She didn’t really recognize the guy, not until he started talking to her. Just sort of walked up to her station and said “Hey” all familiar, midmorning lull, average thirtyish white guy, half-full cup in hand, at first she was sure she was going to get hit on. All the signs. She readied her “I’m a lesbian” face and then he caught her eye, and all she could think of to say was “Oh.”

He leaned confidentially on the counter. “From the, uh—”

“Yeah,” she said quickly. “House party.” He chuckled.

He was squinting at her nameplate. “Pete,” he said skeptically. “Pete the barista. Wait weren’t you…” He raised an index finger in the “I’m going to get this any second now” gesture.

“It’s a nickname,” she said. “From ‘pizza.’”

“Right, right right, yeah,” he said, shaking the finger and putting it away. He had an odd sly smile on his face. “Delibery girls.”

She blushed. They still called themselves that. She couldn’t even register the word as wrong anymore, it was just part of their dialect. Like the way they only used their delibery names with each other, the names they’d used during that week or so in the house. Facing the world—aside from being cheeky with her nameplate—she was still Adele, but after these last few months what she really felt she was, deep down, was a Pete. And she’d have put money on Dash and Cart being the same.

“We’re not doing those jobs anymore,” she said half under her breath. He nodded, looking sage. “Turn a new leaf kind of thing,” he mused.

Blessedly a couple of drink orders came in. Her heart was pounding, and she was unsteady with the cups. This guy couldn’t possibly be the guy, she told herself; anyway she didn’t believe there even was a guy. Not in that sense. Cart swore that was how they’d met, that at some point they’d all been sucking off the main house party dude together, but Pete thought that was just some delusional straight-girl shit. What she remembered was a dildo getting produced, them goofing around with it playing bj sluts, and then that turned into an extended and very much girls-only gropefest. Exactly a way of avoiding the dudes. It was a seriously fucked-up house party, but no way it was fucked up enough for her to have gotten herself into some kind of collaborative dick-eating scenario.

He sipped at his coffee and kept lurking. “You guys still hang out?” he asked after she got the lattes up. He had a light accent of some sort, she noticed, Scandinavian maybe, though he didn’t look the part. “Seemed like you were pretty into each other.” In the complete absence of any possible response she could come up with, Pete picked at an invisible piece of lint on her shirt.

“Anyway, I got some business in town. Staying pretty close to here in fact.” He reached into his sportcoat. “Give you my card,” he said, holding a couple of fingers out to her, and she palmed the thing automatically, without a glance, and dropped it into an apron pocket.

She marinated silently in the awkwardness through another drink order, a complicated venti, but when Pete looked up again he was gone. She went to the bathroom on her next break and retrieved the card. It was blank, both sides. A shimmery, fugitive pattern seemed to be woven into the paper, and when you flipped the card back and forth you could swear you saw some difference there. Rapidly enough and it seemed to leave a sort of non-mark on the air, not writing but like a ghost of something written. If you could manage to do the flip just right, she thought, you might be able to read it. She kept trying till someone knocked, and just about overstayed her break.

“We, uh— we’re a team, you know? It’s not even about the sex really,” Pete called over to him. She’d fucked her job off for that stupid house party so hard she might have ended up homeless. Would, if it hadn’t been for the three of them banding together like they had. “We have each other’s backs.”

She stepped out of her panties and curled up in one of the club chairs. She worried briefly that she hadn’t asked permission, but it’s not like any of them had been wearing clothes at any point during the house party. It would have been weirder to resist the impulse. A delibery girl was naked any chance she got, it was like a rule they made for themselves. Nothing sweeter than coming home after work and just shedding it all and there’s a couple naked girlfriends there at the door ready to welcome you.

“That blonde,” he said, “which one was she?” He came back from the bar and set her promised bourbon down on the table, taking himself to the chair opposite. He was in this overlong, expensive-looking black robe that kept threatening to trip him up. He held his drink under his nose and gave it an inhale. “She was a firecracker.”

The robe wasn’t cinched, and she averted her eyes from his pale, pouchy groin. “Cart?” she said. She didn’t know why she had to make it sound like a question. “Real salty little number,” he said. He saluted her with his glass and took a sip.

She took an answering sip and looked around. They were in a big open-plan penthouse space, and over her shoulder at the far end Pete could see a pair of Asian girls, long dark hair, side by side on a couch playing what sounded like a fighting game. They were in matching white knee socks and matching mini schoolgirl tartans and nothing else.

She took a longer sip. She hadn’t realized she liked bourbon. “I can’t remember coming here,” she said.

“That other one though, the brunette?” He shook his head. “Bit lanky for my taste.” He put his glass down and looked her in the eye. “You came from work. Gave you my card?”

A small ruckus of celebration or contention came from the gaming twins, and Pete lolled her head back again to watch them. “Cute,” she said.

“Yeah, not my usual thing, actually.” He clucked his tongue. “Sisters, I mean. Fine with the Asian bit. Probably more trouble than it’s worth, all told, but— jesus, this trip’s been just so boring. So much fucking waiting around. And they’ve been— actually you know if anything they’ve been too tractable.” He picked up his glass again. “Not salty enough.”

One of the girls had gotten on the floor and had her face buried between her sister’s legs, while the seated one whined and gripped her controller and concentrated her attention fiercely on the screen. Pete couldn’t look away. “Is that what you used to brainwash us with?” she asked.

“Huh. You remember that.” He sounded mildly surprised.

She took a long breath and sighed it out. “I fucking love brainwashing,” she said.

Something about saying it made Pete feel small, and whimpery, and desperately aroused. She heard him chuckle. “Yeah? Careful what you wish for.”

She sighed again, as much a shudder as a sigh, and turned away from the girls to meet his eyes. It was a complicated operation. She could feel the drink hitting, cold and hot at the same time. There was a twisty and narrowing passage to navigate between her and what came next. After a long pause she said, “It’s not like I could stop you.”

And then she was back in her work clothes standing at the front door. Some time had passed, but no time had passed. She felt fantastic. Fizzy. After tonight, she told herself, Pete was definitely a bourbon girl. She watched the party dude come towards her down the stairs, black satin still flopping about his ankles, his pair of Asian chicks in tow, holding hands. They parted and went around to embrace her, one on either side.

He was holding a business card between his fingers. He said, “What’d you do with that card I gave you?” That same sly smile on his face. She had a sudden sharp recollection of watching herself in the bathroom mirror folding a rectangle of heavy paper stock and tearing it into neat quarters. “There was nothing on it,” she said, “so I threw it away.”

He nodded. “This is that card,” he said, lifting it up to her eyes. “You’re gonna want to show it to your blonde friend.”

“Cart,” she answered automatically. The twins snuggled under her arms. Their frames were small but they had such nice big tits, she loved looking at them all smooshed up against her.

He opened the clasp on her bag. “You can’t see anything there, but maybe she will. Ask her.” He dropped the card in. “But for blondie, yeah? Just her.”

The girl on Pete’s right reached up to her and brought her head down into a kiss, while the other undid her belt and fished a hand down her slacks. The kiss tasted like spice and pussy, and they took their time enjoying it. Dimly Pete wondered which of them had been eating who.