Page 3 of Windlass

“Maybe,” said Angie. “Though I was thinking more along the lines of consecutive nights slept there. I let Lana keep a toothbrush, but I wouldn’t want her claiming she lives with us.”

Stevie tried not to take the words like a blow to the solar plexus. In this, she was unsuccessful.

“Yeah, well,” she said, aware that this was a somewhat insubstantial reply, but unwilling to say anything that would upset Angie, even if all she really wanted to do was rip Lana a new one. She hated few people as much as she hated Angie’s . . . whatever Lana was. Ex. On-and-off-again fuck buddy. Terrible decision.

After several moments, Angie turned on the radio and began to hum along to whatever pop song crackled through the speakers. Stevie closed her eyes and pretended to rest.

Lana. “Alana the Piranha,” she and Morgan called her, and the bite marks that regularly peeked around the edges of Angie’s hemline were proof the nickname was appropriate. She didn’t want to think about Lana, especially when her best friend and last Lana buffer had officially moved out. She had a sudden premonition she would be spending a lot of time in her room alone.

Friend. Roommate. That was all Angie wanted, and so that was all Stevie would be.

If Angie suspected the effect her words had had on Stevie, she didn’t say anything. Stevie was used to this. Everyone else seemed to know how she felt about Angie. Angie had to know too, and since she’d done nothing to act upon it, the logical conclusion was that she didn’t feel the same. Stevie was willing to accept this. She wasn’t about to lose one of her dearest friends over something as trivial as a broken heart.

Not that her heart was broken. Just . . . bruised. A bit like the bruises Lana left.

Hoping to shed these inconvenient thoughts, she searched for a conversation topic. “Well, at least we each get our own bathroom now.”

“Yeah.”

Stevie waited for her to say something more, studying Angie out of her peripheral vision. If her peripheral vision could commit crimes against her conscience, it could at least help her out when she needed it.

Angie was no longer humming. Her posture remained relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other out the window, but the knuckles of her right hand were white where they gripped the steering wheel, and there was something inexplicably sad about the way the wind blew those loosened strands of hair across her face.

Life enjoyed fucking with Angie. She’d known this ever since she was small, though she hadn’t had the language for it then. Now that she did, part of her wished she could go back to that youthful ignorance, choosing a wordless, confused scream instead of trying to articulate to herself all the reasons she couldn’t have what she wanted. What—or rather, who—she wanted currently stared back at her with the same flummoxed expression Angie felt on her own face. Sitting in the living room feltweird.

“Ew,” said Stevie. “I don’t like this.”

“It shouldn’t feel different,” Angie agreed. “Why does it feel different?”

“Maybe because Morgan is six feet of bad attitude and the space doesn’t know what to do without her shouting ‘Stevie, we’re going to be late,’ as ifI’mthe one who slows us down in the morning.”

“So, you’re going to miss her, is what you’re saying?” Angie reached a foot across the couch and prodded Stevie’s thigh.

“Absolutely not.”

“Uh huh.” She smiled at Stevie’s failure to dissemble. “At least there will only be one person stealing my food now.”

“Does that mean you won’t make double batches of things anymore?” Stevie’s eyes widened with horror. “You have to plant extra for the wildlife, Ange. It’s called environmentalism.”

“You are not a bear.”

Stevie growled and scratched at Angie’s leg in mock predation. Angie kicked her gently, but the sensation of Stevie’s nails on her bare calf, even in play, sent a shock wave of desire up to the roots of her hair. She tucked her leg underneath her. To hide her suddenly pounding heart, she waved at the dark television screen.

“Wanna watch something?” Something, anything—she couldn’t sit here without a distraction from her body’s inconvenient needs. “You choose. I’ll make popcorn.”

She stood, tossing the remote to Stevie, who caught it with a grin, saying, “Feeding bears now?”

“Keep up that analogy and you’ll have to watch me eat a whole bowl to myself while you don’t get any.” She didn’t wait to hear Stevie’s protests. The kitchen was divided from the living room only by an island counter, but itwasa division. Once there, she rested her hands on the sink and looked out into the evening. Light lingered above the horizon, a pale ghost of the sun haunting the deepening blue. Slowly her breathing steadied, and her pulse steadied with it.

Stevie.

Stevie was a problem. Somehow, she always seemed to know exactly what to do to set Angie off, but historically there had been the reassuring threat of discovery keeping Angie in check. If she acted on an impulse, Morgan would inevitably find out, and then she’d have to explain why she was leading Stevie on.

And shewouldbe leading Stevie on. Angie turned on the faucet and ran cool water over her hands, letting the cold calm her thoughts. She knew herself. She knew what she wanted. And she knew what she couldn’t have.

One of those things—in fact, the primary thing, as she had to constantly remind herself—was Stephanie Ward.

She shut the water off and rummaged around for a bag of popcorn, tossing it into the microwave and leaning back against the counter, where she could see Stevie flicking through movie options. Her ponytail hung loose, still damp from her shower, and the color of dark honey. Angie could feel the weight of that hair on her own bare skin if she allowed her thoughts to stray. She chewed the inside of her cheek.

---