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June 25, 2010 - Twentieth Annual International Skating Union Award Ceremony - Las Vegas, Nevada
“Wow, nice jewelry. They give that to you for free or what?”
Shayne tosses an irritated look at Rozanova, who in typical fashion is late to arrive backstage. “Where the hell were you? We’re on in five seconds.”
Rozanova just shrugs, smiling like nothing’s wrong, and adjusts the sequin-covered halter strap of her deep navy blue gown.
“And now, presenting the award for Best Senior Newcomer... Iliana Rozanova and Shayne Hollander!”
Shayne is the opposite of a natural at doing stuff like this, and Rozanova isn’t helping things. The spotlight feels like it’s a thousand degrees bearing down directly on her face, and her hands are shaking so badly it’s hard to read her cue card.
“Hey, before we give out this award,” Iliana says in a heavier accent than normal. The scripted line sounds awkward and nothing at all like the way Iliana normally talks. “Can I get a selfie with you?”
Shayne cringes and just prays it doesn’t show on her face. “What?” she says, looking down at her cue card again.
“Come on. When will this ever happen again, Shayne?”
Something about hearing Iliana say her name makes Shayne go red in the face. Has Rozanova ever called her by her first name? “Fine,” Shayne says, stepping closer to Rozanova, who’s pulled her phone from the wristlet dangling on her elbow.
Rozanova’s phone clicks as she takes the photo. It’s a new phone, Shayne notices, an iPhone in a case that uses rhinestones in black and Rozanova’s favorite shade of hot pink to create tiger stripes on the back.
“Great, give me your number and I text it to you.” Rozanova’s smile is so forced that even Shayne can tell it’s fake.
“No chance,” Shayne says. This is one of the most mortifying things that she’s ever had to do in her life, and there’s not even that many people in the audience laughing. This does not feel like it was worth it. Shayne sets her cue cards down on the podium and grabs the announcement envelope instead. “The award for Best Newcomer goes to…
“... Alejandra Johnson of Los Angeles, California.”
Iliana suffers through five minutes at her banquet table before she excuses herself to the bathroom. Fucking Americans, they won’t even serve her a glass of champagne, and so the sole consolation Iliana gets in exchange for enduring the humiliation of this award ceremony is watching Hollander at her table across the aisle, seated between Sei Miyake and some American costume designer. And then Hollander disappeared from her table, and left Iliana without even her consolation prize.
At least in the bathroom Iliana can check her texts without feeling rude, and touch up her makeup. The dinner portion of this gala is supposed to last for another hour. Iliana’s not certain she’ll survive it.
“What the fuck do you want, Rozanova?” Hollander snaps, as soon as Iliana steps inside the bathroom.
Immediately Iliana raises her palms in the air, a clear gesture of surrender. “What did I do?”
Hollander’s breathing hard, and her knuckles are white from gripping the counter behind her so tightly. “You haven’t talked to me since March. You—you acted like you didn’t even know me in St. Petersburg. What the hell? Why are you even here right now?”
Ah, Iliana thinks. She steps closer to Hollander, resting her hands first on Hollander’s shoulders and then tracing the floral lace appliques on Hollander’s dress down her chest, over the curve of Hollander’s breasts and down to her hips, where the appliques flow out into the tulle skirt. Expensive dress, clearly. Hollander’s mother probably picked it out.
“Why do you think?” Iliana asks, voice pitched low.
“I... I.” Hollander turns her face away, staring at the wall behind Iliana’s head. Her big brown eyes are wet, like she’s trying not to cry. Shayne Hollander, Canada’s crybaby sweetheart. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. What do you even want from me?”
Iliana catches Hollander’s chin between her thumb and forefinger, and brings Hollander’s face back to center, to study Hollander’s face. The terrible bathroom lighting makes Hollander’s tears blend into the glitter of her eye makeup. “Shh,” Iliana murmurs. “I know what I want.”
“And?” Hollander mumbles.
Something twisted in Iliana wants to press on Hollander’s vulnerability like a bruise. You said you’re not like that.
And another part of Iliana thinks about the last girl she saw crying in a bathroom: You were supposed to love me.
Iliana presses her forehead to Hollander’s. “I think you want to fuck me.”
Hollander balks immediately, distress evaporating in favor of irritation. “Oh fuck you. You’re unbelievable. You know that? You’re actually fucking unbelievable. Fuck you.”
Iliana tilts Hollander’s face back towards her own again, tightening her grip on Hollander’s hip with her other hand. Not enough to actually keep Hollander from breaking away, from walking out of this bathroom and out of whatever fucking disaster this is turning into, but enough to say I want you to stay without needing words. “Ask nicely,” Iliana murmurs.
“What?” Hollander’s disbelief is palpable.
“If you want me to get on my knees on this filthy bathroom floor and eat you out, you will have to ask nicer than that.”
This way is easier, Iliana thinks. It’s a redirection, back towards what this thing between them should be: sex. That’s all. That’s what they do.
Hollander’s eyes drop to Iliana’s lips and the silence builds between them for a long moment.
“Please,” Hollander mumbles, without lifting her gaze from Iliana’s lips. Her eyes are bloodshot, but she must be wearing waterproof makeup. There’s no smudged mascara or smeared eyeliner. “Please get on your knees on this filthy bathroom floor and eat me out. Please.”
Iliana leans in to kiss Hollander. Hollander kisses like she’s desperate, trying to get Iliana to deepen the kiss and whining a bit when Iliana pulls away instead. When Iliana licks her own lips, all she can taste is the artificial vanilla of Hollander’s lipstick.
“No,” Iliana says.
“Are you serious?”
“We will go back to our seats and watch the rest of this boring show, and then we will eat our boring dinner and make boring conversation. And then, when you have been waiting all night, you’ll come back to my hotel room, and maybe, maybe I will do more than just eat you out.” Iliana pats Hollander on the cheek with a smile.
To Iliana’s surprise, Hollander doesn’t immediately protest. In fact, she’s smiling a little, even though there’s still crybaby tears in her eyes. “When did your English get so good?” Hollander asks, shaking free of Iliana’s grasp to grab a paper towel from the dispenser.
“I, uh, read The New Yorker now.” Iliana watches as Hollander turns to the mirror and starts dabbing at her eyes with the paper towel, trying to keep her makeup intact.
“Really?” Hollander’s eyes meet Iliana’s in the mirror.
Iliana laughs softly. “No. The New Yorker is boring.”
Hollander turns her focus to fixing what she can of her lipstick, now that Iliana’s own red lip gloss is smeared on top. “My dad loves it.”
“Ah, so being boring is—is genetic.” Iliana nods and fishes her lip gloss tube from her wristlet. This is good, Iliana thinks. A normal female bonding activity, fixing their makeup in the bathroom during a party.
“Wow. Genetic. That’s a big word.”
Iliana rolls her eyes instead of responding.
After they’ve both salvaged what can be salvaged of their makeup, Hollander turns to leave, but Iliana stops her with a hand on her shoulder.
“Let’s make a deal,” Iliana says, fixing the strap of Hollander’s dress for her.
Hollander nods, trusting as ever. “Okay.”
“If you win Most Valuable Skater tonight, I will eat you out, fuck you, whatever you want.”
“And if you win?” Hollander raises one eyebrow.
Iliana smirks. “Mm. Good luck tonight.”
Shayne stares at her suitcase like she’s never seen any of her own clothes before. There’s the athletic stuff she wears most of the time, leggings and sweatshirts and tank tops, and the two ‘nice outfits’ her mom insisted she pack. And of course, shoved at the bottom and wrapped in her Canadian Figure Skating warm-up jacket, is the lingerie Shayne had impulsively bought last February.
It had been a stupid purchase. Shayne was doing press for Team Canada in Burlington, and they’d gone for lunch at the mall food court, and then Shayne was standing alone in front of Victoria’s Secret, staring at a massive ad poster of Iliana Rozanova. Rozanova was wearing black yoga pants with a hot pink leopard printed waistband that said LOVE PINK in sequins on the back, with a black sports bra that was mostly covered by a hot pink hoodie hanging off her shoulders. Rozanova was clearly airbrushed within an inch of her life, smooth in places and tanned in ways that Shayne knows Rozanova isn’t, but that wasn’t the point of the ad, was it? To lure in girls with an impossible beauty standard?
And maybe, Shayne thinks, she shouldn’t be judging the morality of a Photoshopped ad campaign when clearly it worked on her. She’d walked into the store and bought the first thing the salesgirl recommended. (Shayne threw the catalog the girl put in her shopping bag into the recycling bin as soon as she got home, just so she wouldn’t be tempted to see if there were any more photos of Rozanova inside.)
“Fuck it.” Shayne grabs the lingerie, a pair of shorts, and the first sweatshirt she can find, and turns toward her bathroom. Fuck it. If Shayne keeps thinking about this, she’s going to end up chickening out altogether, and what a colossal waste of time this would be.
Rozanova’s leaning against the window of her suite when Shayne finally lets herself into the room. She’s still got her gala dress on, but her shoes are kicked off near the minibar and she’s pulled her hair back into a loose ponytail. Her lip gloss has left red smudges on the rim of the glass she’s drinking out of. She looks expensive and sophisticated in a way that Shayne’s never been in her life.
“Congratulations,” Shayne says, stuffing her thumbs into the front pockets of her shorts.
“Thank you.” Rozanova takes a bow, smirking. “Now take off your clothes.”
“You’re such a bitch,” Shayne mutters, but she steps out of her slides and heads to the couch in the living area part of the suite anyway. Her heart feels like it’s going to explode with how fast it’s beating. She peels her sweatshirt off and folds it neatly over the back of the couch.
This should probably be sexy, Shayne realizes once she’s pulled her t-shirt off. Rozanova probably meant something more like a striptease, and not Shayne’s usual efficiency-focused undressing. Too late now, though. Shayne hooks her thumbs into her shorts and pulls them down, adding them to the stack of her clothes.
Rozanova wolf-whistles. “Wow.”
Shayne folds her arms over her chest immediately, like Rozanova hasn’t seen her in a thousand more compromising ways. The lingerie was a mistake. She looks stupid. She’s Shayne Hollander, Canada’s sweetheart, not Canada’s sex symbol. It shouldn’t be possible for Shayne to feel more naked in a black lace bra and sheer panties than she would actually naked.
“You dress up just for me?” Rozanova’s expression is a pure, simple shit-eating grin as she blatantly ogles Shayne. “Very pretty, Hollander.”
“Shut up,” Shayne says, mostly out of habit. She’ll die before she admits it to Rozanova, but Rozanova’s teasing does it for Shayne, gets her hot. Shayne’s pretty sure Rozanova already knows, and that’s why she does it so much. Fucking Rozanova.
“Good. Now get on the bed.” Rozanova unzips her own dress and she steps out of it casually as she drags a chair from the living room half of the suite to the foot of the bed.
Shayne settles in the center of the bed, propped up by the pillows, and folds her arms in her lap. Rozanova has her bored face on now, which could be real, but Shayne’s pretty sure it’s all an act.
“This is a nice hotel,” Rozanova says, taking a seat in the chair. “Very nice vodka. Gift from a friend of mine.” She takes a long sip from her glass.
“Okay.” Shayne’s starting to second-guess her understanding of what they’re doing now.
“Touch yourself.” Rozanova’s voice is quiet but commanding. She leans back against the back of the chair, swirling the vodka in her glass.
“What?”
“Show off for me.” Rozanova’s face still looks bored, disinterested. It’s an act. It’s got to be an act. “I want to watch you, Hollander.”
“You what?”
“It’s my special day, Hollander.” Rozanova takes another swig of vodka. “I want to watch.”
“I’ve never...” Shayne swallows, face burning.
“No shit.”
“Fuck you.” Shayne’s not sure why this feels so different than anything else they’ve done, why she has anything left at all to feel embarrassed about. Rozanova taught her where her g-spot is, for fuck’s sake, because her shitty high school boyfriends definitely didn’t know. “Give me some vodka, at least.”
Rozanova clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, shaking her head. “Mm. No, no, no. Vodka is for after, as your reward.”
Fuck it. Shayne reaches behind herself to fumble with the clap of her bra. After a few awkward seconds, she manages to get it undone and slides it down her arms. She sets her bra down beside her thigh, a problem for her future self to deal with.
Shayne runs her fingertips down the center line of her chest, to her belly button, and then back up, under her breasts, pushing her palm flat against her ribcage to push her tits out. When she does this by herself, she doesn’t bother playing with her chest this much, but this isn’t about what Shayne normally does. This is about putting on a show for Rozanova.
Rozanova smirks.
Shayne slides her hands back down, to the waistband of her underwear, and then reaches her right hand under the waistband, just feeling the softness of her own body, the way she’s starting to get wet.
“You want to know how it feels?” Rozanova asks suddenly.
Shayne stares at her for a second, confused.
“Being the highest rated skater in the world,” Rozanova continues. “Being the most valuable skater.”
“You fucking bitch,” Shayne says, as Rozanova moans like she’s about to come and tosses her head back.
“Ah, I can barely describe it,” Rozanova moans, sounding like a girl in some shitty porn video.
Shayne pushes her underwear down and throws them at Rozanova. They land squarely in Rozanova’s lap, and Rozanova picks them up immediately, dangling them off her fingertip for a second before tossing them onto the floor.
Rozanova’s eyes fall to Shayne’s lap as Shayne spreads her thighs. Normally, Shayne is all about efficiency when she gets herself off, humping against her hand or her vibrator or even just a pillow in between her thighs until she comes, whatever gets her there quickest. She tries to imagine it’s Rozanova’s hand instead of hers that teases her inner thigh, that it’s Rozanova teasing her fingers against her cunt to get them nice and wet before moving up to her clit.
“Fuck,” Rozanova mutters, almost too quiet for Shayne to hear.
Shayne doesn’t go for direct touches to her clit, just rolls her fingertips right above it in tiny circles. A tease, more than anything, because her clit feels like it’s throbbing and Shayne’s just too stubborn to come quickly and let Rozanova gloat about this forever.
Rozanova’s eyes are locked in between Shayne’s legs, on the way Shayne’s other hand is coming up to play with her nipples, rolling one between her fingers. Shayne’s got a sensitive chest, unlike Rozanova, and she can’t help the gasp that escapes her lips.
“You want something?” Shayne manages to say, trying not to lose herself in how good everything’s starting to feel.
“Maybe.” But Rozanova’s expression is saying something different. She reaches behind herself and easily pulls her bra off.
Shayne bites down a moan. “I—I...” Shayne lets the fingers on her clit speed up a little, lets her touch become a little more direct. “I need...”
“Yes?” Rozanova tilts her head, making a show out of listening.
“You know,” Shayne says, aware she sounds pitiful.
“Tell me.” Rozanova rises to her feet and pushes her panties down. She lets her fingers slide in between her own thighs and moans, and it’s like Shayne is back in that bathroom in Montreal, watching Rozanova masturbate in the shower.
“I need you,” Shayne finally says, words coming in a rush. “I need you.”
“Good.” Rozanova steps in closer, crawling up the bed on hands and knees to lay between Shayne’s thighs. She pushes Shayne’s hand back, so that the hood of Shayne’s clit is pulled back, and presses a kiss directly onto it. Shayne’s legs twitch. It’s too much. Her clit is too sensitive, her nipples are too sensitive, but Rozanova doesn’t let her squirm away. Rozanova just looks up, locks eyes with Shayne, takes her clit between her lips, and sucks.
“Oh, fuck,” Shayne hisses, the hand that had been on her nipple flying to the back of Rozanova’s head, clutching at her hair. “Oh, fuck, Rozanova.” Her back arches without her input. It’s all too much. Her abs tense as Rozanova slides her tongue right around her clit, and Shayne’s body convulses around Rozanova as she comes so hard she forgets everything around her.
Rozanova doesn’t stop, tongue and lips still working her through her orgasm until the very last aftershock, and then she pulls away reluctantly. “Okay?” Rozanova murmurs, looking up at Shayne.
“Holy shit, Rozanova,” Shayne says, giggling breathlessly. “Yes. Okay.”
“Good. My turn, then.”
Iliana is smoking in bed, and Hollander is not complaining about it, even though the look on her face makes it obvious just how badly Hollander wants to complain about it.
“So. Did you have a good time in St. Petersburg?” Hollander pulls her knees up to her chest, looping her arms over her knees so she can rest her cheek on top of her knees.
Iliana ashes her cigarette into her empty vodka glass. “It was fine.”
“Are you going back soon?”
Is Hollander trying to make fucking small talk right now? Iliana eyes her as she takes a drag. Hollander is even worse at small talk than Iliana is, and Iliana’s still in intermediate level English courses, so that’s an achievement.
“To Russia, I mean,” Hollander says quickly, like that was the part of the sentence Iliana was having trouble with.
“Ah. Yes. Two weeks in the summer.”
“Why?” Hollander won’t make eye contact with Iliana. She turns her chin to rest on her knees and stares at the door to the bathroom instead.
“What do you mean, why?” Iliana stares at the bathroom door with Hollander.
“Like... Do you have to?”
Iliana ashes her cigarette without looking at it. Maybe if they both stare at the door long enough, a portal will open up to some alternate world. “There is no ‘have to.’ It is my home, where my family is.”
At the very least, it is where Iliana’s father is, and he’s called twelve times in the past nine days, racking up a phone bill that Iliana’s dreading receiving. Where are you, Ilechka? There’s a strange woman in this house, I don’t know who she is. She keeps saying she is my wife. Where’s your mother? When will you be home? Can you pick up some bread on your way home?
“Yeah, but... is it...” Hollander’s brows push together in the middle. “Is it safe, you know?”
“Safe?” Iliana repeats. Safe? Surely Hollander means politically, militarily. Surely she doesn’t mean Iliana’s sexuality. “What do you mean, safe?”
Hollander shrugs. “I don’t know.” She glances back at Iliana, for just long enough that Iliana can see the tears welling in her eyes. Sensitive, sweet Shayne Hollander, worried about Iliana in Russia.
“Do you even like it there?”
Ah, Iliana thinks, there it is.
Iliana could reach out now. She could kiss Hollander, tangle her fingers in Hollander’s hair and throw away her entire fucking life for the chance to be with Shayne the way she wants to, the way she almost did on a rooftop in Vancouver.
I’m not like that.
Iliana takes a drag of her cigarette and ignores the lump in her throat. “What difference does it make?”
“A pretty big one, I think.” Hollander’s voice is as scratchy as Iliana’s.
“I need to sleep.” Iliana drops her cigarette into her glass and climbs out of bed, heading to her suitcase to find something to wear to bed.
“Oh.” Hollander sounds so broken up, which isn’t fucking fair. She doesn’t deserve to be upset. “I should, um...” There’s the rustling noise of Hollander getting out of bed, of her searching for her underwear and bra around the room. “I should go.”
Iliana pulls a new pair of panties on and a camisole. “Goodbye, Hollander,” she says. She steps into the bathroom so she physically can’t watch Hollander leave. She knows she’ll do something she regrets otherwise.
Maybe Shayne Hollander isn’t like that, but Iliana is.
Iliana slams her fist down on the bathroom countertop, hard enough to hurt, and sucks in the deepest breath she can. “Fuck,” she mumbles in Russian. “Fuck. This has to end. Fuck.”
It’s the smart thing to do.
It’s also the one thing Iliana knows she’ll never be strong enough to do.