Title: And It's Not the Weather
Rating: R (for now)
Spoilers: Yeah, right.
Summary: Sometimes the past and present catch up with you at the same time.
Notes: This story contains hints of bdsm and will contain much more as time goes by. If you don't like that sort of thing, stay away. Also, it hasn't been beta'd and was written in a very short amount of time, so forgive me for any errors. If anyone wants to beta, lemme know. This is the first part of a series.
When I'm in these clothes I am more than me. I'm everything I ever wanted to be -- strong, self-assured, sexy. Pretty and special don't even apply.
I dimmed the lights and turned around in front of the mirror. The pants were more snug than I'd remembered, but a few more weeks on the wagon would cure that. I slicked my hair back and tucked it into my leather police cap and finished the whole thing off with a smear of fuck-me red lipstick. Yeah.
The cab driver was handsome, Croatian by the name on his license. His eyes kept flicking over to the rear-view mirror whenever he thought I wasn't looking. I didn't tip him.
I stepped out of the cab into the crisp night air. Heaven looked exactly the same. It still pulsed with a heavy bass beat and people were still lined up around the block to get in. I walked right up to the front.
"Jackson." A tough butch turned around at the sound of my voice, the chains on her jacket jingling.
"Who are --"
I leaned into her, putting my mouth to her ear. "On your knees, bitch."
She laughed out loud and stepped back. "No way!"
I returned her smile. "Way." I let her pull me into a big bear hug.
"God, you look different. Jesus, Abby...it's been, what? Five or six years?"
"Where the hell have you been?"
"No place special. Think I can still get in here? Or has Trigger cut me off?"
Jackson smirked. "She was worried about you, ya know."
I shrugged, made myself smaller in my leather jacket. "Anyone in there to my taste?"
"There's one I've never seen before. Just your type." I slipped her five bucks and climbed down dingy stairs into the darkness of the club. After letting my eyes adjust to the light, I handed my jacket to the coat check girl and sauntered up to the bar. The bartender was young, femme, clearly a sub. She had bright blue eyes and a shaved head that made my hands ache to touch it.
"Coke with lime."
She nodded, her eyes straying down to my chest. I was wearing an open cupped boustier beneath my vest that showed off lipstick painted nipples. I leaned across the bar so she could get a better look.
"Do you like them?" I asked softly.
Her hand trembled and the glass slipped from her hand, spilling ice across the bar. I picked up a piece and slid it into my mouth. Her face flushed crimson.
"You have to earn the right to look at them."
"I - I'm sorry. I didn't mean - I mean I --"
"Come see me if you want the opportunity." She nodded shakily and handed me my drink. I tipped her very well.
I looked over the rest of the club. There were some familiar faces, but mostly strangers, and a lot more Dommes than there used to be. I kept an eye out for the girl Jackson had told me about. I had a thing for new girls -- women inexperienced and nervous. I love to teach.
Then I saw the woman who had to be her. She was standing with her back to me, facing the dance floor. Petite, nice body, a shock of red hair. A little like Agent Scully from the back. Yum. She was also squirming in brand new fetish gear, constantly shifting her weight, adjusting, trying to decide if she was stupid to come here in the first place.
I was about to make my move when a hand touched my shoulder.
"I should've known you'd show up here sooner or later. Get bored of doing dick again?"
My body stiffened and I had to consciously stop my hands from making fists. "Fuck off, Jen."
"You're the one who did that." She jerked her chin toward the redhead. "Cute, huh? Fresh meat always gets me hot." She trailed a finger down my chest. "How about you?" She started off in the new chick's direction. I grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around to face me.
"Fuck off or I'll make sure you never get in here again."
She smirked. "What, do you think you can just show up here after seven years and the bar will be yours again?"
"I don't expect anything from you," I said, pushing away from her and stalking off toward the dance floor. The music shifted to a darker drum-laden track punctuated with the sound of a woman moaning.
The closer I got to the redhead, the smaller she looked. And almost familiar.
I touched the back of her arm, prepared to introduce myself and a whole new level of existence. Everything stopped when Dr. Kerry Weaver turned around to face me.