Chapter Thirteen: I Try To Hurt Butch
A/N: See the end of chapter for dedication note.
As I had promised, I met with Ms. Rubberdale the following day. After torturing her fiancé, I was surprised to see that she had actually shown up, if only just a few minutes ago. From the bar, I observed the scene, crossing one leg over the other; the bottom of my heel clicked the leg of the stool.
One of my waiters, Henry, was showing her the way; he offered her something to drink, but she swiftly declined. Like me, she wore a knee-length skirt; mine was white, and hers was gray… again. She seemed to like the color enough. The same waiter that serviced her approached me with his tray, placed vertically against his hip.
"Ms. Rubberdale, here to see you, Ma'am," Henry announced briskly.
Henry was dressed in the same flamboyant costume as the other waiters and the bartenders. He was younger than the rest of them, maybe even younger than my own guard. He had thick, black eyebrows and his dark hair was combed back with gel. Out of all the constituents of this bar, Henry was the most interesting—as young as he was, he didn't mind the rough characters that rolled up inside the workplace, or the violence that occurred every now and then.
He was all right in my book.
"Thank you," I said, smiling. "I'm guessing she didn't want anything to drink?"
"Nah," Henry answered. "Seems like she only wants to talk to you."
"You sound disappointed."
"Something like that."
He gazed at the woman over his shoulder, then turned to look at me.
"How old are you, son?
"I'm twenty-one…. a couple days ago, officially." Henry answered, smirking. "I can show you my ID if you don't believe me."
"I believe you. And I don't care about that. Do you like older women, Henry?"
Henry didn't appear abashed by the direction of the conversation. In fact, he raised his head a little higher. He placed the tray gingerly on the bar counter, leaned against it, and smiled secretively.
"What if I do?" Henry asked.
"No shame in it," I pointed out. "I'm just curious."
"You like embarrassing people, don't you? Playing with them." Henry asked, his voice deepening.
"You don't approve?"
"Oh, I absolutely approve. But out of curiosity, why are you suddenly into my love life, Miss Gordon? Did you see something you like? Something tickle your fancy?"
I scoffed, "Don't flatter yourself, kid."
I uncrossed my leg and hopped off the stool.
"That woman there," I said, pointing to Ms. Rubberdale. "She has—sorry, had—a fiancé used her and neglected her like his own spoils. The reason I am telling you this is that I doubt you can handle that much baggage at your age." I clapped him on the shoulder, adding, "And a little piece of friendly advice, something to take with you the next time you try to hit on your boss' wife?"
His face paled.
"Never assume that just because a woman talks about your love life that she automatically wants to have sex with you. It makes you come off as extremely arrogant, and that's off-putting."
Henry said quietly, "I thought women liked confidence."
"Oh, they do. Confidence is one thing; arrogance is another."
Henry scowled: "But they're the same."
I put my arm around him.
"Arrogance, Henry, is knowing who you are and knocking down every Harry, Dick, and Moe that comes your way because you've got something to prove. Confidence is when you walk into a room, and you don't have to compare yourself to anyone else." I explained lightly. I patted his shoulder: "If I were you, I would skip the widow and try talking to the pianist on stage."
Henry followed my direction to the stage where a woman around my age was sitting at a grand piano, warming up with the old classic, Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. Henry glanced at me hesitantly; I winked at him, and he quickly took the tray and started towards the stage to offer the woman a glass of ice tea.
I observed the stage for a moment then surveyed the rest of the club, seeing Oswald speak to one of the guests. I supposed that after all of the stuff that went down with Mooney, Oswald was rebuilding the network—whether that was his idea or Falcone's, I hadn't the foggiest.
"You can just do it all, can't you?"
I recognize that voice.
And sure, as shit, I did. Butch Gilzean stood in front of me, smiling plainly. I lifted my skirt just enough so I could reach under and grab the switch blade that had been strapped against inner thigh; just as quickly, I pressed the button; the blade shot out, and I advanced towards him.
"Whoa, whoa!" Butch began. "Sylvia, I—"
Oswald's attention had been pulled from the guests to my direction as Butch inched away, nearly stumbling back against the stool. I held the knife up to stab him, but Oswald caught my wrist.
"Sylvia, it's okay." He reassured.
"Okay?" I exclaimed incredulously. "It's Gilzean. He's loyal to Mooney" (I turned on Butch, glaring) "I don't trust you within thirty feet of me, or this place."
"I'm not working for her anymore!" Butch said, holding his hands up in front of him.
"The hell you aren't!" I snapped and I pulled my wrist out of Oswald's grip and tried to have another go at him. "I'll save us a lot of trouble and kill you myself!"
"Tell her, Penguin!"
Oswald let out an exasperated sigh and grabbed the switchblade from me completely, clicking the blade into place.
"Tell me what?" I questioned.
"He doesn't work for Mooney anymore, he's right," Oswald said, gesturing to Butch, who looked five times more relieved now that I didn't have a knife. "Falcone didn't want to get rid of him so Victor Zsasz worked on him. He does what I say now."
"Does he, now?" I challenged. I glanced at Butch, who was straightening his tie, then I looked at Oswald again. "When were you thinking of telling me this? After I killed him?"
"I'm nearly twice your height and I weigh more than you," Butch declared.
I shot him a death glare and Oswald said, "Not now, Butch. Sylvia, look at me."
I did as he asked with much reluctance. I didn't like my back facing the gorilla any more than I wanted him here in the same vicinity.
"I was going to tell you," Oswald said gently. "Due to the events of last night, it slipped my mind. So, I am telling you now. Butch Gilzean works for me."
"You trust him?"
"I'm still debating that myself," Oswald admitted, glancing over my shoulder at Butch.
"Can I just stab him?"
"No."
"Just a little?"
"No," Oswald said firmly.
I glared at Butch who watched Oswald and me talk as if it was some magic show; he just couldn't figure it out.
"Fine," I surrendered. "But if he so much as insults me, I'm taking out an eye."
"Fair enough."
I moved past him and sat in front of Tiffany Rubberdale who seemed to have been observing the argument with a fair amount of interest and anxiety. I clasped my hands together on the table and smiled pointedly.
"Still want a job?" I asked.
"Yes."
"I'll be honest with you, Ms. Rubberdale—"
"Tiffany," She insisted, smiling. "Please."
I spoke genuinely: "I'll be honest with you, Tiffany, if you are not one-hundred percent certain that you want to be here, you need to tell me. There are plenty of rough characters here, people who like to prey on vulnerability. They're like vultures—they'll go after it the moment they smell insecurity. And, right now, you're the poster girl for it."
Tiffany nodded slowly as I spoke.
"What would I have to do?" She asked softly.
"For one, you'll need to find your big girl voice. Second, I'll probably make you a waitress."
"I'm better at mixing drinks than waiting tables."
"Yes, but if someone makes you uncomfortable, you can't leave the bar. You'll have to deal with them in a calm, remote manner. No crying, no whining, that sort of thing."
"As long as they don't touch me," said Tiffany boldly. "I'm fine with the remarks."
"If someone touches you, I'll deal with them myself," I reassured sternly.
"You sound like you've had to deal with plenty of these characters."
"I've been on the receiving end as a waitress and a bartender. I know what it's like. And I also know what it's like to feel insecure after going through something like you have."
"I doubt your fiancé was tortured," Tiffany whispered.
"Well, I was talking about your relationship as a whole—not the torture bit. But I did do you a favor by getting rid of him."
Shamefully, she muttered, "Yes. Yes, you did."
"It doesn't get easier," I told her seriously. "You will never get over what he did to you. You'll probably have nightmares, and feel scared all the time that it will happen again—and it might. But you're stronger for what you've been through, you know? Anyone tells you different, they're wrong. You don't get over something like that. You just find a way to get through it until it becomes less overwhelming."
Tiffany tilted her head to the side curiously and her expressions softened to one of empathy.
"You've been through it too. Haven't you, Miss Gordon?"
I smiled sadly saying, "Yes. I have."
Her eyes started watering, seeing someone like me having gone through what she'd been through. I touched her wrist and she looked up at me, quickly dabbing her eyes with her finger before any of those tears could mess up her flawless foundation.
"How do you get through it?" Tiffany asked, her voice broke.
"First, you tell yourself it wasn't your fault. You find someone you trust, and talk to them. Then you find a distraction."
"It was my fault—I put up with it for so long…."
"And now you're free," I pointed out, gesturing to her as a person. "Now you can move on. Healing is about being able to move on, after all. And so long as you keep thinking about the past and trying to imagine what you could have done differently, you will never be able to fully live in the present."
Tiffany met my eyes. A single tear rolled down her cheek, but this time, she wasn't quick to wipe it away. It was like she had an epiphany—although I wasn't privy to see just what that was. She grinned suddenly, which made me feel a little uncertain about whatever revelation she was having.
"You're right," Tiffany said quietly. "Miss Gordon, if it's all right with you, I'd still like a job here. But I would really like to work at the bar. I find that mixing drinks can be therapeutic, you know?"
"Well, I don't think mixing a drink is therapeutic at all unless I'm drinking one after, but to each her own, I suppose. Are you certain that this is what you want?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Fine then," I said, as she shook it. "You'll start tomorrow. I'll notify the owner. You'll be added to the schedule and we'll go over the other minor details when you arrive. Acceptable?"
"Acceptable."
With that said, she gratefully thanked me once more, standing when I did, and I watched her leave. Butch approached me within my peripheral vision; after my nearly stabbing his neck, he seemed to learn that I didn't much care for surprise visits from behind. I glanced at him begrudgingly as Butch watched the woman leave as well.
"That was the darkest interview I'd ever heard," Butch uttered. "Was any of it true?"
"All of it was true."
"Who did it to you?" Butch asked.
I looked at him, saying, "That's a little personal, even for you."
"Whoever it was, I hope you made them pay for it."
"With more than just their life."
"Did they suffer?"
"All the way to the end," I told him. "Why do you sound so concerned? You and your friends nearly beat me to death the last time we spoke—hence my desire to stab you in the neck…. which, by the way, I'm still considering."
"Honestly, that was just business. That stuff though…Any man that hurts a woman in that sense deserves the worst."
"The last man that tried anything on me belonged to Maroni. I bit his dick off and shot him in the balls," I noted apathetically. "Does that fit your description?"
"More than ever," said Butch righteously, although he cringed at the thought. "What's your lean on getting close to the girl?"
"I don't have any plans for her, if that's what you're asking. She just needed someone to talk to. Her fiancé is dead—"
"—I hear you tortured him—"
"—And she has no one else to talk to," I continued as though I hadn't been interrupted.
"Lucky she has you then," said Butch quietly.
"Is she? I'm not exactly the shoulder one needs to cry on."
"You're something better. You're a realist. And that's what she needs."
I chuckled darkly, "You sound like you respect me for it."
"Always have. One of the things I always liked about you."
"Aw, that's sweet."
"Does that mean you don't want to stab me?"
I considered it and said, "Nah. I don't really want to stab you that much. But if you like, you can go hug a land mine."
I patted his shoulder and walked away with Butch looking after me with a small smile on his face.
A/N: I wrote this in dedication to those who have been sexually assaulted/raped. What happened to you was not your fault. You may never 'get over it'. But, trust me, you will get through it. Be easy on yourself, and find someone you trust to talk to. Everyone heals differently and in different ways. Be kind to yourself and know you are not alone. Much love 3
