Page 49 of Windlass

No, and yes. She allowed herself a brief litany of curses. It didn’tmatterif her body had followed Stevie’s lead like a well-heeled dog. It didn’tmatterthat her heart had split right before she crested, in that moment where orgasm was inevitable but had not yet arrived, like the space at the bottom of a breath. It didn’tmatterthat looking into Stevie’s eyes as she’d come had shown her unequivocally that repeating Stevie’s name silently to herself while someone else took her was not in the same hemisphere as the real thing.

It didn’t matter that she loved her.

Every good thing that had ever walked into her life ended in ruins. Her relationship with her family, her high school friendship-turned-romance, her relationships before Lana . . . What she’d done tonight was open the door for goodbye, not for the start of something real. She closed her eyes. She had to slow down.

Her laugh sounded bitter in the otherwise tranquil summer night. She lied to herself about plenty of things, but even she couldn’t convince herself she stood a chance against this. By walking away from her and out the barn door, Stevie had ensured Angie would follow, leaving her dignity in shreds behind her.

Yet stronger than shame, though not as strong as the longing still closing up her throat, was relief.

Untying her hands was as simple as tugging the quick release knot—or it would have been if she could have found the tail. Instead, she’d fumbled in the dark, growing increasingly frustrated until she pulled the end of the knot by accident. She rubbed her wrists. She’d have some nice chafe marks tomorrow to press her fingers against as a reminder.

Her legs were still a little unsteady as she shut the barn doors and stared at the house across the lawn. The light in the kitchen was on, but she did not see Stevie. Indecision sawed at her. If she went inside, they’d either talk, fuck, or pretend nothing had happened. Only one of those options appealed to her.

Besides, she had no idea what she’d say if Stevie wanted to talk, and the thought of going back to pretending she didn’t want Stevie was untenable. Maybe she should just sleep in her office and put it off until tomorrow.

Or she could act like an adult and go inside and try to explain to Stevie why this couldn’t work.

Chapter Nine

It took Angie a long time to come inside—much longer than it had taken her to come, Stevie thought, the joke falling flat even to herself. She sat in Lilian’s greenhouse, which felt humid but safe in a way the house did not. Lilian’s tortoise still resided here, along with the plants she tended regularly. Angie fed the tortoise. Lilian and Angie had always been closer, the mirror of Morgan and Stevie. Circe stumped over to see her anyway, in search of attention and romaine. She rubbed her shell and murmured a hello.

“No snacks,” she told the tortoise. Beady eyes glinted suspiciously in the light from the door leading from the house to the greenhouse.

A whine sounded from behind that door. Stevie sighed. “Marvin, I’m right here, and if you’d been awake when I came inside, you could be here, too.”

A lie—Marvin was not allowed in the greenhouse. He ate dirt.

Lilian’s meditation pad protected her ass from the slate tile floor, but Stevie leaned forward, arousing further suspicion from Circe, and rested her forehead against the cool stone. If she’d thought her skin feverish before, it was nothing to now.

“What,” she said aloud. Justwhat. She had no question to follow. Or rather, too many. What had just happened? What would happen now? What was Angie thinking? What was she supposed to do? To say? She couldn’t hide from Angie long enough for hiding to be worth trying. Marvin would give her position away instantly. She would need to leave the house, and driving away to find Morgan might spur Angie to call Lana. Even thinking Lana’s name made her feel ill. Surely Angie wouldn’t. Not after this.

Or maybe she wouldbecauseof this. Stevie didn’t know, and not knowing was worse.

But holiest of shits, Angie had been beautiful. The memory, recent enough to feel present, seized her in another shiver. Walking away had to be the hardest thing she’d ever done. When Angie had said her full name—she had thought naively, when she first began to fall, that to touch Angie once would be enough. She’d known even then it was a lie, but she’d had no idea, no fucking clue, the extent. The need to do it all over again gave her stomach cramps from desire, but she was also terrified.

What would Angie do?

Marvin barked. She heard the back door open, then shut, and Angie tentatively call her name. Marvin ran to the greenhouse and barked again, the shameless traitor.

“Stevie?”

“Yeah.”

The door opened after a moment’s hesitation, and Angie squeezed past Marvin with an apology.

“It’s warm in here.”

“Smells good, though,” said Stevie. Angie had smelled good. She wanted that smell on her pillow, on her sheets, on her hands—she needed to stop shaking before Angie reached her. Leaning back, she propped herself up as if she’d been enjoying the night instead of resting her head on the floor like a supplicant.

“Wanna smoke?” Angie picked her way through the greenery.

Smoking some weed would certainly take the edge off her nerves. She felt, though, that she should be sober for this conversation.

“Maybe in a little bit.”

Angie sat down. Her hair remained disheveled and wild, and Stevie longed to bury her face in it as she’d buried her hands. Circe stumped over to Angie with enthusiasm. Angie plucked something off a nearby plant to feed the tortoise. If Stevie fed Angie like that, would she suck her fingers after?

“So,” said Angie.

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