I took another drink. “The punchline writes itself, although I don’t believe this story, our story can't be written at a keyboard. There’s more to it. More meaning.”
I looked at my hands, the blunt nails and faded polish. For all my training, all my discipline, I was still a Bellini at heart, wired for blood and loyalty and destruction. But I’d never been good at pretending I didn’t want something.
I let the words hang, waiting to see if anyone would pick them up. Jenna did.
She slid off the armrest and sat beside me, so close I could feel the heat of her skin. “You always said you wanted out of the family business,” she whispered. “Maybe this is your way to finally get out.”
I turned to her. “And you? You want me out, or in?”
She didn’t answer with words. She reached out, slow, deliberate, and put her hand over mine on the couch. Her nails were chipped, and her fingers shook, but her grip was iron.
Seneca watched, his face a battlefield of pride and pain. He reached for the bottle, then set it down without pouring. “You’re both insane,” he muttered.
“Maybe,” I said. “But I’m here. That has to count for something.”
Jenna’s eyes searched mine. “It does,” she said. “It counts for everything.”
The lamp flickered, and the trailer groaned in the wind. I felt the weight of the night settle on us. The three of us, bound by history and habit and a need we couldn’t quite put a finger on. I let go of the glass and let my hand find Jenna’s. Seneca’s hand,rough and scarred, landed on top of both of ours. We sat that way, silent and steady, for what felt like forever. I’d never felt more exposed, or more alive.
We must have sat in that standoff for an hour, maybe two. My mind measured the passing time in the way the bourbon line receded, in the way Seneca’s fingers kneaded unconsciously into my knuckles, in the way Jenna pressed her thigh harder into mine every time the silence threatened to break.
It was Jenna who moved first. She shifted her hand from the table, let it slide up Seneca’s forearm, tracing the mapwork of old scars and black ink. She did it slow, like she was afraid of breaking something. Seneca tensed but didn’t stop her. He just watched, eyes following the lazy path of her fingers, until they landed in the pit of his elbow and curled there.
I let my own hand drift up, covered her small fist with my palm, then slid it over his biceps, feeling the twitch of muscle underneath. He didn’t look at me, not yet, but I saw the way his jaw flexed, the way his chest rose and fell just a little faster.
“Remember that day in my office?” Jenna asked, her voice raw.
Seneca grunted, not quite a yes. “That’s when it really started. It was more than just a hard fuck around your office.”
“It was a test,” Jenna said. “That’s what people do. They test each other before diving all the way in.”
“If you’re looking for me to say something deep, meaningful, something you can slap on a meme and pretend, I’m not about to do that.” He looked at each of us. “But this is what I will tell you. With me, in my arms, you’ll never want another. And, by the way, this isn’t normal, and I’m okay with that.”
The truth was, I didn’t want it to be normal. I wanted the ache, the madness, the way it made my head spin to know that every word, every touch, could be a spiral into each other’s souls. "I'm sorry," I said. "I can't do this." With that, I walked out the door.
***
I lit a cigarette on the way to the car and as I reach for the doorhandle, a hand landed on my shoulder, turning me fast enough to send the cigarette flying. I stared into Jenna's eyes, the green transitioning from light to dark and then back to light again.
"Don't leave," she begged. "I know, deep down, you want this as much as I do."
"Why, Jenna? How can you possibly want to share him? Or me?" She pressed me against the car. "Fuck. How can both of us be in love with someone we barely know? I know you love him?"
"Because what we do know is that he's a protector. He cares. About both of us." She buried her face in the crook of my neck.
"Damnit." I looked toward the door and Seneca stood there watching. He nodded and went back inside. "I want to talk to him first."
Jenna backed away. "Okay. Catherine. It's the right thing to do."
I moved from between Jenna and the car, my hand around hers, and I pulled away. Inside, Seneca had gone back to the table.
"Fucked up, isn't it?" He had two whiskey glasses half full. He handed me one and I didn't bother sipping.
"This works out great for you," I said. "Two women sucking your dick."
"Well, when you put it like that." He drank the shot and poured another. He studied the small glass. "Right or wrong, I've been with hundreds of women, Catherine. Never felt shit for any of them. Then you two arrive with your drama and bullshit. But then, I saw something underneath it all. Then I had hope. Fucking around all the time gets old. Why should I have tochoose between the two of you when I feel the same thing for each."
I sat at the table. "This is fucked. Worse than any case I've ever tried."
