Here it is, chapter 10. Reviews would be wonderful. Enjoy!
She's a vision for his tired eyes.
She's wearing dark jeans and a black wool sweater, her hair is tied together in a loose knot with a few unruly strands framing her face and it's the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
"You're early," she tells him in a mock accusatory tone as she guides him inside. "Make yourself at home. Dinner is almost ready."
"What's on the menu?"
"Fettuccine Alfredo. I know it's probably not as-"
"You cooked?" He tries to hide his disbelief but fails miserably.
"Well, yes. I mean I didn't have much time to prepare anything because you wouldn't let me leave the hotel room" - she is extraordinary, he thinks to himself- "but I hope you'll like it."
"Lizzie, I am fully convinced it will be the most delectable pasta I have ever tasted."
"That doesn't put me under any pressure at all now, does it?" She pauses for a moment. "I'm glad you're here, Red."
He can't quite grasp how he got this lucky.
"So am I, Lizzie. So am I."
She excuses herself to freshen up and leaves him in the living room with a chance for discovery. As he scans her bookshelves he spots an old record player abandoned in the corner and tries his luck, positions it and adjusts the needle, lets himself be surprised. It begins rotating somewhat reluctantly, but the sound fills the room full and clear. In The Wee Small Hours, Sinatra. Perfect.
He had been right. Dinner had in fact been delicious, the pasta, her wine selection, and her company, well, no words could really do that justice. Their conversation had been so casual, the atmosphere so domestic, that he had to constantly remind himself this wasn't just a sanguine figment of his imagination.
"I can't believe that thing still works," she tells him as she descends the stairs. "I haven't used it in years."
"It must have sensed it's a special occasion."
"Must have," she responds affectionately.
He walks towards her, holds out his hand, waits for her reaction.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm asking you to dance with me."
"My dancing skills last night didn't scare you off?"
"You could never scare me off, Lizzie. And this is different, isn't it? We don't have to pretend anymore. As much as I appreciate moving through ballrooms with a beautiful woman on my arm, there's just something much more intriguing about sharing a dance in private. It's comforting, being that close to someone, feel them breathe against you. One step, then another, back and forth. It's very-" he moves closer with every word, lets his hand find its way from her collarbone down her side to her waist, lets it linger there- "intimate." She can't help the shiver running down her spine, the tension palpable between them. It's their third dance in less than twenty-four hours, each special in its own right, the party, the suite, her living room. She likes this one because he is in her home. She likes this one because he's not scared anymore. She likes this one because she isn't either.
His movements are so gentle and she feels so warm, the dim light surrounding them, the sweet notes of a piano. She holds on to him, stands much closer than last night, is much calmer. He guides them, sways them almost imperceptibly, and he was right, she thinks, this is comforting. It's wonderful. He hums the melody, can't really help it, and the slight vibrations emanating from inside him tickle her face where it rests against his shoulder and she smiles. This is more than she could have hoped for, this kind of love. Forgiving and gracious. Exquisite in its honesty. Real.
She moves her head just a little bit to look at him and his eyes are closed, his features softened.
„Red?"
He opens them then, returns her gaze, a canvas of wonder and reverence.
„Yes?"
„Would you like to spend the night?"
His response is familiar, but it's all gratitude now. All sincerity, no dare, no challenge, no presumptions. So much has happened and this isn't the post office either.
"I thought you'd never ask."
They're facing each other in the dark, in the safety of her bed. A suite could never compare, he realizes as he looks back at her. She's studying him and he lets her, bright eyes and content expression. Secrets don't really matter all that much anymore, she has seen all of him at this point. She's always seen more than most even when he was still fully dressed.
And now?
What else does he have to offer?
She wants to know every part of him.
Small glimpses into his mind, how it functions, how it strategizes, his personal life, his childhood, how he grew up, what forced him to become a criminal. But she'll settle for something simple. Something fundamental.
"Would you do something for me, Red?"
"Anything."
"Would you tell me what made you...when did you know?"
She sounds insecure, scared, like someone whose emotions had been played with. Like someone who had not come out on the winning end.
His response is quick.
"When you stuck a pen into my neck."
It's not what she had expected. She still cringes when she remembers her outburst, has felt that very scar beneath her fingertips last night.
"An act of violence made you fall in love with me?"
"Not an act of violence, Lizzie. An act of courage. You see, intimidation is key in my line of business. You want people to respect you, you might even want them to be frightened of you. It can be incredibly helpful. It grants you leverage. But you, Lizzie, you looked right past that from the very beginning. You weren't intimidated. You stood your ground, you stated your case. You made your demands very clear. You were open to negotiation only if you could be sure you had my full attention. And even though I can assure you right now that you always have my full attention, I was very impressed by you back then. I am very impressed by you. You surprise me, you challenge me. You constantly amaze me with your strength, your perseverance. Your kindness. The way you fight for the things you believe in. It is remarkable and admirable."
Her eyes are filled with tears.
"So to answer your question, yes, the moment you punched a hole in my carotid I knew I was in terrible trouble. And not just physically."
He can still make her laugh and that's something.
In the dark, he reaches for her hand, kisses her palm. Watches as she reaches underneath his shirt, as she searches for his heartbeat, steady and confident, one beat, two beats, life moving within him. Her fingertips brushing across his skin, silently confirming that he is here with her, carotid in tact, past arguments forgotten. She kisses him with everything she has, every emotion that she has stored up, every promise she has ever made. She pulls and tugs and wants him closer, always closer, wants to memorize his scars and mend them. Wants to lose herself in whatever this is.
And hopes desperately that she will never have to return to a life without it.