the policewoman delicately suggested that she would be willing not to let Zina sit in jail for a night if she could have something in exchange. Gabrielle had given her a chicken salad sandwich. Then another time it was left-over pizza. The poet frowned. This could not go on, she decided. Zina needed to be taught a lesson. "Okay, Minya. How about a whip?"

The cop’s eyes lit up. "Awesome!" she gurgled.

"No!" Zina wailed. "Not my whip!"

"Yes, missy, your whip!" Gabrielle cried triumphantly. "And if that don’t teach you to behave yourself and stop getting into fights, I’ll give Officer Minya your Harley next goddamned time!" With that, the poet stomped up to the bedroom, got the whip, and delivered it to Minya, who thanked her profusely and left.

Zina sulked at the kitchen table. "You just gave away my, my…pride and joy. My womanhood. My, uh…"

It always amused Gabrielle when her companion tried to get deep. "Lay off it, baby. You can always get another whip. Look, I know you’re pissed about this Julie chick, but let’s just try to think about this thing. Maybe we can get her to come around to our way of thinking." She grinned.

4. The Bimbo Bard

"I decided to be what crime made of me."—Jean Genet

"Consequences, schmonsequences. As long as I’m rich."—Daffy Duck

The usual suspects swarmed outside the studio where "Conquering with Cooking" was filmed every week. Julie eyed them with disdain: women, housewives old and young, mindlessly following her every dictate. She sighed with the burden of it all. When, she thought, will I see a fresh face, someone interesting, someone...

Her eyes fixed on someone near the end of the line. Like that. A young beauty. Strawberry blonde. Sucking a bottle of Nestle Quik through a straw. Young. Coquettish. Ah, my Lolita! thought Julie, as she surveyed the young woman, who was dressed like white trash, no doubt about it: green halter top, scandalously short shorts, little hiking boots from which gray and red tube socks peeked out mischievously. But her beauty easily defeated all those shortcomings. As her crimson lips wrapped around the straw yet again, her lovely gray-green eyes met Julie's.

With studied nonchalance Julie sauntered past the crowd, past the calls for her attention and the hands that tried to grab at her, to this nubile little goddess. "Hello," she greeted smoothly. "thank you for coming to the taping."

The girl nodded. "You're welcome."

"I don't think I've ever seen you here before."

"No, this is my first time," she replied with a charming giggle.

"Really?" Julie grew inquisitive. "Tell me why." Gently, she linked arms with the young woman and guided her away from the crowd. They turned the corner of the studio hallway, headed toward Julie's dressing room.

As soon as they cleared the crowd the woman had extracted her arm from Julie's. "I've become interested in you," she said to Julie, eyelashes fluttering like shadows of leaves against a sun-dappled window. Then she slowed to a halt and leaned against the wall, and resumed sipping her chocolate milk.

"I'm glad you've become interested in me, whatever the reason." Julie leaned with predatory possessiveness over the girl. She dragged a finger over the girl's taut abdomen, which rippled like a pond.

"You don't want to know why?" the girl asked, pouting slightly.

This should be interesting. She probably did my horoscope, and determined we were fated to meet. "Tell me."

"We have a mutual friend."

Julie raised her eyebrows: one in amusement, one in disbelief. Who could this waif possibly know among her acquaintances?

"You remember Zina, don't you?" The girl slurped at the drink again.

Julie's eyes narrowed and her spleen made a grinding noise, as if her intestines were mashing coffee beans. "Yes, I remember her very well. An exquisite lay, as I recall."

Gabrielle smirked. "Yes she is, isn't she?"

Julie sighed and straightened. "Now it all makes sense. All right, o concubine of Zina, what do you want?"

"I have a message from Zina: she wants half the profits from the mayonnaise deal, or she reveals your real name to the press."

Julie's nostrils flared. "She wouldn't dare," she rumbled.

Gabrielle smiled the smile of the triumphant. "Oh, wouldn't she, Hermoine Kaputnik?"

***

Zina's efforts at napping were futile. She lay stretched out in bed, staring at the ceiling, possessed by worrying. I never shoulda let Gabrielle go to Julie by herself. That crazy bitch probably cut her up and served her to those damn dogs…complete with a sprig of mint. Or would Gabrielle taste better with parsley? What the hell am I thinking?

She sat up expectantly when she heard the familiar death rattle of the Escort. A car door slammed. Silence. Then the front door opened, and Gabrielle's beloved bellow: "ZINA!"

"Up here," she called down to the poet. Then she heard Gabrielle galloping up the steps. And then she was there, in the doorway, grinning at her.

She melted. She always did, at that smile. Always would. Ever since I saw her across a crowded, smelly bar…and she smiled at me, without even knowing me. How the hell could I not love…that?

"I got good news and bad news," Gabrielle was saying.

"Bad first," the firefighter quickly replied.

"Okay. The bad news is that Barbecue-Salsa Mayonnaise is going under. They're discontinuing it 'cause of poor sales."

"Well, I ain't surprised," Zina snorted. "She probably didn't make it right!" Damn Julie. She musta put in too much salsa….

Gabrielle decided it was best not to go there. She continued: "But the good news is this."

She pulled a wad of cash out of the pocket of her Levi’s jacket. "Payoff. Your half of what she already made."

"How much?"

"Nine hundred." She walked over to the bed, and tossed the money, all 10s and 20s (Julie had gotten the cash from an ATM), into the air. As the bills fell and scattered like leaves, Gabrielle jumped onto her lover. They fell back on the bed in an embrace.

"Blackmailing is fun, baby. No wonder you love being bad," Gabrielle said, after a long and breathless kiss.

"Don't enjoy it too much, Gabrielle. I don't want you ending up in jail."

"I won't. I'm just kidding." The poet indulged in nibbling the firefighter's firm neck. "So can we go on vacation now?"

"Sure…with money like this, hell, we could afford a Holiday Inn."

"Hey, " she said, surveying the money-covered bed, "this is just like that movie…Indecent Proposal." She regarded Zina with lust-glazed eyes. "Which is pretty cool, stud…'cause I got a very indecent proposal for you…."

"Gabrielle, the way you walk down the street is an indecent proposal all by itself…."

"You always say the sweetest things to me!"

***

"Mom, get the fuck off the car." Zina tossed a duffelbag into the open trunk of the Impala. Cyrene was lying on the hood of the car, taking in the early morning sun and meditating…or falling asleep, depending on one's religious beliefs or lack thereof.

"Oh come on, man," the older woman grumbled, not moving.

"Let her go, Zina. She's not doing anything." Gabrielle said from the car’s interior, where she had been sitting for an hour: She was that excited. The passenger door was opened and her legs were stretched out. A curled, worn paperback copy of On the Roadlay in her lap. "Are we ready yet?" she asked her beloved for the millionth time.

Zina slammed shut the trunk. "Yeah, I think so." She walked over to the hood, where Cyrene, sun warming her face, had drifted off into half-sleep, half-sixties flashback: heeeeere comes…the Suuuuun Kiiiiiiing….But her daughter's gruff voice cut into her paisley and psychedelic subconscious: "Okay you, listen up," grunted Zina. She dropped a set of house keys on Cyrene's stomach. "Water Gabrielle's plants everyday."

"And don't forget the plant food," added the poet.

Incense and peppermint…da da da da…

"Right," continued Zina. "And make sure there's food on the back porch for the cats. And give them fresh water every day. Oh, and call the gas company about checking the meter. Cancel my fly-fishing trip with Ed. And cancel my dentist appointment too. Call Tommy Ray at the fire department and tell him that if anyone uses my ax while I'm gone, they're dead. And make sure you call Lila and tell her that Gabrielle can't babysit for her on Thursday."

Cyrene smiled beatifically.

"You got all that, Mom?"

Cyrene opened her eyes, blinking. Whether blinded by the sun or a hashish brownie, she realized that she was talking to Grace Slick, and it was 1967. But why was Grace calling her "Mom"? Oh, it was all so confusing sometimes…poor Grace, fucked up again. Just humor her, Cyrene. So she crossed her fingers for good luck. "Consider it done."

Zina stared at her dazed and confused mother. "Gabrielle, your plants are gonna die."

Cyrene sat up, and slid off the Impala. "Okay, time to get ready for the Filmore."

"Oh boy," Zina sighed, and quickly hugged her mother. "See you in a week, Mom."

Gabrielle stood up and did likewise, in addition planting a kiss on Cyrene's cheek. "Yeah, Cyrene, see ya."

Cyrene stared at Gabrielle. "And Julie Christie too?" she muttered, wandering back to the farmhouse.

"You think she'll be okay?" wondered the poet.

"Yeah, she'll sleep it off." Zina slid an arm around her lover's shoulders. "Ready?"

Gabrielle turned to face her. "Yeah. This is so awesome, baby. A road trip. Just like Kerouac and those guys." She looked at her book. "A trip into the heart of darkness. The heart of America. A voyage into self-discovery." She stuffed the book down her jeans, then took Zina's face in her hands. "I am Kerouac, and you are my Neal Cassady," she intoned solemnly. "Dig?"

The beautiful blue eyes were a tabula rasa. "Yeah."

"You don't know what the hell I'm talking about, do you?"

"No."

Gabrielle kissed her. "I love you anyway." Reluctantly she let her hands slide from Zina's face, and the firefighter walked over to the driver's side of the car.

"But you know," Gabrielle continued, "Kerouac, writing in his diary, called himself 'the buckeye bard.' I'd like to have a title like that, someday."

Zina eyed Gabrielle's tight halter top and skimpy shorts. "How about 'the bimbo bard'?"

As she sprinted away from the car, with Gabrielle close at her heels and threatening serious tickling, she thought, once again, damn, I am so whipped.

5. The Heart of Darkness

"American black hole…

Life’s too sweet to eat like candy"

—Girls Against Boys, "Black Hole"

It was like being in the Twilight Zone: Every rest stop was the same, except perhaps that this one had a Burger King, and that one had a Hardee's, and yet another one had a Sbarro's…Gabrielle fought her disgusted way out of the all-too-moist bathroom (everything seemed wet: floors, counters, toilet seats…) and into the parking lot.

Zina was leaning against the Impala, mirrored sunglasses firmly in place, growling at anyone who got too close to the car.

"Okay, let's go." Gabrielle tossed her purse in through the open window.

They both climbed into the car. The firefighter sat in front of the wheel, unmoving.

"Baby, you okay?" Gabrielle asked, touching her beloved's leg.

"Gabrielle, I want you to know…we're entering dangerous territory here."

The poet frowned. "Dangerous how?"

Zina took a deep breath. "We're in Tennessee now."

"Well, yeah, so what?"

Zina turned in her seat, and took Gabrielle's hand. "You've noticed the radio signals are getting weaker."

"Yeah…so?"

"Gabrielle, very soon…" The taciturn firefighter simply didn't know how else to put it. "Very soon we may be stuck with nothing but country music stations."

Her fair-haired companion, however, set her jaw in determination. "I thought so, Zina. I know it'll be tough, but…I think we can handle it."

6. Postcards from America: An Excerpt from Gabrielle's On-the-Road Journal

At first it was even kinda fun. We just kept making fun of the songs they played. Like on two-shot Tuesday they were playing Bonnie Tyler, and I made up lyrics to her songs: "I Need a Hero" became "I Need a Homo" and "Total Eclipse of the Heart" became "Total Eclipse of the Brain." Zina laughed and that was good. But as the day dragged on it got harder and harder.

And today was the second day without real music. If I hear another Clint Black song I'll kill someone. I hate country music for making me want to listen to Hanson again.

I'm writing this at a diner. Zina and I aren't really speaking right now, 'cause she did something really horrible. Earlier she had to make an "emergency stop" so she pulled over along some road and ran into the woods like a jackrabbit. While I sat there I decided to read a little of On the Road again and started looking for it. but I couldn't find it. It wasn't on the floor, wasn't in the back, or in the glove compartment. I was totally confused until Zina came back. By this time I was standing outside the car. As she walked toward me I noticed something sticking out of her back pocket: It was my book!

I'm not so naive as to think she really wanted something to read while doing number 2. So I said, "Why do you have my book?"

She looked nervous and just shrugged. "I dunno," she said. She is the worse liar ever.

I snatched it out of her pocket, and immediately noticed that a big chunk of the book was gone...then it dawned on me.

She didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed.

7. If You're Feeling Sinister

"So if you're feeling sinister

Go off and see a minister

He'll try in vain to take away the pain of being a hopeless unbeliever..."

—Belle and Sebastian, "If You're Feeling Sinister"

Zina parked in the furthest recesses of the lot. "I don't wanna risk the car getting scratched," she said to her sulky companion.

They were at a mall. A mall that had a Barnes & Noble. Zina knew that this was the only way she could get her girlfriend to start talking to her again: If she took Gabrielle to a bookstore and bought her a brand-spanking-new copy of On the Road.

But Gabrielle sat, arms crossed, unmoving.

"Come on, baby," Zina cajoled gently. "It'll be a nice new copy...I know the old one had your notes in it..."

Gabrielle glared at her.

"...And a love sonnet addressed to me..." the firefighter admitted guiltily.

The poet sighed melodramatically.

"Yeah, I know, I'm totally unworthy of you, but I am sorry, and I'll buy you whatever you want."

Gabrielle was out of the car and jogging toward the bookstore.

Feeling relieved, Zina locked up the Impala and sauntered toward the entrance. However, her satisfaction did not last long. A Barnes & Noble minion handed her a flyer as she entered the superstore, and normally she would not have even read it except for the photo of a certain grinning blonde psychopath: "Reverend Callie de Ash reads from her first book, I Didn't Find God But He Sure Did Find Me, today, at 3 pm."

A clock on the wall indicated that it was twenty till 3.

Zina cursed softly. Although not so softly that the underpaid lackey did not hear her say, "Son of a goddamn fucking bitch."

Quickly she paced through the maze of the monolithic store, looking for Gabrielle. She had wandered in the huge but desolate Art section when she felt a hand snag her arm and, with surprising force, pull her down. She flopped into an overstuffed chair. Why is this whole place like someone's goddamn living room, she thought irritably, as she looked up...into Callie's face. The blonde, wearing a dark brown skirt and matching suit jacket, grinned down at her. "Will wonders ever cease," she sighed. "Thank you, Lord!" she cried with a heavenward glance.

"Callie."

"Hello, precious!" Callie crooned, once again settling her eyes on her prey. The mad minister straddled Zina's lap. "It's so nice to see you again...even though the last time we met you tried to crush my foot." She caressed Zina's chiseled cheek with a finger.

"Stop it, Callie. It was an accident," replied the firefighter through gritted teeth.

"Yeah, yeah, just like burning down my house was an accident. But my time with the Lord has shown me forgiveness, and I do forgive you, Zina. Verrry much," she purred, grinding against a taut thigh.

"That's great...Callie," Zina whispered. Oh boy, if Gabrielle sees this I am in big trouble...not even all the books in the world would get me out of this jam. "Please...let me go."

"What? You're not gonna stay for my reading?"

"I, uh, Gabrielle and I are on vacation..."

Callie stopped lap dancing for a moment. "You mean...oh, of course the little tart would be along. Honestly, Zina, I don't know what you see in her. But I bet I could show you something much better..."

Even through her industrial strength Levi's, Zina could feel the heat of her desire, so much so that..."Callie?"

"Yes, my raven-haired wonder?"

"Are…you…wearing underwear?"

Callie giggled. "Panties are the devil's diapers, my pretty."

I just had to ask.

Suddenly, from the next aisle, they heard a man's voice: "Callie?"

"Oh great, it's my agent," Callie whispered. "He's coming this way." She looked at Zina. "Don't say anything, just play along." She clamped her hands to Zina's face much like one of those little monster spawn from the Alien movies. The firefighter’s head was immobile, thus, she could not turn to see his approach. "The power of Christ compels you!" Callie shouted as he rounded the corner.

"Callie, what are you doing?" demanded a male voice.

"Sweet baby Jesus, Bob, can't you see I'm in the middle of a healing?" she snapped, glaring at him. Then she turned her eyes to Zina once again. "Sister, let the Lord take away your torment and pain—I cast thee out, demons! Beelzebub! Mephistopheles! You are no match for me!"

"So, like, what's wrong with her?" Bob interrupted again.

"Brain tumor."

"Oh." Bob sounded disappointed, perhaps expecting something more exciting, like paralysis or leprosy.

Zina grew desperate. Callie's sweaty palms were suctioned to her head, and she had to find Gabrielle and get the hell out of this crazy place. "I feel it, I feel it!" she shouted.

"You do?" cried Callie, wrapped up in make-believe.

"Yes, I do, Callie! Praise God! I AM HEALED!" By sheer force of will, she catapulted herself out of the chair and Callie tumbled to the floor, legs up in the air, skirt revealing her valley of heaven.

"Oh wow..." Bob murmured appreciatively, as Zina galloped away.

She sprinted down to the first floor of the store, and spotted Gabrielle sitting, with a bag of books, slurping some fine overpriced coffee drink from the espresso bar. She smiled at Zina's rapid approach. "Hi, I just got done, and you know, these flappacinos aren't half bad..."

Zina snatched the large bag of books, grabbed Gabrielle's hand, and pulled her toward the door.

"Baby, I know you hate shopping, but don't you think this is kinda extreme?"

"Not now, Gabrielle, I tell you once we get to the car."

"Zina, what's that wet stain on your leg?"

8. Chuck Connors, Here We Come

The highway was endless. The driver was edgy.

"Zina, relax. We only got two more exits to go."

The firefighter sighed heavily. They were already doing 70, but it felt like 40. With the tiniest contraction of her foot, the speedometer approached 75. It made her feel better. Until she looked in the rear-view mirror, and saw the flashing red lights. "Shit!" she yelled.

Gabrielle looked up from her copy of The Dharma Bums. "Huh?" She turned around. "Uh-oh. Well what do you expect, Zina? You're speeding."

"Goddamnit, if they find out I have a record, I'll get hassled to no end..."

"Don't worry, honey, they won't," Gabrielle assured her as they pulled over.

Zina pounded her head against the steering wheel. "How do you know?" she wailed uncharacteristically, as the large patrolman lumbered toward the Impala. I swore I would never go back to jail….This would be just like one of those old Chuck Connors movies, Escape from Macon County or whatever. They'll lock her up on trumped-up charges, she'll get raped by the inbred deputy, Gabrielle will get sent to the mental institution and they’ll give her a lobotomy and/or electro-shock therapy, and…and…they’ll trash the Impala!

The state trooper's pink face was framed in the driver's side window. "Y'all speeding," he mumbled, eyes unseen behind the mirrored sunglasses.

Zina's own sunglasses mirrored his own mirrored visage. Her jaw clenched.

"Can ah see your license?"

She dug through her Levi's and produced her license.

"Huh," he snorted softly.

Gabrielle scooted closer to her lover. A little too close, Zina thought. Oh shit...what is she up to?

"Where you going in such a hurry, ma'am?" the officer asked.

"Just visiting friends," muttered Zina.

"And whut friends would those be, ma'am?"

"Is there a problem, officer?" Gabrielle drawled. She leaned forward a little, so that he could hear her clearly and see her cleavage. She wiggled provocatively.

"Not yet, miss." Hey, how come I get called ma'am and she gets called miss? wondered the perpetually pissed-off firefighter. "I'm just tryin’ to ascertain here, what the situation is," he said in ominous doublespeak.

"Aw, officer, we ain't doing nothing wrong, we didn't mean to speed," Gabrielle pouted. Oh, I get it. She’s just flirting with him, so he’ll go easy on us. Lessen the fine. "We can't help it. We're just excited."

"Excited by what, may I ask?"

Suddenly Gabrielle flung her arms around Zina's neck, and pressed her curvaceous form close to her beloved. "Why officer, me and sweet pea are gettin' married in Memphis!"

The closeness of her sunglasses prevented Zina's eyes from totally bugging out of her head. Okay, now I have no idea what she’s doing. Chuck Connors, here we come.

The patrolman sputtered. "Whut in Sam Hill you talkin' about? You're both girls! You—you—can’t get married!"

Gabrielle gave her best wide-eyed innocent look. "But officer, didn't you know? Tennessee now allows same-sex marriages!" she nuzzled Zina's hair. "Isn't that right, sugar booger?"

"Uh...huh," Zina mumbled the reply, wondering if there was some quick way she could simply kill the patrolman and be done with it.

"Aw, come on now, lady!"

"No, it’s true! Don’t you read your newspaper?" Gabrielle chastised.

He frowned. No, just the sports page, he admitted.

"See?"

"I'll be damned! This whole country's goin' to hell in a handbasket, I swear!" the trooper spat.

I know...whip off his glasses and stab him in the neck, just like the one guy did to the other in the Godfather Part III. Zina allowed her hand to stray out the window…

"Now, sir, that's no way to speak to a lady on her weddin' day!" Gabrielle pouted anew.

The power of the pout was one of the poet's greatest weapons. Duly chastised, the trooper apologized. "Look miss, no offense, but...I just don't get it."

"Don't get what?" Gabrielle asked.

He threw his arms up in frustration. "Y'all are both girls!"

Finally, Zina spoke. "Look, buddy," she said to him, arms around the flawless midriff of Gabrielle, "let me put it this way. If you were me, wouldn't you want to marry her too?"

"I...I..." he stammered, hypnotized by the green eyes of the beautiful poet. "Never mind. Just fergit it. Just fergit the whole damn thing. Have a nice honeymoon."

"Thanks, officer!" Gabrielle chirped happily. She lurched into the back seat, and brought forth a bag of Krispy Kremes. "Wanna doughnut?"

Well, he thought, warily accepting a powdered jelly doughnut, maybe homos aren’t so bad after all.

9. The Twinkie Defense

Several hours later, the Impala was creeping along a dirt road in scenic, rural Tennessee, in search of the elusive recording studio where Effie and the Amazons were holed up, recording their second CD.

The radio had been abandoned. Zina was so desperate for half-decent music that she permitted Gabrielle to sing every song she knew from Meatloaf’s "Bat Out of Hell" album. The musically challenged poet was currently winding her way through "Paradise By the Dashboard Light": "I gotta know right now, do you love me, will you love me forever—hey, Zina, doesn’t that guy up there look like Elvis?" Off in the distance was a figure standing on the left side of the road.

"Told you not to eat all those doughnuts, Gabrielle."

"No, look!"

Sure enough, standing innocently at the side of the isolated, back-country road, as if he were nothing more exotic than a sparrow, was an Elvis. He resembled 1970s Elvis: chubby, with the spingle-spangle-shiny white suit, lots of jewelry, an unnaturally jet-black pompadour, and big fat shades.

The Impala rolled to a halt beside him.

"Howyoudoin’, ladies," he murmured, index finger and thumb cocked, like a gun.

"Fine, Elvis, how are you?" Gabrielle responded politely.

Zina gave her a Look. Then she addressed Elvis. "Hey, uh, you wouldn’t happen to know where Jimmy Joe Bob Hightower’s studio is?" Jimmy Joe Bob was the Amazons’ producer.

"Youbetcha, ladies. Down this here road just another mile. First turn on the right. Can’t miss it."

"Thanks," Zina said with a nod.

"No, thankyou. Thankyouverymuch." With one fluid motion he flung the white scarf around his neck through the car window, where it landed on Zina’s lap. The firefighter bit the inside of her cheek in an effort not to scream in pure disgust. She let it slide off her legs, onto the floor.

"Bye, Elvis!" Gabrielle waved.

Zina put the car back into drive and they continued down the road. They were quiet for at least a minute.

"Maybe we’ve both had too much sugar," Zina conceded.

"Yeah. Maybe we should lay off the sweet stuff for awhile and just eat potato chips."

***

The sight of Effie waving frantically from the balcony of the large wood house almost sent both women into tears of relief. Zina allowed herself to collapse over the wheel—after the car was stopped and parked, of course.

Then the squealing began. Effie had sprinted down the stairs and ran outside to greet Gabrielle, who jumped out of the passenger side. Soon they were jumping up and down like rabbits on crack, shrieking with joy at the sight of one another. Pony and Sally had wandered outside as well, and contributed to the cacophony of camaraderie.

Zina, eyes closed, head pressed against the steering wheel, weary from driving 8 hours straight, moaned. And this is a goddamn vacation? She tried to block out the jabber of voices and relax for a moment.

She had almost succeeded, when a voice a scant three inches from her eardrum shouted: "HEY YOU DAMN OLD GOOFY-ASSED MOTHER!"

Her head snapped back and her eyes popped open.

Hank was leaning in the window, grinning at her. "Heh, got ya," he chuckled. He pulled away just in time to avoid the furious swipe of her hand. "Hey now, Z, take it easy." She was out of the Impala in a nanosecond. "Car looks great. How’d it drive?" he asked, trying to change the subject. But he knew, seeing the wicked grin on her face, that it was too late.

"Start running, you sonofabitch," she growled pleasantly.

And, with a whoop of joy, he did.

10. The Best Freaky Trip Ever

Sally placed a hamburger in front of Zina, who sat at the picnic table in the backyard. The friends were having a barbecue. Pony and Hank were at the grill, and Sally was serving while Effie made potato salad in the kitchen. "So, did ya see my uncle Pete out there?"

"Huh?" Zina was sufficiently distracted by the question that it afforded Gabrielle the opportunity to swipe the burger from under her lover’s nose. "Hey, you pig!"

"Is that any way to talk to the love of your life?" Gabrielle sniffled with mock tears.

"Yeah, when she eats all my food."

Gabrielle grinned. "So what’s this about Uncle Pete?"

"Did you happen to see Elvis on your way here?"

"Holy shit! Yes!" cried Gabrielle.

Sally smiled proudly. "Well, that was my Uncle Pete. Best Elvis impersonator this side a’ this Mississippi. I sent him out earlier to look for you guys, in case you got lost."

"Wow, it’s nice to know I wasn’t hallucinating," Zina said, who had earlier wondered if, due to her mother’s drug proclivities, she was genetically predisposed to spontaneous freaky trips.

"No, you weren’t," Sally laughed. "I just had to keep him occupied. He’s been driving us crazy, keeps doing his lounge act for us every night, wants to marry us all—"

"Marry?" blurted Gabrielle.

"Yeah, he’s a minister too. He wanted to get Hank and Effie hitched, then he even said he marry me and Pony." Sally rolled her eyes.

"Crazy dude," affirmed Zina, with a swig of beer; bored, she wandered over to the grill to hassle Hank and Pony. It was then that Sally noticed that Gabrielle looked as if she had been hit by a lightning bolt.

***

Zina was firmly pinned to the bed by Gabrielle’s weight. Her wrists were ensnared by the poet’s hands and pressed into the mattress. Gold hair tumbled in her face, and Gabrielle’s scent was sweet, intoxicating…

"Come on, Zina," purred the poet.

"Hmmm?"

"Make an honest woman out of me."

"You’re already an honest woman, Gabrielle."

"Don’t avoid the question."

"Who’s avoiding?"

"You are, bitch."

"It don’t prove anything. It’s not legal."

"I know, I know. But it’s symbolic, ya know? Like showing your love…"

"I love you."

"Prove it."

"Why do I have to?" A challenging arch of a black eyebrow. "Don’t ya believe me?"

Gabrielle paused. Well, that’s a good point. She touched her lover’s face. Oh, I do believe you. And I don’t need to hear a Celine Dion song to know it either. She smiled. Then she nodded slowly. She relaxed her predatory crouch and stretched along the length of Zina’s body, resting her head against a strong shoulder. So, it doesn’t really matter. But…what the hell? It might be fun.

***

Hank wrapped an empty can of Bud in one of Elvis’s disposable white scarves, placed it on the ground, and jumped on it. Up and down. Several times. "Mazeltov!" he roared.

Effie laughed. "You’re not Jewish, you!"

Hank smiled. "Come on, honey, you gotta get in the spirit of the thing."

She grabbed his arm and squeezed it. "I think…there’s been way too much spirit—or spirits—already, Hank," she commented wryly, surveying the twilight backyard.

The tape deck blared as Sally and Pony danced around, and Elvis—a.k.a. Uncle Pete—approached the newlyweds: Gabrielle sat in Zina’s lap, while the firefighter’s head lolled back on the lounge chair, as the two six-packs she drank before the ceremony were really kicking in and seriously impairing her ability to move.

"Congratulations," said Uncle Pete. "I’m sure y’all will be very happy."

"Thank you, Elvis," replied Gabrielle solemnly. "It was a beautiful ceremony."

"Yes ma’am, it was. The weather was perfect, and, you know, I don’t perform that special love medley for just any couple."

"Oh, I know, I know. It was just…great. I’m sorry Zina fell down during it."

"That’s all right, little lady. Y’all take care, now." And he went back into the house.

A pithy one-liner fought its way through twelve Rolling Rocks to Zina’s conscious mind. "Ladies and gentleman, Elvis has left the backyard!" she slurred. She peered at Gabrielle. Who had flowers in her hair. "Did I tell you how pretty you are?"

"About a million times. But keep telling me."

"And I said ‘I love you’ and ‘I do’ and all that stuff?"

"Yeah, Zina."

"So I got it all right?"

"You sure did, baby. Now I’d like you to sober up a bit so our wedding night is not a total bust."

"So we’re…married?" Zina gazed at Gabrielle in pure wonder.

"Yeah. Kinda."

"But not…really." Trying to wrap her drunken mind along the elusive concept was too much.

"Right."

"So we’re both married and not married."

"Gotta love this country, huh?"

"Yeah, but…Gabrielle?"

"Huh?"

"It’s not so bad, is it?"

Gabrielle looked around her. Her friends were happy, and their laughter rang out through the yard. The setting sun slanted and tinged the fading blue sky with gold.

Blue skies, blue eyes. "No," she replied softly. "It’s not bad at all."

In fact, it was pretty damn good.

THE END

#xena #xena warrior princess #xena/gabrielle #xena/gabrielle fanfiction #author: vivian darkbloom #mature #femslash #fanfiction

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name-me-regret · 5 years

Text

Second Star To The Right - Chapter 2

Second Star To The Right Chapter Two

Author’s Note: I’m going by a limited knowledge of Central Park and the landscape of Heckscher Playground and ballfields, so bare with me.

Summary: Harley returns to the park...

Read it on AO3.

- - - -

“Baby hair with a woman's eyes I can feel you watching in the night All alone with me and we're waiting for the sunlight When I feel cold, you warm me And when I feel I can't go on, you come and hold me It's you and me forever...”

~Sara smile - Hall & Oates

- - - -

June 07, 2019 (Friday)

He hadn’t wanted to go, but his sister had been begging him, and he felt bad for turning her down when she rarely asked for something. Harley didn’t want to admit that he was a bit afraid to go, and he shouldn’t be. He was almost fifteen years old, in three days actually, so he couldn’t be a baby anymore.

So, he’d gotten them dressed for the warm weather and headed out, but made sure it was close to the time classes let out here. The school term in Tennessee had ended on May 23, but here it didn’t end until almost the end of June. He and Abbie were starting the new school year in New York, and that meant they had an extra month of summer vacation, since the school term this year started until September and not August.

Honestly, Harley would have preferred to have a normal two month summer if that meant they still had their mama with them.

Harley shook himself of his dark thoughts, since he needed to concentrate on being fine so as not to make Abbie sad. Their lives were now in New York, Tennessee a distant memory that was best forgotten. There was nothing waiting for them there anymore. This was home now.

The teen made sure to steer clear of going anywhere near Rat Rock, and it wasn’t hard since Central Park was so large. So, he had picked Heckscher Playground as their intended destination, and went with the hope that Harley wouldn’t meet with Peter again.

Abbie shrieked and his head snapped up, but calmed down when he saw that she was just on the swing. He frowned when he saw a boy about his age pushing her, and tensed as he shot to his feet when he realized it was that strange boy from the other day, Peter.

The fourteen year old had been sitting on top of the wooden fence while he read a book on mechanical engineering, it was college level, but it was easy for him to understand. That’s the reason he was going to go to Midtown Tech this coming school year. Now he gave no care to the book as he dropped it as he ran toward them.

“Hey!” Harley shouted. Abbie had let herself fly off the swing and landed unsteadily on the sand. They were almost the only ones there, but it was starting to fill up. Both of them look at him, seeing as Peter’s brown eyes lit in recognition.

“Heya, Harley,” he chirped. He seemed to be wearing the same clothes, and again he wondered how he wasn’t sweating out of his skin wearing the pullover. Hell, Harley was hot in his t-shirt and jeans. “I was wondering if I’d see you again.”

Harley eyed him carefully as he pulled Abbie against him, the girl squirming in his hold. “Harley, he was just pushing me on the swing! He wasn’t doing anything,” she protested.

He gave her a glare. “He’s a stranger, Abbie. Remember what mama taught us about strangers,” he told her, wincing a moment later when her face fell.

Abbie wiped at her suddenly wet eyes. “Well, she’s dead now, so what does it matter?” she snapped, shoving him hard enough to knock him down before running off.

“Abbie!” Harley shouted, scrambling to his feet before he ran after her. She’d gotten a head start while he’d been getting up, having climbed over the wooden fence and running full tilt toward the trees and in the direction of the ballfields. After a moment, he realized that there was someone keeping pace with him and glared at Peter. “What the hell do ya want?”

Peter shrugged as he easily kept pace, a grin starting to spread over his face the longer he ran. “I’ll help you find her! She’s a pretty cute kid,” he said. Harley grit his teeth, since he didn’t want the strange kid to follow them, but Harley had lost sight of her and it’d be easier to find her if two people were looking for her.

When he lost sight of Peter as well, both of them going in different directions, he cursed and wished he’d have remembered to get his number so they could call one another if they found her. He found himself in the baseball field, following the sounds of people, and hoped she had gone in the direction of civilization and not where the trees increased. When he didn’t see her among the people that looked to be starting a game, he deflated, turned and started to go back in the direction he’d came.

“Harley!” He stopped and turned to the left, and sighed in relief when he saw Peter and Abbie as they ran toward them. “I found her!”

It had been only ten or twenty minutes, but it had seemed to be a lifetime for Harley as he snatched her up in his arms, holding her tightly to his chest. “Don’t you ever do that to me again,” he gasped against the strands of her blonde hair. He didn’t think he could stand losing her as well. Harley would just lay down and let himself die, he was sure.

“I’m sorry,” Abbie mumbled when he finally set her down. “I realized I didn’t know how to get back home five minutes after I ran off, but by then I was lost.” She grinned at Peter who had been loitering around as they had hugged, crouching down to examine a twig that he seemed to be trying to pick up but missing. It was really strange.

“Hey... thanks for finding her,” Harley said, because even if this kid was super strange, he had helped find Abbie.

Peter had jumped up as he beamed at him and Harley felt his face start to heat up, because even if he was a weirdo, he was super cute. “Sure! I didn’t want her to get lost in the woods and be carried off by the fairies,” he told him.

Harley frowned. “Fairies?” he snorted. “Fairies aren’t real.”

The smaller boy, whom was a few inches shorter than him he noticed, jumped forward as he nodded. “But they are! They stole me away, they did!”

Harley pulled Abbie back and behind him. “I think we should go.”

Peter deflated. “You don’t believe me,” he sighed. He turned away, shoulders hunched, mumbling something he couldn’t hear. Harley strained his ears and finally picked up a few words. “I fancied you’d return the way you said, but I grow old and I forget your name. I think I made you up inside my head.”

He glanced back at them, seeing Abbie looking at him with childish curiosity, and Harley had gotten that defensive, wary look from the other night. “Fairies are real... if you eat what they off you, you’ll never be able to return.” He started to walk toward the trees, picking up pace until he was running when he reached the first one and Harley thought he was imagining things when he seemed to disappear.

“Whoa! Maybe he really was a fairy!” Abbie shouted, so he knew he hadn’t imagined that.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, grabbing his sister’s hand and pulling her away and back toward the park. Happy was due to pick them up soon and he was officially freaked out. He was sure he wouldn’t be returning to the park anytime soon after that.

- - - -

When they returned to the tower, they entered the elevator as they made their way up to the penthouse. Harley was surprised when a woman entered the elevator on the 97 floor, the same one Tony had been in before. “Oh, hello,” she greeted with a smile. She was beautiful with straight brown hair and glasses that she had hooked on the collar of her shirt.

“Hi! Are you a stranger?” Abbie greeted, making Harley laugh at the unexpected question.

The woman smiled, winking at Harley. “Aa a matter of fact, I am.” She held her hand for the little girl to shake. “My name is May. I’m a friend of Tony’s, what’s your name?”

Abbie looked at Harley as she shook the woman’s hand. “She’s Abbie, and I’m Harley,” he told the woman. He remembered Tony telling him that they might meet his friend May might suddenly, since she tended to visit the tower often.

May took his hand in a handshake, the door of the elevator opening as all three of them stepped into the penthouse. “It’s nice to meet you, Harley, Abbie,” she said, smiling after the little girl as she bounced out and toward the kitchen. “I was hoping to speak with Tony, actually. Do you know if he’s in? He’s not answering his phone.”

Harley and May walked toward the kitchen where the little girl had started to take out the things for making a sandwich. “I’m not sure. I can go see if he’s in his room, if you want?”

She nodded. “That would be great. Thank you.”

Harley hurried down the hallway that led to their private rooms, listening as Abbie started to talk with May. He heard her asking why she was here, but he got too far away to hear the woman’s answer.

“Tony, are you here?” Harley called as he knocked on his door.

The door opened and he saw the man toweling his hair, having just gotten out of the shower. “What’s up kid? I thought you had gone to the park with Abbie.”

Harley shrugged. “And now we’re back. Answer your phone, old man. Your friend May has been calling you.”

Tony tossed the towel in the laundry chute and stepped out. He was wearing dark grey sweats with the MIT logo on them and a black MIT shirt. “I was in the shower.” He reached out as he smacked Harley in the back of the head lightly. “Respect your elders, brat.”

The teenager snorted. “Sure,” he said as he followed Tony.

“May, I’m sorry I didn’t hear you call,” he said. The woman came over and both the adults headed back toward the elevator, and Harley wasn’t able to make out much expect ‘no response’ and ‘I can’t take it, Tony’. He couldn’t really understand what was happening or what they were talking about, but the woman that had smiled at them seemed distressed. It seemed she’d been pretending so as not to worry them with whatever had her so distraught. Adults always seemed to do that.

“I made you a sandwich, Harls,” Abbie said with a smile, sliding a plate with a sandwich. It was likely peanut butter and jelly, which he wasn’t a fan of. Even then, he took it and took a bite, glancing at the two adults as they spoke of hushed tones by the elevator.

“I asked May about fairies,” Abbie suddenly said.

Harley swallowed the bite he’d taken, taking a sip of the milk she’d poured him. “Yeah? What’d she say?”

Abbie bit into her sandwich, chewing as she tried to remember what the woman had said. When she swallowed, she drank some of her milk. “She told me there’s a poem she knows that has to do with fairies. It goes.... Come away, o human child... uh to waters and wild... I forgot the rest.”

“Come away, O human child!”

Both of them turned to see Tony had returned, minus May.

“To the waters and the wild. With a faery, hand in hand, for the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand,” he recited. “It’s a poem called The Stolen Child by a poet called W.B. Yeats.”

He leaned against the counter, stealing the rest of Harley’s sandwich as he took a bite out of it. Harley didn’t much care, since he didn’t really like PB&J sandwiches. “Did May teach you that?”

Abbie nodded. “Yeah! I asked her about fairies and she said there was a lot of stories and poems about them.”

Tony finished the sandwich in two more bites, drinking the rest of Harley’s milk. “Fairies, huh? Did you find one in the park?” he asked with a teasing grin.

“Yup!” Abbie exclaimed, popping the ‘p’. “Harley, tell him!”

Harley came around the counter to make him a turkey sandwich before Abbie took it upon herself to make him another PB&J one. “Not a fairy, just some weird kid.”

Abbie argued his words, “Nu uh! He disappeared, you saw him!”

Harley snorted. “No, he ran into the trees. He didn’t disappear.”

Only, he really had. Peter had disappeared and Harley was terrified to think that he really had been stolen by fairies, and that Abbie might have been stolen away from him as well. Did that mean Peter had saved her?-

- - - -

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