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The first time it happens, it's an accident.
Booker’s halfway through a bottle of whiskey when he sees a flash of short, dark hair and aquamarine eyes across the dance floor of the club. It can’t be her—there’s no way it’s actually her—but he finds himself stumbling across the club like he’s being drawn by magnets.
His head spins and his heart drops into his stomach when Booker gets close enough to the woman to realize it’s truly not Andy, but she looks so much like her that he can’t help but stare.
It’s been a year of exile and, while he won’t ever be able to forget her face, his memories of Andy already feel fuzzy around the edges—like a fraying blanket or a polaroid that’s begun to deteriorate in its frame.
Losing her has been hard enough, but the thought of losing his memories of her too? That scares the shit out of Booker. More than he’ll ever admit.
He’s not quite sure what he even says to the woman, can’t remember if he sounds charming, desperate, or just so fucking lonely that she takes pity on him, but somehow he ends up at her flat at the end of the night.
He finds out her name is Kira and that she’s a grad student from Ireland who loves plants and Booker pretends to care even though he knows he’ll never see her again. He eats her out on her dining room table, her hand fisted in his hair, and pretends it’s Andy’s long fingers tangled in those strands. She comes twice and offers to blow him but Booker feels like such a piece of shit that that all he can do is jerk off onto her thigh.
Booker drags himself home to his apartment and falls asleep on the bathroom floor, curled around his toilet, thinking of Andy the entire time.
The second time it happens, he’s moved to Antwerp, unable to stomach Paris anymore.
The woman’s name is Marina and she’s a spitting image of Andy in the 70’s—all long, dark hair and feathered bangs. She hits on him first—buying Booker one drink, then two—and drags him back to her house when the bar closes.
He fucks her on her stomach, her cunt tight around him as she muffles her moans into the pillow. Booker runs his fingers through her hair and tugs a little, making her body shiver and her thighs shake.
He’s just glad he doesn’t have to see her face and it makes the fantasy he loses himself to, all the more real.
Marina’s tattoos disappear and Andy’s strong back muscles writhe underneath him as Booker plays with her ass while he’s fucking her. If he lets the alcohol win, he can almost believe that her moans aren’t as high-pitched as he knows they are. If Booker just closes his eyes, he can almost pretend it’s the woman he loves.
It becomes a pattern, as much as he hates himself for it.
Britta in Amsterdam, who breaks out her strap-on and fucks him until Booker cries. Anita in Copenhagen, who sucks him off in the bathroom stall and doesn’t even care when he calls her the wrong name. Mina and Laura and Celine and all the women whose names Booker forgets or doesn’t even bother learning.
Their faces run together until they become some forgery of Andy’s—not quite a perfect copy but enough to fill the aching hole in her absence.
But every encounter just chips away another bit of Booker’s soul until he feels like he’s about to crumble under the weight of his shame. He can’t keep doing this. If he does, it’s going to destroy him entirely and any memory he has left of Andy will be stained by the filth of trying to replace her.
So as Booker stares at the club’s entrance—some seedy little hole in the wall in Berlin—he vows to make this the last time.
The music is loud and he feels so pathetically out of place that he almost walks back out. But then some people behind him push past him, shoving Booker toward the bar, and the hesitation dies.
He might as well make the most of it.
The cocktails are strong and only get stronger the more he tips the bartender. Booker’s vision doubles as he looks out onto the dance floor, trying to find some girl that looks enough like Andy to fill that aching hole in his chest, and only feels that pain sharpen when he can’t spot a single one.
“Can I have another drink?” he slurs at the man behind the bar. “Just—anything is fine…”
Booker downs another three drinks over the next forty minutes, desperately watching the crowd for any flash of dark hair and high cheekbones. But the nausea begins to creep up his throat when hope begins to fade.
“What’s a guy like you doing all alone in a place like this?” a low, husky voice says beside him, Booker’s head spinning when he turns to look at the woman leaning against the bar.
He blinks dazedly, reaching out one hand to sloppily run it through the ends of her long, bleach-blonde hair. Her bangs fall into her striking blue-green eyes and, if it wasn’t for its color, Booker could have sworn it was really Andy.
“You look like you’re waiting for someone,” the woman hums, her silver dress catching the light from the dance floor as she leans in closer. “This might be selfish but I hope she didn’t come.”
“She never showed,” Booker slurs, unable to tear her eyes away from her face. “But I’m glad you did.”
“Well, I think that means you should buy me a drink.” The woman tucks her blonde hair behind one ear before holding out her hand. “My name’s Andrea.”
Despite how much he’s had to drink tonight, Booker still feels his mouth go dry. “I’m—I’m Sébastien…Is it—Is it okay if I call you Andy?”
A smirk twitches at the corners of her mouth and Andrea rolls her eyes before heaving out a sarcastic sigh. “Normally, I’d say no—but for you?” She reaches over and steals Booker’s drink, downing the remaining third in a single swallow. “I’ll make an exception.”
He buys Andrea a drink but she clearly has little interest in small talk, drinking it quickly and dragging Booker to the dance floor.
The bass pounds behind his eyes as they grind together, one of Andrea’s legs between his and her arms wrapped around his neck. Her dress rides up a little as they dance, flashing a glimpse of her black silk underwear, and Booker’s not nearly drunk enough to do this.
“Shame your date stood you up,” Andrea says, lips pressed against the shell of his ear as one of her hands tangles in his hair. “Hope I’m not a terrible consolation prize.”
Booker shakes his head, fighting back a moan when his hands slip down to her ass and her hips press just right against his cock. “You’re not,” he groans as Andrea drags her teeth over the side of his neck. “You’re more perfect than I could have imagined.”
Her laugh rings out over the music and she pulls him into a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. Booker can taste the vodka on her tongue but there’s something else underneath that’s so familiar that it makes his head spin. He melts in Andrea’s arms and it’s a miracle that he’s still on his feet when she finally breaks the kiss.
Andrea’s voice is dangerous and sharp as she leans back in to bite his lower lip. “You haven’t seen the best yet.”
The walk to her hotel goes by in a blur and Booker barely even realizes they’ve left the club at all until he’s lying on crisp white sheets with his pants around his thighs.
“Fuck, Andrea—Andy, keep…keep doing that,” he moans weakly, head falling onto the pillow as Andrea swallows his cock all the way down until it hits the back of her throat. Booker can feel her swallow around the head of his dick, her tongue tracing the vein on the underside, and fists his hands in the sheets to keep from grabbing her head.
She pulls off with a wet pop, a single strand of spit connecting her mouth to his dick, and grins. “You can touch me if you want. I don’t mind.”
Booker shakes his head and fumbles a hand around one of her thighs. “This’ll be better, c’mere…”
He hauls her around until Andrea realizes what he wants and straddles his shoulders, pussy right in his face. She sinks her mouth down on him once more as Booker pushes her underwear to the side and immediately buries his face in her cunt.
Fuck, she tastes so goddamn good.
Tastes just like Andy used to and it does enough for Booker that he has to will his orgasm back or he’s going to come right then and there. So he focuses on eating Andrea out like a starving man, tongue delving between her folds and sucking on her clit until she’s moaning around his cock with every lick.
“Shit, Séb, you really—fuck, oh my god—really know what you’re doing,” she moans shakily, already grinding down against his mouth. “Keep—ungh—right there, fuck, right there…”
His eyes close and the fantasy sets in—Andy on his face with her mouth around his dick—and Booker begins to lose himself. Finds himself doing everything she loved, if nothing else than by pure muscle memory.
Andrea lets go of his cock, unable to concentrate on anything else as her thighs begin to shake around his head. Her nails dig into his hips and, even though he knows it won’t, Booker hopes she leaves a mark. Based on her breathless moans and endless swearing, she’s close, but even he’s surprised that it only takes slipping two fingers into her to push Andrea over the edge.
She comes hard, dripping down Booker’s cheeks and chin as she rides out her orgasm. He laps and sucks at her pussy, refusing to miss a single drop that he can, and the memory of Andy’s taste is clearer than ever tonight.
“I want to fuck you,” he groans, words muffled in her cunt, but Andrea hears them all the same. She climbs off his face and is quick to move down his body, wrapping a hand around his leaking erection before sinking down on his cock.
Her panties are still fucking pulled to the side.
Stars explode in the back of Booker’s skull as her still-fluttering pussy clenches around his length and her hands immediately fly to her hips.
It’s too familiar. The more he tries to put it out of his mind, the more that feeling comes back. His hands around the small of her waist. The rock of her hips. The arch of her back. The sound of her moan.
It can’t be but he knows it is.
It has to be.
“Andy?” Booker croaks, one hand sliding up the length of her spine as his brow furrows. “Andy, is it—”
“Don’t stop, Book,” she begs, riding him harder as her hand clenches around the one on her waist. Their fingers lace together and all of the air rushes out of his lungs. “Baby, please, it’s been so long.”
Everything turns into a blur after that.
It’s only when Andy’s come twice and Booker finally comes, buried deep inside her, that the haze begins to clear. He struggles to catch his breath—face still pressed in the crook of her neck—but Booker can’t quite seem to steady himself. The trembling runs through him like wildfire, every inch of his body shaking as he grips each of Andy’s wrists tight in his hands.
But, to his surprise, it’s Andy who breaks the silence.
“I shouldn’t have done this. I’m sorry,” she chokes quietly, voice thick with emotion. Booker clenches his eyes shut, fighting back burning tears, and refuses to look her in the face. “I asked Copley if he had any surveillance on you,” Andy mumbles weakly, “just to make sure you were alright. And when I saw those girls…”
“Andy, stop…” he pleads brokenly.
“When I saw who they looked like…what you were trying to do…I couldn’t stay away.” Her wrists flex in Booker’s hands and he can hear a soft sob catch in her chest. “I’m sorry…”
“I thought I was going to forget you,” Booker croaks, shame bubbling up again. “I couldn’t—I’d do anything not to let that happen.”
“I know…”
He finally pulls his head up, heart breaking when he finds Andy’s eyes rimmed in red and her cheeks wet. “Don’t leave me,” Booker begs, releasing one hand to brush the stray blond hair of Andy’s wig out of her face. “Please don’t fucking leave me again.”
Andy shakes her head and drags him into a chaste kiss. “You’re getting the real things—to hell with what anyone else wants.”