Author’s note: In a world where we bleed more than we love, I thought that it would be nice to mix the two, and see which one wins…for now. – Ghost
Her hips swayed from side to side as she walked slowly through his apartment, feeling the silence that only 3 AM could provide. The ice from the top of the bottle slid down the neck and onto the back of her hand. She heard the faintest pat pat on the ground behind her, and turned quickly to find him, half clothed, his bare feet on the hardwood floor, his face innocent and open, smiling. She looked at him, and unblinking, raised the back of her hand to her mouth, licking the ice from her smooth skin, feeling it melt in her mouth even as she smiled back at him innocently. He moved to her, growling low, “Mmmm…my little kitten.”
She put his hand on his bare chest, feeling the muscles flutter against her fingertips. His lips were slightly pursed and pouty, and he had that perpetual boyish model look about him, the kind of look that came with a standard constant smoldering stare that she had noted him using to great effect all night long with various different women. In another life, she may have fallen in love with him. He opened his mouth to say something else corny, and she pressed her finger on his lips, feeling his smile suddenly come to life against her skin, and her heart melted a little. He reminded her so much of another man, a man from her past…
She smiled back at him, pushing the thought from her mind as she moved her hand to the side of his face, letting her fingers scratch lightly against his neck right under her ear, and around to the back of his neck. He growled quietly, and she smiled even more, as he nuzzled her palm, his stubble grazing against her.
He put his arms around her, the bottle pressed between them, cold against their skin and suddenly, he pressed his lips to hers, her mouth opening to his immediately even as his fingers fumbled with the zipper of her dress. He found the top of it, and a heartbeat later, she felt the pressure of her dress suddenly loosen as it began to fall to the floor, cascading around her legs as she stepped out of it and into his embrace. They staggered back to the bedroom, their hands furiously ripping and tearing at each other, desire incarnate. She dropped the bottle onto the ground, hearing it crash loudly and shatter, the tinkling of glass serving only to raise their passion even more. She kicked the door closed as they moved through it, slamming with a shut that seemed to coincide with her heart thumping against her chest.
He pulled her back to the bed, his teeth a snarl of passion, his stubble grazing against her as his tongue found the base of her neck. She moaned, her fingers sliding into his hair, her other hand fumbling with the wooden dresser beside them. He grabbed her hand, and for a second, her heart stopped, terrified that she had been caught. He rose his eyes to look into hers, and she looked back into them, even as his grip grew tighter and he looked over at the dresser that she had been reaching for. Her breath quickened, and she learned forward to kiss him again, to distract him, and he growled at her, his eyes flashing bright even in the moonlight bathed room. He slowly moved upwards, his hands shifting to grasp both her wrists, pinning them above her head as he nipped at her lower lip, her breath ragged against his face. She moved against him, trying to release the hold on her wrists, and he responded by biting at her neck again, and she felt her leg shake as a tremor passed through her, followed by a sudden warmth.
Suddenly, the pressure on her wrists lifted, as he moved his fingers to intertwine with his own. Her heart broke a little for a second, and he moved his face downwards, pulling at her bra with his teeth. Pulling her hands downward, he nipped at her stomach as she giggled despite herself, and suddenly, one of his hands let go of hers, and moved down to lightly stroke at her waist, his fingertips light as a feather, sending tiny little shocks racing through her nerves even as she bit her lip and fought to stay focused. Suddenly, his fingers moved under her waistband, and her determination and focus vanished as she remembered once again who he reminded her of. As she lost herself in his touch, she barely heard the door close in the hallway.
Her eyes flew open as she grabbed at his face, and turned over, the sheet unraveling from the side of the bed and becoming twisted around them, his face a mixture of surprise and lust as she pushed him back in bed. He reached for her legs, his fingers sinking into her thighs as she faked a smile at him, knowing that she’d be feeling the hot sights of her ex-lover on her back any second now. She reached for the headboard, feeling for the dagger hidden there. It was gone. Cursing, she glanced at the bedside table, much too far away now for her to reach without him getting curious. She cursed again, her fingernails digging into his chest as he stared at her, uncomprehending. “What’s…wro-” he managed to say before she took the pillow and pressed it into his face, his hands moving from her thighs to her hands, trying to pull her off. She gritted her teeth, trying to keep the muffled noises from escaping the confines of the room, even as she knew she was failing and the footsteps were drawing ever closer. As her victim’s flailing began to slow, she sighed, hearing the door open behind her, knowing that her near topless form would give her ex lover some pause. He didn’t disappoint, and as he stood, breathing hard in the silent room, her victim gave a final twitch and she removed the pillow to look at his face. Paul Matherson, aged 32, twice divorced, now dead.
“I should kill you right now.” he said, his voice cracking like a whip in the softness of the room.
She smiled to herself as she wrapped the sheet around her, moving off the bed, her feet dangling, toes barely touching the hardwood floor below. “You can always try Alexander, but won’t you just get depressed when you fail?”
He moved towards her, his feet slid against the sleek floor like a ghost, a harbinger of death, more felt than seen and more dead than alive. His eyes were alive in the silver light that illuminated the apartment, the gun in his hand glistening like the teeth of a guard dog, waiting for an order to kill. She forced her eyes back up to his own, and stood her ground, even as his hand came up to cup her neck, not ungently. She closed her eyes and cursed as she realized that her neck was still wet from her victim’s tongue. His eyes burned bright in the night, and he shoved her, her head hitting the wooden bedside table as she collapsed to the floor. She yelped, and held the back of her head, feigning pain as she watched him move away from her in disgust, holding his hands at his hips in the way that he always did when he was thinking deeply. She slid the dresser open silently, and pulled out the blade that she had been looking for when she had been trying to make quick work of Paul. Sliding it into the waistband of her thong, she covered herself again with her sheet, arranging herself so that only half her chest was visible, and began to silently cry.
It took him a long second, but he turned around and looked at her face for a long time, and walked over to her. He dropped the gun to the bed, and cupped her face in his hands, and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
As she reached for the knife, she whispered back, “I’m sorry too.” She pressed her forehead against his own, the age old feeling of passion and lust igniting between them, the feeling of a kill done right and the rewards that would follow. She could practically feel herself back in Brazil, the forest heat having no effect on them as the sweat poured from their skin, pressed against each other as they hid from the soldiers who pursued them deep into the jungle, and again, in the pouring rain as they made love, skin on skin, in a place so dangerous that even the soldiers had left them for dead. Even as her mind, her wretched, cursed mind took her back to that place, where they once knew each other like no one else did, where they were one and the same person, where…
“I love you.” He said, his breath shaking.
Her hand froze on the knife. “What?” she said, not believing.
“I love you. I’m sorry, i’m so, so sorry, i’m in love with you, I can’t do this anymore, this fucking bullshit, being separate, running into you at every kill, having to face you everytime. We should be doing this together, we should be together, I’m in love with you.”
Her mind raced as her heart soared. She wanted to take him in her arms, she wanted to make love to him the same way they made love in Brazil. She wanted to shove him away and slice him open, she wanted to make him pay for what he had put her through. Her teeth were chattering.
She wanted to go home. She wanted to go home, and forget him, forget this, forget all of it. But I owe him…
Lost in her thoughts, she almost didn’t hear the click of the gun in the silent room. She twisted, pulling the knife from the sheet, and slicing it across his arm even as he fell backwards, his face a mask of rage. For a long second, nothing in the room moved, the sheet laying around her body on the floor, her chest heaving and her mind screaming, screaming at her to kill him, kill the son of a bitch now. Then she saw him sitting on the floor, nothing in his hands, and for a second, time stood still. And she realized what she had done wrong.
Paul sat in the bed, his hands grasping the gun, his face a wild mask of panic. “Who the fuck is he, and who the fuck ARE YOU?” he screamed, waving the revolver wildly. Alexander lay at the foot of the bed, outside his field of vision, his eyes glued to the knife in her hand, his face unreadable. She wanted to cry. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, he wasn’t supposed to say that here, he wasn’t supposed to be here at all, and now they might both end up dead because of her stupidity. She looked at him, one solitary tear falling from her eye. “I’m sorry.” she said to him, dropping the knife to the floor.
He stared up at her, and then she felt a sudden, crippling blow as he raised his knee and kicked her hip as hard as he could. She fell, skidding to the floor, screaming in agony as she twisted herself to avoid hitting her face on the door, landing with a solid thud as she skidded across the floor, into the shattered remnants of the bottle that she had carelessly dropped before. As she put one hand on the floor to steady herself, her thoughts cloudy with pain and terror, it pressed against into the glass, cutting into her hand. The pain cut into her thoughts, and she looked back at the dark room, grabbing the top of the bottle, the jagged edge gleaming in the moonlight, the coldness of the bottle still cutting into her hand. She stood, limping, as her hip screamed obscenities at her, and felt the blood trickling down her palm and onto the ground.
She could see Paul now at the foot of the bed, his gun aimed at Alexander. They were simply staring at each other, Alexander holding the wound in his arm, Paul unable to speak. Alexander looked back at her, standing in the empty hallway, bathed in moonlight.
For a second, he could barely breathe, the pain disappearing in a swell of love and affection. Her stomach taut and muscled, the silver light cascading down from the swell of her breasts, past down her stomach and touching her impossibly long legs, and back up again, the angled features of her face reminding him of the moments that he was close enough to touch them, and lucky enough to kiss them. He nodded imperceptibly, his signal for her to carry on without him. How had they gone so wrong? Killed tens, hundreds of evil men, men who controlled entire states and continents, men who hurt and murdered innocents, men who made a hobby of dealing with the devil. And they had escaped, time and time again hadn’t they? And now, he lay here, at the foot of this bed, about to be killed by a paranoid Wall Street yuppie. As he contemplated the irony of his fate, he heard a familiar sound.
She didn’t know what she was doing, but she knew she had to distract him. Maybe if I can distract him, Alexander can – the thought vanished from her mind as Paul turned and fired quickly at her, the bullets thudding into the wall behind her, even as she dropped to one knee, her hip threatening to give out completely with every second. Suddenly, Alexander was on his feet, his head thudding into Paul’s skull, blood fountaining from his nose as he pushed back against Alexander feebly, then again with force, smashing him across the head with the revolver before Alexander could raise his injured arm. It was all the time that Erika needed. Pouncing from the doorway to the bed, she jumped at him, the cold glass sinking into his neck, his body thrashing against her, throwing her back and onto the floor. She scuttled across the floor, looking for the gun that she had heard clatter to the floor when she had sunk the glass into him. From across the room, she heard a click from Alexander’s direction, and then three quick shots fired, the bullets cascading into Paul’s flesh even as he fell back into the bed, his hand still clutched around the bottle sunk in his neck. He slowly fell to the side, and then onto the floor beside Erika, with a soft thump. He was dead before he hit the floor. She looked over at him and harrumphed. “Not a kitten, you fucking twat.” She swallowed, letting the moment sink in and catching her breath as she rested her head against the wall, and then became aware of another, similarly ragged breath like her own, from where Alexander half lay, eyes bright in the night.
It was 3:15 AM, and in the dark room, they stared at each other, quietly bleeding in more ways than one.