Seduce the Moon was a staple on the Gotham City night scene, and had been for close to five years. This was, in and of itself, fairly remarkable, given that most night clubs enjoyed the title of most social hotspot for six months, tops, after inception. However, what made its success less remarkable was the somewhat off-putting fact that Jones le Blanc and the Arrows frequented it. Having the patronage of a mob boss certainly guaranteed at least a reasonable amount of success, which was one of the reasons for the club's consistent performance, but since Jones le Blanc's sudden rise to power, business at the nightclub had risen correspondingly. Its once-modest success had exploded into the fame and popularity that comes with being a very "now" place.
Of course, for Jones le Blanc and his friends, there was always space and hospitality, and the current night was no different. He, Donzetti, Boy-o, a few other cronies, and a decent amount of female companions were immediately placed at one of the best tables. They had a perfect view of the dance floor, and they were far enough removed from the speakers to actually hear each other.
Not that Trinity particularly cared to hear what everyone around her was saying.
She sat there, immediately to the left of Donzetti, slowly sipping on her wine and enduring Donzetti's hand resting on her leg, working its sweaty, fatty way up her knee. She didn't react, other than to throw a suggestive smile towards him every now and then. She leaned in to the crowd of women at the table, pretending to listen to their depressing inanities as she actually tried to listen to the conversation that the men were having. Trinity counted that as one talent of many in her vast repertoire—she had some decent acting skills, and had developed the ability to handle multiple conversations at once, and hear what she was not intended to. Not that she had ever used the information she gleaned...it was just nice to know. Knowledge was power.
Of course, knowledge could be deadly. And curiosity killed the cat.
"Have you been to that new restaurant in mid-town? The French-Cajun place?" asked one of the other women, a very bosom-y brunette.
"Their dress code is way too casual," responded a second woman. What was her name? Jackie? Gigi?
"...don't see why we had to get rid of her..." Donzetti was grousing. "Still brought in good business."
"...don't care, why should you?" Jones tossed back the last of his Glenfidditch and motioned for the waitress, the dull gold of his signet ring gleaming in the strobe lights. "...knew too much. Found out she had tried to go to the cops..."
"...I mean, I actually saw some woman there in jeans. Not designer!" Jackie/Gigi was genuinely outraged.
Donzetti worked his hand up higher. Trinity rested her head against his shoulder and nuzzled into his neck. Thank goodness she was concentrating so hard on all the talk, otherwise she may have vomited. This was the first time she had ever experienced a client that she neither liked nor respected in some fashion, and it was not a pleasant situation. She had never felt degraded...but then, she had never felt as threatened as she had when she went to the Arrows.
"What do you want to drink, baby?" Donzetti, mercifully, stopped pawing her for a moment.
"Just another glass of wine," she murmured, nuzzling him again and praying that he would resume his conversation with Jones, if only so she wouldn't have to listen to the women, who had moved onto an intense discussion of the relative merits and drawbacks of private gyms versus private trainers.
"Anyway, she wasn't that good for business. Not many men liked going after my leftovers." Jones was preoccupied, and clearly wanted to change the subject. "I spoke with my associate today. He's in. And he's finding another couple of investors."
Donzetti grinned. "Very good. I am assuming these are well-connected people? It wouldn't do to bring in just anyone. We need leverage, in case things go wrong."
The look that Jones gave his loyal friend was one of both warning and outrage. "Why should things go wrong? We've got it under control. It's going to be hard to tie anything back to us, at least until we bring the goods over."
"I'm just sayin'," Donzetti shrugged, and the gesture looked ludicrous on his bulky frame, "is you should trust me with this shit. 'Your associates'? Please. I deserve to know who they are. I've worked with you long enough, man."
He had a point, Jones knew. And he knew how to reward loyalty, and he knew how to treat those closest to him. He leaned in and murmured a name. Trinity was straining to hear it, but dammit, those hens chose that moment to break out in a cackle of laughter, and all she could hear were general sounds. Beth Herzel? No, not a woman. But what was the damned name? She had missed it. Trinity decided to turn her attention back to the women for a moment, but all the while, she remained silent, concentrating, struggling to hear everything the men were saying, even as the cackles and vapid chatter of the women threatened to drown out the more important conversation.
"...taking care of the stragglers, now." Donzetti and Jones had moved on to the next subject, and Trinity noticed Boy-o leaning in, suddenly interested and included in the conversation. "The rest of the women are more easily...persuaded." He paused as a waitress approached with a drink-laden tray and carefully distributed the drinks. He passed the wine glass to Trinity, barely glancing at her, but deliberately brushed her breast as he retracted his hand. "Boy-o has been very good about bringing in more recruits. It's amazing how quickly we gained control over the market..."
Trinity was a smart woman—not just self-educated, but also in possession of common sense, intuition, and a logical and observant mind. And as she listened to the men talk, a horrible realization struck her: the murders, the attacks on the sex-industry workers...all of it had been orchestrated by the Arrows. She, and probably thousands more like her, were being manipulated into working for Jones le Blanc. Trinity knew it with unshakable certainty; she knew that she had been bullied, threatened, manipulated into giving up her life of freedom and independence to be a whore for the Arrows.
She took a sip of her wine, and as she set down the glass, she saw her shapely, perfectly-manicured hands were trembling. Trembling with what? Shock? Outrage? Fear? Surreptitiously, she glanced around the table, trying to see if any of her companions had noticed anything different. The women were still engrossed in their conversation, trying to exclude her-no doubt they had picked up on her scorn; no matter how shallow people could be, they knew when they were despised. Donzetti and Jones were still talking, although once more they had moved on to a different topic, possibly something more humorous, as they were both laughing with the smugness of men who hold all the power. Where was Boy-o? Ah. There he was, now standing by the table, surveying the crowds...possibly trying to locate other attractive women, maybe "recruit" them for "service" to the Arrows.
Anger. Yes, that was what she was feeling. She was furious. Her personality, her beauty, her sexual prowess, her intellect, her power, her marketable services, and they had taken it all away from her. They had taken away her independence. No, not correct. She had given it all to them. Trinity was as angry with herself as she was with them. And the worst part of it all was that she had no idea what to do.
So intent was Trinity on processing these emotions and her conclusions, she didn't notice that Donzetti had nodded at Boy-o, who slipped quietly away from the scene.
The night marched on, and Trinity tried not to think of all the things she would rather be doing. She tried to calm her anger, tried to think clearly, tried not to strangle the woman nearest to her, tried not to stab Donzetti in the eyes with an old swizzle stick that lay, abandoned, on the table. She smilingly endured his pawing; made casual and gently flirting conversation with both Jones and Donzetti, and all the while, a very angry, loud version of herself was hopping mad in her head, howling with rage.
At one point, Donzetti paused in his tender attentions and started actually talking, seriously, to her. "Have you thought any more about my offer?"
His offer. The screaming rage died down in Trinity's head, and was replaced by sheer panic. He had been quite taken with her, and had been asking for her companionship more and more. A couple of weeks, and the damned fool was besotted, and he wanted her as his mistress. Only his.
Trinity was repulsed. And she was in a very difficult position—she knew that rejecting him was out of the question. She had willingly stepped into the jaws of the wolf, and it was too late to get out. No matter that she had simply wanted some protection, no matter that she hadn't counted on Donzetti finding her so alluring. She was in between a rock and a hard place-or, rather, a rock and a fat place.
"It would be very nice for you," he said, giving her knee a squeeze. "You wouldn't have to work anymore."
She gave him one of her most dazzling smiles. "But I would be giving up my income, my independence."
Donzetti smiled back. "I'd support you. I'd protect you. You wouldn't want for anything. Money, designer clothes, good restaurants...all the loving you could handle.
"But I'd be totally dependent on you." Trinity cast down her eyes sadly; she had to play this just right. "I thought that's what you liked about me-my independence."
Suddenly, Donzetti's doting mood shattered. "You call what you do 'independence'? You're a whore."
Trinity was getting riled up now. "I sell my time and my body and my talents. All of these are my assets, my marketable skills. One of my clients is a prestitgious surgeon—he sells his time and his skills at saving lives. Another client-a very wealthy inventor. He sells his time and his creative brains. And another client, a construction company owner who worked his way up from the bottom-he sold his time and his physical strength to get to where he is today. These men sell their time and talents and sometimes their physical attributes-so how is what I do any different?" She paused to catch her breath, and then angrily took Donzetti's glass of whatever he was drinking and took a hefty gulp. "The way I look at it, we're all whores."
Donzetti stared at her for a moment, and Trinity instantly mastered her if she had royally pissed him off? What would he do? It occurred to her then that this was how battered women must feel...always wondering if they were saying or doing something that would set their men off. This thought process was interrupted, however, when Donzetti burst out laughing.
"You're something else, you know that? A total bitch. I like that." He actually took her hand, gave it a squeeze. "I like you. And I want you to be safe."
"Safe?" He had caught Trinity's attention.
Donzetti shrugged. "Things are crazy out there. Your job's a tough line of work. All it takes is one crazy man, follows you back to your place, he can screw you up bad." His hand was encircling her wrist now, the grip tightening. "I just want you to be safe. All sorts of women get hurt doing what you do. Just think about it a little more, okay?"
Suddenly, Jones leaned over, interjecting himself into the conversation. "Sweetie," he said, addressing Trinity. "I think that's your phone going off." He gestured to the Blackberry she had set down on the table earlier that night. It was vibrating and flashing, demanding Trinity's attention. "Looks like a text message." He returned to his drink and ignored Trinity as she idly picked up the phone and began reading the message-but he did glance over at Donzetti, who was staring intently at Trinity.
A moment later, she stood up, her face ashen. "I have to go."
"Everything alright?" Donzetti had moved onto ogling a waitress, but he glanced over at his companion. "What happened?"
She was struggling into her coat. "A friend. She's been hurt, and she's at the hospital. I need to go to her."
"See what I mean?" Donzetti smirked, and then turned away.
At midnight, there were few people in the hospital cafeteria. It became a bare-bones outfit in the wee hours, offering only coffee and stale Danish to the few who bothered to seek refuge there. Most visitors went home by 9 PM, and most doctors had enough sense to stay away.
The nurses, however, were another story.
Annabeth and Janey were there now, sequestered in one of the shabby booths, each of them nursing a mug of coffee. Annabeth's shift was over, and Janey was on her break-she did the graveyard shift some nights, and she would not be done until four in the morning.
That didn't seem to faze her in the slightest now; she sat in the booth, energetic and cheerful as always; her eyes sparkling with laughter as she described to Annabeth her latest argument with Jason.
"...and I told him, 'if you think you're not having sex with me just because you threw out your back, you clearly don't know what happened to my last boyfriend!'"
Annabeth cocked her head. "I don't think you told me—what happened to your last boyfriend?"
"Oh." Janey had the decency to look slightly abashed. "He actually threw out his back during sex. But he didn't stop, and so he raised my expectations. Poor Jason. Hard to top that."
Annabeth groaned. "You're insatiable."
"Pffft." Janey blew on her coffee. "I'm making up for you. Only so much sex in the world, and I'll take what you're not having." She gave Annabeth a saucy look. "Speaking of, how are things with you and your boyfriend? Done the deed yet?"
"There will be no deed. And he's not my boyfriend. It's a business arrangement." Annabeth did not want to be having this discussion, but she suspected Janey would not be deterred.
"Why wouldn't you?" Janey shook her head in disbelief. "Jesus, Annabeth, you don't have to be a nun. Just have some fun!"
"I'm not a nun!" Annabeth protested. "I have sex. I enjoy sex. I just...have other focuses."
"Annabeth, the last time you had sex, there was a different president in office. Christ, girl, clean up the cobwebs!"
"Okay, let's be clear. The same president was in office. It's only been three years." Annabeth realized, as soon as she said it, how absurd it sounded.
"Oh! Only three years. Let me guess-Robbie?" Janey was still shaking her head. "You haven't slept with anyone since you broke up with Robbie?"
"Different priorities," Annabeth grunted. "Can we please change the subject?"
"I'm just saying." Her best friend was determined to drive the point home. "You're seeing Bruce Wayne, whether or not you admit it. You're single. He's single. Why not have a little fun? Every business arrangement has benefits." She smiled, likely imagining Bruce Wayne's attributes. "I bet he's a stallion—"
"Janey!" Annabeth covered her ears. "Please! I work with this man!"
"I bet he'd sire some really beautiful babies."
The look that Annabeth shot her was so pained that Janey immediately snapped her mouth shut. "I'm sorry...I wasn't thinking."
They sat in silence for a few moments, the silence of two friends who have known and loved each other through years of life and pain. Annabeth sipped at her coffee, and as a peace offering, said, "It's not that kind of business arrangement. And we're not interested in each other. It's just a game for him."
"A game?" Janey snorted. "Right. You told me what he did after that dinner the other night. Kissing your hand like that? That's hot.And it's not how a guy acts if you're just friends. Trust me on this."
"Oh, wonderful. I have the opportunity of a lifetime—to become another notch on a billionaire's headboard. You know how I am about sex, Janey. It's not a casual thing to me, and I don't sleep around. I'm not going to be Bruce Wayne's next conquest." Annabeth couldn't drink any more of the coffee; it had grown cold and now tasted awful. "Besides, there's something weird about him."
"Weird?" Now Janey was really intrigued. "Well...he willingly takes the crap you heap on him. That is a little odd."
"That's just what I mean!" Annabeth exclaimed. "Why the hell is he hanging out with me? Yeah, yeah, I know, it's good for his image. But since when does that matter? Since when do billionaires care what the public thinks about them?" She paused, remembering a dozen times Bruce had thrown her off, taken her by surprise, challenged her assumptions. "He's completely mercurial. One minute he doesn't take anything seriously, the next he'll just lapse into this morose silence and stare off into the distance, and then he'll snap out of it and start asking really serious questions. I have no idea what goes on in his head."
"Sounds like a typical man," Janey chuckled. "Maybe if you'd sleep with more of 'em, you'd realize it, too."
"No!" Annabeth was in full-swing; this had been bothering her for a while. "He plays dumb with so many people, but he's smart. Or at least not completely stupid. And one second he'll be so absorbed in his own instant gratification, the next he's completely present and attentive." Now she was thinking of dozens of tiny acts of kindness and consideration she had seen him commit. "He's incredibly kind to the clients...he's always talking shop with Donna, he knows so much about what we do now. He's been doing his own research, I can tell."
"How does this make him anything but the perfect man for you?" Janey was liking him more and more. "Yet you hate him. He's handsome, he's philanthropic, he's kind-hearted, he believes in what you do, he flirts with you-christ, what an asshole!I have to kill him now."
"Janey, please. Be serious. It's just weird. I think...I think he might be bipolar, or something."
"'Bipolar or something?'" Janey mocked. "What the hell did you do in grad school? Are you a psychologist or not?"
"I try not to use my education to diagnose friends."
"FRIENDS!" Janey smacked the table. "Ah-ha! So you dol ike him."
"I don't hate him. I guess he is a friend. But...it's just that...he just kind of...unnerves me." This was hard for Annabeth to admit. "He's got issues. That much, I know. And he's not a happy person."
"Wow." Janey was astounded. "He reallyis the perfect man for you." She slurped down the rest of her coffee and set the cup on her saucer with a loud clink. "I think he likes you. I know, I know, I've never met the man, but from the way you describe him, I think there's something there. At least with him. Just tell me this." Janey stared at Annabeth. "I'm your best friend, so don't lie. How do you feel about him?"
As Janey watched, Annabeth underwent a struggle within herself. Her face was impassive as always, the bland, professional mask she wore for patients and clients. Once or twice, she almost said something, and then caught herself. When she finally spoke, she did with such a low voice that Janey had to lean forward to hear what she said.
"I think...I could like him. There's something...I don't know, I feel a very primal pull when I'm around him...but a repulsion too."
"That's your fear, there." Janey didn't need a psychology degree to see that. "You're scared."
"Yes, I am." Annabeth agreed. "And fear is a gift. It keeps me safe. So I act disinterested when I'm around him, and I think I fool him. But I do find him intriguing. And that kiss-" Annabeth stopped and closed her eyes."Goddamn you, Janey. Leave me in peace. Denial works very well for me. I don't like him. Nope. Just a friend and colleague"
"Problem with denial is that it keeps you stagnated." Janey leaned over. "Are you going to have the rest of your coffee?"
"You don't need any more anyway, it's nasty now." Annabeth moved the cup and saucer out of her reach. "What do you mean 'stagnated'?"
"I mean you're stuck in place. You've held yourself back. You're emotionally damaged and stunted, and some of it by your own choice and actions. Perhaps a bit of a fuck-wit, really." Janey nodded. "Yup. Yes, indeed. I've seen you do this, year after year."
"Oh, thank you. Very much!" Annabeth couldn't be insulted; Janey knew her too well. 'But really, I don't like him. Not like that. It's just passing lust. A hormonal thing."
"I wouldn't worry about it. You're making some progress." Janey paused before delivering her killing stroke. "After all, we just spent the last fifteen minutes talking about a man that you don't like. I must have been barking up the wrong tree. I always spend that much time thinking about men that I don't like. Silly me!"
"You are," Annabeth told her, "A complete and total asshole."
"And you love me." Janey stood up and headed back to the cashier. "I'm going for more coffee."
"Make sure it's decaf!" Annabeth called to her retreating back.
A couple of other nurses leisurely ambled their way into the cafeteria-Sophie and Elia, two of the other emergency room nurses. They caught sight of Annabeth and waved as they got their coffee, and a moment later, they seated themselves in herbooth. Annabeth smiled at them, almost sadly—they were both so young, only twenty-three, cute, happy, hopeful. She had been that age, once, too, but never like that. At twenty-three she had already possessed the scars, physical and emotional, of someone twice her age, and she was never happy. Christ, how were people happy? What was it like? What dumbass questions.
"How was your night?" Sophie asked as Elia tugged her blonde ponytail.
"Not too bad. We had a couple of sexual assaults...but we got good evidence off of both of them, and the girls knew the attackers." Annabeth allowed herself, at least, that small triumph. "I think they'll both testify."
"How were they?" Janey had rejoined them, clutching another cup of coffee.
Annabeth frowned, remembering. "The one girl was really young...fourteen. She was pretty hysterical at first...pretty bad injuries, too. The other one was a bit older, maybe college-age. It was her boyfriend."
"Christ." Elia was disgusted. "What the hell is wrong with people? What ever happened to wanting a willing partner?" She shuddered. "Those poor girls."
Stacy didn't even like to think about it, and was eager to change the subject. "I actually referred a couple of women to you tonight, Annabeth. Did they get in touch with you?"
"No...not yet." Effortlessly, Annabeth slipped into her professional mode. "What was wrong with them?"
"One of them was beaten up really badly. Concussion, multiple lacerations, a couple of missing teeth. She wasn't talking when I asked her who did it to her." Stacy shook her her, completely uncomprehending of the stance some women took. "She called a friend, who joined her in the ER. Real classy woman-very forceful. I just gave 'em each your card, said that you might be able to help them out, could put them in touch with the police if they changed their minds, or help with an identity change. They didn't seem impressed."
"But you have to try," Annabeth agreed. "Maybe they'll call."
Stacy shrugged. "Not sure. In all honesty...I kind of got the impression that they were very well-paid ladies of the night."
"Ladies of the night?" Elia giggled, then looked guilty. "You sound like a Victorian. They were hookers, it sounds like."
"No, there's a difference," Janey chipped in. "Right, Annabeth?"
"Essentially, yes. But for me, the bottom line is usually the same." Annabeth saw the two younger women were confused, and extrapolated. "Doesn't matter if you're a pricey escort or a prostitute selling blowjobs for ten bucks a head. Who really chooses that profession? Very few. There's some of the escorts that do like it, and that's great, but who really has a chance like that? The majority are girls who were abused and ran away from home...sometimes they're coerced into it. But it's never a great situation." She glanced at her watch. "It's nearly one in the morning. I've got to get home."
"Yeah, time for me to get back to work, too." Janey hastily gulped down the rest of her coffee. "Annabeth...be sure you keep an eye on that hormonal thing. Wouldn't want it to get out of hand."
Annabeth bade good-bye to her companions, and wearily made her way out of the hospital. The nights she worked her second job as a Trauma Counselor were always draining, but too, incredibly gratifying, in a way that not even Safe Haven was. Sometimes she was the first lifeline the girls and women had, sometimes she was the first truly sympathetic face they saw. She liked being that lifeline, even if it killed a little bit of her each time.
Gotham General was right on the metroline, so it took her no time at all to make her way to the underground station. At this time of night, the entire station was deserted, but Annabeth did not relax her guard. Her pepper gas was in one coat pocket, her completely useless swiss-Army knife in the other-she hadn't gotten around to replace the switchblade that she lost the night she had encountered the Batman in the Narrows. She was constantly vigilant, glancing right and left and occasionally backwards to make sure no one was lurking about with nefarious intent. Perhaps it was her caution that enabled her to catch a glimpse of the hulking, black-clad figure who lurked in the shadows before he had a chance to approach.
"Well." Annabeth actually sauntered over to him. "It's been a while."
He didn't answer.
"You don't call me. Not even an email. It's like you wanted to forget our nocturnal encounters." She crossed her arms and glared at him. "What's a girl to think? You do that with all the ladies? We had such a good time together."
His response took her by surprise. "How's Jessie?"
"Jessie?" For a moment, Annabeth was stumped. "Oh, Jessie. The girl you helped me with. Since when does it matter to you?"
"Everything matters."
He stared at her through his cowl; his mouth set in a grim line. She drew closer and glared at him for a moment before answering. "She's fine. In rehab."
A loaded silence stretched out between them as they continued to engage in a staring contest. Finally, the Batman relented. "Someone's targeting the prostitutes."
Annabeth didn't bother to hide her surprise. "Shit. I don't even want to know how you do that." She leaned against the nearest wall, and tilted her head upwards towards the inky sky. "How many?"
"At least fifty in the past ten days."
"Not murders? I would have thought that would have made it on the news."
"No murders, not anymore. Just violent beatings." His voice grew rougher as he imparted the information, and as she watched, the creepy eyes behind the cowl narrowed. Jesus, he was one scary sonofabitch. Annabeth slowly began to back away as she continued the conversation.
"Who's doing it?" Two steps, shuffled backwards.
He advanced a little. "I don't know yet. Why do they want to?"
"A sick thrill, maybe. But on this scale—there's got to be a reason behind it. Probably someone's trying to coerce them-a gorilla pimp might be trying to get a corner on the market."
"A gorilla pimp?"
"Please tell me you're not that ignorant. A gorilla pimp is a pimp who's violent, gets his prostitutes to submit through abuse." Annabeth stepped back again, and a shaft of weak light illuminated her face, revealing the tiny lines and shadows. "Gotham's got some very creative gorillas. You ever hear of a pimp stick? No?" She shook her head. "Guess I should be reassured you don't know about that kind of thing.
He stepped forward again.
"I think you need to stay right there," Annabeth told him, her voice sharp and commanding. "I'm guessing you just want information. You don't need to intimidate me."
"Doesn't look like I have to try." He stepped back, however, and noted a small bit of the tension leave Annabeth's body. "I do need information, which you've given me. I might need more, later."
"Making a date for the future? Since when do I get that professional courtesy?"
"Since we're colleagues. One warrior to another." He looked down at her, her tiny frame and spirited eyes radiating all fierceness and fury and controlled fear, and before he could change his mind, he extended his gloved hand.
Annabeth looked down; he was offering her a metallic...bat?
Slowly, she reached out and took it, her fingertips brushing against the warm kevlar for a moment before her fingers closed around the batarang. "Impressive. I love dust-collectors."
For a fraction of a second, that frightening mouth tugged upwards into a smirk before it settled into its normal state of impassivity. Annabeth looked at the batarang in her hand and debated briefly with herself before she looked up again. "I...uhhh...thank you. For helping me with Jessie. That could have been a bad situation."
"Be careful." He was slipping into the shadows. "The Narrows are dangerous right now."
"I know," she admitted. "I'm thinking about changing...venues." She shivered a little. "I just don't know how not to go there and try to help."
He bowed his head for a moment. "I know the feeling."
From the far end of the station the metro train began to approach, its dull roar growing louder. Annabeth glanced over towards the platform, and then back to her companion. But he was gone, had already disappeared back into the shadows of the station and probably his soul. Annabeth sighed and shrugged and started to hurry to the platform, and it wasn't until she sat down o the train that she noticed that she had been gripping the batarang so tightly that the sharp tips of the wings had broken her skin of her palm.
A few drops of blood fell onto the dirty floor. Annabeth ignored them, and the stinging on her palm, and allowed herself to finally rest.