Path of the Vampire forum

LIKE THIS

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<Clover> She stood off to the side of the exit, one upper arm pressed against the building itself to provide some sort of coverage from the breeze. When she lit her cigarette, she had to cup one hand around the flickering flame; she had to hold that awkward pose for just long enough, just to be sure the flame had touched the end of the cigarette, and then she relinquished her position and stood upright. There were others outside, some in light sweaters and others in heavier coats, but she had her bare arms on display. The cold didn’t bother her, a fact that she loved to flaunt, even at the most inopportune of times.

Halfway through her cigarette, her two business associates decided they needed some fresh air and joined her. It was the three of them then, one with a cigarette and two with cigars. The smell of their cigar smoke sent a chill down her spine, an unpronounced reminder of someone else who had preferred cigars, someone else who had preferred cold nights. The River Rock restaurant was the perfect place for a business meeting, and that had been Clover’s first choice in a meeting place. When she reached out to Bill and Frank, both men had jumped at the chance of a free meal, especially at such a nice restaurant. Did Clover think the place was nice? Of course. But a nice restaurant didn’t really interest her when she couldn’t eat any of the food or drink any of the drinks. She’d spent most of the evening feeding her food to potted plants and swishing the remnants around and around on her plate. The champagne smelled lovely, and it looked just as wonderful in the tall glass, but it might as well have been poison, a strong acid sent to devour her innards.

Outside, under the light of the moon, Clover took a long look at her two companions. Bill had a receding hairline and a big belly that jiggled when he laughed; Frank had a chipped front tooth and a scar on his neck that was shaped like a starfish. Neither of them interested her in the least, but she tried to laugh and smile at all the appropriate times. She’d even dressed up, as evidenced by the dark floral ensemble and the new ankle boots on her feet. Bill had kissed her cheek and told her she looked beautiful, but Frank had just flashed her a nervous smile and took the seat farthest from her.

“I really think these things just take time,” Frank droned, once again referencing the building codes they’d been addressing since the start of the evening. “You understand, don’t you, Mrs. Fforde?”

“Of course,” Clo spoke. She turned her head and exhaled, the smoke drifting from her lips and out into the night. She didn’t really see. She didn’t really care to see. The whole meeting was about an abandoned crematorium she’d set her sights on, a building she wanted to turn over and reopen in the fashion of a newborn phoenix. “But Bill here is going to handle everything, aren’t you?” Clover smiled at him, a soft, flirtatious sort of smile that had Bill smiling too.

“Absolutely. You bet your sweet ***,” he blurted out and then laughed at himself. His laughter reminded her of a donkey, but she forced a laugh of her own. “We won’t let logistics and paperwork get in the way. Give me three days and I’ll have everything filed. You just keep up your end of the finances and we’re clear.”

The rest of their meal consisted of expensive cake and more overly priced champagne, just something to put a nice bow on their evening together. When they parted ways, Bill kissed her cheek again, and Frank moved to do the same. It was over. It was over, and Clo couldn’t have been happier. Her clutch in one hand, she bypassed the waiting taxi and decided to walk through the city. She wanted to see the building in question, to get another glimpse at the dusty windows and the worn interior. The crematorium hadn’t been used in years, but the foundation was there.

She didn’t know when she crossed into Wickbridge until she spotted the station. The place called to her, reminding her that she had quite a walk ahead of her. Her new boots, while beautiful, were killing her feet. With no further hesitation, she ascended the stairs to the platform and waited for the next train. She needed to catch the Wickbridge train to Newborough and then lose herself near the warehouse district.

<Kendal> The second his boot lifted off the cracked, wet pavement at Union Station, he didn’t look back. Toronto had been “home” for as long as he could remember. Not that he remembered much anyways. Maybe he’d fallen when he was younger, hit his head and split it open; maybe while doctors scrambled to put his brains back together, one of them fucked up. Maybe it was the impact itself that wiped away things he should be remembering; his family, his childhood, his mother. Everyone remembered their mother, didn’t they? Weren’t mothers revered as some kind of divine being on mortal ground? Good or bad, didn’t matter, still a god. Because not all of the old gods were kind and pure like modern religion would have you believe. Anyone who’d picked up a book in their life knew that. Good or bad though, everyone remembered their mother.

Bax did not. Things he remembered were bits and pieces, fragments of his past. There would be certain days where he’d walk by a certain bakery on Spadina when a whiff of something familiar would creep out to dance under his nose and his heart would race in response. Sweat would seep out of his pores along his bleached hairline and trickle down the sides of his face, even if icicles were creeping down from the edges of the rooftops above his head. Sometimes, on other days, he’d trip. Just for a split second, his foot would catch on something, a loose floorboard, an uneven stretch of pavement, anything and his heart would race. His heart would race so fast that he was sure the organ was close to bursting. His throat would tighten like the only thing it was created to do was to cut off all air from the man’s lungs, to choke him before he even kissed the ground. It would all happen in a sliver of a second, much too quick for plain eyes to catch but every single time, in that sliver, Kendal Baxter felt like he’d just stared death in the face.

He’d talked once to Jonah about it, the stoner that lived two blocks down from the Galerie Voltaire, and he had said that maybe Bax couldn’t remember his past because his memories were purposely being suppressed by his own body. Maybe, he’d said while staring with foggy, unnerving grey eyes, when he was a kid, he’d been kicked around so bad that it gave him some kind of PTSD. And then he’d paused. Three second passed before Jonah tossed his head back with a raucous laugh, his bird cage torso shaking. For a second, Bax had taken the drug-addled man seriously. The next second, he’d broken Jonah’s jaw.

Kendal Baxter flexed his inked fingers and then glanced down at them, his thick brows pulling together. Jonah never really forgave him and he’d lost one of his best customer. He’d lost his second best customer just hours before he hopped on the GO train to flee the city. He rubbed the back of his neck and lolled his head back, his eyes closing. He didn’t even know when he’d fallen asleep. He hadn’t even been tired.

But now he was back again in Coastside. He finished his training, the half of his checklist that was left. And he set to wandering around aimlessly, bumping into people on purpose. What amazed him wasn’t that he’d actually been recruited into becoming a Paladin, nor the fact that he’d become a Paladin to slay (apparent) vampires. Not even the Zombies in the... what was it? Morgue? Not even those fazed Bax. What was astonishing to him was that people were so easy to pickpocket. He made double what he usually had the last few times he’d visited from the people that wandered about. People here were so hapless with their cash. Not that he was complaining.

After a few days of thieving and hustling small goods he’d picked up, Baxter had managed to wander out and end up in a station, riding the train to a place called Wickbridge. Because hell, why not? He had closed his eyes and pointed his finger at the map and Wickbridge had been under the tip. He got off at the station and went to see if he could find anymore lost belongings to sell to the shady merchants in their little green shops. He’d found a watch and a cellphone but neither sold for as much as he’d made in the first location he'd gotten off at. Disgruntled and annoyed, Bax headed back for the station, stepping onto the platform and slinging his bag over his shoulder as he waited for his next escape.

<Clover> The sun had gone down hours ago, yet the city was still in transition. There were businessmen in their work attire and teens in ripped skinny jeans; there were mothers corralling their children and fathers juggling bags and cups of hot coffee. Clover liked to imagine backstories for them all. She imagined the businessman heading off to meet his mistress, a perky brunette with a charming smile and a future in broadcasting. She imagined the weighed-down father dreaming of a quick escape, of anywhere but his home filled with three screaming kids and an equally exhausted wife. Sometimes, the people caught her staring, but most of the time, they were too absorbed in their lives to notice her watching them.

Whenever a particularly interesting person arrived, someone with something outwardly extraordinary, Clover immediately took notice. A different hair color. A piercing. A tattoo. A lisp. As much as Clover liked to imagine backstories for the strangers on the platform, she liked to truly learn about them. She listened in on snippets of conversation and watched the way people walked. Maybe it was the way they dressed that drew her in. Maybe it came down to hair color--Clover did love blondes. Whatever it was, she knew when she wanted someone, and she knew it the moment she saw him. With his leather jacket, bag over one shoulder, he stood out amongst the crowd. In a sea of nameless, faceless humans, he looked like the only one that made any sense. There was a moment when she considered following him, a moment when she had to make that split-second decision on whether or not to engage in the game or let him go. She chose to play.

From afar, she’d watched him ascend the stairs to the platform. She’d watched the movement of his arm as he slung the bag over his shoulder. Maybe it had to do with the angle of his nose. That had to be the reason for the sudden interest. Maybe it had to do with his cheekbones. He had such accented cheekbones, as if he were carved from marble. Clo wanted to sink her fangs into his neck and bleed him dry. She didn’t even want to play with him. His pretty features--yes, she deemed him pretty--deserved enough mercy, didn’t they?

No.

Under the lights of the station, he looked as pale and lifeless as anyone else. The fluorescent lighting washed away the best colors and left behind zombies. Up until she saw him, she hadn’t bothered disguising the fact that she had no shadow. But for him? For him, she concentrated hard enough to project her shadow along the ground. She was hunting, and hunting included a lot more effort than she put forth for quick kills. Slowly, Clo made her way across the platform. She moved toward the front of the little crowd and hugged the edge of the platform nearest to the tracks. Her boots made dull sounds on the concrete, but she didn’t try to disguise her movements. She moved as if she were just trying to navigate away from the people. She liked to pretend.

The last time she’d had a hunt had been weeks ago, maybe months ago. Just the thought of resuming her games had venom pooling at the back of her throat. Bite him, her mind whispered to her, but she shook those thoughts away. Her poisonous bite took time, but she didn’t want to poison him; she thought he deserved a little more of a fighting chance. Blondie, as she’d fondly nicknamed him, deserved the best game she’d ever played. He deserved a grand hunt, followed by a beautiful torture. Making someone like him cry? Clover licked her lips and she stopped right where she stood, just a couple feet away from him, just close enough that she could really catch his scent in the air.

“It’s a little crowded tonight,” she remarked. Clo turned her head toward him so he’d know that she was addressing him. Whether he responded or not made no difference. She didn’t care that the platform held more people than normal. She didn’t care about anyone but Blondie. “I hope the train’s on schedule.” **** the train.

<Kendal> It was much more crowded than he preferred. Every time someone brushed by him, he held his breath and counted backwards from three and if they stood a little too close, even if it was a good couple of feet or so away, he instinctively moved to the side. People were dirty. Not that he cared too much about dirt; he’d grown up in it. But he didn’t care for other people’s dirt. Who knows where their grubby little hands have been? One time, on the streetcar to Chinatown, he’d seen a man full-on dig into his nostrils with pudgy, tobacco-stained fingers. Bax had watched him the entire time. It was like watching a trainwreck; he didn’t want to see what was happening but he also did. The man had dug around and once he was satisfied, he’d grabbed the streetcar’s pole. That was the last time Bax had ever touched something on public transportation. And sure, this wasn’t the same thing. No one rubbed snot all over themselves and then rubbed up against strangers but just the thought of “what if” was enough to have the blonde avoiding physical contact.

It had been some time that he’d been waiting. Longer than he preferred, that was for sure. He took his phone out to check the time. Fifteen minutes now. He stashed the device back in its place in his back pocket and then stuffed his hands in the front ones of his pants. From the corner of his eyes, he could see something creeping closer to him and he, instinctively, took a step away. And then the person spoke.

“It’s a little crowded tonight,”

A woman. And her voice was aimed at him. He could tell because it was hitting his ear directly. No muffling. No change in volume like there would be if she was looking around. He was her target and he knew but he ignored. He only had a second to do so before she spoke again.

“I hope the train’s on schedule.”

This time he turned his head to look at her. She was shorter than him with dark hair, and pale, with dark, almond-shaped eyes. Her skin was inked from what he could see. She looked tired, or sickly. He wasn’t sure which but he knew it wasn’t the latter; a sick person was unlikely to carry themselves the way she did.

Bax smiled at her. It was a terse tug of his lips, much too short to be a proper grin and much to longer to be anything else, really. It look mechanical and forced even to the poorest of visions and daftest of souls. It just hung awkwardly off his face as his cheeks hinted at dimples that never showed. It was like he never smiled. And he didn’t. And why someone that had known him for a while asked why, he told them he didn’t want wrinkles. It wasn’t true but it usually made the other person laugh and inadvertently, shut up. And that was all he wanted.

He looked away and checked his phone again, hoping the woman would take a hint, and he idly thought about where he’d go next. Should he pull his map out again and let a blind eye decide? He thought, maybe, there had to be a city centre or a downtown of sorts in Harper Rock. Maybe somewhere he could find a cheap motel. His mind flickered, for a second, and he wondered how Fred was. He was sure his face had betrayed him, shown some kind of change from the usual deadpan it rested in. To make it seem like it was a twitch or maybe he had gone to sneeze, he rubbed his lower face with an inked hand before shoving it back in his pocket.

<Clover> He smiled at her, and she knew. He wasn’t the sort to communicate, the sort to fall into the trap known as conversation. Clover felt as if he too were a lion on the hunt, or at least a gazelle with some ounce of common sense. She tipped her imaginary hat to him, but she still wanted more. Though he smiled, his smile was tight-lipped and looked forced, as if it pained him just to show her some kind of forced courtesy. And then he was gone, trying to show that he had no more interest in conversation than she did. He communicated his reluctance by putting his face into his phone.

I don’t want to talk to you, he silently said.

I’m not interested, he quietly added.

He spoke to her, and she knew. She knew, even without the words. Clo chose not to speak again. It took another five--maybe even ten--minutes for the first train to arrive, but it was a generic train that took its passengers to Cherrydale, the northern point in the city. She considered getting on the train, just to do something more with her time. It wasn’t like she had a certain time to be home. It wasn’t like she had to answer to anyone. But something prevented her from stepping forward and darting through the closing doors. The blonde man nearest to her had initiated a challenge, one she hadn’t seen, or heard of, before. She liked talkative victims, the ones that spilled their life stories as she contemplated where, and when, to finally kill them. And he liked brushing people off, as if they weren’t worth his time. Together, they seemed like total opposites, and Clo imagined such a thing. He kept to himself because he wasn’t confident with people, because something had happened in his life that caused him to shut down. Maybe he lived at home, or maybe he lived by himself. He seemed like the sort to have everything in its place, like a manic-depressive with obsessive-compulsive disorder. Clover imagined those things simply because he’d sidestepped her first advances.

His hair was the most extraordinary thing about him, she finally decided. It was a contrast to his boring personality, or to his abnormal personality. Bright and welcoming, or was it cold as ice? Perhaps it wasn’t a contrast to his personality. His platinum hair sang a song of someone with the tendency to push everyone away. Maybe they weren’t so different after all. Where her anger flowed like molten lava, perhaps his was cold as ice, just like his hair.

“If you don’t want to talk to me, don’t try to be polite about it. Just say, ‘I don’t want to talk to you.’ Life is too short to waste time with pleasantries. At the most, lie. Make up some paper-thin excuse. Use the voice I know you must have. You don’t look like a mute. You look like someone with an attitude problem,” Clo spoke, her voice quiet enough that it was just between the two of them.

After a long pause, she took her time looking him over. She really scanned his appearance. He looked like a little ****. He really did have an attitude problem. He probably thought he had so much power, that he had the upper hand in a one-sided conversation with a fellow traveller.

“Maybe it’s your shitty hair color,” she wanted to say, but she kept the words to herself. She buried the opinion so deep within herself that it became a part of her, like an infestation of the worst kind. Instead, she hummed in thought and voiced something much kinder. “I like your tattoos,” she smiled, looking as if she’d just found the most wonderful thing in the world. “Do you think I could have them?” She wanted to ask the question, but it was too soon, so she swallowed the question just as she’d swallowed the insult about his hair. They hadn’t formed a strong enough bond. Plus, it was a little too crowded for her tastes. With the outing of vampires, she’d decided to play her hand closer to her chest.

<Kendal> There was silence from the woman for a good little while. He thought he’d put her off and she’d shut up because, really, who wants to keep having a one-sided conversation? He tried to conjure up feelings of guilt and regret for shutting her down but he felt nothing. It’s not like he had to feel anything; not like she was an old lady or a kid or disabled in some way that gave her instant pass that she could cash in at any time and garner some kind of an emotion from him. She seemed to fit into none of those categories. Unless, of course, she was mentally disabled. Maybe she was. He cast a long, sideways glance at her, watching her to see if she exhibited any signs.

And then she did something he wasn’t expecting because ten minutes had passed and really, who waited such a long paused to connect again? She did something that caught his attention, if only for a little while, because it meant that for ten or so minutes, she’d still been thinking about how to connect with him. Like a parasite, he’d wormed his way into her brain and made a little nest there. For ten minutes, which really was a long time to keep a stranger in mind.

“If you don’t want to talk to me, don’t try to be polite about it. Just say, ‘I don’t want to talk to you.’ Life is too short to waste time with pleasantries. At the most, lie. Make up some paper-thin excuse. Use the voice I know you must have. You don’t look like a mute. You look like someone with an attitude problem,”

It was like she was sulking, affronted that he hadn’t responded to her blasé comment about the train. She may as well have talked at him about the weather. It amused him and he decided to play her game. Favourable behaviour deserved recognition after all. Only they’d be playing by his rules because it was his way or the highway.

“Huh.” He responded, like a hiccup of a chuckle mixed with a quiet snort. He wondered how much more he could offend her, by simply not giving her what she wanted. She seemed spoiled, like a child. In her Alexander McQueen dress. He wondered if she had some kind of a trust fund or if she’d just bought it with her daddy’s Black AMEX. He wondered about what she was carrying in her purse. Maybe he’d let her get close enough to peek in.

She reminded him of a girl he’d slept with once.
“What do you think of Selma Blair?”

He’d been out on the balcony when he heard her. Her voice was a little nasally and sometimes it pitched it this strange guttural way like that demon from the Grudge.

“Huh?” He looked over his shoulder, dark brows pinching together in confusion.

“Selma Blair!” She said from the bed, drowning in expensive silk and linen sheets as she flicked a manicured finger across her phone’s screen. “You know, Legally Blonde… Cruel Intentions…?” She glanced up to look at him. She had a pretty face; young and taut. Probably botox and the only the most luxurious creams money could buy. She rolled her eyes and held her phone up to show him a picture of the actress. “Selma Blair!” she repeated in frustration like it would mean something if she kept repeating herself. “I’m thinking of getting my hair cut like hers. A cute bob, you know?”

He didn’t know. He had no idea. They’d just met the night before and already she was talking to him like they’d been married for a decade. He’d seen her, recognized the Chanel dress (from this season), the Manolo Blahniks (also from this season), the Vuitton bag (last season but who was keeping count at this point?) and he had leeched onto her. She leeched back, of course, but for different reasons. He didn’t know what they were and he didn’t care. And now here she was, trying to make a boyfriend out of him, and here he was, suffocating under her obnoxious wishes. It made his skin crawl.

<Clover> His lack of response should have grated on her nerves, like a knife slowly flaying her, bit by bit; instead, she found something almost endearing. She loved him, in the way that the spider could love the fly. Though they were still, she circled him, a lioness on the hunt, and he followed her with his eyes. Which one would be the first to pounce? Which of them would walk away unscathed? Clover licked her lips, savoring the bitter taste of her lipstick, and smiled. She hoped that her smile looked genuine, rather than the shitty smile he’d drawn on his own lips, but she couldn’t have cared less, at that point. She was impatient, always impatient, and she wanted him. With every creak and groan of the departing train, she inched closer to him. She wanted to see if her movements forced some reaction, if her advances made him as uncomfortable as her desire made her.

No, it wasn’t love. Clover was infatuated with him. She wanted to know every part of him, to memorize every inch of him. She recognized, though with some hesitation, the difference between the two. Clo felt the same way toward Jesse, except she never went too far, never explored the boundaries beyond gutting him, beyond cutting the vivid letter Y on his chest. But Blondie? She wanted to test her limits. She lacked the love she shared with Jesse, but what was love when one had such a strong infatuation? Exactly, she reassured herself.

Take him.

Explore him.

Own him.

The sentences were like faintest of whispers, but she heard them. Clo agreed with every word. Take him. Yes. Explore him. Yes. Own him. Yes. She licked her lips again, getting one more taste of her bitter lipstick, and then she spoke again. She no longer cared about holding back from him. She wanted him to see her, to look at her. Clover was so used to getting what she wanted. Yes, she was a spoiled little thing.

“If I cut your tattoos off, one by one, do you think they would make a good arrangement on my living room wall? Or perhaps above the bed. That way, while my husband fucks me, I can look up and remember this moment,” Clover smiled, that same fond expression.

She almost reached out to touch him, but she refrained. Touching didn’t come first. Touching came when she finally pounced, when her jaws were locked tight around him and there was no more chase left. Touching was sacred. Red hair. Blonde hair. Deep laughs. High-pitched screams. There were so many before him, so many garbage bags, each one weighed down with body parts and bricks. Clover could only imagine the way decomposition would enhance his beauty.

“I’m only joking,” she finally laughed, as if the whole thing were just one sick joke. “He’d never let me keep you in the apartment.”

And just like that, she’d moved another piece in their game. Clover wanted to say that she’d never been so forward, but that would have been a lie. It was always during the latter part of the game that she removed her mask and revealed the bloody end. Her last victim, a blonde by the name of Heather, had been a real screamer, the type of screamer that stayed with a person for months. If Clo closed her eyes and thought back to that night, she remembered the screams so clearly that it almost felt like enjoying the woman’s torture all over again. But that had been long ago, too long ago. How many times had Clover admitted to herself that she’d been out of the game for too long? She didn’t want to admit it, but being married felt as if she’d retired from most of the game, choosing instead to play half of an orchestra in the piece known as marriage. But it wasn’t Jesse, and it wasn’t marriage. There was no one to blame but herself, if blame had any real part in the picture. Perhaps she’d just found the missing piece she’d been looking for; perhaps she’d just found a degree of happiness, a level of fulfillment, that finally allowed for her to let go of the darkest parts of herself. Who knew. Her musings did nothing to bridge the distance between herself and Blondie.

“The people you meet at stations,” she sighed. “They’re all crazy.”

<Kendal> He thought of something that was, right away, insulting. He thought about letting her know, letting it slide out like a cold, wet, slithering thing before it lashed at her pleasantries, to break the facade she was so clearly coveting. Maybe it was the way she had began to circle him, very typically, like a predator. He’d seen a documentary before on Animal Planet about sharks and they had been talking about how, on their snouts, they had what were called the ampullae of Lorenzini and these things made their noses very sensitive so if you hit one on the nose, it was enough to stun them. Similarly, he’d learned that alligators were nearly helpless if you clamped their jaws shut. Even autonomous predators with no outward weakness carried a soft, squishy brain inside a fragile bone casing. Every predator had a weakness.

He thought, for a second as he was circled like prey, about reaching out and pushing her in front of an oncoming train. No hard feelings. He was just curious. Would she lose her balance? Would she stumble back just enough to kiss the train? Would it just be the sounds of cracking or would there be a splatter? Or would she hold her ground and be furious he’d tried to push her?
He smiled over at her before straightening to head back inside, strolling across the bedroom to pour her a cup of coffee, which he brought back to her bedside, set it on her nightstand and peered over to see the actress’ pictures.

“I like it.” He’d lied with another smiled as he sat on the edge of her bed and the young woman was appeased enough to smile back and pick up her mug to drink from. She was put at ease, he figured, because he liked it. Because she’d been hoping he would and he had. But hope was a funny thing that made people sacrifice caution to keep it. Because within the next minute or so, she’d spilled her coffee (those poor white linens) and slumped with her phone falling against her bare abdomen.

Baxter went back to the kitchen to put the latex gloves he’d been using to accomplish his incriminations and returned to pick the mug back up and take it to the sink to wash, scrubbing away the oils that had picked up his prints.

He had a few hours so he took his time.
“If I cut your tattoos off, one by one, do you think they would make a good arrangement on my living room wall? Or perhaps above the bed. That way, while my husband fucks me, I can look up and remember this moment...”

He glanced at her this time from the corner of his gaze.

“I’m flattered but I’m sure your husband won’t be too thrilled with you thinking of another man while he’s ******* you.”

His first real words to her.

<Clover> There was a moment when she reconsidered her words, when she thought she’d finally pushed too hard and gone too far, but then he looked at her, and she had a feeling she’d finally broken through whatever haze he’d chosen to lose himself in. Though he didn’t look at her directly, she didn’t need to make eye contact to know that he’d seen her, that they’d seen one another. His reaction was out of the ordinary, just like him. Most people might have shown something akin to fear or disgust, some outward expression of inner turmoil, but he just looked at her. He confirmed that there was something truly special about him, and she wanted him. Oh did she want him. She felt a euphoria she wanted to share with someone else, the kind of euphoria that took days to process and even longer to truly accept. He belonged to her, whether he knew it or not. His look just screamed at her. His expression gave her permission to take him, to own him, and she no longer needed to explore his outer edges. His look allowed her all of those responses, but his words? His words opened every single door imaginable.

“So you do have a voice,” she said. Her reply was instantaneous, following right after his own words. She thought him a clever man, someone with a mind that never ceased, and yet he wasted it by remaining silent, by hiding behind stoicism. She wanted to jab her fingers into his mouth, break his jaw, and set free all of things he never said. Clover wanted to know every part of him, from the inside out. “You know,” she paused, as if she were truly in thought, “you’re probably right. He’d prefer a woman’s tattoos. My mistake.”

Though she’d paused, she hadn’t injected any seriousness into her tone. She wanted to hear him speak again, but he seemed stubborn. Blondie seemed like an immovable man, the sort of rock that water had to slowly erode. She wanted to be the water that reshaped him, but she was so impatient. She knew her weakness; she knew how little time she truly allowed herself. It was a split-second decision, but she chose to speak to him once more. He was the rock in the middle of the stream, and she could be the same.

“You do realize I’m not done with you,” she added, thinking she knew him well enough to assume he knew the same. Seeing as the first train had just left, she opened her clutch and pulled out a cigarette and a lighter, assuming she had time to grab a quick one. She considered not offering him a cigarette, but she extended the filter end toward him in a silent offering. “Smoke?”

It wasn’t her time to pretend to quit. It was a time to celebrate chain smoking and everything that had happened so far that night. By offering him a cigarette, she felt as if she were offering him his last meal. Maybe she was, and maybe she wasn’t. Some games lasted months, while others lasted mere minutes. Everything operated on his time, and she became a part of his world. That was how it worked. That was how it always worked.

<Kendal> “You know, some people are put off by enthusiasm.”

It only amused him that much more. She didn’t skip a beat to reply to his comment. It was like she was hanging off of his every word. Like she needed him to speak, to give her his attention. She wanted him to speak. And what she wanted, he wasn’t going to give to her. Not fully. Not because he didn’t want to speak (though that was what he’d originally wanted) but, now, because she wanted it. And he wanted to watch her flutter some more. He wanted to watch her struggle and panic. He wanted to see how far she’d go to get what she wanted before he could poison her and watch her waste away. Because that was the challenge she issued when she unspokenly demanded her wants of him. Because how dare she. Spoiled little rich girl, eager little rich girl.

If you put a single moth in a bell jar, it would be the only thing inside it. It would be the largest thing and the most impressive, trapped in its little prison. And even though it was fluttery and jittery, and not very threatening at all, it would fly around and get comfortable enough to think it was the master of its own fate, maybe start to think itself as something greater and more powerful than it really was. It would start to think itself a predator, wouldn’t it? But in reality, beyond that glass wall, it simply wasn’t. There were much more bigger and scarier things beyond that glass wall.
He cleaned out her safe and her wallet. He left her finances, her accounts and such, untouched. He’d be an idiot to try and steal something that could be traced back to him.

Once he had everything packed in a garbage bag, he stepped into her shower to wash off the temporary dark dye out of his snow-white hair and then spent half an hour wiping the shower clean and drying down every inch.

He dressed in the wifebeater, baseball cap and basketball shorts he’d been wearing under his shirt and jeans and stuff the latter in the loot bag as well before taking it and himself out of the suite. He dumped the bag down the chute before heading out of the building, leaving through the back exit, where he collected his spoils from the dumpster and tossed it into the backseat of the 1990 Cadillac Brougham he’d parked in the alley long before they had “officially” met.
He declined her offer of a cigarette. Sure, he was “addicted” but there was something that was more important in the gesture than a mortal vice. Like he wasn’t just spurning her cigarette, but her whole being as well.

“You do realize I’m not done with you…”

He smiled to himself. Of course not.

He didn’t say she was.