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He’s late.
Rio is running late. And she’s not worried persay, but he’s certainly late enough for her mind to wander to different scenarios--different causes of his tardiness.
Part of her is just slightly satisfied thinking of the smuggest way she can allude to his rude lateness. The most effective way to annoy him when he can’t say anything back because he’s the one being unprofessional.
Just when she thinks she’s pinpointed the best way to crawl under his skin, she senses a particular pair of eyes on her from across the jam-packed bar, feels his presence looming. Some part of her so attuned to him that she never needs to actually be looking at him to know for a fact that he's near.
Rio slides onto the barstool next to her, which magically always seems to be open for him. His perpetually denim-clad arm brushes hers. And even though she's wearing her favorite long sleeve dress, she swears the barest graze of him against her sends a shockwave through her. In spite of that, she turns to him, firmly saddled up on her high horse, and opens her mouth to shame him.
“You’re la--,” she starts, pointedly glancing at the watch on her wrist, but he interrupts her theatrics.
Gesturing to the bartender to get his usual while simultaneously grunting out, “Got a tail.”
He says it offhand. Like she doesn’t need any more detail than that.
She freezes, head whipping around and immediately searching the bar for someone watching them, hand itching to grab the duffle bag of cash stashed below the bar and hide it just that little bit better.
His hand darts to her thigh, grip firm. Steady. His thumb is brushing back and forth on the skin exposed where her dress has ridden up in what she thinks is supposed to be a soothing manner. But it just makes matters worse. Because now on top of the anxiety of a threat’s eyes on her, Rio’s hand is on her.
“Be chill,” he says, lifting the glass of tequila he’s just been served to his lips to take a sip.
“Be chill? ” she ekes out, voice shrill.
But he just ignores her, swallowing his mouthful of liquor.
“What kind of tail?” she asks, fidgeting with the glass containing her second bourbon.
“Unmarked car. Tinted windows. Probably one of our friends from the FBI.”
He adjusts himself in his seat while casually looking over his shoulder. “Tried to lose ‘em, but they wouldn’t budge. White guy in a suit in the back corner followed me into the lot.”
“You couldn’t lose them so you led him right to me and a bag of fake cash?” she asks, exacerbation clear.
“Relax, darlin’,” he says leaning in closer until she can feel his breath on the side of her face. “We ain’t gonna do the drop in here. Just...pretend we grabbin’ a drink. Make it look like that duffle’s nothing more than an overnight bag.”
She feels his gaze drop down to where her cleavage peaks above the neckline of her sweater. She clears her throat, trying to clear the fog of lust clouding her ability to continue being pissed at him.
“And why would I have an overnight bag?” she breathes.
“Hmm,” he hums, a lewd satisfaction dripping from his tone. He leans in until he’s speaking directly into her ear. “Maybe I’m about to take you home wit’ me. Get you outta that dress. Do some of that makin’ love you told ‘em we were doing.”
She feels a chill run down her spine, feels a heat splotching up her cheeks, but that heat is nothing compared to the fire she feels go straight to her core at the implication of his words.
“H-how do we make i-it,” she stutters, before taking a deep breath to collect herself even as he’s practically nuzzling into her hair. “How do you suggest we make it look... that way?”
She can’t even allow her mind to think about the two of them together like that right now, let alone say out loud the types of things she imagines in bed at night when she slips her hand beneath the comforter and into her panties.
She squeezes her thighs together as subtly as she can muster. But based on the gleam in his eye when he pulls back and makes eye contact with her, she thinks she maybe wasn’t discreet enough.
He huffs out a laugh and licks his lips. “I can think of one way we could sell it.”
He glances down at her lips and she swears his eyes are darker than they were when he entered the bar. Her own tongue darts out because she might be crazy, but she thinks Rio may be about to kiss her. And in a flash of temporary insanity, her mind is consumed with making sure her lips are...“kissable.” Because even if he’s only kissing her as part of some ruse, she doesn’t want it to be bad.
She glances at his lips and feels the pull to say fuck it, but the last sane part of her brain makes her pause. It should be because she’s worried that someone may recognize her. Because despite the state of her marriage behind closed doors, to the outside world, she’s still married. And the man cozying up to her in a bar right now is very much not her husband. But it’s not that that stops her.
“How sure are you?” she breathes out.
Rio’s eyes are once again firmly locked on her lips and they don’t stray for a second when he asks, “‘Bout what?”
“The tail.”
“Mmm 85 percent,” he responds, chest rising and falling faster the longer he looks at her lips.
In the back of her mind, she knows that she wants to do this. But she doesn’t want him to think her too overeager. Too desperate. A lonely housewife needy for the touch of a younger man. That's not who she is. That’s not what this is. And she wants that to be clear if they ever cross this line between them.
Just as he’s lifting his hand up to presumably pull her into a kiss, a girl carrying a vodka cran bumps into Beth from behind, the jostling knocking enough sense into her that she pulls away from Rio despite him reaching out to steady her. She isn’t ready to destroy that boundary unless they actually have to.
For a second his brow creases in confusion before he smooths away any sign of discontent. She clears her throat and looks away from him, seeing him nod his head in her periphery.
“Aight how ‘bout we make the drop out back instead,” he suggests.
She bobs her head rather than looking at him.
“You see him anywhere behind me?” he asks, running his hand down her arm and grabbing her hand to play with her fingers.
And, god, his hand dwarfs hers. It’s massive--fingers almost comically long--in a way she’s never taken notice of Dean’s.
She knows Rio asked her a question and they really should get out of there as soon as they can, but she gets distracted by the domesticity of the gesture even though she knows logically that it’s all part of the act. Of selling the idea that people that look like the two of them could make sense. Could be in love. That them together in a bar like this--talking and touching each other--is a common occurrence. Perfectly pure. Not some half-hazard criminal partnership.
It’s just hard to focus on maintaining the rational thought of all of this being fake when Rio seems so fascinated by the lines on her palm, on tracing her lifeline with his finger. Toying with her hand with the same ease that he toys with her life.
She glances behind him searching for the man in the suit, remembering their excuse for nearly relinquishing to their desires. She doesn’t find him there, but she sees another vodka cran girl, or maybe she's the same one, eyeing up Rio like a perfectly seasoned piece of meat. Like she can’t see the way the two of them are signaling to the outside world that the two of them are there together. And she doesn’t allow herself to analyze the flash of something she feels in her chest at the idea of someone not respecting her bogus relationship.
“No. No, I can’t see him,” she answers, restraining herself from glaring at the girl behind him.
“He might’ve left cause I don’t see him either. But we walkin’ outta here together to be safe.”
And sure, yes that makes sense. The show should continue and he should keep touching her. For safety purposes.
She nods in agreement and watches as he slides off his stool before gently tugging her off her own and into his personal space. She has a perfect view of every curve and contour of the bird tattooed on his neck, and all she wants to do is lean in and lick it. To taste his skin. But instead, she leans over to grab the duffle filled with counterfeit money. Rio reaches the hand not holding hers to take the bag from her like a boyfriend carrying his girl’s bag for her.
And then he’s on the move, executing their exit strategy with a cool ease that always seems to radiate from him. Nothing about his posture giving away that anything is out of the ordinary. He’s leading her out by their joined hands and her small one feels right in the grasp of his large one. Like his hands--every tendon and every vein--had been shaped by an artist. Like it's been sculpted just for her, their hands fitting just as her favorite pair of jeans do.
They leave out the front entrance of the bar even though Beth is sure Rio’s Cadillac is out back. She falls into step with him as they turn to cut through an alley. Once they’re firmly in the shadows, confident that they’re out of sight of the general public, Rio drops her hand and the duffle and stops.
She turns to him, her back facing the worn brick wall of the alleyway--the funky smell and the darkness making it the most fitting place she’s committed a crime yet.
Rio sways as he takes a step toward her, always getting just slightly too close for just business. Always inching closer and closer to that line between them.
“Are you going to count it?” she asks.
“Do I need to?” he counters with a slight smirk.
“No. It’s all there,” she replies, tilting her chin up.
“Okay.”
She squints at him. That seemed too easy.
“You’re gonna count it later aren’t you?” she deadpans.
He breathes out a laugh and she feels his breath on her face, smells the tequila.
“Yeah probably.”
And he’s smiling at her with shining eyes and it’s easy--comfortable--in a way she’s not used to.
She parts her lips to reply something mouthy just to see his reaction when she sees movement in the corner of her eye.
She peaks over to her right to where she can narrowly see the part of the sidewalk next to the bar lit up by a streetlight. And right there, illuminated in the dead of night, is the guy in the suit. His hands are in his pockets as he tries to play it cool, walking in a circle, plucking his phone from his pocket to start texting someone. But it surely can’t be a coincidence. There's a guy that’s most likely an FBI agent watching them as they perform a shady deal.
She goes rigid, leading Rio to touch her waist and search out her eyes.
“The fed over there?” he whispers.
She nods as subtly as she can, eyes darting away from him. His hand slides to her hip as his other one cups her face forcing her to stay focused on him.
“Look at me,” he commands.
And part of her is indignant that he’s put her in this position and now feels as though he has the authority to order her around and nitpick her panic. But another part of her looks into his eyes and the deluge of anxiety, the storm of panic brewing in her stomach clears away. Or maybe it doesn’t exactly clear away, but when she looks into his eyes-- really looks--it feels close enough to being struck by lighting that she doesn’t even care if she’s caught up in the destruction.
And earlier she’d been smart to back away from the line. Try an alternate route. But, surely, now she has to cross it. It’s not her fault. It’s what’s best for business and safety.
She timidly leans forward to brush her lips against his, unsure at first about her decision. But just a chaste kiss sends jolts of electricity through her. And then, she’s no longer timid. She’s brazen as she lurches to capture his plush lips, throwing all caution to the wind. Not even looking down at the line as she sprints past it.
He responds with hunger, pushing her against the wall, bricks scratching against her back. The way his hand slides into her hair, the way he pulls her closer, palms at her ass over her dress, the ravenous slide of his tongue, the stick of her gloss. It all sweeps her up, gets her lost in him.
She can admit that they get carried away, the intensity outweighing what’s necessary for their ploy. And...so what if she wants it to be better than “not bad”? Anyone with eyes can see that Rio is an attractive man. Maybe she wants it to be Good. Maybe she wants him to think of her the way she thinks of him. Later on when he’s between his own sheets. She wants him to close his eyes and see her.
She scratches her nails along his scalp just to hear the rumble in his chest. And she can’t help her own primal sounds from releasing as the kiss gets sloppier. All tongue and teeth and desire.
He slots his leg between her thighs and she can’t help but start grinding against him. She slips her hands beneath his shirt at his side, itching to get her hands on more of his smooth, golden skin.
She’s half a second from contemplating shoving her hand between them to feel him over his pants--fully forgetting they’re in public and she’s committing some of the most egregious PDA she’s ever even gotten close to--when she realizes she needs to breathe.
She pulls away from him, the surveilled stillness of the alley in stark contrast with their heavy breaths. Rio’s eyes run over her face and her tussled hair, taking her in with a look in his eyes nearly akin to awe before dipping his head down to mouth at her jaw and down her neck, nipping and kissing the tender skin.
She hears him whisper something into her skin. She catches the word “hermosa,” but the rest of it is muffled and she doesn’t know a lick of Spanish.
She’s cursing herself and Ruby for convincing her to take French with her in high school when he draws a particularly breathy sound out of her. He pauses to focus on the sensitive spot behind her ear. She grabs and pulls him from her neck after a moment because she wants to make the most of this chance to know just how good he tastes. So she kisses him again. And again. Suckling on his plump bottom lip, licking into his mouth. Trying to pull every sound from him she can.
She thinks she could get addicted to Rio moaning into her mouth.
They’ve been making out long enough that she’s lost track of time, but she’s pretty sure the next logical step would be to go somewhere more private and remove each other’s clothing piece by piece. Before her mind can process just how much she craves that, she hears hooting and hollering from behind Rio. She pulls away in time to see a small group of teenagers laughing as they howl and snicker and run away down the alley and around the corner. He chases after her lips for a second, seeming unphased by being a spectacle, before he seems to remember himself. Remember them. And who they are. And exactly who is watching them other than the group of teens making fun of them.
He pulls back to look at her and she can’t help but marvel at his swollen lips. Rio runs his thumb along her bottom one, sliding along her glossy lip. His thumb as rough as his lips were soft.
She looks into Rio’s eyes and, god, she doesn’t think she’s ever been as turned on as she is looking at Rio so... affected by her. Just from her lips and her tongue. Like she’d somehow dismantled something within him just as he does in her. Like that feeling she gets of being taken apart and put back together piece by piece, leaving her visually identical, but wholly changed is mutual.
“What now?” she asks.
She can admit to herself she’d probably follow him anywhere right now. Which should terrify her. But she thinks he feels the same. “We stay here any longer, we'll prolly spend a night in jail for public indecency,” he says, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and eyeing her breasts like he’s dying to get his mouth on them.
And, well, that sounds nice.
“Something tells me a money laundering charge on top of that would be a longer stay,” she deadpans.
He laughs.
“Yeah, that wouldn’t be very fun.”
She’s not sure when she became a person who jokes about the length of potential prison sentences with her crime boss.
“How ‘bout this. You coming with me in my car anyway cause we gotta sell this in case the fed’s still watching. So let’s go to that swanky new hotel around the corner and see what happens. How’s that sound?” he suggests.
Before she can answer him, he’s dipping his head down to her neck again, the way his hand covers her throat holding her in place makes heat shoot between her thighs and makes the need for privacy become more urgent.
“That sounds nice,” she whimpers.
He lifts his head and leans in so he’s speaking against her lips.
“Yeah? You think so?”
She nods.
He kisses her quickly before letting her go only to spread his hand along her back as he leads her to his car. It’s the type of touch she normally shrugs off from Dean, but for some reason feels grounding in this moment.
He walks her to the passenger side door and she thinks he’ll just open it for her, but instead, he turns her and crowds her against it. Getting in her space, the smell of his cologne filling her nose.
“You trust me?” he asks, teasing her.
And, god , she shouldn’t. She really shouldn’t. But she trusts that if she goes with him tonight, he won’t allow himself, and by extension her, to get caught. And she trusts that if she texts Dean in the car that she’s staying over at Annie’s after having one too many drinks he’ll believe her. Because he has no other choice. And she trusts that Rio can make her feel good. Really fucking good.
And the way he’s looking at her right then is so intense that she feels the urge to break the moment. But she finds a weird calm in his eyes. She thinks anybody else may get burned up from the blaze of it all. Or at the very least they may falter. But the fire in him fuels her. Emboldens her.
“God, no,” she replies with a smile.
“Hmm. That’s good.”
So she gets in the car. And they go to the hotel, all pretenses melting away with their body heat. And they spend the night painting over every shred that’s left of the line between them. One coat. And then another round. And another for good measure.
And if they make a habit of booking hotels and hiding away in bed together all night, lingering in the morning with too sweet touches, then so be it. She knows it’ll end badly. Catastrophically. Because it has to. There can’t be any other ending to this story. But when it's just the two of them, she can’t help but feel that it’s all worth it. All that destruction for that struck by lighting feeling. The catastrophe of it all fading away in their solitude.
Besides, in the end, it's all fake. They put on their clothing and go their separate ways. Back to their normal lives. Back to their normal selves. Back to reality. Because if it’s all a ruse, she can’t get hurt. Right?