Pairing/Characters: Tammy II
Summary: Tammy has a plan; Tammy always has a plan.
Word Count: 1,200
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Title from "The Show" by Girls Aloud.
Author's Note: Written for theleaveswant for rarewomen. Thanks so much to cityhallcupcake for looking this over for me, but of course, any and all mistakes are my own.
When Tammy is fifteen she is fake friends with a tall, leggy blonde, stern features and a small slit for a mouth. She reminds Tammy of the other Tammy, the one who taught her at Sunday school and slammed a bible down on her desk, almost flattening her pinky, the Tammy who moved in with Ron Swanson a few months ago, the Tammy who Tammy hates.
Tammy’s point is this girl, Betsy or Caroline or something equally as laughable, thinks they’re actually friends, thinks Tammy actually listens when they’re prowling through the mall and she’s rambling about her older brother who Tammy really wants to fuck.
She spots a senior from their town—their small section of hickville that doesn’t have a decent mall or sex shop she can sneak into with her fake ID—a football player with broad shoulders and a five o’clock shadow.
“Shh,” Tammy snaps at Betsy—yeah, she thinks she’ll go with Betsy, less syllables than Caroline.
“What?” Betsy stumbles into Tammy as she takes a sharp turn towards the boy. She’s pretty sure his name is John—or at least a forgettable, John Doe of a name.
“Hey.” She slides up next to him, pulling carefully on the strap of her tanktop, exposing her deep red bra.
“Hi.” He glances at her, away, and then back, intrigued, a little scared, his shoulders hunching together, rocking back on his feet.
He looks at Betsy then. Tammy can feel the girl standing a few inches behind her, her shadow casting a long line in front of them, merging with John’s. “Hi,” he says, nodding past Tammy.
“Hi,” Betsy says, the word quiet and almost a stutter.
“Hi. Hi, hi, hi,” Tammy chirps, smiling sweetly and resisting the urge to push Betsy away, nails scrapping at her stupid pale skin, tell her to get the fuck out.
“You’re Tammy, right?” John asks, looking at the ground and shoving his hands into his pockets.
She drops her voice, low, smooth. “Why? What have you heard?”
She flutters her eyelashes, twice, and slides closer, shoes threatening to squeak on the dull floors. Tammy moves through the mall like a hunter, quiet and sure, moves closer to John like he’s her prey. The most valuable advice her mother ever gave her? Men are dogs, your tits are meat, your vagina a leash.
John says, “A thing or two. I’ve heard a thing or two.”
“Good things or bad things?” Tammy drawls, watching his cheeks flush a little as she cards her fingers through her hair. She takes another hesitant step forward, careful not to spook him.
This Tammy knows: every boy is different, some will jump on her if she bites her lip, some will run if she presses her body next to them, grabs their ass and whispers dirty things in their ear. This Tammy also knows: she is good at reading them.
Boys are easy.
In more ways than one.
Tammy’s favorite is that it’s easy to get them to bang her.
Tammy sees him look behind her and Tammy turns to see Betsy, grabs Betsy’s wrist, digs her nails in painfully and pulls so Betsy is standing next to her. “Good things or bad things?” Tammy repeats, looking sweetly at Betsy.
“Good things,” Betsy says quickly, twisting her wrist away and rubbing at the red marks Tammy’s nails left, blotchy on her skin.
Tammy grins even wider, looks back at John who simply nods in agreement.
“How about you buy us some ice cream.” It is not a question so Tammy doesn’t ask.
“Oh, okay,” John says, blinking blearily and taking a deep breath like he needs to collect himself. Tammy can tell this is going to be a fun one.
She slides her hand down Betsy’s wrist and intertwines their fingers, squeezing and pulling her along. Betsy’s proven herself helpful and the way John swallows when he sees their hands laced together is enough to make Tammy bite her lip coyly and press the side of her body next to the blond.
Yes, this is definitely going to fun.
When they get to Baskin Robins, Tammy orders chocolate ice cream in a cone, puts her mouth to Betsy’s ear and whispers, “We’ll share.”
“We, We’ll share,” Betsy exhales, blinking at Tammy before looking at John and nodding in confirmation.
Tammy licks around the cone, twirling it between her long, manicured nails, blood red and deadly. Betsy hesitates when Tammy passes it to her, looks at Tammy, eyes wide and lips slightly parted.
“Go on, I don’t have cooties!” Tammy laughs loudly, reaches under the table, finds John’s thigh and lets her hand rest there, thumb running up and down the inside seam of his jeans. Tammy bites her lip and watches John watch Betsy. His composure is slowly coming back, but Tammy can tell he’s working for it, trying to be a man.
He’s not a challenge—Tammy’s favorites are always the challenges—but he’ll do.
And he’ll go back to all his little friends on the football team, tell them what happened while they get ready for practice in the locker room, pretend like this was his idea, like he’s The Man because he fucked Tammy and he fucked Betsy and he’ll get high fives for days.
Tammy couldn’t care less. Because it just means that more football players are going to wink at her in the hallways, going to see if they can get in on the action. And she’ll let them because she’s the one in control of the situation. She’s the one with the leash.
Betsy hands the cone back to her and she takes another lick all the way around, the chocolate melting quickly on her tongue and goosebumps popping up on her arms before she hands it back.
They finish the ice cream quickly, Betsy taking longer licks each time, choking and coughing once when Tammy runs her foot up Betsy’s calf. They’re going to do this, and they’re going to do it together, and Tammy knows Betsy will do anything to keep Tammy’s friendship, and sometimes Tammy looks at her and thinks of the other Tammy and Ron and she squeezes her eyes tight and likes that here she has the power.
As they walk out of Baskin Robbins Tammy knows where she’s headed, the Sears dressing room because her real friend, Heather, works there and lets her use it in times like these.
But she also knows where she’s headed beyond the mall, beyond her fingers laced with Betsy’s as Betsy squeezes tightly, beyond John’s hand pressing hesitantly into the small of her back, beyond John’s cock in her mouth, beyond Betsy’s fingers running up her thigh, pressing her into the mirror.
Tammy knows that she got an A on her last English paper, knows that Ron Swanson likes to watch her eating bacon in the café on Sunday mornings when he comes in with the other Tammy, knows how to navigate the world and the people she meets.
Tammy has a plan; Tammy always has a plan.