**Disclaimer: Post TLH, Dark Victory by Jeph Loeb & Tim Sale. Years on, still inspirational. Also, a healthy dose of Drake thrown in, particularly, his songs "Doing It Wrong," "Lord Knows," & "Furthest Thing." DC & Bob Kane own the concept behind all herewith mentioned. Plus, many an automatic phone messaging system will attest to the following request. I do not condone excessive drug or alcohol use, nor do I assume Bruce does. And, perhaps, late night phone calls aren't the best idea either.**
Do you want to review your message?
Not too tired. But his eyes did itch as he rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyelids. He glanced backwards, but not completely.
She, Loli, Brazilian, a model. She'd said he looked too tired. But she'd been smiling with the stem of a maraschino cherry between her two front teeth.
It had been thirteen weeks since she'd left town. The day after Valentine's Day. He could still feel the bits of concrete and gravel following him in from the front walk into her foyer after the movers had let him in. The suspicion that had crept into his mind concerning ownership of the moving company…even then…now he grimaced.
He was an idiot. Showing up the next morning, as if everything was okay. Candies in hand, not even her favorites. Just some nice chocolates Alfred had picked up that previous Tuesday.
He'd ignored Loli's offer of whatever pill she was on, only sipping what little gin and tonic was necessary to get him through the act.
He wasn't romantic about sex, not really. She wasn't exactly hard to please, or, at least she was good at acting if she was. He didn't care much about rather he pleased her or not. She would be satisfied with a few champagne mornings and maybe, if she was good, a stone or two.
She'd rather have the story to tell later. That she'd bedded the Wayne heir, made him and ditched him.
But he'd seen her slip a pill or two in her palm and discretely poured out the wine, replacing it with the sparkling cider he'd hidden under the bathroom sink. He couldn't change what was in her purse, but he could lessen the chance that the encounter would turn too sour.
She thought she was drunker than she was. And her climax, faked or otherwise, could be documented by whoever wanted to know. He'd finished and disposed of the contraceptive. And she'd mumbled some things before growing silent.
Now she lay there and he'd waited to determine whether she was asleep or pretending. After thirty-odd minutes, he could be sure.
He'd picked up his cell and dialed long familiar numbers.
"…I know you won't listen to this. I know I shouldn't have the gall to try to reach you. I know that you're somewhere and you've asked me not to look for you. I haven't. I've wanted to. I've…this isn't the first time I've reached out to you and perhaps it won't be the last," he gazed back, balefully, at bronze skin, "I know you don't care and shouldn't, but you're missed."
His shoulders moved with a heavy sigh, "I haven't the right to miss you. But I do."
The recording ended and the automated voice questioned him, Do you want to review your message?
He exhaled again and hit the option to delete. He tossed the phone across the rug and shifted back onto his elbows.
Tomorrow, or the next day, he'd lie down again, and he'd wish it were Selina. But it won't be.