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Pippa Fitz-Amobi can't stop asking herself what being a good girl truly means.
Once upon a time, she would have had that answer right on the tip of her tongue. Valuing ethics, respecting her loving parents, setting a good example for her brother, studying hard, being kind to her friends, building a bright future.
She figures that bludgeoning someone to death probably doesn’t fit the bill.
Once, she was the perfect example of what a good girl should be, but today, sitting at the chipped table of this filthy bar in a hidden corner of London, she can’t quite say if she’s even good at all.
She stirs her drink with a straw, looking around. This is one of those places where everything is bound to go wrong. Strange people, always on edge, just waiting for a spark to set them off. Curiously, it had been one of Pip’s favorite spots in recent months. A rich, open field for analyzing human behavior, it was as much a hobby as it was therapy, honestly.
Now, at 21, it’s been three years since she left Buckinghamshire behind and settled into a small flat in London, focused on her degree in forensic investigation. Her parents had wrinkled their brows at the choice, surely silently wishing she’d leave the danger in the past and focus on a career that wouldn’t wear her down mentally.
Ha. Impossible.
Otherwise, everyone thought everything was fine. Andi, Sal, Ravi. It should all be in the past, cycles finished, well finished. Nothing left undone. She did what she had to do, but it was over, and the future shone before her.
Except.
That hunger.
It burned in every fiber beneath her skin. It coursed through the blood in her veins. It was never satisfied.
Somewhere between a thirst for justice and a hunger for revenge, her only certainty was that the means was violence.
She tells herself that everything is fine, because her anger is always directed at bad people, though she isn’t arrogant enough to consider herself some kind of vigilante. In general, she had been doing a good job of keeping herself in check. She could focus on her studies, on her internship at the Special Victims Unit that her university partnered with, let the hyperfocus on podcasts and criminal files make her mind spin and spin, and so many other means of escape, but in the end she was always here. In the night, as if looking for trouble.
Her knuckles are so tense.
"You know that no matter how many whiskey-based drinks you order, you still stand out like a sore thumb among the ugly faces cursing this place, right?" Pip snaps her eyes up to meet the bartender’s deeply staring gaze, a carefree smile playing on her bright red lips. It’s the first time Pip has heard her so closely. All the other weeks since she started working here, she’d kept her distance, except to bring and take away drinks, her glances never lingering long enough on Pip to suggest she’d even noticed her.
Well, apparently she had noticed. From this close, her accent was even more delicious to hear.
Pip had been paying attention, yes.
“You're American.” She says, stating a fact, and the bartender squints and smiles more broadly. She replaces Pip’s glass with a full one, even though Pip doesn’t remember ordering anything. She looks at the glass, at the woman’s hand, at her face, her bangs casting a shadow over her eyes.
“Yeah, I am. Kudos on your observation skills. I’m Tara, by the way.”
And then she winks—really winks—and Pip wonders if she’s missing something.
“Pippa. Pip. You can call me Pip.” She swallows hard, quickly taking a sip from her new glass.
"Nice to meet you, Pip. I won’t ask, because I can tell you come here often." She laughs, tapping her knuckles on the table. "You can do better, though.”
Pip laughed nervously, grateful that the bar’s weird orange lighting hid the flush on her cheeks. All this interest in blood and violence, and yet her body short-circuited around a woman who was just too beautiful.
Tara leaves as quickly as she came, and she keeps taking tiny sips, because what mattered was the taste of alcohol that kept her senses tingling like a small punishment, not the desire to alter her perception. Pip doesn't know much about her, but Tara — and her name left such a good taste on her mouth — always seemed to be hiding more than the silly playful bartender act she put on.
The events that follow are like a movie segment: someone says something that rubs the slightly more drunk person the wrong way, a punch is thrown, and soon there’s a scuffle with at least four people trading blows on the floor. Pip watches with analytical interest. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices a guy leaning over the bar, firing off a string of dirty lines at Tara, who seemed so uninterested she didn’t even look disgusted.
The fight loses its appeal the moment Tara, with a stern expression and tense shoulders, walks out through the exit the staff uses to go for a smoke, probably thinking she’d gotten rid of the guy, who kept staring at her across the bar and immediately set off after her.
Pip doesn’t want to get involved. She knows better than to meddle in problems that aren’t hers (like she’s fooling anyone, she doesn’t, it’s practically her signature move, sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong). So she follows them, leaving the loud noises inside the bar behind.
Sam would kill her.
Tara takes three quick puffs from the medicine in her inhaler, the acrid cigarette smoke and everything else inside the bar enough to set her lungs on fire for the next two months. Her breathing quickly settles, her back pressed against the cold wall in the darkest corner of the alley. She ignores all the other million messages left by Sam and replies only to the last one, insisting she shouldn't worry, she'd be fine for the night, she was working. Her sister was too, but she could barely sleep thinking about Tara stuck in that kind of dump, amidst the terrifying dangers of those evil nights and so on.
Tara scoffs to herself, Sam knew better and had been improving a lot at getting off her back. After all, after their lives were turned upside down, the harassment, the forums, the threats, having to bury her college life, the promises of lifelong relationships that didn’t survive the conditions once they became too exhausting, what else was left for them?
Core four my ass.
It’s always just her and Sam, in the end.
So she said, fuck it. They needed to live, they wanted to live. Travel the world, never stopping if necessary. Bad jobs, brief stays, no attachments. Today over any possibility of tomorrow.
Well, yes. In theory.
It turns out Tara is really liking London and the thoughtful little face—which surely knew much more than it let on—belonging to the woman who always sat at the same table, almost every night, analyzing the world as if she weren’t part of it.
Pip.
What a silly name, she thinks to herself while smiling. Before, she tried to guess her name would be something like Elizabeth, or Emma or Natalie. Maybe even Marie. Pip fits her though, in a way.
She is so cute. And her eyes were always so clouded by something too close to frenzy whenever there was blood.
Tara can relate.
She knew the man was coming; the cheap alcohol coursing through his system had already begun to reek of sick determination as he crept through the shadows, as silent as an antelope caught in headlights. She also knows she doesn't have the best advantage, so she stays put, pretending to be distracted.
She remembers Ethan. Quinn. Detective Bailey. Richie. Amber.
The moment he jumps and tries to grab her sides, she connects and fires the taser into his throat, hearing the desperate sound of air leaving his lungs. He staggers backward, never expecting her to lunge at him again, the sharp knife piercing the line of his collarbone and tearing downward. She feels the adrenaline shaking her mind, blood spattering across her face and chest. He attacks without coordination, landing a blow to the side of her face that makes her stagger, but Tara already knows the drill, she dodges, pushing the nausea to the back of her mind, landing another taser shock on the man’s temple. He screams this time, falling to the floor with a thud, Tara’s blade poised to sink into the man’s exposed stomach when she hears an almost cartoonish gasp.
Pip is watching her, eyes wide, hands in the air as if she doesn’t quite know what to do with them. She looks from Tara to the knife in her hand and then to the man, who is so drunk he can’t get up from where he’s lying, mildly bleeding on the floor.
“Don't worry, he's not dead.” Tara says, her hands up where Pip can see them. As if they can't hear him groaning. “Oh fuck Sam is going to lose it if she sees me like this.” She wipes the knife on the fabric of her own blouse, tucking it back where Pip can no longer see it. Her blue, wide eyes follow every movement of Tara’s hands, as if doing anything else were unthinkable. She seems, to say the least, fascinated.
Tara is suddenly very aware of the blood on her face.
“S…” Pip tries, swallowing so hard people inside the bar could hear it “Someone will probably call the police soon.”
“Well, yes, but there are no cameras back here and he's so wasted he won't remember shit about who hurt him.” Tara is a little closer now, studying Pip’s reactions intensely. “Which is sad, I wish he would remember me every time he looked at his stupid creepy face in the mirror.” There's too much teeth when she says the words, one of those times she barely feels like herself.
Defying all reason, common sense, and morality, Pip scans the scene once again, taking in the blood on Tara’s cheek as the words finish echoing in his ears. She moans. Slow and deep.
She’s closer now, teasing with her proximity as much as she’s teasing with the knowing smile on her lips. Pip is so tense when Tara gets close enough to feel her breath on hers that the soft puff is enough to make her shoulders tremble.
“Could you please not call the authorities on me, Miss Pip?” she whispers. Due to the few inches Pip has on her, Tara is staring at her through her lashes, her big doe-brown eyes leaving the English girl utterly captivated.
The scent of blood on Tara’s tanned skin makes Pippa’s head spin.
And Pip isn't exactly the most forward person in the world, but there's only so much a person can take. She threads her fingers through Tara’s hair, pulling her close enough to attack her lips. She tastes red, and whether it’s lipstick or blood, she doesn’t care to know. Tara sighs, surrendering to the kiss immediately, her own hands cupping Pip’s face and leaving red lines on her pale cheeks, her nails tracing patterns on her neck.
Pip staggers backward, turning just in time to press Tara against the wall and suck on her lower lip again, one of Tara’s legs wrapping around her waist like a vice.
“You don’t seem exactly disturbed by the scene.” Tara presses on just because she wants to hear her admit it.
“You don’t seem exactly inexperienced in your performance.” Pip retorts, feeling Tara run her tongue over hers, every touch making her skin burn. She tsks, leaving little kisses from the corner of her lip to the curve of her ear, where she whispers.
“Would you believe me if I told you I once made a murderer stalker deepthroat a knife?” Her delicate hands, seemingly incapable of causing any harm, trace Pip’s waist, playing at the hem of her sweater until venturing underneath, finding skin all covered in goosebumps. Pip gasps, a loud moan escaping before she can think to stop it. Grabbing the curve between Tara’s ass and thigh, she pulls her closer. "He was such a huge motherfucker, Pip, you can’t imagine the satisfaction of seeing the fear in his eyes when he realized he wasn’t going to win." Tara feels the thrill again as if she were hearing Ethan gurgle in his own blood right now, and she unconsciously grinds herself against Pip’s waist.
"Unless you fancy going to jail, I don't think you should be confessing crimes to a stranger, love." She tries to regain some composure, but the image doesn't come across well when she's so busy leaving marks on Tara's slightly tilted neck.
"Oh, I know you’ll keep my secret." She feels the intrusion in her baggy jeans before she can process what’s happening. Tara slides a finger over the fabric of her panties, clearly soaked to the touch. Biting her own lip to control her breathing, she presses her forehead against Tara’s. "I can tell you like listening.”
And relapsing back to her habit of making terrible choices, she speaks.
“We have to get out of here.” Tara, obviously, obliges. She is so enchanted by this woman that it’s hard to put into words. The fascination in her eyes, the desire conveyed by even the slightest of her touches. She wants to be between her legs. She wants to kneel and look her in the eyes while she melts in her mouth.
She pushes Pippa back through the smoker's area, cutting straight through to the small room at the back of the bar, which is packed with supplies and clutter and has a worn-out leather couch seeming just inviting enough. With the rest of the shift still underway, the other staff members weren't going anywhere anytime soon, and Tara had no intention of going back to worry about closing time anyway, but she still locks the wooden door behind them with this old small key hanging.
A fleeting thought crosses her mind: a few years ago, before all this, good girl Tara Carpenter would never have found herself in a situation like this.
Well, though with such a pretty girl by her side, she wasn’t complaining.
Pip sits down first, with Tara standing in front of her. She’s biting her lower lip, and her hair, which had been perfectly half-up, is now a messy tangle plastered to her face. The warm yellow lighting makes the freckles on her face glow. Pip isn’t looking much better, her brown strands slipping out from where she’d tucked them behind her ear, her breath coming in heavy gasps. She feels magnetized, wraps her arms around Tara’s waist, pulling her close, never taking her eyes off hers, undoes the button on her denim shorts, letting it slide quickly to the floor, her legs now covered by the thin black tights.
Tara sits on her lap, one leg on either side of her waist, her mouth desperately seeking hers. She deftly pulls the sweater over Pip’s head, undoes the buttons on the shirt she’s wearing underneath in one swift motion, her throat making a pitiful sound when she finds her already braless.
"So fucking pretty, Pip," she whispers, licking her earlobe, cupping both breasts, and teasing her nipples with her thumbs until she begins to squirm.
"Tara..." Her name, like velvet on her tongue, sends shivers down Tara's spine, and she shamelessly grinds herself against Pip's still-clothed thigh. She shifts their positions, pushing Tara down onto the couch and leaning completely over her, pausing only to shed her own jeans, which felt like a torture against her hot skin. “You're making me fucking insane.”
"I do my best—" she tries to joke with a cheeky smile, but Pip, already a little impatient, slips her hand inside Tara's panties, pushing the soaked lace aside and pressing hard. Tara loses her train of thought, whimpering at the rough touch, her hips rolling.
Pippa takes her time, leaving a trail of marks on her neck and jaw, returning to her perfect lips before starting over, her hand sliding through her dripping folds, teasing her with anticipation as she circles her clit, but never quite touches it, two fingers tracing her slit, pressing against her entrance without actually penetrating her. Tara is a mess of moans beneath her, one leg wrapped around her waist even in this position, trying to get even closer
"Pip, stop fucking teasing." She squirm, trying to get more of her touch, but Pip just laughs through her nose, busy nibbling at the sensitive skin of her neck.
"You’re so impatient." That’s all she’s willing to say, but she responds to her sly voice, her two middle fingers sliding inside, making Tara’s back arch. She digs her nails into Pip’s forearms, hunting for her mouth with the same voracity. Her hand finds a torturous rhythm of back-and-forth, her mind intoxicated by the depraved sounds coming from the mouth of the woman beneath her. “You have no idea how beautiful you look with blood on your face,” she lets slip before she can control herself, and Tara can’t hold back the smile that spreads across her face. She runs her hands over Pip’s exposed chest until they’re wrapped around her neck, pressing hard enough to make the woman shut her eyes tightly.
It’s like magic, honestly, like a string snapping. Pip’s eyes are so clouded with pleasure that Tara thinks she might come just from watching her. She moves impatiently, dragging Tara’s tights and panties down and pushing her body a little further up, pressing their bodies together. Tara throws her head back against the arm of the couch when she feels Pip’s heat against hers, her hands still around her neck, as if guiding her, her hips moving against hers in a punishing rhythm.
"Fuck, Pip, you’re so wet." She moans the words, entranced by the sight of beads of sweat trickling down the woman’s forehead, her flushed skin, her eyes tightly shut. Lost in the haze, both of them, but their eyes never fail to meet.
Tara finally lets her hands fall, wrapping them around Pip’s waist and pulling her closer. The sound of their bodies grinding against each other fills the room, their moans and Tara’s low whimpers making it hard for either of them to think of anything but each other.
"Come for me, love." Pip whispers the words in her ear, kissing her jawline and the traces of her freckles, and Tara’s body obeys, the jolt of pleasure numbing her limbs for a moment, her nails digging into Pip’s back as she continues to grind against her.
Pip follows almost immediately, her body losing rhythm against Tara’s, her movements desperate as she chases her own orgasm, surprised to realize that the voice lost in the moans she heard was her own, as Tara tracing circles on her skin while she trembled against her body.
For a moment, silence reigns between them, their bodies still somewhat limp as they catch their breath. After a few minutes, Pip is the first to get up. Tara finds it amusing how bright red her face is.
She isn't in much of a hurry to get dressed, instinctively reaching for her inhaler, Pip observes as she does so.
"I should go," she finally says, once Tara is dressed.
"Sure. It's safer for you to leave through the back." Pip nods, searching for words that don't seem to come.
Tara, however, beats her to it, passing her on her way to the door. Before leaving, she gets close enough to feel her breath on hers again, and a rebellious spark ignites once more.
Pip takes a deep breath as she winks and slips her hand into her pants pocket to feel for the little card the woman left behind.