Chapter 4 And All That Jazz

"Oh, wow!"

It slipped out of her before she could stop herself. The pulse of the loud music tore through her body, her heart immediately assuming its beat. It was beautiful. The club was a lot smaller than she had expected. Smoke from numerous cigarettes lay heavy in the air. There were more people than she'd have expected on a Thursday night. Didn't people have jobs and school and stuff? This crowd seemed to live by its own rules; dancing and drinking like there were no tomorrow.

She already loved the place. Pity she was here with him. Thanks to him.

-

He didn't have a solid plan.

For the first time in probably twenty years, he didn't have a plan.

So - he hadn't killed her. He never questioned a contract. It was all just flesh anyway; everyone dies in the end. What did it matter on the whole, that he helped a few people meet their destiny a little in advance?

It wasn't really her, he realized. It was him.

He had turned old early, leaving childhood probably at the age of ten. It had taken a few more years out of necessity, but after that he hadn't looked back once. And now they were all dead, for one reason or another. No one to ask, no one to blame.

But here she is.

She had known him then, before. Before he had turned cold.

Psychologists back at the agency had called him a psychopath – well, whatever made them happy. He was indifferent. They'd had good use for him though. He was the best at his line of work.

Then.

Now.

It was just work.

I haven't killed her.

He hadn't recognized her at first. Not until she'd said his name. She didn't look anything like that trusting little child he remembered. She appeared worn out. Beaten. And someone had put a contract on her. What had she been through?

-

Vincent nodded at the woman behind the bar and guided them both to a table in the rear of the main room. Back against the wall, she noticed. She sat down and realized she hadn't brought her bag. It was still back at the café. A beautiful, tall blonde came to take their orders.

"You look like you're thirsty, honey," she said, addressing Vincent and smiling flirtatiously. For a moment, Sarah could see Vincent through the other woman's eyes and felt an unexpected surge of jealousy. Ridiculous! She waved it off.

"Just a club soda, thanks," he said and fired off one of his rare smiles.

The blonde looked at Sarah. "Whiskey," she muttered. "Make it a double."

"Sure, hon." The waitress glanced once more in Vincent's direction and was gone. Vincent seemed to be in a trance, already absorbed by the pulsating, irregular music from the stage up front.

"It's behind the notes, in the spaces," he said, still intent on the musicians. Then he turned to look at her, and her breath caught in her chest. It felt like he looked into the depths of her soul, as if she didn't have to try to be someone she wasn't. Not like she always did when she was out on dates...

Snap out of it! This isn't a date you stupid little bitch! You're his prey!

Their drinks came and he never took his eyes off her.

Sarah reached for her whiskey and gulped it down with a couple of burning-hot swallows. Her face turned red for a moment, and her eyes filled with tears from the effort of not choking, then she stared challengingly back at him. Say something then, reprimand me! He didn't, instead he raised one eyebrow, waved for the waitress and gestured to the glass: one more.

They sat silent for a few minutes; Vincent's foot was tapping restlessly with the rhythm of the music. "Let's dance." He rose and offered her his hand. Sarah was already beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol and didn't object. Well, if my life's gonna go to hell, it might as well do it with a dance!

He slid his arm around her from behind and maneuvered her to the dance floor. She could feel his hard chest pressing at her back, and the arm around her waist held her tight. Sarah stiffened, but having already felt his strength earlier she was wise enough not to resist him. He did what he wanted, took what he wanted. She was glad she wasn't dead; a little dancing wasn't that bad. To be honest, she couldn't remember the last time a man had wanted to dance with her.

The band's horn section came into a mad crescendo, competing with each other on who could play louder and harder.

The crowd around them got wilder and everybody glistened with perspiration. Vincent however, didn't follow. He spun her around and pressed her gently against his chest, beginning a slow dance, moving at half the speed the musicians and everybody else kept. Almost in slow motion, he guided her over the dance floor, sliding elegantly between the dancing couples.

The music almost put her in a trance, and everything that had happened suddenly seemed unreal. Sarah closed her eyes and began, in spite of herself, to relax. Vincent was even more beautiful than she remembered; he had aged with grace and had a very impressive physique. Here she was, in a position she had dreamed of achieving all those years ago: tightly pressed to the man of her dreams and having his full attention. Her mind reeled at that thought: what kind of attention was it? She couldn't allow herself to fall for the deceptive normality of his behavior – the dancing, and his smooth manners - these last minutes.

He came to kill me!

If she allowed though, for only one moment, the little girl in her to come through; to just indulge... A bit shaky, she inhaled his scent; at the nape of his neck there was a masculine air she vaguely recognized. Without knowing it, she pressed harder against him, finding comfort in the closeness of another human being.

Of course he had to ruin it.

"What happened to your brother, Sarah?"

Oh no! Oh fuck! Why did he have to bring that up? Couldn't he have forgotten about that?

-

Simon had left home at eighteen. Sarah had been eleven, and she had never felt so betrayed. Simon had been her everything. He'd taken care of her, looked after her, cared for her. He'd been the only one that ever did. After being gone for four years, he'd suddenly showed up one night, looking miserable. The scars on his arms and face evidence enough of what kind of life he lived.

He had snuck in that night through her bedroom window. They'd talked for hours and hours, until dawn.

"You've grown," he'd said, then given her a hug and swung his long skinny legs up on her bed.

Sarah had pulled the blanket around her body, distancing herself a little. "Well, you've been gone for a while."

"I have, haven't I?" He'd laughed softly and then smothered a cough. He hadn't seemed well. Sarah hadn't asked.

"Why the fuck did you come back? Mom and Dad'll go nuts if they see you around."

"I just had to get some rest, Sar," he'd sighed, and coughed some more. "Just some rest."

"Well you can't have it here. You left," she'd whispered hoarsely. The accusation had hung almost palpable in the air between them.

"Had to, you know. Just had to. If I hadn't, I would have killed him…" Simon had looked tormented; the pain and self -loathing obvious in his eyes.

She'd nodded. They'd had a lot in common, too much for anyone to bear. "Yeah… I know." That was all that had needed to be said.

They'd talked the rest of the night. Old memories. About Sarah's school. Possible boyfriends. Friends. They hadn't said anything about Simon's previous whereabouts. He hadn't mentioned it and Sarah had never asked. Probably neither had wanted to break the fragile peace between them.

At dawn the next morning, cops had stormed their house and arrested her older brother.

-

Sarah closed her eyes and tried to avoid his gaze. It was clear, though, that Vincent wasn't going to let it pass. He stopped dancing and held up her chin.

"Look at me."

She did.

"Answer the question."

"What question?" she said, trying to play dumb.

His grip at her chin hardened. "Sarah," he said with a warning flash in his eyes.

"He's dead, Vincent!" Her voice cracked. "He's dead." She looked away with pain evident on her face.

Vincent considered her, biting slightly at his lower lip before he spoke. "And you haven't mourned him a day since?"

Sarah didn't see the brief look of sympathy that flew past his face. She went rigid and tried to pull away, with the only result that his grip around her back hardened.

"Do not attract attention," he warned calmly.

"Well, don't be such an asshole then!" she spat. "What the hell's the matter with you? How can you be so cold? Do you have human emotions in there? Is there anybody home?" She tried to knock at his head with her fist, but he caught it in a vice grip in mid air.

"Sarah, I was being ironic, OK? Relax; don't fight wars you can't win." He leaned over and whispered in her ear. "I am the one with the gun."

"Vinc-" She couldn't continue. Her head was spinning.

Vincent led her off the dance floor, back to their table where a glass of beautiful golden Irish whiskey awaited her. Sarah lifted it with trembling hands and drank the liquid with a couple of big gulps. The glass rattled against the table's polished surface as she sat it back down. She flinched when Vincent took her hands in his and held them tight. Her first instinct was to pull away, but suddenly she got tired of fighting. And he was right, he did have the gun. Why did she even bother?

Leaning over the table, Vincent locked his eyes with hers. At first he didn't say anything, just kept studying her, and she found herself mesmerized by his intense dark green pools. He squeezed her hands before letting them go. "Talk." That was all he said, but she knew - somehow she knew - it was for her. He wasn't really that curious.

And she told him. She told him everything that had happened during those years. How Simon had disappeared and they hadn't heard a single word from him. Their parents had said the most horrible things; he was this and he was that. She hadn't wanted to listen. He had been her idol, her hero, her brother. Slowly that picture had faded though, replaced by anger and hate, which is just the other side of the coin. When a little sister gets betrayed by someone she looks up to so much, that love can easily turn into hatred. Then he'd reappeared just a suddenly as he had disappeared. Turned out though, he hadn't been coming home. He hadn't come to see her. He'd just been running from the police.

The police had come all right.

Simon had been charged with drug dealing. He'd just been a small time dealer and had been offered a deal; a shortened time in jail if he gave away the bigger fish. And he had. He'd sold everybody out. Simon was never really that smart. They'd found his battered body in the showers one morning, two years later, just three days before he had served his time. He had been beaten so badly, not a single bone in his body had been whole.

Sarah's guilt had been overwhelming. She had been so angry with him after the arrest; she hadn't spoken to him since. And now it was too late. Everything was too late.

Tears were rolling down her cheeks as she spoke, gathering in a pool under her chin, and one big drop after the other fell on her hands, which were tightly clenched in her lap. When she stopped speaking, he offered her his napkin and her drink. She wiped her nose and drank the rest of the clear, golden liquid, enjoying how it burned her throat. It made her feel alive.

She had no clue how much time had passed, but as she looked up she could see there were fewer people in the club now. And the music had softened. A single trumpet was playing a sad tune; then it was joined by the quiet rhythmic beat of percussions; the bass followed and fell away. The music came in waves, in an almost random, but still perfect, pattern.

Vincent noticed her attention on the music and something glittered in his eyes. With a soft smile, he took her hand. "Dance?"

She nodded.

This dance was much different from their last. Vincent didn't hold her like he thought she was going to run away any second. His gentle support at her lower back was perfectly balanced as he led and she followed. How does he do this? He was a good dancer, making her own stumbling footing seem almost experienced and not as clumsy as it normally was.

Exhausted, she relaxed in his arms, allowing him to take over. Her body felt heavy and almost numb, but he maneuvered her in a dance so slow they barely moved at all. It was almost a sensual feeling, the stubble at her cheek, his scent. She loved his scent; it was as if it had always surrounded her like it did now. The hand at her back slowly slid higher and his hold tightened. All nerve endings in her body came to life, sending impulses constantly from where his hand was. With his arm now all the way around her back, he held his hand just below the swell of her breast. She could barely breathe any more from all the intense sensations that coursed through her body; pain, relief, the remains of fear, all the memories, good and bad, closeness, his intoxicating scent, his touch...

When the music stopped, he let her go abruptly and just looked at her for an endless moment. Then he turned all business like again. "We need to get moving."

Oh God!

Her fear was back.