Chapter Two
Gary's beaming face startled her when she came across him in the gym. "Hey, good-looking."
Never before had a smile felt so foreign on her face. Thankfully Gary didn't seem to notice. "Hey."
He stared at her hesitantly for a moment and said, "Look, Rachel. I know that that Bruce kid is here, and I know that . . . there's probably some awkward feelings between the two of you."
Oh, god. Did everyone know? Maybe they could tell just by looking at her. Her stomach fell. "Um." Talking was clearly not her forte tonight.
"I've already had a great time tonight. If you want to go home . . ."
"You wouldn't mind?" she said, hoping her voice didn't sound as desperate as she was.
"Of course not. I was getting a little tired of this whole scene anyway. I mean, come on. Sixties glam?" He gestured out in the hall. "It looks more like a seven-year-old's luau."
She rolled her eyes. "I know, right?" It was horrifying to her that her thoughts and emotions were so out in the open that even Gary, who barely knew her, could detect the awkwardness between her and Bruce. She decided though that she should be more relieved. At least she didn't have to bear another second of this painstakingly endless night.
"C'mon." He took her arm, escorting her to the parking lot. It seemed to her that it was unnecessary to pass the cafeteria on the way out, but he led her that way, and she was too frazzled to protest. So she had to endure what seemed like the slowest fifteen seconds of her life as she passed Bruce by, her arm linked to Gary Steinmoor's.
Rachel stole a glance at him as they passed. His head was down, staring into his lap. She'd like to think that he hadn't seen her. But she knew she couldn't make a mistake this big and be that lucky.
Gary said he wanted to stop by his buddy's place and grab a book he was borrowing. It was straight on the way to her house, and she figured it she had already been enough of a burden by making him leave early, so she assured him she didn't mind one bit. They parked in the lot of an apartment building.
"It'll only be a second," he said apologetically. Then he scoped the parking lot. "Actually, would you mind coming up with me? I just don't like the idea of leaving you here by yourself. It's getting kind of late."
"Sure," she complied, following him up. They took the stairs. She didn't meant to judge, but she really didn't like the looks of the building. The concrete walls were stained and off-colored and it smelled too damp for its own good. She found it hard to believe that someone who attended Gotham's Pinebrook Academy, education for the elite, would live in a place like this. But then again, she was on scholarship. Maybe Gary's friend was, too.
"Who are you borrowing the book from?" she asked.
It took Gary a moment to answer. "You wouldn't know him, he doesn't go to Pinebrook."
"Try me. I went to public school until I was thirteen, so odds are I might have heard of him."
Gary stopped in front of a greenish, dingy-looking door. "Ah, well, he just moved here from . . . New York."
"Oh." She was too tired to continue prodding him. Oddly enough he produced a key from his pocket and turned it in the lock. Alarm bells started ringing in her head, and she took a step back.
He grabbed her arm. "It'll take two seconds."
She was too stricken by the gesture to pull away immediately. Instead she looked up at his face, which looked altogether more menacing in the dim light of the narrow hallway. His eyes kept darting in all different directions, never once looking back at her. She knew that something was wrong here. That Gary wasn't really coming here to borrow a book from someone. But she was so astonished by this epiphany that she froze.
Rachel Dawes knew she was an intelligent, level-headed girl. In fact, she spent the better part of her time wishing she were more whimsical than practical, because it seemed like her life was so boring. Always making the right decisions. Always being the responsible one.
Now here she was, in her first real shred of trouble, and she couldn't even absorb that she might have made a mistake. Sure, she'd been stupid this evening by trying to get Bruce's attention. Sure, she'd been vain and empty-headed and paid for it with her shame.
She hadn't expected this. That Gary would be anything less than charming and kind.
At first she didn't say anything. Just pulled away, hoping it was a mistake on his part and he would step back in embarrassment and mumble a boyish apology for grabbing her.
The second she moved he gripped her arm tighter.
"Hey," she stammered, surprised. "Let go."
To her horror Gary didn't say anything. He grunted, kicking the door open with his foot once it was unlocked. "Hey!" she repeated, louder this time. "What are you—?" His hand clamped over her mouth and she desperately squirmed as he pushed her through the door, struggling to make any sort of noise that may alert someone down the hall. Instinctively she knew no one was coming for her.
"Would you quit it?" Gary demanded through clenched teeth. "We don't have to make this . . . so . . . difficult—shit!"
She bit him. It was impulsive, unplanned, but it worked. In the two seconds her mouth was freed she gasped and the most unholy scream erupted from her. "Help!" she managed just before his hand clamped down on her hard.
The room was so brightly lit that she had to squint at first to adjust after the dank hallway. All throughout the room there were couples draped in various unsavory positions . . . spread out on beds, couches, even beanbag chairs. She looked up at him wildly. This couldn't be real. She would close her eyes again and she would realize she'd nodded off in his car on the way back home, and he would gently shake her awake and walk her to the door . . .
Her heart was beating so fast she thought it might burst out of her ribcage. She moaned, staring up at him, trying to plead with him to change his mind.
"Shut the hell up," Gary hissed at her. He slammed the door closed with his foot and she despaired as the only exit was barred from her. "What's your deal, anyway? I just wanna have a little fun, is all. Can't a guy have a little fun after a night out with his girl?"
Her eyes flitted through the room. Someone would stand up for her in here. Anyone. The girl in the corner with the red thong or the couple making out by the sink or the drunken half-asleep man on the couch . . . Couldn't they see what Gary was trying to do? Couldn't they see she was being held here against her will?
Why didn't anyone do something?
It was Gotham. It was this whole damn city. Nobody even cared! Nobody was even giving her so much a second glance, as if it were commonplace to watch a high school boy shove a girl into a dirty apartment building for God-only-knew-what.
She hit the wall with a thud and the other occupants of the room blurred. Her eyes were watering, but she was still aware of his sweaty, burning hands shoving her in place. With all the energy she could muster she screamed, but he was faster than she was. At first she thought he'd shoved a wet rag in her mouth, but it was his lips, pressing hard against hers. She thrashed her head from side to side.
"No, no, no."
"God damn it, Rachel, it doesn't have to be—"
A deafening crack resounded through the room. Gary's grip on her slackened in bewilderment and she slid to her knees, hiccupping uncontrollably. "Holy . . ." she gasped. The door had been split straight open, caving into the room from some outside force.
"I swear to God, Steinmoor," an all too familiar voice rumbled, "that if you lay so much as one hand on her—"
"Bruce," she wheezed in relief. She clutched her heart as if to stop its beating.
Gary, not missing a beat, stepped up and punched Bruce square in the jaw. "This is none of your business, Wayne," he sneered, watching with satisfaction as Bruce hit the floor, unprepared for the blow. "This is between me and Rachel." Bruce struggled to his feet, up before Rachel could even start to worry, but Gary didn't play fair. He kicked Bruce in the gut, knocking him swiftly to the floor, and made another quick aim for his face.
"Stop it!" Rachel screamed. "Please, don't hurt him—"
Bruce didn't move and she felt herself curling into a ball, looking away. Oh, please, no, she thought. This couldn't end so badly. This could only be a nightmare, but there was Bruce, crumpled on the floor on her account. How could she be so naïve? So brainless and trusting? So . . . mean?
She was paying the price for her immaturity. This was her karma, this was the misfortune that she had inevitably caused with her folly. She had done this to hurt Bruce . . . if only she'd known how well she would succeed.
Gary was rounding back on her, a revolting smirk stretched across his face. He was hideous in his delusion of power. She backed up against the wall, pressing in on herself and shutting her eyes. How could I let this happen? How could I be such a fool?
Then Gary flew to the floor. Bruce was at his feet, albeit shakily, his face contorted in more fury and wrath than she had ever seen him express. Blood dripped from his lip and she could already see the sheen of a nasty bruise developing around his eye. He wouldn't even look at her, his hatred fixed on Gary alone.
Several people in the room started, alarmed by this turn of events. They would defend Gary if they hadn't defended her. She opened her mouth to warn Bruce, but he interrupted her.
"Rachel," he rasped, "get to the car."
She scrambled to her feet. "Bruce, I'm so—"
"I said get in the damn car, Rachel," he barked. They were circling in on him. It was a fight no man could win alone, and she certainly wasn't going to be able to help, standing on the sidelines like a gaping fish. And she couldn't disobey him. There was some tremor in his voice she had never before heard—was it fear?—and it compelled her to listen.
Her feet were flying beneath her, tumbling effortlessly down the stairs. She could suddenly grasp Bruce's so-called bravery. She understood what fueled his insane antics. It was the adrenaline rush behind it—she was on fire, she wasn't even trying. It took only a second to locate Bruce's Lamborghini. It was unlocked. She tore the door open and flung herself inside, not taking a second to catch her breath before she was certain every door was locked.
Then slowly the adrenaline faded. And all she felt was . . . hollow. Empty.
This was what it was like to be Bruce Wayne?
She should move. Find a phone somewhere and call 911. Alert the authorities. For the life of her, though, Rachel couldn't move. Like a child she was clutching herself to the door of the car, immobile and terrified. She barely even breathed. Waiting, as if she could freeze time and go backward, stop herself from letting this happens.
If Bruce is hurt, it will be all my fault.
Her heart was still hammering, but she'd never felt so much dread in her entire life.
If Bruce dies . . .
Her thoughts fleeted back to his expression. How ghastly and foreign it seemed to her in that foul, sullied room. It hadn't looked at all like the Bruce she knew and loved. All this effort she'd put into getting a rise out of him, and now she'd been delivered a stranger. His eyes were the real change. They'd been burning. The void, cold look of them had been entirely melted by sheer rage.
What had she done? How long would she be here, gasping and waiting on edge for him to return? Would he return at all?
Tears seeped soundlessly down her cheeks, ruining her. She'd ripped her mother's good cocktail dress and her high heels had been nicked. She could feel the clumpy make-up falling apart on her once immaculate face. All she was, when it came down to it, was a little girl playing dress-up. A game she thought she couldn't lose, until there had been an objective. Now the innocence of this game was lost, and Bruce would be the price she had to pay.
A knock came at the window of the Lamborghini and a small shriek escaped her. Through the tinted glass she could make out Bruce's battered form, and her throat hitched in concern. He swung the door open, checking momentarily to make sure she was secured in the vehicle, and took off without a word.
She was too afraid to speak. For the few blocks they drove she only watched his face in utter disbelief and unease. He was bleeding—she couldn't tell where from, but it was trickling deeply down his forehead and dripping into his lap. His suit was torn up and she noticed a nasty gash trailing up his arm. His breathing was ragged and labored, as was her own. But he didn't so much as flinch to give away the pain. Instead he stared straight ahead, his eyes peeled diligently on the road, silent and still.
He pulled into a deserted parking lot near her house. Presumably to clean up before she came home. Bruce knew they would probably never discuss this again after tonight, and she couldn't afford to be caught by her parents.
They sat in silence for a moment, his hands still propped on the steering wheel. Finally she asked softly, "How did you know?"
He swallowed hard. "Followed you out of the school," he admitted gruffly.
She stared at him searchingly, obliging him to stare back. Reluctantly he turned his gaze over toward hers. She nearly pulled back away from him, the transformation was so shocking. His face was a mess. Not only because of the blood and battering, but because it seemed ripped and exposed. He stared at her so compassionately, so protectively, that she found her eyes watering all over again. The floodgates released and she couldn't control the onset of new tears.
"I couldn't trust him. I told you, Rachel, I don't like that kid."
"I know," she whimpered pathetically. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," he said. He drew her over to him and she fell into his arms, sobbing harder than she had since she was a little girl. "You couldn't have known."
"I should have," she blubbered into his jacket. "I feel so stupid."
"Rachel Dawes, you are anything but stupid," Bruce chuckled lightly.
She shook her head. "No, I messed up, Bruce. I messed up . . . and look what they did to you," she moaned.
"Hey." He pulled her away from him for a moment so she could look him straight in the face. "Don't you worry about me at all. I can hold my own. It's you I worry about."
"You shouldn't."
He wrapped his arms around her and let her cry for awhile. Patiently he sat through her sobs, stroking her hair and soundlessly assuring her. She didn't deserve him. She'd set out tonight to torture him and here he was, faithful and steady as ever, letting her fall apart in front of him.
"Rachel," he said huskily after awhile. "I know why you went with him."
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Here was the moment of judgment, and she felt so ill-prepared.
"I called him pathetic because he wasn't good enough for you. Not because I doubted you in any way."
This time she pulled away from him and her hands were stained with his blood. "Bruce," she breathed weakly, "you need to see a doctor. Look at you."
He ignored her. He wasn't finished. "Do you know how much you scared me tonight?" he asked, his voice cracking. "Do you have any idea . . ."
Her heart felt like it was squeezing. So now she knew how much he cared . . . except how horrible, that she had to terrify him and get him into a god-awful scrape to do it. Why had she been so desperate for validation? She knew Bruce. Obviously he cared about her, or else he wouldn't be so constantly there for her, so solid like a rock.
"I'm so sorry," she repeated emphatically. "Bruce . . ."
"We should take you home."
"But—"
"We'll swing by the manor first and find you something to wear," he assured her. He smiled softly. "I know a way in. Alfred won't see."
Why was he doing this for her? She deserved to have her parents find out. She deserved to get in trouble for this, not swallow it up like it had never happened.
But this was the way of Bruce. To swallow things, like they had never happened. Tonight he would open up to her and show her how much he really did care about her, but he would pretend like it hadn't happened, and never mention it again. She knew that tomorrow afternoon this entire incident would be a nonexistent blip in their lives.
Suddenly she laughed. "I look so bad you wouldn't let Alfred see me?" she joked, shoving him lightly.
"Well," he said with a devilish look, "what with Alfred in his old age and all, I wouldn't want to be giving him a premature heart attack."
"I'm not that bad! One look at you, with your face like that—"
He grinned at her. "Wait a minute, you're telling me I look bad when I just saved your ass? Now, now, Dawes, I don't think that's quite f—"
She did it without thinking. It was the way he could smile for her benefit, even after all that had happened. It was the way he always understood what she needed. It was that Bruce had this habit of annoying the hell out of her and then being absolutely perfect when the time was right.
So she kissed him.
At first he was too shocked to respond, and she felt a last flicker of fear. But then they were lost, drinking each other in. Her reality was a blur, and she forgot about all the strife she'd endured that night as she fell closer to him, her lips dancing with her own. His hand was buried in her hair and hers clasped around his neck, the touch feeling so natural and right that she wondered why she had tortured and wrangled herself in doubt of this. It was every girlish fantasy of her first kiss relived. She closed her eyes and lost herself.
Sometime later they pulled apart breathlessly, staring at each other in disbelief.
"Wh-what was that?" Bruce managed, flabbergasted.
After all this time she'd finally accomplished what she'd set out to do: shock Bruce Wayne. She shrugged. "A thanks."
"Some thanks." He shook his head in amazement. "Jeez, Dawes. I didn't . . . I mean, I didn't expect you to—Well." If she wasn't mistaken, it appeared that the almighty untouchable Bruce Wayne may actually be blushing. He cleared his throat, regaining composure. "It's, uh, really late. We should . . ."
"Oh, yeah. Before my parents get home." She knew they wouldn't mind her being late if she came home with Bruce. They'd probably just assumed she was going with him in the first place, because she'd purposefully neglected to mention Gary before they left.
Her hair had come undone and she tucked it behind her ear—then stopped mid-gesture. Her hand was sticky and warm. As Bruce was nearing the manor she flicked on the overhead light and saw that her hands and forearms were bright, coppery red. "Bruce." Her voice came out just above a squeak as she slowly looked up at him.
He flicked off the light. "That's illegal, you know."
She had already seen before he'd had the chance to hide it. "Oh my God, Bruce."
"It's fine."
"No, it's not fine. How are you even driving?"
"Rachel," he half-laughed, "it just looks bad, okay?"
"Just looks bad?" she echoed. His entire neck was bloodied, gushing from something in his head. She shuddered. "You're hurt."
Bruce ignored her, taking the sharp turn into the driveway of the Wayne Manor. The Lamborghini slid in with an ease that belied the tension inside of it. She barely breathed—her elation had been shattered just as suddenly as it had come.