Rather than causing more problems with her wound, Bitter resigned to letting Spot support her on the way back to the girl's bunkroom, carefully warning him that if either of his hands wandered she make sure to put a knife through it (when she had more strength of course). Behaving himself, Spot helped her onto the bed, knowing very well that Bitter wasn't kidding. Pulling up a chair, he watched her drift in and out of consciousness until the first footsteps were heard on the stairs.
Turning his head slightly he saw a disheveled Irish Flare come through the door, her hair a mess of black tangles, shirt and pants ripped as if she had fallen down a hill, slight traces of blood covering her. "I'm ok Spot," she interrupted the opening of his mouth.
"What happened?" came a weak voice from the bed, blonde hair spilling sleepily onto the bed as Bitter lowered herself back down to a laying position.
"Give me a minute to breathe and I'll explain it all…" Irish Flare took Spot's seat which he so happily gave up to the injured girl.
Dawn had come too early and Irish slipped out just in enough time, not wanting to be discovered. A quick kiss to her handsome boyfriend and out she went sneaking through the hallways and out through the back of the lodging house. A curious figure was striding not more than 20 yards in front of her, the morning sun revealing the lean, tall girl in front of her, her long pale blonde hair held in a ponytail.
Almost certain who it was, Irish strode after her, quick to catch up. Just as she was about to grab Shooter by the shoulder, the girl dashed around the corner. The darkened alleyway enveloped Irish's sight and she had not a clue where she was and where Shooter had gone. Whispers filled her ears and she stepped quietly, hands held in front of her cautiously. The cold wood of an ancient door hit her fingertips gently and she felt downward for a knob.
Twisting gently, the open door flooded the alley with light and just as quickly opened was it shut. Irish's eyes did not recover soon enough to know she was not in good company until all eyes were turned upon her. Unable to take in all the details of the ancient warehouse, Irish found muscular young men surrounding her slowly and she inched back towards the door.
"I must've opened the wrong door.. sorry if I interrupted anything…" Irish spoke nervously feeling backwards for the silver doorknob to her freedom.
Just as she flung it open one of the boys jumped at her crashing through the door with her. Irish lay sprawled on the ground kicking at the boy as he clung to her foot. A swift kick in the nose freed her and she kept running, unlucky enough to trip and fall every few yards, the one boy aiming straight for her legs each time.
Breathing heavily she reached a safe haven, the Manhattan lodging house. Spinning she found the boy had disappeared without a trace. Limping slightly she made her way back to Brooklyn.
"You wouldn't happen to know what Shooter would be doing in a place like that, would ya Bittah?" Irish asked, exasperated from retelling the story.
Bitter had turned a shade paler during the story, but shook her head, reluctant to reveal any of the thoughts that floated in her mind. "No.. not a clue," Bitter stated, unconvincingly. In the state she was in, there was no want from either Spot or Irish Flare to force the truth out of her and they let her slink back into a deepened, sickly sleep.