Author's Note: Yeah, you guys must think I totally suck. Not only am I nearly two days late with this chapter – whoops! – but it's also the shortest I've done so far – double whoops! I guess I could blame it on the 4th of July, or the really bad cramps I've been having – being a girl really does sucks sometimes – but I should just be honest: I've grown slightly bored of my own fan fiction. This happens a bit; I get all gung ho on my stories and work on them until I go through a phase where I just let them wait around for me a bit. However, this story is about 50-60 percent done as it is, so I thought I would try to get past my writer's block on it. I want to have it done by the time the summer is finished. So, here it is. And, I'm sorry to my dear, Biddy :) Unfortunately, Spindle and Rip are destined to have some sort of relationship though, as witnessed in the stories that follow this (CLAK, SBTL & OYA), their relationship is real screwy. I hope I captured that with the end of this chapter. Enjoy. Next chapter should be next Wednesday as planned.

Disclaimer: These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical Newsies, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers.

Aisling is the property of Aisling. Yay :)

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A Virgin's Touch

07.06.06

They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.
Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all.

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PART VIII

As soon as she was done, Aisling, the girl assigned to him that night, held out her hand for the second half of her payment. Rip reached over the side of the small bed and grabbed the small bag of coins he had saved over the past month and had stashed in his back pocket. Without a word, he handed it over to the girl with reddish-blonde hair. She had been worth every penny.

With a shake of her bare chest – and a coy laugh when Rip reached out boldly for another squeeze – Aisling slid out of the bed. "I have another client coming in a few minutes. I'm going to go get washed up," she said, as she picked up her robe from the floor and, to Rip's dismay, covered herself up with it. "You have until I get back to the room to get dressed and get out of here, alright?"

He nodded. She had let him be the dominant in their romp; he figured, now that he was done, it wouldn't hurt to listen to her for once. She had, after all, listened to him the entire time they were in bed.

Aisling smiled at him before blowing him a kiss. "I'll see you soon," she said and slipped out of the room.

Rip remained on his back for a few seconds longer, staring up at the ceiling. In a way that even he couldn't describe, he felt different. He felt cleaner, almost, even with the slick sweat of Aisling that still coated his chest. And he felt a whole lot lighter. With his release, he had said goodbye to the phantom of Daisy that had been weighing him down. I'll see you soon, Aisling had said. She was damn right.

With a regretful sigh, Rip tossed the coverlet aside and climbed out of the bed. As small as the bed in Cecilia's brothel was, it was much better than the bunk he called his own in the Harlem House. Especially since it came with a girl. Pity it cost me a month's savings, he smirked as he pulled his black slacks on.

His socks followed the pants and he hissed when he noticed that the right one had a large hole in it; he had managed to scrimp an extra pair of pants, two shirts and a union suit (for when it was cold – he hadn't bother on wearing it to the brothel) during his stay at the House from boys who either left the House or neglected to watch their own clothing. His first month out on his own, Rip had learned quickly to cover his own ass and get what he needed. It was a lesson hard learned after he caught Trace trying to steal his cross necklace off of his own neck while sleeping.

A hole in one of the two socks he had meant that it would be all the longer until he could afford to come back to the brothel. Inexplicably, Rip felt the familiar twinges of anger. Fucking sock, he thought as he jammed his foot into his shoe. Still angry – angry at the shoddiness of the sock, wearing out after only a month's constant use; angry at himself for not noticing the hole earlier – Rip gripped his laces and tugged. The lace in his left hand broke in half.

"God damn it!" he swore and threw the brown lace to the floor. "Now I gotta get new shoes, too," he said and sat back down on the bed. He took a deep breath and, trying to relax and let go of his anger, he tied a knot into his left shoe. The right he left undone as he bent down and picked the faded blue shirt off of the floor. He shrugged it on and, without bothering to do more than the middle two buttons, choosing to jam the lower half of the shirt into his pants, Rip exited the room.

He lowered his gaze as he filtered out into the main hallway. He bumped into a well-dressed man, at least twenty years his senior, and said nothing though he felt the anger rise again. He paused for a moment and watched as the man stopped just outside Aisling's door, straightening his tie before knocking on the door. Rip smirked. Bum's gotta wait for his lay, he thought before continuing out of the brothel. The anger subsided slightly. I'm better for her than that guy. He smugly thought back to the time he had shared with Aisling. Much better.

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It was dark when he got outside and the mid October chill had already began to creep into the night air. Shivering slightly, and using his fingers to quickly button the three undone buttons of his shirt, Rip wished he had thought to bring his union suit with him. The body-covering suit would have kept his thin frame all the warmer, even though it was a size too big and covered his hands; the boy he had nicked it from, Snaps, was a larger boy who had moved out of the Harlem House two weeks ago. According to Mack, Snaps had made a female friend downtown and had moved to another House to be nearer to her. But, since it was Mack who told him, of course it came down to a girl. Pervert, he thought as he crossed his arms over his chest for warmth.

This was one of the first times since his arrival a month and a half before that Rip found himself out of the Harlem House at night. Despite the fact that the Children's Aid Society had not detected the absence of an adult keeper of the House since the old keeper, a Mister Dodges, died on the job over two months ago. Mack said that they only sent someone out every three months or so if there isn't a complaint and, without a keeper to say anything against it, there had been no complaints about the boys' behavior; the neighbors surrounding the house had no desire to tell on the boys as long as they let the neighbor's be. It was a comfortable agreement for them all.

Rip, on the other hand, felt better about himself if he went back to the Harlem House before the sun went down. For one thing, he could say his prayers without fear of anyone seeing; the other boys were taking advantage of their newfound freedom by staying out as late as they wanted. For another thing, Rip found that if he went to bed early, there was a bed for him. One of the first nights he had followed Mack's advice and stayed out, he had returned to find a newcomer passed out in his bunk. It had taken two days of airing out his sheet to get the stink out.

Now, however, Rip was enjoying the silence that the nighttime stroll back to the House awarded him. He had no worries that his bed would be occupied; Mack had assured him that he would keep an eye on it himself. And, if he got back at a time when the boys were either out or asleep, he could still perform his nightly prayers as usual. This time he felt that, when he said his prayers for Daisy, he would be further absolved.

"Hey."

Rip stopped his walk. Automatically he dropped his hands to his sides, adopting a more defensive stance. After his run-in with the three hoodlums guarding the Negro tenements, Rip had become more wary of nighttime visitors. This time he wouldn't give them the chance to attack. He spun around so that he was facing the person who had called out to him. "What?" He couldn't see anyone right away. While the brothel wasn't that far from the House, he had only managed to get about three blocks away. He still had a few more to go until he was back home and, where he was, there wasn't much light. It was a perfect opportunity for a fight; Rip could think of many of the boys who would love to take advantage of him when Mack wasn't around for protection.

But, surprisingly, the person that walked over to him was not looking for a fight – nor was the person one of the boys. The girl had been sitting on a porch of a nearby building and, when she saw Rip walk by, had called out to him. Despite his apprehensive attitude, she was not intimidated by him. She smoothly got to her feet, a long dark skirt extending down so that only her bare feet were visible in the limited light. The closer he got, the more features that stood out: she was short, much shorter than he, and had very fair skin; she had long hair, darker than lighter, though he couldn't determine the shade; her nose was slightly upturned and she was smiling – he could see her teeth glinting. "Hey," she said again, as she sidled up to him and reached one of her petite hands out before resting it on his shoulder.

Rip tensed at the touch but the rigidity lasted only a few seconds before he recognized the girl.

Spindle.

Briefly, Mack's words from earlier than evening came rushing back. I'm gonna tell you one thing, Rip. If you go inside that joint and the dame at the desk takes you to Spindle's room, haul your ass out of that place. Trust me – I'll refund your dough to you. Anything's better than sleeping with that girl. He had said it so vehemently – and so un-Mack-like – that Rip wondered if he should just excuse himself and hurry back to the House.

That was when Spindle's fingers began to roam. While they began their trek, resting on his shoulder, she quickly began to run them up and down his arm before reaching under his shirt and rubbing his chest. Ignoring the voice in his head that told him that he should just get out of the situation – and wondering just how Spindle had pulled his shirt out of his pants in order to insert her hand without him realizing it – Rip let her do it. He realized just then that he hadn't worked out all his sexual desires in that room with Aisling. This girl was getting him all excited again – and he hadn't a dime to pay her, either. Maybe I should tell her to stop…

But he found he couldn't. For some reason, he could not get his mouth to say the words. Instead, Rip just grabbed her thin hand with his bigger one and pulled it down. He did not need any words; Spindle got the hint right there.

She was standing directly in front of him, so close that he could see the surprised smile that momentarily crossed her face when he caused her to stop. The smile was short-lived however, and followed by a dark look in her green eyes. She blinked once and, in that look, Rip saw something that he would think about the rest of his walk back to the Harlem House.

In her eyes, Rip saw the emotionless expression of one who was dead inside and was only kept alive by the air their lungs involuntarily took in. He saw sadness, and hurt. He saw hardships, and loss.

In her eyes, he saw death. And he saw loneliness.

In her eyes, he saw himself staring back at her. His blue eyes were a reflection of the torment that was shown in her green eyes.

And, as he slipped into the small bunk that Mack had kept empty for him, he thought he might have just understood what Mack meant about Spindle after all.