Cut the Deck (Lesbian Story)

Get in the elevator!

Deck

"You know we have to talk about that guy that approached us, right?" she says, and I instantly growl.
I don't want to fucking talk about Mason. Not tonight. Not ever. His stupid mouth, his stupid timing—just seeing him made my stomach knot like I was 19 again.

Nyla swerves a little and I jerk upright, my hand gripping the seatbelt hard.
She insisted on driving because she says I had "too much to drink," which—fine—I stumbled once. ONE time. And suddenly she's fucking Uber.

"What is there to discuss?" My voice cracks slightly. Not out of fear—no, it's fear.
She's driving like she's in Fast & Furious: Deer Edition. I'm terrified one's gonna leap out and she's gonna take us both out.

"You said 'way healthier.' Why would you say that? You're not healthy? You've been eating healthier to me."
She's been nagging about this all goddamn night. Picking and picking and picking. It's why I drank enough to feel buzzed—her mouth hasn't stopped since Mason opened his.

"Ny, we're dropping it," I grunt.

"I'm not dropping shit. You can tell me, Deck!"

My skin crawls. My jaw tightens. She keeps digging at a wound she has no idea is infected and barely stitched shut.

"NYLA! Just fucking drop it. It has nothing to do with you, so stay out of it!"
It bursts out sharper than I meant and the second her face falls, the guilt hits me like a fist.

"Nyla, I didn't mean—"

She lifts a hand. Doesn't even look at me.

Fuck. Me.

She pulls into the hotel valet with an attitude so sharp it could slice my throat. She gets out and throws the valet her keys. Doesn't wait for me. Doesn't even slow down.

"We already have a room," I call out.
She ignores me like I'm invisible.

"Hi, I'd like a one-bed suite for one night," she tells the woman at the desk.

She's being petty. And stubborn. And honestly she has every right because I just yelled at her like she was a damn child.

"$300," the woman says.

Nyla reaches into her clutch. I stumble toward them, the floor wobbling like it's not attached to Earth.

"Nyla, stop, I already—"

She ignores me.

I snatch her card from the counter and wobble toward the elevator.
The front desk woman looks at me like she's witnessing a felony. Maybe she is.

"Delilah! Give me my card back!" Nyla shouts, loud enough to get every neck in the lobby to snap toward us.

I step into the elevator and hold the doors open. "Get in, Nyla."

She folds her arms and taps her heel like she's seconds from decking me.

"My card," she growls.

"Get in," I repeat, muscles tense.

"No!"

"Nyla, get in the fucking elevator!"

She freezes. And for a second I think she'll walk away. But slowly—painfully slowly—she steps in and stands as far from me as possible. Like my breathing contaminates her air.

The elevator doors close and the silence screams louder than anything we've said.

"I said I was sorry..."
Nothing. She's typing on her phone. Hard.