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- Miss Davidson – you turn around to see that smirk you both love and hate so much plastered carelessly on her face. She looks so happy to see you, like a little kid, full of joy and excitement. You wish you could see her like that every day. You nod to Will, and he takes his leave, closing the door behind him.
Franky immediately comes closer, but you stop her with a warning hand and check if your secretary is outside; she’s not, and you’ve never been happier for her shirking.
You return your gaze to her, and she’s looking at you with eyes so dark it sends an immediate rush of heat to your core.
- How much time do we have? – She asks, voice deliciously husky. You glance at your watch.
- Twenty – you answer, getting up from the chair and rounding the table so you’re face to face. She put her hands o your waist and smirks. She leans forward and puts her mouth beside your ear: her hair tickles your neck and it sends a shiver down your spine.
- Wanna bet how many times I can make you come? – Before you can say anything, she’s harshly pushing you against the wall, guiding you to the same place she did when you had your first kiss. A strong thigh makes its way between yours and she bites harshly on your neck; it’s going to leave a mark, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Just as a hand makes its way to throat and the other travels south, you whimper.
Game on
A riot.
A fucking riot. You don’t even know what brought this on. As far as you knew, everything was calm between the women, it made no sense. You don’t have much time to dwell on it, though, because now there’s stampede of confused women running aimlessly though the compound.
An elbow connects with your ribs, and you bend over, breathless. You know you need to leave, because you really wouldn´t fancy being stepped over.
You push through the crowd and turn the corner, finding a much emptier hallway in which you can finally breathe. You close your eyes and lean into the wall, closing your eyes against the migraine that is starting to form in your skull.
When the headache starts to fade away, your mind fills with blonde hair, long, amazingly shaped legs, her body pressed against your, delicious tight heat surrounding your fingers –
- Doyle! – You open your eyes, startled, as a very angry Mr. Jackson approaches, fist clenched and fire in his eyes. Uneasiness settles in your stomach; you’re in very deep shit. You have an idea why he would be looking at you that way; like he’s seeing the devil itself, like you’re the one and only cause for every tragedy that hits this world.
He’s breathing hard, and you don’t have to pay very close attention to realize he’s shaking, too. You swallow.
- Mr. Jackson! How can I help ya? – He laughs bitterly, humorlessly, and that’s when you see the glint of the hunt knife that is tightly held in his closed fist.
- Why did you do it? – That question is the confirmation for what you suspected; he found out, somehow, about actually killed his wife and he’s out for blood.
- Do what? – He seems more angered by your feigned obliviousness, and you take a tiny step backwards.
- I asked you a question! – You close your eyes. There’s no point in lying, he obviously knows for a fact that you did it; and if you’re going to die, if he’s going to kill you, you at least want to do it as bravely as possible.
- I’m sorry – You can tell he’s holding back, he wants his answers and you find yourself thinking that’s fair enough. You didn’t mean for it to happen. You know you’ve done a lot of shit in your life; you’re selfish, manipulative, violent and even cruel a times. But this; this is something you did not do in purpose.
- You bitch – He hisses, wiping his brow with his free hand. You can tell he’s holding back, he wants to know what happened.
- It was an accident – You try to explain – I know that doesn’t make it better, but it’s the truth.
- An accident? You expect me to believe it was a fucking accident?! – He shakes his head vehemently; he can’t believe that the woman he loved, his wife, died because of an unfortunate accident.
- It was! It was a riot, alright? This shit happens in riots all the time. – You put your hands in front of yourself, a placating gesture. Maybe, just maybe, you can talk him out of this; you’re good with words; you have always been. You are great when it comes to manipulation and minds games, it’s worth a try – I found the weapon on the ground and when she touched my shoulder, I reacted on instinct and I –
You’re stopped mid-sentence when the knife enters your side.
- Stabbed her? – He finishes your sentence, whispering it in your ear, like you two are sharing a secret.
The knife lodged in your side feels weird; it doesn’t hurt like you though it would. The pain doesn’t register right away, but you suppose it will soon. Right now all you feel is the intrusive cold in your side and a suffocating incapability to breathe.
You look at him in the eye as you gasp for breath; he’s equally scared and disgusted for what he’s done as satisfied and happy. It’s a disturbing image, to see someone so kind and warm-hearted become someone so full of hatred; become a killer.
When he withdrawals the knife, you fall to your knees and your body starts to register the pain; the cold metal is replaced by hot white pain, and when you try to take in a breath yet again, you feel blood in the back of your throat.
Well, fuck.
- You took her away from me – He snarls. He’s crying now, and it sounds like he’s trying to remind himself why he has just stabbed you, presumably to death; you laugh quietly, he can’t even kill you properly, he’s already crying like a baby and feeling guilty as hell.
You can tell from this moment that the guilt is gonna eat away at him, no matter how much pleasure he got from finally taking his payback for his dead wife; maybe because of it. You manage to clumsily rest your back against the wall, fighting for breath.
You look at Will as the edges of your vision darken and your eyelids start to drop without your consent. You’re dying, and you’re surprised when all you can think about is her. Her eyes, her hair, her smile; but most of all, you think about how she believed in you, how she brought back to the surface the best part of you, the part you buried deep down.
Will looks back at you one last time, lets the knife fall to the ground, and walks away.
- Governor? - You turn around to find Vera, a worried look in her eyes.
- What? - You snap at her. She looks down and you immediately feel bad; you're really stressed, but you know that it's not Vera's fault. - I'm sorry - you apologize
- I um, I have something to tell you - She stops speaking and sends you this look that has your heart beating faster by the second; what now? Is it not enough that minutes ago they were just barely containing a riot. Maybe it is about the riot; was someone injured? Dead? She shuddered at the thought.
- Was someone injured? - You don't need any more confirmation than the look she gives, and dread settle in your stomach - Who?
- It's um... - She hesitates, biting her lip.
- Who, Vera? - You're losing your patience quickly, and the killer headache you're suffering from doesn't exactly make things easier.
- Franky Doyle - She answers in a small voice. Your mouth is left open, and you can’t really process what she just told you; of all the fucking women in this bloody prison it had to be Franky.
The dread turns into fear; you don’t want to lose her. Are you in love? Is that the reason why you can’t fathom the thought of losing Franky?
A million thoughts are filling your mind and they’re making you dizzy. Focus, you need to focus, Erica.
- Is she… – …Dead? You have to stop talking to clear your throat. Your voice sounds as broken and scared as you feel, but you can’t have Vera noticing. – How is she?
You decide the best strategy to follow is remain optimistic; everyone’s alive until proven dead.
The deputy takes a deep breath, and you know it’s bad. Is she actually dead? You brace yourself on the wall, just like you did the first time she kissed you, and -
Oh, god.
- She was stabbed. She’s in critical condition. She had to be transported to a hospital minutes ago. – She looks like she wants to say more, and the heavy look in her eyes tells you whatever it is, it’s big. You don’t have the energy or the time to deal with more problems.
- Which hospital?
Your ass hurts. Like, it really hurts. You’re sure you’ve tried a hundred different positions in this dreadful chair, but none of them have given your bottom any relief. Half your cheek is asleep, and your lower back is starting to hurt, too.
You feel like crying; One of your officers started a riot and then attempted to kill an inmate. Said inmate killed the former governor, position you’re currently occupying; she’s also your fuck buddy, and you think you might be in love with her. And, oh, right, she also may be dying.
Sometimes life just sucks.
Also, they couldn't make a chair more uncomfortable if they tried. Well, maybe with nails. And fire. Seriously, who made this? They should get sued; or better yet -
You only realize you’re crying when the tears land on your silky skirt. She can’t die. You’re not ready to give up that smirk, that glint in her eyes, the honest affection she shows you when she thinks no one’s looking; that annoying yet hot attitude, the playful banter.
The rough kisses and the mind-blowing orgasms muffled by rough, yet gentle hands. The way she makes you feel like it’s okay to just be you; with the ambition, and all the repressed sexual desires that she doesn’t judge you for.
For once in your life, you can just let go, and that’s the best gift anyone’s ever given you.
You’re in love with Franky Doyle; the girl with the tough exterior and tortured soul; one of the smartest women you’ve ever met, but was never given a chance. The girl with the confidence and the swagger, the girl who makes goofy jokes because you look down. The girl with the big smile and sad eyes.
You love her, and you don’t even know since when.
So you let the tears fall, because, hell, you’ve been holding in everything for so long, you’re just too tired.
The first thing you feel is soft hand in yours; that’s odd, you think to yourself, no one has held your hand like that since you last saw your father. But the hand in yours is not like his; it’s smaller, thinner, and softer. It’s the hand of a woman.
It feels nice.
Then you start to feel the rest of your body? You feel exhausted. All your limbs feel heavy, as well as your eyelids. Your chest hurts every time you take in a breath, and your side is on fire.
You squeeze the hand holding yours. You wait two seconds and the hand’s squeezing back and a voice reaches your ears.
- Franky?
Erica?
Alright, where the hell are you? Because this is getting weirder by the minute. You know for a fact that you’re not in Wentworth; the mattress you’re lying on is way too comfortable to be anywhere on the prison; also, the smell. It smells of clean and antiseptic, with a hint of Erica’s perfume, which you suppose is logical taking into account that she’s here, by your bedside, holding your hand. Also, the pain on your side is getting really annoying and you can’t remember how – Oh.
You’re in the hospital. You’re alive. Well, thank fuck. You really thought you were going to die in that hallway. But nope; Erica is here, with you, holding your hand, and you’ve never felt happier to be alive.
- Franky? – Her voice sounds, tired, raspy, worried and hopeful altogether and you want to smile. You slowly open your eyes and look at her, she’s beaming down at you, her face the incarnation of relief. She’s teary-eyed; maybe because of happiness and relief, maybe because of exhaustion, maybe a little bit of everything.
Nonetheless, she looks beautiful. You frown. To you, Erica has always looked hot. As in, ‘perfect, long legs, inviting hips, and wonderful breasts’ hot. But never beautiful.
You brush that train of thought aside when she speaks again.
- Hey – She whispers, caressing the back of your hand with her thumb. When she sees you try to reply, she rushes to stop you – No, don’t talk. You had to be intubated, one of your lungs collapsed. Hold on, I’ll get a doctor. – You grasp her hand tighter; you don’t want her to leave. – I’ll be right back – She assures you.
She gets up from the chair, straightens her skirt, and, in the blink of an eye, her expression changes; she’s all business now, you can’t see a trace of the worry and relief and the affection.
You miss it already; the comforting heat against the skin of your hand and the affectionate expression.
You know it makes sense; she can’t have people thinking she cares more about you than she already shows staying in the hospital.
But you think that if well played, she can pull it off as being responsibility and guilt. It was one her officers who attacked you, after all.
When the doctor comes in, telling you that he’s going to take the tube off, all you see is her.
- How are you feeling? – You ask as you close the blinds of Franky’s room and take your seat by her bed.
- Good – She replies, smirking.
- Really?
- Yeah, really – She answers, a little confused. You smile and nod, and when she’s about to ask you what’s going on, you hit her shoulder.
- Ouch! – She rubs at her shoulder – What was that for?
- For almost dying, you moron – You answer, emotion slipping into your tone. She almost died, and you’ve wanted to hit her for making you worry like this since you knew she’d be okay; but you waited patiently until she was feeling better, so that you couldn’t be accused of abusing a gravelly injured woman.
- I am deeply sorry, Governor – She answers playfully, tugging at your hand so she can kiss you. You comply, and moan when she captures your bottom lip between her teeth.
Arousal pools between your thighs; Now that Mark’s out of the picture, it’s been days since you’ve had any sex, and you’re starting to feel a little needy. You look back at the closed blinds, and crawl on top of the bed, carefully straddling Franky’s hips, avoiding touching around the injured area.
- Erica? – She raises her eyebrow and looks at you with amusement. You put your palm gently on her chest and push her down on the mattress, kissing her fiercely. – Erica, I can’t –
- Shhh – You hush her quietly – I’ll do all the work
- But –
- Franky – You know what she’s trying to say. She’s still injured, and she knows you two can’t be rough. You do, too, but you’re not planning on being rough; not this time.
She looks at you for a few seconds
- Okay - She mutters, relaxing back against her pillow as she lets her hands rest on your waist.
And you realize, as you trail kissed down her body, that just as you had never, until her, been able to experience the other side of sex; the rough, dirty, unapologetic side, she had never experienced what it feels like to be loved.
It can be nice sometimes, too.