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Violet's bruises are fading.
She sits across the table at an IHOP in Iowa, as out of place in a cheap place like that as the marks of Ceasar's violence are on her skin. But she wears them proudly, a badge of courage, proof of something she doesn't have to prove. Not to Corky, anyway. Corky watches Violet's fingers as she rips open the cream and sugar, nails short and perfectly polished. Femme dyke nails, not straight girl nails.
Violet pours the sugar into her cup and glances across the scuffed formica table, giving Corky a come-hither look. And suddenly, Corky wants to slide under the table and stick her face between those sexy legs. Violet never wears underwear.
She does the next best thing; she slides into the booth next to Violet and looks back. It's a long look, a look that she hopes tells Violet what she wants to do to her.
Violet licks her lips. "How long until we get to L.A.?"
Corky shrugs and slides her hand under the table and up Violet's thigh. "Depends on how often we stop, and for how long." Her hand brushes up past the top of silk stockings, past garters, and brushes moist heat. Just brushes, oh so lightly.
Violet sighs and leans closer. "So it could take awhile."
Corky glances around the IHOP. It's three in the morning in the middle of nowhere, and the restaurant is deserted. The waitress has been gone for awhile, and Corky wonders idly if she's fallen asleep. She didn't even see any cars on the road for about an hour on the way here. So she wets her fingers in her mouth, then reaches down and slips them inside Violet. "Are you sure you don't want to go to Mexico? We could be banditos."
The waitress comes out of the kitchen, squeaking along in dirty running shoes, and pours them more coffee. "Breakfast'll be out in a minute." She's a muscular older woman with short grey hair who looks like she might live on a farm. She gives Violet a long look, and then she leaves. Maybe she's family. Not family like Ceaser, family like a member of the church, family like on the team. A member of the choir.
Corky finds herself humming "We Are Family," and Violet chuckles under her breath, a light huff of air. "My thoughts exactly." And then they're grinning at each other, and Violet says, "I need you to help me with something in the bathroom." She squirms off Corky's fingers and stands, and struts off towards the bathroom, the tops of her stockings showing under her short skirt. Corky follows, of course, licking her fingers. She'd follow Violet anywhere.
The bathroom is a travesty of orangey-brown linoleum and ratty stalls, clean but old and worn. Violet kisses Corky and pulls her into a stall, and Corky's hand is under Violet's skirt, sleek and wet and damn, she smells so good. There's nothing like the smell of a woman when she's turned on.
"Corky!" Violet writhes against Corky's fingers. And then there's the sound of the door opening. The two of them freeze, heads swiveling in unison towards the door.
There's a sound of squeaky shoes, and the sound of unzipping. Then the dirty brown running shoes appear under the stall with the crumpled legs of the waitress' IHOP uniform. Then there's the sound of peeing.
Corky moves her hand, reaching for exactly the spot that she knows Violet loves, silently daring Violet to stay silent. Violet bites her lip and wriggles, her eyes pleading for more.
The toilet in the next stall flushes. The squeaky shoes head towards the door. "You girls don't let your breakfast get cold," the waitress says, and leaves.
Violet bursts out laughing, and Corky drops to her knees and buries her face in Violet's hot, salty, wet crotch. Violet's laughter turns to moans as she arches, writhes against the stall wall. "Corky!" Yes. Corky's fingers slide inside Violet, her tongue working Violet's clit, and Violet trembles and pulses around Corky's fingers. Yes.
Violet sighs. "Oh my God, Corky."
"Banditos," Corky says.
Violet laughs. Corky loves Violet's laugh. "We're already banditos." Violet's skirt is up around her waist, her hair mussed, her breasts spilling out a bit. Not enough. Just enough to see the rose tattoo and a hint of nipple. "No need to get greedy."
Corky stands and kisses Violet. "Your bruises are fading." Her finger brushes Violet's cheek. Bastard. Corky's glad Ceasar's dead.
Violet shrugs. "All part of the business." And she hasn't tried very hard to hide them. She could, but she didn't. Corky really does think she's proud of them.
Corky kisses her lightly on the nose. "Don't let breakfast get cold." She straightens Violet's dress and opens the stall door for her, half-bowing gallantly.
Violet smiles and leans up into Corky's face, lips brushing Corky's. "We should stop at a hotel. What I want to do to you won't be a quickie." And then she's strutting back to the table, and Corky follows, dreaming of hotels. Motel 6s and Hyatt Regencies and Best Westerns and Hiltons. And Violet.
Violet's blueberry pancakes are there, and the waitress sets Corky's eggs and bacon in front of her. She gives Violet a long look. "Looks like you picked right. Just tell me you gave the bastard what he had coming to him."
Violet smiles and says nothing. It's a scary smile, predatory, feline, and Corky thinks that Violet really is the scary one of the two of them.
The waitress just chuckles. "My girlfriend and I put a fish in her ex's waterbed and turned the heater up full blast."
Corky and Violet laugh, and Corky cheers, and the waitress squeaks away on ratty old running shoes.
Violet pours maple syrup all over her pancakes and says, "I'm starving."
"I have everything I want," Corky says, and munches on a piece of bacon.
Violet's eyes are like a promise as she raises the fork to her mouth.