He was just a teenager when he found her.
She was a year younger than him, only seventeen, but there was a cigarette hanging from her lips and her tights were ripped and her shorts were too short and her tight shirt showed too much stomach, and it was painfully obvious just what she was. Her hair was cut short and bright red. He wasn't going to speak to her. He didn't bother with her kind. He was just coming into his father's fortune, he was just getting a rep; ruining it with some common whore would be an idiotic move. But she took a step towards him, smirking and purring seductively, "Hey, big spender. I can tell you're a man of distinction. So good looking." Good God, her voice. He couldn't decide if it was irritating and grating or fantastically, gorgeously unique. She ran her finger along his jawline to his chin, smirking. "Spend a little time with me."
He pushed her away. "I don't have time for this."
"Hey," she said, this time sounding less arrogant and more pleading. "Let me show you a good time."
He turned back to turn her away once more, but stopped. Her dark black sunglasses had slipped down her nose enough to reveal tired but beautiful grey eyes lined with darkness that was either bruises or the results of sleep deprivation. Her eyes were so desperate and broken and panicked and piercing that he couldn't look away, and he found himself muttering, "Fine, goddammit, follow me."
And with a small smile, she did.
—
She did indeed show him a good time. It was year later when they met again, at a small gathering of a few of the gangs he was trying to get in good with. He was rich and getting famous, and she was unmistakably bright – bright red hair, bright red clothes, and those same sunglasses. He had to wonder if she'd joined up with the Amazons at some point. When she casually said hello, he had to fight to rip off those damn shades and stare at her eyes a little longer.
Instead, he just nodded and said, "Hello, whore."
She pretended to cringe. "Gee, ouch. I have a name, ya know?"
He rolled his eyes. "And I suppose you're going to tell me what it is?"
"If ya insist. Babs." He smiled to himself. One letter off from babe. It seemed appropriate. "What should I call ya, Mister Big Spender?" He smirked wider. So she remembered that, at least. He had tipped her generously, after all.
"Just call me the Duke…of Detroit." It wasn't his title, not yet. But it would be. Just give him time. His smile turned predatory, and she shivered.
"Sure…Duke." And she turned around and sashayed out.
—
He wandered into the club, his new fur coat heavy and warm on his shoulders. He'd taken to wearing bright red shades, but the place was so dark that he had to remove them. This annoyed him, because he didn't like to think about the fact that he wore them, because he didn't like to think about why he wore them. He also didn't like to think about the huge amount of red in this outfit because he didn't like to think about the person who was all reds with one splash of greyish silver. He shook his head. Focus.
He walked towards the only source of light, the large, lit-up and currently empty stage, finding the bar not far from it. He had officially (well, as official as anything could be, down here) been named the "Duke of Detroit," and in celebration he'd come to blow some cash and get completely drunk. A woman stood next to him, wearing dark black shades (not that that meant anything), blonde, very pretty and a very good fuck. She was his bodyguard, his designated driver, his handler. He smirked at her, and she quirked one bright pink lip.
Suddenly the dimly lit stage was bright and brilliant. He turned his attention to it, interested in seeing the last remnants of an old…thing, from before Kane. The 20th century or something. Burlesque or some shit like that. Like stripping, but less, leaving just a tiny bit more to the imagination. He preferred it that way. His eyebrow quirked appreciatively as a line of barely dressed women walked from the sides of the stage, all high-heels and sheer tights. None were terribly exciting looking; attractive, the lot of them, but lacking a certain spark. Maybe his standards were just too high, ever since…
Out from center stage walked a woman, an inch taller than the rest (or maybe it was just the heels) who was all bright red, and he was suddenly hot in an entirely comfortably way, and she opened her mouth and sang and he was confused as to how he could have ever found this voice anything but gorgeous.
Her hair had gotten long enough to put in a ponytail that reached the middle of her back. She still wore her gloomy black shades that hid those gorgeous eyes of hers.
She stepped into the light, and he sucked in a breathe between suddenly clenched teeth. There was a long red scar across her cheek, disappearing under her glasses. Suddenly the warmth was gone, replaced with hard, cold rage.
He wanted to know who did this to her.
It was almost a pity. He couldn't even enjoy the show.
When she disappeared back stage he told his bodyguard to stay where she was and he pushed back, using alternating force and persuasion to push past the floozies and bouncers that guarded backstage. He pushed his way into her dressing room (she had her own dressing room?) and found her there, fixing her lipstick.
Her eyes jerked to him (he thought they did, anyway; it was hard to tell behind the glasses) and she gasped out, "Duke?! What the…?"
He cut her off, taking a few purposeful steps towards her. "What happened to your face?"
"Huh?" she asked, touching her cheek like she'd forgotten it was there. "It was nothin'. Why're ya back here? Hell. Why're ya so upset?"
"Someone hurt you!"
"Why do ya care?!" she spat, getting angry now. "You barge intah my dressing room, yell at me about some stupid little scar – you don't even know me!"
She was so irritatingly arrogant, so strong, and it pissed him off and he just went ahead and did what he'd wanted to do for a long time.
He grabbed her glasses, ripped them off of her face, and threw them to the ground. They cracked and broke in half, but he barely noticed. They stared at each other, panting, angry, and her eyes were nothing but sad.
She could lie with her face, she could lie with her body, she could lie with anything at all except her eyes. And her eyes were broken and empty in way that scared him. He took a step back from her. He muttered, "I'm sorry."
"…It was my dad," she said, without inflection. "My dad did this to me." Her voice became fervish. "But that doesn't matter because I work here now and I've got a job and money and I'm an adult and I never ever have to go back to him and I'm free now I'm okay I'm fine I'm over it I never have to go back and…and…and…" and suddenly she was crying. And he didn't know what to do, because she was right, he didn't know her. He'd met her twice and once was when he'd fucked her silly, paid her fee and left her alone. But her eyes, god he loved her eyes, and her face and her smile and he voice and he loved everything about this woman he barely knew. And so he hugged her gently to his chest, and she clung to him and sobbed into him, loud and wracking and trembling and broken. But healing.
And as she pulled away, he asked her softly, "Babs, would you like to come work with me?"
And she just nodded, mute. But then she added, voice quiet, "But ya owe me a new pair of sunglasses."
—
He finds he doesn't mind the glasses, so long as she never wears them when they're together. He wants to see her eyes, he tells her. They're beautiful. And that always makes her smile.
And he learns all the little things about this woman, the wonderful things, like that he favourite shampoo smells like motor oil and that her nose is always just a tiny bit red and that her feet are ticklish and that she loves twister and tic-tac-toe. That her father beat her mercilessly when she was young and that her mother tried to stop him and was beaten half to death for it. Things that change loving everything about her to loving her.
And when he tells her one night as they're making love, she just rolls her big, beautiful, expressive silver eyes and tells him, "About damn time."