It takes longer for Roxanne to dig up a box of gauze than it does for Ronnie to decide that his own conversation with his bassist can wait. She leaves him in Harris' capable hands and focuses on making sure they're all able to get to a quiet space uninterrupted.
Pet and Kelly take turns propping their band mate up as they all navigate from the tour bus to the hotel, across the dark lot and down a darker back corridor, the overheads flickering. But they eventually let go and Roxanne finds herself seated on a bed in a secluded suite, her arms around a beautiful girl... very much not in the way she's dreamed of this last year.
Casey cries on Roxanne’s chest, damp silk smelling vaguely of sandalwood and mixing with the citrus styling wax still in her teased hair. She holds her tight, letting the anguish pour out in waves and ebbs.
"I hate him," she bites out, standing up and pacing around the room now. "I hate him so much. There was no reason..."
"No. None at all," she murmurs. Though she has her suspicions...
Fortunately, Casey gets there herself before she has to suggest it out loud.
"Fuck. There was a reason -- the son of a bitch. He wanted to rub it in my face! How much he still doesn't approve! The Grammy, the friends, the success, the freedom to be myself... none of it matters. Because at the end of the day, I still have his name and he's still the one who’s respectable. Bastard!"
She’s not sure what to do. She and Ronnie hadnt been sad to leave home. The difference in leaving rather than being left... though Ronnie would probably always feel left behind by someone, used by someone. As a guinea pig, a youthful mirror, a mixing board, a reluctant Svengali.
Roxanne always left first, before Ronnie.
"So, who wants to be respectable?" she asks, quietly.
"...not me," she replies, abrupt and fierce.
Casey makes it back to the bed in two long strides. She plants a knee on either side of Roxanne's lap and she can barely register the strong thighs on either side of her before the younger woman is kissing her; coming on strong, calloused fingers reaching for her brooch, the lace collar. Roxanne sucks in another breath, feeling oddly handcuffed as Casey tears through her buttons, pushing the silk off her shoulders and down her arms, grabbing for her bra clasp...
"Casey--" she blurts out, freeing one hand to squeeze her waist.
“I want to make love,” she says, staring down at her; absolutely clear.
“Did you take a doll tonight?”
“That’s a messed-up question!"
"I didn’t take any. I didn’t want to take any. If you were paying attention the whole tour, you'd know I haven’t had a drink in three months. I don’t want to sleep through my life anymore. I want you to take me and make me feel it. If I’m a freak, I want the whole thing!”
Roxanne leans in and up, slanting her mouth across puffy, stress-bitten lips, soothing and gentle… like she’s done it a hundred times before. The bassist moans, wrapping one arm across her shoulders and stealing her hands up to unpin Roxanne’s hair before shoving her down on the bed. Casey shoves her face between her breasts, savoring the sweat around her curves before taking a nipple between her lips, almost nursing. Roxanne gasps as a bolt of arousal hits the deepest part of her. Her skirt is long, as usual, and weighted for the winter weather but somehow her girl finds the hooks at the side and the buttons at the front, rucking the linen down, pulling and dragging until it's crumpled on the floor, along with everything that was underneath it.
"Oh my god, Casey--"
"Mmmmm..." she hums, mouthing at her ribs and belly, moving downward...
Roxanne lifts her knee under her girl's arm, gently guiding her back up, until they're parallel on the bed, face to face.
"It's my job to undress you," she demurs, pushing at the spaghetti straps of her dress until her own dress is rucked down around her waist. Casey laughs as she stands up on her knees on the mattress to push it all the way off, along with her tights and underwear. Roxanne takes advantage of the sudden movement to lightly tackle her, giggling as momentum brings them both back down onto the tangle of linens.
"Hang on, let me look at you for a bit," she sighs, stroking her waist and hip, the curve of her breast... all of the beautiful skin that had first grabbed her attention under a stunning décolleté...
"Haven't you seen me enough in your workshop?" Casey asks, playfully.
"Miss Anderson," Roxanne intones, provoking another giggle. "In my workshop, I am a professional. If I weren't, we would have made it on the drafting table that first night."
"...oh, I wouldn't have minded that at all," she sighs, gasping a little as Roxanne moves between her legs.
"Did Harris or the girls ever do this?” She can't imagine the soft puppy-eyed manager taking the leap or Casey enjoying it much if he did so... but she's been surprised before.
“Kelly did,” she pants, followed by a breathless giggle. “The bus broke down in Iowa City last year. Someone at the university had some blotter acid. I just... let it happen. Felt good. My head was in Pet’s lap. She just stroked my hair and face while Kelly ... 'experimented.'”
The melancholy in that word is personally upsetting. Roxanne pushes it aside, pulling Casey's leg up to her hip.
“I don’t experiment." She had left full-scale research behind quite some time ago, before L.A., before Finch even.
“Lucky me. I'm--" she hesitates, a flush that might be shame mixed in with arousal. "I'm not… I come really, really fast and then I’m not good for much else.”
A pillow princess. Roxanne wants to sing.
"Lucky me," she grins, feeling the wolf inside her come to life as she moves down her body.
Delicate folds, salty, heady. The crisp pelt against her face carries the smell of the night air as well as the cold sterility from the green room at the Club, from backstage; warm grass and cold freon. She pulls her leg over her shoulder and squeezes the skinned knee where she hit the asphalt -- cradling Ronnie as he passed out.
She worships her gorgeous girl‘s body, clambering on top of her to let her own slick folds grind and rub against Casey’s, guiding long fingers down to the top of her public bone, sloping down to push those calloused bassist finger tips against clitoris, pushing this way and that until she’s screaming.
As she comes down, Casey pops them into her mouth, eyelashes fluttering.
"...when we’ve had a better night, I'm going to sit on your face until I come. And I won't let you get off until I do."
Those beautiful eyes look at her like she’s a goddess.
"Oh fuck, yes..."
Roxanne hasn’t slept like this much since the move to the west coast: sharing a bed with another person, skin to skin, muscles sore from the night before. It's a heady feeling and she's content to lay in bed for what seems like hours, stroking thick brown hair off Casey's forehead while she lays collapsed on her chest, out like a light.
She barely looks up when there's a gentle tap at the door... but if it's morning, Ronnie will have a fit if she doesn't answer and/or change his bandages. She slides out from under her girl and into her underwear and blouse from the night before
Expecting Ronnie, she's a little shocked when she opens the door to find Harris, jacket zipped over a t-shirt and jeans.
“Oh!" she smiles, startled but recovering quickly. "Um.. Good morning.”
“...I was going to just check in on Casey," he replies, an easy smile spreading across his own face. "But I guess I should probably wait until after breakfast?”
“...maybe," she replies, tugging the hem of her blouse down. "Where’s breakfast?”
“Emerald City. It's a cafe about two blocks from here. Looks like an old beatnik place. The sign out front says they have an espresso machine.”
“Far out. What time are we all congregating?”
“I was thinking we could all meet up at 11? Checkout is at noon and our last gig of the tour is probably going to be ’delayed.’”
“Definitely get Ronnie down there. He’s never met a macchiato he didn’t like," she pauses, locking eyes with him. "If you get a dash of cinnamon on the foam for him, he might propose.”
"Really?“ Harris smiles, with interest. And suddenly Roxanne feels her own vetting process has reached an appropriate conclusion. Go go go.
"Well, it worked for me anyway," she laughs. "See you in a few.”