Here is a deleted scene from early in the story, "Last Chance". Elle's father had warned her that the professional singing careers in her family ended because of obsessive fan behavior. Believing him to be exaggerating, Elle chooses to pursue her dream despite his warning. She and Dick have only been dating a short time when this scene was to occur.
You might recognize some of the beginning of this. I cannibalized it for parts and reused it in the chapter where Elle meets Bruce for the first time. I still incorporate some of the obsessive behavior later in that chapter, but preferred to tone down the violence of it by a lot, and have Dick and Bruce on hand to rescue her before anything untoward could happen.
Last Chance - "Obsession"
Warning: Some Language, and Violence . . . Rated "T"
Elle entered her dressing room for her last costume change of the evening. Her brand new career was going startlingly well. She had been gaining a loyal following even before the Chez Donovan promo came out, but ever since the restaurant/club had been featured on the news, the amount of people coming to hear her sing had more than doubled. The only thing that would make the night even better would be for Dick to stroll through the door.
She managed to make it halfway to the rack containing her outfits before she noticed the flowers. Bouquets of roses graced nearly every flat surface in a rainbow of colors. Her breath caught in her throat. A platter filled with notes and cards sat on the edge of her dressing table.
She had only a limited amount of time to find an outfit and change, and normally Elle tried to spend a precious few of those minutes to sit down and rehydrate herself with bottled water the restaurant supplied her, but she couldn't resist. She went to the dozen red roses blocking her view of her mirror. She plucked the card out. Looking for the now familiar script, she tried not to feel disappointment when the hand that wrote this card didn't match Dick's. She read it anyway. After all, someone went to some trouble and no little expense to send the flowers.
"A classic rose for a classic beauty."
Her lips puckered with a vague sense of annoyance. She wasn't blind, nor was she unrealistically modest; Elle knew she was attractive enough. She had even received a couple of invitations to take up modeling at one time or another. But she had never been comfortable with compliments. Being who she was meant no compliment could be taken at face value. Besides, looks were fleeting; easily lost through fate or time. Would the person still want her should her beauty be suddenly stripped from her?
Her hand spread the pile of cards and notes on the platter. Dick wasn't present this evening, she thought. It was unlikely that he had sent her anything. She glanced around at the several other bouquets littering the room. Funny, how she had thought they had added life into the dressing room when she had thought that Dick might have sent them. Now, they were just clutter.
She looked through a few of the cards on the tray: A request to meet her privately; an invitation to dinner; a phone number; a somewhat offensive observation on the size of certain portions of her anatomy; an invitation to a weekend getaway for two on a private yacht; another to a couple of hours of 'fun' at a seedy motel in a distant part of town . . .
The more she saw, the more she was disturbed. She plucked another card from a bouquet of pink daylilies. Please, she begged silently, be from Dick. It wasn't.
"Your voice speaks to my soul . . ."
That, at least, started out well. She didn't mind accepting compliments for her music. If only the sender had stopped at that . . .
"If only your body would also."
Disgusted, she crumpled the card and tossed it into the trash receptacle. The flowers followed. Angry and annoyed, she upended the entire tray of cards into another trash can. The roses were next, then another bouquet, and another until every surface was bare of anything but her make-up and hair accessories.
She dropped into the one comfortable chair in the room. Her heart was pounding and her hands were shaking. She had been hit on before, even received her fair share of crude remarks, but somehow the ones today upset her far more than the ones tossed her way outside of construction sites. It didn't make sense for her to be more upset by secondhand vulgarity, but somehow having the remarks immortalized on paper made it far more personal than a distant wolf whistle from the driver of a passing pickup truck.
There was a knock on the door, making her jump. "Ten minutes, Elle."
"Okay," she replied, letting the person know she had heard them.
Leaping to her feet, Elle grabbed the first outfit she came to; a navy blue suit made of crushed velvet, satin, and rhinestone buttons. Kicking off her black pumps, she slid on matching navy slingback heels. She checked her makeup, and was thankful she had as apparently a tear or two had smudged her eyeliner. Touching up her face, she then pulled her hair into a messy bun atop her crown. She artfully repositioned the stray strands, and pulled a few pieces to soften her face. She tucked in a pretty rhinestone comb that would catch and throw the light in a way that would dazzle the audience.
She replaced the dangling earrings with pearl and diamond studs, the only jewelry she kept in her dressing room that had real monetary value. They had belonged to her mother. Esmeralda had been a professional singer in Italy when she had met Elle's father. He had bought her these earrings a few months into their burgeoning relationship. It was silly, but the earrings grounded her; steadied her much the way a beloved stuffed animal might a nervous child.
"Elle, two minutes."
"Coming," she called out.
She chugged a water bottle, tossing the empty bottle into a can with the flowers and cards, checked her lipstick, and rushed back to the stage. For the first time since she had began singing professionally. Elle stepped out on the stage feeling trepidation rather than the exhilaration that she was accustomed to. Her eyes traveled the crowd, flitting over the avid faces, and wondering which of the men present had sent her the flowers; the cards; wondering why the adoration that she had exulted in earlier had taken on a slightly sinister air.
It was nearly two in the morning when Elle stepped out into the cold October night to await the cab she had just called to take her home. She was planning on lingering in the doorway so as to more easily see her ride's arrival, but remaining close to the safety of the restaurant's doors. But she was unprepared for the sight that greeted her.
At least nine men were loitering on the sidewalk outside of the restaurant. They turned as one the moment the door had opened. The door shut with an ominous click in the first stunned moment that had seemingly paralyzed Elle into immobility.
Shaking off her momentary freeze, Elle immediately turned to rush back inside. Two sets of hands caught her arms on either side, and pulled her away from the building and into the men's midst.
"Wait!"
"Arabella!"
"Miss Hamilton!"
"We only want the opportunity to pay homage to your beauty and talent," said the man on her right.
He was tall; over six feet, she thought distantly. The man on her left towered over her as well. As the other men crowded around her, Elle began feeling panicky; claustrophobic. She couldn't see past them. She tried to turn around, but there were men behind her as well.
Why was she frightened? She had been in crowds before . . . But, of course, no one in those crowds had been focused on her personally. None of the men sounded threatening exactly. They were fans . . . She repeated that mantra in her head. They are fans!
A pen and a business card were shoved at her.
She blinked owlishly at the man in front of her. He stood she estimated around five foot nine inches, with blond hair and maybe blue eyes. The dim lighting from a streetlamp wasn't enough for details like that, and the bodies surrounding her prevented much light from the restaurant's front to penetrate.
"You want an autograph," Elle asked, nervously.
"I want your phone number," he growled. "You and I were made to make beautiful music together."
Her mouth dropped open at his audacity. "Really? Has that line ever worked for you before?"
The man blinked at her.
"Ah, yeah," she muttered. "I thought not . . . Listen, fellas? I'd really like nothing better than to stand out here in the cold and listen to you each take turns offending me, but it's been a long day and my cab's going to be here any minute."
One of the men in the back gave the blond in front of her a hard shove, driving the guy into her. His foot stepped on hers, and she would have fallen had the man on her right hadn't still been holding her arm.
"Yeah, buddy. Back off of the lady, why don't you," yelled the dark-haired man in the back.
Blondie turned around, swinging; catching the dark-haired guy in jaw and knocking him back into a third man. And the fight was on . . .
The man who had been holding onto her let go so as to better enter the fray, but it was only a matter of seconds before someone tackled the blond, and they both crashed into her. Elle felt like she was being pummeled as the breath was knocked out of her lungs, the sidewalk slammed into her, and the weight of two large, male bodies landed on top of her.
The men were hauled off of her, but the fight hadn't stopped. It seemed as if her adoring fans had forgotten her existence in favor of beating the ever-loving crap out of one another over her. Still surrounded on all sides by a forest of shuffling feet and legs, Elle curled her body into a fetal position in order to best protect herself.
A foot landed hard on her thigh. Elle's cry was cut off by a sharp kick to her back. Blackness swallowed her when . . . Did someone just step on my head? That was her last thought as unconsciousness mercifully smothered the sharp pain in her cheekbone.
It felt like only seconds; just a blink of time really before Elle was opening her eyes to flashing blue and red lights, people talking, rights being read. The grit of dirt and gravel had been replaced by crisp, white sheets and a gurney. A bright light flashed in front of her eyes.
"Hey," she groused, swatting at the light.
"Elle! Oh, thank God!" The familiar voice of Brian Donovan floated to her from the left. "You scared me."
The world swam as she turned to glare at her boss. Where had he been while she had been surrounded and stomped on?
"I scared you?" Elle snorted, choked, and then groaned as a fresh wave of pain wrapped around her mid-section.
"Ma'am? You need to relax," said the light-waving paramedic who appeared not much older than she.
Ignoring him, Elle attempted to sit up. She gasped. That hurt! She hesitated, but when the pain remained fairly constant, and not escalating, she pushed herself up all the way. She slapped at the hands of Brian and the paramedic when they tried to push her back down.
"Stop it," she ordered. She glanced around her, trying to make sense of the scene so very different from the one she last remembered seeing. "What's going on? What happened?"
She recognized the blond man as he was walked to the waiting police vehicle, his hands cuffed behind his back. He was sporting a blackened eye, she noted with distant pleasure. The dark-haired man who had started the brawl was standing next to the building currently being read his rights. Another man whom she didn't recognize, skin of Indian or Middle Eastern decent, was being questioned by another officer. She stared at him, trying to figure his place in all of this when Brian spoke up.
"That's your cab driver," he said. "He called the fight in to his dispatcher who called the police. He and Morris," Brian pointed out her bass-player near another patrol car giving his statement. "They helped me pull you free of the fight after the noise brought us running out front."
"Can you tell me how many fingers I am holding up," the paramedic interrupted, holding a hand up a few feet in front of her nose. Elle ignored his question and pushed his hand down.
"That was fast," she remarked. The patrol car must have been cruising by when the call went in.
"It wasn't that fast," Brian muttered. BPD's response time still wasn't fantastic, although it was an improvement to what it was three years ago. Three years ago, no one would have even bothered calling them if the fight didn't include at least thirty people with guns, knives, and chains. "You've been out for a while."
"Elle, you were unconscious when Morris and I came out of the restaurant nearly forty minutes ago. You only just now woke up," he exclaimed. "You should have been transported to the hospital twenty minutes ago for an MRI or something!" Brian shot the paramedic an accusing look.
"If you would let me do my job," the paramedic, his nametag said Keith, shot back. "We would already be on our way."
Forty minutes?! The ringing in her ears had reduced three decibel levels since she had regained consciousness. She put a hand up to her head. Her fingers caught in a sticky, damp tangle above her ear. Sure enough, when she looked at her hand, her fingers were covered in blood.
But it's old blood, she thought curiously. If it were new, it would be bright red; not a sticky dark red. The lack of panic at the blood covering her hand hinted that she might be a little bit shocky. Shivering, she pulled up the blanket puddled around her waist. Seeing the movement, the paramedic was all business. He gently pushed her back down onto the gurney, helping tuck the blanket around her.
"You'll be fine, ma'am," he reassured her. "The doctor will probably want to keep you a day or two for observation, but nothing seems to be broken. Your scalp has a minor laceration. It has already stopped bleeding, so will likely not need any stitches to heal properly."
Hospital? Oh no, she couldn't go to the hospital! Her father would find out, and the next thing she knew, she would be back in Chicago on forced bed rest for the next month or two.
She blinked. Thinking about her father, Elle remembered her body guards. Where were they? She could have gotten a ride with them, she supposed. That would have prevented this whole fiasco to begin with, but it had gone against her idea of independence to rely on the babysitting expertise of her childhood bodyguards.
"Where are Edward and Hugh," she managed to ask.
"Who?" Brian looked at her oddly, before his face cleared. "Oh, those two big guys that follow you around all the time?" At Elle's nod, he explained. "They broke up the fight while the cabbie, Morris, and I helped you. They were armed, however, and the police took them to the station for questioning."
"You let them take Hugh and Edward to the police station? Why didn't you explain to the cops who they are?" She tried to sit back up. The paramedic held her down with a hand on her shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Elle," Brian said. "I suppose I was too concerned you might be dying or something."
Damn it! She would have to tell them to keep this incident under wraps. She was pretty sure they would report it back to her father no matter what promises she might force out of them. Still, it was worth a try.
Keith, the paramedic, interrupted again. "I need you get you to the hospital now, ma'am," he said. Turning to Brian, "we have room in the ambulance for one person to ride with her. Or you can follow in your own vehicle."
Keith was reaching for the belt on the gurney to strap her in, when Elle swung her legs over the edge and sat back up. "I'm not going," she announced to the two startled men.
"Elle, you have to," Brian said. "You were unconscious for a long time. You have to go get checked out."
"No, I don't . . ." she argued.
"Ma'am," Keith broke in. "You are suffering from shock as well."
"Why," she asked him. "Because I'm cold? Well, it's October in Bludhaven! It's always cold in Bludhaven in October."
Keith just looked at her, knowingly, despite his not knowing her at all.
"Right. Shock," she muttered. "How do you treat shock?"
"You need to be with medical personnel to treat shock, properly. You could easily slip back into unconsciousness, into a coma, and even die if you were to attempt to do this on your own." Keith didn't like scaring his patients, but he had a feeling that this woman was going to stand up and go home by herself otherwise.
Brian boggled at this news. "Elle," he choked. "Please, sweetheart!"
Elle sighed. "Why don't you go home, Brian? Suzanne will be worried about you."
"Suzanne would have my head if I let you go home with a head injury and suffering from shock. Besides, I called her after the police arrived. She knows where I am."
Elle's lips twitched at that. Suzanne Donovan thought herself to be Elle's surrogate mother. "Brian . . ."
Brian looked at Keith. "What if I went home with her? I could keep an eye on her; wake her up every hour . . ."
Keith looked at the two of them like they were nuts. "This isn't something you should treat lightly. It's my professional opinion that she needs to be evaluated by a doctor, and held for observation. Something could happen . . ."
"Or not," Elle interjected. "The zombie apocalypse could happen, too, but that doesn't mean that it will. I just want to go home right now."
"The police will be wanting to talk to you, too, Elle," Brian told her. "Of course, they might let you wait until tomorrow, and you could go down to the station then."
Keith snorted. "Sorry, but I doubt you will feel like going anywhere tomorrow. Whatever you are feeling right now will be doubled or tripled by tomorrow."
"I'm feeling numb right now," Elle volunteered, and immediately wished she hadn't. Keith was frowning at her.
"That is another symptom of shock, ma'am," he stated. "You need to take this seriously."
"Elle," Brian begged her with his eyes.
"Seriously? Brian stop with the puppy dog eyes. It's not a good look on you," she grumbled.
Suddenly Brian perked up. He thought he knew a way to get Elle to get the care she needed. He wasn't sure she would want him to know any more than she wanted her family to know that she had been a victim. But he knew the man's name, and that was a start.
"Elle, I really think you need to go to the hospital." He looked at Keith, willing the man to follow his lead. "Keith, here, thinks it's necessary, don't you, Keith?"
The paramedic nodded emphatically. "Totally," he agreed, and went into another lecture as to why treatment by a professional was superior to aspirin and an ice pack.
Taking advantage of Elle's confusion and the slowness that her obvious concussion was causing her, Brian stepped over to one of the officers on the scene.
"Is she all right? Do you think she's up to making a statement?" Officer, Brian checked his name, Radcliffe asked.
"Not yet. She's trying to refuse medical treatment at the moment," he muttered.
This seemed to surprise the officer, and he glanced around Brian at the woman shivering on the gurney. "I don't think that would be a good idea. Besides the fact that she was unconscious when we arrived, she looks pretty banged up over all. Who knows what other injuries she might not even realize she has?"
"I agree, but she's being stubborn. I was thinking that we might get in touch with the guy she's been seeing. He might be able to convince her to go to the hospital."
Officer Radcliffe peeked back at the woman in question. No doubt about it, even with the shiner she would be sporting before morning, she was an attractive woman. "Well, do you have his information? I could radio it in, and dispatch could send someone to pick him up."
"I only have his name. Maybe you could look him up," Brian asked, hopefully.
"If it isn't John Smith, we might be able to locate him for you," the officer agreed, tentatively.
"Dick Grayson," Brian supplied. "Although it is probably listed under Richard, I would think."
"Did you say, Dick Grayson?"
"Uh, yeah. Is that a problem?" Brian frowned.
"I think I know who you're talking about," Radcliffe looked at the woman again. It would figure that Grayson would have a gorgeous girlfriend like that, and keep it a secret. "Is your Grayson also a cop?"
Brian blinked. He didn't know. The man he knew was the adopted son of that rich, Gotham playboy, Bruce Wayne. Would Wayne really allow his kid to get a blue-collar job like being a cop rather than paving the way for him to become a corporate vice-president to some fictional department in daddy's business?
"I don't know. I suppose he could be." Brian admitted, albeit reluctantly.
"Black hair, blue eyes, approximately five foot ten, one hundred seventy pounds or so. Too bloody good-looking for his own good; a real pretty boy?"
Brian was nodding. "Yes! That sound just like him."
Radcliffe whistled. "Damn . . . Some guys have all the luck." He chuckled. "I can find him for you."
"Good. Perhaps he can convince her to get the care she needs. That head injury is worrisome, and coupled with shock, she's too confused to make these kind of decisions. She's not listening to me, but she might listen to him."
The reminder of the seriousness of the woman's injuries, sobered the officer. He wasn't looking forward to telling a fellow officer that his girlfriend had been attacked by a bunch of . . . He looked down at his notes. Nine men? Good God! That was a mob! Oh man, what a nightmare! Especially if Grayson actually was in love with her.
This is the kind of reactions that Elle's mother and grandmother had received during their own careers. Because Elle's blood was diluted, I thought those obsessive reactions shouldn't as great for her. Any more information would definitely be a spoiler for anyone who hasn't read the story yet.
Feel free to review and give me your comments and opinions, or ask further questions as to why I chose to delete this. Unfortunately, I won't be able to answer guest questions on here, but feel free to set up an account. You don't have to write, you know, to have one. You'll be able to collect your favorite stories, and I'll be able to answer your reviews and receive any PMs you might have. ;D
I'll be putting up more of these deleted scenes and excerpts every so often from your favorite stories. Things that didn't work for one reason or another, or I just couldn't fit into the story.
