RE: The Handle Bar

[Hamlet]

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Wednesday
November 12, 2014
4:02 PM
From: Hamlet
Subject: The Handle Bar
Message





Lourdes,

I'll be over at 9:00 PM to pick you up. Don't dress too nice, it's just a biker bar. And remember, free drinks on me. I know a guy.


-Jameson

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[Lourdes]

The email was simple and right to the point, which was a surprise coming from a man she considered to be flamboyant. Then again, she scolded herself, she knew little to nothing about him. He was almost a nameless, faceless shadow of a man. If he weren’t her sire, Lourdes might have written him off as a lost cause.

“Don’t dress too nice. The first time we’re actually trying to get along and get to know one another,” she whispered, standing up from her cherrywood desk. “I bet he dresses up for this.”

She had forgiven him, at least she said she had forgiven him, but she’d lied. She still held his absence against him. When she had needed him most, he had vanished. He’d left her to run around as a wolf. Her thoughts went down a dark road that had her gritting her teeth. She wasn’t good enough to go. She wasn’t able to take a wolf form. She was left to rot in Harper Rock like some ******** child.

“Don’t dress too nice,” she repeated, trying to hold onto those words in effort to reign in her temper. It wasn’t anger--she knew it wasn’t really anger. It was days, weeks, and months of loneliness. And then she’d given up and gone to the Shadow Realm. Time didn’t exist in that type of world, so she felt as if she’d spent an eternity in absolute darkness.

During her silent rantings, Lour had moved from her office area to her back bedroom. She had her oak wardrobe wide open, revealing numerous hangers. With each thought, she grabbed a hanger and slid it from the left side of the wardrobe to the right. Shirt. Skirt. Pants. Shirt. The clothes moved so fast she hardly knew the color of the clothing she rejected.

“This is a stupid idea. I hate him,” she fumed, yanking random hangers out into the light of her room. “He’s just like any other asshole in this city. And to think I wanted to live in the light. No masquerade for Lourdes. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

What about her? She wasn’t good enough? She was just as important! She was his childe too. He was a worthless sire and an awful person, and yet she was dressing up to have a drink with him, to repair something that wasn’t broken, to fix something that had never existed!

Lour ripped her clothing off, first her wrinkled pajama shirt and then her old sweats, and tossed the clothing toward the corner of her room. She wanted to look her very best, biker bar be damned. There was a white silk dress she’d hidden in the back of her wardrobe, one she’d refused to wear for just any occasion. She plucked the dress from its hanger and grabbed a leather jacket to cover her arms from the cold air. The cold didn’t bother her anymore, but she liked to pretend she was just another human on the streets.

“Atlas, go and watch the office,” she whispered, addressing her wraith. She looked at herself in the mirror, admiring the fit of the dress on her body. Her reflection, the first she had seen in a while, was very different from her actual body. She saw another person in the mirror, the person that had given her new life. “I look beautiful.” She smiled, a perfect display of her pearly white teeth. “I am beautiful.”

Lour took a deep breath, her lungs filled with perfume-scented air, and slowly exhaled. She looked beautiful. She loved her sire. She wanted the night to succeed. When she slipped on her leather jacket, she still had that same smile on her lips. She kept repeating that same mantra, silent but strong. It was as she slipped on her heels that she felt a tugging from her wraith. She couldn’t see or hear anything, but she felt something. Her sire was waiting, had been waiting, and she was late. It was almost ten o’clock. She’d been getting ready for well over two hours, and yet she’d achieved almost nothing.

She didn’t have to rush from the West Towers apartment to her Corvidae home. She only had to close her eyes and imagine the Quarantine Zone. She appeared right on the doorstep of the building and she strolled in with new confidence. Lour had to keep a grip on the best parts of her personality. She was confident and she was independent. She didn’t need, nor did she want, his eternal acceptance or affection.

Her heels clicked along the lobby tiles, the sounds echoing off the four walls. She looked left and right for some sign of her sire, but she saw nameless vampires. There were strangers at every turn, occupying every couch and chair. When she finally reached the elevator, she was all too happy to press the button for her floor. She disappeared into the soft jazz coming from the overhead speaker.

“I bet he doesn’t even know that I can’t drink,” she said aloud, her last thoughts before she opened the door to her office.

There he was!

No, she was so prepared to see his face that she’d assumed he’d be right in the entryway. Her wraith moved from the office to return to her apartment, and she was left alone with her sire, wherever he had wandered. She was torn between shouting for him, searching for him, or leaving without a word. He’d probably gone through private documents, pouring over the imports and exports of her businesses. She would have done the same.

“Come on. I’m here. Let’s go,” she called out, crossing her arms over her chest in a silent show of defensiveness. She moved from the entryway and toward the glass doors that led to her indoor garden.

[Hamlet]

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'Impatient' didn't exist in Jameson Hamlet's vocabulary--even when he wanted something very badly as he often did. (The world was his for the taking and why shouldn't he--a prince, such as himself--want for something so badly and have it delivered immediately? But even a selfish little boy such as himself understood that good things came in time and even better things came to those who waited and now that he was immortal, he had nothing but time and patience to collect on debts.)

From the foyer, Lourdes called and called, urging him to hurry and come out, as if he were hiding on purpose, but Hamlet made no known intention to reveal himself immediately. He ran his fingers over shelves that he half expected to have dust sitting on them and when there was nothing, he was a little surprised. In the corner there was a bookshelf as tall as the wall and just a few feet from where it sat silently were two large, metal cabinets. Though he had wanted to rifle through them, he hadn't so much as even touched them, just the sturdy wooden shelves.

"I'm here," he finally called out when he heard her heels click across the tile floor again.

'I've done well for myself. You should be proud.' Lourdes said in an email to him. 'You should be proud,' her voice rung over and over in his head--even though he hadn't properly heard her voice in over a year and for a minute, he felt panic. Did he even remember what her voice sounded like anymore or was that something that he honestly hadn't forgotten? She was his, just as Mick was his. Lourdes belonged to him and even the mere thought of what that meant made his hands shake over the spines of books he had no intention of reading--even their useless little titles.

Hamlet's nostrils flared and he felt a lump in his throat--he had anxiety and a rush of power at the same time. It was exciting, enough so that he casually adjusted his pants and walked back towards the desk around the corner. He would--and could--easily walk it off.

The fact of the matter was, he was proud and even possessive over her accomplishments. He was a man with pictures in his wallet, standing around with other old men and women, spouting ideas about how his daughter was better than theirs and he had pictures to prove it. He had McKenna and he had Lourdes and they were all his.

"You've done so well for yourself," he said when she rounded the corner. He stood behind her desk with one hand in his pocket and the other searching over the items on her desk. He stared at everything scattered across the top--everything that had a place even if he didn't understand the order. Finally, Hamlet lifted his eyes to her feet and smiled. His eyes traveled up the outside curve of her calf, over her thigh, her hips--cinching in with her waist--and all the way up to her face where her lips pouted no matter how much she smiled. They were round and plump, made from dreams and nearly identical to Mick's. He wanted to kiss them, to kiss Lourdes' nose, her eyebrows and the top of her head.

"You don't listen very well, Lourdes," he chided, but he smiled. He, unlike her, dressed exactly as he told her too; simple, dark-wash jeans, boots ready for winter weather, a plain t-shirt and his leather jacket--fitted. "But you look beautiful," he whispered.

After a minuscule pause--small enough that she couldn't burst out with anything--he stepped out from around the desk and asked, "Are you ready?"

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[Lourdes]

When she heard his voice, she had just walked toward the small indoor fountain. He hadn’t moved from in the office to meet her at the front door, so she turned her back to the door and continued admiring her fountain. All of it was hers. She had done it all on her own. Well, Juliet had helped, but she hadn’t heard from Juliet in ages; Lour assumed Juliet had gone the same way, the way of the shadows.

It was such a pain to decorate the apartments, each one requiring a crew, a designer, and permits--there had been so much paperwork and money involved. Two apartments turned to three, if she included the one gifted to her from her sire, and she did count the place. It was hers. And she hated to admit it, but she wanted another place, a fourth apartment. Or maybe she wanted an actual home. All the time she’d spent alone had turned her to hoarding expensive things, apartments included.

Lourdes tore her eyes from the fountain and left the indoor garden. Her sire had yet to show his face, so she figured she’d have to drag him out. It was an office. What was so exciting about an office? She swore her heart jumped into her throat when she finally found him. He stood behind her desk as if he owned the place, and she looked from his face to the hand that brushed across the top of her desk. He’d moved a few things, or so she thought. She was extremely particular when it came to her things. She had a place for every item.

“We can’t all morph into wolves and run off into the wilderness,” she joked, withholding some of her harsher comments. He’d paid her a compliment, however unexpected. She saw him as a horrible person, but when he was good, he was very good, so good that she forgot all the reasons she’d compiled to hate his guts. “You know,” she began, stopping when she noticed the subtle way he admired her attire, or she hoped it was her attire. She couldn’t tell, not when she knew so little about him. She had to admit that he looked nice, thanks mostly to his leather jacket. She had such a fondness for leather.

Forgotten was her comment that she felt as if she owed him something. Lost was the line that offered him all that he needed or wanted. Damn the part of herself that had been melted by such a simple compliment, one which she had designed for herself when they first restored some line of communication. Frustration filled her pores, pumping through her body like a new lifeblood. On some level, she registered his little remark and the teasing words left her lips before she had a chance to truly think.

“Would you have it any other way?” She smiled and she felt that frustration settling, tamed once more by something she couldn’t quite identify. No, she actually enjoyed being irritated by him, exchanging witty words with him. He signified the first step back into the world.

Lourdes didn’t know what to say when he called her beautiful, especially after her own little pep talk. But hadn’t she dressed to impress? Hadn’t she wanted, on some level, to use her body to represent her own achievements?

“Yes,” she replied, the smile still present on her face and in her tone. She had answered more than one question with those three little letters. “Free drinks, right? You don’t want to pass that up.”

She hesitated, not sure whether she should let him lead the way, but she made up her mind before her hesitation signaled her uncertainty. The old Lourdes never would have waited. She turned on her heel and opened the door of her apartment, holding it open for her companion. She gave her camera a little wave to signal she was leaving, and then she followed after, closing and locking the door.

“I can get us there, if you don’t want to walk. Just a quick wiggle of the nose,” she joked once more, referencing Bewitched. She’d hoped they wouldn’t walk the entire way. What was she supposed to say? What was he going to talk about? Himself, more than likely. Fantastic. Then she could hear about his marvelous adventures. All about how he’d trampled through the brush, as a wolf; basked in the glory of the full moon, as a wolf; hunted down game, as a wolf; and lived in the very general, very vague wilderness, as a wolf.

He wasn’t going to go for her suggestion. He didn’t make things that easy; she could tell by looking at him. She clicked the button for the elevator, not bothering to wait for his response. They were walking. She’d made the decision, and she pretended she’d made the decision on her own, without his input. She put her arm out to hold the elevator doors open and darted into the enclosed space.

“You look nice too,” she said quickly, pressing the ‘G’ button. “Handsome. You look handsome.”

There. They were even. And she supposed it was the truth.