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Hard Edges, Soft Hearts Pt. 01

Part 1 - Hard Edges, Soft Hearts

Frankie always said she didn't do soft. Her hands were calloused from motorcycle parts, her voice low and dry like a whisky neat, and she didn't have much patience for anyone who thought she ought to smile more. She wore her masculinity like a second skin -- crisp white tanks, leather boots, cropped hair under a worn cap. In her world, things were straightforward: attraction, action, distance. Until Avery walked in.

Avery didn't walk so much as glide -- hips swaying with a quiet confidence, heels clicking across the concrete floor of the garage like it was a runway. She had a smirk that could melt steel and a way of tilting her head when she looked at you that made you feel like a secret she wanted to unwrap.

Frankie was doomed from the second Avery leaned against the counter and said, "You the one who knows how to make an engine purr?"

Frankie swallowed her heart back down and wiped grease on her jeans. "That'd be me."

What started with engine talk turned into regular visits. Avery claimed her car had issues, but Frankie suspected the real problem had nothing to do with spark plugs. She liked that. Liked the way Avery watched her hands work. Liked the contrast -- Frankie's rough edges against Avery's velvet curves.Hard Edges, Soft Hearts Pt. 01 фото

Then one night, at a local queer bar, Frankie walked in and saw her -- her Avery -- slow dancing with Raye.

Raye was built like Frankie -- all muscle and swagger, tattoos up her neck, a gold tooth that glinted when she smirked. She'd been around the scene longer. Loud, cocky, charming in the way that made people mistake confidence for depth. Frankie respected her, once. Now, watching her hand low on Avery's back, that respect burned hot and bitter.

Frankie didn't say anything. Just nursed a beer and watched.

Later that night, Avery found her out by the alley, lighting a cigarette with shaky hands.

"I didn't know you'd be here," she said, brushing a curl behind her ear. Her red lipstick was slightly smudged.

Frankie blew out a breath. "Didn't know I needed to clear my schedule with you."

Avery leaned against the brick wall, close but not touching. "Raye asked me out. I said yes. I didn't think..."

"That I'd care?"

A pause.

"That you'd say something if you did."

Frankie looked at her, really looked. The moonlight kissed Avery's cheekbones, her lashes casting shadows down her skin. Frankie reached out, fingers just barely brushing the hem of her sleeve.

"I don't do jealous," Frankie murmured. "But I do want you."

Avery's breath hitched. She turned slightly, eyes wide, searching. "You waited a long time to say that."

Frankie smirked, heart pounding. "I had grease under my nails and no idea what to do with a woman like you."

Avery stepped in, closer now. "Maybe I want a woman who doesn't know what to do with me. Maybe I want someone who's real."

They didn't kiss then. Not yet. But the air between them pulsed with something electric, something heavy with promise.

Raye might've had her for now. But Frankie could feel it -- this story wasn't over.

Frankie hadn't seen Avery in over a week. Not since the alleyway confession. Not since that near-touch under moonlight, that soft tremor in Avery's voice that had haunted her dreams every night since.

In the garage, Frankie worked harder, stayed later. She thought if she could keep her hands busy, she'd forget the taste of something she'd never even kissed.

It didn't work.

Raye, of course, showed up at Frankie's shop like a storm rolling in.

"Thought I'd get a second opinion on my bike," she said, swinging her leg off her Harley, that cocky grin fixed like armor.

Frankie didn't even look up from her clipboard. "Don't trust the girl you're dating to handle your maintenance?"

Raye laughed, low and sharp. "Avery's sweet, but she's not a mechanic."

Frankie's jaw flexed. "Didn't say she was."

The air between them was thick -- not quite violent, but charged. They had a shared history: years in the same community, same bars, same women eyeing them from across rooms. But this was different. This was personal.

"You always this tense when you're losing?" Raye asked, stepping closer.

Frankie met her gaze. "Didn't know it was a game."

Raye smirked, but there was something behind her eyes -- the flicker of doubt. "It's always a game, Frankie. You just don't like the rules."

Frankie didn't respond. Just tossed the clipboard on the bench and walked away, her boots echoing behind her like thunder.

That night, Frankie found herself outside The Velvet Room, the small jazz bar where she knew Avery liked to go when she wanted quiet.

She spotted her at the bar, legs crossed, drink in hand, deep in conversation with the bartender. Frankie hesitated at the door. Her heart beat like it was trying to punch through her chest.

Avery saw her before she could slip away.

"You gonna come over or pretend I'm not here?" she called out, voice light, but her eyes serious.

Frankie walked over slowly. "Didn't expect to see you alone."

Avery smiled. "Raye's at a gig. She thinks saxophones are boring."

Frankie slid onto the stool beside her. "Does she ever ask what you think?"

Avery tilted her head. "Sometimes. When it's convenient."

There was a pause. The music filled it -- slow, rich notes curling around them like smoke.

"I can't do casual," Frankie said quietly.

"I know," Avery said. "That's why I keep thinking about you."

Frankie stared at her. "Then why--?"

"Because Raye makes me feel wanted. Seen. And you..." Her eyes dropped to Frankie's hands, then back up. "You make me feel like I'm standing too close to something dangerous."

Frankie leaned in, her voice low and rough. "I'd never hurt you."

Avery's hand found Frankie's under the bar -- not a grab, not a hold. Just a touch, barely there. But it burned like wildfire. "I know," she said. "That's what scares me."

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