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The first time they kissed again after everything wasn't really a kiss at all, not in the sense that it meant anything (not like the ones in her bedroom Beth never, ever lets herself remember).
There'd been a new guy at one of the drops, hanging back when one of Rio's boys came to pick up a fresh run. She only mentioned it to Mick the next time he came by the Paper Porcupine to check on production, because he’d grabbed a couple of packs of cards on his way out and Beth isn’t about to shoulder the cost of casual thievery on top of everything else.
But then Rio materializes on her picnic table the following night with no warning, and it's surprising, to say the least. He hasn’t turned up at her house since…
We can do whatever we want.
Except maybe he can, but she can't. It's been so long since she's been able to do whatever she wants; Beth doesn’t even know when the concept of wanting anything for herself stopped being a part of her mental landscape.
The point is, Rio showing up at her house is unusual enough that she knows something's up. Still, when he tells her to get in the car, she protests, mostly to prove...honestly, she doesn't even know what or to who anymore. It's a weak, token attempt more for the show than anything else, and they both know it.
"My kids—"
"You got a husband all tucked up in there, yeah? Worried he can't handle a midnight shift when everyone's sleepin'?"
Which is how Beth finds herself parked in the shadowy corner of an office park parking lot across the street from a commercial printer. The front of the building—the offices and lobby—is shuttered and dark, but the back—the warehouse—hums with activity. The second shift gave way to the third a little while ago, and when the new crew came in, Rio looked at Beth and jerked his chin in a wordless question. Beth'd squinted, studying each face as best she could, but none of them rang the bell that'd signal the end of this round and send her back home to bed.
She doesn't know if she's disappointed or relieved.
A thick, awkward silence simmers in the space between them, bubbling and ballooning until it takes up all the extra air. It takes three tries for Beth to lick it off her lips, swallow it off her tongue, dilute it enough that she can burst it.
"Been awhile," she says.
It's a weak attempt at an olive branch, made that much anemic by how long they've already been sitting in silence, but it's the best (safest) thing she can find. She offers it without looking, staring straight ahead, like the player they're watching for could materialize without warning. Which, to be fair, for all Beth knows, he could.
Besides, if she looks, she might have to acknowledge how hungrily her eyes would trace Rio's angles and edges—somehow alien and familiar (but not dear, never dear) at the same time—before coming to rest on the steady rise and fall of his chest.
"Not much reason to come 'round, yeah? What with the way you keep tryin' to get rid of me."
Even though Rio says it lazily, detached and drawling, Beth jerks like a shot's been fired and darts a glance at him to see if he's seen it land, cursing herself for any of what the fact of her reaction could reveal.
But it doesn't matter, because he isn't looking at her. He's slouched in his seat, leaned up against the door, that bored, indifferent expression—the only mask he shows her now—firmly in place (the spark that used to flare in them's a hated memory, tattered and worn around the edges) like the topic is too trivial to warrant his focus.
The yawning chasm between his statement and demeanor taunts her, even more so because she knows that's his intent. It's a lie, she knows it's a lie, and it's only a matter of time before the new trap she's entangled in comes clear just in time to snap shut around her.
Beth closes her eyes. She remembers incentive and next time, empty the clip and not your family, and considers reminding him he's the one who keeps backing her into this corner.
She thinks about trying to tell him how she's never felt like she's had a choice. That him offering her one—once out of so many impossible situations she's given up keeping track—isn't enough to make it true.
Pressing her lips together, Beth swallows hard, trying to clear the lump of nothing that's taken up residence in her throat. It's not like it would matter even if he let her get it all out, even if explanations, reasons, motives weren't a language neither of them seems to have ever learned. At some point, there's so much water under the bridge, the surface floods and submerges, and the purpose of the structure is so lost it might as well not be there at all.
Beth opens her eyes. Rio still isn't looking at her.
Like he doesn't need to. Like he thinks so little of (her) the threat she presents, he doesn't need to take care, doesn't need to be wary. Doesn't need to pay her any attention at all.
"How do you even know your...your boy's going to be here?"
It isn't what she wants to ask, but the quiet is suffocating. The knife's edge of his jaw, the angle of it strange when his face is turned so completely away, cuts her to ribbons.
A desperation she can't explain, wishes she didn't feel, hones the words to an outraged edge and the ghost of a smile drifts across his face like he knows exactly what sharpened them. Like he knows her.
The audacity sparks a flame inside her, chasing away some of the chill, and she braces herself to deflect his parry.
"Because I do," he says.
The unadorned arrogance sends a frisson of something (it's anger, it's anger, it's anger) up her spine, but its effect is diffused by the utter lack of interest behind it, leaving Beth feeling oddly bereft and unmoored. She sighs, clenching her fingers around the overlong cuffs of her sleeves and sagging back.
The silence returns, shrouding the front seat, leaching every last drop of the warmth from her body with each minute that ticks by.
Beth stares resolutely forward, determined not to give him anything else. Her heart beats—once, twice, three times—impossibly loud in the tomb of her body, bricked in alongside the ghosts of every soft thing that's ever died between them. Apparently, passing the shovel back and forth as they buried it all six feet under is the only true act of partnership they'll ever achieve.
Headlights fan across the car and stretching shadows towards the suddenly opaque windshield. In her peripheral, she sees Rio jolt, not only like he's surprised, but also like maybe he'd been looking someplace he shouldn't, someplace he doesn't want to be illuminated by the light of whoever's pulled up behind them.
He checks the rearview mirror and curses softly. Now Beth looks at him, and she sees his cheek ripple, the muscle stretched beneath his skin clenching and releasing.
"Wha—"
Then Rio's moving, leaning across the console into her space, those long, strong fingers cupping the back of her neck. Independent of intent or any kind of rational thought, driven by some self-destructive instinct she'd never known she possessed before she met him, Beth's hands come up. Her fingers curl around the collar of his jacket, and she pulls herself the rest of the way into him, her body going rogue before any scraps of good sense she may still have lying around can dust themselves off and put a stop to this.
"It's for the alibi, yeah? Don't read into it."
She balks, wordless inquiry building on her tongue. But then Rio's mouth's on hers—his hesitation only perceptible if she were cataloging every move, every breath, every twitch, and sigh (and she's not, she's not she's not)—before she can do more than breathe in his air.
The taste of him bursts across her tongue, rich and sweet and bitter, a contradictory blend she's tried so hard to erase—systematically working her way through new flavors, new wines, new spices. Like all she needs to do is find the right counter-palette to render his inert.
A fool's errand, she has just enough presence of mind to think before the thought's gone, swept away in the current of a sigh so poignant it's nearly a whimper traded back and forth between them.
It's not just the taste.
It's the smell: something subtle that makes her think of eating an orange under an oak tree.
It's the feel: banked and coiled power held in check by a nearly finite control that never fails to make her breath catch.
It's the sound: a low, raw groan she almost feels more than she hears when he releases it into her mouth.
And maybe she's never let herself remember, but that doesn't mean Beth's ever been able to forget (hasn't tried, not really) the overpowering experience of him. He's everywhere, overwhelming every sense, infiltrating every nook and cranny, a forest fire devouring everything in its path with no end in sight.
She wants to find his edges, to tangle her fingers in his threads and tug, to unravel him the way he so effectively unravels her, to consume him, use his elemental fibers to fuel her own insatiable blaze.
Licking at his lip, Beth sucks it into her mouth and bites down. Triumph bursts through her when he grunts, and she surges up into him, her teeth clacking against his in her urgency to consume as much of him as she can get before the moment passes.
From somewhere vaguely elsewhere, she hears a car door slam, but it's far away and unimportant compared to the almost breathless sound he makes when she shoves him back across his seat, following the motion with the rest of her body. She dimly registers his head hitting against the door, and pulls back, something strange taking shape on her tongue and it takes her a minute to realize it’s an apology. But he doesn’t seem to mind, doesn’t give her a chance to voice it, just tangles his hand in her sweater, yanking her closer. Then his hand slips under the fabric, finding bare skin, and his skin is so hot against hers, she wouldn't be surprised to find his handprint scorched across her waist tomorrow.
Beth wonders how it's possible to burn so bright, so fast, on a bed of ash. What fuel could possibly be left between them to consume? She can feel the flames licking higher and hotter, annihilating all logic and reason as they grow.
Rio pulls her closer, and it's awkward, the way she's lying partially across the console and partially across him, but Beth doesn't care, not with the way he's pressing as much of her body as he can against his. She arches and wiggles, trying to get closer still, and when he breaks the kiss, she can't help the sharp whine that escapes, abruptly cut off, turned into a ragged gasp when his lips move to her jaw, his teeth nipping along the line of it.
Her heart stutters when his nose brushes against the soft spot at the hinge, underneath her earlobe, nestling into her hair, and she feels him inhale.
"Get rid of him," Rio murmurs, directly into her ear, and—
What?
She'd heard a crackling sound under the furious beat of her pulse and deliriously put it down to a manifestation of the fire between them. But then a beam of light spears through the window, and it occurs to her that's insane, nothing is actually on fire, and the sound she heard was knuckles rapping against the tempered glass.
Then Rio's hands at her waist aren't clutching but pushing, and Beth props herself up with an arm on the door, blinking and throwing up her other hand to shade her face as everything goes white. As her eyes adjust, she catches fragments: a shield-shaped patch on the shoulder of a short-sleeve shirt; A1 Security embroidered in an arch above the brim of a baseball cap; a set of wide eyes locked onto her chest where Beth glances down to see her loose sweater's sagged enough that half of her bra and most of the rest of her is hanging out.
Beneath her, Rio's so still he could be stone if it weren't for the faint, vibrating hum of electricity she's close enough to feel reverberating under his skin.
Get rid of him. Right.
Beth fumbles for the window button and punches it down, shivering as a gust of crisp, nearly-spring-but-not-quite air blows in, straight down her shirt, and keeping herself draped over Rio, so he stays in shadow.
He's young, Beth realizes when the security guard reangles the flashlight away from her face. Young and sweet enough that when he sees he's pointed it down, squarely illuminating her breasts falling out of her sweater, she can see the tips of his ears go blazing red before he snaps it straight up at the sky, his eyes following.
"Oh!" she exclaims, putting as much Bethie into her voice as she possibly can as she readjusts herself, bobbing her head like she's embarrassed—not a complete lie. "What can I do for you, officer?"
"Ma'am, I uh—you can't—" he breaks off, swallowing hard, his eyes flicking back down to see if it's safe to look yet. When he sees it is, he clears his throat, his voice getting a little firmer. "You can't park here after hours, ma'am. I need to see some identification."
A door bangs open and a burst of laughter echoes through the night, drawing the guard's attention. A group of men ambles out of the warehouse, and out of the corner of her eye, Beth sees one of them stop and peer across the street to where the headlights of the security car brilliantly illuminate the G Wagon.
She darts a look at Rio, still slouched down in the shadows but just up enough that he can see over the line of the dashboard when the man turns on his heel and rushes back inside. His jaw rocks, and Beth feels him tense underneath her. She sees his hand twitch towards the radio and shifts her grip on the door so she can press her elbow into his rigid shoulder.
"I am so, so sorry, officer," Beth says, recapturing the man's attention. "I didn't mean to cause any trouble."
She looks up at him through her lashes, fluttering them a little, and takes a deep breath, her breasts pressing against the arm she has wrapped around them, holding her sweater mostly in place. His eyes dip and stick.
"Is there any way we could...forget this happened?" she asks, biting her lip and pouting, just a slittle, not enough for anyone to pick up on it being a move.
Rio huffs quietly, nearly a laugh, and she's close enough that she feels it trail across her neck and over her shoulder, leaving goosebumps in its wake. She can feel the heat of him radiating against her.
Beth waits a beat, then another. "Officer?"
The man's eyes snap back up to hers, blinking hard, his flush deepening when he realizes he's been caught staring. "Just, uh, don't do it again."
Beth nods, widening her eyes in gratitude. "Thank you."
The security guard flicks off his flashlight and knocks a fist against the roof of the G Wagon, then pivots, heading back the way he came.
In his wake, another wave of still-slightly-winter air rolls in, cool against Beth's flushed skin. Rio's shoulder flexes under her elbow.
She yanks herself like she's been burned, shoving off the center console and back to the relative safety of her side of the car, braced for the inevitable snide commentary.
The silence from before is back, nearly vibrating with all the things it's smothering. The last of the adrenaline leftover from the abrupt pendulum swing from one extreme to another and back again ebbs away, leaving her hollowed out and empty.
It's exhausting, this shared language of unspoken absolutes.
Beth stares straight ahead.
Rio doesn't say anything.
The headlights flash behind them, and out of the corner of her eye, Beth can see Rio snap to attention—the motion uncharacteristically awkward—and then lean forward to start the ignition.
As the engine roars to life, Beth can't stop her tongue from darting out, lapping up the lingering taste of him left on her lips.
"That him?" he asks as he throws the car in gear and pulls away from the curb.
Beth nods but Rio's back to not looking at her, concentrating harder than he needs to as he pulls away from the curb, turning around in a service driveway and saluting as he pulls past the guard.
"Yeah," she says, clearing her throat when it comes out husky and low, struggling to refocus on her original task. "The one that went back inside."
She wants more than anything to keep looking away, to shut Rio out as thoroughly and completely as he has her.
She glances at him. He's nodding to himself, the movement vague like he isn't surprised and is already miles away calculating his next move.
They pass under a streetlight, and Beth sees his knuckles are bone white where he's gripping the wheel.
The leather creaks and groans as she settles back into her seat. The silence is back, tamping out the last embered remains of whatever just happened still smoldering in Beth's chest.
"What happens next?" she can't stop herself from asking.
He doesn't answer.
Against her will, Beth's tongue darts out again. Just the tip sweeping across the side of her mouth he can't see.
(It tastes like ashes.)
———
The next pick-up is Mick with two guys Beth doesn't know. One of them has a purpling bruise under his eye, the other's knuckles are split and scabbed over. Mick has a freshly stitched gash slashed just above his ear.
Beth pushes the neatly packed boxes of twenties across the picnic table, a thousand questions clawing their way up her throat. She clenches her teeth, holding them back while the two guys gather up the packages and carry them to the waiting car.
Mick drops a small duffle back on the table and turns to go, pausing when Beth can’t stop herself from making some sort of croaking, aborted noise that could maybe be considered a wait if someone was expecting it.
Is he alright? She wants to ask.
"Is it over?" is what comes out.
'Not your department," Mick says.