Dance With Me

-Romantic Nights by Kitchen Lights-

January 1932

"Edie!" My door rattled with the force of fists pounding against it. I jumped at the sudden noise, tossing my book to the side and heaved myself to a standing position at the alarm present in the shouting voice. "God damn it Edna, open up!"

My concern quickly transformed into irritation as I approached the door. Only one person out there who wasn't afraid to talk to me like that, and it was Howard Bondurant. I don't think it even crossed my mind why he was at my door. Maybe he was lost. "What the hell has gotten in your head, Howard?" I shouted back at him as I unbolted the lock and yanked the door open. "I-!"

The words caught in my throat as Howard rushed past me, knocking me to the side as he hauled another man in with him. I watched in silence as he kicked out a chair at the small round table near the kitchenette, and threw the man into the chair. The man clutched his face in his hands, palms high on his forehead, fingers stained and dripping with deep crimson. He wore a brown cardigan. It was Forrest.

"What happened?" I asked, rushing forward and nudged Howard out of the way. I pulled the string to click on the light over the table, and then attempted to pry Forrest's fingers away from his face, but he was holding on tight.

"Som'bitch Walter," Howard growled, straightening with a huff. "Forrest fired him from the mill th'other day. Didn't take it so kindly. We's on a run, made a stop, he was there. Took a bottle to his head-"

"Why didn't you take him to the hospital?" I demanded, shooting a glare over my shoulder as I gripped and pulled at Forrest's bloodied fingers.

"We broke, Edie!" he shot back, throwing his arms out as he began to pace in place. One step to the side, turn, one step to the other. "Can't afford no hospital right now. I think there's some glass in there. Just pull it out, stitch him up. Fuckin' Walter…" I turned my attention back to him when I heard his boots stop thumping against the floorboards. "I got business to take care of," he said, dark eyes wide and burning. I didn't say a word, only looked away quickly, redirecting my focus to my hands grasping Forrest's forearms. Whatever business he was speaking of, I didn't think it had anything to do with liquor. He stomped on out my apartment, and called, "I'll be back for him later," as he slammed the door shut behind him.

As soon as we were alone, I tutted my tongue and rose to my feet. The vanity in my bedroom held a pair of tweezers and a small sewing kit. In the kitchen I grabbed a wooden spoon from a drawer and the leftover apple brandy from the jar Forrest had given me a couple weeks ago. I kept it in the cupboard underneath the sink, and hadn't touched it since. Who knew it'd come in handy so soon.

"Forrest, take your hands away from your face," I said softly as I pulled up a chair, angling it so I could get close to the right side of his head, where I presumed the gash was. He didn't move, and I began to wonder if maybe he'd fallen asleep like that. So I pinched his arm, and then slapped at his hands. "Damn it Forrest, quit bein' a baby." I pulled at his hands again, and they came away from his face, dropped into his lap as I tried to locate the gash amongst the bloody mess. Wasn't all that hard. A decent sized piece of green-colored glass protruded from a deep lodge in the far upper-right side of his forehead, just along his hairline.

"All right," I said, more to myself as I formed a plan. Stitchings weren't all that hard. Done them before. Albeit, I had much better supplies up at the hospital. But we'd make do with what I had here. I grabbed the jar of brandy off the table, spun the lid open, and shoved it in Forrest's face. "Drink this."

He grabbed the jar hastily, his bloody fingers smudging against the glass. I watch as he closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and swallowed several large gulps that would make even Howard wince. "Not all of it, now!" I told him, pulling the jar away from him. Amber liquid dribbled down his chin, and he wiped it away with a grimace. "I need some of that. Don't move."

I could hear him clear his throat as I hurried back over to the couch, leaning over the back to reach the pack of cigarettes on the side table. I snatched them up, and the book of matches beside them, reaching inside the pack as I returned to Forrest's side. It was hard to look him in the face. I only focused on one part at a time. Whatever part I was working with. If I stood back and really took him in, it would be a horrid sight. Wouldn't look like him at all, with all that blood ran down one side of his face. It was everywhere. His eye, nose, cheek, ear, mouth, smudged and blended into his skin from his hands. It looked like he was wearing some kind of war paint.

I shoved a cigarette between my lips, lit a match, and brought the flame to the tip, inhaling deeply. Smoke filled my airway as I shook the match out, tossing it onto the table as I took a seat once more. I exhaled slowly, and waited for the soft hum to calm my frazzled nerves before I thought about threading a needle. Forrest's breaths were jagged beside me, as though he was trying to keep them steady, but it was a lot harder task than he would've expected. I bet it hurt, having glass stuck in his head. But worse has happened to him, so I didn't feel guilty about taking my time.

Forrest took the cigarette when I offered it to him, and I turned to the sewing kit, choosing a black thread and an appropriate size of needle. My fingers shook a little, and I took a deep breath to steady them, biting my tongue in concentration as I worked to slide thread through the eye of the needle. I stretched the tiny string through to a decent length, tied the ends, and tore away the excess.

I breathed quiet words of affirmation that I could do this, so quiet only I could hear, and turned back to Forrest. He was angled away from me in the chair, but watched with a steady downturned gaze every move I made. I think he knew what was coming, and I don't think he was looking forward to it all that much.

I huffed out a breath and stood, grabbing for the brandy. "Close your eyes," I told him, and didn't move until he obeyed me. I gently touched the skin surrounding his wound. The amber liquid sloshed out over the gash, running down his face and dripped onto his sweater. Forrest jerked away from the sting with a straggled groan, and I brushed my free hand over his hair, cradling his head as I reached for the spoon.

When I handed the utensil to him, he automatically stuck the wood between his teeth, biting hard in preparation for what was to come. I steadied his head with both of my hands and tilted it upward into the light. The brandy had washed some of the blood away, and it was easy to see that the glass remained intact and unbroken, just one wide piece to pull out and a quick, clean line to sew up. My eyes moved to the table, where I located the tweezers and picked them up, shifting them in my fingers. I hesitated over the wound and pretended the Doctor was behind me, looking over my shoulder and speaking words of praise and encouragement. "All right," I told Forrest, running my hand over his hair one more time in what I hoped was a soothing gesture. "Hold still."

I took pride in how swiftly I moved. In one clean motion, I'd dug the tip of the tweezers into the wound, gripped the shard of glass and tugged, pulling it right out of his head. Except I forgot how nasty head wounds were, and how much they could bleed, so with the shard came a new stream of blood and I cursed, covering the wound with the sleeve of my sweater. Forrest made the strangest sound, something between a strangled growl and a moan, and I felt his arm swing around the back of my thighs and pull me into him as he stamped his foot on the ground.

That was my fault. Should've given him something to hang onto, so I didn't say anything about it. Just steadied myself and kept my shirt sleeve pressed tightly to the abrasion. "Halfway done," I murmured, listening to the rhythmic hiss as he breathed through his teeth. He held onto me tightly and I let him. Didn't need much space anyway, had to keep close to his head. I leaned away and moved my hand away from his wound. The dark blue fabric of my sweater was stained, and if I couldn't get the blood out, it wouldn't be a tragic loss. Forrest's fingers gripped into the side of my thigh when I poured more brandy onto the wound, and he flinched but remained silent this time.

The needle was so small in my fingers compared to the other tools I'd been using. I fumbled to grasp it at a comfortable angle and pulled at the length of the thread to straighten it out. "You know this don't hurt all that bad," I said to Forrest as I pinched the tight skin on either side of the gash. "Just sit still."

Threading skin together was almost like pulling a needle through a thick material. Like corduroy or denim. Except skin bled. But it closed easily, wanting to heal itself, so it only took maybe five or six sutures to seal Forrest up. I tied off the end and snipped off the excess with the small scissors from the sewing kit.

When I was all done, I leaned back and tilted Forrest's face up towards me to get a look at the job I'd done. Now that I knew he was and would be okay, I couldn't help but laugh a little at the sight that greeted me. "You're a mess," I said, taking the wooden spoon from his hand.

In the kitchenette there was a dishtowel resting on the counter. I wetted it under the faucet and returned to Forrest's side, grasping his chin, and began to wipe the blood away from his face. The metallic scent of blood and water began to fill the air between us, but I ignored it and kept my concentration on cleaning him up. As the wet cloth ran over his neck and cheek, he turned into my touch. I wondered if he meant to, or it was just a natural reaction, and I bit my tongue to suppress a smile when he closed his eyes.

But like the man-child he was, the closer I got to his sore, the farther he moved away from me and the deeper his scowl grew. "You stop that," I chided, reaching down to wipe away a smudge of blood left in the corner of his eye before returning to the area around the wound. I held his head in place, fingers roughly grasping the back of his neck and base of his skull. He let out a huff that had me rolling my eyes.

"How in the hell did you even let him break a bottle over your head?" I mused as I dropped back into my chair. I flipped the towel to a cleaner side before beginning on his hands. The middle knuckle on his right hand was split, but it wasn't anything too nasty. It'd heal up fine on its own.

"Wasn't looking," he said. The gravel in his voice told me he was in more pain than he'd ever let on, and I suddenly felt a twinge of guilt at my caretaking. I should've been gentler. I thought I saw some Band-Aids in my sewing kit, so I fingered through the small container again until I found the thin wrappings.

"You should invest in these," I said, as I held a couple of them up. "They do wonders." His eyes narrowed a little, and I peeled the packaging away, smoothing the strip over his stitches as tenderly as I could. I added another to cover the length of his gash. "Did Howard go to find that Walter man?" I asked after a stretch of silence. I twisted the cloth between his fingers.

"Yep," Forrest said.

"Is he gonna hurt him?"

"No." That answer was not the one I expected to hear, and it caught my attention.

"Why not?" I asked. Wasn't like I wished harm on the stranger, but retaliation was expected. Especially coming from a Bondurant. They didn't let these things go.

"Ain't his fight," he said, and I understood then. Howard was out to see where he could find that Walter man. His punishment would be coming, but it wouldn't be tonight, and it wouldn't be from Howard. I tried to imagine what Forrest might do, but really couldn't picture him putting the hurt on anyone. Howard, maybe. I'd seen him attack those agents all those months ago. Forrest always seemed to be the hurt, not the hurter.

A voice in my brain warned me not to underestimate him. People were scared of him for a reason.

When I returned from the bedroom after putting my things away, Forrest was lighting another cigarette. The jar of brandy was tucked between his thighs. Wouldn't be able to tell anything was ever wrong with him, except for the Band-Aids on his forehead and the blood staining the collar of his shirt and sweater. I silently congratulated myself on a job well-done.

As I sat down beside him, I wondered what to do next. He'd be here until Howard returned, and that could be any conceivable amount of time. I thought of offering something to drink, but he already had the brandy. Maybe something to eat, but I doubted he had any kind of appetite after the night's excitement. Ask him if he wanted to lay down, but the suggestion sounded too forward, even in my head.

When a puff of smoke crossed my vision, I realized Forrest was looking at me.

"What were you doin'?" he asked, and somehow I knew he meant before he arrived. Forrest liked to ask me vague questions, because of the long answers he knew he'd receive. Sometimes I stretched my answers intentionally, because I knew he liked it. Sometimes I couldn't help myself. Occasionally, I'd be short with him just to make him irritated. He'd pry a little for longer answers, and then give up. I'd laugh a little, then laugh harder when he realized I'd done it on purpose. I don't think Forrest would ever fully grasp the art of conversation, but it sure was fun to make him try.

"Reading," I said. "It's a book I've had for awhile, about this man and woman. They're awful people, Forrest. Just awful. They're bored and selfish and useless, and got no right being married – they're married by the way. It's strange reading it, 'cause they're everything I never want to be. They're privileged, but terrible with their money. They make awful decisions and then regret them for the rest of their lives. They hate the thought of growing old. Ain't nothing ever gonna please or go right for them. They're too caught up in themselves. It don't make no sense. City people are absolutely insane."

"Sounds like that could be anyone," Forrest said after a minute. "Ain't just city people."

"Take away the money, and I suppose…" I paused to consider the thought, but then shook my head. "Still, I won't ever be like that. I don't mind growing old. I'll make decisions I won't regret in the long-run, and I'll marry someone I love as much as I say I do. Then I won't ever have to be bored, or care about money, or wish for more. I could be happy because I am happy."

When I concluded my self-sorting, I looked up at my audience. Forrest sat still as a statue, but I could see his eyes flickering from side to side as he searched my face. When he finally moved, it was with a faint guttural sound from the back of his throat, and it was to inhale on his burning cigarette. He'd broken his gaze with me, and in the light I could see the reddened glow spreading in his ears.

Love and marriage and happiness probably weren't exactly ideal topics to speak of with Forrest Bondurant. But he'd asked what I doing, and that's just how the flow of conversation worked. I didn't plan on extending the topics beyond my own sorting of thoughts and opinions to his follow-up comment, but his sudden discomfort had taken me aback. Just a little. Forrest only reddened up like that when he was angry or embarrassed.

"Forrest."

"Hm."

"Coming here tonight. Was that Howard's idea, or yours?"

"What?"

"You heard me."

He pulled at the cigarette between his lips. He was postponing his answer. But then he tucked his chin a little, and with a slow blink his eyes were on me, lids narrowed only slightly, enough to drop his brow a fraction. The gray of his eyes were glazed and darkened by his answer. An answer he didn't have to voice, because he knew I already knew, too.


"The course of your life is changing right in front of you, and you don't even see it..." - Forrest Bondurant, Lawless (2012).

Pay attention to the dates on the succession of these vignettes. They're right at the beginning of the chapter. This is the first of a few. I don't know whether I'll bunch them all together, one right after the other, or pepper them throughout, between continuations of where the story left off in chapter 10. Some artistic and creative feedback would be much appreciated for this small dilemma.

I've just recently re-watched What Dreams May Come, so I'm all hyped up on that soulmate stuff right now. Please disregard any unforgivable amount of fluff that may sneak themselves into future chapters without my permission. If you love it, hey cool, me too! If you hate it, I'm so sorry, it's a temporary high, and I'll work hard to tone it down!

All right, enough rabble. Let me know what you think about this one! And thank you all so much for reading :) Your feedback keeps this story alive, and awesome.