Chapter 2: Barefoot on Broken Glass
The cold of the concrete seeped through the thin soles of Rio’s feet. Every step was a tiny shock, a grounding sting against the haze in her head. Her shoes dangled from her fingers, a forgotten afterthought. The city in this half-light was a stranger; the quiet felt accusatory. She tasted Agatha on her tongue still—salt, vodka, the lingering musk of sex.
A truck blasted past, horns blaring, and she flinched. The sound tore through the quiet, shattering the last cocoon of the night. She stopped under the harsh fluorescence of a 24-hour laundromat window, her reflection a ghost in the glass. Hair wild, mascara smudged into shadows beneath her eyes, the burgundy love bite on her neck a stark, violent flower against her skin. She looked thoroughly fucked. Ravaged.
She pulled her jacket collar up, a futile gesture, and jammed her feet back into her heels. The bite of the straps was a welcome punishment.
By the time she reached the shabby, ivy-covered brick of her off-campus house, the sun was a pale yellow smear behind the buildings. She let herself in, the familiar scent of old wood, spilled beer, and Ellie’s sandalwood incense washing over her. Home. It felt like a set from a play she’d left hours ago.
The living room was a bomb site of art supplies and discarded clothing. Ellie’s latest canvas—a chaotic swirl of angry reds and purples—leaned against the couch. Rio padded quietly to the kitchen, desperate for water. She was gulping straight from the faucet when she heard a door open upstairs.“Rio? That you?” Ellie’s voice, sleep-thickened, came from the landing. “What the hell time is it?”
“Early,” Rio croaked, turning off the tap. She kept her back to the doorway.
Footsteps on the stairs, light and quick. Ellie appeared in the kitchen doorway, wrapped in a tie-dye robe, her blonde hair a chaotic cloud. Her eyes, usually bright with some scheme or other, were narrowed with concern.
“You look like you got run over by a party bus.” Ellie moved closer, leaning against the counter. “Successful night of debauchery?”
“Something like that.”
“Spill. I need details. Was he cute?” Ellie’s gaze scanned her, then froze. It landed on the bruise on Rio’s neck. Her expression shifted, from curious to puzzled to something sharper. “Whoa. That’s… intense. He must have been a fucking animal.”
Rio turned to face her fully, bracing herself. The hidden truth sat between them, a live wire. Agatha was Ellie’s mother. The name felt alien and too big in her mouth. Your mom fucked me raw against a hotel window last night. The words were a surreal scream in her head.
“It wasn’t a ‘he’,” Rio said, the confession ripped from her. She watched Ellie’s face, the slow processing.
Ellie blinked. “Okay. Okay, cool. She, then. A she with very sharp teeth, apparently.” She grinned, the worry momentarily eclipsed by delight. “My roommate, the dark horse! I love it. So, who was she? Do I know her? Someone from the grad program?”
Rio’s throat closed. She looked down at her hands, at the chipped black polish on her nails. “No. You don’t know her.” It wasn’t a lie. Not technically. Ellie didn’t know that version of her. “Just… someone from a bar.No names. No strings.”
“The best kind,” Ellie said, pushing off the counter. She opened the fridge and pulled out a jug of orange juice, drinking straight from it. “Mystery woman.Sounds hot. Hope you used protection, you fiend.” She winked, then her face softened. “Seriously, you okay? You seem… shook.”
“I’m good.” Rio forced a smile. It felt like a crack in plaster. “Just tired. Need a shower that could strip paint.”
“Go for it. Mom’s picking me up for brunch at ten. You’re welcome to come, if you want to be subjected to her interrogating you about your ‘post-graduation prospects.’” Ellie did a perfect, dread-filled imitation of Agatha’s poised, analytical tone.
The sound of that voice, now attached to the memory of whispered filth and grasping hands, sent a bolt of pure, illicit heat straight to Rio’s core. She swallowed. “Thanks. I’ll probably just crash.”
Upstairs, under a spray of water so hot it bordered on painful, Rio tried to scrub the night from her skin. The soap smelled of lemons, clean and innocent. It didn’t work. The memory of Agatha’s mouth was a brand. She let her head fall against the tiles, water streaming down her face. Her hand drifted between her legs almost of its own accord. She was still tender, swollen. A vivid flash: Agatha’s voice, rough in her ear. Let me feel you come all over my thigh.
She slid two fingers inside herself, a sharp gasp echoing in the tiled stall. It was too much, too soon, but the need was a physical ache. She pictured the balcony, the city lights, the unyielding pressure of Agatha’s hand on her back. She came quickly, silently, her body convulsing under the scalding water, a weak, stolen echo of the night’s riots. It left her feeling hollow, and somehow more guilty.
She dressed in soft, worn sweatpants and an old t-shirt, armor for the mundane. From her window, she watched as a sleek, silver sedan pulled up to the curb at precisely ten. Agatha emerged.
Seeing her was a punch to the gut.
She was a different creature in the daylight. A tailored cream trouser suit, hair in a severe, elegant knot, large sunglasses hiding her eyes. She looked like a page from a corporate magazine. Untouchable. Sophisticated. The woman who had snarled, “Come all over my fingers,” was completely, utterly invisible.
Ellie bounded out of the house and into a hug. Agatha’s embrace was brief, practiced. She laughed at something Ellie said, the sound crisp and light, carrying faintly up to Rio’s window. Nothing like the guttural sounds she’d made with her face buried between Rio’s legs.
Agatha’s head turned. She looked up, directly at Rio’s window. Rio froze, caught. Even behind the sunglasses, Rio felt the weight of her gaze. It lasted only a second. Agatha gave a slight, unreadable nod—polite, detached, the acknowledgment of a vague acquaintance—then turned and slipped into the driver’s seat.
The car pulled away. Rio released a breath she didn’t know she was holding.
The day stretched, empty and interminable. Rio tried to read a textbook on hydrogeological surveys. The words swam. Her phone was a inert brick. No messages. No calls. What had she expected? A ‘thinking of you’ text? A ‘my cunt still aches for you’? The silence was the agreement. The silence was the wall.
By evening, the restlessness was a crawling thing under her skin. Ellie was out with friends from her painting class. The house was too quiet.Rio paced. She poured a whiskey, drank it, poured another. The memory of Agatha wasn’t fading; it was hardening, calcifying into a permanent, hungry shape inside her.
At nine-thirty, her phone finally vibrated. A single, unknown number.A text.
Unknown: The bar.One hour. If you want.
No name. No question.A statement. A test.
Rio’s heart hammered against her ribs. Her fingers were clumsy on the screen.
Rio: Which bar?
The response was immediate.
Unknown: You know.
She did.
The Velvet Sin was quieter on a Sunday night. The same amber lights, the same smoked vanilla scent, but the atmosphere was thinner, expectant. Agatha sat at the same corner of the black marble bar, a glass of red wine before her. She’d changed into dark jeans and a simple black sweater. The lawyerly armor was still there, but it was softer at the edges.
Rio slid onto the stool beside her. They didn’t touch. The air between them was charged, brittle.
“You came,” Agatha said, not looking at her.
“You texted.”
Agatha took a slow sip of wine. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it.” Her voice was low, for Rio alone. “About how you clenched around my fingers. The sound you made when you came the third time. It was stuck in my head all through fucking brunch with my daughter.”
The casual mention of Ellie, in this context, sent a fresh, dizzying thrill through Rio. It was wrong. It was so fucking wrong. It made her wet.
“It was just a night,” Rio said, parroting the unspoken rule.
Agatha turned her head then. The sunglasses were gone. Her eyes were stark, hungry, and full of a conflict that mirrored Rio’s own. “Was it?”
She placed cash on the bar, stood up, and walked out without another word. Rio waited thirty seconds, her blood roaring in her ears, then followed.
Agatha was already in a cab. She held the door open. Rio got in. The driver grunted an address Rio didn’t catch. Agatha’s hand landed on Rio’s knee, the grip tight, almost painful. They didn’t speak for the entire ride.
This hotel was different—older, discreet, with a hushed, carpeted lobby. The room was decorated in bland, inoffensive beige. The moment the door shut, the pretense vaporized.
Agatha pushed Rio against it, her mouth claiming Rio’s with a fury that was new. This wasn’t the exploratory hunger of the first night. This was desperation. This was anger.
“I told myself I wouldn’t do this,” Agatha snarled between kisses, her hands ripping at the buttons of Rio’s flannel shirt. “I told myself it was a mistake.”
“Then why am I here?” Rio fired back, tangling her hands in Agatha’s hair, yanking her head back to expose the elegant line of her throat.
“Because I’m a selfish bitch,” Agatha breathed, her eyes blazing. “And I want to fuck you again until I can’t think straight.”
They tore at each other’s clothes, fabric ripping, buttons pinging across the carpet. Naked, they stumbled toward the bed. Agatha fell back onto it, pulling Rio on top of her. “Show me,” she demanded, her voice raw. “Show me what you’ve been thinking about.”
Rio didn’t need asking twice. She kissed her way down Agatha’s body—over the swell of her breasts, sucking a nipple deep into her mouth until Agatha gasped, across the flat plane of her stomach—with a possessive brutality she didn’t know she possessed. She pushed Agatha’s thighs apart, burying her face in her without ceremony.
Agatha was already wet, soaked. Her scent, familiar and musky now, flooded Rio’s senses. Rio licked her open, a long, slow stripe, then focused on her clit, sucking it hard.
“Yes, fuck, just like that,” Agatha groaned, her hips bucking off the bed. Her hands fisted in Rio’s curls, not guiding, just holding on for dear life. “Your mouth is fucking sinful.”
Rio devoured her. She fucked her with her tongue, deep and fast, then circled her clit with relentless precision. She was breathing Agatha in, trying to consume her, to own this part of her that no one else saw. The taste of her, the salty, tangy proof of her arousal, was an addiction.
“I’m gonna come,” Agatha warned, her voice strangled.
“Come,” Rio muttered against her, the vibration sending Agatha into a shuddering climax. Her body arched, a low, broken cry tearing from her throat as she pulsed against Rio’s mouth. Rio drank her in, not stopping until Agatha’s hands were pushing weakly at her shoulders, oversensitive.
But Agatha wasn’t done. She rolled them over in a tangle of limbs, pinning Rio beneath her. Her eyes were wild, pupils blown. “My turn.” She reached for the nightstand, fumbling in the drawer. She pulled out a small, sleek black vibrator. “I saw this in the minibar gift shop. Thought of you.”
She flicked it on. A low, insistent buzz filled the room. Agatha kissed her way down Rio’s body, but bypassed her cunt. She pushed Rio’s thighs further apart, lowering her head. “Keep your legs open,” she ordered, then pressed the humming silicone against Rio’s clit.
The sensation was instant, electric, overwhelming. Rio cried out. At the same time, Agatha’s mouth found Rio’s entrance, her tongue pushing inside in time with the vibrations.
It was too much. The dual assault—the quick, mechanical buzz on her clit and the wet, soft thrust of Agatha’s tongue inside her—drove Rio to the edge instantly. She thrashed, incoherent sounds spilling from her lips.
“That’s it,” Agatha murmured, pulling back to watch. She held the vibrator steady, her other hand pinning Rio’s hip to the bed. “Look at you. Your perfect cunt is gripping at nothing. You’re so desperate for it. Come for this little toy. Come because I’m letting you.”
The degradation, the cool control in Agatha’s voice, tipped Rio over. Her orgasm crashed into her, a raw, blinding detonation that felt like it ripped her in two. She screamed, her back bowing off the mattress, her vision whiting out completely.
When she came back to herself, the vibrator was off, discarded on the sheets. Agatha was lying beside her, propped on an elbow, watching her with an unnerving intensity. The frenzied heat was gone, replaced by a heavy, complicated silence.
“Ellie talks about you all the time,” Agatha said, her voice quiet. “Her brilliant, rebellious roommate. The one who’s going to save the wetlands.”
Rio flinched. The real world, their real lives, invaded the room like a cold draft. “Don’t.”
“Why not?” Agatha traced a finger around Rio’s still-throbbing clit, making her jump. “It’s the truth. You’re a real person to her. And she’s my real daughter.” Her touch softened, became almost apologetic. “This can’t happen again.”
Rio turned her head to look at her. The elegant face was etched with a tired kind of war. “But it is happening. Right now.”
“I know.” Agatha’s hand stilled. “I have to go back tomorrow. Back to my life.My firm. My empty house.”
“So this is it? A two-night stand?” Rio hated the crack in her voice.
Agatha leaned down and kissed her, a slow, deep kiss that tasted like goodbye and wine and shared sweat. “What else could it be?” she whispered against her lips.
They didn’t speak after that. They dressed in silence, the room feeling smaller, cheaper in the aftermath. Agatha called for a cab. At the door, she paused.
“Goodbye, Rio.”
She left. Rio stood in the center of the beige room, the scent of sex and regret clinging to the air, the ghost of the vibrator’s buzz still humming in her bones. The hollow feeling was back, deeper now, carved into a permanent shape.
She walked back to her neighborhood as dawn again tinted the sky. This time, the city felt familiar. It felt like hers. And it felt utterly, completely empty. She let herself into the quiet house. Upstairs, Ellie’s door was closed. Rio stood outside it for a long minute, listening to the soft sound of her roommate’s sleeping breath, a world away from the woman who had just wrecked her for the second and final time.
In her own room, she saw her reflection again. The marks were fainter now. But something else had taken root, something that no shower would ever wash away. She lay down on her bed, staring at the ceiling, and waited for the sun to finish rising.