28. Nia

28

NIA

Cat's fingers entwine around mine, making it impossible for my brain to wander away from this moment, from the two of us. She's good at that. The distractions, the keeping me busy, the knowing just what my brain needs to not overcomplicate every moment of my life, to not rob the joy out of every second I breathe.

Cat Harvey is oxygen in my lungs when I've been drowning. Cat Harvey is a coma dream I never want to wake from. Cat Harvey is the hand gripping me as I dangle from the cliff. She wants to save me when I'm not worth holding on to.

But I let her anyway.

"We still haven't eaten," she says after my breathing has finally calmed. "Let's go get some trash."

"The only thing open at this hour is?—"

"Waffle Station," we both say in sync and then laugh.

The place is chaos. The kind where you'd likely see a patron throwing a chair at a cook over the bar, and there's almost an unspoken law that you can't eat there sober or before midnight, but the food is the kind of mouthwatering greasy garbage that lights up your taste buds and puts Michelin star restaurants to shame.

"Fuck it." I laugh, lifting my hips up as she helps me roll my shorts back on. "I need to at least clean up before we go."

I start to stand, but she stops me, grabbing at my good wrist and shaking her head. "No. You can go like that." She grazes her teeth over her bottom lip, like she's remembering the way I sounded calling her name. "I want you sopping wet when I decide to fuck you at breakfast."

I swallow, doing my best to play it cool, like that wasn't the hottest thing anyone's ever said to me. I think she means after breakfast, but I don't correct her. Instead, I follow, hand in her hold as she leads me out of the rink, the mess between my legs ruining my underwear with every step I take.

Hunger is not a thing I'm capable of feeling at this time. Instead, I'm disgustingly nauseous, and the smell of fried eggs and bacon makes my jaw tingle with discomfort. I fake a smile, just grateful that when the hostess shows us to our booth, Harvey sits next to me and not across from me.

I'm safely tucked into the corner next to the window, but I'm leaning into Cat. She's got one arm draped around me. I've never felt more whole in my entire life. I'm learning that when she says she doesn't like to be touched, she doesn't mean always. She's never opposed to dishing out a beating on the track. She doesn't mind when I'm cuddling up against her like this. If anything, she encourages me when I'm gripping her to death, because I might just fall off the edge of the universe from her making me come.

But when it comes to sex, her body is hers and hers alone.

My brain tends to overcomplicate things. It loves to turn a situation that has nothing to do with me into a three-ring circus where I'm not the ringleader, but the main attraction. I almost expect my mind to begin turning loops, finding new ways to make it all about me and that I can't reciprocate how she makes me feel physically.

But I don't.

This somehow is the clearest thing I've ever come to understand. Harvey's already shown me all the ways she can love; it's not up to me to love her back in the same fashion. It's up to me to learn how she wants that love returned.

"Everything sounds good. What do you want?" She breaks me out of my thoughts, and I realize I haven't even looked at the menu yet.

Her hand drops to my thigh. I fumble with the napkin rolled around my utensils, but her touch is impossible to ignore.

My pulse is loud in my ears, her fingers casually fidgeting with the holes in my fishnets, entwining around each thread like she doesn't care if she rips them further.

I'm at that shitty point in the comedown where I would have dumped out my next hit hours ago. Instead, I'm tired, my mind wanting to sleep but my body fighting against it. I need to get high, but the thought of disappointing Harvey right now is too much to bear. Hurting Kade was a machete through my soul; I can't imagine what letting down Harvey would feel like.

It's like she can tell when I'm lost inside my head, diving far too deep into the depths of that aphotic swamp, the one that swallows up all the comfort in my mind and drowns me in sorrow. Her fingers scratch at the inside of my thigh. I hold my breath, only taking a tiny sip through tight lungs every time I feel her touch scale higher.

I can't avoid it; my face burns along with the rest of me. The anticipation only builds the more she runs the edges of her fingers along the bottom of my spandex shorts. Legally, they're shorts, but I've had underwear that covers more. It has never mattered on the track, but here, with her hand a fraction of an inch from where I ache to feel her, it's too obvious to ignore.

Finally, I look her way. She's still pretending to be looking at the menu, a crooked smirk painted across that devilishly good-looking face, that perfectly defined jaw that shadows at the edges every time she clenches her teeth.

"Orange juice or soda?" she asks, eyes still glued to the menu, her fingers invading their way into my shorts.

"Sprite," I exhale it out like it even fucking matters, her hand stopping just at the apex of my thighs.

Move your fucking fingers. I want to scream, but the server is back to take our order.

"What are you thinking?" Harvey asks.

Shrugging, I give her the truth. "I'm not super hungry. Can I just pick off your plate?"

She eyes me suspiciously, but she doesn't fight it, doesn't try to convince me to get anything. Still, she orders more food than I assume necessary for a single person.

I'm acutely aware of the way the server's eyes drift down from her notepad to where Harvey's hand grips my thigh. She blinks twice, registering the way her fingers are buried inside the crevice of my shorts. Harvey doesn't break eye contact with the server, despite the many times her gaze drifts back down to where her hand sits.

"I'll do the double sunshine special, with the hashbrowns instead of the side of fruit. An order of sausage on the side, and what's your pancake of the day?" Every word rolls off Harvey's tongue confidently, like she's not worried about the server's eyes or that she's a movement away from her fingers feeling the arousal I'm uncomfortably sitting in.

She does a double take. "The what?" Focusing back on Harvey and gripping her pen with a bit more rigor.

"The pancake of the day," Harvey repeats with a tilt of her head, her eyes doing all the smiling for her.

"Nutella and banana," the server answers with a clear of her throat.

"That sounds great. We'll do an order of those as well. I'll take a coffee too, and she'll have a Sprite." Harvey hands the server back the menu with her free hand and then thanks her.

She's barely turned on her heels when I feel her slide through my folds without warning. The moment is electric. Her fingers, the sensation, the fucking restaurant booth. I cover my face with my hand and my cast, dropping my head to the table. She doesn't stop.

Holy shit.

It takes no time at all, minimal effort for her to get me close to the edge. I was wet from my last orgasm, but the ten minutes we've spent in this booth with her teasing has me soaked. I hear a soft chuckle from her somewhere above me while still hiding in the shield of my own hands.

"Do you think if you can't see them, they can't see you?" Harvey asks, amusement dripping from every syllable.

I nod, head still down, breathing heavily as her fingers move back and forth so lazily, so tantalizingly, that I can't help but squeak through my throat. And then her hand is gone, and my head is snapping up on demand, like I've been deprived of something I deserved.

She delights in the disappointment that's all over my face, but she nudges her head to the server coming back with her coffee and my soda. I pull the paper top off the straw like an animal, bringing the drink to my mouth and relishing in the way the bubbles calm my stomach. When I lean back into my seat, her hand finds the side of my face, turning my gaze to hers.

Her eyes dart over my face, like she hasn't taken in my features from this close up before. She has, but it's like this time, she's memorizing them. Harvey's fingers are still gripping at my jaw when she brings her mouth to mine, her tongue parting my lips and her hand reaching through the top of my shorts this time. There's no pause from her, no hesitation, no second to look around.

Her tongue is hot, tangling with mine and leaving me little time to react when her fingers reach back in, forcing me to shift as she pushes her way inside me. She's pulling her face away from mine, that cocky smile I love now plastered over her face as she works her fingers deeper.

It's too instinctual to fight, the casted arm slamming down on the table while the other hand clutches her thigh. The burst of pain is hot through my wrist, but it's muted by pleasure. The sound draws attention through the small diner, forcing a few of the patrons sitting at the bar to turn their heads in our direction. Harvey doesn't stop, but she shifts in her seat, keeping me from anyone's view but hers.

She presses her forehead to mine, her body enveloping me in the little corner of the booth as she forgoes any sort of shame or decency. Neither of us have looked away from each other, the scrunch of her eyebrows mirroring the angry expression she used to dish my way that I now see clearly as focus.

Fucking me fast and curling her fingers into a hook that hits my g-spot, she destroys me. Every pull is shallow, barely moving out of me, moving only deeper and further to stroke that spot that has me squirming and biting my tongue to stay silent in the booth.

Her thumb presses against my clit just as she asks, "Can you come for me wherever I want, princess?"

My jaw goes slack, and I rest my head back against the booth.

My body tightens with the urge of the release, my nails digging into her arm, and soon, I'm shaking under her, fighting to keep my breathing silent and my whines contained with every quake of a climax that refuses to dim. I open my eyes, a pleased look on Harvey's face as she wets her bottom lip with her tongue, pulling her hand from my shorts and leaning back against the booth regularly again.

I can barely catch my breath, but once my thoughts are no longer muddled by the loud beating of my own pulse, I'm able to look around and see that the customers seem to be none the wiser.

Harvey casually runs her tongue along the back of both fingers that had just been inside of me before shoving them in her mouth. Pulling them out with a loud pop, she then wraps her arm over my shoulder and pulls me in. My chest is still rising and falling hard, and I'm still processing the comedown of it all.

Almost every moment with Cat is like that, like jumping off a bridge and still somehow getting caught before the splash. It almost sours the euphoria when my brain likens the feeling to a high. She's beginning to feel like that, and it almost seems like she's trying to compete with the drugs for my attention.

I lean my head against her shoulder, and with her free hand, she brushes my hair out of my face. I'm sweaty, a mixture of the amped up heating system in this tiny diner and the blissful orgasm cocktail delivered straight to my brain.

She sips at her coffee slowly, and the minutes go by until it no longer feels like my own brain is too loud for my head. Then, the food comes.

It's torture.

The pancakes overwhelm me, the sweet stench far too heavy for my empty stomach this early.

This late?

This sober.

The agony starts when the sweet, gray-haired server drops the sausage and bacon in front of me. I take deep breaths through my mouth and fight through the nausea, but it's too much to handle.

"Can you let me out?" I try to keep my cool, but she can see it on my face that I'm not okay.

I run to the bathroom just in time to get all my vomit in the right place. The cold sweat runs down my back, and I know soon is when hell begins. I need to be as far away from Harvey before that happens. I gag once more just from the memory of the greasy smell, but once it's out, I feel a lot better.

Splashing some water on my face does nothing for me. I look exactly like I feel.

Withdrawing.

I walk back to the booth anyway, attempting to avoid her eyes, but I know she sees it on me. "Should we go?" Harvey asks, always so fucking thoughtful.

I shake my head. She just ordered food; I can sit through this.

She gets up from the booth anyway, walking up to the checkout and talking to the hostess for a bit before she comes back my way, holding her keys out to me. "Do you want to sit in my car?"

Nodding, I take them from her and walk outside. I wrap my arms around myself once the chill of the wind hits me, but she's parked close by. I don't bother trying with the passenger side. I don't want to fight with it tonight.

This morning.

Whatever the fuck time it is. I open the back seat and crawl inside. It's somehow colder in the car. My teeth are chattering, I'm sweating my metaphorical balls off, and if I pull a mirror out, I bet my complexion would be reminiscent of a Victorian child suffering from plague.

I cry out in frustration, uncomfortable in this fucking prison cell of a body and desperate for release, desperate to be free from it.

I hate most that she's going to see me like this.

Once she gets in the car, I hand her the keys,biting my cheek and curling into a ball until we've arrived back at her apartment. The drive is moments between discomfort disguised as blinks. She wants to draw me a bath, sees how visibly sweaty I am, and I'm sure I don't smell amazing.

The thought of sitting in hot water makes me want to peel my skin off.

"Just turn the shower on for me?" I ask, no longer having the strength to pretend like I'm okay. She's already done all the work of getting me undressed and putting my hair up.

The water is closer to cold than lukewarm, but I don't care. I sit there, my head hanging while the stream of water beats over me.

"Nia, your cast." Harvey comes in, flustered because I'm facing the wrong direction, my casted arm against the wet wall with no option but to stay doused under the spray.

"Hmm?" I look over, and by the time my head has fully turned in that direction, she's already pulling my body and turning me in the tub.

"Shit. Well, at least your swelling's gone down, so you're probably okay to ask them for a new one now." She's looking at me like she's anxious, like maybe she's not confident in what she's saying.

I nod. That's all I can do right now.

She doesn't force me to stand. Instead, she just washes me. It's not sexual, but it's caring, it's intimate, and I feel far too vulnerable. The weeping comes again, and I hate myself, reminding me that it's just the fucking lack of drugs. When she's draped me in an oversized shirt and tucked me into the luxurious fluff of her bed, I think I might actually be tired.

I don't let my brain ask questions like what time it is or what obligations I have. That kind of overwhelm would send me into a spiral I don't need to face right this moment. I don't quite make out what she says, but I feel her comforting touch as she runs her fingers through my hair, coaxing me into sleep.

I nod off for what feels like seconds, but maybe it's longer. I'm sweating, and I can hear the tv in another room. My phone says three in the morning. I haven't slept more than an hour, I'm sure of it. I'm cold, I'm hot, but most of all, I'm desperate to get high.

Harvey isn't here.

Rummaging through my bag is my first priority after I roll out of bed. A weightlessness fills me when I find all my things untouched. I feel around in the smallest zipper pocket until I find the baggie. It feels like the smallest victory. I pour just a little—not enough to get high, but enough to feel better—of the beige powder onto the nightstand. I don't bother with a straw; I simply block the other nostril and lean down as close as possible until it's already practically in my nose when I inhale.

I put it all away before the powder makes its way through my system. I remember a stupid joke from some stoner kid who used to hang around a million lifetimes ago. He used to say if you snorted through the right nostril, it went straight up to your brain and got you high immediately. If you snorted through the left, it went down to your stomach and had to digest and process longer, so the high would be weaker.

It was one hundred percent bullshit, but to this day, I favor the right side, only opting for the left nostril if the right one is completely out of commission.

I slump down against the side of the bed, feeling comfortable in my own skin for the first time all day. I'm barely leaning my head against the headboard when a sound catches my attention.

It's a sound I've only ever heard in a dream, and I follow it, gracefully stumbling from the bedroom into the hallway. It's coming from the hobby room, and the door is wide open.

My lungs shrivel up, all the air pulled out of my body at the sight of Cat sitting on a leather chair with her fingers inside herself. It makes every part of me feel weak, fluttery, needy.

And it feels incredibly violating.

"I-I'm sorry," I say, gathering her attention because it feels better than a knock. "I woke and heard something and?—"

"Nia, it's fine." She smiles, tilting her chin up as if to summon me closer.

I don't think I have a single solid bone in my body to move, though.

"Come here."