Author's Note: Okay, I made up for that uber short chapter last week with the longest chapter to date. This is almost like the background chapter to Spindle. After undertaking this project to give Rip a history, I didn't want to have to do the same thing for Spindle. Instead, I gave her brief history, as while as the meaning behind her nickname, in this chapter. It also is the start to their very twisted relationship. Aren't we all excited?

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.

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A Virgin's Touch

07.12.06

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 IX

It was much later when Rip ran into Spindle again. Autumn had given way to winter; the leaves from the trees that dotted the dirt roads had all fallen and been washed away by the late October rain. Thanksgiving had already passed; it was then when the Children's Aid Society finally learned that the Harlem House was without a keeper. A large group of well-to-do women, taken a break from their busy Socialite lives, sponsored a large dinner that year for the orphans of the city. There was a grand meal, that Thanksgiving; it was Rip's first celebration of the holiday that made him feel as if he were a true American. They served turkey and boiled ham, celery, mashed potatoes and turnips, tea, and pies. Mack had sweet-talked one of the younger daughters of the women into letting him take away a whole apple pie back to the Harlem House; it was also he who let slip that Dodges had died. She, in turn, told her mother. A new keeper was sent the next week.

No, it was in the first week of December, in 1893, when he encountered the red-headed young prostitute for the third time. It was a cold day, and the ground was a mess of slushy snow. Winter had reared its ugly head early; the first snow storm came the Thursday following Thanksgiving. The season promised to be vicious and Rip wondered how he would survive his first winter on the street. He no longer had the fleeting desire to return back to Little Italy and rejoin his family. I don't have a family.

After the arrival of a man called Smith, employed by the Society to bring order back to the Harlem House, most of the boys had disappeared. Smith required them all to pay their lodging fare – six cents a night – as well as six cents for the supper served in a small dining hall, across the street from the House. Many boys had grown accustomed to making their money by selling and blowing it almost right away. Not many of them had the six cents to spare and had to sleep outside. Rip, who had never slept a night outside in his life, sold all the more papers so that he would be guaranteed to have lodging fare.

But, with at least twelve cents a day going to room and board, that left Rip with very little money to spend on himself. That first time he spent at Cecilia's brothel boded to be the last unless Rip saved up enough money to go back without going hungry. As it was, he had to punch a few additional holes in his one belt to keep his slacks up for all the weight he had lost in the three months he had been in Harlem.

So, when Rip met up with Spindle, it was a pleasant surprise. She was the first familiar female face he had seen in weeks. Smith also reinforced the rule that no girl or woman was to visit the Harlem House without permission. Mack learned the hard way that Smith was not willing to give permission to his whores; he had begun making visits to Cecilia's brothel and staying over on the nights when he, himself, did not have lodging fare. Rip, on the other hand, did not have such a close relationship with Cecilia Rayner and, therefore, did not get the same privileges as Mack. He took to conjuring up the image of a dead prostitute within his head when his thoughts turned perverted. That usually took care of his urges.

He was on his way back to the Harlem House when he saw Spindle again. The wind was blowing quite fiercely and Rip had drawn his hands within his thin shirt to conserve his body heat. He had already finished selling for the day; it was just approaching ten in the morning and he had sold enough papers – fifteen, to be exact, the only amount he had purchased from the clerk at the Distribution Center – to ensure that he had a hot supper and a roof over his head that night. He was very clearly desperate to be inside the House in order to stave off the cold that was threatening to overtake him. And that's when he heard her voice.

Like that other time they had met, Spindle called out to him first. She was wearing that same dark skirt, with a beige blouse but the fieriness of her red hair stood out amid the dreary setting of the city. This time, he recognized her at once. "Hey," she said, as she hurriedly ran down the street towards him. She had been walking in the opposite direction than he – probably on her way to the brothel, he assumed – and saw him first. She seemed excited to see him. At least, her emerald eyes were lit up this time, without the trace of sadness that he had seen before.

Rip looked over at her. He briefly noticed, as she ran through the crunchy, dirty snow that was left from the storm of the week before, that she was no longer barefoot; she was wearing a small set of dark heeled shoes that clicked as she went. Her red hair, straight and limp, hung around her shoulders and fanned as the wind pushed against it. Her pale skin had a rosy tint on her cheeks and the tip of her nose. She was as cold as he was. "Hello," he said flatly. He had not forgotten Mack's words from before. Nor had he forgotten the strange look he had spied in her eyes that night.

When she was standing right in front of him, she turned on her heel and began to walk with him forward. She saw that his hands were inside his sleeves and smirked slightly. "Cold, Rip?"

He started to nod but stopped almost at once. His feet followed the example of his head and he paused in the middle of the road. He turned to his right and narrowed his blue eyes on her cheeky face. "How did you know my name?" he asked. His voice was low just then but laced with a hidden meaning: She had better have a good explanation or he might get angry. Rip hadn't made many friends with the other child laborers he saw in the city. Of them all, the only friend he had was Mack – and that was stretching it as it were. How, then, if they had never been introduced, did she know his name. He only knew her name because Mack knew the names of all of the girls. He doubted, after all the nasty things Mack said about Spindle, that the older boy went back and told her about him.

She shrugged. "I know a lot of things," she answered vaguely.

"That's not much of answer." Rip still had not begun to move. Despite the cold, he refused to take another step until this girl told him the truth. There was something about her that made him raise his guard while still being intrigued by her presence. He didn't like the way this girl was making him feel. He hadn't felt this strange since long before Maria died. He wasn't sure he ever wanted to feel this way again.

Spindle was still smiling over at him. The smile was still there as she shivered from the cold. "I'd be more than happy to answer your questions, Rip, but don't you think we would be better off inside?"

"Girls aren't allowed in the House."

She rolled her eyes. "Minx and Aisling told me all about that silly rule your Mister Smith came up with."

Aisling? Rip hadn't forgotten about her. Now that was a girl that made him feel the way he liked. "Yeah, well, you can't come with me back to the House, so I think you better start talking now."

Spindle shook her head while rubbing her arms with her hands. The wind was still whipping and it was cutting right through her blouse. "Look, I'll start talking once I'm warm. Come on," she added, as she reached he hand out to grab his arm. Surprisingly, he did not move away from her touch. "You can head back with me to Cecilia's place. It's warm in there."

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Spindle was right. As he followed her inside the brothel, he felt the warmth wash over him and was glad that he had given in and gone with her. He might not have shown it while outside, but if he had stayed there much longer in order to talk with the girl, he would have frozen.

He did, however, feel slightly uncomfortable heading inside the brothel when he knew he had no extra money on him. He was pretty sure that if they asked for his money in advance, to book a room, they would kick him out once they discovered he had no money.

But, as it turns out, Spindle was able to take care of that situation. As soon as they entered the building, the small girl who took the first half of the money off the client, glanced up and motioned to the pair to come to her desk.

She was still young, though she appeared to be a little older than they were – maybe fifteen or so. She was short, with fair skin, and chestnut hair that extended just past her shoulders. Her green eyes narrowed when she spied Spindle. "Caity," she said and, briefly, Rip wondered who she was referring to. Then he remembered that Spindle could hardly be her Christian name. "Aren't you going to sign your friend in?"

Spindle's face darkened and the smile she had worn while talking with Rip disappeared. "Ellie, I told you to call me Spindle."

The girl, Ellie, looked just as annoyed as Spindle did. "Then call me Gimmick," she replied before picking up the locked box that sat atop her desk. Rip recognized the box. It was the same box where the girl had locked away the first half of his money – the share of coins that he didn't just give to Aisling – that first time he came to the brothel.

Spindle took one glance at the box and shook her head. "You don't need to worry about that, Gimmick. He already gave me the first half."

Gimmick looked wary but eventually lowered the box. Spindle was one of the best girls in the brothel and always shared her take. She would give the box its share after she was done with her client. That's when she noticed the boy that was with the redhead. He was tall and lanky but appeared to be approaching fifteen years himself. However, Spindle was known for bringing in the oldest of the brothel's clients. As long as Gimmick had been sitting behind the front desk, she had never seen a man under the age of thirty come in for Spindle, specifically.

Then again, Gimmick noted, this boy was exceptionally handsome. He had the dirty look of a street rat about him but it was fresh. He couldn't have been living on the streets for too long; he even smelled cleaner than the other boys that came in.

"Go ahead," she said, as she waved Spindle and the boy on through. "Your normal room is free and I don't have any appointments listed for you until much later tonight," she added. It was not unusual for a man to visit the brothel early in the morning – that was the time that their unsuspecting wives thought they were at work – but Cecilia's place did the most business at night. Harlem was a small, but growing, community that did not appreciate an active brothel. As long as most of the clients and whores went about their business at night when it could be overlooked, they let it function. It was when people came and went in broad daylight that the citizens of the city grew offended.

Spindle nodded and grabbed at Rip's hand. The boy let her take it and followed her down the hallway. His icy eyes strayed just off to the left, where Aisling's room was, but continued on past it. Spindle's room was the last one on the right. She knocked on it, just in case, and when no one answered, she opened the door and ushered Rip inside.

As soon as they were inside, and Spindle had locked the door behind him, the girl let out a high-pitched giggle that sounded odd. Maybe it was because he hadn't heard the sound of laughter in awhile; maybe it was because the way she laughed made her sound just a little off. Rip was betting on the second option.

"That Ellie, what an idiot," she said as she flopped herself down on the bed. The room was dark – the curtains were pulled – and Rip looked around eagerly for a candle to light. When he couldn't find one, he just walked across the small room and opened the drapes. He felt much better with light illuminating the room. "She really thinks that I split my takings with her."

When Rip looked at her with confusion, she elaborated. "That girl out there? Ellie? Well, she's too much of a prude to have her own bed so Cecilia lets her operate the lockbox. She's supposed to make sure that all of us give her half of what we make before we even let our clients in. But, what I do, is usually bring my clients in and get the money from them. Then I give Ellie about a third of it and she's satisfied. She never knows that I milk extra money from those old geezers."

Rip just nodded. It was one thing to turn to a whore for his own needs but it was another to listen to one discuss her line of work. It was hard for him to imagine people other than him and Mack who visited this brothel. It made him feel dirty. He could only imagine how Spindle felt.

Not wanting to focus on that thought any further, Rip turned back to the topic that brought him with her to the brothel to begin with. But, before he could ask her how she knew about him, he thought he would learn a little bit about her. "So, which is it?"

"What?" While still sitting on the bed, she was no longer lying on it. She had adopted a cross legged pose and looked all the younger for it.

"Which is it? Your name? Is it Caity," he began, thinking back to the name he had heard Gimmick call her, "or is it Spindle?"

A dark look crossed her face but was gone in an instant; Rip was sure he saw it only because the light from the window was directed right across her in a most flattering way. He had to admit she was quite pretty in a unique way. "Caitlin, really," she answered. "Caitlin Scott was the name I was given, but it's not a good name to have when you're selling yourself. Some of the clients might know a Caitlin or a Scott girl and get uncomfortable. So I go by my old nickname – Spindle."

Rip, always one to jump on one's ethnicity, focused on her surname. "Scott? So I take it you are Scottish, then? I mean, red hair and all, I thought you'd be Irish."

She paused and he could tell that this topic was making her uncomfortable. Good, he thought. Strangely, he found that he liked to make her squirm. She was such a forward young girl, it made him feel better to be in control. "Actually," she began, and her voice seemed much deeper, "I don't know what the Hell I am. I grew up in an orphanage in Queens. The matron there gave me her last name, since I was a foundling. All they ever knew was that my Mama was a whore just like me. I stayed there until I was about twelve and left. I ran into Cecilia while working the streets. She told me that men would pay for the opportunity to fuck a redhead so I came with her to her brothel. When she moved here, I followed."

Rip was quite surprised to hear Spindle's story so soon. He had learned from experience in the Harlem House that most kids on the street had a story – but none of them would ever share it. Why, then, was this girl telling her secrets to him? I admit it, I'm interested.

Spindle noticed that the guarded expression Rip wore was slowly fading. She had to try to hide a smile. Rather than lose his interest, she continued in her story. "That was two years ago," she said and Rip knew then that she was his age, "and it's been one hell of a life. The kids down at the orphanage used to tell me that I'd grow up to be nothing but a whore like my Mama and I guess I proved them right. But who's the one with a job, a roof over their head, and money in their pocket, hmm?"

Rip couldn't help but to think that it wasn't that great of a job – if he had been in her shoes, he would have chosen a factory job over selling herself – but she seemed proud of herself.

There was pause then and he worried that she might ask him about himself. He knew that she already knew his name – or, at least, his nickname. He didn't want to offer any other information to her. So, rather than wait for her to ask questions of him, he asked another question of her. "Why 'Spindle'?"

"Why the name 'Spindle'?" she asked. He nodded. "It's a silly story, really. Did you ever hear of that old fairy story, 'Sleeping Beauty'?" He nodded again. Bellezza Di Sonno had been one of Maria's favorite bedtime stories. "The pretty little thing that pricked her finger on a spindle and died or fell asleep or something. Well, they always told me that I was Mama Scott's favorite child in the orphanage – she had given me her name and everything. And that, as the favorite, I was cursed to die before I hit sixteen, just like that princess did. In Mama Scott's orphanage, you left when you were sixteen, so they thought it was funny," she added, as if that made any sense. Rip nodded again and she continued. "Those idiots came to calling me 'Spindle' then. I hated the name and the way they teased me and, when I was twelve, there was an accident in the orphanage. One of the older girls got cut with a knife. They all seemed to think I did it, so I took off. As a 'fuck you' to those brats, I kept the name Spindle."

Rip, nodded one last time, before turning his eyes to the door. Now he was sure he knew why Mack said to stay away from this girl. But, strangely, something kept him from leaving her room. With a twisted grin on his face, he turned back to her. "So, did you do it?" They both knew he was referring to the accident with the knife. Maybe I'm not the only one who can't control my anger, he thought. Without even wanting to, he was letting himself be drawn in by this red-headed vixen.

Her cruel smile matched his and he knew the truth. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

That's when Rip sat down with her on the bed. And, when she reached over and let her hand resume its trek past the waistline of his slacks like she had last time they had met – this time, he let her do it.