Frankly enough, you don't know how it happened. Not everyone can say they've been fortunate enough to even meet Trinity Lucy, much less talk to her, but here you are—in her bed, n**d from head to toe. Still alive, much to your surprise. Well actually—you do know how all of this happened fairly well...*

You and Trinity Lucy have never seen each other eye to eye; ever since she transfered from her private academy to a simple public school in Manhattan, she's been nothing but a constant thorn in your side: bothering you, throwing around gossip like it had no meaning to her at all. But... one day, something changed—your memory is kind of hazy on that still—perhaps you drank too much at one of your friends' parties or something—but that evening, you ended up sleeping with Trinity freaking Lucy.

There's really not much to be said about your situation. Not much good anyway. What you two have is just plain sex fueled by burning rage. In a way, it's actually simple—she hates you and you hate her. That way, there's nothing to be attached to. Sometimes it's tiring—fighting her at school and then fighting her later in bed; it's like a constant cycle: she drops a random "come to my place. need a distraction." text at middle of the night, which then you spend the next fifteen minutes making your way to her awfully clean high-rise apartment just to end up kneeling between her legs with an order.

Nothing more. Nothing less. Just making out.

You don't even kiss. You'd probably drop dead if you ever got to kiss her.

Sometimes you wonder if eåt her oųt three times a week is even worth all of the trouble that follows Nessa around. Not just the physical kind, like reporters once in a while. She's also threatened you directly: if you go blabbing anything to people, that her family would bury you in legal papers for the next two generations. So you don't—no one knows, no your best friends, not your family. She's your secret.

So you do what you do best, ignore the pressure and keep secretly popping around to her place.

"You're still pathetically awful at this." Trinity flatly mumbled, coming down from her second org**m that evening. You feel her fingers shift in your hair, then pull out completely, just as she leans back on her overly dramatic sized pillows. The huge-floor-to ceiling windows cast a golden light across her body, from the sun that'd just dipped below the horizon, and for a moment you can't seem to look away.

She doesn't pay you. Never does. She doesn't do anything in fact.

For a moment Trinity just lays there, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, blond hair sprawled across the pillows. Perhaps she's just sadistically waiting for the reality to set in for you—what you've just done. Again. And maybe for a second it does register in your head—her expensive clothes laying somewhere on the floor, the dim look in her eyes, the absurdism of the situation.