Deborah likes the nightclubs, she likes to dance.
She watches her from the bar and can't help but smile at how happy she looks, how free. She's like a different person since they've come to New York and as impossible as it may have been to imagine as little as three weeks ago, they seem to have become friends. They agreed to leave everything behind them in the Senior bathroom and just start fresh and so far it's been working. It helps that she likes it here just as much as Deborah does. There are too many people, which made her a little nervous at first, but she's getting used to it. As long as she keeps her gloves on and her sleeves long she's okay, she can handle it. New York City feels less intimidating every day and more like the adventure Deborah had promised it would be as they watched Mississippi disappear from the rear window of the Greyhound bus they took to get here.
The clubs though… She doesn't think she's ever going to get used to the clubs.
On the street the average person would rather gnaw their own hand off than have it come in contact with a stranger's, but here in the throbbing dark with the thumping music that echoes the pulse of their blood, they feel free to place theirs on her hip, on the small of her back. Men and women alike leaning in too close, asking her to dance, asking her name. And when they don't take the hint, when they don't back off she's almost tempted to give them what they want. Just a little sliver of skin, just a little zap for payback…
She never does it, she usually just heads straight to the ladies room and camps out in the anteroom until she thinks they've either gone home for the night or moved on to someone else. Bruce and Cody have finally faded enough where she no longer feels quite so haunted and the last thing she wants is any more uninvited guests in her head no matter how satisfying it would be to see them hit the dirt.
Besides she's come to love the anteroom at Fahrenheit. The couches are plush and velvet and more comfortable than her own bed, the walls made up of layers and layers of gauze in different shades of red, pink, and orange that hang down from the ceiling and sway a little when the door opens and closes. It's what had given her the idea for her clothes.
With the little money she had left after paying her half of the deposit on their shoebox apartment, she had gone shopping and found shirts and dresses made out of that same gauzy material in an assortment of colors. For the first time since she was eleven years old she was able to wear shorts and skirts and tank tops in the summer – underneath of course, but it made a huge difference comfort-wise.
Tonight she'd picked out a long-sleeved see-through emerald green tunic with a white tank under it that stopped just below her rib cage and a short white skirt which she made up for with boots that came nearly to her knees. There was about five inches of exposed flesh between the hem of her skirt and the top of her boot, but she took care of that with stockings. She's still not used to dressing up, but Deborah insisted that if they're going to go out, they're going to go out. She thought the finished product looked a little strange tonight, but Deborah had taken one look at her, cocked her head to the side and said, "Ah thought y'didn' want no attention from nobody…" She'd meant it to be nice, but the comment had just made her even more self-conscious.
She peels the gauzy material away from her skin and fans herself with it. The club is hot and sticky from so many people breathing and sweating and existing all in one place, and she's uncomfortable. She doesn't know why she agrees to go to these places with Deborah. All she does is watch people grind up on each other while she drinks a drink she can't really afford until it's time to hide in the bathroom when some jerk doesn't get that she's not interested (three times tonight, three). Not exactly her idea of fun, but it's Deborah's and they're friends now, so she puts up with it without complaining even though she's dying to.
She watches Deborah dance with a longhaired guy in an artfully ripped Pearl Jam T-shirt, watches her laugh and smile and coyly twist a lock of his hair around her finger as he puts his hands on her hips and pulls her closer. When he moves in for the kiss she turns back to the bar, back to her drink. She downs it in one gulp, orders another and finishes that off too. She stares at the empty glasses, watches the colored lights flicker-flicker on the polished bar as yet another guy brushes up against her and says, "Heeeey beautiful…"
She wants to go. She turns back around to catch Deborah's eye, and leans against the bar, scanning the crowd for her.
"I said 'hey-"
"Yeah, Ah ignored you."
She finds her a moment later stumbling off the floor and into a corner with a yet another guy, his face already buried in her neck, one of his hands sliding down her back and over the seat of her pants.
She catches flashes of reddish-brown hair under the revolving lights as he twists Deborah's black curls into his fist and tilts her head to the side. He slowly runs his tongue down her neck from just behind her ear to the curve of her shoulder where he lands a kiss and she knows she's staring but she can't help it.
He stops suddenly, his lips poised a breath away from Deborah's skin as she slips a hand between them and does God knows what.
He looks up and catches her eye.
She swallows, embarrassed at having been caught, but still doesn't look away. His lower lip catches on Deborah's shoulder for a moment as he lifts his head to openly stare back.
And then he smiles.
She holds her breath as his eyes suddenly flutter shut, breaking contact with a slight gasp and then he grins down at Deborah, the tip of his tongue pressed against the back of his teeth.
And then he looks up at her again.
She quickly turns away and moves, squirms through the crowd trying to get out.
She finally makes it outside and shivers as the midnight breeze slides over her skin, cools the sweat on her body. A couple stumbles out of the club behind her and into the alley pawing at each other. She hears a zipper and laughs helplessly, "Oh mah gawd," into her hands.
"Girl, whatcha doin' out here?" She spins around and Deborah's standing behind her smiling, out of breath, her hair mussed. "Ya weren' havin' fun?"
"Do ah ever?" Deborah laughs and piles her hair up on her head with one hand, fanning herself with the other.
She nods at the red blotches decorating her shoulders and neck. Her throat feels tight but she forces a smile.
"Ya messin' around with a vacuum cleaner in there?"
"Oh mah lord…" Deborah blushes, laughs again. "That boy…that boy is sumthin' else… did ya get a look at him? That body… those eyes…"
"Ah take it ya ain't comin' home with me then?"
"Not on y' life… Ah better get back there 'fore someone else snatches him up!"
"Alright, Ah'll see ya later… and Deb? Jus'…be careful, okay?"
Deborah looks at her for a long moment, touched, and then smiles and winks as she heads back inside, calling over her shoulder, "You too, girl."
-/-
She sits alone in their tiny apartment, sits on her mattress and looks at the rumpled sheets on top of Deborah's. She doesn't cry because she doesn't do that ever. She just stares at Deborah's meagre belongings and wonders what could have happened, if there was something she could have done. She's been asking herself that question for so long, and the answer is always the same every time.
Yes.
Yes, she could have gone for help when Cody didn't wake up. Yes, she could have let go of Bruce before she killed him. Yes, she could have left that dumb old cat alone. Yes, she could have stayed at the club until Deborah had had her fill of "that body… those eyes". But she didn't. And it's been over a week since she's heard from her.
She called the police, she filed a Missing Person's report. The sympathetic policewoman pat her gloved hand and said simply, "This is New York City…" as though that were an adequate explanation for Deborah's disappearance.
She gets up from her bed, picks up the soft purple sweater Deborah had given her for her birthday two days after they had moved to the city. She pulls it on over her head, tugs the cuffs of her jeans down over her boots and notices a piece of paper on the floor half-hidden under the edge of Deborah's mattress. She picks it up and turns it over. There's a name and a Park Avenue address scrawled on it. She shoves it into her pocket and grabs the last of her cash for the subway.
She doesn't know if that guy had anything to do with her disappearance, but she's positive he was the last person to see her. She's been to Fahrenheit eight times in the last ten days looking for him, and she's not stopping until either he or Deborah is found.
-/-
He sits at the bar, holds a glass between his thumb and middle finger, lazily swirling the liquid once, twice, before bringing it to his lips. He pulls a cigarette from the air and his features are momentarily lit by the flare of the lighter offered to him by a woman who presses her chest against his arm when he accepts.
He pauses mid-drag.
His dark eyes slide away from the woman's face and search the crowd until he finds her sitting at the other end of the bar staring at him. He takes another slow pull and she watches the smoke curl out of his mouth as he exhales. He ducks his head, hair falling across a cheekbone that looks sharp enough to cut, lips curving into a small smile as he looks back up at her from under his eyelashes. The smile flickers when it isn't returned, but it doesn't go out.
He slides off the barstool and disappears into the crowd leaving the woman with the chest staring after him.
She pushes herself up off her seat, straining to see over the crowd what direction he's gone. She can't lose him now… this is the first time she's seen him since that night and-
"Don' worry chere, I'm right here…"
She lands back in her seat hard enough for it to wobble. A hand presses against the small of her back making sure she doesn't fall and then takes its time removing itself when she doesn't. He slides into the snug space between her chair and the next, looks at her hands clutching the edge of the bar as she keeps her eyes on the dark crescents of his lowered lashes waiting for him to look at her so she can start interrogating him, and that deep smoky voice says, "You wan' some'ting belle? O' you just content t' stare?" before he finally does with a grin.
She blinks.
His eyes are completely black except for glowing red irises. They flash like a cat's in the dark. She knows she's really staring now but she doesn't apologize. She thinks he's used to it. She thinks he likes it.
"I seen you b'fore…" He squints at the dance floor, the weaving bodies. He nods at a secluded corner in the back near the stage. "I was dere an' you were right here at de bar. You ran away 'fore I could talk to you…" He turns back to her with those strange eyes. They flicker like firelight, distracting her. "But all's forgiven cuz you back…"
"Ah… ah need…"
"Me?" he grins again and she hates that she's so flustered.
"Ah need ta ask ya some questions."
"Well, dis a new approach… Lemme see if I can guess de first one. Is it "do ya wanna dance?""
"No."
""Are you here alone?""
"No."
""Can I have you phone number?""
"No."
"Den I'm stumped, chere, unless you de kinna girl dat cuts straight to de chase, in which case…" He leans in closer and whispers the next guess in her ear.
"No," she hisses blushing furiously and he sighs leaning back, his lower lip out in a pout.
"Den what?"
"Ah… Ah need to know what happened to mah friend!"
"What frien'?"
"Her name's Deborah. She's a little smaller than me, with dark hair an' brown eyes…"
He stares at her mouth.
This is pointless… she thinks. He's probably been with a million "Deborah's" since then.
He reaches out and absently brushes her hair off her shoulder, waiting for her to continue.
She doesn't believe for one second that he's actually listening. She glares at him. His fingers are still in her hair. She can't believe she hasn't smacked him yet.
"Never mind." She turns her head away and he watches the white strands slide through his fingers.
"She here dat night you left me, chere?"
"How can ya not remember her?!" she explodes, frustrated. This isn't going the way she had planned at all. She'd expected guilt, answers, something. "F' God's sake ya had y' tongue down her throa-"
"I remember you. Starin'. Wit yo' mouth hangin' open."
"It was not!"
He smiles to himself, nods. "I remember her now too."
"Do ya? Ah'm shocked…"
"Bambi."
"Huh?"
He gestures at her eyes. Another cigarette appears out of nowhere and he slips it into his mouth, cups his palm over it, takes a drag. "Bambi eyes. Big. Soft. I never forget eyes like dat… Won' be forgettin' yours neither… Why so hard, petite? You decide you don' like me no more?"
"Ah just wanna know what happened ta mah friend that night."
"Bambi scampered off an' she never came back. Left me all alone, cryin' into my beer."
"Ah'll just bet."
"Seriously, chere, you ain't seen her since den?"
"No."
"An' you worried…" He shakes her head. "I hate to break dis to ya, but dis is New-"
"Ah know where Ah am an Ah've heard this excuse before, an' it ain't an excuse! People don't just disappear without a trace!"
"Dey do it all de time. 'Specially in big cities like dis. I'm sorry you sad but dey ain't notin' you can do t' find her if she don' wan' be found."
"How d'you know?"
He blows a smoke ring, watches it disappear above their heads. "I'm a bit o' an expert on dat."
She's had enough.
She slips off her chair, unintentionally brushing up against him and he smiles down at her. She mutters a sarcastic "Thanks f' y' help," and turns to go.
"What about my questions?" he calls after her and she pauses.
"What?"
"You got to ask some, s'only fair that I get to too."
"Fine. Go ahead." Why am ah humorin' him?
"Do ya wanna dance?"
"No."
"Are you here alone?"
"Yes an' Ah'm stayin' that way."
"Can I have you number."
"No." She glares at him and he shrugs.
"I never said dey'd be original…" An eyebrow raises. "What about-"
"No." She starts to leave again, and suddenly he's right beside her, fingertips lightly resting on the crook of her arm.
"One more."
"What is it?"
"Your name."
"That ain't a question."
"I'm askin' for it."
"You won't remember." He looks into her eyes and he's too close but she doesn't move away. His fingers barely touch her and she can almost feel them through her sleeve. She's burning up. It's too hot for a sweater and his looking at her the way he's looking at her isn't helping.
"I'll remember," he says.
She looks at his mouth quick to slip into a smile, a sulk, a pout. The cigarette sleeps in his hand at his side, a long trail of gray smoke snaking up past his hip. Everything about him says danger, says sex, says I'm untrustworthy as hell.
She moves away from him, his fingers trailing down her arm as she mutters, "Rogue."
"Dat you or me, chere?"
She doesn't answer. She walks away leaving him staring after her until the cigarette burns itself up and he drops it with a curse.
She pushes the doors open, steps outside and stops, standing in roughly the same spot she had been in a little over a week ago when Deborah had laughed, had panted over that guy.
That guy…
Her only lead and he'd been no help at all.
She takes a deep breath feeling too warm. Jelly kneed. She's still blushing. She had been the whole time he had been talking to her, looking at her. A ribbon of warmth uncurls in her belly like the smoke from his lips as she thinks about those unnerving eyes and she fights the urge to take off the sweater. A sweater. In July. She is a moron. The only reason she had worn it was because she had wanted Deborah with her. She thought it would bring her luck.
So much f'that…
She shoves the sleeves up her arms and presses her gloved hands to her face, frustrated.
Deborah, where are ya…
"Chere-" a hand on her arm.
Skin on her skin.
It only takes a second, just a whisper of contact.