Volume 1

The inside of the limo was dark, save for the city lights that flickered through the tinted windows, casting fleeting glows across Ava's slightly flushed face. She was sprawled out on the leather seat, her high heels kicked off to the side, her legs crossed as she absentmindedly traced the lip of the champagne glass in her hand. Her dark eyeliner had smudged slightly, not from crying but from the inevitable combination of heat, alcohol, and nerves that came with winning her first Emmy.

Her first Emmy. The words still sounded surreal.

"Can you believe that shit?" Ava muttered, more to herself than to Deborah, though her voice slurred just enough to make Deborah raise one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows.

"Believe what?" Deborah's tone was cool, a sharp contrast to the giddiness still radiating off Ava. She had one arm draped over the back of her seat, holding her own glass of champagne like it was an accessory rather than a drink. She sat in a pose of casual elegance, legs crossed and her sequined gown draping effortlessly over her, as if this whole night was just another Tuesday to her.

And in a way, it was.

But Ava was buzzing. She was vibrating with the thrill of the win, with the attention, with the endless possibilities of what came next. She couldn't sit still; the energy inside her was too much to keep contained. She'd held it together for the speech, even managed a few jokes—ones that Deborah would have pretended to hate but definitely snickered at when no one was looking—and now the aftershock was hitting her hard.

"That we won! I won!" Ava practically shouted, though the small space of the limo muffled her voice. She leaned forward, half spilling the champagne on her dress. "You've done this a hundred times, you're used to it, but me? This is—" she took a dramatic breath, clutching her chest, "—monumental."

Deborah didn't bother to hide the smirk that tugged at her lips. She tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharp, like she was sizing Ava up, seeing how far the younger woman's exuberance could stretch before she broke something—or someone. "Congratulations, Ava," she said, her voice rich with the irony of someone who had just watched a rookie claim their first victory, "you finally won a participation trophy."

Ava's eyes snapped to her, lips parting as if she couldn't decide whether to be insulted or laugh. The laugh won. "Participation trophy?" she scoffed, her words coming out a little more slurred than she'd like. "I'm a writer, Deborah. Your writer. If I didn't make those jokes for you, you'd—"

"Still be winning Emmys," Deborah finished smoothly, taking a long sip from her glass and maintaining eye contact the whole time. "But you go ahead, sweetie, enjoy the moment. First time's always special."

"Oh my God," Ava groaned, sinking back into her seat with dramatic flair. "How do you make even this about you?"

"Easy. I'm Deborah Vance." The answer was so quick, so rehearsed, that it took Ava a second to realize Deborah wasn't just being a smug diva—she was serious.

Deborah had been winning awards since Ava was still dreaming of internships at crummy comedy clubs. Ava, now tipsy and high on adrenaline, stared at Deborah through narrowed eyes, knowing full well that Deborah knew this too. It was hard to argue with someone who was an institution, a living legend, and all the other superlatives the press loved to throw around when they described Deborah Vance.

But tonight was different.

Deborah wasn't the only one holding an Emmy this time. Ava had one too.

"You know," Ava began, sitting up straighter, "just because you've won a ton of awards doesn't mean you're not secretly impressed by me."

Deborah chuckled, low and amused, clearly entertained by Ava's attempts at grandeur. "I've always been impressed by you, Ava."

Ava's brow furrowed. "Wait, really?"

"Of course," Deborah said, swirling her champagne and glancing out the window as if this was an entirely casual conversation. "I've always been impressed by your ability to somehow make every situation about your insecurities."

Ava groaned again, this time louder. She slapped her palm over her face in mock agony, feeling her face heat with more than just the champagne buzz. "And just like that, we're back to you being the most infuriating person on the planet."

Deborah didn't skip a beat. "Infuriating? Sweetheart, that's just me being myself. You should try it sometime." Her smile was as sharp as the sparkle of the Emmy still nestled between them in the back seat.

Ava narrowed her eyes, even as a grin tugged at her lips. "Oh, I am myself. You just don't like it because my 'self' involves pointing out your ego every time you make everything about you."

"Darling, I don't make everything about me," Deborah quipped, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She tossed a lazy glance at Ava, then shrugged in that perfectly detached way she always did. "It just so happens that most things are about me."

"See?!" Ava shot forward, flailing her hands dramatically. "That! That right there! You—ugh!" She huffed, letting her body flop back against the seat, her champagne glass sloshing a little as she downed what remained in it. "Sometimes I wonder if I should just—just kiss you to shut you up."

The words were out of her mouth before she even registered what she was saying. She felt the heat of them settle in the pit of her stomach, followed quickly by a jolt of panic.

She hadn't meant to say that.

The limo went quiet for a beat. Ava stared ahead, frozen, the weight of her own words hanging between them. Maybe Deborah hadn't heard her—maybe she could—

Deborah's amused chuckle shattered the silence. "What was that?" Her voice was low, teasing, like she was enjoying the way Ava had dug herself into this hole. "You want to kiss me to shut me up?"

Ava's heart pounded in her chest, and she could feel her face burning, either from the alcohol or the sheer embarrassment of the situation she'd just created. She turned her head slowly to look at Deborah, whose expression was a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

"I—uh—" Ava stammered, her tongue feeling too thick in her mouth to form a coherent sentence. She scrambled for something, anything, that would diffuse the situation. A joke, a laugh, anything. "I was just—being—"

"What? Tipsy?" Deborah's voice was smooth as silk, and her eyes twinkled with something Ava couldn't quite place. "Because, honey, you're definitely not drunk enough to get out of that one."

Ava groaned again, louder this time, leaning her head back against the seat. "Forget I said anything."

But Deborah wasn't letting her off the hook that easily. "Oh no, I think we should explore this," she said, leaning forward slightly, her tone laced with mock-seriousness. "You think kissing me would shut me up? Is that your grand strategy?"

Ava's brain was scrambling for a way out. Maybe if she laughed it off, Deborah would drop it. But the truth was, even though the suggestion had come out in a moment of drunken stupor, the idea wasn't as far-fetched as Ava wanted to pretend.

"I don't know," Ava finally said, her voice a bit higher than usual. "It was just a stupid thing I said because you were being… you."

"Mm-hmm." Deborah wasn't buying it. "And what if I told you that if you're going to kiss me, you better make it good?"

Ava's breath caught in her throat. She blinked, her brain trying to catch up with the sudden shift in Deborah's tone. Wait—was Deborah actually flirting with her? Was this happening?

"W-What?" Ava stammered, her heart thudding in her chest. She felt like a deer caught in headlights.

Deborah's smile widened, and she leaned back into her seat, crossing her legs and resting her hand casually on her knee. "I said, if you're going to do it, at least do it right. You can't just throw something like that out there and not follow through."

Ava blinked, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to process what was happening. Deborah was serious. Deborah was actually challenging her to—

No. No way. This was just some power play. Deborah was messing with her, seeing how far she could push her until Ava snapped and made an idiot of herself.

Except… maybe Deborah wasn't messing with her. Maybe she was daring Ava to do something she'd never considered would actually happen. And wasn't that Deborah's whole thing? Pushing people to their limits, daring them to break their own rules?

Ava felt a surge of something bold, maybe reckless, rise up in her chest. She'd spent months toeing the line with Deborah, always testing boundaries, always skirting around this weird, undeniable chemistry between them. And she'd always been able to laugh it off, chalk it up to Deborah's larger-than-life personality and her own knack for pushing back just enough to keep things interesting.

But now, here they were, in the back of a limo, after winning an Emmy, and Ava could feel the tension crackling in the air between them like static. Maybe it was the champagne talking, or maybe it was the fact that they had just shared the biggest win of Ava's life together, but suddenly, it didn't seem so crazy.

So, before she could talk herself out of it, Ava leaned forward and kissed Deborah.

It wasn't some grand, dramatic kiss. It wasn't even particularly graceful—Ava was still tipsy, after all—but it was enough. Her lips pressed against Deborah's, and for a moment, the world stopped spinning. For just a second, there was silence.

Then Deborah pulled back, just an inch, her eyes locking with Ava's. Her expression was unreadable, but her lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. "That was it?" she murmured, her voice low, a challenge in every syllable.

Ava blinked, her heart racing. "I—yeah?" she stammered, suddenly feeling very, very stupid. She pulled back, a nervous laugh bubbling up in her throat. "I mean, that was—uh—"

But before she could finish her sentence, Deborah's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her back toward her. Ava barely had time to process what was happening before Deborah kissed her—really kissed her. This time, it wasn't just a drunken, impulsive peck. It was deliberate. Confident. And it left Ava breathless.

Deborah's lips were soft, but her kiss was firm, commanding, as if she was making a point—making it clear who was in control. Ava's mind was spinning, but all she could focus on was the way Deborah's hand gripped her wrist, holding her in place as she deepened the kiss. There was no room for Ava to pull back, no space for her to shrug it off as some silly mistake. Deborah wasn't letting her out of this that easily.

When Deborah finally pulled away, her lips lingering just a moment longer than necessary, she leaned back against her seat, her eyes still locked on Ava. "If you're going to freak out," she said, her voice soft but teasing, "at least make sure it's over something worth freaking out about."

This work is in large part thanks to a writing group I am part of that keeps me to a calendar of posting and betas my work. https://fictioneers.thinkific.com/pages/blog