"This..." she pronounced, waving the tequila shooter around aimlessly. "This is all YOUR fault."
He squinted at her through the layered glass of his Beam bottle. "How is this my fault? You're the one who fucked somebody else. And Linds was the one who let that fucking frog move in." It was funny...but if he looked at her at just the right angle, distorted, it was almost like staring into a mirror. They looked alike...go figure...*"hey, Mel...is Lindsey trying to tell us something?"*
"It's your fault," she continued, like she hadn't heard him looking at her. "'Cause Linds will always love you more than me. She wants you in her life. She wanted you to be Gus's father. She doesn't care that you're morally degenerate and completely without conscience and will fuck anybody with a cock and a hole."
He jerked his head up...nearly spilling bourbon all over the counter. "Hey!" Except that he couldn't disagree. She was right. He smirked, pouring himself another shot and gesturing for her to do the same with the tequila she'd found on his top shelf. "Well, gee, Mel," he scoffed, wide-eyed and sarcastic, "if that's the case...why haven't I ever fucked YOU?"
Her eyes glittered with familiar malice and she set down her empty tumbler. "Because you couldn't handle it."
"Ha. Is that a fact?" he demanded, coming around the island with his best 'fuck me' swagger.
She shook her head, laughing and moving backwards. "Don't tell me the great Brian Kinney is actually considering screwing a woman because it's a matter of pride?"
"What woman?" he wondered, slowly, arching an eyebrow. "You're the only person I know with a dick bigger than mine, Melanie."
She fluttered her eyelashes at him, mockingly."Why, Brian, I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
He didn't miss a beat. Just shrugged. "So. You wanna?"
She blanched, shuddering with disgust. "Frankly? No."
"You're just afraid you'd like it," he taunted, advancing on her. "You're afraid you'd love me just as much as Lindsey does."
She snorted, dragging a hand through her short, dark hair. "No one could love you half as much as you love yourself, Asshole."
"Oh, yeah?" He stopped when he was right before her...and she didn't back down. "You sure about that? Gus loves me. Justin loves me...Justin adores me."
"Gus loves anyone with an exposed nipple," she assured, poking his bare chest for emphasis. "And Justin's judgment in any area relating to you is highly questionable."
He didn't move. There were almost forehead to forehead. Alcohol fumes and challenge hung between them. The gauntlet was on the ground. Someone just had to pick it up.
In the end, they both did.
"Fuck," she hissed.
Hands fisted around belt loops...muscles strained...leaving glass to shatter as they moved towards the bedroom. He kissed her and tasted a little blood. His...hers...he wasn't sure. She didn't care.
Gasp. Gasp. Pant. Pant.
"Nice to know Justin's artistic judgment wasn't *completely* exaggerated after all..."
"Jesus, Mel...how much do you bench press?"
Thrust. Pant. Gasp.
When it was over, they rolled apart, each taking time on their side of his massive bed. And their eyes met, tentatively. No longer shrouded with booze. Just this fragile, new, understanding where there had long been deep, abiding, hatred. They saw something, there, in the brown of each other's eyes, that they had never quite seen before.
She hurriedly wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and made a face. He lurched upwards and headed, instinctively, for the shower.
But he turned back. To look. To glance. And when their eyes met again, they spoke the same words in a frantic breath.
"We've GOT to get her back!"
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