Chapter 25
Sighing, Connie continued to stack gauze packs. "I don't want to talk about it, Leslie."
It had been two days since she had left Wayne Manor with her tail between her legs. Tomorrow was her day off and she planned to relax; rehashing her argument with Bruce was not on her agenda. Knowing that talking about it would only sour her mood, she strove to avoid the subject.
Sighing again, she looked out into the night through the small window and tried to think about less depressing topics. Leslie did not look as though she was going to give Connie any reprieve, though.
"You have to excuse him, Connie, he was not himself."
Shaking her head, she started out of the storage closet and towards the front desk. "I don't have to excuse anything, Leslie. He was rude and I was equally so and I don't think either one of us is going to apologize."
Following her through the halls and into the waiting room, she tried to reason with Connie before the younger woman left for the night. "I just don't want to see you two mad at each other, it would hurt my old heart."
Turning to her incredulously, Connie cocked her head with a smirk. "Don't play the age card, Leslie. Really, you're above that."
Smiling tiredly, she nodded. "Holding a grudge only hurts the holder."
"Have a good night, Leslie; don't work too hard."
With that, Connie left through the front door and descended the steps to the sidewalk. The night was warm and Connie shrugged her jacket off her shoulders and over her arm. Her sleeveless knit top and Bermuda shorts kept her cool enough as a soft breeze blew across her uncovered skin. It was nearly twenty blocks to her apartment but she thought the walk would do her good.
Sighing, she tucked her hair behind her ear and pulled her ponytail holder from her hair. Combing her fingers through her lose locks, she tried to smile. There was no reason to frown, she told herself. It wasn't as if she had broken up with a beau or divorced a second husband.
He was simply a spoiled and odd grown rich kid with a superiority complex, she told herself. Although he was incredibly well conditioned and obviously very strong as well, she thought. Not only physically strong, no, he was mentally strong as well. It had taken some time to realize that he had carried himself as though as his ribs weren't bruised. Few people could tolerate that kind of pain with such grace.
She had to wonder at the dichotomy of his being. He was, at the same time it seemed, an emotionally shallow, insensitive flirt and a highly self contained, intelligent man. She was confused as to whom he really was; he seemed to pretend to be many things.
The man she had first flirted with on a balcony and the man she had spoken to on a patio a few days ago were not one in the same. He had evolved into an entirely different person so quickly she could hardly keep up with the changes.
Sighing, she turned the corner of her street and listened to the slight squeak of her tennis shoes on the concrete sidewalk. Gasping at the sudden wall in front of her, she looked up into the scarred face of a young man with an obviously bad attitude.
"Oh, I, uh…I'm sorry," she stuttered.
Trying to walk around him, she was stopped by a vice like grip on her arm. No, she thought, she lived in one of the safest neighborhoods in Gotham. Her area had the lowest crime rate even though she lived on the edge of the wealthy area. No, this couldn't be happening to her, her mind screamed.
Breathing suddenly rapidly, she looked up at him with wide eyes. She wasn't sure if having seen the aftereffects of muggings and rapes scared her more because she knew what would happen to her if she lived through an assault or if she was less scared knowing the likely worse outcome.
About to speak again, she stopped short as the young man spoke.
"You the lady that works at doc Thompkin's clinic," he asked.
Nodding mutely, she was sure her fear was written plainly on her face.
"I owe you one."
As suddenly as he had appeared, he turned and left her shaking only a few feet from her doorway. Swallowing hard, she put her hand to her chest as if to slow her furiously beating heart. She was sure she had never seen that man before and she was also sure she had no idea why he owed her anything.
Turning to her door, she felt as though her legs were made of jello. The doorman greeted her and she managed a semi intelligent reply as she continued to the elevator. Once inside her apartment, she locked the door with fervor and practically collapsed on the couch.
Grabbing a pillow to her chest, she tried to tell herself she was making something of nothing. He hadn't threatened her at all, she told herself. Shaking her head, she pulled her favorite afghan around her and buried her head into the soft fabric of the couch. She wondered, not for the first time, if heroes did actually exist in Gotham and if one of them would have saved her if need be.
Rolling onto her back, she started at the ceiling above her and closed her eyes. A single hot tear trailed down the side of her face and onto her earlobe. Catching her breath, she tried to contain the waters that threatened to break from the dam of her self control. There were no heroes and no one would save her, she thought.
Myths and fairy tales and grown men in stupid costumes were the heroes of Gotham. Her personal saviors, her intellectual snobbishness and ability at wit were the only things that could save her.
Denying herself the luxury of screaming, she instead stood and stripped her clothes off as she walked to the bathroom. A trail of clothing led, breadcrumb style, to the white tiled bathroom and glass encased shower-tub.
Standing under a spray that made her skin tingle and turn red she stared ahead with unseeing eyes. Demons floated around her head and laughed at her weakness. The faces of those who had died in front of her opened their hollow eyes and screamed accusatorily.
Vaguely recognizing she was experiencing the beginnings of a mental breakdown, she took a deep breath and tried to claw from the pit of despair she was being sucked into. One trigger, she thought, was all it took to send her spiraling into hell. One scary looking man with a scar above his lip sent her careening into a sea of torment.
Shaking her head, she pounded her fist against the tile. Tilting her head upwards, she imagined the water pouring over her, washing away her uncertainty and doubt and fear. She would be her own hero, she told herself. No more chasing unavailable men just for kicks and thrills. Time to grow up, she whispered aloud, because no one was going to save her but herself.