Tell Me A Story
"Tell me a story."
Cathy's face was pressed against the smooth skin of Christine's stomach, leaving a line of kisses. "What?"
"Tell me a story."
"I don't know any stories." She kissed her way up Christine's body, across her right breast, flicking her tongue out across the nipple.
"Don't try to get out of this." Christine stretched her arms far above her head and shivered as Cathy stroked the skin between her breasts. "You used to work at the White House, in the West Wing. You worked for powerful men. There must be loads of stories to tell me about that."
Cathy blew softly on her skin. "Why don't you tell me a story? You're the mysterious spy girl, aren't you?"
Christine grabbed at Cathy's arm, digging her fingernails in hard, stopping Cathy's hand on her breast. "I used to be a spy," she snapped. She removed her arm from Cathy's and glowered as the marks reddened.
Cathy pouted and rubbed her arm. She rolled back, onto her side, keeping her face and arms far out of reach and using the underside of her foot to trace the curve of Christine's leg. The ankle, the roundness of her calf, her knee, her thigh . . .
"I suppose you can never really give it up, can you? The whole spying game. The traces must hang around you."
Christine scooted towards her. For a moment there was fear in Cathy's eyes and Christine realised she'd hurt her. She couldn't decide what that meant: if it pleased her or made her sad. "I've given it up."
Cathy traced her finger across a pattern on the bed sheet. "When did you give it up?"
"After the bastards screwed me over. After someone had fled the country and I was left alone to take all the blame." She inched closer and placed her hand flat on Cathy's stomach. "It's a sad story, a very sad story." She moved closer again, her mouth hovering next to Cathy's ear and her hand snaking lower. "I ruined a man's life."
Cathy gasped as Christine's hand slipped between her legs. "I bet you've ruined more than just that."
Christine pushed a finger inside her. "Do I scare you?"
Cathy shook her head. "No. You don't. You couldn't."
She was lying. Christine could always tell when people were lying. It was a skill. "You should be scared of me."
"Could you really hurt me? Is that why I should be so scared?"
Christine smiled. "I could hurt you if I wanted to. I could destroy your world."
Cathy rolled away from Christine, away from the warm breath on her ear and the quick fingers on her clit. "I don't think you would. I think you love me more than that."
Christine lay back on her pillow and looked at the ceiling. "Sure."
She stood in the shower, naked and fully dry and wondered what she was doing in California. It was too hot for her, too bright, to hazy. It made her miss the cold, grey, rain filled days she used to hate. It made her miss England.
She wondered what was happening there. She wondered how her replacement, the perfect one, was doing; whether he'd been able to 'clean up' operations over there, like they'd promised to do a hundred times over. She wondered how Tom was, where he was, if he was still alive. She wondered if he missed her.
She reached out and turned the hot water on.
The water stung at first, but she barely added any cold. She liked the way hot water felt, the way it made her feel. She liked the way it pricked at her, like a thousand tiny needles, the way the water left her skin red, long after she had stepped out of the shower and dried herself off.
"It's not good for you." Cathy was sitting in the doorway, watching her.
"Why are you watching me?" Christine demanded, turning the water off.
"Because I am." Cathy's voice was defiant, as if she was challenging Christine to a repeat of their earlier conversation. "The hot water isn't good for you."
"How did you know it was hot water?"
"I could see the steam pouring through the doorway." Cathy smiled. "Anyway, you always moan like that when the water is hot."
"Why are you watching me?" Christine pushed aside the shower curtain.
"I like watching you." Cathy leaned against the wall. "Was it like this when we were younger?"
"No," Christine grabbed a towel. "We've changed a lot since we were younger."
"Maybe this isn't a good idea."
"Maybe it isn't."
It was different before she left the United States. She had been different then, more willing to take risks, more willing to do things she should avoid, without thinking of possible consequences. Back then it had been easier to pretend, easier to think she wasn't scrutinised, easier to work long days and enjoy longer nights, easier to make everyone around her happy.
Cathy had been fun then. A reliable women; something there on the nights Christine needed her, who didn't wait by the phone during the other times. She was just beginning out in Washington then, and had been vetted a thousand times for a hundred different places. She was squeaky clean and Christine claimed her as a friend who needed to know and no one blinked twice.
Then Cathy began to work for Sam Seaborn and Christine was moved to Europe.
By the time she reached London, Christine's ambitions were changed, different. There were big plans she wanted to implement, plans to earn more money, to gain more power. It wouldn't do any good to draw attention to herself before she was ready for it. She couldn't waste her time, couldn't give herself away, no matter how much she wanted Zoe Reynolds or that fluffy, blonde girl.
Tom Quinn was already a little bit broken. Destroying him was much more fun.
She lay on the bed and waited for Cathy to come home.
There were bags, full of hastily packed clothing, sitting next to the bed. They called to her, begged her to leave now, before she had to explain herself. Begged her to disappear somewhere, to take off for some God-forsaken country where no one would take any notice of her dirty past. Begged her to leave before Cathy got home.
Cathy was too good for her now. She was different, she had changed. She talked about the greater good, about working for the people. She wanted to get good people into power.
Christine wanted the power. But if Cathy knew the truth, she wouldn't touch her with a ten foot pole. Christine had to leave, now, before Cathy knew how bad she was. She didn't need Cathy, there were hundreds of women who would do just as well.
She heard the door and seconds later Cathy stood in front of her, smiling. "Tell me a story."
Christine looked at her. "It's time for me to go."