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Things were starting to tip. Carol noticed on a Tuesday afternoon, sipping on an iced tea that Zosia made her while staring at Koumba Diabaté of all people. She noticed, almost as an afterthought, that everyone in the room was angled towards her. Even Diabaté’s harem, all clad in matching golden garb, breathed in unison with Zosia as they stared at Carol.
“Am I boring you?” Diabaté’s accented voice cut through the tension that was seeming to grow between Carol and every hived person in the room. Which was fourteen. She counted.
She glanced back at him, in his golden boots and leather Evel Knievel jumpsuit. Her brows rose. “Yes, you are. So get to the point.”
Carol hadn't sought the man out – he'd shown up out of the blue on a motorcycle, a woman holding onto his back, and a troupe traveling behind him in a 1970s styled RV camper. When she let him into her house, she hadn't expected the entire ensemble to join; all women, of course.
He sighed dramatically, “I don't know if you noticed something different with your… companion, but my people have been distracted recently.”
“Distracted?” Carol squinted at him. “You came all the way to Albuquerque on a motorcycle just to complain that your little sex slaves aren't faking it well enough for you?”
“This was just a pitstop to the Grand Canyon,” he said, irritation coming through in his tone. “Can you simply answer my question without all the,” his hand waved loosely, “sass.”
Wow, this must really have gotten his panties in a twist.
“No,” Carol said eventually, “I haven't noticed any distractions with Zosia.”
Diabaté pulled out a small notebook from his breast pocket, an irritating zipping sound coming with the action. He flipped through the pages before poking his finger down at something scrawled onto the page. “February 7th, 10pm.”
Carol squinted at him again before taking a loud sip of her drink. “That was like four months ago, am I supposed to remember what I was doing on that day? Officer?”
“Zosia,” Diabaté glanced over his shoulder at the woman, who was still intently gazing at Carol. Carol shifted slightly in her seat at the heat in her eyes. “Zosia, what were you both doing? None of my people will tell me, they say I must ask Carol.”
The heat in Zosia’s gaze deepened and Carol nearly choked on the air she was fucking breathing on – no. Oh no, no, no. It was a sex thing. It had to be a sex thing and she was not about to share any of that with Diabaté. It was the only thing she forbade the hive from doing because what happened between herself and Zosia was her business.
Zosia’s eyes didn't waver from Carol. “We watched a movie.”
“A movie?” He squinted at her and Carol watched as the woman's eyes flickered to him. “Which one?” Diabaté’s pen was poised beside the date in his notebook.
“Desert Hearts,” Zosia said, looking back at Carol again. Carol sunk down in her chair, pressing the condensation of the glass in her hand against her forehead. She could feel all fourteen women in the room stare at her just as intently.
To be fair, they had been watching Desert Hearts. Carol hadn't seen it since sneaking into a theater with a classmate at the tender age of fourteen – never catching the ending because her friend, Jennifer, thought the whole thing was too gross to finish. She said it with a pointed look.
Carol thought about the rain scene for thirty years before deciding the end of the world was a good enough reason to revisit it, despite what Jennifer fucking Campbell thought of her back in 1985.
Zosia had fetched the DVD from the drone outside, bringing it inside with a Helen-esque wink that made Carol almost call the whole thing off. It was fine, she was fine. It'd been six years since she buried Helen – four since she'd given up on saving the world and just let Zosia slot into her life as if she'd been there the whole time. She fit in the Helen shaped divot well enough, not perfectly – the sharp rebuttals from Carol she shrunk under instead of meeting head-on like Helen would.
And they started the movie. It was good; better than Carol remembered, but the problem was that Zosia’s hand was on the inside of her thigh. Warm. Full of promise and intent, right beneath the bulge of Carol’s strap-on tenting her pants. If she had a real dick, it’d probably also be hard as a rock with the way Zosia’s thumb swept against the rough fabric of her jeans.
“Carol…” Diabaté interrupted Carol’s memory like a bucket of fucking ice water down her back.
“What?” she snapped, “You want a synopsis of the movie too?” Probably better than telling him about the way she fucked Zosia’s throat during the rain scene, just after asking if Jennifer was also in there along with everyone else.
“If you wouldn't mind,” he said, eyes narrowing. He crossed one leg over the other, pen still in his hand.
Zosia had said yes, of course. Jennifer was in there along with every other fucking person who bullied her for being a dyke. Except for her mother, and thank fuck for that. There was only so much Carol could do about her mommy issues.
“It's a fucking – it's a lesbian movie. Set in Reno,” she said between gritted teeth. Zosia had taken her so deeply, choked on the hard silicone so perfectly, that Carol could feel herself thrum at the memory. She remembered Zosia’s eyes rolling into the back of her head, pleasure evident on her face at the reality of making Carol shake beneath her mouth.
“Ah, Reno…” Diabaté stroked his chin thoughtfully before looking at one of the women in his little harem. She was looking at Carol. His brows furrowed. “You simply watched a movie?”
“Yes,” Carol wanted to close her eyes but couldn't. If she did, he'd know she was lying. Had she really fucked Zosia well enough that it distracted other members of the hive hundreds of miles away? She sat up straighter in her chair and took a thoughtful drink from her glass before speaking again. “It's a good movie, to be fair.”
“I've not heard of it,” Diabaté said, dutifully writing down what Carol assumed was Desert Hearts into his notebook. He did things like that — wrote down novel things Carol mentioned offhandedly. “I shall request a screening when I am back in Las Ve– oh, perhaps I can watch it in Reno!”
“Sounds like a blast,” Carol said before rubbing a hand over her eyes. “Is that all?”
“No, my goodness. Apologies. I have a few other dates I would like to cross reference with you and Zosia.”
Carol tried not to let her irritation show too clearly on her face.
Diabaté cleared his throat as he flipped through his notebook. “February twenty-eighth?”
They both glanced at Zosia.
Zosia smiled tepidly. “We were having dinner at the Hotel Chaco.”
Fucking—Jesus Christ.
“Is it a nice hotel?” Diatané asked thoughtfully as Carol remembered bending Zosia over on the table after dessert and punishing her for the capers that were in her appetizer.
“Uh – sorry, let me just–” Carol put her drink down with a heavy clink on the side table next to her, “What were you doing on the twenty-eighth? How do you know it's my fault?”
“I don't know it's your fault, Carol,” he said. “It is just that your version is the only one I do not have an account for.”
“Every other person is accounted for? Even fucking… Laxmi?”
Diabaté smiled, “Laxmi was at home cooking breakfast for her son and her husband. Her whereabouts are not verboten to share like yours are, Carol.”
Carol hissed a quiet, “fuck,” before picking her drink up again to finish it. The moment the straw made an empty sound, Zosia stepped forward to take the glass from Carol.
“Let us refill that for you,” she said with a wide smile. Carol watched the other women in the room nod behind Zosia.
She swallowed, glancing back at Diabaté. “You didn't answer my question though. What did they do that caught your attention?”
“It was like a vinyl record skipping,” he said as he thought back, eyes lifting upwards toward the ceiling. “I am a storyteller, much like you–”
Carol barked out a laugh, before shrugging in lieu of an apology for interrupting.
“Anyways, as I was saying. I am a storyteller. I create little… eh, plays? Situations, perhaps, are more apt. Everyone has a role. I, of course, am the hero.”
“Of course,” Carol echoed sarcastically, nodding slightly as Zosia when she handed her a fresh drink. She could see the way Zosia faithfully followed the motion from her periphery. “So you roleplay with the hive is what I'm getting.”
“If you'd like to reduce it to roleplay, then yes. It is a great deal of fun, and I always assume they enjoy playing with me.”
“But?” Carol asked before noisily slurping her iced tea. Jesus, that shit was good. All it needed was –
“Rum?” one of Diabaté’s girls offered from behind Carol.
Carol wordlessly stuck her arm out with her glass, accepting the hearty glug of liquid from the woman.
Diabaté blinked, distracted by the exchange before him. “Carol, do you know Alexis?”
“Who?”
“Nevermind,” he said, shaking his head. “Anyways. Where was I? Oh, yes. My games. February twenty-eighth, I decided to reopen an American Western ghost town in the wonderful state of Oklahoma. I was the sheriff of the town, ready to take down the evil Señor –”
“Can you get to the point?” Carol asked before taking a nice healthy sip of her quasi long island iced tea.
Diabaté’s smile turned slightly sour, but he kept his peppy facade up, if simply for the sake of seeming better than Carol. “I didn't notice the first couple of times, I was very lost in the scene.”
“What?”
“Pauses. By the time I had started counting, there were twelve pauses. Synchronous.”
Carol’s mouth opened slightly. Fifteen. She knew immediately. Diabaté had missed the first few. “Synchronous how?” she asked after a terse moment of silence in her living room.
“Half-second pauses between sentences. The saloon’s piano player would miss a key at the same moment.”
There had been fifteen capers on her plate. Carol hadn't counted, but Zosia knew because the chef knew because they had placed them there for Carol to find. All for Carol to vibrate all night about, leaping out of her skin to punish Zosia for.
“And they told you this had something to do with me?” Carol was playing dumb, which everyone in the room knew very well.
“There is no other explanation,” he said as he tapped the back of his pen against his notebook. “So, please, just humour me and tell me about your dinner.”
Zosia hadn't been wearing panties under her dress. Carol didn't know this when she bent Zosia over the cleared table at the end of the night. She didn't know this when she rucked the woman’s dress over her hips, exposing her bare ass to the night air.
“We had a salad as a starter,” Zosia said simply when Carol remained silent. “It was Mediterranean inspired with a balsamic glaze, cherry tomatoes, purple onions… capers.”
“Capers? Like the pickle?” Diabaté jotted something down in his notebook, “I realize I never properly tasted them in a meal before.”
One, she made Zosia say it aloud as her hand made harsh contact with her left cheek.
“Yeah,” Carol said when she saw Zosia swallow at the memory. “Like the pickle.”
Two… ah!
Zosia, don’t make me do three again. I said count.
Th-three,
“And for your entreés?”
Carol’s eyes met Zosia’s from across the room.
Good, Zosia. I'll give you a second to breathe.
“Carol had the breadcrumb crusted salmon with lemon zest and asparagus, while we had the…” Zosia trailed off momentarily when Carol’s index finger traced the rim of her glass.
“The what, Zosia?” Diabaté looked intently at her, urging her to speak up.
Zosia swallowed.
Six, seven… oh! Eight. Eight. Thank you, Carol.
“The same meal.” Zosia’s voice was weaker than it had been moments before. She hadn't had the same meal as Carol; this was the first time Carol had heard her lie, flat out. If Carol recalled correctly, she'd actually had some sort of pasta dish. Maybe gnocchi, maybe tortellini—Carol couldn't recall. She was too focused on waiting until their meal was over, deciding on how exactly to punish her.
“Any desserts?”
Nine, o-oh. Ten. Her ass was red, left cheek brighter than the right because Carol had not split the strikes equally in order to keep Zosia guessing. The way she jumped beneath her palm pleased Carol more than she wanted to admit. She could smell Zosia’s arousal, heady, in the chilly desert air.
“Is this really fucking necessary?” Carol snapped, “You think our food was making them act all fucky?”
“I have to explore all of the available options, Carol,” Diabaté said, eyes tracking Zosia as she settled beside Carol.
Carol could feel Zosia’s hand touch her shoulder as she stood beside her loveseat. Picture perfect obedience– probably almost revealing Carol’s hand to the man sitting across from her. She barely managed to keep her grimace in check.
“We had tiramisu for dessert,” Carol said eventually. Unhappily.
“Zosia, was it good? Did you enjoy it?” Diabaté asked, eyes brightening at the morsel of information Carol had offered him. “Did you also experience the same… skips? Did you get the hiccups?”
Eleven.
Carol dragged a hand over her face. “Jesus Christ.”
“May I, Carol?” Zosia’s hand tightened slightly against Carol’s shoulder in what she assumed was reassurance.
She shrugged, as if to say be my guest. Curiosity bloomed at what Zosia would say to the man. Hopefully nothing too incriminating.
“I did not experience the same skips,” Zosia said, a smile coloring her tone. Another lie for Carol? She straightened up at the realization. One lie could be almost excused with Zosia’s flustered state; two was absolutely unprecedented.
“Really?” Diabaté asked, surprised. “You simply ate dinner with Carol during this time and then went home?”
Zosia was grunting with every strike now; eleven, twelve, thirteen. Gasping for air in between each number.
Say thank you, Zosia. You deserve this, don't you?
Yes, Carol–yes. Thank you.
“We stayed in one of the rooms at the hotel, but yes, Koumba. That is an accurate assessment of our night,” Zosia said, her fingers tightening on Carol’s shoulder to the point of near pain. Carol could see the other women in the room tense in tandem with Zosia. It was an odd sight to behold.
Fourteen, oh please, another –
Did I say you could speak?
No, Carol, we're sorry. We're so – Please.
Carol’s middle finger had traced between Zosia’s legs, collecting the sopping wetness onto the tip of her finger before slowly bringing it up to Zosia’s lips. Zosia’s mouth took in Carol’s finger the moment the last slap came – the force of it pushing it deep into her throat. The responding choked whine from Zosia had Carol drop her head onto the woman’s tensed shoulder blade.
Fifteen. Thank you– thank you Carol. We'll be better, we promise.
Tears were evident in Zosia’s voice. Carol fucked her until they were streaming down her face.
Diabaté clicked his pen a few times as if waffling between believing Zosia at her word, or challenging the idea that the hive would be lying to him. He flipped a page in his notebook. “One last date and then I shall be out of your hair,” he said, as if conceding something, even though he wasn't sure of what.
“Shoot,” Carol said before finishing her drink once again with a noisy slurp. One of Diabaté’s women immediately stepped forward to take the glass from Carol’s outstretched hand.
“Um,” his brows creased once again at the sight but he shook his head. “Excuse me, but are you absolutely sure you are not acquainted with any of my ladies?”
Carol’s eyes narrowed slightly, “Are you kidding me right now? Everyone is still the same fucking person.” Idiot, was left unsaid but implied by her tone.
Diabaté’s mouth opened as if to argue back, but it seemed as though he shook off the urge almost immediately. “I concede to your point, I suppose.”
“Right,” Carol grunted. “So get the fuck on with it.” She relaxed slightly when Zosia’s hand softly settled at the nape of her neck. Reassuring. She knew they looked like quite the portrait – queen and her pet, or was it the other way around? Carol hadn't decided yet.
The pages of Diabaté’s notebook flipped loudly as he rifled through his writing. Carol had caught a glimpse of it – sloppy. “May thirteenth,” he said before looking back up at Carol again. “Everyone seemed to be processing every request at a much slower rate.”
“So Amazon Prime was a little slow, boo hoo.”
Diabaté looked at her without humor. “Slow to respond to simple questions as well, Carol. I think that is notable in the grand scheme of things.”
“Okay, so you have a time or are you going to make me guess a number between one and twelve?” Carol drawled; she was beginning to feel the effects of the rum in her drink. Another filled glass was placed into her slack hand as if she'd telepathically ordered it. Thank you, nameless beautiful sex slave.
Diabaté’s lips tightened in irritation, “We were in Saint Tropez, so the time difference made it… two in the afternoon in Mountain Time.”
Now that Carol knew they would lie for her, she deferred to Zosia with a tilt of her head.
“Mid-day nap,” Zosia said carefully. Well that didn't narrow it down for Carol at all; she took random alcohol induced naps nearly every day.
“So you were asleep during that time? You didn't notice any oddities, Zosia?” Diabaté asked, fingers steepled together beneath his chin.
“We did not say we were asleep, Koumba,” Zosia said patiently. “A nap can be defined as a moment of rest; perhaps on a couch, or in a dark bedroom. If curtains are inadequate for a restful period, we recommend something like a sleep mask over the eyes.”
Oh, fucking fuck.
Carol immediately knew what Zosia was alluding to now. Sleep mask – Jesus. Zosia certainly had a restful nap with a fucking blindfold and a ball gag, tied to the bedframe. The idea had come to her like a bolt of lightning – Zosia a body, Carol another one.
Remove the sight, the ability to move freely, to speak – and Zosia could have been any number of women Carol had been with in her late twenties. And she was, technically, all of them at once. Which is why Carol allowed it.
How giving of her.
“A nap,” Diabaté sounded disappointed. “Carol, pardon my blunt question, but what do you even do with Zosia all day?”
Do you even fuck her? sat in the air, implied. I would, I would, I would, buzzed around the man’s head like a cluster of fruit flies.
Rotten.
Carol smiled without any teeth; more of a pointed grimace than anything resembling friendliness. “I'm going to throw that question right back at ya, big guy.”
Diabaté puffed his chest out slightly, “I already spoke a great deal about my plays.”
The ice in Carol’s drink crackled and clinked as she took another sip from her straw. A proper long island iced tea this time; one of the golden ladies had seemed to mix it for her during the conversation. How thoughtful.
“Mhm,” Carol said around her straw. “And then what? You save the day, save the damsels in distress and then dry hump one of them for twenty seconds before coming in your pants?”
“No,” he growled. “That is not what occurs.”
Carol glanced at the women behind him, small identical smiles gracing their expressions. Carol felt an ironic smile form her face at the sight.
“I can last multiple rounds, I'll have you know,” his voice was slightly too desperate to be believable.
“I'm sure,” Carol said, sighing in pleasure when Zosia’s fingers began raking up to the back of her skull. “We can stop with the dick measuring now, I already know mine's bigger.”
Diabaté scoffed, rolling his eyes at her words. It took Carol a while, but eventually she managed to find what irritated the man with surgical precision. She watched as he looked down at his notepad again. “So from two to six you were… napping?”
Just kick your leg out twice if anything becomes too much for you. No mention of what to do if Zosia wanted more, all tied to the bed like that – that ball would firmly be in Carol’s court.
“Yeah,” Carol grunted. “Napped so good I can't even remember anything.” She didn't play well with others, never had been able to despite Helen trying to organize her life into something passably healthy. Carol was just too much a glutton for punishment to relinquish all that control.
In her pocket she suddenly remembered a foreign lump – and a realization struck her that she could legitimately have some fun in this situation. Her drink was immediately deposited into a golden woman’s awaiting hand.
She pretended to stretch, the back of her hand grazing Zosia’s stomach with her knuckles in a slow drag as if in warning. Zosia knew though, just like she always knew what was on Carol’s mind.
And the reason behind all the irritation with the interruption, the reason Zosia was not sitting down beside her the way she usually did – was, of course, the vibrator Carol had placed in her cunt just that morning. Mere minutes before Diabaté had rapped his knuckles on her front door.
Carol realized that this must be something They wanted to explore. If it was off limits, it wouldn't have happened – simple as that. Zosia knew Diabaté was on his way, the same way she knew what exactly he'd be asking her about. What was so interesting was that this hadn't been Carol’s idea; Zosia had brought it up to her a week prior.
Huh.
She was just drunk enough, just bored enough to be game. This was probably a part of Their calculations too: what was the probability of Carol Sturka hitting the ‘on’ switch for the vibrator in Zosia’s cunt? Right now it was leaning towards a solid 87%, but that was just Carol’s estimation. She just needed to set something up first.
“I just can't figure something out… maybe it's… huh…” Carol mused, looking off in the distance thoughtfully, waiting for Diabaté to take the bait.
“What?” This piqued his interest very plainly – Carol was the one person who normally refused to share her thoughts with the man, regardless of how much he tried. Two years ago, he essentially gave up on her.
“Oh…” Carol said as if she'd just noticed him there, finger tapping her chin. “Sorry, just thinking out loud.”
Diabaté sat forward on his chair, hands clutching the armrests beside him. “No, no, please share – I implore you.”
“Oh, I don't know…” Carol said, toying with him a little more.
“Please, Carol. Is it something to do with the anomalies I have been noticing?” His voice had risen in excitement; it seemed like Carol was finally interested in his findings.
She looked at him as if in surprise, her hand slowly reaching into her pocket to toy with the remote between her fingers while he was distracted. Zosia’s hand tensed on the back of her neck in bated breath. “Yeah. Huh… I'm just wondering if maybe, since it's probably not me, it has something to do with your, uh, plays…” Her thumb passed over the button for the lowest setting without setting it off. “Would you mind if I observe?”
Diabaté seemed genuinely taken aback, “You think it may have something to do with my plays? Why only five years later…” he trailed off, a crease between his brows sharpening as he considered her words. “Oh, I've been looking at this the wrong way,” he muttered.
Carol pulled the remote out of her pocket, palming it against her thigh. “You never suspected yourself?”
Diabaté put a hand to his cheek, eyes distant, “No. My goodness. What an oversight.” His notebook was out again as he flipped through the pages, muttering to himself.
Carol could feel all the women in the room looking at her intently as Diabaté went through the motions of some sort of scientific discovery. Zosia was behind her but her eyes were on her from every angle. From every corner of the room, Zosia was looking at her – watching as Carol’s finger traced over a button. Lowest setting, still.
“...not thought of this. Repeating a situation…” Diabaté muttered as he stood up, waving a small group of women over to him. “Would you be able to take the roles prior to the anomalies at the saloon? I can still recall my lines, but I may need to request a man to act against for the villain…”
Carol pressed the button for half a second before turning it off – the entire room stiffening at the sudden shared experience rippling through their consciousness. Zosia let out a small whine from behind Carol, unable to hold it in.
Diabaté turned towards Carol and Zosia. “What was that?”
Carol crossed her right leg over her left. “My bad,” she said without elaborating.
He didn't seem convinced, but allowed it to slide, taking the earlier collective pause as the hive fetching a man for him to act with. “A man will be here shortly. Necessary for my method – I cannot see women as evil. Perhaps it is a curse.”
Carol believed he ought to rethink that. Her finger hovered over one of the buttons again, but allowed it to rest on the silicone rather than click downwards. Was the hive running statistical scenarios, a group of mathematicians in a room drawing graphs on a whiteboard with the title will Carol turn the vibrator on? She snorted at the thought. She didn't have a great poker face, but she did know how to consistently look smug enough for it not to matter.
As a knock echoed through the space, Carol pressed the button again, allowing the low pulsing vibrations to go on until Diabaté made his way to the front door. Carol could head Zosia panting behind her; watched the women scattered about the room began to squirm. Why hadn't she thought of this before?
The door opened and Carol allowed the vibrator to continue for another second before switching it off.
“Ah, oh… I was expecting…” Diabaté trailed off, confused. Carol couldn't see him, but she assumed something was amiss. He re-entered the room with another woman in tow; this one in an all black western outfit.
His villain, it seemed.
“Didn't you ask for…?” Carol knew why they sent a woman, but still decided to act confused for his sake. The hive knew her preferences very well – no statisticians necessary.
“A man, yes,” Diabaté considered the woman, mouth tilted to the side in confusion. “I suppose I can still work with this…”
“Still weird,” Carol shrugged. “But maybe it's the story, not the actors themselves. Worth a shot.”
“Yes,” Diabaté echoed, “worth a shot.” He paced the room once, twice – mumbling lines to himself as his entourage scattered throughout the room to their assumed positions. Women in groups of two, three – a woman, still in her gold lamé suit, at Carol’s wet bar, pretending to wipe it down. “Ah, we forgot something,” he said, pausing.
Carol put her chin in her hand, propped on her chair’s armrest. “What's that?”
“A piano player. To pinpoint the skips, if they happen.”
Zosia moved from behind Carol, “Carol has a keyboard in a storage closet. Would this be adequate for your performance?”
Diabaté nodded and Zosia turned to retrieve it. Carol had forgotten she even had it – some stupid hobby she tried when she was twenty-five and bored out of her mind. She'd only managed to muddle through Moonlight Sonata once before saying good enough and forgetting about the thing for thirty fucking years.
She watched as Zosia set up the stand, plugging in the keyboard before turning some knobs and switches to get it to sound like one of those dinky saloon upright pianos. Zosia turned to look at Diabaté when she finished, waiting for his count to begin the scene.
He nodded, and suddenly in Carol’s own living room, she was immersed into an old western town’s scuffle.
The woman in black had taken the bartender, pressing a real knife against her throat. “Get outta here, Diabaté,” she spat.
Where was Carol’s popcorn?
“And who are you to be making demands?” Diabaté asked asked, hand on his hip as if there was a gun there. His acting was a bit clunky, but Carol wasn't going to log this onto her Letterboxd anyways.
“I fuckin’ own this town,” the woman growled. And with a pretty good accent too, if you asked Carol. “I own all the women here. All the whores you fuck.”
“Ohh, this is why you wanted a man,” Carol said, the storyline suddenly dawning on her. This wasn't only a saloon, it was also a whorehouse. Wow. Goosebumps.
Diabaté shot her a dirty look, ignoring her words, before looking back at the villian. “You can threaten all you like! These women belong to no one –”
“Rich, coming from you,” Carol muttered.
“Carol!” he snapped, “Please!”
“Sorry – Jesus. Sorry. Pretend I'm not here,” she said, thumb returning to the buttons on the remote. Zosia was still playing some tune on the keyboard despite the interruptions. Their eyes met and she winked at Carol.
Diabaté turned back to the woman with the knife.
She pointed the knife at Diabaté. “Don’t make me laugh. You're just as bad as me.”
“You are wrong! I am the hero-!”
Carol pressed the button, the entire room falling silent as Zosia barely managed to hold back a surprised gasp at the sensation. A deep groan made its way out from her throat, only audible to Carol because she was completely attuned to it. Carol held back the urge to grin at the sight, needing to retain her innocence in the situation, even as her finger pressed the medium intensity button on and off at random bursts.
“There it is! The skip!” Diabaté exclaimed, whirling around to look at Carol. She shut the vibrator off, tilting her head at him.
“Was it something you said?”
“What?” he asked before, eyes widening, aghast. “Because I called myself a hero?”
Carol shrugged. “Try a new scene and then that scene again.”
Diabaté nodded, turning back to the villian who was also panting lightly.
Oh, this is fun.
“Eh, let's try right before you grab the knife. I'm talking to the bartender.”
“Of course, Koumba,” the villian said with a smile, stepping back from the bartender and holstering the knife on her hip. She stepped back and sat on an empty seat just across the room. Zosia began playing the keyboard once more. Carol stifled a laugh.
Diabaté looked at the woman playing the bartender with a smile. “What was my line? Oh… Ah, whiskey on the rocks, my love.”
“This is too much, Sheriff!” the bartender cried, holding up an invisible stack of change.
“No, no. Please keep the change,” he said with what Carol assumed he believed was a handsome grin. He just seemed a little constipated.
“You!” the villain stood, hands slapping down on her armrests as she stood. She stalked over towards Diabaté and the bartender, unsheathing her knife again before reassuming her position behind the other woman, knife at her throat. “Keep your money to yourself. Get outta here, Diabaté!”
“And who are you to be making demands?” Diabaté shot back dramatically.
"I fuckin’ own this town,” she hissed. “I own all the women here. All the whores you fuck!”
Diabaté huffed, pointing a finger at her, “You can threaten all you like! These women belong to no one! Especially not you, Señior – Señora? – Reyes.”
The villian bared her teeth at Diabaté, “Don’t make me laugh. You're just as bad as me!”
“But you are wrong! I am the hero–”
Carol pressed the button on the remote.
At once, the music stopped, the background chattering stopped – even the villian dropped the knife she was holding up. Everyone was frozen apart from Zosia, who was doubled over above the keyboard, panting as the vibrator hit maximum intensity inside her.
Diabaté looked distraught at the realization this his words, calling himself a “hero” made everyone shut down. Carol watched as Zosia shook, full bodied behind the keyboard – completely unseen by Diabaté, who looked like he was going to burst into tears at any moment. Just as Zosia’s knees began buckling, the women around her gasping out desperate breaths, Carol turned it off.
She stood, pocketing the remote. “I think that sorta answers your questions.” Carol felt a bit drunk off of more than just the long island iced teas.
“Yes…” Diabaté said sorrowfully. “I think it does. I am sorry for taking up your time.
Carol almost felt bad for him, but then she remembered that she truly couldn't give a shit. Not with Zosia waiting patiently to get fucked once Diabaté and his entourage were out the door. She clapped him on the shoulder. “Just have to think of different lines, bud. The fun shouldn't just end because they don't think you're a hero.”
He shrunk beside her, body slumping in despair. Her eyes rolled. Fucking drama queen.
Slowly, he made his way out the door, not even beckoning the women behind him – it seemed as though Carol really fucked with his head.
Whatever. He'll get over it eventually.
“See you around, buckaroo,” Carol said, accepting one last drink from a shiny, golden woman as she followed the man out of Carol’s house.
The woman smiled before winking, stooping down to whisper, “Enjoy, Carol,” into her ear.
Carol snorted. “Back at you.”