PHOEBE

Phoebe is drunk.

No, scratch that; Phoebe is wasted.

She has nowhere to be, is within walking distance of her apartment, and has a full paycheck burning a hole in her pocket. She is single, oh so very single, her last relationship having crashed and burned a month or so ago in spectacular fashion. 

So Phoebe came to GLHF, one of her favorite places in the whole wide world, with one objective and one objective only in mind:

Get drunk. Mission fucking accomplished.

GLHF—affectionately known as “glyph” by its patrons—is an arcade bar, filled to the brim with retro arcade machines from the 80s and 90s. It brings Phoebe back to her childhood every time she comes here; to nights spent at mall arcades and bowling alleys and her best friend Mac’s house, bless his arcade-cabinet-loving father. She’d destroyed the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles arcade game when she was six and crushed Time Crisis at nine. Her initials—PRI—adorn just about every pinball machine in her hometown of Minneapolis, from UpDown to LITT to Can Can Wonderland. She is as close to a pro as they come.

Not tonight, of course. Tonight she is almost too drunk to play. Almost. By design, of course.

After a crushing defeat at the hands of Pyro—she was never very good at the X-Men arcade game—she wanders back to her seat, barely remembering how she got there. She pulls her vape pen out of her purse, shrugs, and goes for a hit. Fuck it. Might as well get cross-faded while she’s at it. 

Phoebe is usually extremely bright. Not tonight. Tonight she’s a vessel, empty, devoid of thought. She wants to be numb. She wants to be in space. She wants to float, directionless, without thought or expectation. 

She checks her phone again. No new messages. She isn’t sure what she expected. A message from her friends asking how she is? A match on Tinder? God forbid, a missed call from her ex? Screw that.

She goes to the bar for another glass. Orders a rum and coke—her usual drink of choice when she is too far gone to order something fancy. Not that she does this often, but lately it’s become a pattern. Thankfully, she lives a block away. She can stumble home in the dark without too much trouble. Which is good, because she’s taking another hit from her vape pen, and there’s not much left that can stop her from the descent into numbness.

Except for, maybe, just maybe, the girl who slides onto the stool next to her.

To say she is gorgeous would be the understatement of the century. She’s a tiny little thing, just over five feet tall, with extremely short and curly black hair and enormous wide-rimmed glasses that frame her face perfectly. Her skin is a warm honeyed brown. Her features, all sharp and petite, draw Phoebe’s eyes instantly: her cheekbones, her chin, her shoulders. She’s the very image of cute. Her outfit, on the other hand, is less cute and more scandalous. A short gray pleated skirt, fishnets that draw attention to her smooth legs, a mesh top under a black tank, a spiked collar that begs to be tugged on. She wouldn’t look out of place at a goth club. 

Phoebe is smitten. Drunk and smitten; the most dangerous of combinations. A surge of drunken bravery washes through her. “Hey there,” she says.

“Hey,” the mystery girl replies. Her eyes dart up and down Phoebe’s body. The feeling is electric, a spark to set a whole ass forest aflame. Phoebe suddenly wishes she’d worn a hotter outfit than her simple floral dress, but mystery girl doesn’t seem to mind. “Rhia,” she says.

“Rhia?” Phoebe doesn’t understand; is too drunk to understand.

“My name,” Rhia explains with a smile that makes it ten degrees hotter in this bar. “It’s Rhia.”

“Oh!” Phoebe grins despite herself. “I’m Phoebe. It’s, uhh, nice to meet you.” She doesn’t slur her words. She’s better than that. She’s got it all under control. 

Rhia’s expression, a knowing smirk that makes Phoebe’s insides do all kinds of things, says otherwise. “Very nice to meet you, Phoebe.” Her smile is a siren song that tempts Phoebe into dangerous waters. “You seem like you’re having fun.”

“Fun?” Phoebe blinks. She doesn’t feel like she’s particularly having fun. Then she realizes Rhia is glancing at the vape pen still in Phoebe’s hands.

“Oh, this? It’s nothing, really.” It’s not nothing. Phoebe is several hits and about ten minutes from not remembering who or where she is anymore.

“Just so long as you’re safe,” Rhia says with a shrug. “A pretty girl like you could get into trouble.”

Phoebe feels her cheeks flush at that. Pretty? Her? In this state? “I don’t really care about staying safe tonight,” she admits. She just wanted to stop feeling. Of course, now that there is a beautiful girl in front of her, she’s feeling something, despite herself. 

“Ah. One of those kinds of nights,” Rhia says, still wearing that heart-melting smile. “I’ve been there before.”

“Don’t worry, I live nearby,” Phoebe says. “I just wanted to get drunk. Speaking of which.” She motions to get the bartender’s attention. “Another rum and coke please!”

He nods and pours her another drink, takes her empty glass away and swaps the two. Phoebe takes a heaping sip. 

Rhia gets his attention too, orders a vodka cranberry. “So, I take it we’re not celebrating, then?”

“Sure. Let’s celebrate,” Phoebe slurs. She raises her glass high. “To my shitty ex-girlfriend, and her new fiancée.”

Rhia clicks her teeth. “Oof. Yeah, I can understand why you’re drinking.”

“Psshh. She wishes I give enough of a shit about her to be the reason I’m drinking.” Cherry’s engagement to Diana is, without a doubt, the reason Phoebe is drinking. But there’s no reason her new (and gorgeous) company needs to know that. 

Unfortunately, it’s written everywhere: across Phoebe’s face, the way she downs her rum and coke in 2.5 seconds, the way she slams the empty glass on the counter.

“Something tells me you do care, and you know what? There’s nothing wrong with that,” Rhia says. Phoebe glares at her despite her instant infatuation. “I’m just saying,” she continues, “there’s nothing wrong with being upset in your shoes.”

Phoebe’s expression softens, her brows relaxing. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

Rhia shrugs. “I don’t say shit I don’t mean. Just as long as you’re careful. Do you need a drinking buddy? Someone to commiserate with? Or maybe… someone who will also make sure you make it home okay?”

She doesn’t care much if she makes it home okay or not, but she nods in response. Any excuse to spend more time with this bombshell is enough of a reason for her. “I’d love that.”

“Great,” Rhia says. “Now let’s play some fucking pinball. Yeah?”

A grin sprawls across Phoebe’s face. This night just went from tragic to epic. “Hell yeah.”

They start, as many do, at the classic Simpsons machine by the front corner. Phoebe goes first and racks up a surprisingly high score of a little over 100 million while Rhia cheers enthusiastically next to her. She doesn’t usually play while other people watch. But something about playing while Rhia watches, with her adorable smirk and her fingers drumming against the side of the machine…it’s exhilarating.

The experience goes by in a drunken blur. Rhia starts off standing next to the machine, shouting, encouraging. Soon they are standing side by side, with Rhia’s arm around Phoebe’s waist. Phoebe’s almost too enthralled in the game to notice. She was wrong about being too drunk to play, dead wrong. When she finally does notice how close Rhia is standing, she sidles up even closer: a spur-of-the-moment decision brought about entirely by liquid courage. Phoebe marks her success with the usual “PRI” and they move to the Beetlejuice pinball machine next, where Rhia takes over and earns a fraction of Phoebe’s score. When PRI shows up on the high scores of this machine too, Rhia lets out a whistle. “Oh, you’re way better at this than I am, aren’t you? I’m getting crushed.”

Phoebe grins. She’s definitely crushing, all right.

RHIANNON

Rhia doesn’t like strangers. 

Rhiannon comes to places like this for one reason and only: to drink. In silence, ideally. Well, not silence: GLHF is a cacophony of bells and clangs, of beeps, boops and gunshots, of laughter and half-shouted conversations. But she usually wants to drink alone, without being accosted by desperate men or slobbering drunks.

So it’s a bit weird that she is currently matching this girl Phoebe drink-for-drink and enjoying the hell out of watching her kick ass at pinball. It helps that Phoebe is absolutely gorgeous, even in her current state of inebriation. Tall, slender legs. Creamy pale skin. Long, blonde hair dyed a faded blue-green at the tips. Breasts that practically spill out of her dress. And those hips. Goddamn, she could be a model. For all Rhia knows, she is a model.

Rhia often feels jealous when she looks at women like Phoebe, women with stature, with curves. Women who look like Phoebe usually make Rhia feel…small. Not just short, like always, but truly small. Insignificant.

But not Phoebe. Maybe it’s because she’s clearly more than a few drinks in. Maybe it’s because she’s clearly in need of a pick-me-up. Or maybe…maybe it’s because of the way she’s been looking at Rhiannon all night long.

Rhia adores that look. The look Phoebe’s been giving her all night long is one of sheer, unveiled want. It makes her feel light as a kite. A kite that’s been let go and refuses to come back down. It’s a dangerous feeling. 

Phoebe and Rhia move from Beetlejuice to Iron Maiden, then Elvira’s House of Horrors, then Indiana Jones, then Ghostbusters. They rotate each time, and one by one, PRI winds up on the scoreboard. Rhia’s initials don’t even come close. Rhia wonders if Phoebe is as good at everything else as she is at pinball.

She certainly seems to be good with her hands, that’s for sure.

Rhia hides her arousal behind her usual mask. She’s pretty sure Phoebe can’t tell anyway: she is too busy kicking her ass at pinball, not to mention drunk off her ass. Phoebe orders one more drink, and then another. Rhia keeps up with her. But it’s starting to get to the point where she’s a little worried.

Phoebe glances at the Addams Family machine with a glint in her eye. “All right, it’s time to redeem myself. But first…” she pulls out her vape pen.

Rhia bites her lip. It’s really none of her business. It’s not on her to say whether or not Phoebe should keep going like this. But she has to do something. So she reaches out for Phoebe’s wrist and stops her, gently. “Hey.”

Her gaze darts over to Rhia, concerned. “What?”

“Look, I just…want to make sure you’re okay.”

Phoebe frowns and wrenches free of Rhia’s grasp. “I’m fine.”

“You can do what you want. But can you make me a promise?”

The blonde stops and raises one eyebrow. “Whassat?” she slurs.

She is so fucking cute. Rhia could just fucking kiss her right there. “Promise me that if you’re too far gone, you’ll let me make sure you get home okay.”

Phoebe’s lips curl into a grin, the unadulterated smile of somebody who has absolutely no inhibitions. “Are you asking to come home with me?”

Rhia’s heart skips several beats. Her mask slips. “I. Uhhhh.”

Suddenly, that grin vanishes from Phoebe’s face. “I’m sorry—was that too—”

“No!” Rhia practically shouts. “You just surprised me, is all. I, um. I guess I am asking that. But just to make sure you’re okay. Then I’ll bounce. Or…stick around, if you prefer.”

The grin re-emerges. Rhia returns it with one of her own. The two gawk at one another for far too long before Phoebe finally says, “Well! If you’re going to be taking care of me, I might as well take advantage of that.” She takes another hit from her vape.

Rhia smiles. It’s not the night she anticipated when she left home, but she’s very happy to have it. To have her. She wraps an arm around Phoebe and gives her a grin. “Now…want to show me what else you can do with those hands?”