Chapter 13 #2
She stared hard at the stage, where one of the pianists was pounding out “That’s Life,” the whole crowd shouting the chorus like it was gospel. The noise roared, but all Maggie could hear was the thud of her own pulse, the painful echo of Gwen’s hand letting go.
Humiliation simmered under her skin, sharp enough to make her stomach turn. She’d leaned in like some drunk college kid, like history and heartbreak didn’t mean a thing.
Underneath the embarrassment was something worse, the twist of ache. The part of her that still wanted Gwen to close the gap. To take her face in those careful hands and kiss her like they used to, with patience and fire all tangled up together.
Instead, Gwen had stepped back. And Maggie was left standing in the middle of a crowd that suddenly felt too bright, too loud.
She clenched her jaw, swallowed hard, told herself she’d get another drink, dance it off, laugh until it no longer stung. That was her role in this group, wasn’t it? The chaos coordinator. The entertainer.
But the truth sat heavy in her chest: She wasn’t angry at Gwen for pulling away. She was angry at herself for wanting her not to. For getting swept up in a moment that she’d ultimately regret.
Her eyes burned before she even realized what was happening, hot pressure gathering fast enough to make her blink hard once, twice, pretending it was the thick air in the press of bodies.
It wasn’t.
She pushed back from Gwen, from the whole deafening room. Nobody noticed. Pete was requesting a Shania Twain song, Izzy had Kiera pressed close, Danica was wiping tears of laughter from her cheeks. Perfect cover.
Maggie slipped through the crowd and out the door, her chest tight, heart ricocheting against her ribs. The bar was set back from Fremont in an arcade, tucked between a bowling alley and a Denny’s.
And there, in the sad orange light of a Denny’s sign, finally, the tears broke loose.
It was stupid. She hadn’t cried in months. Not really, not since the last time she and Gwen fought about quality time, or work, or silence. And now here she was, mascara smudging, shoulders shaking like a teenager heartbroken at prom.
She pressed her hands to her eyes, trying to choke it back, but the harder she fought, the harder it came.
It wasn’t just the kiss Gwen hadn’t given her. It was everything that kiss would have meant: that they weren’t done, that maybe all the mess and all the distance could still be undone.
But Gwen had pulled away.
And Maggie stood in the dark, letting herself cry where no one could see, hating how much it hurt and hating even more that part of her still wanted Gwen anyway.
The desert night was warm, dry against her damp skin. Maggie pressed her back to the brick wall beside the door, tilting her head up until the lights blurred and streaked through the tears still clinging to her lashes. She dragged the heel of her palm under her eyes, hard enough to sting.
God, she hated crying. Hated how raw it left her, how exposed, and in Vegas of all places — this city that thrived on facades and glitter and spectacle, not the soft, humiliating sound of someone trying not to sob.
She crossed her arms tight over her chest, willing her heartbeat to slow, trying to pull herself together. People streamed past on the street, laughing, shouting, drunk on oversized daiquiris. To them she was just another shadow against the wall.
Maggie closed her eyes. The air smelled like smoke and sugar and asphalt, sharp enough to ground her, but not sharp enough to cut through the ache.
The door creaked open behind her, spilling piano chords and laughter into the night. Maggie tensed, swiping at her face fast, ready to paste on something casual and mask it all with a flippant remark. But it was Gwen who stepped out.
Of course it was.
Maggie turned her face toward the street, toward the blur of neon overhead. “Go back inside, Gwen. I’m fine.”
“You’re crying.” Gwen’s voice was steady, too steady.
“I said I’m fine.” Maggie shoved a laugh into the words, sharp and hollow. “Just needed some air. Fremont Street heals all wounds, right? I think there’s an Elvis song that says that.”
But Gwen didn’t leave. She moved closer, the scrape of her stupid dress shoes loud against the concrete, until she was right there — so close Maggie could smell the faint thread of her shampoo beneath the cocktail haze.
And then Gwen’s hands were on her face, firm, holding her still.
Maggie startled, tried to pull back, but Gwen’s grip was gentle and unyielding.
“What do you want?” Gwen asked, low, urgent, every syllable vibrating through Maggie’s chest.
Her throat closed. The question was so big, and so, so dangerous. She shook her head, eyes darting away toward the crowd. “I don’t know.”
“Say it.” Gwen’s thumbs brushed against her damp cheeks, her gaze relentless. “Say what you want.”
The air between them thickened, hot and electric, as if the city itself had paused to listen. Maggie’s breath stuttered, her pulse screaming that she did know, she always had, but the words tangled, caught in her chest.
And still Gwen held her there, steady and unflinching, until the silence between them felt like it might break them both open.
Maggie’s chest heaved, every nerve firing under Gwen’s touch. Her thumbs still rested against Maggie’s cheeks, warm, steady, holding her in place like Gwen could anchor her through sheer will.
Then Gwen’s voice dropped, low enough that it was almost a growl. “Tell me you want me to kiss you.”
Maggie’s breath hitched.
“Say it out loud.”
Her whole body rebelled, her brain screaming don’t, her heart pounding please. She tried to look away, but Gwen’s hands tightened, just enough to keep her there, their foreheads almost touching now. The air between them was hot, charged with too many years of not admitting what she needed.
Maggie’s lips trembled. “I… I want you to kiss me.”
The words came out raw, cracked open, but once they were there, she couldn’t stop. Her eyes flicked helplessly to Gwen’s mouth, the gravity of it pulling her in.
Gwen’s breath caught against her cheek. Her grip softened but didn’t fall away.
“Again,” Gwen whispered. “Say it again so I know you mean it.”
Maggie’s throat burned, tears hot at the corners of her eyes, but she let the words spill anyway. “I want you to kiss me.”
And in that moment — standing in the dark mouth of an alley off Fremont Street, surrounded by laughter and lights and the roar of a city that didn’t care — Maggie had never meant anything more.
Gwen’s face was so close Maggie could feel the warmth of her breath. Her eyes had gone soft but intent, the way she used to look at Maggie when they were young, and everything felt possible.
She leaned in, just enough that their noses brushed, then stopped.
“Are you sure?” Gwen asked, voice rough, almost breaking.
The pause split Maggie wide open, because of course Gwen would ask, even now, when Maggie was already shaking with need. Of course Gwen would give her one last chance to back away, to pretend she hadn’t said the words that had been clawing at her chest for months.
But Maggie didn’t back away. She couldn’t.
Her hand slid up, gripping the front of Gwen’s shirt, tugging her in. She closed the gap herself, pressing her mouth to Gwen’s in a kiss that was messy and desperate, nothing like the polished way Gwen usually moved through the world.
It was salt and tears and months, years of wanting, and Gwen’s hands tightening at her jaw like she’d been starving for the taste of her all along.
The noise of Fremont Street roared on around them — signs flashing, strangers laughing, some drunk tourist shouting Viva Las Vegas! — but Maggie didn’t hear any of it.
All she heard was the thunder of her own heart and the quiet hitching sound Gwen made when she kissed her back.
The first brush of their mouths might’ve ended as a stunned, fleeting thing, but Gwen didn’t pull away.
She kissed her back. Harder this time, with a sound caught low in her throat that Maggie hadn’t heard in years but recognized instantly, like an old song coming on a new playlist.
Maggie gasped against her, and Gwen used it, tilting her head and deepening the kiss until Maggie’s knees threatened to buckle. Gwen’s hands left her face only to find her waist, sliding down, anchoring her with a grip that made Maggie tremble.
And then her back hit the wall.
The warm brick scraped through her thin dress as Gwen pressed her there, not rough but certain, her body solid against Maggie’s. Maggie’s fingers clutched at Gwen’s shirt, pulling her closer, greedy, aching. “God, Gwen,” she whispered against her mouth, desperate.
Gwen swallowed the sound, kissing her deeper, teeth catching at her bottom lip before soothing it with her tongue. One hand braced beside Maggie’s head, the other still hot at her waist, sliding just a fraction lower, enough to make Maggie shudder.
Maggie arched into her, letting the wall take her weight, clinging like she could crawl inside Gwen and finally be whole again. And for the first time in months, maybe years, she wasn’t thinking about why it wouldn’t work. She was only thinking: more.
The kiss turned greedy fast, the kind of kiss that had no business happening in public. Gwen pressed into her harder, her thigh sliding between Maggie’s, pinning her against the brick.
Maggie gasped, the sound again swallowed instantly by Gwen’s mouth, and then her own hands were moving without thought — up Gwen’s chest, clutching her shoulders, fisting the fabric of her shirt like she could keep her there forever.
It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t polished. Gwen kissed like she was starving, like she’d been holding this back so long it hurt. Their teeth knocked once, Gwen muttered something low and guttural against her lips, and Maggie laughed into it — half-crazed, half-ecstatic.
Gwen’s hand slid lower, gripping Maggie’s hip, her fingers digging in with enough force to make Maggie arch, reckless, every nerve in her body screaming yes.