His hands were the first thing Cory noticed about him. Long and slender with neatly trimmed nails buffed to a shine.
Beautiful hands.
Delicate hands.
A painter's hands, she decided as he curled those elegant fingers around the cup she set in front of him.
Maybe a pianist.
A writer.
Sculptor.
The one thing Cory felt she could say with absolute certainty was those hands were not the hands of an abuser.
No, his were gentle hands.
Gentle hands to go with a gentle smile and a pair of gentle eyes that were sometimes blue or sometimes green depending on his mood and the lighting.
Eyes she'd drown in if he'd let her.
Not that he would, of course. Men like him — Bright, the name on the cup said — didn't notice a girl like her. Why would he? She wasn't pretty like Aja or outgoing like Denise. She wasn't fun and flirty like JJ or sweet like Brandi.
Nobody noticed her unless it was to ask for a refill, to tell her there was no toilet paper in the bathrooms or that something needed cleaning.
The few guys who did notice her thought they were being generous by offering to take her back to their car for a quickie.
Not that she ever went, of course.
Cory had her pride, after all.
Her momma didn't agree with her, of course. No, in Melinda Griffin's mind, she was just being picky. Course, she also believed Cory's standards were set too high.
"You want men who are way out of your league," Momma said after she refused to go out with a three-time loser with a history of anger issues and a restraining order from his last girlfriend. "You want more than you should. You need to settle for what you can get and be happy."
Cory snapped back that just because she married men who treated her like shit didn't mean she, herself, had too.
That smart ass comment got her kicked out of her mother's house permanently.
Not that Cory cared.
She'd rather live in a cardboard box than ever live with her momma and jerk husband number four again.
The one who told her she'd be somewhat pretty if she got a tummy tuck, breast augmentation, cheek and butt implants.
As if she could afford to get plastic surgery in the first place.
Much less wanted it.
Cory thought herself passingly cute. If one found slender and small-framed, and small of featured women cute. Her eyes were her favorite feature. They were long and dominant in a face made of mismatched features and angular lines.
People told her eyes were gray as summer fog when she was quiet, pensive or listening. Silver when she was annoyed, frustrated or just done with all the bullshit.
Cory wondered if Bright noticed what color her eyes were. She quickly shrugged the thought off. Of course, he didn't. Why would he? She wasn't like the pretty detective he came in with last week. She didn't have her beautifully dark eyes, smooth olive skin or a wild array of curls framing her face.
"Thank you." Those mesmerizing eyes — are they green or blue today? — dropped to the name tag fixed to her shirt before Bright said in a voice soft as a spring rain, "Cory."
Hearing him say her name sent a trickle of pleasure through Cory. Sure, other customers used her name all the time. They didn't look at her like he looked at her, though.
As if Bright saw her.
Really, really saw her.
"You're welcome."
Only silently did she add, Bright.
...
Cory learned at a young age how big hands could strike with lethal force and deadly precision. She was all of three when her daddy punched her momma so hard he broke her cheekbone and blackened her eye.
Daddy went away after that but a slew of other men followed just as bad as he was. Uncle Dave was the first to raise a hand to her. Cory had been late getting home from school and he accused her of staying behind to smoke dope with her loser friends and screw her boyfriend in the back of his car.
Not that she had a boyfriend.
Cory denied it, showed him the geometry homework she stayed after class to get help with, but her words fell on deaf ears.
He knocked her down, ranted and raved about how he wouldn't tolerate a junkie whore living under his roof, and slapped her until her face was battered and bloody.
Uncle Dave went away because Mrs. Coffey heard what was going on and called the police.
Momma blamed her, of course, said if she had been a good girl that he wouldn't have needed to punish her.
Mike was the last loser in a long line of losers. Luckily, Cory was twenty-three by the time he came along and able to escape by going to live in the dormitories for her final year of college.
Life gradually improved after she left home. She started seeing a therapist and working through her childhood traumas and other issues.
She found employment.
Earned her degree.
Got a job working for an ad agency before she graduated.
She was doing fine until massive layoffs landed her in the unemployment line. Cory searched for work for six months before finally getting hired here as a barista.
Working in a coffee shop knocked her down the mountain she had been scaling the last ten years, but it hadn't defeated her. No, she'd just tighten her belt and wait for something better to come her way.
Besides, working in this coffeeshop wasn't so bad. Perverts and assholes aside. Her coworkers were mostly nice and friendly. The customers were mainly polite.
And there was Bright.
He made serving hot drinks and packaged bakery goods tolerable. Bright came in every Thursday. Always at the same time. Always ordered the same thing. Earl Grey tea. He joked once he liked the smell. Found it soothing. She shyly replied she did, too.
This Thursday was different, however.
Bright wasn't... Bright.
Sure, his navy suit was impeccable, as it always was. Yet, Bright seemed... rumpled somehow. As if he had slept in his clothes the last few days. Which, she decided, brow furrowing, didn't seem like Bright, at all.
The wisps of hair that fell charmingly into his face were not their normal rich and luxuriant shade of chestnut.
He moved with none of his usual exuberance. None of that grace that was inherently him. No, Bright moved like a man in great physical and emotional pain.
The sling holding his arm against his body provided a good indicator as to part of his discomfort. As did the thick cast covering the majority of his hand.
Cory lifted wide eyes to his — oh, god, his face, she realized, stifling a small gasp. His beautiful face. It wasn't the large bruise in various stages of healing peeking around the white bandage hiding what she assumed must be a nasty cut that alarmed her. No, it was how pale, drawn it was. The sadness in those aquamarine depths sparked an ache deep in her belly.
Someone had hurt Bright.
Badly.
Who? she asked silently as he took his place in the line. Who hurt you?
Was it a girlfriend? Boyfriend? A jealous ex-lover of someone Bright was currently seeing? Was he robbed? Muggings happened on a daily basis in this city. Bright, as much as she hated to admit it, made a prime candidate for a mugger. The watch he wore, alone, would be easy and quick for someone looking for a fix to hock.
Who is helping him to pick up the pieces?
Cory wondered at that as she poured coffees, made speciality flavored teas and frappachinos, and bagged pastries. Bright came in here once with an older man in a white turtleneck and brown tweed with salt in his otherwise dark hair and goatee. Gil, she remembered him addressing the man as.
He wasn't with Bright today. Neither was the lady detective. Powell she thought her name was.
Cory had a feeling he didn't want anybody who knew him to see him in his current condition.
Because they'd see how badly he hurt and want to help him.
Like she wanted to help him but couldn't since she was a nobody. The only thing she could do was to show Bright the one thing this world needed more of: kindness.
When it was his turn at the counter Cory was waiting with his cup of Earl Grey. Bright blinked, clearly surprised she had his drink already waiting, but gave her a small, grateful smile.
"Thank you."
"No problem."
He went to reach into his inside pocket for his wallet but she stopped him by setting a hand on his.
"It's on me."
His brow furrowed. "Why?"
"Because everyone needs a little kindness now and again."
The gentle smile Bright bestowed on her was the only payment she needed, anyway.
...
Bright surprised Cory by coming in on a late Monday evening. The bruises of a few weeks prior had faded and he no longer wore a bandage over the small cut on his forehead. His hand remained in the cast but he no longer needed the sling. Thankfully, she added silently.
He looked more like Bright tonight.
His gait was that slow, easy glide. His suit neatly pressed. Stripped tie perfectly knotted. Hair that rich, luxurious shade of chestnut.
She caught a whiff of his cologne as he walked up to where she waited at the counter. Mint, lavender, rosemary, geranium, jasmine, sandalwood, and some sort of musky, woodsy scent. Cool Waters? she wondered as the knots in her belly slowly unraveled as that scent wrapped itself around her. It suited him, she decided as his lips edged up into a smile.
It didn't quite reach eyes more green than blue that night. Bright wasn't over his ordeal, clearly. Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Mugger? Not like she'd ask him. Offering a free tea out of kindness was one thing. Sticking her nose into his business was another.
Cory did want to clobber whoever put such pain and misery in those magnetic eyes. She didn't know Bright, obviously, but she believed him a kind, decent man. He didn't deserve what happened to him.
"Hello." He looked around the almost vacant lounge. "Quiet in here tonight."
"It's not Thursday." Her cheeks immediately filled with embarrassed color. "I'm sorry," she stammered. "That was totally rude of me."
"No, it's not Thursday, you're right." That gentle smile of his appeared again briefly. "I see you've learned my normal routine."
"I see you." Cory turned away to hide her grimace. She wasn't flirting with him. She wasn't. It was simple honesty. Bright was easy for her to see. How could he not be? "I absolutely didn't mean that to sound as creepy as it did." She filled a cup with hot water before going to grab a tea bag from the container they were kept in. "I just mean a lot of people come in here. Some on a daily basis. You tend to get to know their routines. What they like. Know when they're having a bad day."
"I understood what you meant."
Cory set the cup on the counter. "Why are you in here this late?"
She wanted to slap herself. She had no right to go poking her nose into his business. He was just getting a tea for godssake! Not that Bright seemed to mind. If anything he seemed... happy she bothered to ask him why he was there at that time of night.
"I just closed a difficult case." He picked up his cup. "Decided I earned a cup of Earl Grey."
"Oh..." She breathed out. She never once imagined him carrying a gun or a badge. "You're a cop."
"Consultant, actually."
She frowned. "Consultant?"
"I help build a profile that will catch a killer or killers."
Cory took the five he handed her and turned to the register. "And here I thought you were an artist or a musician."
"What made you think that?"
He sounded curious more than annoyed. Cory breathed out a small sigh of relief as she turned.
"Your hands." She set his change in his palm. "The first time I saw them I thought they belonged to an artist or musician."
"Really?" Bright looked down at the hand not in a cast before lifting his eyes back to hers. "I can't even draw a stick figure, I'm afraid." A wry grin tugged at his lips. "And the only thing I ever made out of clay was a mess."
Her lips twitched. "And you can't play piano to save your life, right?"
"Hated it, actually." His dimples winked. "Preferred the guitar."
"Shut the front door." Cory couldn't help but gape at him. "You play the guitar?"
"I'm not Keith Richardson..." Bright said as he took a careful sip of his tea. "But I can play songs people recognize."
Cory wished she could hear Bright play the guitar. In another life maybe something like that could happen. Hell'd have to freeze over for it to happen in this one.
"Next thing," she couldn't help but tease, "you'll tell me you can sing."
His head ducked as he laughed softly. Almost as if he was afraid to let her see his enjoyment over her comment.
"I can, actually."
"So, a consultant with the NYPD who can sing, play guitar, and looks like he belongs on the cover of GQ." She whistled softly. "You're just the total package here."
"A damaged package at best." A shadow darkened Bright's face. "My last attempt at a relationship ended badly, actually."
Cory didn't pry. It wasn't her place and none of her business. No, all she said was, "Then it wasn't the right relationship."
"I'm the problem." Bright turned away. "And I can't be fixed."
"I don't believe that."
He smiled over his shoulder. "You're the second person to say that to me."
"Sounds like you should listen to me and this other person then."
"Maybe."
Bright exited the building after that, leaving Cory with the feeling he didn't want to go, but couldn't bring himself to stay.
...
She hadn't gotten the job. The woman who interviewed her hadn't come right and said so, but Cory could tell by her pinched expression she hadn't gotten it.
To say Mrs. Harwood hadn't been impressed with her would be a gross understatement. Cory could tell the second the immaculately dressed woman walked out to call her into her office she found her lacking in style and sophistication.
That she didn't dismiss her immediately was either a credit to her professionalism or a fear of being sued for discrimination.
The interview took all of five minutes. Mrs. Harwood questioned her about her prior experience, what skills she possessed, and then told her she'd get back to her after she interviewed the rest of the applicants.
Yeah, right.
Her resume went into the shredder before she climbed into the elevator. Oh, well, just one door closing, Cory decided as she waited to cross the street. Another door will eventually open.
"Cory?" She turned to see Bright standing behind her. The stick of a sucker stuck adorably out of his mouth and charmed her out of her doldrums. "What're you doing here?"
Cory indicated the building she just exited with a wave of her hand. "Job interview."
"Ah." He stepped out of the way of some people rushing to get across the street before the Don't Walk light flashed. "Didn't go well?"
"Took one look at me and decided I didn't fit the bill."
A spark of something — anger? — deepened the blue of Bright's eyes. "They decided you didn't get the job based on how you look?"
"I can't say that is the absolute reason for why I won't get the job," she said as she moved out of the way of a woman with a stroller. "But I'd say it's a pretty safe bet given how quickly the interview went."
"How long were you interviewed?"
"Five minutes." Cory tugged the strap of her purse higher up onto her shoulder. "Which is never a good sign."
Bright flinched. "That's..." His lips quirked. "That's not a good sign, you're right."
"Employers look for any reason to disqualify applicants nowadays."
"Still, hiring someone should be based on qualifications and not their appearance."
Shock washed over Cory as she realized Bright was angry for her. Nobody had ever been angry for her before. Not about something like this. Even her own momma would have said it was her fault Mrs. Harwood found her appearance lacking.
Not that Cory hadn't tried to make herself look presentable. She got her hair cut into an attractive bob that she took the time to straighten. She even put special care into applying her makeup.
It was just her suit was a Sears original from three years ago. Her heels came from Walmart and not Louboutin. Her only jewelry was a simple pair of gold hoops her grandma gave her when she was twelve.
Not the sort of attire someone as fashion forward as Mrs. Harwood found appropriate for her would-be receptionist.
"I don't think I could have afforded working there, anyway."
"Why not?"
"I'd spend everything I'd make on clothes and have nothing for essential things like food and rent."
Bright's lips twitched and the anger faded from his eyes. As she hoped it would.
"Sounds like the premise of that movie with Anne Hathaway and Glenn Close."
Cory's eyebrows arched. "Are you telling me that you have actually watched Devil Wears Prada?"
"My sister, Ainsley, chose it for one of our movie nights." He made a face. "Not my choice, believe me."
"You're a good brother, Bright."
"Don't your brothers do things like that for you?"
"I'm an only child, actually." She smiled at his surprise. "That shocks you?"
"Yes— no, it shouldn't." Bright's face filled with embarrassed color. "I just pictured you as having older brothers is all."
That he even pictured her at all sent a trickle of warmth through Cory. Nobody ever pictured her. She wasn't worth picturing.
"Just me, myself, and I, I'm afraid."
Bright's expression was rueful as he said, "Sometimes I wonder if it'd be better being an only child."
"Especially since your sister has gotten your family a lot of attention lately, huh?"
"You saw her interview with our father and the Carousel Killer." Bright's face lost all emotion. Cory understood that move all too well. It was how people like them protected themselves from being hurt. "You know I'm really the son of the Surgeon then."
"No." Cory set a gentle hand on his arm. "You're Bright."
A tragedy with more damage than any one soul should have to see, she added silently.
That gentle smile touched his lips. "Thank you."
"For what?"
His hand, without the cast, she now realized, rest atop her own. "For seeing me."
"I'll always see you, Bright."
Like you see me.
...
"You went to Tahiti and stayed in your hotel room the entire two weeks you were there?"
"Yes, I did."
"And all you did was read?"
"Yes."
"Bright." Cory shook her head. "You need help."
"I'm already seeing a therapist, actually."
She snorted a laugh. "Did you tell them you went to a tropical paradise just to spend two weeks reading?"
"No."
"There you go."
Bright let out a small chuckle. "She'd probably have given me the same look you are."
"The one saying you missed out on a lot of fun?"
Bright lifted his cup to his lips but didn't take a drink. "I had fun, though."
"Tropical paradise."
"Not really a beach person."
She tilted her head to one side. "Why choose a place like Tahiti then?"
"My mother picked it," he said, a trace of wry humor in his tone. "Not me."
"You could have said no."
Bright slanted a look at her. "You don't know my mother."
"Fair point." Cory reached for her own cup. "She wouldn't have understood if you wanted to go to a cabin in the woods, instead?"
"She'd see that as isolated."
"You were going to rest, though."
"Yes." Bright took a sip of his tea. "But I was also there to have fun and meet people."
"Thinking you didn't accomplish the last part."
"I didn't want to be around anyone."
Cory could understand that. She spent most of her days off holed up in her apartment because she needed to recharge after dealing with people at her job.
She suspected Bright's reasoning was different from hers. He wasn't so much an introvert as he was socially awkward. Like her, he struggled with making friends. Forming connections. People tended to think him weird because of his massive understanding of all things related to murder.
Being the son of the Surgeon hadn't helped him with developing strong social skills. Junior high and high school was already hell. Having your father be arrested for killing twenty-three people? That made hell seem like Disneyland.
Bright also didn't believe himself worthy of friends. She didn't need a degree in psychology to figure out he carried a lot of guilt over what his father did. Anyone with half a brain could see he blamed himself for his father's actions.
As if a ten-year-old could do anything more than that what Bright did to stop their parent from murdering people. Explaining that to him, though? Was harder than dragging a hundred pound stone up the side of a cliff.
So, why did he reach out to her? What made her so special?
She was a nobody.
A nothing.
"Why did you ask me to meet you here outside of your police precinct at almost midnight?"
He seemed as surprised by her question as she was.
"We're friends."
"Really?" Shock, awe, and delight at being given such a gift swarmed her. She blinked her eyes to clear away the moist fog that gathered. "You really think of me as your friend?"
"I thought we are." Those soulful eyes lifted to hers. Openly vulnerable and uncertain at the same time. "Aren't we?"
"Oh, yes," she quickly assured him. "Yes, we are. I just didn't want to assume anything, yanno?"
"You aren't." A faint smile curved his lips. "You see me. I need that. Especially when nothing makes sense and I don't know who I am."
"You're Bright," she said. "That's who you are."
"I'm my father's son." His bitterness stung the air between them. "We're the same."
Cory bit her lip to keep from saying what she wanted to say. They might be friends but they weren't good friends.
Not yet, anyway.
"I don't believe that," she chose instead. "I don't believe you're the same. Even if you share traits with him, they don't define you. You define you," she said as the door to the precinct opened behind them. "And your actions tell me that you're nothing like Martin Whitly."
"Been telling him that for years," a warm voice said from behind them. "He hasn't listened to me but maybe he'll actually listen to you."
"Doubtful." Cory lifted her eyes to the man standing on the top stop as Malcolm sighed. "He's kinda stubborn about these kinda things."
"Bright tends to be stubborn about a lot of things." He held out his hand. "Gil Arroyo."
Not an especially large hand, Cory noted as she reached up to take hold of it. It wasn't as smooth as Bright's or as elegant, but it was just as gentle. Definitely the hand of a man she could trust.
"Cory Griffin."
"So, you're the one he's been talking about." Gil sent a teasing look at Bright. "We thought you were a figment of his sleep-deprived imagination."
Bright scoffed softly. "I kept telling you she was real."
"I know you did, kid." Gil set a hand on his shoulder. "You've told me a lot of things that I didn't believe you about and should have."
The look they exchanged told her louder than words they were close. Like father and son, she realized as Bright smiled softly.
"You believe me now and that's what matters."
"I also believe I told you to go home and get some sleep."
"I'm fine." Malcolm held up a hand as Gil sighed. "Okay, I'm not fine. I'm a mess. I'm a mess that works, though."
Gil slanted a look at Cory. "Maybe you can convince him to go home and get some sleep."
"I got three hours!" Bright protested. "All at once. That's quality sleep."
"How many days ago?" Bright refrained from answering. Gil shook his head and sighed. "You need to go home and get some sleep, kid."
"We have a case."
"It'll keep until tomorrow."
Bright looked like he was going to protest further but Cory stepped in and said, "He's right." She set a hand on his arm. "You need to sleep."
"I'm afraid to sleep."
Cory's heart ached for the shame and humiliation that admission stamped on Bright's face. For the pain and misery turning his eyes a soft shade of green. For the fear throbbing in his voice.
"What if we stay with you?"
She made the offer before she could stop herself.
"You don't want to be around me when I'm asleep. People can and have gotten hurt."
If Bright thought that was going to scare her off, he was dead wrong.
"We're friends, right?"
"Of course," he quickly said, face stricken. "It's just I..."
"Have nightmares? I kinda figured that much out." His misery at having his secret become known stuck knives in her heart. As if he needed to feel ashamed. "I can understand why you have nightmares." She kept her voice soft, gentle. "You see the nasty side of humanity. The ugliness. That stuff is gonna mess with your head. Which wasn't screwed on all that great to begin with."
"You have no idea."
"I'm hoping you'll tell me."
One day.
...
Cory found Bright sitting on the stoop of her building. It didn't take an advanced degree in psychology to figure out something wasn't right.
For starters, he wasn't dressed in one of his three-piece suits.
Next, it was almost eleven o'clock at night. Not all that late, by any means, but not a typical time people dropped by to hang out and watch movies.
And finally, he was clearly agitated about… something.
Cory just didn't know what. They'd texted off and on that day since she was off so she knew he wasn't working a case. Is that it? He needs a case and there hasn't been one for him to focus on since the necrophilia one?
Either way, Bright was there, and clearly needing a friend. Something she was because some kindly god decided to send this beautiful man into the coffeeshop where she worked.
"Bright?" Cory hurried over to where he sat, head and shoulders bowed, breathing a ragged gasp. Shivers of alarm shot down her spine. "Bright, what is it? What's wrong?"
His hands, those beautiful hands, twitched and jerked atop his knees. She had noticed his tremors outside the police precinct but hadn't mentioned them. She didn't like when people pointed out hers were quaking and offered the same regard in return.
They were bad, though, the veins clearly delineated beneath his skin. She set down the bag of groceries she picked up from the corner market and sat beside him on the stoop. She was afraid to touch him, unsure of what Bright's reaction might be. She wasn't overly fond of it when her anxiety got this bad and imagined he might feel the same based on previous conversations they had.
"Just breathe," she quietly urged. "Small breaths. In, out."
Bright's hand lurched out, latched onto hers. Hard enough she felt her knuckles crack. Cory didn't say a word, she just continued to murmur soft, nonsensical things to him in hopes it'd help him. It took several minutes but he finally managed to calm himself enough to speak.
"I stabbed my father."
Cory's first reaction was shock. Then she thought, good. Bastard likely deserved it.
She didn't say that, though. It wasn't what Bright needed to hear.
"Can you tell me what happened?"
She kept her voice soft, cajoling. Inviting him to speak but not demanding it in any way whatsoever.
"It was the Carousel Killer."
Cory watched that case unfold on television like everyone else in New York. Her heart went out to Ainsley Whitly for not only having to interview her narcissistic father, but a man killing people in retaliation against her family.
"He wanted you to stab your father?"
Bright lifted red-rimmed eyes to hers. "It was the only way."
Cory didn't much understand the hows and whys of the situation. She wasn't sure she was supposed to understand it. What she did know, and all that mattered really at the end of the day, was Bright hurt.
Badly.
His feelings about his father were conflicted. Split evenly between loving him because he was his father and hating him for the monster he was. Bright was also crippled by fear over what his father might have made him do and guilt over not stopping his father sooner.
Cory understood that. She sympathized with Bright about his feelings. Her own about her mother tended to run much the same way.
"Let's go inside." She offered him a soft smile. "I'll make Earl Grey and light some vanilla scented candles."
His lips wobbled into the ghost of a smile. "You use scented candles, too?"
"I tend to prefer jasmine when I'm having a bad day." She pushed to her feet. "But you look like a vanilla kinda guy."
"I have a look that determines my preferred scents?" He seemed intrigued by this concept. "What is it? Because JT says I tend to look like I'm stepping out of the pages of a fashion magazine."
"Well, duh, you do," she lightly teased as she helped pull him to his feet. "Even in that sexy sweater you got on and them casual pants you look like you're about to pose for the cover of GQ or Vogue magazine."
He rolled his eyes. "I do not."
"There's this actor that looks a bit like you," she said as she grabbed the handle of her shopping bag before leading him inside her building. "Can't remember his name right now. Think it's Tom. He's British. Anyway, you could take his place and nobody would know the difference."
"I'm sure people would be able to tell the difference."
"Maybe once they heard you talk they would." She set the bag down to unlock her door. "Otherwise, I doubt it." She pushed open her door. "I apologize for the insanity. I've been moving in for three years now."
"Don't worry about it." Bright followed her inside. "And Cory?"
"Yeah, Bright?" Cory looked at him, one eyebrow arched. "What is it?"
"Thank you."
"You don't need to thank me." She set a hand on his arm before carrying the groceries into her tiny kitchen. "Friends are there for one another."
And she damned sure planned on always being there for Bright.
...
"Play for me?"
Embarrassed color filled Bright's cheeks at her soft request. "You don't want to hear me play."
"I'd love to hear you play, actually."
"I don't play like you."
"You don't have to play like me." Cory offered him her pick. "Play like you."
"I don't even know what to play..." Bright said as he slowly took the guitar she offered him. "It's not like I have a ready list of songs in my head."
"Play what's in your soul." Cory settled on the floor across from him. "Music comes from the soul, after all."
"Mine is broken."
"Play what that sounds like."
One of his brows quirked. "Broken souls have a sound?"
"Not listened to the blues much, have you? That is music throbbing with broken souls and hearts."
"I thought it was about making deals at the crossroads?"
"It's that too."
"I don't want to make any deals for my soul."
Cory's lips twitched. "Because you don't think your goofy ass is worth dealing for."
Bright hummed a soft laugh. "You heard JT say that yesterday in the coffeeshop."
"That's also the name he told me to put on your drink."
Bright's dimples winked. "I noticed you didn't."
"Goofy ass tends to reflect a lot of the customers that come into the coffeeshop."
His smile widened. "Figured it'd get confusing?"
"Didn't want a fight breaking out over the Earl Grey."
"Ah." Bright ran his fingers along the neck of the guitar. "This is a Epiphone Dove Pro."
"You know your guitars."
"I researched the different brands before I picked what guitar I wanted."
Cory imagined his mother bought him something like a Gibson, Fender, Martin or Taylor. All excellent guitars, obviously. And most cost anywhere from a months rent all the way up to the down payment on a new car.
"You took lessons?"
"During breaks from boarding school."
"You went to boarding school?"
Why that surprised her, Cory didn't know. She had assumed Bright attended private schools until his father arrest. From there she figured a series of tutors had been hired to continue his education until he was ready to return to school.
"Mother thought sending me to a boarding school would help me to become adjusted and normal."
"Ah." Cory let her cat, a Siamese she called Bubbles because of how opposite it was to her personality, crawl into her lap. "Nobody thought to tell her that normal is not some one-size, fit all construct?"
"Mother would say we're rich, we don't do normal like others do normal."
"See? My point exactly." Cory indicated the guitar with a nod as Bubbles flopped over in her lap. "Play something while I worship the cat goddess here."
Amusement brightened his eyes. "Cat goddess?"
A pert meow was the only response needed.
...
Sirens howled like a pack of wolves and the swirling lights cast long shadows over the businesses lining the block. The sleepy street bustled with activity despite the late hour. People huddled in groups, talking, and pointing towards the coffeeshop where a swarm of police officers, reporters, and EMS personnel congregated.
Occasionally, they glanced at her, seated on the back of an ambulance with an ice pack to her cheek and hands that trembled harder than she liked. A few wore troubled expressions, but some looked at her with more than passing curiosity. Openly wondering what happened but polite enough to not approach her and ask.
Not that Cory could explain what happened.
She didn't rightly know what happened, herself.
I killed him.
Those three words played over and over. Interrupted the white noise that normally filled her head. Quieted the other voices she learned to mostly ignore.
It all happened so fast.
One second the guy had been sitting and drinking his coffee.
The next he became a raving madman, tossing chairs, knocking over tables, throwing whatever he could get his hands on, and swinging at anybody who got within striking distance.
Tony, the manager on shift tried to get the guy to stop, to leave, but he got punched in the face for the effort. The new girl, Blair, got hit by one of the napkin canisters. Cory had gone to help her when the man grabbed her by the hair and yanked her backwards.
Everything became a blur after that.
A horrible, discombobulated mess of sight and sounds that ended with the man dead.
She hadn't thought she hit him that hard. A palm-heel strike to his chin just to give her time to get as far away from him as she could. Something went wrong, though. The guy went down, as expected, but he didn't get up.
He didn't anything.
I killed him.
I did it.
Me.
Bands formed around her chest, around her head. Tightening, tightening until she couldn't breathe. Any second she thought she'd pass out from the lack of oxygen.
"Cory!" She lifted her head and saw Bright rushing towards her. Gil was a few steps behind him.
"Bright." His name was hardly a whisper. She wet her lips with her tongue before trying again. "Bright."
He skidded to a halt in front of her, those mesmerizing eyes of his wide with shock and worry.
"Cory, what happened?"
She lowered the ice pack she had all but forgotten she held to her cheek. What color Bright's face had fled soon as he spied the damage done to her face. Anger snapped in the depths of his eyes, mixing with a stem of other emotions Cory was too tired to name.
Before Bright could say anything, Gil stepped forward.
"Can you tell us what happened?"
She lifted moist eyes to his kind and gentle ones.
"I hit him," Cory whispered. "Palm-heel strike to the chin. He fell down. Hit his head. Didn't get up again." The words came faster and faster, almost tripping over themselves in a rush to pour out of her mouth. "I didn't mean..."
"You did the right thing." Gil set a hand on her shoulder. Squeezed gently. Silent support and desperately needed comfort. "You protected yourself from someone trying to hurt you and others."
"I killed him, though." Her hands shook, hard enough she swore the bones slammed against each other. "I killed him."
"You defended yourself." Bright covered her hands with one of his. "You survived," he said softly. "That's what matters."
"Will that take away my guilt?" Cory shifted her eyes to his. Read the silent understanding therein. "The blame?"
"No." Bright sat beside her. Drew her head down to his shoulder. Rest his cheek against her crown. "The guilt and the blame never go away."
"Hard times don't last forever." Gil crouched down so he could look at them both. "True friendship does. So, be good friends to each other. Support each other. Take care of each other." A small smile split his lips. "And could one of you do me a favor and teach the other one about calling for backup and actually waiting for it?"
Cory's lips twitched as Bright heaved a heavy sigh. It wasn't like Gil had to ask her to watch out for Bright.
She started doing that after she saw his hands.
Beautiful hands.
Delicate hands.
Gentle hands.
Not a killer's hands.
"Bright?"
"Cory?"
"Thank you."
Cory felt his frown. "For what?"
"For being my friend." She slid her trembling fingers between his. "For being here. For being you."
For being as much of a beautiful disaster as I am, she added silently.
A/N: Hello, and welcome! I don't own anything here save for my own idea and original characters. I promise to return everyone else in slightly used, but gently played with condition.
This idea came about because of a series of Tumblr posts featuring Tom's hands. It started as a small drabble but quickly grew in proportion. Please, if you liked or enjoyed this piece, follow/favorite it. All comments are welcome! Thank you for reading! Take care!