pistol party

   “Amount of shootings every week in this shithole I wouldn’t be fuckin’ surprised.” Going out from Zone One, the amount of violence one could be subjected or witness to increased with every zone, capping off at Thirteen and the slums. In the circles the two of them ran in, whatever that number was probably doubled.

     “Yeah, I know,” she admitted, and she hadn’t really been asking. It’d been rhetorical; more like how the fuck do they always get themselves into this shit? It was one thing to be equipped — like Arin or Queenie, who lived and thrived in that world — but it was another to not be, and to end up wrapped up in a bow of fucking shit. 

   “Yeah, probably not.” They were all tied to their old gangs in one way or another; especially if one had been responsible for them, like him — and like Q, who had been more of a leader to those girls than any of the bitches they’d ever elected for the position. Arin glanced over, a smile lingering on his lips as he wrinkled his nose at her before returning his attention to the street they were pulling out onto — ignoring the severity of the situation for a second because she was fucking cute when she got all protective and it sent a warm swell of endearment through his chest. He resisted the urge to pinch her somewhere, directing his focus to finding the quickest way to their destination instead.

      Queenie caught the way he wrinkled his nose, a faint smile playing on his lips that she mirrored, unable to help herself. She kept smoking, her attention following his out the front window, watching as buildings and intersections flew by. 

   “A fucking sim joint?” Arin looked from the hologram off Queenie’s phone to her face.

   “Who the fuck’s hitting that?” Not exactly the first place that came to mind for a robbery, nor for any type of drug related territory type beef. A place like that was too much effort to be a laundering operation. Maybe a front for a whorehouse, but the place’s records didn’t reflect anything that even hinted at that kind of thing.

      “Fuck if I know,” she responded with a sigh, her mind clicking with scenarios that Dee could’ve gotten herself into. When the elevator door opened to the parking garage, Queenie pulled out her phone, redirecting the GPS to Arin’s Mustang. It’d make more sense, especially if — and she was hoping she would — Dee was with them. 

     She smoked her cigarette deeply, thick plumes of smoke being left in her wake as they strode toward his car. Arin unlocked it, got in the driver’s seat, and she followed suit, getting in beside him.

   “Little early to be snorting coke off dicks, ain’t it?” Arin handed Queenie the weapons she’d requested, taking out an assault rifle and a shotgun for himself, too — because it was a good combo, really. He was already wearing his gun— and the Vortex did sound like some smutty fucking neon puke nightclub, probably with some ridiculous-ass gimmick one needed to adhere to to get in. He didn’t know much about Dee, nor did he care, but he didn’t think she seemed like the type. Maybe her sister getting killed has sent her off the deep end.

      “Anyone who’s snorting coke off dicks doesn’t really have work hours, do they?” Queenie strapped herself up, blindly opening the door to their apartment as she held in her phone in front of her. “Dickhead”—the name of her phones AI “—Search the Vortex.”      “Searching the Vortex,” the electronic voice responded, and Queenie carried her boots out with her, not bothering to begin putting them on until they were waiting for the elevator, her phone now propped between her chin and shoulder. “Social destination. Offers simulation experiences. Some illegal activity reported. Crimes include cigarette and illegal drug possession and consumption, though establishment rules clearly state they highly recommend not taking part prior to simulations. Other crimes include unregulated music and possible affiliation with the Resistance. Location has been pinged. Would you like me to enter it into Spitfire’s navigation unit?”      With a heavy sigh, she replied, “Yes.” Then took her phone back into her hand as the elevator doors slid open and she entered with Arin at her side.       “Image requested?”      “Yes.” And with that, a holographic display projecting upward from the screen of her phone, first exhibiting the exterior, before Queenie swiped a finger through the air to filter forward to the interior.

     Frowning, Arin laid his forearm over Queenie’s abdomen, rested his chin on top of it, and squinted at the phone screen she had dispassionately shoved into his face, making out the words Dee, SOS, and shot up before he made himself actually read the short exchange in its entirety.

     It took him a minute, but she waited, only lowering the device when his focus shifted to her face. There were a couple of things he wanted to say. Couldn’t she have waited a fucking hour to get shot at? The other was shoving his face in between her legs again to tell her crotch that he’d see it later, but he just got up, grabbing Q’s hand to pull her along with him. It wasn’t the time; especially considering that they probably didn’t have much of it.

     Queenie was equally annoyed at their interruption — not as though she didn’t already fill most of their time getting filled — especially given the somewhat rocky ground they’d been standing on as of late, but of course, she acquiesced, because Dee was in some place that was being shot up. And didn’t they always fuckin’ have to be? 

     She yanked on the first pieces of clothing in sight: a pair of short black shorts, and a loose grey tank top that demanded she wear some sort of bra if she didn’t want to be tits out all night. She found a sports bra, yanking the straps down her torso so she could jerk the bra over her breasts before finally putting herself together. As she paced into the living room, she grabbed her weapon belt that was already discarded on the coffee table and began strapping it on, tilting her head toward their weapon cabinet. “AR. And a shotty.” She had an SMG already on her belt, but if she ran into any of those fuckers in the club, she wanted to really blow their brains out; up close and personal.

Dee [17.47]: SOS place getting shot up dont know who or why im hiding under a table

ARIN MELNIKOV.

   “You,” Arin said back, smiling into the kiss as he returned her embrace, meeting the steady motion of her hips with his own. And it was true; he needed her like she was fucking oxygen, every moment without her a struggling, choking gasp for air as he fucking expired, life fucking draining out of him.      Her body was as perfect as she was; every curve, every tattoo, every scar, his hands running over her skin so he could feel every inch, map it out for the millionth time over the outline that lived in him always — and he would never fucking get enough of her.

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     He hadn’t thought she’d apologize. Something dipped in his stomach and he nodded as she went on, a thoughtful expression settling on his features. Relaxed afterglow faded into tension and a vague, uncomfortable sense of dread quicker than he would’ve thought possible, because what if his answer wasn’t good enough? He heard how it all fucking sounded, but he didn’t have anything other than the truth to give her, so he guessed he’d just have to fucking hope; an action he considered ridiculous and naïve in any other context. He didn’t hope; he fucking acted.

   “I don’t.” She wasn’t looking at him anymore, so Arin directed his gaze at the ceiling as he continued, focusing on his thoughts. On trying to get the words to make sense. Formulating his fucking shit. “Whoever the fuck talks to me, that’s what they get, cause—” the corners of his mouth dipped, and he drew his shoulders up in a half-shrug, “fuck ‘em.” He took a breath, searching his thoughts. “I don’t like people. They don’t fuckin’ make sense to me, they’re full of fucking shit, and as far as I’m concerned, they can call get fucked. I wanna be left alone. Since I can fucking remember. So I made it fucking hard to be around me, and I make people feel like shit, because honestly even whatever motherfuckers I’ve been straight with end up realizing I’m a fucking asshole anyway, so what’s the fucking point?”

   “You’re the only one who’s different.” He glanced at her finally — at her beautiful face, framed by messy lavender waves, and his chest fucking ached with adoration. “We talked in that bar and… I realized I didn’t wanna do that shit to you. I felt… I don’t know, fucking drawn, and I wanted you around. Never happened before. You just… get it. And I fucking love you, and I never thought it was fucking possible to fucking have that. So thank you.” A pause, and he couldn’t help a small, amused smile when he spoke again, fading into a more earnest expression as he went on: “And I sound like a sappy fucking prick right now and I kinda wanna punch my own teeth out, but— you’ll never fucking know how much it fucking means to me. How much you fucking mean to me. I can’t fucking put words on it.”

     She heard him. She knew she had; she’d heard him but all she could comprehend was the new opening in her chest, how it began to consume her. Somewhere, in the midst of it, her heart was hammering along, giving more power to the cavernous, glowing core that could barely contain what she felt for him. He hadn’t answered her question — and maybe he didn’t have the answer, maybe that cunt was simply a parasite, and proximity was all it took to get bitten and burrowed into — but she was able to forget it. It was consumed along with everything else that wasn’t him; that wasn’t them. Their love. 

     Queenie was clutching his face barely seconds after he got the words out, kissing him deeply, her legs tightening their hold around his waist. “I need you so fucking much,” she murmured between kisses, and even though they’d fucked at least twice already, the everlasting hunger was reawakened by his sentiments. He’d said thank you and she couldn’t put words to it either; she never could. 

ARIN MELNIKOV.

   “I love you,” Arin echoed, out of breath and in between kisses, the motion and the raw pleasure putting a strain on his voice. Still, Queenie tugged at him, and he obliged — harder, faster — because he wanted that, too; was aching for it, and she was fucking divine. “I’m fucking yours.” He’d never been anyone else’s, and he never wanted to be; Q was everything, forever.

     Her hands digging into his skin, pulling at him, was a relief. A confirmation that she wanted him close, that she needed him, too, and it felt fucking good. He never wanted to stop — an impossible wish when her body was wrapped around him and she was moaning in his ear, gasping for breath, beginning to tighten. A small clench at first, then another, and another, faster and faster as her moans grew in volume and frequency as well, and they were entwined, rushing toward the same blissful fucking release. Their mutual grip on each other tightened as well, and they plunged into ecstasy, so flawless it felt blinding. Arin’s chest still heaved as he felt Queenie tremble underneath him, and he kissed her neck, her jaw, slowing to a stop as he tried to regain his breath.    “You’re fucking perfect,” he murmured, placing a final kiss on her lips before pulling back to look at her, flushed and gorgeous and equally breathless.

     She was so hyper-aware when they were like this, the way his chest moved, the beat of his heart, basking in the afterglow of sheer perfection, of the overflow of adoration that poured and poured out of them, every second, every breath. Queenie felt the tiredness, fulfilling rather than exhausting, and in the bliss fueled peacefulness that settled over her, she was able to cup his cheek, brow furrowing as she felt something begin to burrow in her chest, disrupting the lightness that had come from their entwined bodies. Ruining the moments she’d normally spend savoring it. Them. “I’m sorry. I was…” Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, “I was hurt… and I was a dick.” 

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     She wanted to look at him now. To touch him, to be close; and he wanted the same, tugging her down onto the couch so he could get on top of her. He wondered if this was one of those fucks she used to avoid dealing with shit — wondered if he should’ve made her think about it for a second — and then wondered nothing, every thought centering on her body. On how it felt to be inside her. On how her nails dug into his back, his shoulders, his hair. On her legs locked around his waist and squeezing as if she could force him deeper.

     Her eyes were their same startling blue that always pulled him in and locked him in place, fucking enthralled, and even though her lashes were still wet and clumped together a little, she was beautiful. Arin lowered himself until he could kiss her — an act made more difficult by the almost violent movement of their bodies together, but it was worth it to feel her breath; both of them gasping in small increments when they remembered they fucking needed air, moans stifled or else sighed into each other’s mouths.      Nothing could be fucking wrong when they were like this, and though it probably wouldn’t fix anything… it probably wouldn’t fucking hurt, either.

     She was hungry for him; always fucking hungry for him. And there was no way a single one of those others had this; had him. It was never just sex with them, it was a ritual, it was absolute devotion, and a breathless, “You’re mine,” slipped out, a demand and a prayer, laced within the helpless whimper of being at his mercy. His magnificent fucking mercy, every powerful thrust incendiary, a passionate flame she could feel engulfing every atom.       Then it was reverence: “I love you,” she gasped, the fingers in his hair strengthening their grip to keep his lips as close to hers as possible. “I love you.” Again, though this one was punctuated by a louder moan when she raised a leg, when he felt even deeper. Her hands slid along his back, desperate to touch every inch, to feel his muscles shift each time he moved into her. He was perfection. Unadulterated, unequivocally fucking perfection. 

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     The cigarette changed hands again, Arin passing it back to Queenie, nodding as he urged her off him until she was standing again. Then, he slid off the couch and knelt on the floor in front of her. Another nudge to part her legs a little more, his hands wrapping around back of her thighs to pull her closer, almost stepping over him, and he tipped his head back, fitting it between her thighs.

     He wondered, as the taste of her spread across his tongue, whether when this was done they’d start fighting again. She’d said show me, and he’d thought there was nothing he was better at than showing her, but maybe he’d been wrong about that, too. The past couple of weeks felt fucking surreal, and he wasn’t back in reality yet, because in reality, Queenie smiled at him, and they watched each other with a glint in their eyes that was what the two of them shared. Now… now he didn’t know what, and he was hurt and fucking confused, and probably so was she.      The floor was cold and fucking hard, but he didn’t care. Q was warm, and for her, he’d stay on his knees naked for a fucking eternity

     She’d half expected him to grab her, flip her over onto the couch, and fuck her senseless. Maybe she’d expected it because it was what she wanted: pleasure mixed with pain. A punishment dressed in ecstasy; to knock everything out of place so one couldn’t tell what she was missing anymore. Only the moment he got to work, Queenie’s brow furrowed, eyes closing as her head tilted back, releasing a contented sigh. Her arms reached up to find something to hold onto, quickly dropping to grip his elbow, not that she needed to, because he had her. Her chest hitched with every labored gasp, because he knew exactly how to drive her crazy by now, and he was doing just that. 

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     Arin watched her go. She wasn’t leaving, and she wasn’t yelling at him anymore; this was a new thing, and he wasn’t sure what — aside from maybe the fact that he’d finally gotten it through his thick fucking skull what she’d been trying to say. People made no fucking sense. To him, how he felt about Queenie was as obvious as the fucking color of the sky, and he expected other people to see it as easily. But they didn’t. They rarely saw anything about him, now that he was thinking about it, and didn’t he prefer it that way?      Not when it came to her. And it was clear he’d fucked something up in the mix of the possessiveness she’d awoken in him and the guardedness he’d always carried in regard to himself. She was part of him, so he’d kept her close to his chest, too — and to her, and maybe to everyone fucking else, that made him seem uncaring; which was the last thing he was as far as she was concerned.

     On the couch with a cigarette between her lips, Queenie looked kind of how she’d looked after the first stint of their fight — when he’d asked her what she’d wanted and she’d said she didn’t know… and then they’d started it up again and she’d left. Maybe this was the same. He’d already said he was sorry, a million fucking times, and it wasn’t enough. She didn’t want to be touched by him, and she probably didn’t want to be near him, either.      Still, he couldn’t bear her absence, so he sat down next to her on the couch, what he figured was a fair bit of breathing room between them.

     She wasn’t looking at him. Shifting a little, he reached a hand out in a silent request for her cigarette.

     He’d seen it now and she didn’t know what to do with it, because she needed to know how. How had that bitch done it? And would it happen again? How had she stolen his attention? How could someone so small, so pathetic, sink her claws into him enough that it meant he hurt Queenie. She resolved she’d never get it — he said he she didn’t know him when she’d already been so scared of just that — and the sadness melted down through her like molasses. Only it wasn’t sweet. It was bitter. Sickening. She needed to kill her. She needed… she needed… 

ARIN MELNIKOV.

   “She didn’t.” His nose wrinkled, his lip curling a little as a furrow appeared between his brows. “Talk about fucking crazy. No matter what I said or fucking did, she’d just fucking agree with me or—” Realization struck him like a flash of lightning, something akin to shame rolling along like thunder in its wake.

   “I get it.” He hadn’t lied. No one but Queenie fucking existed to him, which was why he hadn’t— “I fucking see it.” He pressed his lips together, shaking his head almost imperceptibly as his eyes fell shut and he swore on a whisper, more to himself than to her. “Shit.”

     Blues fell to the floor as she gave a curt nod, and there was the sensation that she might fall, but all it left in its wake was numbness, and muscles that felt too weak to move. Her shoulders slumped forward and she turned on her heel, moving sluggishly toward the couch for their pack of cigarettes. Now, her features were empty, save the moisture that clung to the waterline of her lower lashes, and a limp arm lifted a smoke to her lips which she lit with the same lackluster movement. 

ARIN MELNIKOV.

   “So that is how you fucking see me.” He hadn’t been talking about Becker, or the fucking nurse, but every word out of his mouth was just more fodder to shove down his throat about what a fucking asshole he was, so maybe he’d do better to shut up. Except when he did, she tried to storm off.      He felt betrayed. Queenie had been the one person who’d been supposed to understand, and she didn’t, and neither of them did, apparently, and it was all fucking fucked.

     She looked so fucking uncomfortable. Arin realized he was still keeping her in place, flashes of Martin and fucking Gerard and kid Queenie in his fucking memory, and he let go, hoping he’d never have to see what he’d just seen on her face again. A desperate fucking need to get away from him.      He wouldn’t tell her what she believed. He’d asked her not to tell him what he fucking was, and fair was fucking fair — and she refused to even fucking look at him now, and short of carving out his own heart and fucking showing it to her, he didn’t know what else to do.    “I never said you’re crazy.” A pause. A breath. “Maybe I am, alright?” He hadn’t really considered it before.

   “I’ve always… fucked with people’s shit. I poke ‘em until I find somewhere it fucking hurts them, or I see how much bullshit they’re willing to fucking put up with before they fucking snap because yes, I think it’s fucking funny. I know it’s fucking stupid, but it’s the truth. I know it’s not fucking normal — I’m fucked up, and… the way people are made no fucking sense to me, okay? Not until I met you. You made fucking sense, and that’s why I fucking love you, and I didn’t mean to fuck with you too. I’m sorry. I’ll fucking stop.”

      So that is how you fucking see me. And she didn’t know what he meant by that, which part of her pointless fucking ramble he was pinpointing. She didn’t think he had a hero complex, but it didn’t seem to matter, because she’d done the damage, and it was pouring out of her eyes, gathering above her upper lip until it rolled further, salt stinging her tongue. Then he let go, and his voice softened, only Queenie felt as though she was still bleeding out, pouring her insides onto the ground between them. She hadn’t realized she was trembling, fear gripping every nerve so it couldn’t remain in place. There are pieces missing and he’s going to leave me if I don’t find them. Quickly. 

ARIN MELNIKOV.

   “You’re not missing shit!” His hands grasped her upper arms as if that would make her listen. “But you don’t fucking believe me, so what the fuck am I supposed to say?”

   “You’re a fucking part of me, Q, I never fucking forget about you! I was looking at her to make sure she was fucking paying attention to you!” She was repeating things they’d talked about what felt like five times already, and he’d apologized for about as many, but nothing he said even scratched the surface. How many times would they retrace the circle? “I’m sorry I didn’t follow you. I didn’t think some random bitch had the power to get under your skin, and I got fucking caught up, alright? It’s no less than you’d do for those bitches outta the fucking church, so how’s it fucking different? I’m sorry i got fucking distracted, but I don’t wanna fuck Rowan any more than you wanna fuck that grease monkey’s little peg leg bitch or the fucking coke-head stripper. I’m not trying to save you, or anybody fucking else, so fucking stop telling me what the fuck I am — some fucking hero junkie, because I’m fucking not, and if that’s how you see me then you’re right; you don’t fucking know me.”

   “I think about you every time I fucking breathe. You live in my fucking skin, so what the fuck? The only fucking spell I’m under is you, and I have been since you walked up to me in that fucking bar – I don’t know what the fuck else you want me to do if you don’t trust me enough to fucking believe that.”

     “She didn’t have the power to get under my skin,” she spoke low and balefully, her eyes locked on his, “You do.” Her body was still under his grip, tense, and her hands were still balled into fists. “And it’s different because that nurse or Harlee wasn’t a fucking Lost Boy.” She was glaring now, the hole in her chest growing larger and larger, and it felt as if he’d reached in and stripped her of her heart because he’s said it, hadn’t he? She didn’t fucking know him. “And you got caught up with Harlee… how many times? It is different. I’d have let her in rot in the fucking dirt.” Queenie jerked her arms, trying to shake him off, “But I don’t fucking know you, huh?”

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     She was leaving. Again. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to follow her, but he did, before he had a chance to really consider anything else.    “Queenie!”      Her phone bounced off the wall and skittered across the floor as he caught up with her, and she refused to look at him, so he got in her way, grabbing onto her forearm to keep her in place.

   “Stop fucking walking away from me.” He wondered, briefly, if she was about to hit him. “Just tell me what the fuck you want. ‘Cause if you’re done, and this is it, then—” Arin looked around, then tugged her along by the wrist until he could reach the gun one of them had left on a nearby shelf. He cocked it, flicked the safety off, and tucked it into her palm, both his hands enveloping hers as he guided the muzzle to his chest, right above his heart. “Then just fucking end it.” He held it steady. “Alright?”

     Queenie choked out a sob disguised in a growl when he fitted the gun into her hand, she yanked it away, not caring that the safety was off as she tossed it aside to scuttle across the floor. “After I just asked you to marry me?” She frowned, shoving at him, and now the tears were running freely. “I want to know what the fuck it was about any of them that made it so easy to forget I was a fucking factor! You let her on my bike! You let her shoot my guns! You left me out of whatever the fuck you did with that nurse. I told you, you didn’t even look at me when I was yelling at that bitch in the warehouse. Julian followed me out, not you. And he was perfectly capable of making sure some stupid, useless bitch wouldn’t unchain another stupid, useless bitch! You think I couldn’t have stopped them either? Something made me fucking invisible. Something made you not react to some fucked up blow me joke you threw out there in the first place. I told you I can’t live without you. I told you that you’re everything. I’m never not looking at you. So you tell me if this is it. You tell me if I’m the one lacking something, because that’s what the fuck it feels like! And then I watch you and Jules and Soph and Dee and every other fucking person fall under the worst fucking spell I’ve ever fucking witnessed. So how?”