5 #2
And just like that, she gives me a little shove toward the building.
Since I basically have a degree in making a scene and won’t shut up, she gets bored, reaches out, and in a split second—wham—she’s got me pinned to the wall like she does this every day. She clamps a hand over my mouth—not gentle, not rough, just clear as hell: shut up, I’m in charge.
And me, with the keys biting into my palm and humiliation, eyes like fried eggs and my ego doing the cha-cha. Worst part: I’m not scared and I’m not mad. I’m… God, turned on as hell, pulse going feral.
She leans in closer, body pressed to mine, and whispers in my ear, soft but firm: "If you shut up and listen, I’ll let go. But we are not putting on a show out here, deal?"
"And if I don’t, what? You gonna cop a feel?"
"You wish, gorgeous."
Okay, she’s got my number. She lets go. Tiny bounce and I’m fussing with clothes that didn’t even move.
I smooth my hair for show. I take two steps back with the keys still rigid between my fingers, in case my inner ninja suddenly choreographs a Kill Bill number.
It doesn’t. I give her a pissed-off look with a side of crush. Yes, I’m an idiot. Happily.
"All right, genius, what the fuck do you want from me? Why are you tailing me everywhere? Am I supposed to sign some ticket, or are you just collecting crappy videos of me running around the neighborhood?"
The blonde loses every last villain vibe. Not a killer, not a henchwoman, no drama. Rushed mascara, guilt stamped on her forehead, shoulders dropping an inch. She sighs. Rubs her hands. Lowers her voice.
"Okay, this is a mess. I’m Nat. I’m… a detective."
I’m left half-mouthed, because “detective” wasn’t on my Mystery Blonde bingo card.
"I’ve been looking for someone for years…
and I thought it was you. I had you pegged.
And right when I thought I’d nailed it… plot twist, ma’am—there are two of you.
Twins. That’s a first. And now, total buzzkill, because the girl I’m after…
she’s solo. No duplicates. So all this… that’s on me. Sorry."
I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, ask for a pity kiss, or bang my head against the mailbox.
Because she gave me a high and a crash in the same breath.
No Russian dad hunting us down, no payback, no psycho love story, nothing.
Just a disoriented detective and me, Alaska, making a fool of myself like always.
But the blonde turns intense, and I brace to die of embarrassment right here. She moves closer, straight into my personal space.
"Are you Alaska? Or are you the other one?"
Heat crawls up my back. Somewhere between pissed and exhausted, a comeback is born that deserves a literary prize in my head and comes out sounding like a mouthy mop.
"What does it matter? You gonna ask for my medical records too? You already followed me, you yanked out a chunk of my hair worse than my sister when I won’t let her use my lotion, and I swear that’s got to be a misdemeanor. I’m this close to calling the cops and reporting you."
She lets out a laugh that’s low, dangerous, affectionate—all at once. A husky voice that shoots straight to places I’m not detailing. Oh, Alaska, put some ice on it.
"Report me?" She gets so close that if I had gum, it’d be hers hands-free. "Don’t freak out. You’re not part of the case anymore, gorgeous. We can do whatever we want. We can fuck, if you’re into it."
I spin up three soap operas and two of them are porn: we kiss, I rip her suit, she slides a hand in, we even play cops and robbers with a happy ending.
Call me an idiot, but one look at this face-off with the blonde and my brain’s already programming the joint OnlyFans of our lives.
Of course, I play it tough, arch a brow, and eye her like she’s a door-to-door vacuum saleswoman.
"Alaska, or Vega…" she says, smacking me with two brain slaps at once. "I don’t care. The one looking at me like that is you. If you want, take advantage of me being here," she says through a clenched jaw.
No, seriously. I want to laugh at the line and knock off her imaginary glasses at the same time.
"Who the hell do you think you are, platinum blonde?" I say, barely above a whisper. "If you did your homework and stalked me, you already know I get paid for custom services. So, sweetheart, go ahead and pull out your Visa, because rented love’s at a premium. And I’m Alaska, okay? Don’t get it wrong. "
The bitch smiles.
"I’m gonna pay you, huh?" she whispers in my ear. "Not a chance. Now, babe, you’re gonna beg me and you’re gonna enjoy it."
And I swear I’m not going to bite my lip, not going to lose my dignity—except the witch knocks me off balance.
It’s too much; my brain is screaming run, run, but my body’s already handing out tickets to the festival.
I fold my arms to play it cool and roast myself.
If Fleabag saw this, she’d look into camera and give me a silent clap.
If Villanelle saw it, she’d slap a score on my forehead and steal my lipstick.
"You’re out of your mind, huh?" I whisper in a tiny, scared kitten voice.
And the smartass—who I swear has read every self-help book except the one I’d write—leans in even closer. I catch her perfume, expensive as hell, like it just rolled out of Marvel’s lab. She pins me between her body and my lack of a Plan B.
I close my eyes because, damn, what’s in front of me is scary, but if she kisses me…
if she kisses me, God, I’ll fall apart. Damn it, she doesn’t kiss me.
She doesn’t touch me. She just looks at me with an intensity that makes me suddenly small.
I miss my sky-high heels; without them I feel like a loser fresh into the “at your mercy, giant blonde” club.
And fuck, I can’t tell if I love feeling like this or if I’m about to short-circuit.
She grabs my hand and drags me to a darker spot by the meters.
The lights pull a dramatic stunt—bam, out—and we’re left in a half-light that, if this were a movie, would cue a sax and flashes of sweaty bodies.
But no sax, no nothing: the only thing making noise is my heart and my sweat getting ready to party.
She corners me against the wall and presses into me.
The plan is I should play hard and summon every last ancestor to stop her. But nope. Can’t do it.
"This turns you on, doesn’t it, Alaska?"
My knees are practically doing nervous squats. If I wasn’t so horny I can’t think, I’d bail to start a union of redeemed virgins, but my body betrays me before I can open my mouth. I don’t even know why I bother with the tough-girl act; you can see the tremble in my shadow.
I nod, that sheepish, surrendering yes, because her hand—this evolutionary marvel—slides under my breezy on-sale dress, and I wave goodbye to my last rational thought. Her fingers—long, cool, and up to no good—climb my thighs.
I try to hold back. I don’t want her clocking how much she turns me on, but it’s useless. My bottom lip trembles; I bite it to keep from moaning, and it’s a lost cause. The fucking bitch has me in her claws, and I let her.
"You like it, huh?" she says, grinning.
This cocky woman pisses me off like you wouldn’t believe, but all I manage is to shut my eyes and chant nun mantras so I don’t let out a scream that wakes the whole building.
Her hand goes straight for my crotch, and it turns me on even more that she feels the heat of my wet panties.
The bitch knows exactly what she’s doing, and I, idiot that I am, go with it.