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The bell above the door chimes.
Emerald Margaret Jones doesn’t look up right away. Her hands are busy–refilling creamers, brushing crumbs off a menu so old it could probably vote. She hears the shoes first: not heels, but not sneakers either. Expensive soles. Confident. Just the right kind of click for someone who’s never walked this block before.
Then the voice.
“I need something filthy and caffeinated. Bonus points if it comes with judgment.”
Emerald looks up.
And freezes.
There’s a girl at table six.
No. A woman, technically. But she looks like trouble that graduated summa cum laude from Catholic school and never confessed the real sins.
She’s soaked.
Rain-drenched, but not dripping. Like the storm just followed her, maybe hitched a ride in her hair. It sticks in streaks of bleached white-gold, plastered to her neck and collarbones. Her hoodie’s so wet it clings like sin, and beneath it, the bright red outline of a lacy bralette dares the room to blink first.
Like a panic attack in crop top form.
Emerald swallows.
Takes a breath.
Grabs her notepad like it’s armor.
“Coffee?” she says.
The customer grins like she’s about to fuck someone’s life up for sport.
“Black. No regret.”
Emerald pours it by hand. Doesn’t let anyone else do it. Not Becca from the kitchen. Not Kevin with his tragic latte art. Only her. Because some part of her wants to believe in ritual.
And right now, this feels sacred.
She sets the cup down.
The customer doesn’t thank her. Just blows on the surface, slow, like she’s teasing the heat to rise. She licks a drop from her lower lip like it disrespected her. Then glances up.
Emerald holds her gaze.
It’s a mistake.
She finishes half the cup. Doesn’t speak again. Just scrolls her phone.
Emerald watches her thumb move. It’s hypnotic. That casual cruelty. That effortless hotness.
She drops the check gently beside the coffee cup.
She glances down, then up, flashing a grin that could puncture a lung.
“Can I tap?” she asks.
“Machine’s old,” Emerald lies. “Swipe.”
She sighs. Reaches into a little rain-soaked Marc Jacobs crossbody.
Pulls out a card.
Platinum. Of course.
Emerald takes it.
Her eyes flick to the name.
She freezes.
Reads it again.
Zoe Jane Iliopoulos.
And oh.
Oh, fuck.
She knows that name.
The girl on the bus signs. Perfume ads. Viral panty campaigns. The fuck-up with the lollipop at the protests. The chaos machine who makes honesty sound like sin and sin feel like rescue. The one who bit Taylor Thomlinson. The one who shattered Naimh’s breath and flirted like destruction was foreplay. Trust fund girl with a habit of slumming with normal people.
She swipes the card.
Hands it back.
Doesn’t say anything.
Not right away.
Zoe raises an eyebrow. “You okay?”
Emerald forces a smile. “Yeah. Just–thought I recognized your name.”
Zoe winks. “Most people do. I cause… impressions.”
Then she stands.
The hoodie’s clinging again. Red bralette radiant beneath it. She doesn’t fix it. Doesn’t hide.
Zoe leans in, all peppermint breath and promise, and says,
“You’re the first person in three days to make me feel like a person and not a punchline. If I come back tomorrow, will you judge me softer?”
Emerald breathes in.
Her thighs ache.
“Depends,” she says, voice low. “You ordering black coffee again?”
Zoe grins. “Only if it comes with you.”
And then she’s gone.
Out the door. Into the rain.
Emerald watches her vanish.
Fantasies and fragments crashing in her ribcage like ocean against shore.
She turns back to the register.
And under her breath, like a prayer to the part of her that still believes in dangerous girls, she whispers:
“Zoe fucking Jane.”
The coffee pot hisses.
And she’s not fine.
But she’s awake.
Wednesday, 11:06.
It starts at table six.
Zoe’s spread out across the booth like she owns it–legs wide, bralette visible under a too-thin tank, rainwater still drying at the nape of her neck. She smells like heat and sugar. Like she broke into a bakery and fucked the head chef.
Emerald stands with her notepad like it’s a weapon.
“You’re taking up two seats.”
“I’m worth it.”
“You ordering food or just here to gentrify the salt shakers?”
“I’m craving something… greasy. Hot. Served on a tray by a girl with trust issues.”
Emerald doesn’t blink.
Zoe grins.
“You blush, I tip twenty. You stammer, I tip thirty.”
“And if I kick you out?”
“I’ll climax.”
Silence.
Emerald’s fingers tighten around the pen.
Then Zoe does it.
Reaches out. Grabs her hand.
Not gently.
Urgently.
Drags her.
Through the diner. Behind the line. Past the fryers. Past Kevin screaming “You can’t be back here!”–he’s ignored. Zoe shoves through the swinging door and pins Emerald to the walk-in freezer, breath coming hard.
“I want to taste your fucking laugh,” she growls.
And gebze escort then it’s on.
Kisses like panic. Like joy.
Zoe’s mouth is everywhere.
Teeth scraping Emerald’s neck, tongue in the hollow of her collarbone, hands under the apron, under the waistband, under everything.
Emerald gasps. Tries to speak.
“You–you’re a menace–“
“Say it again. Slower. Wetter.”
One of Zoe’s thighs wedges between hers, grinding. The freezer door vibrates with every thrust. A tub of coleslaw falls over. Neither notice.
Zoe kisses down her chest, tongue licking a path between her tits like she’s memorizing flavor profiles.
“Fuck,” Emerald breathes.
“You taste like stress and syrup. I want seconds.”
Fingers now. Fast. Expert.
Emerald arches. Moans like a sin.
Zoe catches it with her mouth. Swallows it whole. Her hand is inside, palm flat, wrist flexing. The cold metal behind Emerald contrasts the heat everywhere else.
“You’re gonna drip on the prep floor,” Zoe mutters.
“Let ’em slip.”
Emerald shudders.
Zoe’s mouth is at her ear.
“Wanna cum for me right here? Where the pickles live? While the hash browns watch?”
Emerald breaks.
Thighs clenched, fingers fisted in Zoe’s hair, mouth open in a scream she doesn’t let out.
Zoe licks her fingers, tasting Emerald.
“Best thing on the menu.”
And then–click.
The heat’s gone.
Emerald’s standing at table six, pen still in hand.
Zoe’s sipping iced tea.
Smirking.
Like she knows.
Emerald clears her throat.
“So. Reuben melt?”
“Extra meat,” Zoe says, without missing a beat.
It’s late.
Arvin’s snoring downstairs, reclined like a king, half a hoagie still on the TV tray. The Eagles game replays on mute, soft glow flickering across his face. He’s safe. Content. He has no idea.
Emerald steps into the bathroom, shuts the door with a careful click. Pulls the string on the single overhead bulb. The room fills with light so yellow it feels nostalgic. The vent hums like it’s trying to soothe her.
She undresses slowly.
Underwear peels off damp.
She steps into the shower, no music, no ritual. Just hot water and a heart pounding like it wants out.
Her eyes close.
And the image comes.
Zoe.
Hair plastered to her cheeks. Hoodie soaked. That red lace bralette–Gods, it probably squeaks when it peels off.
Tits small, high, pointed. Accusatory.
Like they know what Emerald is.
Like they’re waiting to be worshiped.
Like Zoe would laugh if she stared and say:
“You gonna apologize or just suck on ’em?”
Emerald’s breath catches.
One hand on the tile. The other between her legs. She doesn’t play around. Two fingers in, hard, fast, fucking herself with everything she’s ever wanted to say.
“Menace,” she gasps.
“Fucking–chaos–brat–“
She imagines Zoe’s mouth at her throat. That voice, low, grinning.
“You’re gonna cum for me in your daddy’s shower?”
And Emerald breaks.
Hips twitching. Knees buckling.
She tries to stay upright.
Fails.
Her shoulder slams tile. Her head clips the edge of the soap dish on the way down. The impact isn’t brutal–it’s clarifying.
The orgasm floods her. Like heat behind the eyes. Like Zoe crawled inside her and licked the word “mine” up her spine.
She’s on the floor now. Showerhead still spraying.
There’s blood.
A little. From her temple; mixes with the water and runs pink.
She touches it. Blinks.
And then–she laughs.
Not hysterical.
Not broken.
Just… free.
Lying there, dripping, legs splayed, hair stuck to her cheeks. Thinking about Zoe’s tits like they were accusing her of repression.
“Okay,” she whispers, smiling into the spray.
“Okay. You win.”
The house is dark. Arvin’s long since snored his way through the fourth quarter rerun and now the whole place feels too quiet, like it’s holding its breath.
Emerald, back in her room, phone dimmed, blanket half-draped over one thigh, starts typing.
Zoe Jane Iliopoulos.
Autofill knows.
“zoe jane iliopoulos protest”
“zoe j iliopoulos perfume ad”
“zoe jane iliopoulos what happened”
“zoe jane iliopoulos sex tape real?”
She clicks. And falls.
EMERALD’S NOTES
1. Mugshots. Multiple.
Zoe with a black eye and a peace sign. Zoe grinning. Zoe clearly high. Arrests for trespassing at a senator’s fundraiser while dressed as Marie Antoinette, spray-painting “EAT THE MONARCHY” on a Bentley, leading a “Topless for Trans Rights” protest in the middle of Fifth Avenue.
2. Panty Campaign.
Zoe, 19, in a lace set, holding a candle and looking directly at the camera.
Tagline: “Revolution starts in your underwear.”
Emerald stares at that one for too long.
3. That Talk Show Clip.
She told a retired general to “eat her whole bisexual ass.”
Got cut mid-segment.
Banned from six networks she’d never appeared on.
4. A Perfume Ad.
Zoe, naked, smeared in glitter, riding gümüşhane escort a horse backwards across a wet runway.
The voiceover: “Ilium: for the girls who’d leave lipstick on the Holy Grail.”
5. The Sex Tape Rumor.
No actual tape. Just an old Reddit-fueled legend.
6. @fter Midnight “Scuffle”
Bit Taylor Thomlinson during a game of “Is It Caked?”
Emerald reads every thread. Every timestamp claim.
She’s not even sure what she’s hoping for.
But her thighs ache the whole time.
She puts the phone down at 5:11 a.m.
Eyes glassy. Mind ruined.
Whispers to no one. “She makes Arden look like a librarian.”
And then she laughs.
Low. Shaky. Turned-on. Terrified.
Because she thought she was in over her head.
But Zoe?
Zoe’s not water.
Zoe’s weather.
It’s packed. Eggs are overcooked. Kevin’s high again. Somebody’s baby won’t stop screaming. The AC smells like grease and ghosts.
Emerald’s in the weeds–sweating under her apron, hair frizzing at the edges, fingers sticky with syrup residue–and she feels her before she sees her.
That Zoe pull. Like barometric pressure. Like a storm strolled in wearing eyeliner.
She turns. And there she is.
Zoe.
Sitting in the same booth. Table six. Hoodie damp, like it just stopped raining for her. Hair wet and deliberate, clinging in strands that look expensive. Eyes shining like a sin she hasn’t confessed yet.
Emerald freezes.
“What are you doing here?”
Zoe doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at her.
Up. Slowly. Like she’s savoring it.
“You slumming?” Emerald adds, sharp.
Zoe tilts her head. Smiles. Not big. Just… precise.
“I was slumming on Monday.”
Pause.
Then the grin widens.
“Not since.”
Emerald swallows.
And doesn’t walk away.
Because what do you say when someone tells you, with their eyes and their posture and their grin and their fuckin’ wet hair, that you’re not a detour–you’re the destination?
You don’t say anything.
You take the order.
Hands shaking.
And try not to fall harder.
Emerald pivots to leave–too quick, too rattled–but Zoe’s voice catches her just before she disappears into the coffee station.
Soft.
Honest.
Lethal.
“You look good in the heat.”
Emerald pauses. Hand on the edge of the partition. Doesn’t turn back. Just stares at the coffee pot like it might answer for what her body’s doing.
Her cheeks flush, but it’s not the kitchen steam.
It’s Zoe.
That voice wasn’t teasing.
It wasn’t bait.
It was… real.
No punchline. No wink. Just a girl in a diner booth, watching her like something rare. Like something worth coming back for.
She glances over her shoulder–can’t help it–and Zoe’s already looking down at the menu again, casual, like she didn’t just carve her name into Emerald’s mood for the day.
Emerald’s heart is a mess. Her apron’s crooked. Her pen is trembling in her pocket.
She murmurs to herself:
“Fuck you, Zoe.”
But there’s no venom in it.
Just hope.
Emerald’s at the soda station, trying–and failing–to fill Zoe’s iced tea without shaking like she just came down from a fever.
The scoop clatters in the ice bin. Tea overflows. The glass slips, clinks against the metal edge. She hisses through her teeth.
“Goddamn it–“
“You alright, Princess?” Kevin drawls behind her.
She spins. He’s leaning against the prep table, apron smeared, eating a half-folded pancake with his fingers. He raises his eyebrows like he’s known her since birth and still ain’t impressed.
“Need a mop? Or a cigarette?”
“I need a restraining order,” she mutters, grabbing another glass.
Kevin chews. Swallows. Doesn’t blink.
“Table six?”
Emerald glares.
Kevin just nods, like the universe makes a little more sense now.
“Figured. She’s got that look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘I already made you cum in my head twice before the hostess sat me’ look.”
Emerald sputters.
“Kevin–“
“I mean it respectfully,” he says, taking another bite. “That one’s dangerous. You go home with her, your daddy’s hoagies are gonna taste like regret for a week.”
“I’m not going home with her.”
“Sure you’re not,” he says. “And I’m not microdosing shrooms right now.”
He winks. Holds up his pancake like it’s a toast.
“Good luck, Princess. Try not to die.”
She storms back toward the front, glass in hand, muttering under her breath.
“I hate him. I hate her. I hate everyone.”
Zoe sees her coming. Leans her chin into her palm. Smiles.
“Miss me?”
Emerald sets the tea down too hard.
“You’re impossible.”
Zoe just laughs.
“That’s not a no.”
KEVIN
It’s a slow Tuesday and Kevin’s leaning against the pickle buckets, smoking an unlit cigarette like it’s a prop in a one-man play. Brett, the new hire, is listening, wide-eyed, holding a tray of sliced tomatoes. Lottie’s just staring, grinning like a fool.
Kevin squints, adjusts izmir escort his hairnet, and begins:
“Lemme tell you how it happened. How the Zoe Jane Iliopoulos–yes, that one–asked out our very own scrappy little heartthrob from South Philly.”
He gestures like he’s casting a spell, like Rivka in the ash fields, whispering truths to the broken machines. Eyes wild like Ezekiel in the cave, pulling prophecy out of grease traps and God’s garbage.
“It started in the booth. Table six. Always table six. Zoe’s sittin’ there like the rain’s a stylist and she was born to fuck up brunch. Hair wet. Hoodie soaked. She’s not even reading the menu–just watching. Eyes locked on Emerald like she’s tryin’ to figure out if sin has freckles.”
Brett swallows audibly.
“Emerald, bless her disaster of a soul, walks up like she ain’t already three inches deep in fantasyland. Asks what Zoe wants. You know what she says?”
Beat. Breathless, Brett asks “What?”
Lottie swats at him.
Kevin raises one eyebrow.
“Whatever she recommends.”
He lets it hang. Lottie wants to canonize him.
“But it ain’t about waffles. It ain’t about tea. It’s a fuckin’ invitation. Girl may as well have pulled her onto the table right then and there.”
He leans in. Lottie wants to lick his face.
“And Emerald, poor thing, she stutters. She actually stutters. Like Zoe just reached into her chest and rewired her central nervous system with fuck-me eyes.”
“Now here’s the thing–Zoe doesn’t press. Nah. That’d be too easy. She plays the long game. Comes back. Again and again. Always tips in cash. Always flirts just enough to keep Emerald walkin’ into walls.”
He taps the cigarette against the shelf.
“And then–one day–Zoe grabs her wrist. Right there by the soda station. Pulls her in close. Real quiet, real dangerous, real delicate. Says–“
Kevin lowers his voice:
“I’d like to take you somewhere. But if you say no, I’ll come back tomorrow and ask again. And the next day. And the next.”
Kevin steps back like he’s delivered scripture.
“That, my friends, is not flirting. That is warfare. That’s a trust fund girl with chaos in her blood and intentions in her pockets. That’s how a model turned activist turned menace put the moves on a South Philly waitress with tits like a religious experience and trust issues the size of Passyunk.”
Brett takes a breath.”…Holy shit.”
Kevin nods solemnly.
Lottie fans herself and turns around twice.
“I was there. I saw the whole thing. Changed me.”
“Amen.” Brett has to sit down.
“Saturday. Noon.”
The Uber is early.
Black, sleek, silent–like a hearse redesigned by Instagram lesbians. It hums outside Emerald’s rowhouse like it knows something.
Arvin leans out the screen door, still in pajama pants, clutching a mug that says Property of Absolutely No One.
“That for you?”
Emerald stands there, second-guessing everything–her hair, the cheap red dress, the denim jacket that smells like nostalgia and nerves. She checks her reflection in the cracked storm door. She looks good. She looks terrified.
“I guess it is.”
“You got mace?”
“You’re the reason I have trauma.”
“You’re welcome. Tip your driver.”
She gets in before she can change her mind. The AC smells like leather and intention. She clutches her phone, stares out at South Philly slipping by. At Broad Street swelling into Center City. At the skyline like it’s daring her to believe in the future.
The Zoo. Noon.
It’s hot. Thick with sunscreen and zoo funk. Lemurs are already screaming like they know something’s about to go down.
Emerald steps past the gate–her name was on the guest list–and immediately realizes this isn’t just the zoo. This is Zoe’s zoo.
There are people in polos with badges. People in linen pants and summer clutches. There’s a private penguin experience happening to her left. The flamingos look better hydrated than she does.
She’s trying not to panic when she sees her.
Zoe.
At the far end of the courtyard, under a misting fan, taking a selfie with a girl who looks like she delivers hoagies and heartbreak in equal measure.
Flat chest. Dreadlocks. Rollerblades. Wearing a sandwich shop tee with the sleeves cut off and a black sports bra like armor.
Emerald freezes. Her stomach turns into crushed ice.
That’s her type, she thinks. That’s the kind of girl she actually likes.
But Zoe–fucking Zoe–turns, catches sight of her, and her whole face changes.
She lights up like someone just told her secrets are edible. Pushes the sandwich girl aside mid-selfie with a laugh and bolts toward Emerald, eyes wide, smile loose, like she’d been hoping this wasn’t just a fantasy.
“You made it.”
Emerald shrugs, trying to sound casual.
“You said Saturday. Noon.”
“Yeah,” Zoe says. “I also said flamingo access, but no one ever believes me.”
“I didn’t think you were serious.”
“I’m never serious. Except when I am.”
Then she does something that makes Emerald’s whole week buckle–she leans in and hugs her. Fast. Tight. Nothing romantic. Just real. Like she’s relieved to see her in three dimensions.
Those small, pointy tits poking at her like armor piercing sniper rounds.
Emerald’s voice catches in her throat.
“Who was the girl?”
Zoe grins. “Someone else’s sandwich delivery. I tipped her.”
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