9. Speakeasy

Dora unlocked the back door. It swung open, but no one was there. The alley was empty; dark except for a lone humming and flickering lamp overhead. She gripped the crowbar in her hand tightly.

"Holly? I'm here," Dora called out, taking a few steps outside. "Hello?"

The gravel crunched behind her. She wasn't alone.

Without stopping to think, Dora turned around and swung the crowbar.

Red Hood caught it, inches from his head.

The force of the catch reverberated through the iron back into Dora's hand, causing her to hiss in pain and let go.

He gripped the crowbar tightly for a few seconds—she could hear the leather of his gloves strain. Although not able to see his face, Dora still sensed... was it anger? It radiated off him like heat from a furnace. She was about to apologize when he tossed the crowbar aside.

"Kept me waiting long enough. I was about to leave," he said, his stance relaxing. Whatever tension that had been there dissipated. "Sorry, did I scare you?"

Her heartbeat was rapid. She had broken into a sweat, but Dora wasn't ashamed to admit it. "Yeah, dude. I thought you were another one of those thugs." A look up and down the alley confirmed he was alone. No bodies. No blood. No thugs.

"Can I come in?"

"Yeah, get in here." Dora pulled him inside. She was paranoid. The cops were likely staking out the Alibi, watching her like hawks. The last thing she needed was camera footage that would corroborate Bullock's asinine theory. "What's up? Why are you here?" She already had an inkling why.

"Checking in. Did the GCPD give you any trouble after I left?"

Frowning, Dora wondered how much to tell him. "Nothing I couldn't handle, except..." It wouldn't do him any good to know about the detectives' suspicions, so she just said, "We made a real mess that night, and the GCPD thought the best way to clean it up was to tear up the place."

She led him out of the kitchen into the main barroom. Red Hood whistled, taking it all in. "Yeah, you're not kidding." He walked over to the corner with the jukebox. "Hey, at least they left this old thing." He wiped some sawdust off the machine. "Oh, what's this? That's unusual..."

"What?"

He jabbed at some buttons, flipping through the CDs loaded inside. "Silverstein, Underoath, Saosin, Dead Poetic, Deftones... This isn't the typical dive-bar playlist. You like hardcore metal?"

Dora was impressed that he even knew the obscure name of the genre. "Oh, yeah. Nobody ever uses that thing, so my dad let me put my own CDs in there. For whenever we'd hang out after hours. He actually closed down the bar for my quinceañera."

Red Hood scoffed. "You don't seem like the party type of girl."

"I'm not. I hated the traditional quinces my mom threw me. Forced me to wear a floofy pink dress and everything. Eugh. So next week, my dad rounded up the local hardcore kids to jam, mosh, and headbang. And gorge ourselves on cake and pop. That's how the metal scene was in Crime Alley back in the day."

"Very cool of your dad. Not many parents condone that kind of music."

"Yeah, my dad was a great guy." Saying so prodded a dull ache in her chest. "I want to do the same for my little sisters when they turn fifteen. My dad would've wanted that."

Red Hood took a look around. "So I take it you're going to rebuild the place, then? That's going to cost a shit load of money. How much was the insurance payout?"

I fucking knew it, he wants a cut. "Yeah, about that... Look, Red Hood, I... I don't know how to say this, but... I'm sorry, I can't pay..."

Red Hood put his hand on her shoulder; she immediately stopped stammering. "Yeah, I guessed money would be tight, so don't sweat it. You know that coke your little sister almost got you killed over? I sold it."

"Yeah, I know. A friend told me." Dora knew the gesture was meant to be soothing, but she stiffened at his touch.

Red Hood had read her apprehension. "What else was I supposed to do with it?"

Throw it away, that's what any sane law-abiding person would do. It then occurred to her that Red Hood didn't abide the law. And it was hard to gage morality in a city like Gotham.

"It brought in some decent cash, so consider us even for a while," he said. He withdrew his hand, but not without letting it run down her arm to her elbow. "That should let you get back on your feet, right?"

Dora was extremely conscious of his touch. It felt like electricity was surging through their contact; her heart thumped loudly. "What, really? You'll let us... Um... wow. How much was it all worth?"

"About $250,000, give or take."

"What? Carla was running around Crime Alley with a quarter million dollars on her back? Her crew might as well have painted a target on her!"

Red Hood made a frustrated noise, something between a groan and a growl. "Yeah, I know. The LU likes using kids as runners. Black Mask's crew is no different. That's the kind of crap I'm trying to stop. People will always want drugs, but they should at least have enough decency to keep kids out of it." He took a few deep breaths, collecting himself. The eye-slits in his mask seemed to glow brighter. "Crime isn't a disease, Dora, you can't cure it. You can't abolish it. It's human nature. But you can control it, keep it in check, and keep it safe. I want to put an end to the darkest parts of Gotham, so that people who want to ruin their own lives don't ruin anyone else's."

"How are you so sure that will even work?"

"Look at Las Vegas, Atlantic City, New Orleans… Macau. Gambling is legal there. Heck, look at Prohibition a hundred years ago. You could argue that gambling and alcoholism can lead to addiction and financially ruin someone's life, but those cities' economies benefit from it. They turned it into an industry, and their citizens have jobs because of it. All over the world, some type of drugs and prostitution are legal and regulated, so it keeps even the workers and consumers in those industries safe. Monetize vice to fund virtue."

Dora had never thought of it that way. She began to ponder the implications when she noticed Red Hood removing his jacket. "But enough of that," he said.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm assuming since you're here by yourself in the middle of the night, you have work to do that can't wait for tomorrow. I'll give you a hand. Is that alright?"

"No, it's okay, you don't have to—um..." She would have argued, but Red Hood was undressing in front of her and she really didn't want to stop him.

The leather motorcycle jacket had hidden a light flak jacket with a varied assortment of pockets and straps for guns, magazines, knives, and all kinds of other tactical military gear. It must have had some type of deceptively hidden armor plating in it because it made a heavy thump when he dropped it on the floor. His utility belt and thigh holsters came off next.

"Whoa," was all Dora could say.

"Yeah, I know. My gear's pretty bulky." He twisted his waist and popped the kinks out of his back.

But that wasn't what Dora had "whoa-ed" about. Holy crap, he's fit as fuck…

Without the jacket and vest, Red Hood seemed to lose a hundred pounds (though his gear probably did weigh that much for all she knew). The armor had made him appear bulkier than he actually was. Without it, it revealed that he had a slim lean build, and the clever stitching of his skin-tight black shirt accentuated his three-dimensional torso. The contours of his sculpted shoulders, chest, and stomach were not hidden by the fabric.

"So where do I start?" he asked, stretching his arms and cracking his knuckles.

It was suddenly unbearably hot in the room. "I was, um... tiling the floors. The stuff is there. I'll show you how to do it in a sec, but would you, um, excuse me?" Before he could reply, Dora hurried into the bathroom. She went to the sink and splashed her face with water, willing herself not to think the things she was thinking. He's a criminal, don't forget that. You've got work to do, so focus. She flushed a toilet for appearances.

When she came back out, Dora noticed that Red Hood had removed his gloves and rolled up his sleeves. This was the first time she had ever seen his bare skin... and it was relatively fair, lighter than her own dark olive skin. He had large hands and muscular forearms. They were clean, but he had callouses all over his palms and knuckles—some were red, suggesting that he had given someone a pounding recently.

Dora set to work, showing Red Hood how she wanted the tiles done while trying to look at him as little as possible. She instructed him to take the pool and darts area, just so she wouldn't feel the electricity buzzing on her skin when he was nearby.

The task flew by quickly, aided by Red Hood turning on the jukebox. He hammered, plastered, cut, and drilled to the rhythm, something Dora thought was cool. He knew the lyrics to some of the songs she liked, too. Fortunately, it wasn't endearing because he was a poor singer. Not to mention the fact that a man in a red helmet/mask laying down floor tiles looked kind of ridiculous, no matter how fit he was.

#

Dora hammered in the last strip of molding and tossed the mallet aside. Rolling onto her back, she shouted, "Finally!" She pushed off her fogged up glasses and wiped the sweat from her face. "Hey, you done?" she called out to Red Hood, wherever he was.

"Yeah, all done. Need a hand?" He was closer than Dora had thought. When she wiped her glasses clean and put them back on, he was standing above her, offering her his hand.

"Sure." She took it, and he pulled her up so quickly she got dizzy. She held onto his arm to prevent herself stumbling. When the world stopped spinning, she realized she was only inches away from him, her eyes level with his chest. She looked up.

He's so tall; he's got over a foot on me, she marveled, remembering Holly telling her how Red Hood picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing more than a sack of potatoes.

Red Hood grabbed her other hand to steady her, but she winced, pulling it back. "Ow!"

"Sorry, did I hurt you?" he asked.

Dora looked down at her hand, the skin still red and raw from the Molotov cocktail she had improvised the last time he was here. She took a big step back. "No, it's alright. But hey, listen…" She went around tidying up tools and trash to hide her reddening face. "Thanks for helping me out. I owe you. For the trouble."

"How about a drink and we call it even?" he offered, putting his gear back on. Unbuckled, it hung loosely on his lean frame.

A drink? If he wants a drink, he has to... "Yeah, sure."

As she led Red Hood into the kitchen, he took the tool bag away from her so she wouldn't have to lug it there. For a moment, she questioned if it was chauvinist or chivalrous, but decided on the latter. At the refrigerator, she pulled out a water bottle and tossed it to him. Feeling awkward as she took a sip from her own bottle, she couldn't help but stare at him. He had to take off his helmet to drink something, but after everything Montoya said… Was it really a good idea to see his face?

"Thanks," he said—but he placed the bottle on the counter. "I was actually thinking about something stronger. Maybe when the Alibi is up and running again, I can open a tab."

"Oh, you meant… Right, yeah. No, don't worry about a tab." Dora scoffed, feigning nonchalance to hide her disappointment. "After all you've done for me and this place, all your drinks are on the house, for life. It's the least I can do."

"Cool." He paused. It was awkward. "I guess I'll see you around, then. I don't have to tell you to keep out of trouble. Take care, Dora."

Nervously tapping the counter, she watched Red Hood walk toward the door, wondering when she would see him again.

"Oh. Before I forget." Red Hood stopped at the door, drawing a gun. Dora's heart skipped a beat, but he deftly twirled it so the muzzle was in his palm. "Here." He held it out for her.

It was her father's Colt. She took it, gripping it tightly in one hand while running her fingers along the smooth metal with the other. She didn't have to release the magazine—she could tell it wasn't loaded by its weight. What would Dad think of everything that's been happening? His little girl had killed a man; she had become friends with a vigilante in a red helmet that cut off people's heads like a serial killer and blew up buildings like a terrorist. Did she really want to know what was behind his mask?

Then she thought, Fuck it, why not. The cops are already convinced I know what he looks like. It can't hurt to peek. "Do you like whiskey?" she blurted out, before her conscience could kick in.

Red Hood paused with his hand on the back-door's handle. "Yeah, actually. Love the stuff."

"My dad loved it, too. He's got a few good vintages."

"Really?"

"Do you have to be anywhere right now? How about a nightcap?" Her face was red. She couldn't believe she had just said that. She hoped he didn't notice.

Red Hood turned around and stood there for a moment. The shape of his helmet's glowing eye slits made it look like his brow was furrowed. For a second, he looked like he had in the alley a few hours earlier. Dora could imagine what criminals felt when he stared them down. Afraid, vulnerable, and very small.

"Sure, that sounds good," he finally said; the sudden nonchalance in his voice didn't match the serious expression frozen on his mask.

Dora nodded awkwardly. "Follow me, then." Securing the safety, she holstered her father's gun into her waistband as she went over to the pantry. Flipping a switch inside the room revealed boxes of liquor stacked on shelves as high as the ceiling. She had always thought the room was quite large, but with a six-foot man inside with her, it suddenly felt cramped.

"So this is where you stash all the good stuff?"

"Not quite." Dora went to the back of the room and shoved aside a large crate of vodka that had been blocking a door. It wasn't exactly hidden, but it was painted the same color as the walls, so the door was difficult to notice under the dim lighting and all the clutter. She picked a key from of her ring and unlocked it.

"It's pretty obvious, but this is a really old building," she said, walking down a flight of concrete stairs. "Hard to believe now, but my father's side of the family was actually really well off at the start of the 1900s. After my great-grandparents hopped off the boat from Scotland, they fell in with the Italian and the Irish mobs during Prohibition. They started a few speakeasies and made a killing. My grandfather took that cash and built this building, and made the first floor Monty's Pub. He was 'Monty' before my dad was. When the Cold War started to get real bad, Grandpa Monty converted the old cellar into a bunker."

"That's pretty cool," Red Hood said, running his hand along the concrete wall as they descended, as if he could feel the history in the bricks.

"Yeah, it helped us survive the quake that hit Gotham a few years ago, but my dad said the renovation nearly bankrupted the family before it even hit. Seems like it's the family curse. Each generation gets us poorer and poorer." Dora reached another door at the bottom of the stairs, made of iron with a hatch wheel.

"What do you mean?"

Dora turned the wheel with a heave. The rusted metal screeched and groaned. "Ten years ago, my dad spent a ton of money he didn't have renovating the bar, and when he did that, he also re-converted the bunker back into a cellar for high-shelf liquor and wine. And then I go and do it again now, trying to rebuild this place and keep it afloat with half a dozen loans I might never be able to pay off. My mother warned me, but I wouldn't listen." The wheel stopped with a clank. Dora pulled the door open. "At least I didn't use a loan shark like my dad. ... Although, sometimes I wish I did. Banks can be crooks too."

"Who else knows about this place?" Red Hood followed her inside the dark room.

"It's not really a secret, but I guess… my family, the other bartender Rochelle, and my friend Holly." Dora fumbled around the wall until she found a lever. She pushed it up and the room lit up in a chorus of hums and snaps.

"This doesn't look like a liquor cellar," Red Hood observed. The basement was a wide open space with concrete walls and floors, dimly lit by hanging incandescent light bulbs. Boxes and shelves of liquor dominated one wall, but the opposite side of the room had a sofa, coffee table, a desk, TV, stereo, and a small bed. There was even a microwave oven and a hot plate next to a sink and mini-fridge, making a little kitchenette. "Looks like someone's dingy apartment. Better than what most people get in this town."

Dora smirked at the irony. "Yeah, it was my dad's." She went over to the sink and rinsed off a few glasses. "When my mom dump him, he started living here. He had no other place to go."

"But your family owns a dozen apartments upstairs..." Red Hood put down his gear again and reclined on the sofa. The way he sank into the cushions made it clear he was as tired as she was.

"In the divorce, my mom and dad split the building in half. He still owned all of it, but he let her manage the apartments upstairs, while he got the bar. Even still, as landlord, she rented out every unit she could, not even saving one for him… so yeah, he had to move down here."

"Wow, your mom's kind of..."

"A bitch?" Dora chuckled. "Yeah, she can be. She eventually eased up and let him move upstairs, but she made him stew down here for well over a year." She shook the two glasses dry and placed them on the coffee table. "Sorry, no ice," she said, checking the mini-fridge.

"That's okay, I like my whiskey neat."

Dora went to the crates of liquor and perused the dusty labels. She pulled out a bottle. "So what would you like? Glenkinchie? Lagavulin?"

"You've got Lagavulin? A shot of that would be awesome."

She blew the dust off the bottle as she walked over to the sofa. Red Hood took the bottle from her as she sat down. "Wow, this scotch is older than I am..." He brought the label close to his mask... and his eyes glowed blue for a second. "It's legit."

Dora ignored that Red Hood had some type of high-tech scanning equipment in his helmet, concentrating instead on the fact that he must be in his twenties—because she already knew that the bottle of whiskey was thirty years old. But she wanted a more exact number. "Hey, if you don't mind me asking... how old are you?"

He put the bottle down. "Not much older than you, actually."

So twenty-four-ish? Dora thought.

Red Hood touched something on the back of his helmet. Dora heard a click and the light glowing from the mask's eyes shut off.

She held her breath. The moment had finally come.

There was a pneumatic hiss as panels spread apart at the helmet's chin, sides, and back. Red Hood took it off and Dora finally saw his face.

Most of it.

To her disappointment, underneath the helmet, Red Hood wore another mask. A small red one that only covered his eyes, like the ones she had seen on Nightwing, Robin, and many other vigilantes and villains on the news. She had always wondered what the point of such a small mask was. But just sitting right next to him, she couldn't see the full shape of his nose, his eyebrows, nor the color of his eyes; the mask had a mold and glowing white lenses that concealed them. It covered no more than what a large pair of sunglasses would, but it was enough to make her uncertain whether he was white, Asian, or light-skinned Latino.

However, she could clearly see Red Hood had a fair complexion with shaggy coal-black hair. He had some stubble on his cheeks and chin, and the jaw underneath was well-defined. He kinda looks like Nightwing... but younger. He couldn't have been more than two or three years older than she was. He might even be younger for all she knew.

Pero que guapo, she couldn't help but think. On top of being a bad ass vigilante and fit as hell, he was also damn cute. For fuck's sake, why are some people so damn lucky? Dora's genetic lottery bid had awarded her a short stature, large hips, flat feet, and astigmatism.

Red Hood noticed her staring and cracked a smile. "Yeah, this thing," he said, touching his mask. "You can never be too careful."

"Are you saying you don't trust me?"

"I don't trust anyone really." He paused, biting his lip. "But some people are worth the risk."

Dora felt her breath hitch and her lips tingle.

Red Hood broke their eye contact to pour the whiskey. He gave Dora her tumbler and took a moment to smell his drink. "You know, such good scotch deserves a toast."

Dora finally stopped staring at him and looked down at the swirling golden liquid in her own cup. "Yeah, but to what?"

"How about... to Monty." He raised his glass. "Despite his flaws, he was a good man."

That struck Dora's heartstrings, resonating with all the bittersweet memories she had of her father over the years. "Yeah. To Monty." The sum total was more sweet than bitter, she told herself. They clinked cups and swallowed their drinks. "Wow, that's really smooth," she marveled, looking at the dregs in amazement. It didn't burn much going down and it tasted good.

"Yeah, that's damn good scotch," Red Hood said, having the same reaction. "I guess that's why this stuff is expensive. You didn't have to waste some on me."

"No, it's okay." Dora grabbed the bottle and poured another round. "It's been sitting down here for years, that's the real waste. One of my dad's mistakes, buying vintage high-shelf stuff. Our customers aren't exactly the type to care enough about what they're drinking to shell out the big bucks. As good as it is, we can't sell this stuff."

"Why didn't he just sell it back to his liquor vendor?"

Dora scoffed bitterly. "My dad didn't get all this booze above board. He got it all from the Odessa Mob, who smuggled it from overseas… and they don't do refunds. Occasionally, the mob's enforcers would ask for the primo stuff—for free of course—but they all died in the gang war."

"Wow, your dad was… an interesting man." Red Hood sipped slowly at the whiskey this time, pausing to savor the taste.

"Hey, um..." Dora pulled her feet up on the couch. "What did you mean earlier by my dad's flaws?"

"Oh. You know. His, uh... drinking problem."

Dora's brow tightened. "How do you know about his drinking problem?"

Red Hood hesitated. She couldn't see his eyes, but she could tell he was trying to avoid looking at her. "No offense, Dora, but people talk. Everyone in Park Row knew about your dad was an alcoholic."

She knew that, but it surprised her that Red Hood did. "But he turned it around. He was sober for years up until he died. How'd you know about that?"

"Oh, I get it. You think I'm new to this town," he said. "I'm not. I grew up here."

"In Gotham? I guessed as much, so give me some credit."

"Yeah, but I mean I was born and raised here, in Park Row. Same as you. Why do you think I'm sticking my neck out for this neighborhood? It's my home too, Dora. It's in my blood as much as it's in yours."

Impressed, Dora toasted to that. As the shot went down her throat, it occurred to her that if they were near the same age, she likely went to school with Red Hood, whoever he was. She sifted through her memories, trying to remember a classmate or boy from the block that could have turned out to become the most violent vigilante Gotham has ever seen… but almost every boy that lived on Park Row ended up a criminal, a convict, a deadbeat, or… dead.

But she refocused on something he said earlier. "So, wait, you knew my father?"

"Yeah. Met him a few times while I was a kid." He took a sip. "But you know how word travels up and down this neighborhood. I don't know the fact from fiction. Tell me about him."

"You really want to listen to me talk about my dad?"

Red Hood poured himself a refill and reclined back on the sofa. "Back when I was a kid, word of mouth had Monty as a mob lackey, a drunk, and a deadbeat dad. But I can clearly tell you loved him very much, so I want to know the truth."

"Um... sure." Dora took a sip of her drink for courage. Then she told Red Hood about her father, Philip "Monty" Montgomery.

He had blue eyes and dark brown hair that was already graying in his thirties. Her mother said it was because of all the shit he saw after serving in the Gulf War, then two tours in Qurac right after it.

He wasn't always a drunk. What made him crawl into the bottle was the pressure to pay back a loan he owed to Vasily Kosov and the Odessa Mob. Carla had just been born. Monty was trying to renovate the building and the bar to make a larger profit margin to support his growing family. Whether it was a bad investment or not, they would never know because that's when the racketeering began. Kosov would never let Dora's father out of that debt.

It was a slow and steady decline, but the alcoholism eventually got so bad, he got into an accident while driving drunk—with a seven-year-old Carla and a one-year-old Mercy in the backseat. Disgusted and fed up, their mother didn't bother to post Monty's bail, or hire him a lawyer. Instead, she let him stew in jail while she filed for divorce and took full custody of their three daughters.

At first, Dora was just as angry at him as her mother was, but she finally understood his remorse when he attempted to kill himself by jumping off the top of the Montgomery building. He would have succeeded if not for the dumpster he landed in. "I've had too many friends eat a bullet to go out the same way," Dora remembered him saying when she found him.

When the earthquake hit and the No Man's Land crisis began, Monty stayed behind because he had a death wish. Dora stayed behind to help Leslie's humanitarian effort. In that time, Dora and her father reconciled, and she started him on the path to recovery. He came out of No Man's Land a changed man.

When Lex Luthor and Bruce Wayne reopened the city, Dora took him to therapy, Alcoholics Anonymous, and made sure he abided his probation. Over the next few years, he turned it around. Her parents began to reconcile their differences, enough to co-parent and express affection, but not quite enough to remarry. Carla and Mercy were beginning to trust him again... to love him again.

Then the gang war happened. Black Mask took over Kosov's rackets.

Monty resisted.

Then Black Mask and his men killed him.

Dora tossed back one last shot and put her cup down. "I... watched Black Mask kill my father. I couldn't do anything. Sergei was holding me back, while his guys just stood there. They just fucking stood there and watched a good man get beaten to a pulp, passing around a bottle of vodka, cheering on Black Mask like they were watching a boxing match."

She willed her tears to stay inside and looked at Red Hood. "They left him barely alive. I tried everything I had learned in school, but I couldn't save him in time. His injuries led to a stroke. He was pronounced dead in the ambulance. I let him down…"

Red Hood scooted closer to her. "Don't carry that guilt, Dora. You just said you did everything you could."

Dora pushed him away, angry. He didn't understand. "No, I could have done something—should have done something afterward. Sergei and his men all had their hands in wet work. They fucking bragged about it at my bar, right in front of me, all the fucking time... Escaping run-ins with Batman, and getting released from Blackgate on early parole because of fucking budget cuts and overcrowding. Can you believe it?" Dora pulled out her father's gun and gripped it tight, the anger inside her boiling. "My father's murderers drank at my bar, for months after the act. This gun was right there under the counter, every night. I could've avenged him myself, I had a thousand chances... but I never did. I was too much of a coward. I... just couldn't... I... Argh!"

The grief and anger inside her boiled over. "Fuck!" She threw the gun at the wall.

"Whoa!" Red Hood exclaimed, grabbing and shielding her. "Take it easy, that could have been loaded!"

"Get the fuck off me!" she shouted, pushing him away and standing.

"Hey! Chill!" Red Hood grabbed her by the shoulders, his grip too strong for her to escape. "Listen! I saw you fight back that night we met in the alley. And last week, in the bar, you protected your loved ones. You saved them. I didn't. You did. You did what you had to do and you didn't hesitate. A year ago, you saved dozens of lives in the gang war. People still talk about it."

He took her hand, being careful of the burn. "I'm looking at you right now, Dora, and I can see the fight in you—the sense of justice, the righteousness. You don't need a mask to be a hero. You just need to care about other people and be willing to get off your ass to do it. That's all I've ever seen you do. I may have saved you, but only after you've saved everyone else." He squeezed her hand gently. "Don't sell yourself short. You're braver than you think. Your father would be proud of you."

Dora's heart was racing, and her insides were burning so hot she wanted to scream again. Red Hood's eyes were hidden behind a mask, but he was looking straight at her, into her—so she wouldn't allow herself to cry. Not after what he just said.

So she kissed him.

She grabbed the back of his neck, but whether she pulled him down or herself up, she didn't know because his lips were on hers and nothing else mattered—it felt good, it felt right.

It was only when she pulled away for a breath that she realized he wasn't kissing her back. His mouth was closed, his nostrils were flared, and his masked eyes were impossible to read.

Her heart sank. "Oh my god, I'm sorry." She looked down at the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table. "I... I'm drunk, I don't know what I was thinking—mmph!"

This time Dora was on the receiving end of an unexpected kiss, one that took her breath away and made her knees weak. Luckily, she didn't need to stand because Red Hood grabbed her behind the hips and lifted her up. Suddenly, she was weightless, only tethered to reality by his lips. She locked her ankles behind him so she wouldn't float away.

And then she was falling. Her back hit something soft and she felt Red Hood's weight land on top of her. She was laying on her back, whether if it was on the sofa, the bed, or the floor, she didn't know and didn't care.

Their lips mashed together, exchanging breath; their bodies rubbed together, exchanging heat and pleasure. She dug her nails into his back and clawed off his shirt. When she brought her lips to his skin again, she felt the rough texture of his chest hair and the firmness of his muscles. She latched onto the crook of his neck and sucked and bit.

But Red Hood wouldn't allow it. He grabbed her jaw and pulled it away, her mouth detaching with a gasp, one that turned into a moan when he put his own lips on her neck—right underneath her ear. Dora's body went limp, and the next thing she knew her t-shirt and bra were suddenly gone. Red Hood pinned her arms above her head with one hand, while the other was on her breast. They kissed again, and Dora felt like he was sucking the breath right out of her.

When he dragged his mouth to her collarbone, some sense returned to her.

"Stop," she said.

Red Hood didn't listen, his mouth inched closer to her breast, his lips and breath hot on her skin.

"Ooooh... " she moaned. Her body wanted to keep going, but her brain struggled to impose logic. "Wait, stop... Stop, please... Hey! Stop!"

She hit him on the shoulder a few times, and when he wouldn't let off, she grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his head back. "I said stop!"

Red Hood finally listened. He pulled away and sat back, breathless. He seemed surprised with himself. "Sorry. I... You're hard to resist." He ran a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself. "It's been a while for me."

"It's okay. I just need a minute," Dora said. Although she was frightened at first, Dora could tell he had lost himself in the moment. She nearly had too. She wouldn't be lying bare-breasted in front of him if he wasn't equally hard to resist. She had to slow down and think, but it was difficult to do with her brain soaked in alcohol and Red Hood sitting shirtless in front of her.

Very shirtless. Dora struggled to remember why she wanted to stop.

Red Hood slouched and fidgeted with his coal black hair, suddenly bashful. "Yeah, I know. I'm pretty fucked up."

Fucked up? Dora wiped the fog from her glasses to get a proper look at him. His impeccably toned stomach muscles flexed loose and taut rapidly, still breathing heavily. The fair skin on his chest had a light smattering of hair, but it was blemished by bumpy red scars that marred his whole torso. Having treated those types of wounds in the gang war, Dora recognized multiple bullet wounds, stab wounds, cuts, abrasions, and a burn that extended from his shoulder to the center of his chest. He was even missing a nipple.

His body was a battlefield.

But her own body didn't care how broken he was. She wanted to do exactly what Bullock and Montoya wanted to arrest her for—and she was finding it difficult to care. You're about to fuck a killer, she reminded herself.

But I'm a killer too, another side of herself said. The cops never have to know. Who I sleep with is none of their business. It can't be too hard to keep this a secret.

"What's wrong?" Red Hood asked.

"I'm thinking."

"About what?"

"... Us. What are we doing?"

"I was hoping we were about to have sex." He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her up, so that she was straddling his lap—and the bulge in his pants.

"I know..." She shuddered, feeling his manhood straining against the fabric between them. "... but we're both drunk. We have to slow down."

"We did slow down. Let's speed it back up."

"Yeah, but..." Logic had finally woken up in her brain. "Look, we barely know each other. I don't know your real name. I don't even know what you really look like."

"Is this still too much?" He tapped his small red mask.

"Yeah, I won't have sex with you with that thing on. I may be a Park Row girl, but I draw the line at sleeping with a guy whose name and face I don't even know."

Red Hood didn't say anything for several moments. He just looked at her through the white lenses of his mask. Dora's breathing fell in time with his.

"No, you're right," he said. "We should talk about this."

"Is the mask a problem for you?" Dora asked.

"This is the only thing keeping my mission separate from my personal life." He touched the brow of the mask. "If I take it off, things get blurry. Things get complicated."

"So you want to keep it on so sex doesn't get to personal?"

"No, I'm saying if I take this off, you will make my mission personal. More personal than it already is."

Dora covered up her chest self-consciously. "What does sex have to do with your mission?"

In response, Red Hood laughed. "It doesn't. You do. I just want to give you what you want, Dora. Sex can be just sex. We could leave it at that, keep going, and have a fun night. But…" He reached over and slid her glasses up, her bangs too, exposing her full face. "But… no matter what, tonight's going to be personal for me, because … you're beautiful. Inside and out. It's been hard to remember that people like you still exist in this city." He ran a thumb over her cheek. "Every time I've run into you, you've reminded me of what I'm fighting for." He sighed. "Every second I spend with you, it raises the stakes."

All these sweet things he was saying… they made her heart swell. She felt like crying, which she did not want to do topless in front of the first sexual partner she had in years. "We've already crossed the line. Whatever happens tonight," Dora said, "mask on or off. It's dangerous. For both of us."

"I don't mind the danger to me at all because you're worth the risk," he said. "But it's more dangerous for you. Am I worth it? If I'm not, the mask stays on. If I am, then take it off."

She kissed him again. He kissed her back. As he caressed her lips with his, she thought, I shouldn't care what he looks like, or who he is. Anyone willing to say those things is worth the risk. I just want to see his eyes. We can make love like normal people, not fuck like strangers.

Pulling away, Dora found her hands on Red Hood's face. She was touching his mask, and her fingers were already peeling it off. He wasn't stopping her.

A gasp broke through the silence, but it didn't come from Dora or Red Hood. They both looked at the door.

Holly stood there, eyes wide, hand over her mouth. "Holy. Shit."

Notes

Version 41.1