Science Fiction Romance: Biomechanical Hearts (Space Sci-Fi Love Triangle) (New Adult Paranormal Fantasy)

by Olivia Myers

  The Golden Girl giggles chimed.

  “We were just leaving,” said Alice flatly. The other girls gathered their pens and notebooks and dashed out the door. Imogen followed, her head low.

  “Hey!” A voice barked. That voice.

  Imogen’s heart leapt but she increased her pace, not daring to look back.

  “Hey!” the voice cried again. “Rat-a-tat! Don’t leave your shit in our room!”

  But Imogen was already too far away to hear Cassandra’s voice, or to see what it was she was waving. If she’d turned, she would have seen a loose-leaf piece of paper that she knew well: a poem she’d written for the person who made her heart beat at double its normal rate.

  ***

  “So,” Cerise lifted the smoldering cigarette to her lips and blew a cinnamon-smelling cloud of smoke to the side of Imogen’s face. “So. If I have this right, you want me to open the Rose two hours earlier so you and all of your little Jane Austens can have a place to meet. And what do you think I get out of the deal?”

  Cerise’s lips curled around the tip of her cigarette, revealing a pointed fang.

  “Anything but my neck,” Imogen said firmly.

  “You are cute, my pet,” Cerise laughed, blowing more smoke. “But as I’ve already told you, you’re not my type.”

  “Well, no offense,” said Imogen, “but you’re a vampire I met less than a week ago. How do I know I can trust you?”

  “Because if I’d wanted you, I would have had you the first day. Like that,” she said and snapped her fingers. “But as these things go, you’re too pure-blooded for me. For most of the girls here, really. Too clean. If I bit you, it’d be, well, soapy.”

  “Soapy?”

  “It’s the bad ones who have all the flavor. That goes for men too, but they’re not really my cup of tea. Too sleazy. They leave a weird texture. Please don’t ask me to explain any of this, pet. I don’t even know what I would say. Now if I were starving and desperate then I would see no problem with your pretty little neck. But we’re a long way from there. Consider yourself protected.”

  “And my friends,” Imogen said firmly. “Would they be protected if they came here too?”

  “If they’re anything like you, I don’t see a problem in the world. Except,” the last of the smoke came trickling out of Cerise’s mouth. She stubbed her cigarette. “Except we still haven’t established what you’ll be doing for me.”

  “Well,” Imogen thought about the problem. She looked around the sparsely crowded room. There were even fewer girls than the first night. “Well,” she said at last. “You’re running out of business, right?”

  “Pet, it’s been running out since the place opened.”

  “Then maybe I can bring you more clients.”

  “Oh?” Cerise was surprised. “Is that a fact?”

  “Not a fact. But I’m optimistic about it.”

  “And how exactly could you manage that when us vampires can’t?”

  “I go to an all girls’ college,” said Imogen, more confidently. “And it’s nice but, well, there’s no place for anyone to go. We only have a couple of break rooms for clubs and they’re too crowded. If I tell the other girls about this place, maybe they’ll make the Rose the new hangout. I’ll tell them that you’re throwing a little mixer. I think that should do the trick. And—” she pressed “—you can’t go out in sunlight, can you? So if you need the legwork, I’m your only hope.”

  Cerise seemed to consider it. After a moment she said, “Next Saturday for your little mixer then, pet?”

  It was the same day as the arts show, but Imogen would have plenty of time to get everyone over to the Rose afterwards. And as soon as they’d had the mixer, Imogen’s friends would have a place to go. “Deal.”

  ***

  It took Imogen almost two days to paper the whole castle in fliers advertising the party. She’d printed off nearly a thousand large, poster-board fliers and had enlisted the help of Alice and Agatha. To avoid any unwelcome confrontation with the Golden Girls, they hadn’t put any of their names on the flier.

  By the time they were finished, there wasn’t a wall in the entire castle that didn’t bear the message: Saturday at 11 at the Red Red Rose. Meet and Mingle with the Most Interesting Girls in the World!

  Imogen was just admiring the last wall when she heard a voice coming down the hallway. “Rat-a-tat! Hey! Rat-a-tat!”

  The familiar ache leapt up in Imogen’s chest. Oh God, let me get out of here before she comes! she thought, but by that time it was too late.

  Cassandra came running up to her, panting with the exertion. It was obvious she’d been in a hurry to catch Imogen. She was alone, to Imogen’s surprise.

  “Jesus, I didn’t think I’d catch you in time,” huffed Cassandra. She was looking extra beautiful today in her skin-tight jeans and heels with little black bows. Her hair had recently been cut and it flashed golden gleams.

  Imogen’s knees went weak but she managed to begin walking hurriedly in the opposite direction.

  “Wait,” said Cassandra. “Wait, Imogen!”

  It was the first time Imogen had heard Cassandra use her name. She stopped momentarily, petrified by desire, but then continued on.

  “Imogen! I need to tell you something,” Cassandra took mincing, clattering steps and finally succeeded in catching up with her.

  “I don’t know what you want with me,” said Imogen, a little dazed. Cassandra’s fragrance was overpowering.

  “It’ll just take a minute. But I need to tell you in private.”

  They continued down the hallway and passed by an empty classroom.

  “Here, quick,” said Cassandra, taking Imogen’s hand and leading her into the dark room. Imogen went numb. She was sure that her heart would explode.

  “Where are your Golden Girls?” she asked, numbed by the contact their skin had made, but still reluctant to show any trust.

  “Oh, somewhere,” said Cassandra, locking the door. “But just trust me. They have nothing to do with this.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “Because they didn’t read your poem,” said Cassandra.

  “My poem,” Imogen said. Then her heart went dead. Cold fear slipped into her. “How did you get my poem?”

  “You left it in the break room the other day. I tried to tell you but you were going too fast. Listen, I just need to know something.”

  Imogen was sure that she was facing death. In a moment she would be told what she already knew—that Cassandra had read the poem and knew that it was about her. It was all over. Imogen closed her eyes and felt tears leave little hot tracks on her cheeks.

  “Yes?” she said softly.

  “I want to know— uh, I don’t know how to say it. Trust me this is, like, totally embarrassing. But it was pretty. I guess…I guess I want to know how you write that way.”

  “You want to know how I write?” Imogen repeated dumbly. Could this really be happening? Had Cassandra taken her alone, to a place where Imogen thought surely she would die, to ask how to get advice in writing? It was impossible—better than anything she could possibly imagine.

  “Yeah,” Cassandra nodded. It was the first time Imogen had seen Cassandra shy and it was as though she had stumbled in on some terrible secret. Suddenly, she was filled with an enormous sense of her own power. This other girl wanted something from her. Imogen had power over her. She felt her terror transform itself into a new feeling of control.

  And Cassandra knew that she was giving up the control she held over Imogen. Her face and the way it had softened told Imogen that she recognized this new relationship and had agreed to it. Now she was putting herself into Imogen’s power.

  “How I write,” Imogen repeated again, and now she grew bold. She knew how to talk about her writing. This was home ground. “Well, I guess I can write because I’ve been in love.”

  “In love?” Cassandra said doubtfully. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It makes sense,” sa
id Imogen. “You just have to trust it. It’s about putting someone else in front of you and trying to see everything through that person. It’s about trying to understand someone completely, from the inside out.”

  Another step. Was Cassandra really allowing this? How could she? How had things become so confusing? Imogen didn’t want to question it. She just wanted to get as close to her lover as she could before this dream faded into wakefulness and everything fell apart.

  “And you’ve felt that?” Cassandra asked. Her confident voice had become a whisper. It was evident that she was just as confused and just as fascinated as Imogen.

  “Yes. In fact, I can’t remember a day when I haven’t felt it.” As though through a mind of their own, Imogen’s fingers began stroking lightly the fine hairs of Cassandra’s bare arms. The other girl shuddered and jerked back involuntarily. But Imogen pursued her. She put of her hands on Cassandra’s arms and drew her close.

  What was she doing? How could she be doing it? She’d never been so bold in her life. But then, she’d never felt so in control as she felt now, so sure of her own movements. And then, as quick as lightning, Cassandra’s open mouth was on Imogen’s, fighting with it, stuffing in her wet tongue with a greed that left Imogen breathless.

  It was like honey. It was like a drink from some delicious drug. Imogen was delirious. She was sure she wasn’t even conscious. She was elevated somewhere else and watching this life unfolding beneath her. From above she saw the girl she recognized dimly as herself embraced by this golden-haired goddess. She saw herself being pressed against the desk and she heard the moans escape from her mouth as the goddess layered furious kisses all over her face and breasts.

  “How is this? How is this?” she heard herself ask. “How is this possible?”

  “Don’t talk,” Cassandra ordered. She had regained control and was once more the powerful girl that Imogen knew and loved. “I don’t want to hear your voice at all. I just want to be inside you.”

  “Inside me?” Imogen said in a breathless whimper. From her backpack, Cassandra extracted an enormous dildo which she promptly fastened around her waist.

  Imogen was breathless with terrified delight. “What,” she said, “what are you doing?”

  “Shut up,” said Cassandra, forcing Imogen’s head back on the desk. It was a rough motion but to Imogen it was the tenderest of gestures. Obediently, she spread her legs and pulled up her skirt. The magisterial goddess loomed above her, cock held firmly in hand. “If you open your mouth you’re going to get eight inches of cock down your throat.”

  “Please…” whimpered Imogen. Then, sudden as a storm, the dildo was between her legs, moving inside her. Imogen couldn’t breathe. She was filled to burst.

  Slowly, Cassandra maneuvered herself back and forth, adjusting the dildo deeper and deeper still, angling herself on top of Imogen. Her thighs rotated forwards and backwards, feeling for a rhythm. And then, with her thighs working and rotating and pumping, she bent down and tore open Imogen’s shirt and bra, revealing the small breasts and beautifully erect nipples. With the same roughness with which she’d penetrated Imogen, Cassandra squeezed one nipple into her mouth and nipped it playfully before enveloping it fully with her mouth, as though it were a ripe strawberry.

  “Oh fuck me, fuck me!” Cassandra moaned into Imogen’s chest. Imogen was quiet. She was afraid of how Cassandra would punish her if she spoke. So she dared not utter a word, even though the dildo was penetrating her, translating the pleasure that at the beginning had been so divine into a pain growing more intense by the moment.

  But still she didn’t speak. She rocked her thighs to help Cassandra move still deeper, and together they were forming one rhythm, interpenetrated, between pleasure and pain.

  And then, as suddenly as she had begun, Cassandra stopped. She removed the dildo and sat up off of Imogen’s chest. The kisses ceased. There was no explanation for the stop, only the labored breaths of the two girls. Imogen tried to break it. “Cassandra,” she whispered, tenderly, hopefully.

  “Okay,” the other girl said roughly. “I think that’s enough.” She packed the dildo away and buckled up her jeans and headed for the door.

  “Cassandra, what was that?” Imogen asked, still hopeful. It had been painful but she still felt in the presence of a magnificent goddess, and she still felt the intensity of the pleasure that had accompanied it all. The kisses Cassandra had left on her nipples were melting into her, suffusing her with her lover.

  Cassandra paused as though to consider Imogen’s question. “That,” she said at length. “That wasn’t anything.”

  And without bothering to see if Imogen had pulled her skirt back up, or had at least gotten up from the desk, she swept out of the room, leaving nothing behind but the sweetness of her kisses and the dull ache from where she’d penetrated Imogen.

  ***

  It would have been suicide for Imogen to have said anything to anyone what happened with Cassandra, so she’d kept the secret to herself, though it had pained her to do so. She felt that she had awakened, had come out of some obscure hole and discovered how bright and how beautiful the world was. She had to tell someone or else she would die.

  Cerise would understand. Cerise was worldly and smart and completely comfortable in her own skin in a way that was more admirable than enviable. Imogen determined that she would make it out to the Rose as soon as possible.

  However, the week proved surprisingly busy. There were essays to write for her other classes and Ivanhoe to read for Miss McReddy. There were also poems that Imogen had the sudden inspiration to write, and any time remaining after her studies was taken up by her project. So enraptured had she become in her writing that she hardly noticed the passing of the week. And then it was Saturday, the day of the competition.

  Imogen hadn’t forgotten to submit her entry: a collection of formal poems she called simply The Poet to Her Lover. Now the big day had come and nervous as she was, she was filled with a happy anticipation. Even though Cassandra had been her usual, cold self throughout the week, Imogen knew that once she heard the poem addressed to her, there would be a change.

  The competition took place in one of the seldom-used turrets of the castle. There were no classrooms here, but there was a big, open space perfect for performances or announcements.

  When Imogen arrived, the assembly hall was halfway filled. Girls stood, chatting with one another, drinking tea or coffee or eating cookies they’d gotten from the well-stocked side stand. From the corner of her eye she saw her group talking amongst one another. She waved and pointed to the snack bar. She’d have a cup of coffee first before joining them.

  “Rat-a-tat!” The familiar squeal came. Imogen stopped in place and prepared to confront her tormenters. It was strange, she thought. Two weeks ago the taunts of the Golden Girls would have filled her with dread and fear, but now she was simply annoyed. It was as though she’d gained a kind of invincibility and now she had the power to know their weakness.

  “Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat!” The squeals continued until the Golden Girls were standing there before her, grinning lewdly.

  Imogen was a little surprised to see Cassandra among them, but she covered her surprise well. “Hello,” she said.

  “So Rat-a-tat, have you got something to show us? You know, Cassandra’s singing a song she wrote herself. What kind of lame bullshit are you going to do today?”

  “I’m going to recite a poem,” she said, still calm. The words seemed to fill her with a certain power. She kept steady and turned her eyes to Cassandra to see if there was anything in her lover she could read. There was not.

  “A poem?” the Golden Girls mocked. “Oh we’ve already heard all about your poem.”

  “I doubt it,” said Imogen, attempting to break away.

  “Oh yes we do,” one of them said. “The Poet to Her Lover. We know all about that gross, lezzie stuff you like, and we think it’s disgusting.”

  Imogen felt herself go pale. Wildly, she tried to r
ead Cassandra’s expression, but Cassandra’s face was as inscrutable as ever. There was no support there. Dry-mouthed, Imogen replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You know exactly what we’re talking about,” the chorus came back at her. “And let us say something else too. Next time you try that lezzie seduction bullshit on one of us, you’re not going to get away with it so easily, you little perv.”

  Imogen felt growing so pale she thought she would pass out. Obviously the girls knew what had happened, or at least a version of it. But from whom had they heard it? Had it been Cassandra?

  “It’s not true,” whispered Imogen. The weight was gone out of her. She was so weak she could collapse. “Cassandra,” she said, making a direct appeal. “Cassandra, say it’s not true. Cassandra!”

  “Don’t talk to me,” the voice of the golden-haired goddess cut through Imogen like a razor. “Don’t even say my name, you scummy little perv. I don’t want you within ten miles of me.”

  “Cassandra, please,” Imogen said, tears slipping out of her eyes and down her cheeks. But whatever effect the appeal might have held was lost.

  Cassandra’s eyes didn’t hold the faintest recognition of the girl pleading before her. It was evident that Imogen had already been forgotten, if she had ever truly existed for Cassandra as anything more than an object to be tormented.

  And as blind to Imogen as Imogen was blinded by her tears, Cassandra followed the Golden Girls to the stage, never once looking back on the lover she’d spurned.

  ***

  It was impossible for Imogen to read her poem now. She couldn’t even speak, she was so traumatized. In the hallway outside the auditorium she cried until there was nothing left within her to cry out, and then she cried dry tears. She didn’t know how long she wept.

  The world passed around her in a dim collection of shapes and sensations. She was aware of voices coming from the other room, of words and music. And finally she was aware of the voice of one of the professors saying the name of the winner which, if she hadn’t heard it announced, she would have heard a moment later as it was echoed through the mouths of more than a hundred girls: Cassandra! Cassandra!