Right in a Bad Way

A/N: Again I would like to thank my reviewers for their support and their time. This fic is getting a much better reception than I could have hoped. Thank you.

Also: There are many recipes for gingerbread, and this one may not match the one you have or that your mother makes. It just happened to be the one I had.

Further: I would like to apologize in advance. I’ve done something horrible in this chapter: I’ve added an original character. She serves as a plot device more than anything and her role in the story will be very small. I’ve always thought it was sad that Mai had no one to talk to closely; she and Bakura Ryou had something in common in that, they are a part of Yuugi’s circle of friends, yet entirely separate and shut out. I decided to give Mai a friend (though perhaps not in the traditional sense), but it was not a decision I came to lightly, and I thought about what she should be like very seriously. I was certain that this person should not be soft, or grounded, or sympathetic.

My theory as to why Mai is in so few fan fictions is that people hate her, or don’t get her—these are entirely legitimate perspectives. Mai is grotesquely complicated, and not in a good way. She manages to be tough and prissy at the same time, and totes along bitchiness, arrogance, recklessness, light superficiality, contempt and, many times, ignorance. She often finds herself in a huge mess, but it’s hard to feel sympathy for her because it’s entirely her fault she’s there in the first place, and, most unforgivable, she sometimes repeats mistakes. The reason for this is that she has absolutely no idea who she is or what she wants. She and Kaiba Seto are both known for their hard exteriors, but if you crack open Kaiba there is a great love for his brother, his company, and his work; there is a sense of personal honor; there is a profound amount of self-awareness and understanding. Crack open Mai and there is a frightening level of vacuity. Like Varon says to her when they are alone in the desert, she is like a vampire with a deep and insatiable need, trying to fill the hole inside her with victory, but it never seems to be enough and she’s always moving on to the next fix, and the next. This is why you couldn’t pay me to write an angst fic about Mai; it would be far too emotionally disgusting. (Don’t take this paragraph the wrong way: She has good qualities, too, and I’m a die-hard Mai fan. I’m just saying don’t blame anyone who isn’t.)

So what does this have to do with my adding an original character? It was the chain of thinking that made me realize a sweet, understanding, down-to-earth, kind-hearted girl would be entirely inappropriate as a friend from way back. Mai was something of a lone gunman (or I guess woman) before she met the Yuugi group and that type of person would engage in a level of intimacy Mai would not tolerate. Also, I firmly believe Mai’s masochistic and self-caustic nature would have kept her from forming lasting bonds with someone who was good for her or to her (just look how long it took Jou to break through that ice, and sometimes I think he just scratched the surface). Thus, Zaira. I am entirely open to criticism regarding her addition and her personage (I’m curious as to what you think).

Anyway, now that I’ve finished rambling my spiel that maybe two people will read the whole way through, to the chapter . . .


Chapter Four: “Special” Gingerbread

When Mai awoke the next morning, she couldn’t stop smiling. She tried not to think about why; it made her antsy. She had the entire day free and she cleaned her apartment unhurriedly.

Normally, this would be when she began searching for work. She supported herself primarily with tournament winnings, but the next one wasn’t for a while. In such times, she would do a few modeling jobs to supplement her cash-flow. But she didn’t want to think about money or jobs today. Yet, when she finished cleaning, she grew bored. Nothing on TV could interest her, there wasn’t a book or magazine in the apartment she hadn’t read, and she wasn’t in the mood to listen to music. It was in the midst of this tedium that a wild idea occurred to her.

Mai rose and walked over to one of her kitchen cabinets, drawing out a large bowl full of items and covered in plastic wrapping. Varon had given it to her for Christmas when she was in America for a tournament about two and a half months earlier. It was two large mixing bowls, one placed inside the other, and all the supplies and ingredients to make gingerbread. Of course, it wasn’t a serious gift, and the fact that it had been given two weeks after their breakup made Varon’s motive clear (that is, if there were any doubts after the drunken laughing fit he had when he gave it to her). Yet she had brought it home, and she was holding it now. She smiled at what Varon’s reaction would be if he knew she was actually contemplating using it.

She hesitated; the last time she had cooked anything from scratch had been when she was a little girl—and she’d had adult supervision then. On the other hand, it might be fun, and she would have something to give Jounouchi when he came later. She didn’t want to admit why she was entertaining making the cookies, but it was obvious: Jounouchi liked to eat and there was something heady about the thought of him eating something she'd made. Besides, how hard could it be? She had all the ingredients and supplies—and, courtesy of Varon, it was completely free.

It was decided; she tore open the plastic.

A few minutes later, Mai was having her first doubts about the project. First, the label was misleading—it didn’t have all the ingredients, and she was going to have to supply the butter, the egg and half a cup of orange juice herself. Luckily, she had those things in her fridge. Also, the first instructions of the recipe called for her to “cream the butter, gradually adding the sugar.” She was pretty sure this required a mixer, and she wasn’t sure she had one of those. After a few minutes of digging through her cupboards she found one. The poor thing must have been bought on impulse or given to her a long time ago and was still in its box. After assembling the little machine (attaching the beaters was trickier than it looked), she did her best to follow the instructions for that step.

Just as she finished, there was a call from the front desk. “A Miss Zaira Dellington is here to see you.”

Mai froze. Zaira? What the hell was she doing in Japan? More importantly, did Mai even want to see her?

After a few shocked seconds, Mai gave the front desk permission to let Zaira come up. When Mai turned eighteen, she inherited the fortune her parents left behind. She had squandered it in record time, but the one responsible thing she had done with the money was go to college. In an effort to be different, difficult and to ditch her guardians for good, she had gone to America for school.

Zaira had been her roommate. The Dellingtons were an old and influential society family in New York, owning one of the largest advertising firms in the U.S., specializing in ad campaigns for foreign companies. Though marginally brilliant, Zaira was . . . well, spoiled. She was also narcissistic, reckless and more than a little self-destructive. She and Mai had gotten along just fine, going on various adventures involving nightclubs, drugs and the “wrong” kinds of people. To this day, Mai was astonished that she hadn’t ever been robbed or raped or worse. During Mai’s junior year, the money had run out and she took a job dealing blackjack on a cruise ship to support herself, spending a few years learning what it was to be poor. She hadn’t seen Zaira since and rarely felt even the faintest urge to.

There was a playful knock on her door and Mai crossed to open it. Zaira looked very much the same as she had four years ago: Wavy, perfectly styled black hair, olive skin and a body that was the product of selective eating and personal trainers. As always, she was beautiful in a high-maintenance sort of way.

She smiled mockingly at Mai. “Domesticated?”

Mai looked down at the apron from the package, which she had put on. “God, no. Just experimenting.” She gestured to the mess on the counter.

“Oooh,” Zaira said in a voice which managed to be contemptuous and enthusiastic at once, “can I help?”

“Sure,” Mai said cautiously.

Zaira removed her jacket and tossed it on Mai’s couch, then made her way to the counter; Mai followed.

Zaira frowned at the recipe. “I’ve never made gingerbread before.”

“Neither have I.” Mai suddenly felt like giggling. Here she and Zaira were, talking as though, in their hours of regular meal preparation, they had simply never attempted or gotten around to trying gingerbread, when they both very well knew that neither of them cooked.

She looked in the bowl. “Is this the butter and sugar?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, next we need to add the egg, the molasses, and the orange juice.”

As she cracked the egg awkwardly, Zaira asked, “So what’s he like?”

“Who?” Mai asked, measuring the molasses.

“The guy you’re making this for.”

Mai considered playing dumb, but decided against it. She may have changed a lot in the past four years, but not so much that Zaira didn’t know her. “He’s—” Mai stopped, realizing how silly what she almost said would sound. But then Zaira looked up at her, her face genuinely curious, and Mai finished, “—good; a good man.”

She was surprised when Zaira didn’t laugh, but looked thoughtful. “That must be different. What does he do?”

Mai blushed. “He’s a student.”

Zaira raised an eyebrow, realizing that he was probably younger. “Studying what?”

Mai sighed. She’d gone this far, she might as well tell Zaira everything. “He’s a senior in high school.”

Again, Zaira didn’t laugh like Mai had been expecting, but she did crack a wide, amused smile. “You do know you’re twenty-five?”

“Yes,” Mai said defensively. “Why?”

Zaira shrugged, “Just checking. Besides, it’s what my mother always says when I introduce her to a new boyfriend.”

Mai appeared skeptical that this was all the mocking she was going to receive.

Zaira laughed. “I’m not going to judge you; I like them older, you apparently like them younger. Let’s leave it at that.” She had pulled the carton of orange juice from the refrigerator and was looking at the stamped expiration date, “Mai, I think this has expired.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Mai replied, now remembering how long ago she had bought it. She unscrewed the cap while Zaira held it and sniffed as though she could tell something from the smell. “Do you think it’ll be alright?” she asked.

Zaira laughed. “It didn’t even know orange juice went bad. But I would imagine so, since you’ll be cooking it.”

Mai thought for a moment and decided the risk was worth not having to go to the store.

Measuring out the half cup, Zaira put the expired orange juice back in Mai’s fridge. It was then that she spotted the vodka. “Still your favorite?” she asked pulling it out.

“Always,” Mai answered.

“And I’m guessing that this was why you had the orange juice in the first place?”

“Yes.”

Zaira took a swig from the bottle.

“Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?”

“Tasting,” she replied. “I don’t drink in the afternoon anymore—well, not often anyway.”

After Mai finished mixing, Zaira read the next part of the instructions. “In a separate bowl, combine flour, baking soda, salt, and spices.” She set the vodka down on the box the mixer had come in, as there was no more counter space, and began measuring the flour.

“Why are you in Japan? I thought you hated it here,” Mai asked, taking the soda and the salt.

“I do, but Mother sent me to make an appearance at a bash one of our clients is throwing. Their contract is almost up and Dellington International doesn’t want to lose them. She wants me to get involved with the family business,” Zaira made a face, “and thought this would be a perfect opportunity.”

Mai nodded, “Who's your client?”

“Have you heard of Kaiba Corporation?”

Mai laughed. “Oh, yes.” Then she saw Zaira add something to the mix. “Wait! Was that cinnamon?”

Zaira looked at the name on the bottle she was holding, “Yes.”

“I already added that.”

“Are you sure? I thought you added the ginger.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” She looked into the bowl There was no way to extract the cinnamon, or to even know how much to take out. “Shit.”

“It’s okay. It’ll just be extra cinnamon-y.”

“I suppose,” Mai conceded, though doubting it very much.

Zaira knew it, too, but was just trying to make Mai feel better. She added the ginger.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. What next?”

Zaira looked at the card, “Now we combine the mixtures, blending well.”

When Mai turned on the mixer again, it shook the counter enough to shake the box, and shook the box enough for the vodka to fall over and into the bowl.

Shrieking, squealing, and swearing, it took the two women about twenty seconds longer than it should have to turn the mixer off and get the bottle out of the bowl. Luckily the bottle was too tall for the bowl and very little liquor had actually spilled into the dough. For a few seconds there was silence.

Then Zaira started laughing—not just laughing, all out giggling. Before Mai knew it, she had joined her.

When they finally calmed, Zaira said, “Well, now you have a secret ingredient.”

Mai sniggered. “Well what am I going to do now? I can’t bake this.”

“Why not?” Zaira asked. “He’s Japanese, right? He’s probably never tasted gingerbread, so how’s he going to know how messed up it is?”

That was true.

“Just don’t have any yourself,” Zaira continued. “Wait and see if he gets sick first.”

Mai poured the contents of the bowl into the garbage.

“Good call,” Zaira said. “The next step involved separating the dough—like with our hands, and I wasn’t looking forward to killing my manicure.”

“Let’s go out to eat.”


----------------


After having a late lunch with Zaira, Mai returned to clean up her apartment again. She could have been angry with Zaira over what had happened to gingerbread, but she wasn’t. She probably would have messed it up or given up on her own, at least this way she had someone to share the blame with.

When she’d finished the clean-up (throwing away the apron, measuring cups and recipe card for good measure), she showered and set about deciding what she would wear. The tight jeans she had worn that day were definitely out. They were sexy, but a bitch to remove and she was feeling downright impatient. After two minutes of perusing her closet, she decided clothes were out all together; she knew why Jounouchi was coming over—and he knew. So she opened her lingerie drawers and began searching.

She told herself it was silly, but she couldn’t decide. She knew that Jounouchi was attracted to her, that he liked her body—and he obviously liked her underwear, but she was having jitters about picking out the perfect ensemble. She’d pick something, put it on, decide it wasn’t right, and choose something else. Over and over again. What the hell was her problem? She owned more lingerie than anyone she knew, more than anyone would ever need. Yet nothing seemed sexy enough, occasion-specific enough, or special enough.

In the end, she chose a short, fine silk, spaghetti-strapped, black nightie, with matching panties and thigh-high nylons. She had just stepped into four-inch heels when she caught a glimpse of herself, clad all in black, in the mirror. Wrong. It was all wrong. But before she could remove it to find something else, the sound she had been waiting for all day came: a knock on her door.

Tossing on her long robe just in case it wasn’t him, she hurried to answer. For a few seconds she couldn’t feel anything but her pulse. It was him. It was obvious he had taken a shower before coming and his hair was still a little damp. He had worn his best clothes and she detected a hint of cologne, something she’d never known him to wear. There was a tiny bouquet of orchids in his hand and she recognized them as the ones that grew in front of the library a block away—now, no doubt, missing a few blooms.

“Hi,” she said softly, suddenly shy.

“Hi,” he returned, swallowing.

She stepped back to let him in, and he stepped forward. As soon as the door had closed, they reached for each other, and she tasted his freshly minted breath. She liked the taste of him much more, however, and she took his bottom lip in her mouth, first sucking on it, and then giving him a little bite. He groaned and pulled her to him. In the groping, fondling, and mindless kissing on the way to her bedroom, Mai’s robe, their shoes, and the bouquet were forgotten on the floor.

They reached her bed, she laid down on the edge with her legs hanging off the side, and she pulled him down on top of her, Jounouchi making sure their mouths never separated. It drove her nuts, the nerves between her legs on fire; she had been kissed more skillfully, more sexually, but never more urgently or wholeheartedly. It was hotter than she could have imagined. Thank God nothing he was wearing had to pass over his head; she wanted him naked, but she didn’t want to part lips.

Having her share of experience removing men’s clothing, his jacket and button-down shirt peeled away smoothly in record time. She found herself moving her hands obsessively over his muscles—those in his arms, his sculpted back, stomach and chest. His body was perfectly hard, and the heat of his bare skin was snaking up her fingertips. His belt was next, and it wasn’t long before her hands pushed his pants and underwear over his hips, and they fell down his legs.

Jounouchi was miles behind her, having pushed the hem of her nightie up to her stomach and roving his hands over her long legs. His mouth finally broke with hers and trailed to the pulse at her neck. She jerked beneath him, her hips trying to reach his. She reached her hands to cup his rear and bring him to her.

He made a choking, desperate sound. “Stop! Mai, please.”

Mai opened her eyes to see that his were clenched closed. His breathing was erratic and every muscle in his body tense.

“What is it?” she asked, worried that he was going to call a halt to what they were doing and leave.

When he spoke, it was in sharp half-sentences, punctuated by panting. “I can’t . . . too fast . . . I--I’ve never . . .”

She looked down and saw a few drops of pre-come oozing from the tip of his penis, and she understood. He was trying to tell her that it was his first time and she was moving too fast for him to maintain control. She remembered her first time--the awkwardness, the humiliation, the feelings of inadequacy and pollution. She stroked his hair gently; she didn’t want that for him.

She rose, removed her panties, and took Jounouchi’s hand, moving to the center of the bed.

“What are you doing, Mai?” he asked.

“Shh,” she said, placing a finger over his lips and guiding him between her legs and to her entrance.

With a cry like an animal, he thrust into her, the last vestiges of his reason snapping. Urgently, violently, he moved in and out of her. She didn’t try to slow him down, she didn’t try to peak with him—even as aroused as she was, she knew it was an unlikely possibility. She just held him, and watched his face as he reached his climax and pleasure washed over his body.