Just a little Touch
The wine was sweet, almost cloying. Dessert wine. Karen drank it fast to avoid the lingering taste on the tip of her tongue. It was meant to go with the absurd excuse for a wedding cake sitting in the middle of the reception, to complement the high density buttercream icing slipping off the pedestrian piece of vanilla cake on her plate. God, she hated weddings.
When Ellison had suggested she broaden her journalistic horizons she’d nodded eagerly, not knowing that meant he would push her on over into covering the “society” section of the little newspaper. She felt the underpaid little sister of TMZ writers, covering all of these social events. Galas, charity balls, and even an NYPD luncheon to raise money for widows of police officers had come across her desk. It all seemed like a lesson in humility. She wasn’t experienced, after all, and some of the other writers at the Bulletin had been ruffled by the attention Ellison gave her. She was happy to prove herself, sharpening her skills on these boring events.
But weddings… there was just something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, some feeling of disgust, derision… perhaps even jealousy (but only when everyone looked starry-eyed with happiness). She’d fought Ellison on this one, insisting that she didn’t actually need to be at the event to write about the heiress’s expensive dress, or the groom’s obvious jitters. She could have called a guest or two and just typed something up. It was a total cop-out of course, and Ellison had seen right through it.
So here she was, sitting like some lonely distant cousin, drinking glass after glass of astonishingly terrible red wine (couldn’t rich people afford the services of a sommelier?). The ceremony had been a ghastly, seemingly endless display of overly saccharine vows and even ghastlier bridesmaid dresses (she’d never be able to forget that shade of mustard yellow).
She smiled to herself, imagining the look of frustration on Ellison’s face when she turned in her story. Karen, ‘troglodytic’ is not a good word to use when describing the fiancé of the mayor’s daughter. She glanced over to the whey-faced groom, watching with disgust as he schmoozed with his new father-in-law, insincerity dripping from his very pores. It seemed like this was a marriage of convenience. Karen didn’t doubt that the groom would soon be the recipient of many lucrative city contracts. She made a mental note, already itching to get home and start investigating.
Hours later, she stumbled out of the event hall, face flushed with alcohol, her kitten heels suddenly feeling like they were nine inch stilettos. The pavement undulated like gently cresting waves as she tried to walk. Leaning against a lamp post, she swung her arm out to hail a cab.
No one stopped. It was late, and in this part of the city all these silver-spooned socialites were driven around in town cars. She sighed, resigning herself to walking to the nearest subway station, pepperspray clutched in her right hand. Not for the first time tonight, she wished she’d brought a date, someone to lean against as they walked home. The maudlin thought barely had a chance to percolate before a crack in the sidewalk caught one of her heels and sent her flying.
Her palms caught the pavement, burning as the rough surface scraped at the skin. She cringed at the sound of her heel snapping. A not so hushed, “Fuck!” falling from her lips when she righted herself.
“That’s not very ladylike, ma’am.”
Her head snapped around at the sound of his voice, low and husky coming from the darkness. She blinked rapidly, trying to focus her swimming vision, but she couldn’t see a damn thing. She steadied her breathing and straightened her posture (as much as she could with a broken heel). “I’m not feeling very fucking ladylike at the moment, Frank.”
How long had it been since she’d seen him? Weeks? Months? It felt like years. It wasn’t unusual for him to fall off her radar occasionally, but she’d begun to get worried this time, all signs of the punisher vanishing from the city. Scumbags were letting their guard down a little, and everywhere seemed just a little less safe.
He stepped out of the shadows, barely, holding out a hand. “You dropped your pepper spray.”
There was a smirk there in the shadows, she could hear it in the way he said the last word. She reached out and snatched away the object of his derision, nearly tripping a second time in her uneven footwear. “I couldn’t exactly wear my holster with this dress.”
It was true, sort of. There was absolutely no room to hide anything wearing this dress, and her .308 might have fit in the tiny hand bag she paired with the slinky number, but she hadn’t wanted to chance getting barred from the event. She felt the heat rising on her cheeks as Frank gave her a slow up and down. His eyes seemed to linger on the vee that dipped low on her sternum, the warm tingle of his gaze slowly traveling up the flimsy straps holding the garment up.
She reached up to brush the hair away from her face, feeling suddenly self conscious and too warm on such a balmy night. “Have you been following me?”
Instead of answering, Frank swiftly stepped forward, crowding her, making it hard to breathe. He reached for her hand, turning it palm up and examining the damage she’d done. He huffed out an annoyed grunt. “You’re hurt.”
His proximity made her light-headed, or perhaps it was the gallon of sugar-laden wine she’d imbibed. The strange giddiness in her chest could have been caused by either, and she lost her train of thought, silently watching him run his fingers over the heel of her palm. There were red scratches there, some of them bleeding slightly. She couldn’t feel the pain, a sure sign that she’d drank too much.
She blinked dazedly. “Your hands are so much larger than mine.” The words fell in a whisper, the revelation hanging softly in the air as she turned her palm over to lay flat against his.
She was surprised actually, at the way his palms were broader than her own, his fingers long and graceful, calluses along the edges. The tip of her index finger traced along his life line, something stirring in the pit of her stomach, a longing that she was afraid to put words to.
Her fingertips burned, thumb pressing against the pulse at his wrist. She ached to follow the steady beating to its source, to lay her head against his chest and listen to the way a broken heart could still function.
Frank pulled away, leaving her cold. “I was following a target, not you. This wedding… It was the first opportunity to take him out that I’ve had in weeks.”
Her eyes widened, the sharpness in his tone sobering. “Who was it?”
“The groom. Didn’t get a chance though…”
His gaze swept over her again, and Karen shivered at the intensity, trying to remember what they were talking about. “Because of me?”
He jerked his head in the direction of the street. “Come on, Page. Car’s parked across the way. You’re not walking all the way to your apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. It’s too dangerous.”
She slipped her hand in his for a second time, again marveling at the size and strength, some part of her mind curious as to what those hands could do if used gently. She cleared her throat, managing to grab hold of her normally quick wit before it floated away in a fog of alcohol. “Far too dangerous… some scary murderer might step out of the shadows and escort me home without so much as a goodnight kiss.”
He snorted softly, his serious facade slipping for a second. “Nothing so horrible will happen to you, Miss Page, I promise you that.”