R.I.P. Heath. Sorry guys. School this semester is kicking my butt, and I can honestly say that I had no intention to write anything until it's over. I have two finals left, one tomorrow—excuse me—today. So after I post this, I'll be doing some major cramming. Please review, and don't pull out the torches and pitchforks!

Chapter 12

Resentment

The night continued to drag on. It became my primary concern to get out of the restaurant as soon as possible. Bruce Wayne was not a bad guy, I learned. He was a great guy with many concerns swimming around in his brain. It was almost annoying just how concerned he was about me—like he had an underlying reason why he was so worried. I could tell from the look in his eyes that he wanted to grill me on my father, on my stories, any possible leads. But there came a time where I was sick of hearing myself talk. Since Bruce Wayne is such the mystery, he also hated talking about himself. How convenient: two people stuck at a table that hated talking about themselves.

The waiter came over to our table and delivered the ticket to Bruce, but I intercepted just in time. "We'll need to split this in two checks, please."

"No, it's fine, waiter. I got it covered." Bruce reached for the ticket and slightly winced under my glare.

"Waiter, I said two checks, please."

"Helena!"

"Bruce!"

"One check, Helena…" He was grinding his teeth. This isn't something I was going to get away with.

With a childish gesture, I slammed back into the chair, crossing my arms. "Fine."

He looked back at the waiter, giddy that he finally won over me. "Sorry about that. She's very stubborn."

"Pot: meet Kettle," I murmured under my breath. Bruce didn't seem to hear me, or if he did, he completely ignored the comment. He handed him the payment in cash and the waiter dismissed himself. "I told you before that I would pay for myself."

"I'm telling you now to suck it up." He raised his eyebrows, daring me to say anything else. Before I could retort, the waiter came trotting back.

"Miss, there is a gentleman here to see you."

"Gentleman? Who is he?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but he wouldn't give me a name. He's tall, dark brown hair, extremely tan…he's standing outside by the front doors."

I stood to leave and Bruce repeated my actions. "I'm going with you."

"Bruce, I think I can handle it." The waiter slowly stepped away, knowing that another altercation was about to commence. Bruce stepped overwhelmingly close to me. I could smell the cologne he wore—something much to expensive, I was sure, and my breath hitched in my throat. What? My breath doesn't hitch. That cologne is probably just too strong.

"Listen to me. You don't know if this guy is with the Jack Napier or not. He might be hell-bent on killing you, and I'm going with—"

"What did you say?" He looked at me, searching my eyes. They were wide with shock.

"Huh?"

"You said Jack Napier. How did you know that was the Joker's name?" I most certainly didn't tell him. I didn't tell anyone his name—or alias—except for…

"You told me."

"No. No, I didn't. Don't lie to me, Bruce."

"Oh…" He was searching for an answer, and it couldn't possibly have been the truth. So he settled for the generic response. "I could have sworn you did. Maybe it was somebody else." I shook my head. There was no way he would tell me the truth. Well, at least not now. Maybe he was just as interested in the Joker as I. But it just didn't seem logical.

"Whatever. I have to go meet this guy. Are you coming or not?" Telling Bruce that he couldn't come wasn't an option for me anymore. His domineering presence almost had me running for the hills, and his foreboding presence seemed quite familiar to me.

"I'm coming. But I most certainly don't think this is a good idea." We walked to the front doors and I spotted our waiter. I smiled sheepishly at him, and he duck behind a table and hid. Perhaps he thought World War Three was going to go down right outside the restaurant between Bruce and I. But once we stepped outside, the frigid air hit me. The gentleman that supposedly wanted to see me was nowhere to be found.

"Maybe he got smart and left." Bruce announced loudly, just in case the man was in earshot.

"Maybe it was just a trick to get us out the restaurant because you were being loud and rude in front of the waiter." Before he could retort, the same waiter came outside, holding a piece of paper in his hand.

"Miss, the gentleman told us that he was very busy and couldn't stick around. Instead, he had the hostess right down a message. Here you go." He handed the paper to me, and I unfolded it, eagerness getting the better of me. My hands were trembling.

"Calm down there, tiger," Bruce whispered, leaning over my shoulder to read the letter. The waiter scampered back inside before the threat of WWIII became a reality.

Dear Helena,

Benjamin Hawks is cordially inviting you to dinner with him on Saturday, the 16th, at 6:00 p.m. at this very restaurant. It would be wise to heed his request. Have a wonderful dinner with Bruce Wayne, and please notify him that Benjamin sends his regards. He was very surprised to learn that your father was, in fact, Guido Bertinelli, and would love to learn more about the family business Guido was involved in.

Sincerely,

Travis Denton, P.A.

"I thought you said your father's name was Franco," Bruce stared incredulously at me.

"Is that what your main concern is about this letter?" I shouted, thinking him insane. "The man must be having me followed! I can't believe this! How did he know that I was having dinner with you? It would be wise to heed his request?! Who does he think he is?" I crumpled up the paper, but before I could throw it, Bruce snatched it out of my hand.

"Calm down, Bertinelli!" He smoothed it back out. "You'll need the time and date for your outing with the creep."

"I'm not going out to dinner with him! You must be INSANE!"

He snickered. "Yeah, you're right. I am insane." He smirked and right then, I had the incredible urge to tackle him to the ground, pounding his face in. This was no laughing matter—not in the least bit. "Why did you tell me your father's name was Franco?"

"Because it was Franco."

"Not according to this letter." He shook it in front of me.

"Guido was a nickname. My father took over the family business when my grandfather passed away. His name was Guido, so it just carried over and stuck with my father. Who cares?" I crossed my arms, irritated that Bruce and Benjamin were so damn curious about my life. "This is getting pretty ridiculous."

"What is?"

"Hawks, the fact that he had me stalked, your inquiries about my life, everyone bringing up my father in conversation."

"You don't like talking about him." It wasn't a question, but a statement of truth.

"Case and point! Why would I talk about someone who—" I waved my hands, signaling to anyone who was observing but stopped short of finishing my statement. "No, I don't like discussing him."

"What were you going to say?"

"Forget it, Bruce."

"Helena…" He folded his arms, taking a step closer to me. I felt the same thing as before—Bruce standing this close made me nervous, and I most certainly didn't like it. "Seriously. Who was this guy? Why did you hate him so much?"

"It's nothing, okay?"

"I'll find out sooner or later. Why not sooner?" I didn't say anything. "Why don't you trust me?"

"It's not you Bruce. It's everyone. I don't trust people. I have a predisposition to be cautious of everyone: even Ricky." My eyes slid closed, not wanting to him to see me. It seemed like every time I made eye contact with Bruce, he delved into my soul or something. It was unnerving. He could read my like an open book.

Before I knew it, I felt two strong and warm hands gently grasp my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. He was concerned, although I was sure that it was probably fake. It always was. "I have a hard time trusting people, too."

"Do you?"

"Yeah. There are a lot of things you don't know about me. Nobody does. I can never, ever, tell people what these things are. And it kills me," Bruce whispered the last statement, "because I feel shut off from the rest of the world."

"Then open up, Bruce. Talk to me."

"No. I can't tell you, least of all." I took a step back and his hands fell from my shoulders.

"You just told me to spill the beans to you about my entire life, basically, and you're refusing to tell me anything about yours? Isn't that a tad bit hypocritical?"

"Yes, it is." My mouth gaped.

"How unfair is that!" I scoffed at him, the supposed man standing in front of me. "Why not? Is it because I'm a journalist? You think that as soon as you tell me a deep dark secret, I'm going to run to the press?"

"I know you wouldn't do that, Helena." His eyes were pleading—pleading for me to stop. "You can't possibly understand—"

"You're right, Bruce. I don't understand." I turned my back to him, hoping that the icy tone from my voice would push him away. "Call Alfred. I want to go home. And I don't ever want to see you again."