Press Junket-Part 2

The room was dark when I got in. I didn't bother turning on the lights. I just sat there, back against the bedframe, my knees up and arms folded tight. The hum of the AC was the only sound in the room, steady and cold and doing nothing for the heat I couldn't explain under my skin.

I didn't want to cry. This wasn't that. I wasn't even sure what it was.

Jealousy felt too dramatic. Hurt felt too big. But something about watching her from across the room watching her smile at someone else like nothing had changed between us had pulled something sharp from under my ribs.

The clock on the nightstand said 11:42.

I told myself not to look at my phone.

Then I looked anyway.

No texts. No missed calls. No unread anything from her.

I sighed and laid back on the carpet.

Another ten minutes passed. I didn't move. I let my eyes follow the patterns in the ceiling, trying to find something to hold on to that didn't twist me up inside.

Then

buzz

My phone lit up.

Natasha:You left.

I stared at it.

She didn't ask where I went. Just said it like a fact. Or a question hiding in a period.

I sat up, pulled the phone into my lap, and typed.

Me:Yeah.

Natasha:You alright?

Another pause. She didn't follow it with a joke, didn't deflect. Just waited.

I started typing, erased it. Tried again.

Me:I didn't feel like standing around pretending we're just costars tonight.

The dots appeared immediately. Then stopped. Then started again.

Natasha:Is that what we're doing?

My chest pulled tight. I read the words three times. Then I typed:

Me:I don't know.Are we?

Long pause.

Natasha:I don't really pretend well.

I didn't breathe.

Me:You looked like you were doing fine earlier.

I regretted it as soon as I hit send.

The reply came faster than I expected.

Natasha:You were watching?

Me:Not on purpose.You looked good.

God. What was I doing.

More dots.

Natasha:So did you.

I swallowed. The room suddenly felt smaller.

Me:Didn't feel like it.

Natasha:You did.

I blinked.

Natasha:I noticed when you walked in. I always do.

I stared at that last line until it blurred.

My thumbs hovered.

Me:Then why didn't you say anything?

A full minute passed.

Then

Natasha:Because I didn't know what version of you I was gonna get.The one who kissed me back or the one who walked away.

I laid back down on the floor.

Me:I didn't walk away.I ran.There's a difference.

Natasha:And now?

I felt something shift.

Me:Now I'm laying in the dark.Thinking about your hand on my jaw.

The dots came fast.

Natasha:Yeah?

Me:Yeah.

Natasha:I think about it too.

Me:I wouldn't have stopped you.

Long pause.

Everything slowed down. The light from my phone screen lit my face in the dark. My heart was too loud in my chest.

Me:Are you alone?

Another pause.

Natasha:Yeah.

Me:Good.

Dot. Dot. Dot.

Natasha:You want me to come over?

I stared at the question.

Every part of me lit up at once.

I didn't type right away.

Then

Me:Not yet.I just wanted to know you were thinking about it.

Natasha:I am.

Me:Okay.

The next message took longer.

Natasha:Try and get some sleep, alright? Big day tomorrow.

Me:I will.

Natasha:Night, sweetheart.

My chest ached in the best way.

Me:Night.

I didn't sleep for a long time.

But I kept the screen lit just a little longer, rereading her messages with the covers pulled up and the quiet still hanging thick around me.

The alarm on my phone buzzed at 7:15. I didn't need it. I'd been up for a while, lying in the hotel bed, blinking at the ceiling in the early light, still thinking about the last thing she texted.

Night, sweetheart.

I could still hear it in her voice, even if she hadn't said it out loud.

By the time 9:00 rolled around, I was dressed in the outfit wardrobe had picked deep green blazer, black trousers, simple top underneath and headed down to the conference room turned dressing suite for touch ups.

Natasha wasn't there yet.

There were stylists buzzing around, press lanyards, crew people moving folding chairs and mic stands. A makeup artist offered me a seat. I took it.

I kept my eyes on the door.

And when she walked in, the air in the room shifted.

She was in dark navy open jacket, loose slacks, boots. Her hair was pushed back in that casual, slightly careless way that still looked intentional. She didn't look at me at first, just gave a nod to someone by the window and said something low to one of the producers.

Then her eyes found mine.

And her mouth tugged into something small and private.

Not a full smile. Just enough.

She made her way over, slow and easy. I was still in the chair.

"Morning," she said, voice low.

"Hey."

"You sleep?"

I nodded, even though we both knew I hadn't.

"You?"

She just looked at me. "Some."

That same pause from the night before opened between us again, like a space only we noticed.

Someone called her name across the room. She touched my shoulder lightly as she turned away, not a linger, just a graze enough to say I'm here.

The stylists finished my makeup. I slipped into the waiting area behind the set where they were doing the sit down interviews white chairs, soft lights, big banner with the Poker Face logo behind it.

They called us up together.

And that's when the day officially started.

The cameras were already set up when we stepped onto the little stage. The lights were bright but soft, diffused through big reflectors that gave everything a glossy glow. There were only two chairs, both white, spaced close together. The backdrop had the Poker Face logo across it in gold and red. Big, clean, slick. Like everything in this industry.

Natasha let me go first, her hand briefly touching my lower back as I passed in front of her. I took the seat on the left, adjusted my jacket, crossed my legs. She sat beside me, easy and calm like she'd done this a hundred times. Because she had.

A woman with a headset counted down from five, then gave the interviewer a nod.

We were live.

"Welcome back to our exclusive Poker Face Season 2 preview," the host started, smiling big. "We're here with the one and only Natasha Lyonne, and joining her this season is a fresh face please welcome the wonderful Quinn's agent, right?"

I smiled, correcting politely, "Quinn is the character. I play her."

"Oh! Right, right. Sorry!" the host laughed, and the audience chuckled politely. "That's on me! So, it's your first season how exciting is that?"

"Very," I said, holding the smile. "It's surreal, honestly. I've never been part of something on this scale."

"She's been killin' it," Natasha added without being asked. "Slipped in like she's been here the whole time. Doesn't show up with that green energy, y'know?"

The host turned to Natasha with visible delight, lighting up like the cameras were only meant for her. "Well, you're back as Charlie, and everyone's thrilled about it. How's it feel to return to the role?"

Natasha leaned back, stretching her legs a little. "Feels good. Like putting on an old coat that still fits, but now it's got new stuff in the pockets. Different stories. Different people. She's still running, but the world around her's changed."

I listened, knowing they weren't going to ask me the same kind of questions. It made sense. Natasha was the star. But something about the way the interviewer shifted her whole body toward her legs angled in, eye contact locked made me feel like I was just background furniture.

They laughed together. The host kept reaching for her arm, not quite touching, but close. Like she wanted to be in her space.

I watched.

I nodded when I was supposed to. I smiled when a question came my way, though it was always prefaced with "So, as the newcomer..." or "What was it like working with Natasha..."

Not Who are you?Not What made you say yes to this role?Not What do you bring to the character?

Just: How does it feel to orbit her?

About twenty minutes in, the host brought up fan reactions. "So there's been a lot of talk online. People are really responding to this...tension between Charlie and Quinn. How much of that was in the script, and how much of it is just the two of you?"

Natasha glanced at me, one brow raised. "I mean, you feel it or you don't, right?"

The host laughed again. "Oh, we feel it."

"I don't think we planned it," I said carefully. "It was just something that came out in rehearsal."

"You don't get that with everyone," Natasha added. "Some people you're just reading lines with. But this " she gestured between us, " this had shape."

The host lit up at that word. "Shape! That's a great way to put it. There's definitely a shape. An arc. Are we getting more of that this season? Can we expect... escalation?"

Natasha smirked. "That depends on how closely you're watching."

They laughed again. Everyone seemed delighted.

And for the first time that morning, I felt myself slipping under the surface of it all.

Because they weren't really looking at me. Not in the way they looked at her.

I was new, yes but it wasn't just that. I could feel the weight of her name, the orbit she created. People leaned toward her. She said something offhand and it became the headline. And I was just

the other one.

The one in the green blazer. The one nobody followed on Instagram. The one nobody asked about when the segment wrapped and the room broke into applause.

Natasha touched my arm as we stood. "You good?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

But I wasn't. Not fully.

Because I didn't know what the feeling was clawing at my chest. It wasn't about the interviewer, or the questions, or even the room.

It was that I couldn't tell if I was jealous of the attention she got...

...or jealous of the way she gave her attention to other people so easily.

Even when it was just a little.

Even when it was nothing.

Because it didn't feel like nothing to me.

And I hated that I cared. We got back to the hotel with an hour to kill before the fan panel. I didn't say much in the elevator, still letting the morning settle in my chest. Natasha didn't push. She leaned against the railing behind us, scrolling through something on her phone. The doors opened on our floor. We stepped into the hallway, still quiet this time of day. The room service carts had disappeared. Housekeeping wasn't around. Just us and the thick hotel carpet, muffling our steps.

Then

From somewhere near the vending alcove, a song kicked on. It was faint, like it was playing from a Bluetooth speaker behind the front desk. Just enough to catch the beat.

"Criminal" by Fiona Apple.

I didn't think anything of it at first. Just kept walking toward my room, key card in hand.

But behind me, Natasha stopped.

I turned.

She was smiling at the ceiling, like she recognized something sacred.

"Oh man," she muttered. "This one."

She didn't explain. Just stood there, head tilted, letting the music fill in all the space around us.

And then she moved.

Arms loose. Shoulders rolling. Not full out dancing, just a slow sway, the kind that starts in your knees before it reaches the rest of your body. There was something unselfconscious about it. Not performative. Just real.

She looked over her shoulder at me, brows lifted. "You coming, or what?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Don't make me dance by myself. That's depressing."

I stood there like an idiot. "You're really just... dancing in a hotel hallway?"

She shrugged. "It's a good song."

And then she kept going. Twisting around, stepping backward a little, snapping her fingers lightly in time with the beat.

I've been a bad, bad girl...

Her mouth shaped the words as she mouthed them, lip syncing. I looked around empty.

No guests. No staff. Just the two of us in that weird, beautiful bubble.

"You seriously want me to dance with you right now?"

"Why not?"

She stopped in front of me, still moving a little, and held out a hand not dramatically, not like a movie. Just like it was obvious. Natural.

I took it before I could think too much.

And suddenly we were there, in the middle of a hotel hallway, swaying under muted lights and air conditioning hum, the muffled sound of Fiona Apple leaking through the walls.

She didn't pull me close. She didn't lead. We just moved in tandem our own little rhythm, a not quite dance that felt like something older than choreography.

"You know this one?" she asked, her voice low and amused.

"Yeah," I said. "Didn't know you did."

She scoffed. "This song raised me."

We turned, slowly, our hands still joined.

"I believe it."

Something flickered in her smile. "You got moves, kid."

"Not really."

"Liar."

I laughed under my breath. She let my hand go but didn't step back.

The song started to fade out, replaced by something poppy and forgettable, and just like that, the moment snapped back to reality.

"We should get ready," I said.

"Probably."

But neither of us moved at first.

Then she gave me a soft tap on the chest with the back of her fingers and said, "See you downstairs," like nothing had happened.

Like it wasn't the most intimate three minutes of my week.

She walked off toward her room, still humming.

And I stood there a second longer, letting the silence catch up to me. The red carpet curled out across the hotel's event floor like a challenge. Brighter lights, louder cameras, bigger crowds. The press panel had been strange enough. They had us walk it separately. Staggered for attention.

Natasha went first. Of course.

She stepped into the light like she'd been born under it. She waved with one hand, fixed her hair with the other, paused for every shot. Interviewers lit up when she stopped at their mic stands, calling her name like it tasted good. The cameras loved her her silhouette, her voice, her history.

I stood off to the side, watching it all happen like I wasn't in the same show. Like I was some distant satellite in her orbit.

When they called my name, it didn't have the same weight. A few flashes, a couple half recognitions people searching their memory for who I might be. I smiled anyway. Posed. Answered polite questions about "joining the Poker Face universe" and "what it was like working with Natasha Lyonne."

"She's incredible," I said, and meant it. "Smart, generous, sharp as hell. She makes you want to be better."

I didn't mean just at acting.

"Will your character be as close to Charlie this season as the trailer hints?" one reporter asked.

I raised an eyebrow. "You'll have to wait and see."

I kept moving. Smile, nod, thank you. The heat from the lights was already starting to get to me, damp under the collar. The crowd noise blurred into itself.

Then I felt her before I saw her.

Natasha appeared at my side for joint shots, her body angled just slightly toward mine. Her hand rested casually at the small of my back not possessive, just steady. Like she was claiming the moment.

The photographers ate it up.

"Right there, Natasha! One more! Look at each other!"

I turned. So did she.

That same look again half smile, eyes low, a spark between words.

She leaned in just a little. "You're killing it, sweetheart," she murmured, the warmth of her breath brushing my neck. "But you're gonna make me look lazy if you keep being this charming."

I laughed short, startled and the flashes went off like firecrackers.

We gave them what they wanted. Laughter, looks, almost touching. She stayed close. Not too close.

Not yet.

When it was over, we followed the line of handlers and event staff back through the double doors, past the heavy curtains, and into the quieter wing of the hotel.

She walked a little ahead. I followed, heart still racing.

In the elevator, it was just the two of us.

The doors closed.

She glanced at the mirrored wall, then at me. "How's the head?"

I exhaled. "Still attached."

"You looked good out there."

"So did you."

The silence stretched. Not awkward. Something else.

She tilted her head, watching me carefully. "You didn't tell me you could do red carpet charm like that."

I gave a dry smile. "You didn't ask."

She stepped a little closer. Close enough to reach up, casually, and brush a piece of hair behind my ear. Her fingers lingered.

I held still.

"I like this look on you," she said, voice lower now. "Quiet fire."

I didn't say anything. I couldn't.

The elevator pinged.

Our floor.

She didn't touch me again. Just smiled, nodded, and turned down the hall toward her room.

I unlocked my door with hands that weren't exactly steady.

It must've been an hour later when the knock came.

Soft, but steady.

I opened it and there she was hoodie pulled over the outfit, hair tousled, barefaced. She looked like someone who couldn't sleep and didn't want to be alone.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey."

"You up?"

"Yeah."

She stepped inside without asking. I didn't stop her.

There was something looser in her tonight maybe the wine, maybe the crowd, maybe the fact that we'd stopped pretending whatever this was could be ignored.

"I kept thinking about earlier," she said, settling onto the foot of the bed, her knee barely brushing mine. "That look on your face when they asked if we were close."

"You mean the one that said 'please don't ask me this'?"

She smiled. "Nah. The one that said, 'I don't know how to answer that without lying.'"

I looked at her.

She wasn't smiling anymore.

The silence stretched again. This time it hummed.

I spoke first. "Are we close?"

"I think we're getting there."

I swallowed. "Feels closer than it should."

She nodded. "That's the thing."

Her fingers brushed mine. Just barely.

Then, finally, she leaned in.

The kiss was slow, unhurried like we'd been circling it for weeks and finally landed. Her hand cupped my jaw, her thumb tracing just under my cheek. I leaned into it, every thought disappearing. Just her. Just now.

When we pulled back, I didn't move.

Neither did she.

"Still up?" she whispered.

"Very."

She laughed under her breath, then leaned in again this time, deeper.

This time, nothing in me hesitated. Her kiss was everything I didn't know I'd been starving for hungry, unfiltered, a quiet kind of desperation that said I've wanted this longer than I'll ever admit. Her lips were hot and sure, tasting faintly of mint and something sharper underneath, like whiskey and want. My breath hitched against hers as we found a rhythm, starting slow, then slipping into something deeper needier. The restraint we'd worn like armor all week cracked open between us.

My hands found her waist first, feeling the warmth through the soft cotton of her hoodie. She climbed into my lap without hesitation, straddling me like it was second nature, like this had always been the plan. Her hands tangled in my hair, and when she tugged just a little, I gasped into her mouth. That earned a low sound from her throat approval, control.

She pulled back just far enough to look at me. Her eyes were dark and focused, and her voice dropped to a low whisper. "You okay?"

I nodded, barely. "Yeah. You?"

Her response was another kiss deeper, dirtier.

Her hands moved to the zipper of my dress like she'd been thinking about it for days. When it came down, slow and deliberate, a chill ran through me, but her touch was fire. She kissed down my jaw, to my neck, dragging her mouth along every pulse point she could find. I felt her teeth, just barely, and I arched up into her without thinking.

"God," I breathed.

She grinned against my skin. "That's the idea."

My dress was bunched around my hips. Her hands were under it before I could think. She wasn't soft. She wasn't slow. She was thorough every touch meant something. She grabbed, pressed, stroked like she wanted to make sure I remembered all of it later. And I would. Every second of it.

Her mouth dragged down my neck. "This dress looks better on the floor."

"Then take it off."

"Yeah?" she murmured, nosing along my collarbone. "That an invitation?"

"It's a dare."

Natasha chuckled, low in her throat. "Oh, sweetheart. You don't wanna start that game with me. I don't lose."

She sat up just enough to yank the dress over my head. I helped. Fast. I didn't care about the zipper. I didn't care about anything but getting her back on me.

But she paused, eyes trailing down, her gaze sharp but slow. Like she was filing everything away.

"Jesus," she said softly. "You're "

"What?"

She shook her head, smiling like she was stunned. "Nothing. Just... really glad I came to this thing."

I laughed, but it broke into a moan when her hand slid up my bare thigh. "You're an asshole."

"And you like it," she said, biting my shoulder lightly, but just enough to make me jolt.

I pulled at her hoodie. "Off."

"Yes, ma'am."

She tugged it off in one smooth motion. The tank top under it rode up as she moved, and when I saw what was underneath black bra, lacy, way too pretty for someone who claimed not to care I stared.

"You wore that for me."

Natasha smirked. "Nah. Just figured if I got hit by a bus, I'd go out hot."

"You're unbelievable."

She leaned in close, mouth brushing my ear. "But I make you feel so good, don't I?"

I shivered. "Yes."

She pushed me back again, crawling over me, slow now, but not gentle. Her mouth traced every inch of skin she uncovered. Her hands were everywhere my ribs, my hips, my chest like she was trying to figure out where I'd shiver the hardest.

It didn't take long.

And once she found it, she didn't stop.

We lost the rest of our clothes like we were racing the clock. Her skin was hot against mine, every inch of her pressed close. Her rhythm was sharp, controlled, until I kissed her harder bit her lip and she lost it for a second, groaning into my mouth.

"Fuck," she breathed. "You're gonna ruin me."

We moved together like the rest of the world didn't exist. The room could've burned down around us, and I wouldn't have noticed. Her mouth on mine, her fingers teasing, pushing, holding me down just enough to make me lose my mind.

It built slow. Then all at once.

And when it hit when we both broke apart, clutching each other like we'd drown without contact it was loud, raw, real. No holding back. Just heat and skin and sweat.

After, she collapsed half on top of me, her face tucked into my neck, still catching her breath.

I ran my hand through her hair, heart pounding. She stayed quiet for a minute, then pulled back just enough to look at me.

"You okay?" she asked, voice quiet, still low.

"Yeah."

Natasha gave me this half smile, almost bashful. "You sure? 'Cause I'm pretty sure I just ruined you."

I laughed, tugged her back into my chest. "You might've."

We lay there, tangled up, the city glowing behind the blackout curtains. My body was wrecked. My brain was scrambled.

But her voice was the only thing still playing on a loop in my head.

You don't wanna start that game with me. I don't lose.

She wasn't wrong.