A/N: Just a short one-shot on Reginald Payne, because he was such an interesting character during his two seconds of screen time. Plus, that accent. ;)
Rated M for language and smut. No apologies.
"Hello, it's me.
I was wondering if after all these years you'd like to meet
to go over everything.
They say that time's supposed to heal you,
but I ain't done much healing."
"Hello" –Adele
We Move Lightly:
Sitting at the bar, he could see the way the dim light played through the amber liquid in his glass. It was like gold—beautiful and destructive, corroding his soul the way money and power destroyed others.
She had always had a glass of scotch in the evening, he recalled, feeling a deep and familiar ache rise in his chest. It was always there, even after all these years, especially when he remembered her.
She would sit by the fireplace, curled in the deep armchair, a light blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her slender fingers clasped around her glass. She'd nurse her drink for an hour while she read out of a book, or joined him in pleasant, smiling conversation. Two fingers were all she'd ever pour of the stuff, and even then she'd never finish it. Too much of a good thing and all that.
He understood all about good things. He could never have enough. He'd never had enough. Not enough of the drink, not enough of her. Too much drinking is what had landed him there in Gotham again. Too much drinking because he'd had too much of her. Five seconds would have been too much of her, because he'd loved her after three seconds, and he'd loved her for all those years, and she was gone. He wished he'd never known her, because maybe that would be better than the pain of losing her, and what the hell was he talking about? That was a lie. It wasn't that he wished he'd never met her. He wished she was still there, and she wasn't, and that's what hurt, and that's why he was drinking alone.
"You look a little down."
He looked up, meeting the bartender's friendly green gaze. He grunted affirmatively, not really feeling up to having a conversation with the woman behind the bar, no matter how nice she seemed. In fact, probably because she seemed nice. Too nice.
"You know," she commented with a weary smile, "bartenders are kind of like therapists, but cheaper. You want to get something off your chest, this is the place."
He shook his head, replying in his gruff brogue, "Sorry, luv. You want conversation, you're better off looking elsewhere." He picked up his glass and downed the rest of its contents.
The bartender raised an eyebrow and glanced pointedly around the empty bar. Not a single person occupied it besides the two of them. Well, it was only a Wednesday, and this was the kind of small, dark bar that people came to for serious drinking, not for socializing.
He considered leaving, but it was still pouring outside, and lightning flashed ominously.
Noticing him hesitate, the bartender sighed. "All right, then. If you don't want to talk, you don't want to talk." She reached under the counter for a bottle of Johnnie Walker and poured him another glass. "Here." She pushed it towards him. "On the house."
He chuckled darkly. "You don't want to go giving out drinks for free, luv. Especially not to blokes like me."
The woman leaned forward on the counter, her hands clasped together, a smile on her face. "You leave that up to me to decide, Mr.…"
He snorted softly, knowing exactly what she was up to. Maybe it wasn't even conscious, the way her arms sort of squeezed her breasts together, pushing them up into the collar of her low-cut shirt. Maybe on another night, he would have been interested. Not this night. Not with his mind lost in the past, lost in the ache and the shadows of happier times. Not with those friendly green eyes staring hopefully at him.
He wasn't interested in women with green eyes.
Not since her.
The bartender watched him expectantly, though he tried to avoid her gaze. There was something in those eyes of hers, behind the smile. Something he could relate to. It was sadness. Not fresh, like open wounds, but old, like something aged for years in a cask and then bottled up, just as strong now as it had been then.
For some reason it loosened his tongue, and he found himself responding to her unspoken question. "Reggie Payne."
"Bailey," she replied.
His brow furrowed, and he couldn't help a small smile. "Like the Irish Cream?" God, what a fool. She'd probably heard that one a hundred times.
Still, she smirked a little and raised an eyebrow. "Smooth and sweet, just like the drink." Winking, she added, "At least, that's what the boys all say."
Reggie looked her over, letting out a soft scoff. "I don't doubt it."
Bailey pursed her lips, watching him thoughtfully from across the bar. "You know," she commented after a moment, "I don't usually do this, but my shift's almost over, and you look a little lonely, Mr. Payne."
His eyes flickered almost unwillingly up to hers. In such close proximity, he couldn't help but notice how green they were, dark and soulful, with mossy brown flecks.
Just like hers.
He quickly stared back down at his drink, shaking his head. "Nah. A girl like you is better off without the likes of me." He raised his glass, tipping it back and finishing it off with a gulp. Clapping the glass back down, he fumbled in his pocket for a couple of wrinkled, worn bills, which he tossed onto the counter. "Thanks for the drinks, luv." And he stood and strolled from the bar as if he wasn't completely piss drunk.
Outside, he raised his collar against the rain and found shelter a short distance down the street, under the cover of a dark awning. He wasn't in a hurry. There was nobody waiting for him in the small, shabby room he currently called home. And, if the rain let up, perhaps he'd find Tony on the corner. He could always rely on Tony for a fix, as long as he had the cash.
Rifling through his pockets, Reggie knew he was running low, but it didn't matter. He'd just been hired for another job that morning, and by none other than an employee of Wayne Enterprises. Talk about posh, he scoffed to himself, recalling the man's designer suit and cool demeanor. Uppity, he'd been. Still, it was a job, and Reggie needed the money.
Besides, he was almost looking forward to it. It'd be good to see a familiar face again. In fact, out of any of his old friends, Alfred was probably one of the few Reggie would actually be pleased to see. Well, at least one of the few that were still alive. It was too bad that it had to be under such circumstances.
It would be easy, he reassured himself. They wouldn't even suspect. He'd be in and out before they even realized anything was amiss.
He ignored the small, nagging voice that reminded him of Alfred's particular attention to detail.
Something moved in the corner of Reggie's eye, distracting him from his thoughts. It was the bartender, Bailey. She'd just stepped out of the bar. The lights had been turned off, he noticed, and she locked the door behind her before turning around and hurriedly crossing the dark, empty street.
She stopped on the corner, peering anxiously down the street, obviously waiting for the bus. Her denim jacket, though flattering, hardly kept her dry in that downpour, and she shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, her arms wrapped around herself. He couldn't see from there, but she was likely shivering.
There had been a day when he would have gone over there and offered his coat without a second thought. Hell, there'd been a day when he would've taken her home and warmed her up himself, the pretty little thing. But that was before.
Before her.
He averted his gaze, peering up at the sky instead. The clouds were heavy and thick and showed no signs of moving along. It was the second storm in as many days. Reggie knew all about toughing out miserable weather, but he wished it would let up just long enough for him to make it back to his flat without having to swim.
Lights suddenly flashed through the rain as a car turned onto the dark street and passed by, water spraying in great arcs behind it. The woman across the street looked up hopefully, disappointment showing clearly on her face when she realized it was just a car, not the bus.
Another figure had joined her on the corner, Reggie noticed with a slight frown. A man stood nonchalantly at her side, probably waiting for the bus, too. Except there was something odd in the way he kept glancing over at Bailey, furtively, as if he didn't want to be caught staring.
Reggie watched the man fixedly, the hair on the back of his neck rising when he noticed another figure step out of the shadows, standing on the other side of the shivering bartender. The two men exchanged a glance that went unnoticed by Bailey, who only seemed interested in how late the bus would be and how drenched she was.
Something was definitely wrong. Reggie had spent enough time in the sewers of civilization to know it. He also knew better than to intervene.
Except when the figures moved, darting inward and descending on the woman like hawks, Reggie took a step forward, his fists clenched tightly.
Bailey struggled and cried out. It was a cry of fear, not a cry for help. She didn't know that Reggie was there. She didn't know that anybody was there on that empty, dark street as her attackers dragged her towards the black opening of an alleyway.
"Shit," Reggie cursed, mostly at himself as he left his shelter and crossed the street.
He approached just in time to see the flailing woman catch one of her attackers in the groin, knocking him away. The man stumbled, doubled over, emitting a stream of curses that almost impressed the Scotsman.
What didn't impress Reggie was the ugly scowl he received from the man as he straightened and caught sight of him. "This ain't any of your business," the man informed him.
Reggie didn't respond, except to reach forward and grab the man's head firmly in both hands, twisting sharply. The body dropped limply to the ground.
Looking up, Reggie looked past Bailey's frightened gaze and straight into the nervous eyes of the man behind her. He was shaking, holding the woman in front of him like a shield.
"Back off!" he warned Reggie.
Ignoring him, Reggie stepped carefully over the body at his feet. The man shoved Bailey towards him and ran.
Reggie caught her in his arms, steadying her briefly before he took off after the other attacker. The alley was dark, but he could hear the man's footsteps, his nervous breathing. His blood pumped like fire in his veins, and his heart pounded in his ears. He hadn't felt so alive in ages.
A figure suddenly emerged from the shadows, knife raised to attack him. He dodged swiftly to the side, unencumbered by the multitude of drinks he'd had. It wasn't much of a struggle, just a few faltering steps, a tussle and a quick snap of the man's wrist, and then the knife was in Reggie's hands. Before he knew it, he'd plunged the blade between the man's ribs.
It was almost too easy. Stabbing a man was simple work for a man like Reggie. He just needed a little force and the right angle, and the knife did the rest of the work.
The man clung to him for a moment, staring up at him with wide eyes, his mouth gaping as he slowly slid to the ground.
Reggie tossed the blade at the man's feet and walked away, cracking his neck nonchalantly and rolling his shoulders a couple of times as he made his way back to the mouth of the alleyway, where Bailey still stood, frozen to the ground, her eyes fixed on the dead man in front of her.
"You all right, luv?" he inquired.
She was shaking. Looking up at him, she whispered in a quivering voice, "They were going to…" she trailed off, unable to express whatever despicable plans her attackers had had for her.
For such a confident bartender, she certainly wasn't nearly as sure of herself anymore, he thought calmly. He had to remind himself that she was just an ordinary civilian with little to no training in self-defense. He softened a little, allowing a comforting smile to cross his face.
"I know," he murmured, reaching out and taking her by the shoulders. "You're soaked," he noted, hastily shrugging out of his coat. It was damp as well, but he wrapped it around her shoulder anyway. "Come on. Let's get you home."
He led her back to the corner, glancing down the empty street. There was no sign of the bus.
"Let's walk," she suggested quietly.
Reggie nodded. He could understand the sentiment of not wanting to hang around.
It was far, but he didn't mind the walk, and once he was drenched through, the rain almost started to feel warm on his cold skin. Bailey, on the other hand, was still shivering, despite having her jacket and his to keep her warm.
He didn't think it was the cold that caused her trembling.
They'd walked in silence for eight or nine blocks—Reggie was starting to lose count—when Bailey suddenly turned to him and stated, "You really aren't a nice guy, are you?"
He snorted and shook his head. Glancing at her, he asked, "Afraid I'll hurt you, too?"
"No," she whispered, looking away. "You're not the type."
Something in her voice made it sound like she spoke from experience, but Reggie didn't press the matter. He wasn't there to analyze all of her problems. He just wanted to walk her home and finish his good deed for the day. More like his good deed for the decade, he thought wryly to himself.
He wasn't even sure why he'd stepped in, why he cared. He didn't care for this woman he barely knew, and he certainly didn't care about right and wrong. Morality was for others, people who could afford the high price of altruism. But Reggie…he didn't even have a selfish reason for helping her. He didn't want anything from her—he certainly didn't want her.
Or did he?
He felt the gaze of those green eyes on him. She kept glancing at him, trying not to be obvious. He looked at her once, and their eyes met for a single moment. That's when he realized it.
He wanted to see her eyes.
He couldn't see them, he'd never see them again, but there they were, or at least as close as was possible.
Finally, Bailey stopped and gestured at a dark doorway ensconced in the shadows of the nearest building. "This is me," she said.
Reggie nodded and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Well then, I'll just be off, I suppose," he replied gruffly.
Bailey glanced down at the ground, then jerked her head towards the door. "Come on up," she invited him.
"Nah, I really should—"
She cut him off, reaching out and resting a hand on his arm. "You just saved my life," she told him with a weak smile. "I at least owe you something warm to drink."
Reggie looked into those green eyes and couldn't find the strength to say 'no'. He never had been able to refuse a plea like that. Not from her. Not from a girl so much like her.
So he followed her upstairs, feeling like a great, lumbering bear of a fool as she took him to her apartment, unlocked the door, and invited him inside.
It was a small studio apartment, with hardly any room to maneuver between the furniture. Bailey flipped on a light and grimaced a little at the clutter it revealed, mostly clothes and dishes scattered across the tiny living space.
"Sorry about the mess," she apologized with embarrassment as she moved a pile of laundry from a chair and dumped it in the corner behind the bed. She gathered up the dishes and indicated with her chin that Reggie take a seat in the recently vacated chair.
"You can sit there if you like."
He hesitated to do so, well aware of the state of his clothes—sopping wet. Bailey deposited the dishes in the sink and returned.
"Sit," she repeated.
"I'll ruin the upholstery," he pointed out.
Bailey scoffed and shook her head. "Don't worry about it." She reached into a closet and tossed a blanket his way.
He caught it reflexively and nodded gratefully at her as he unfolded it and wrapped it around himself. "Thanks."
Reggie sat, and Bailey turned back to the kitchen, where she clattered about, putting the kettle on and washing out two mugs.
"Do you like chamomile?" she called.
"Sure," he replied, though truthfully he thought chamomile tea tasted like old dishwater.
He glanced around the small apartment, noticing the barren walls, devoid of pictures or other decorations. Aside from the piles of clothes and dishes—of which Reggie had practically nothing—it wasn't very different from his own flat.
The kettle whistled, drawing him out of his thoughts.
"Do you take sugar or milk in your tea?"
"Neither," replied Reggie. It'd be a waste of sugar and milk, he thought silently to himself, resigned to drink his dishwater plain.
A few more minutes passed before Bailey returned with two mugs of hot tea in hand.
"You were really impressive in that alleyway," she told him as she offered a mug to Reggie. "Where'd you learn to handle yourself like that?"
He shrugged as he accepted the tea. "You find yourself in enough scrapes, you learn to get yourself out of them."
"Well…" she whispered, sitting on the armrest of the chair across from him. "Thanks."
He nodded curtly, forcing a bit of a smile as he raised the mug to his lips. It was hot, the tea, and he noticed bemusedly that it tasted less of dishwater and more of rum and a bit of lemon. "What the hell—?"
Bailey chewed nervously on her lower lip. "Sorry," she apologized. "I should have warned you. I prefer my tea hard."
A soft, throaty chuckle escaped Reggie, and he took another sip. It was actually fairly good once he knew what to expect. "I can appreciate that."
They sat in silence for a few moments, and Reggie watched Bailey, noticing that she was still wearing both jackets, holding herself and staring fixedly into space, as if she were thinking of something else.
His brow furrowed, and he found himself asking, "You sure you're all right?"
Bailey glanced at him quickly, as if she'd been startled out of a thought. She sighed and nodded, forcing a smile. "Yeah."
He didn't believe her, but he wasn't going to force the subject. If she didn't want to talk about it, she didn't have to. He was content to simply finish his tea, collect his jacket, and be on his way.
She suddenly frowned and blurted out, "My husband left last year." As soon as she'd said it, her face went white, her expression mortified as she apologized. "God, I'm so sorry," she stuttered. "I don't know why I said that." She raised her mug to her lips, her hands shaking as she sipped at her tea.
Reggie sat in silence, wondering just how to reply to that revelation, when Bailey's frown deepened and she set her mug down on the table.
"No," she stated, growing bolder. "No, I know exactly why I said that. He left me, and he took all of our savings with him, and the bar's going under, and I can't pay any of the employees, hell, I can't even pay rent anymore, and now I've just been assaulted in the street, and I'm fucking fine!"
Reggie felt a small smile spread across his face.
He didn't have time to hide it, not before she noticed it and glared up at him. "What the hell do you find so funny?"
He couldn't help but break into a grin as he growled out, "Join the fucking club, sunshine."
Bailey stared at him for a moment, then suddenly began to laugh. Maybe it was the warmth of the boozy tea, or the shivery aftereffects of walking in the rain, but Reggie joined in.
"God," Bailey groaned through her hands. "I'm pathetic. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to dump all that on you." She looked ruefully up at him and added, "All I meant was to say 'thank you', and I even managed to screw that up." She sighed and stood shakily. "I'm going to change into something dry," she announced. "I think I have something that might fit you, too. If you'd like, I could throw your clothes in the dryer."
Reggie hesitated, knowing he should just finish the tea and leave. He had a long walk home ahead of him. But for some reason the longer he stayed there, the greater his reluctance to leave became.
He opened his mouth to decline, but found the words "yeah, all right" passing softly through his lips.
Bailey smiled and nodded. She rifled through her closet and found a pair of men's pajama bottoms and a loose robe, which she handed to him. He took them gratefully, realizing that they were probably her absent husband's.
"The bathroom's through that door," she told him, pointing.
Reggie nodded and disappeared to change, peeling off his own wet clothes and changing into the clothes she'd offered him. They were a bit small, but they were dry. If he wasn't careful, he'd be tempted to stay there until the rain let up, and God only knew when that would be.
"You're getting soft," he growled irritably to himself.
Bailey had changed into loose shorts and a t-shirt, already at the dryer and tossing her own clothes into it, when he emerged. She held out her arms to take his clothes, and he couldn't help but notice the bruises on her upper arms.
She caught him staring.
"Don't worry," she reassured him with a wan smile. "It's not abuse if it's consensual, right?"
There wasn't much that could shock the gruff Scotsman, but her statement startled him, at least. "Like it rough, do you?" he inquired quietly.
She shrugged. "It's better than being lonely."
God.
What in the bloody hell was wrong with the world—a world where a woman like Bailey had to endure the attentions of men so small and shriveled on the inside that they had to hurt a woman to feel important? Reggie was not a good man, not by a longshot, but at least he knew there was a line.
Especially when it came to a woman as kind and gentle as Bailey. Sure, she tried to be strong, brave, but she wasn't. Even he could tell that.
She turned away, focusing on the dryer, and he felt as if he were noticing her for the first time. Now that her eyes were averted, they couldn't distract him from the rest of her. She moved lightly, her dark hair swaying in its damp ringlets, leaving wet trails on the back of her shirt. Apart from the bruises, her skin really was the pale milky-brown color of a glass of Irish Cream.
Standing on the divide between the kitchen and the sitting room, Reggie found himself wondering if she tasted as smooth and as sweet as the drink.
No, he told himself firmly. Not her. Not tonight.
Bailey started the dryer and turned to face him, her eyes narrowing as she caught him staring. "What?" she inquired with a smile.
He didn't answer.
No.
"What is it?" she pressed.
No, no, no.
He shook his head slowly. "Nothing, I suppose."
Bailey bit her lip, cautiously tucking her hair behind her ear as she moved nearer. It was as if she could sense his weakness, coming in for the kill like a predator. She was so close to him now—one more step and she'd be pressed against him. She wasn't even wearing a bra.
Fuck, no.
She didn't look up at him, staring downward as she murmured, "I really am grateful, Mr. Payne…for your service tonight." She reached out tentatively and placed a hand on his chest.
He closed his eyes, not even breathing.
He'd been with other women, even after…well, he'd been with other women, but never one that reminded him so much of her. Bailey had the same green eyes, the same hopeful look, the same tentative smile.
He'd made a promise when he buried her that he would never love another woman. Not like her. That was probably why he shied away from women with green eyes, dark hair, that strange and mysterious way of moving that was both tentative and seductive, women that were both prey and predator.
He looked down at her, met her gaze, feeling the muscles in his jaw clench tightly, as if he were preparing to die. Ha. He'd been preparing to die all his life. In fact, most of him had died with her. He'd been dying for years; he just hadn't wanted to admit it to himself. Now he didn't see a point in denying it, and suddenly he felt free.
Reggie was dying, and his first thought as a dying man was:
Why the fuck not?
Bailey had moved back a little, staring down bashfully at the floor, embarrassed by her own forwardness, especially considering that Reggie hadn't given any sign of reciprocating her sentiments.
He reached forward, cupping the side of her face in one large, rough hand, noticing the way she automatically leaned into the warmth of his palm, closing her eyes momentarily, savoring the touch like a good, stiff glass of whiskey.
"Reggie," he whispered hoarsely, moving nearer. "Call me 'Reggie'."
And then he lifted her chin and kissed her.
Her lips were soft, malleable, molding beneath his firm kiss, parting to welcome him into a warm and intimate greeting. Her gentle enthusiasm encouraged him, her arms sliding slowly around his neck, her front meeting his.
He grabbed her and pulled her into him, increasing the contact and the friction between them as he deepened the kiss. She tasted of rum and honey and chapstick. God, Reggie had never realized that chapstick could turn him on the way it did. Or maybe it was the way she was tugging on his lower lip with her teeth.
His fingertips dug into her buttocks as he lifted her from the floor and into his arms, her legs wrapped around his waist. He pushed her against the wall, feeling her arch against him as he buried his face into the crook of her neck, tasting that smooth, milky-brown skin, so soft against his own scruffy cheek.
His borrowed robe fell open, the knot loosened by the way their bodies rubbed together. He set Bailey down gently on her feet and let the robe fall from his shoulders, pooling on the floor around his feet. She smiled and curiously touched the contours of his thick shoulders, his chest, her hand trailing down his torso, following the line of dark hair that disappeared into the waistband of his trousers.
He groaned softly as she slowly rubbed the flat of her palm over the front of his trousers. She was well aware of what she was doing, and she knew how to do it.
"Oh, God…"
What the hell was she doing with men that left her? Hurt her? She deserved better. Not that Reggie was any better, but at least he appreciated her.
Perhaps a little too much. The heat that had pooled in his groin was beginning to build, drawing him steadily up to that point of no return.
He grabbed her by the wrist, careful to be gentle as he slowly moved her hand away. She glanced up, a look of worry on her face that was dispelled by another kiss from him. "Come," he whispered seductively against her lips.
He lifted her into his arms again and deposited her onto the bed a few steps away, where he joined her, letting his hands meander over the curves of her body. She inhaled sharply when he reached her breasts, which swelled into his touch with every breath that she took. Even through her shirt, he could feel them react to his touch, her nipples hardening like little pebbles against his palms.
Reggie was fairly certain he'd explode if he didn't undress her immediately, so he swiftly pulled her shirt upward, letting her finish extricating herself while he dragged her shorts downward.
He ran his hands up her thighs, feeling her quiver beneath his touch as he gently pushed her knees apart, making room for himself between them. Her underpants were damp already. Down they went too, tossed aside without a second thought.
She jumped a little as he ran the pad of his thumb over her, inhaling sharply through her nose. He glanced up, saw the wince on her face, and reminded himself to be gentle. She was slick and hot, and receptive to even the slightest touch of his fingers, but he wasn't there to touch her. He wanted to taste her.
Holding her hips, he lowered his lips to her, letting his tongue explore every crevice, paying special attention to that delicate little nub of nerves, chuckling softly to himself when he heard her gasp, saw her hands clench the sheets out of the corner of his eye, felt her press herself into him.
"Sweet Bailey," he murmured against her, feeling her shudder as his voice resonated into her skin. She was sweet. Sweet and soft and smooth, just as she'd promised.
He lifted his head to look at her, saw her twisted on the mattress, her chest heaving, her hands tangled in the sheets. She met his gaze, pleading silently. She needed him inside her just as much as he needed to feel her surround him.
Discarding the trousers she'd let him borrow, he climbed over her, pulling her into a long, wet kiss, hoping she could taste a hint of herself on his lips.
"Wait," she whispered hoarsely when they parted, reaching for the drawer of the nightstand and rifling through it. She let out a soft cry of triumph and held a small foil pack out to Reggie.
God, he'd almost forgotten.
"Prepared," he noted with a bit of a smile as he accepted her offering. "I like that."
It wasn't long before he'd lowered himself into her arms again, her hands clinging to his shoulders as he slowly pushed into her, giving her a little time to adjust, sinking into the sensation of her heat surrounding him.
How had he ever believed that he had the resolve to resist this? She was exquisite—her body soft and warm and welcoming. He hadn't appreciated a woman like this in years, nor had he cared to show such appreciation to a woman. Pleasure was one thing: a tumble or two here and there. This was different. A meeting of two wretched and lonely souls on a cold and wet night.
Bailey's fingernails bit into his shoulder blades, and she threw her head back, letting out a visceral cry, pressing her body up into his, and he felt it too, that point of no return finally breached, washing over him, pulling him into her, coursing through him like fire. He felt alive again, just for a moment, and he cried out, shouting her name. Then he collapsed beside her, just a trembling and empty shell.
He lay on his back, letting his breathing slow as the air cooled the perspiration on his burning skin.
Bailey moved nearer to him, pulling a blanket over them both and resting her head tentatively on his chest. Reggie glanced down at her, ran a hand gently over her dark curls, brushing them out of her face. He closed his eyes. He could almost feel her there, just as before, the only woman he'd loved with everything he had.
"Who's Vanessa?"
The soft query jolted him out of his thoughts, drenching him like a bucket of ice water. Reggie sat up, running a hand through his thick hair, peering at Bailey. Where had she heard that—?
Shit.
He hadn't shouted her name after all. Not Bailey's, at least. God, how could he be so fucking stupid? A wave of remorse washed over him, and he rose quickly, getting to his feet.
"I should go."
Bailey sat up abruptly, clutching the blanket to her chest. He tried not to feel the weight of her gaze on his back as he retreated towards the kitchen. "But your clothes—" she protested weakly.
He ignored her, pulling the dryer door open, though the cycle was only halfway completed. He'd wear damp clothes home. They'd be soaked again by the time he got there anyway, since the rain still hadn't let up.
He dressed hurriedly, wanting out of that tiny apartment as quickly as possible. Glancing up as he buttoned up his trousers, he caught sight of Bailey standing nearby, the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, a look of fearful regret on her face.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to…" She trailed off, as if she didn't even know what she hadn't meant to do.
Reggie sighed softly and shook his head. "I know," he told her with a wan smile. He approached her and held her face between his hands, pulling her into a gentle kiss. "It's not your fault, luv."
He carefully moved her aside and searched for his boots and his jacket, slipping into both, well aware that she was still watching him sadly.
It wasn't until he turned to the door, his hand on the knob, that she spoke again.
"Wait, Reggie."
He felt her hand on his arm, holding him back, and he reluctantly turned to face her.
"Will I see you again?" she whispered, her green eyes staring hopefully up at him.
Reggie regarded the woman with a sad expression, forcing a smile as he reached out and cupped the side of her face in a palm. He brushed the pad of his thumb across her cheek, closing his eyes for a moment, wanting to remember the softness of her skin.
"Sure, luv," he reassured her.
He opened the door and disappeared through it before she could say anything else, trudging down the stairs and out into the rain. He could still feel her eyes on him, though he glanced back and didn't see anyone there behind him. He could still feel her skin against his, taste her on his lips.
Bailey, the bartender with the green eyes.
Maybe he would see her again.
He scoffed at himself and shook his head. Of course he'd told her he would return. But he'd seen the shattered look on her face, felt the emptiness of his own words.
They both knew the truth, and the truth was that Reggie was a liar.
The truth?
He preferred the numbness of his half-life. He preferred the shadows. Living hurt too much. Reggie was already a dead man, just waiting for death to release him from his hell. Until then, the drugs would suffice.
He just had one small detour to make.
Tomorrow, he'd pay a visit to an old friend.