Chapter 1: A new town

The ashes slowly crumbled away from the obviously had crafted cigarette. He'd never fancied the ones you could simply buy from a store clerk, they never lasted as long, and the smoke never stayed in ones lungs long enough to feel that satisfaction; the kind you only feel when you know that you've survived a near death experience by skill alone. A small smile crept onto the man's face as he drove through the town in his new car. He'd stolen it in the last town, a last minute get away from the coppers. There was a suitcase full of money in the backseat, which was also filled inconspicuously with clothing. As the car hit a slight bump in the road, a gloved hand reached up and with his middle finger he pushed up the bridge of his octagonal glasses. What was that that he'd hit anyway? It felt rather large, but he hadn't been paying much attention to the road anyway.

It was a good thing he was paying attention to the road now as a woman darted into the middle of the road, standing there with a hand extended to stop him, her expression stern.

"WOAH," he cried out, slamming his foot on the break and swerving to a stop just before the hood of the vehicle toughed her tan hand. "Get out of the road you dumb dora!" He took in the sight of her, leaning over the car door to give her an angry expression, a cold one. She seemed to go slack for a moment, seeing his face. He knew that he had an intimidating presence, sharp eyes, long face, pronounced cheek bones, and pitch black hair slicked back smoothly under his hat. He wore a dark sleeveless vest over a white shirt, sleeves messily pushed up to his elbows with his cufflinks still visible; a pair of molar cufflinks. With a shake of her head, short dark hair staying neatly in place, she seemed to remember why she had initially stopped him.

"D'you have any idea what you just did?" The woman put her hands on her hips, lips in a dreadfully attractive pout. Her skin was so tan, and it contrasted so nicely with her blue coat. It was long, so he couldn't see much else she was wearing, but damn did he get a good appreciative look at her legs. The man smiled. She was too tan to be from around here, maybe to be from this country even. He could tell just by looking that the coat was a knock off, and the pearl and feather earrings she wore were obviously costume. So she couldn't be that well off. Was she foreign? With those eyes- a deep, rose color, with large dark eyelashes- she had to be!

"No, I don't believe I do." His smile faded into a scowl now. This could get bad… He didn't want to make a scene, attract the cops. He was a wanted man after all. He quickly placed a hand on the gear shift, ready to bolt away in his convertible if anything went wrong. There was a hotel nearby that he'd been planning on hiding away in for a while.

"Ya ran over my suitcase back there!" Her hands angrily pointed back down the street, where I looked in my rearview mirror to see that the object I had run over was actually a suitcase. She seemed upset over it, perhaps he should offer her some sort of apology? Yes, that seemed most logical.

"I'm terribly sorry, Miss. Is there any way that I can remedy the situation?" The woman gave him a strange look just then, as if his head had suddenly sprouted a third eye and he was speaking gibberish to him now.

"Well," she stuttered, fumbling for a moment before cursing in another language. Ah, so she was foreign! Where was she from though? With such bright eyes, tanned skin, and dark hair? He found himself musing over these things, not out of interest, but pure boredom, almost bordering anxiety. He had to get out of here quickly, people were starting to look. He pressed down on the gas pedal, revving the engine as if to jar her from her thoughts so that he could get going. "You could give me a lift in your spiffy looking breezer there? I missed the jitney when you ran my bag flat." She looked as if the situation was so ridiculous that she wanted to laugh about it, but she was obviously too distressed at the moment to think of doing something such as laughing.

"Where you headed? I've got places to go." The man sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He pulled his gloves on tighter, trying to keep occupied as he waited for her answer.

"I'm only headed over to the hotel down the way! It's not too far! I promise!" He let out a small snort of disbelief, shaking his head. She seemed furious at this response and stomped in protest, but before she could speak, he held up his hands to stop her.

"Fine, fine," he grumbled. "That's where I'm headed anyway. Get your bag and we'll go." The woman stared at him in disbelief, hands almost hidden by her sleeves as her arms dangled limply at her sides. Only her fingertips were visible. Yes, definitely a knock off coat. "Get a wiggle on," he encouraged, raising his voice. This seemed to snap the girl out of her delusions and she quickly nodded, dashing to grab her bag from the road and quickly running back, feet tapping with every step. Perhaps she was a dancer? The woman threw the bag into the backseat along with his own and gracefully opened the door and slid into the seat next to him, closing the door softly. "No, no, no," he sighed, reaching over her rudely and pushing the door open and slamming it shut. "The doors are finicky; you really gotta give it some elbow grease to shut it tight."

With that they drove off down the street. The radio was busted, which the girl noticed as soon as she'd tried to turn it on in an attempt to fill the silence. She seemed almost eager to fill the silence, like it was under her skin; a disease. One which if she didn't cure soon she was going to melt right into the cream-colored, leather seat she was sitting in and disappear entirely.

"So," she started quickly, her accent slipping through. She'd been trying to hide it under a heavy Bronx accent, but he could see right through that. "What can I call you?" She reached her hands up to primp her short hair in the rear-view mirror. He thought for a moment, it might not be the best idea to give a random person his name. He was a criminal after all.

He could see it now, the stout man running after him, blonde tresses of hair bursting out from underneath his police man cap. Never a word had he shouted, a phrase uttered, a retort whispered… Officer Sandy- the man who had chased him all over the states in an attempt to catch him- never once had he been caught. The droll sound of the tiny mans police whistle still rang in his ears, almost as a warning sign when the man was near. He could always hear it, that whistle. In fact, near any whistle now a days sent a shiver of fear up his spine.

"Mr. Black," he answered simply, keeping his eyes on the road, and hands gripped tight onto the steering wheel. He didn't like idle chatter. But he supposed that out of politeness he should ask as well. "And what may I call you?" She seemed to perk up a bit from her frightened stature at that. He pulled up the car to the hotel, stopping in front of the lobby to let her out before finding a spot to park. There was no way he was letting a valet park the car for him; mainly because it was stolen.

"They call me Tooth," she took the same approach as him, no actual names.

"And why do they call you that?" He couldn't stop the words before he'd spoken them. He wasn't interested in the slightest. What he was interested in was getting inside before someone recognized him. She seemed to have the same idea as she quickly hopped out of the car and grabbed her suitcase out of the backseat in a hurry.

"I'd love to stay and chat, but I'm late! See ya later, Mr. Black," she winked and smirked at him before quickly dashing inside. Pitch groaned in relief, sinking back against the leather interior before driving away to park. Carefully pulling into a faraway space, away from any other cars, he pulled up the top of the car, grabbed his suitcase, and went inside to check into his room. Everything was going off without a hitch.