Her body is still on white hotel sheets, the curve of her hipbone like the thorough roundness of a question mark.
What is he going to do with her?
Kill her – that was the plan, yessir, and though he felt her struggle in the tub, holding her by the base of the neck (not by the hair, no need for her last few moments to be uncomfortable), keeping her head underwater, there was something inexplicably wrong, unbearable, about the whole thing. Wet strands clinging to his large palm, her cold flesh surreal, battling against his hold yet so much like death already.
He pulled her out just in time, he thinks – just after she became still, not a second later. Yes, by that time, it might have been a matter of seconds.
Sara is alive but unconscious, spread somewhat ungracefully over the bedcovers, one arm raised near her face, her legs slightly bent, an unfinished fetal arc. Her hair is lumped on the sheets, darker from the water, which is starting to soak into the pillows.
If this were a movie, Kellerman thinks, she'd be wearing makeup even in her sleep – even if she were in a bloody coma – her hair would be a flashing red halo, her lips facing the ceiling, waiting for him to steal a kiss.
And yet, even in this unlikely position, her body isn't uninviting.
That isn't really why Paul saved her. Too sleazy for him. Weaknesses of the flesh are for lowly people like Bagwell. Animals. There aren't people Kellerman despises more than those who are ruled by their impulses.
A grunting sound comes through her parted lips. No thread of drool oozing at the corner, but it's not the taunting pout he's seen on Hollywood actresses. Not that Kellerman would want to kiss an inanimate woman. Not that he spends that much time thinking about kissing conscious women, either.
With Sara, he might want to.
Might like any kind of kiss, fierce and feisty, angry, vengeful. Passion born out of hell is just as fine to Paul Kellerman as any other.
He realizes he's moved closer to the bed, to pay closer attention to his prisoner. A shame if her body should give out now, after all those hours of stiff resolve – that'd be like Sara, he reckons, dying on him just when he decided to save her, spiting him, getting the last word.
The last thing she told him was to go to hell.
And he likes her for it.
Might have even saved her for it.
What Kellerman likes in women is strength. All the rest is ultimately boring and bland.
After a while of looking at her, Kellerman figures the young woman is lying a little too still. He can't make out the calm rhythm of her breathing. Her face is relaxed, very pale, it seems to him – it might just be the contrast with her momentarily darker hair. Still, Kellerman wants to be sure.
If she's going to die, it's not going to be by accident. He can't both not have the satisfaction of saving her and miss the climax of taking her out.
Gentle (like a prince), he leans into her and presses his palm against her ribcage – is only trying to feel the swell of her upper body as she exhales, doesn't mean to feel the firm-softness of her breast under his palm, the surprising tautness of a nipple.
Yes, she is breathing –
Kellerman knows, now, not only because he can feel it, but because when his eyes glide upwards, from her chest to her face, he can see her eyes are open.
"Sara," he sounds surprised.
Sounds like a man caught red-handed while trying to molest a sleeping woman.
Or is it just that she's looking at him like that, her eyes lightnings from hell, both ice and fire.
"I was only –"
He draws back, removes his hand, which is moist from touching her – her shirt got soaked sometime during the afternoon.
Only what?
Kellerman wonders how to finish that question.
Trying to play the hero, for a change, allowing himself to be moved by the dying woman in his grasp. It's been so long since anything moved him, and yet, those unwavering principles, the sureness of righteous hate in her eyes as she faced him, no longer afraid of his torture, no longer controllable in any degree.
Go to hell.
'Ladies first,' Kellerman might have answered, like the gentleman he was(n't).
"You passed out," he explains, but he is still leaning over her, and she's still looking at him like he's tried to rape her. "I –" Is he stammering? Christ, how stressful to be on trial, when the only jurors are her unforgiving eyes. "You were dying." The truth, maybe, which he's not yet acknowledged to himself. "I couldn't just let you die –"
Shock makes him breathless and cuts his sentence midway when she knees him in the groin. The blow is sure and determined, like she's done this before. Kellerman would think it impressive if he weren't tumbling backwards from pain, ridiculously bouncing on the mattress.
Sara jumps to her feet faster than he can follow. For a woman who's nearly been drowned a few minutes ago, she's astonishingly spry, her body flashing through the hotel room, aiming for the door – which is locked. He knows, because he's got the key, and she's not reckless enough to fish through his pockets.
"Fuck."
He blinks at the swear word. He's never heard her swear before.
By the time Kellerman can think of going after her, she's slipped back into the bathroom. Please, he thinks, don't let her lock herself in. It'll be such a pain to kick the door that noise, it'll alert people in the neighboring rooms, and Paul's already had a visit from the owner to let him know he was being too noisy.
It crosses Kellerman's mind that he's being punished for his cowardice.
Modern women, he thinks bitterly. Not such wonderful damsels in distress. You spare their life, and what do they do? Hit you in the genitals and run for dear life.
How unchivalrous Sara must make him look.
Fortunately, Kellerman finds the bathroom door is unlocked – though all relief is squeezed out of his brain when the burning surface of the iron hits his chest, melting shirt and flesh. Kellerman hears the scream tear out of his mouth, feels vaguely faint as a burnt-caramel odor hits his nostrils.
The next thing he knows, he's lying on the bathroom floor and Sara is jumping out the window.
So much for chivalry.
If he ever sees Sara again – and he will get his hands on her, sooner or later – he's going to kill her dead. Hopefully, before she's had the time to tell anyone about this.
...
End Notes:
I don't really know where this came from. Darker and yet somewhat funnier than what I usually write. Please share your thoughts.