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Well now. Vi had her full attention. Or whatever was left of it in her current state.
“You may think that me having had a series of consensual relationships with a number of women might suggest I’d be satisfied with being one of many for you. But that is not the case, Chiara. If you want to jerk my chain and exact revenge on me for my sins from five years ago, so be it.” Vi’s thumb rubbed Chiara’s skin and the dissonance between the gesture and the words was somewhat disconcerting. “I hurt you and I betrayed you, no matter what actually happened. I will accept the punishment, do your worst… But I won’t be part of some game between you and Frankie.”
The quiet, almost gentle cadence of Vi’s voice, submitting herself as a lamb to Chiara’s knife and slaughter, snapped her out of her childish petulance. This was far more than Vi setting boundaries when it came to Frankie.
This time, when Chiara tugged on her hand, Vi let go. Her eyes, downcast and dull, showed the loss clearly, only to widen, then close as Chiara gently splayed her fingers on Vi’s cheek, thumb caressing the cutting cheekbone.
“No games, darling. We will deal with it. And with the fact that you seem to know the entire New York queerdom. Was sticking to only one borough too much to ask for?”
She deliberately lowered her tone to teasing, turning everything into a harmless joke, allowing the old endearment to slip from her tongue, letting Vi know that she wasn’t serious, and Vi brought Chiara’s hand to her mouth, biting gently on the fingertips.
It felt good, even as her head became fuzzier under the effect of the pills finally dulling the edges of pain. She sighed. “Not right now, because I think I’m turning into a pumpkin here…”
“I thought I was Cinderella?” Vi’s grin was infectious.
“Shhh, just be glad I’m in the right fairytale, the way I’m feeling… Anyway, if there is one thing I can assure you of, it’s that. And no Frankie.” Chiara smiled as Vi blinked rapidly. She could feel the lashes flutter on her thumb. A moment later, she leaned over and laid a kiss on Vi’s forehead before moving lower and kissing first one eyelid, then the other, followed by the bridge of the nose and the cheekbones beneath her fingertips. Vi exhaled under the touch, and Chiara simply laid her lips on hers. For a moment, they were suspended, skin on skin, breathing each other’s air.
“I allowed you to fuck me because I wanted to, Vi.” The profanity jarred, even as it passed her lips, hoarse and ragged, but she was not yet prepared to call it anything else. ‘Making love’ would mean acknowledging out loud what she was not yet ready to even think about for any amount of time.
And so she didn’t go where her heart was telling her to, nor did she bother moving even an inch from Vi’s mouth, her words scattering on those full lips. “Furthermore, I did not fuck you because I wanted to prove something. Debts aside, I did that because I wanted to. I want you. I don’t seem to know how not to. And while I’m working through the ‘why’, can you believe me when I say there are no games between us? That there is nobody else here but you and me?”
Vi’s eyelids trembled, and Chiara saw a single tear slip and roll down her cheek. This time, she did not catch it, allowing it to fall to the floor, then simply moved her lips, caressing Vi’s, not deepening the kiss, not demanding, simply giving, comforting as much as she could with the pain still splitting her skull.
Just before Vi could pull away, a frail, tenuous thought Chiara had been chasing and missing suddenly was within her reach. She slid her hand under Vi’s chin, lifting her face, the midday sun playing on the planes of those cutting features, focusing Chiara on the torment that still lived within Vi, among that light, all those lingering shadows.
“Since I don’t play games and haven’t, in fact, since those months in Paris—which is a separate conversation—I will say only this, Vi. Atonement is overrated. So is martyrdom. So there is no revenge of any kind.”
She felt more than saw Vi’s lips tremble at her words and pressed harder, her kiss a little violent in its intent to impress the true meaning of those words on this ravaged person in front of her, who was ready to endure abuse to pay for what she’d done all those years ago.
“I either forgive you. Or I do not. And we either move forward together, or we move on separately. It’s as simple as that, Vi.” She said it matter-of-factly, words spilling out of her, and Chiara desperately wanted Vi to believe them, even as she tried her damnedest to make them be true. To speak them into reality and pray her heart had that forgiveness in it, as much as it had the love.
23
IN A FARAWAY LAND OF TUXEDOS AND REALIZATIONS
Chiara Conti went through the rest of September in a fever dream of photography, interviews and Vi. Which meant sex. Or at least it should have meant that.
But somehow, just as five years earlier, Vi managed to sneak under all of Chiara’s already crumbling defenses, and something that they had agreed to be a ‘no strings, all fun’ entanglement, ended up becoming something much… Chiara stopped in front of the bathroom mirror as she slid on an earring and tried to think of an appropriate word.
Softer? More careful? Both of those worked, even if the sex was such that, in actuality, neither description could be ascribed to it.
She felt that every time they actually had a moment to spare for bedroom activities, they fell on each other like starving creatures, leaving bruises and greedy bites. Not that theyhada moment. In fact, they almost never did, the last few weeks proving taxing and anxiety-inducing.
And yet Vi held the ship steady, professionally steering the photoshoots and the entirety of the project towards a successful climax. And amidst all of that, she also managed to do the same for Chiara.
Many times, actually. As Chiara slid on the second earring, her fingers gingerly touched the bags under her eyes that not even her considerable makeup skills could cover.
They’d gotten a bit eager last night. An adventure that actually ended in the early morning hours, with Vi rushing home to shower and get some last-minute details ready for tonight, and Chiara basking in the glory of the sunny New York morning with an immense mug of cappuccino and a stack of designs she thought she would choke on if she didn’t finish.
Her creativity had taken a turn once again, from parched and barren to overflowing, and she’d been hunched over her work station for most of the day, coffee, food and the entire world forgotten.
She chose to not dwell on the fact that this was happening again. It had taken Vi one comment and one lost shoe five years ago to inspire her and perhaps change her professional destiny, and here she was again, providing inspiration in Chiara’s hour of artistic need.
It was only when she’d automatically reached for the mug, taking a sip and grimacing at how cold and unpalatable it had become, that she realized it was almost 5 p.m. and it was time to get ready. Arabella and Benedict had planned a lavish reception in her honor to celebrate the upcoming release of the first ever Poise Wedding Issue, dedicated in its entirety to Chiara Conti and Chiaroscuro.
Vi Courtenay’s name was emblazoned on the cover along with Chiara’s, and for some reason it gave her a small thrill, seeing those letters arranged so close together. It seemed like a good omen for things to come…
Chiara smiled at her own pun and spritzed perfume on her pulse points. And here was another good harbinger, she hoped, as the scent of verbena reached her senses. She had not used this particular bespoke perfume in years. And then, on a whim, a few weeks ago, she’d reached out to her good friend for a resupply. There was a warm kind of solace in the familiar scent.
