Bruce immediately regretted his decision as he walked down the hallway of the club, following the waiter closely. What would he even say? No, what could he say to her? There were so many subjects on his mind that he couldn't choose one and he was scared that if he didn't, they would all exit his mouth at once. It also didn't help that Pamela made him do things he didn't know he could. He could control his mafia with an iron fist every day, but one look at her, and he was down for the count. He hoped he would be able to find his way through small talk at least, although he wanted to talk about deeper topics like their relationship and why she was quitting singing when she was at the zenith of her career.
The waiter stopped at the very last door in the hallway, gesturing it with one hand. Bruce thanked the waiter and he promptly left, pulling out the cash once more to marvel at it. Bruce turned to knock on the door, but watched a couple pass him by, the woman carrying a small bouquet of roses. Flowers, dammit! Why did everyone have flowers except for him? He could've picked up some on his way over to the club from his work, but he had forgotten. He considered stealing the roses from her arms, but decided against it. He would give her something better than roses: his time and attention. That's something she definitely would've appreciated more than flowers when they were together.
After the couple left, Bruce turned back towards the door and his breath caught in his throat, his mind racing a mile a minute once more. How would he greet her? Hi, Pamela, I know it's been a while, but I just wanted to let you know that you did so well out there and you're still one of the most beautiful women I know.
Bruce paused as he thought about it. No, that was too forward. He could greet her and ask her about the weather? No, that was too casual and she especially hated small talk. He let out some curses under his breath as he fixed his tie, the movement now a nervous tick. Should he just go home? That was a tempting thought, but the idea of seeing her made him stay outside her dressing room. When would he ever see her again? It was clear she was leaving the city and never coming back. He couldn't let her slip through his fingers yet again.
Bruce rapped his knuckles against the door, hoping that he would come up with something good to say to her on his feet. That's when he did his best from time to time and he hoped he could prove himself right. He listened as he heard someone moving from behind the door before it finally opened.
Pamela stood in the doorway, her body still clad in her green dress. Instead of her easygoing nature, she looked completely broken-her green eyes were red and puffy and her mascara was smeared. Her lipstick was all messed up around her mouth, but she also had a handprint on her cheek, which concerned Bruce instantaneously. Anger was hot in his belly, something that hadn't happened to him in a while. He was frustrated every day, but this sensation was different because it was evident that someone had hurt her.
As if she saw this emotion in his eyes, Pamela cleared her throat and tried to dab at her eyes with the back of her hands as much as she could. She shook her head and walked back to her vanity to try and do a better job. Grimacing, Bruce shut the door behind him and walked towards her, noticing that her vanity was covered with numerous bouquets of roses. He was glad he didn't get her any flowers-they were pretty, but they were not what she needed at the time. Pamela sniffed as she turned towards him and Bruce reached down, gently cupping his cheeks with his hands. He was a good foot taller than her and he forgot how fragile she could seem. That was also a part of her beauty, her allure, and Bruce knew that if she wasn't careful, men would be able to overpower her.
He could tell she was fighting a fresh wave of tears and he slowly shook his head, watching as a droplet rolled down her cheek. He brushed it away with his thumb and he sighed, feeling her sadness match his own. She pushed her handprinted cheek into his touch, silently thanking him for comforting her.
"Pamela," his voice was a whisper as if he were afraid of someone overhearing their conversation. "What happened?"
"Nothing, nothing. I promise." She shook her head and hesitantly matched his gaze, forcing a smile onto her lips. She was trying to push the real problem away and she was failing miserably. She only saw concern darken his blue eyes.
"You know I don't believe you." Bruce said as he pulled his hands away from her cheeks and took hold of her hand, leading her over to the chair at her vanity. She reluctantly sat down and placed both of her hands in her lap, feeling the softness of the silk beneath her fingertips. She knew he would want her to confess and she didn't think she could. Bruce knelt beside her and took her tiny hand in his, his thumb slowly rubbing the back of it. The action made Pamela smile and Bruce let out a quiet chuckle, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
"There it is . . . there's that smile." Bruce whispered once more, but only because it was more of a private memory. He softly squeezed her hand and calmed some more when he saw the handprint had faded. "I know you're tired, so why don't you come back to my place? Only for some drinks, of course."