Tessa's hair floated out like river reeds around her. Bubbles flew to the surface of the water out of her nose. Ellanor had drawn her a bath. It was both helping, and it was not. It was helping enough to make her admit she was being petulant, and that he had agreed to help her, probably because of the promise of her father's payment, but admitting that forced her to focus on other things, and that did not help at all. I am in a gangster's house. My father is missing. I was almost killed this week. I saw two men die. I helped burn their bodies. Her heart felt like it hadn't beat in a normal rhythm for days. She had hardly slept, her nerves frayed and brain running on fear and cocaine, pacing around and around.

There was a knock at the door. She rose up out of the water.

"Come in," she said, expecting Ellanor, but it was Tommy, and he was holding out two crystal glasses and a bottle of vodka in the most apologetic gesture she assumed she was likely to ever see from him. He had shed his coat and suit jacket and was wearing his undershirt and vest. She was wearing nothing but bubbles, though, so she had him beat, she supposed. She stared at him, blinked twice, and said, "Fine", sinking down into the water again until it came up to her chin. He gave a tiny, almost nonexistent smirk, the closest thing she ever got to a real smile, and entered. She sighed exasperatedly when he stood at a small standing table, facing her, completely shameless, pouring them both a drink. Her fingers were starting to prune. She crossed her legs under the water and her arms in front of her chest.

"What?" He said, when she raised her eyebrows and gestured at him with one hand. His eyes were so blue, even across the room. She tried to ignore it. His undershirt was a light blue, too, she noticed. A hardcore gangster who matches his shirts with his eyes. She huffed.

"Could you close your eyes or turn around or something for a moment, please?"

He made a face that so directly translated to, "If that's what you want," that he might as well have just said it out loud, and she hated how pretty he was when he made it, but he did as she asked, hands clasped behind his back, and she rose, grabbed a robe that Ellanor had left folded on the nearby canopy bed, and wrung her hair out into the still-steaming tub.

"You may turn around now, but only if you're handing me a glass while you do it," Tessa said, but of course he was one step ahead of her, and he handed her a cup of shimmering crystal with two inches of vodka before lowering himself into one of the room's red velvet covered seats, legs crossed, arm resting over it's back. She would never have thought his house would be so lavish. She wondered if he chose it all himself. She doubted he had the time.

"So what is it that a gangster does, exactly?"

"I don't like that word," Tommy said, swirling his vodka and then knocking back his glass.

"Then don't be one."

He stared at her. She shrugged, then looked down and drank to have something to do under his scrutiny. She crossed her legs and caught him watching her exposed calf and thigh, and the hunger in his eyes sent heat through her that had nothing to do with the hot bath.

"I fix races. I sell weapons." He rattled items off his list apathetically, gesturing vaguely with his glass, like he was reciting a daily mantra that had lost all meaning years ago. "I transport illegal goods, drugs, alcohol, whatever needs moving. I offer protection. And I hurt my enemies." He stared at her past the end of his unlit cigarette, brushing it gently against his lips, which made her look at his pretty mouth. She jerked her eyes up, but he was still watching, and suddenly she didn't know where to put her eyes. She wanted drugs, desperately. Mercifully, he broke the contact to fetch his light, and after a moment, she reached for it from him and took a pull. It hit her head like a swarm of pleasantly buzzing bees. "I also build orphanages and schools and give a considerable amount to charity, but no one ever seems to focus on that part."

Tessa took another puff. Shrugged a little. Her mouth tasted like him now. "They should. I think it evens out. All money is eventually blood money, doesn't matter where it comes from, only what it does."

Tommy was judging her. She could feel it, and wanted to confront him about it, but wasn't sure she wanted to hear what he would say, and knew he would be nothing but honest. She wasn't feeling steady enough for his honesty. He leaned forward, took his cigarette back and pointed at her with it. "Why does a high class girl like you walk around with a bottle in her pocket with enough snow to fix a horse for three races?"

She looked back at him. His shell-shocked eyes. "Money can't buy you a ticket out of tragedy."

"Won't know until I try, will I?" There was almost a note of something in his voice. Regret, sadness. Almost.

She nodded. "You won't know until you try." She stood up. Finished her drink. Poured another. "Close your eyes."

He did, this time, without any complaints. She pulled a nightgown over her head, squeezed some more water out of her still-dripping hair. She walked over to him, leaned down, watched his face with his shut eyes when he couldn't watch her back, like she used to at the hospital. He lifted his cigarette and took a hit, keeping his eyes closed. When he breathes out, it tickled her face. She could see the blue veins in his eyelids, reflecting what was underneath, the faint white scars on his face. She leaned in and kissed him, and he put his hand on the back of her neck, a wonderful pressure, trying to coax her further, deeper. But she pulled back. His eyes stayed closed for a second, then fluttered open, cracked like a geode. She thought they every time he did that, a new universe was probably born somewhere. And when she thought that, she realized something, and then she thought, fuck.

He kept his hand on her neck, touched her wet hair, her collarbone, trailed down the side of her arm and brushed her waist. She picked up her drink and and downed it, trying not to breathe in through her nose as she did, then started walking to the large bed. He wanted to follow her. He didn't think she would let him, so he just watched. She crawled into it, the alcohol swirling in her brain.

"Don't look so forlorn", she called to him. "Being told no for once is probably good for you."

"Plenty of people try to tell me no," he said, pouring himself another glass, "not very many people succeed."

"Alright, Thomas. If you're going to shoot me, would you at least take care of my horse after I pass, please," she said, and he smiled, a little, but she didn't see it.

He finished the drink. Walked over to the bed and sat down on it, next to where she was huddled under the covers.

"Tessa," he said.

"Hmm," she replied, rather muffled and a little slurred.

"Why did you save me?" He muttered. "In the hospital. What made you think I deserved that?" She loved his voice. She wanted to listen to it forever, she wanted him to talk to her like he did to horses.

"I didn't give a fuck what you deserved," she muttered. "I just liked your eyes." Hers closed, and when he woke in the morning, somehow she was lying on his chest, hair splayed out behind her like the rising sun.