"Can I bring you anything else?" the waiter asked as he placed the empty glass on the tray.
"No, I'm good." Dean didn't even look at the waiter. He was watching this girl who was sitting alone on the other side of the bar. Has she been there alone the whole time or did her friends leave, Dean wondered. He couldn't remember. He's been watching her for a while now but he couldn't remember. Anyway, she didn't seem to have noticed him. Maybe she did; maybe she even knew about him staring at her. He didn't put much effort into hiding it, after all.
God, he couldn't take his eyes off her. What was it? Magic? Dean smiled. He felt like going to talk to her but his body was unable to move. Maybe she was there with someone. Did he notice somebody walk into the bathroom? He had no idea. There could have been a monster right next to her, he wouldn't know. He wouldn't care, as long as she was safe. She looked so peaceful, happy. Would it be okay to send her a drink, he asked himself. He felt like standing up and going to talk her. He couldn't; he was paralyzed. But god, was she charming.
What was she doing? Dean noticed she had a book with her. She had been reading it, but now she was writing something inside. She seemed irritated. He couldn't really say, she was too far away, but she seemed pretty irritated. She wasn't frowning, though. There was a trace of a smile on her face. But Dean still believed she was irritated by something. Not by somebody because she was still sitting alone. Just her and her book.
He stopped watching her. He felt like ordering another shot. While he called the waiter, he lost the track of what she was doing. He hadn't been watching her for just a short moment, but he already missed her. That was strange. He couldn't really explain it. He just knew he had to see her again.
She was still there; thank god. But . . . what the hell was she doing now? Was it a knife in her hand? Was she . . . was she stabbing her fingers? Dean stood up; he acted instinctively. He had to stop her. He walked briskly over to her. She didn't notice him until he was just few steps away. She looked up at him.
"I thought you'd come at some point," she said enthusiastically. She evidently saw nothing wrong with what she was doing. Well, she stopped now. At least that. "I saw you watching me. You could have at least tried to be incognito." Her voice was lovely as much as lively. Besides, there was so much honest cheerfulness in it; she had to be happy that he came.
Dean didn't realize she saw him, though. But if he was staring at her almost all the time, which he was, how come he never saw her looking back at him? She must have been good at covertly watching somebody, so much better than him. Then he remembered why he came there. "What were you doing? I hope you weren't trying to hurt yourself." He sounded really worried. He was, too.
She laughed. "Oh, this." She knew what he meant. She still held the knife in her hand; only it had been hidden under the table since he came; she probably hid it automatically. She took it out now and pointed it at him. Actually, it seemed to him that she was going to stab him. He reflexively stepped back. When she realized what she just did, she gasped, "I'm sorry." She meant it, too; he could see that. She put her hands over her mouth and looked like a scared little child. "It's a fake knife," she explained, smiling, but feeling terrible for her imprudent reaction. She looked cute. Like a puppy that did something bad and feels ashamed of itself.
Dean laughed. It was a rather unusual joke but he had to smile, at least because of how cute she looked. He took the knife, just in case, and sat down in the booth opposite to her. "So it's not a real knife. But still, why?" he had to know. God, this girl was . . . crazy? No, at least not the typical crazy. She was something else. He had never met anyone like her. He didn't know her, but he was really attracted to her, to her weird personality. She was adorable, in her own way. He wanted to know her. He wanted to sit there near her and watch her, learn what she was like from her unusual actions.
"I was bored," she said shamefully.
"And when you're bored you stab yourself? Why do you even carry a rubber knife?"
"It's a drinking game." She returned to her happy nature. She was smiling widely and saying it as if it was the greatest thing ever. That girl was really cheerful and her eyes were sparkling. When Dean was looking at her, he couldn't stop smiling.
"So how does it work?" Dean asked. Cassie liked that he was interested, no matter if he was more interesting in the game or in her. She took back the knife from him, and then she took his hand, too. She placed it in front of her, increasing his curiosity. But before she could tell him about the drinking game she seemed to like so much, the waiter appeared with Dean's drink, the one he had ordered while he was still sitting at his old place. He totally forgot about that, but welcomed the waiter's notice of him switching the spot in the bar. When he placed the glass in front of Dean, he turned to the girl. Meanwhile, she still held Dean's hand, which quite surprised Dean; this girl was evidently not shy.
"Anything for you, Cassie?" She smiled. Apparently she didn't mind that Dean now knew her name. She finally broke the eye contact with Dean and looked up at the waiter.
She then replied to his question, "Bring us six shots of . . . six different drinks."
"Six?" Dean repeated, surprised.
"Anything specific? the waiter asked.
"Surprise us."
The waiter nodded, as to show he understood the order, but before he could leave, the girl said, "Make it ten." Then he left to get their drinks.
"I'll show you how it works," she said to Dean, confidently.
"Have you been waiting for me to come to you the whole night?" he asked. Suddenly it appeared that way. She was really happy about the idea of playing that game with him, as if it was all part of a plan.
"Actually," she laughed, "I'm on a date."
"Oh." Well, that was the last thing Dean imagined to be the reason why she was there. Then he realized, "Where's the guy?" Dean look around; as if he anticipated to see a person sitting next to him, who hadn't noticed before.
"Yeah . . . he didn't show up." She didn't seem to be upset about it, though. "You know, this friend of mine set me up on a blind date because she thought I haven't dated in too long –" she broke off. That was too much information, she suddenly realized. "Anyway, I waited and waited and . . . yeah, I ended up with a knife in my hand because I got bored."
"Don't you think he might saw you holding a knife and decided he better back off?" Dean suggested.
She laughed when she thought that could be the reason. "Maybe," she admitted. "Or he saw a stranger talking to me and he thought he stood no chance compared to him," she gave another possible explanation.
"Are you saying I scared your date off?" She shrugged her shoulders. But it was clear that she wouldn't mind Dean being with her instead of that other guy that she had never seen before anyway. "I guess I should stay here with you tonight. You know, as a compensation for ruining you night."
"I guess you should," she accepted his offer.
The shots arrived, but the whole time waiter was by their table putting the glasses down in front of them they kept staring into each other's eyes, excited.
As soon as they were alone, she got a better grip of the knife and spread Dean's fingers on his right hand. She broke the eye contact to optically measure the distance between the fingers and started hitting the spaces between the individual fingers. At first she did it really slowly, while explaining it to Dean. "You need to stab each empty space with the knife. You can start slowly, but gradually you increase the speed."
"That's easy," he replied, as she was getting faster. "What if I hit the finger?"
"You drink." He figured that since it was a drinking game, but he had to ask anyway.
When she made three rounds, not hitting Dean's finger once, she passed the knife. "Your turn," she encouraged him, but there was something sly in her look.
Dean was confident. He had no problems with aiming whatsoever; not even higher speed made it that more difficult.
This went on for a while. They took alternates. He was pretty good at it but her confidence was discouraging. Was that it, he asked himself.
The next time was different. She wasn't looking where she was aiming; she kept looking straight into his eyes.
"You believe in yourself, don't you?" Her smile and unbroken look was an answer. Then she stood up the game a little more for she closed her eyes completely. Not once had she hit him. Not at first. But then she did.
"Nobody's perfect," she said, but there was something about the way she said it that made Dean question whether it wasn't intentional on her part. "Do you dare?" she asked, handing him the rubber knife. She drank one shot as a punishment.
Dean accepted the challenge, again. But when he was to close his eyes, he lost the faith in his ability. It was more difficult that it first appeared. He lost the track; where were her fingers and where was the empty space that he was supposed to stab? "You're good," he had to admit, an also that she was better than him. Well, she had practiced it, unlike him. Due to his several failed attempts, he was made to drink. And he drank and drank. He was losing to this girl. Then his asked, he wasn't completely sober, "Would you do it with a real knife?" He had to know. For some reason, that could have been a deal breaker for him. Was she crazy or just adventurous?
"I've never tried it," she admitted honestly. "But one day I will." He laughed. He felt somewhat drunk but he was still aware of everything. "But I need to be totally wasted for that." She looked in front of her. There were two more full glasses left on the table. Dean had drunk most of the drinks because she knew how to play the game and how to win. She knew that this was exactly what would happen, that he would have to pay for being interested. She raised one glass and handed the other one over to Dean. "You're a solid player," she told him. Should he make a toast or something, he wondered. He couldn't think of anything clever to say so he ended up just smiling, showing appreciation. They both drank up and put down the glasses.
Dean looked to the right; there was still this book she had been reading that night. He saw her reading and writing something down inside, but he forgot all about it. Only now he noticed it and it all came back to him. He took a look at it. "A Farewell to Arms," he read the title. She made this sound of being annoyed, or maybe just uninterested. Dean noticed a bookmark, which had the top torn in several vertical lines. He opened the book. There were many writings, all in ink. The edges were all full of handwriting; it didn't look bad, sometimes even as if written in calligraphy, but it didn't belong there. Anyway, there were too many words and sentences. He didn't feel like reading it all. Also, the alcohol he had drunk made it difficult for him to read the small letters. "Why did you write in the book?" he asked.
"Because I couldn't stand how Hemingway made the female character look in there."
Dean laughed. He hadn't read the book so he didn't know what she was talking about, but she was really cute being angry at Hemingway. "Tell me about it." He wasn't that interested in the book or the author's view on women; he just wanted to hear her speak. She had beautiful voice, really feminine, even girly, which in combination with irritation created an unbalanced, yet seductive and fascinating feature. She was aware of that and used it to her advantage. But she didn't manipulate him; she didn't have to.
"This Catherine . . . she's so unrealistic." She smiled. "She blames herself for everything, and she literally says I'm so stupid right now and that kind of bullshit on almost every other page. I guess Hemingway really thought women should be submissive and do what men want and tell them to."
"You would never let any man control you," he assumed. It wasn't a question.
She smiled genuinely. Her elbow was up on the table and she held her head in her palm. She gave Dean this innocent look which couldn't be trusted. "Maybe one day when I'll get tired of making my own decisions," she joked. But it was easy to recognize she didn't want to talk about this topic. She was in a good mood and talking about something she didn't particularly like could change that, even when it seemed improbable. But to prevent getting irritated by talking about it, she took the book away from Dean, opened it again on the bookmarked page, the only one that was written all over and tore it out of the book. Dean watched her, realizing this girl probably wasn't a very big fan of reading, otherwise she wouldn't destroy a book to prove her point, or whatever it was that she was doing, would she? "Here," she handed him the page. She put the book in her bag, which was down under the table next to her left leg. Dean wasn't sure what to do with the page she gave to him, but he took it. Maybe she thought if he read it or something, he would understand. Either way, it didn't matter to him right now. He folded the sheet of paper several times and put it in the pocket of the back of his trousers. But as much as he was surprised by the actions of this girl, he was fascinated by her as well.
She didn't demand that he read right away the page she handed him. Instead, she stood up and without saying a word went over to the counter. Dean was still sitting down, feeling slowed down by the alcohol. He didn't quite grasp what was happening now. Was she coming back? It appeared to Dean that she had taken all her things. And now she was standing by the counter talking to the waiter that had served them all night. They weren't too far from where Dean was sitting; he could see that she was handing the waiter cash. She was paying. Jeez, Dean thought to himself, he wasn't supposed to let her pay. He should have paid for everything. Yet, even now he couldn't do anything about it. Not that he didn't want to, but he didn't seem able to physically go over there. He definitely wasn't that drunk, it had to be something else, he thought.
Fortunately, she came back. "I'll repay you," Dean said abruptly.
She laughed. "That's really not necessary."
"I insist," Dean spoke. He sounded as if he wasn't able to control what he was saying. His words certainly weren't very deliberate. When he realized there wasn't much he could do, she had made her mind and wasn't willing to change it, but she was kind about it, he asked her, "Are you leaving?"
She gave him a sweet smile and replied, "Yes."
"Don't," Dean begged.
"Would you like to come with me?" She stretched her hand and helped him stood up. He felt stupid, he didn't need anyone's help, he really wasn't that drunk, but he couldn't say no to her. "I got you drunk; now I feel obliged to take care of you."
"I'll gladly let you take care of me. If you know what I mean." He didn't think twice before saying it out loud, what he regretted immediately. Fortunately, she took it as a joke. She giggled with her soft voice. Then she placed her arm around him, he was much taller than her, and generally so much bigger that it was problematic for her to really take care of him. Moreover, Dean realized that he was probably drunker than he first thought, but tried to be independent of her help.
As soon as they got outside, Dean felt a lot better. The wind blew cold air into his face, which sobered him up a bit. But even though he would be able to walk without her help, he didn't want to let go of her; he kept his hand around her. He liked touching her, although it was far from real intimacy.
"I think we should get a cab," Dean said.
She smiled; actually she never really stopped smiling. That was an interesting thing about her; she was cheerful all the time. And Dean felt really relaxed due to that attitude. She continued walking without replying to Dean's suggestion.
"Where are we going?" he asked. Not that he really cared; he was just curious. And he wondered why she would prefer walking, and supporting him, to getting in a cab.
"Oh, just here." That was helpful, Dean thought to himself. But then she added, "Around the corner." She led him for another minute or so until they reached the said corner. There was a car park, but it was empty. Well, there were no cars, for one thing. They stopped there anyway. Only vehicle that was parked there was a motorbike. Red, big, strong; presumably 250cc. Dean wasn't able to read the brand name on the side of it.
"No," he said hastily, even before she could ask him to sit on it or something.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she asked, ignoring his comment. She forced him to walk toward it with her.
He refused. "This . . . is not a good idea." He was drunk but he could still think. And in his position, he couldn't afford to get injured in a motorbike accident, which was more than likely to happen since she had drunk alcohol too.
She laughed. "It's not mine. Don't worry, I'm not that crazy."
"Oh, thank God!" he exclaimed and placed his hand on his heart, as if he just had a heart attack, or, as in this case, prevented one.
"I live right there." She pointed at the tall building in front of them. It was right behind the small car park. It wasn't tall tall, not in comparison with skyscrapers or even other buildings he had seen in the city that day; still it was higher than most buildings in the surroundings. There were definitely more than ten floors.
"You inviting me to your place?" According to him, that was a bold strategy. She barely even knew him, he was so much bigger and it wouldn't be any problem for him to take advantage of her. Moreover, he was pretty drunk; he really was, no matter how much he tried to deny it. Did this courageous girl really trust some stranger guy so much that she was willing to bring him to her own apartment? For one thing, she didn't seem scared or even worried; she was more excited, actually.
She didn't give him an answer. It wasn't really necessary, either. As they were walking and getting closer to the entrance, she uttered, though, "You don't have to come if you don't want to. I just thought it would be more pleasant than sitting in a bar, surrounded by drunk strangers . . ."
"I am a drunk stranger."
She took the notice. She found it funny; definitely not something to worry about.
"Tell me your name then. If I know your name, you're not a stranger anymore, right?" she argued. There was some logic in it, surprisingly.
Only then Dean realized that this girl, unless she was a remarkably good liar, had no idea who he was. That felt nice, not be recognized for once. So far he had taken her for a regular girl, not a fan, and it was really pleasant. He could be himself; he hadn't taken the chance yet, for she got him drunk surprisingly soon, but he could try later. For once it was nice not to talk about wrestling, not getting questions like what it was like to be a wrestler, to spend most days on the road and so on. He could talk about anything. The only problem was that right now he wasn't in a good shape to talk, or have any meaningful conversation. God, that girl got him under her control. Dean suddenly felt like a victim to her games. This girl could play.
They were motionless. She was looking at him, waiting for him to finally reveal his name. Dean totally forgot about that question. He quickly lost track of what was happening around him. His span of attention was dangerously short at the moment. And now he was on his way to lose it again. It was time to focus, at least for a second. Dean opened his mouth but he started speaking only seconds afterwards. "I'm Dean," he said finally, although overly emphatically.
"I'm . . ." she wanted to tell him her name but he stopped her.
He pointed a finger at her, trying to figure out what her name was. He knew he heard it before. That waiter back in the bar mentioned it once or twice. Dean searched in his memory, which was something he really could not rely on at the moment. "Cassie," he almost shouted. He was so glad he remembered.
It appeared she was pleasantly surprised by his remembering her name, even in this drunk state. "Charming," she commented with an honest smile on her face.
Dean felt confident. He felt like he could do anything. He knew he couldn't, really, but he got the confidence. He smiled back at her. Suddenly he felt like kissing her. Right there in the middle of the car park. He was going to, trusting his spontaneous ideas, but she realized what he intended to do and stepped to the side before he could touch her lips. She wasn't mad or anything, though. She kept smiling; it was all she did. God, she had a beautiful smile, Dean thought to himself. Even though she didn't allow him to kiss her, she grabbed his hand, not too impulsively, and led him all the way until they reached the door of the building they were about to enter.
They finally got inside; the hall of the building was a little filthy with trash in the corners, spider webs on the walls, and some strangely, disgustingly looking stain on the floor; none of that mattered to Dean, nor Cassie, apparently, but it got Dean's attention. There were two elevators, one on each side, but Cassie just passed them by and walked further.
"Are you coming?" she asked. Dean was standing there, as if struck by the surrounding but honestly he couldn't care less about the visage of the ground floor.
He almost forgot to reply, but she waited and she finally got the answer. "Which floor is it?" was his counter-question.
"Sixth."
"And . . ." he thought before continuing, to not make a mistake of false assumption. "You're taking the stairs?"
She smiled, it was a very honest smile, and came over to him, taking his hand. "Problem?" she asked playfully. "Judging by your muscular arms . . ." She stroke his biceps through the jacket; it was still clear that he was in good physical condition no matter how many layers he'd put on. "I thought it would be okay for you to walk a few floors," she flirted with him, caressing his ego.
Dean wouldn't have even thought of proving her wrong by hesitating. Sure, he wasn't in the best state to walk, no matter to what direction, but taking stairs instead of an elevator could help him sober up, for what it was worth. And, he smiled viciously, if she was to walk before him, there would certainly be a nice view.
"Let's go," he said, and let her lead him again. And damn, it truly was a nice view.
She made him wait in the hall when they entered the apartment. She didn't say why, but he obediently waited, sitting on some low cabinet or whatever it was. The door to the other room, probably the living room, was open but he couldn't see her. There was another door but that one was closed and he had no idea what was hiding behind it. He moved his feet; he was stepping on a rug, which looked really clean and even expensive. It probably wasn't but he shoes could have been muddy and he didn't want to ruin it not matter if it cost a fortune or if it was a worthless piece of textile.
He heard some voices; two. There was a conversation going on. He could clearly distinguish a male voice; the guy sounded a little irritated. Dean stopped vaguely looking at the wall above the door, the one that was closed, and leaned to the left as if it could help him hear better.
"What is it this time, stranded kitten, bird with a hurt wing or an angry pitbull?" the man asked. Dean could hear the voice closer as he kept talking. "I don't need another torn pillow or a 'surprise' in my shoe."
"That's not gonna happen," she promised him. She spoke rather calmly, enjoying the other person's annoyed mood. "Probably," she added jokingly.
Dean could hear footsteps. Then it stopped. The man spoke again, "Which tie?" He seemed to have let go of the previous topic, but maybe only temporarily.
"This one. . . . Let me tie it for you."
They started walking again. Dean knew they were coming his way but he got more interested in a picture hanging on the wall in front of him. It was the Golden Gate Bridge; the panorama photograph reached almost from one corner to the other. It was all over the wall. It was framed and behind a glass, with a crack in the top left corner, as if a ball hit it.
"Oh," the male voice was now coming from Dean's left. He was standing right next to him. A big guy, as tall as him, in a suit, looking sharp, with a bucket of roses in his hand. The roses were facing the floor. The man, probably in his early 30s, looked suspiciously at Dean and adjusted his perfectly combed hair, which made him look like from the 1960s. He laughed but Dean was still tense. "From the context, I somehow didn't grasp you could be talking about a person."
She didn't saying anything. she seemed to have confused him on purpose. Dean didn't dare to interrupt.
"Wait . . . Is this the guy you were on a date with?"
"Not really," she said, rather slowly.
He didn't have any follow-up questions. Cassie introduced them. "This is Dean." Dean finally stood up and shook the guy's hand. "Dean, this is Josh." Josh what, Dean wished to ask but he chose not to.
"Jeez, did you," he looked at her, "get him this drunk? Were you playing that stupid game again?"
"It's not stupid. It's a great ice-breaker," she argued. He replied with shaking his head in disdain. "Anyway, it's time for you to go," she turned to him and started pushing him away, towards the front door.
"All right, all right," he surrendered. But he kept looking at Dean suspiciously. It wasn't that he didn't trust him at all, but he knew too little about him; the only thing he could be sure of was that he was really drunk, and therefore not trustworthy.
She noticed the way he was looking at her companion and said, "I'll be fine. I'll take care of him." The way her voice sounded reminded Dean of innocent little child talking about her teddy bear. But this was a grown-up woman and her intentions with him were far from playing with him as if he was her toy. She said to the guy who was just about to leave, already opening the door, "Don't worry."
"You know I always will. But I trust you and I know that you can take care of yourself."
"Goodnight," she pushed him out the door.
"I'll be back in the morning. Goodnight, sis," he said softly and kissed her on the top of her head. Then she shut the door.
Dean waited for her to turn to him, now that the guy, apparently her brother, was gone.
"We're alone now," she answered the question which lingered on Dean's lips but never came to life.
Again, Dean wished to kiss her. He seemed to have a perfect opportunity. There was nobody around them, nobody to disturb them. He tried to draw her up closer, but she wouldn't let him. He was confused; she had brought him to her apartment, knowing they would have privacy in there, and now she stopped his each attempt to get intimate with her. It didn't make sense.
"Are you scared?" he asked. There wasn't any indication that she was afraid of him but he sensed she might feel that way. Why else wouldn't she even accept an innocent kiss?
"No." She smiled. This time she pretended to be okay with the whole situation; she even got closer to him. But he could still see she wasn't quite comfortable and didn't feel natural doing what she was supposed to. She said in a quiet voice, but it was louder than a whisper, "There's a police officer living next door." She didn't mean to make it sound like a warning but that was exactly how it appeared to Dean.
"I'm not going to hurt you." Not even unintentionally. He wasn't that drunk; he was coming back to his senses and felt sobering up.
When he studied her face, the expression, he wondered if she was regretting inviting him over. What was her plan, if she had any? She seemed to have it all figured out earlier, but now she was wavering. She wasn't shy, not at all, but she was a little unsure.
"Do you want me to leave?" he asked abruptly. He immediately regretted asking that question and supporting the possibility of her changing her mind about him being in her apartment.
She shook her head; she wanted him to stay. Then Dean realized something. Something that would explain her behavior. He remembered what she told him back in the bar, how she was waiting for a date. And that her friend set it up because she, or he, thought that she, Cassie, had been single for too long.
"You haven't done this in a while, have you?'' Dean surprised her with his correct deduction.
She welcomed how he figured it out by himself and, moreover, seemed to be okay with it. She replied, admitting it, "I guess I forgot how this works."
"I'll tell you how this works," Dean said, gently, seductively. He took her hand, she had no problem with that. "You," he whispered as he was getting her hesitant body closer to his, "let me –" He wasn't allowed to finish. She saw where he was going with it and this time she, with her new-found confidence, rubbed her lips against his. Then she let him take control of the kiss.
She didn't hesitate once after that. All the romantic gestures, flirting, actions that she was supposed to undertake on a date came back to her. She knew what she was supposed to do, theoretically, orthodoxly, but she didn't choose to follow that path. She had her own ways and those didn't include taking her date into the bedroom; at least not that early.
"Dean, there you are," Renee's sweet voice approached his ear. He didn't see her coming in; his eyes were closed.
He was daydreaming. The scene from that February night in Denver when he first met Cassie had been playing in his head. Now it stopped, but he wished it to continue. He knew how it ended, what happened next, but he wanted to see it again as if he was once again in that apartment, with her standing before him, not really knowing what she was like, and with no idea how it would turned out. The scene was paused, but his mind, his brain was still working.
He thought about it. He remembered how he wanted to sleep with her that night, how he believed that was what was going to happen when she invited him over to her place. But actually, they hadn't gotten into her bedroom that night at all. Yet there wasn't a single thing Dean would change about that night, their first date. Or the others. It was always perfect. Although mostly she was in charge of their date plans, and her ideas often differed from how Dean wanted it to be; he wouldn't change a thing. But the more he thought about that day he met her, the more was coming back to him. They hadn't been together for long, but as long as he remembered, even though there was a chance his mind wasn't completely honest with him, she was the girl that had changed him. He had fun with her, although their sexual life was difficult to maintain with long-distance relationship.
He called her right after he left her apartment, before he left Denver, and there was hardly a day without him hearing her voice. Dean wondered, he had to, if it wasn't for Renee . . . Oh, Renee! "Renee," he cried, and reached for her. If it wasn't for her, would he still be with Cassie?