Author's note: This is something of a follow-up to "An Unexpected Friendship," set eight years later, starring Christi, the love interest from that story. But you don't need to have read it to enjoy this story. When I finished that one, I had no intention of writing a sequel, and when I saw a comment asking for one, I thought, "What am I supposed to write? That they grew apart and broke up in college like most other high school couples?" Then, somewhere in the middle of writing "The Glamorous Passenger", this Freudian tale came to my mind. And as I was drafting this one, I realized that I could make Christi the main character and incorporate their breakup into this story.
Trigger warning: As you may have read in the finale to "The Glamorous Passenger", Christi's ex came out as non-binary after their breakup. Because this person identified as female throughout their relationship, Christi has problems with their pronouns and sometimes still refers to them by their dead name. This is due to Christi's difficulty moving on from the relationship and is not intended as non-binary erasure. I apologize if anyone is offended. Also, this has a higher sex-to-story ratio than my other work. If this is not to your taste, please see my other stories, most of which are more plot-driven and where the sex scenes come as a dessert rather than the main course.
Disclaimers: The therapist in this story says certain things about open relationships and monogamy that the author does not necessarily agree with and makes an assertion about transference in psychotherapy that the author cannot verify. The author would like to caution his readers against taking relationship advice from a fictional therapist in a stroke story. Also, this story is set about 2-3 years in the future as I am writing this, and I am assuming that by then, medical science will have found a cure for all STD's.
Standard disclaimer: All explicit sexual activity described in this story is between consenting adults 18 and older.
Enjoy!
CHAPTER 1
Christi came home completely tired and miserable. She'd had lots of hard days since she joined the agency, but today had to be the worst. Thank God it was Friday night, and she didn't have to be at work until Monday morning. She needed a drink, and she didn't want to be alone with her thoughts tonight. She had tried calling her therapist earlier today but could only get a recording saying Dr. Patel was unavailable and if this was a mental health emergency, please call 988.
She shucked off her official DEA windbreaker and began shedding her pantsuit and rubber-soled Mary Jane flats. God, how she hated wearing pantsuits! Other women—particularly women she had dated—looked good in them, but she had yet to find slacks or blazers that she felt even remotely flattered her figure, and casual wear was frowned upon at her office. Her straight friends all thought it was weird that even though she was an out-and-proud lesbian, she didn't like looking butch, and she felt that pantsuits made her look un-feminine. Still, she understood that dresses were impractical for working in the field. Maybe one day, she'd go back to law school and become an attorney like she had originally planned. After all, she was still only 26. Then she could start wearing sleeveless power dresses and pumps to work, which were more her style. But for now, she had to wear utilitarian office attire.
She looked in her closet and decided on a spaghetti-strap silver lame cocktail dress with a plunging neckline and a pair of dressy flat sandals. At 5'8", she didn't feel the need to wear high heels, especially since she was walking to the club tonight. She fixed her hair and makeup, eyed herself in the mirror and liked what she saw. The ends of her wavy, platinum hair just tickled the nape of her neck, and the dress showed off her long legs and breasts that were somewhere between a large C-cup and small D-cup. With her big, blue eyes, blond hair, button nose, big bust and narrow waist, more than one person had commented that she looked more like Barbie than Margot Robbie did.
She wasn't necessarily wanting to go home with anyone tonight, but her therapist had advised her to be open to a one-night stand. Up until now, all her sexual experiences had been in the context of committed relationships, and Dr. Patel thought she should expand her horizons. It just might be the right opportunity for that tonight. Her tiny loft apartment was in a mixed-use building only a short walk away from her favorite club. The official name of the club was "Artemis", and there was a cool handmade sign out front with a painting of the Greek goddess of the hunt, but the regular clientele all called it "Artie's." She liked it for two main reasons. The first was that it was close to home instead of downtown, so she didn't have to deal with traffic or crowds. And the second was that—even though it wasn't technically a lesbian bar—it was well known that the owners were a married lesbian couple and they had created the place to give the complete nightclub experience while being a safe space for women. They had a strict "no means no" rule. If an employee found anyone giving unwanted attention to someone else, the offending party was given one warning before being banned for life. This had the effect of keeping away aggressive guys looking for a hookup. And about two-thirds of the patrons on any given night were queer women.
Christi nodded hello and showed her ID to the bouncer, whom she had gotten to know quite well since she started coming here. She took a seat at the bar and ordered a Mexican martini. Normally she had a glass of chardonnay or maybe an imported beer on tap, but tonight she needed the hard stuff. She started staring down at the mahogany inlay, psyching herself up for the night while waiting for her drink. "Excuse me," she heard a voice from behind her say.
She looked up and saw a familiar face staring at her with a look of concern. She didn't know this woman personally, but Christi recognized her as one of Artie's semi-regular customers, who showed up once every few weeks. She was older than Christi, somewhere in her early to mid-thirties. If she hadn't been wearing platform heels, Christi guessed she'd be 5'2" at the tallest. She had olive-tan skin, golden-brown eyes and straight dark brown hair with medium blond ombre at the ends that went down to the small of her back. Tonight, she wore a low-cut short-hemmed black satin backless halter dress that advertised that her A-cup breasts were braless. "I'm sorry if I'm being too forward, but it looks like you could use someone to talk to. Everyone tells me I'm a good listener."
This wasn't the sort of woman Christi usually went for. This stranger was a fellow femme, and Christi generally liked soft butch types. Also, this lady had a thin dancer's build, and Christi preferred women who were on the heavier side of a healthy BMI. Still, the stranger was right. "Pull up a seat," she said. "My name's Christi and I've had a shitty day. My therapist is out of town and her phone line is going straight to voice mail, so yeah. I need someone to talk to."
"I'm Sophie. Nice to finally put a name to your face." Sophie sat on the barstool next to Christi and the two women shook hands. "So, what's got you down tonight?"
The bartender returned with Christi's Mexican martini and a burgundy wine for Sophie. "Well," Christi started, "first I have to let you know that I work for the DEA."
"Okay . . .?"
"I'm sorry. I just need to know that doesn't make you uncomfortable. I've met lots of people who freak out when I tell them my job because they think I'm going to bust them for having a joint in their bedroom drawer."
"Well, first of all, marijuana's legal here, and second, I don't smoke it, or anything else for that matter."
"Okay. Well, anyway, the reason why my day has been so shitty is because we took down a fentanyl mill today, and one of the guys we arrested was a cousin of mine who was one of the last of my blood relatives who still speaks to me. Although I guess he won't be speaking to me anymore."
"Why don't you talk to your family, if you don't mind me asking?"
