Whisper to a Scream (Alexa O'Brien, Huntress #6.5)(6)

So, here we were.

For two hours, we made small talk and danced. Christina was lively with a genuine love of music. She talked a mile a minute about everything from her favorite organic yogurt to the dogs she volunteered to walk at a local animal shelter. This enigmatic woman was so much more than her dates would ever realize.

She asked difficult questions about my life, and I did my best to be honest without oversharing. Telling her I worked in protective services was as close as I dared to get.

“Oh, Willow, isn’t this place the best? It feels like stepping into the past.” Christina twirled amid the other dancers, a vision in a pale blue dress.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her. While she spun in my arms, I tried to memorize every detail about her. Her exuberance freed me from my nerves. She brought me such joy. It felt so good to be part of the human world, even in such a small way. So often, I was only allowed to observe.

“You’re beautiful,” I said, my words stolen by the music.

She spun into my arms, pressing close. Her soft tresses tickled my chin as the sweetness of her perfume teased me. My senses were overwhelmed.

I wanted so badly to kiss her. It would have been so easy; she was so painfully close. Guilt stopped me.

“I don’t think I can dance in these heels much longer. My feet are killing me. Let’s get out of here. There’s a cute little pub I want to show you.”

Christina’s breath was warm against my ear. A shiver tickled its way through me, along with an inward groan.

In the warm night air outside, we walked hand in hand. There was a skip to Christina’s step, as if she possessed an inner joy that could not be contained. She fed my curiosity; I needed to know more about this woman. Many questions lurked on the tip of my tongue, but with great restraint, I somehow held back.

As we passed a small space between two buildings, Christina slowed. “Hang on a sec, I just have to check on a friend.”

I watched from a respectful distance as she crouched down to speak with a homeless woman hidden in the darkened space. They exchanged words in low murmurs. Christina pulled out her wallet and produced a small handful of bills.

“I wish I had more,” she whispered. “I have a big date next weekend. Good money. I’ll be back. I promise.”

She rejoined me, captured my hand in hers and tugged me along as I glanced back at the hidden woman.

“Friend of mine,” she said by way of explanation. “We used to work for the same agency, but she had a pretty bad experience, so I try to help her out when I can.”

“That’s very gracious of you.”

“She was good to me so I do what I can. I know what it’s like to feel like you don’t have a friend in the world. It f*cking sucks.”

We reached a darkened building that was weathered and poorly maintained. A faded sign said Woody’s Pub.

“This dig is full of old men watching sports and smoking cigars. You’ll love it.” Jerking the door open before I could get it for her, Christina ushered me inside.

Several patrons greeted her by name as we entered. The bartender asked if she wanted the usual. Christina seemed right at home in the dank little pub. The football game played on a TV mounted in one corner. Half a dozen old men gathered around the table closest to it, shouting and then jeering.

Christina led the way to a small table, which I suspected was her favorite. I pulled her chair out, but she just rolled her eyes at me. The bartender brought us a tray of small glasses filled with something that smelled vile.

“Alright, so, this is how we do things here,” she said, taking a glass from the tray and shoving it in front of me. “We drink and we talk. Nothing leaves this room.”

I wrinkled my nose in distaste. The liquor smelled toxic. Absolute poison.

“Ladies first,” I offered.

I had no idea what to do with the lime wedges and saltshaker on the table. Enjoying a cup of coffee was one thing, but partaking in the excessive consumption of spirits was another. I kept expecting logic to force me out the door.

“You’re not a big tequila drinker are you?” She was entrancing when she turned on that million-watt smile. “That’s ok. I’m good with virgins.”

She winked, never knowing the truth to her comment. Then, she shook some salt onto her wrist, licked it and swallowed the tequila in one fast, fluid motion. She slammed the glass down and reached for a lime wedge.

“So, start talking,” she said, pointing at my drink. “Tell me what kind of man wants to date a hooker.”

I shook some salt onto my wrist, unsure of what I was about to do. “Is that how you define yourself? I’ve seen so much more of you than that.”

When the tequila burned its way through me, I was filled with surprise. It hurt. I nearly choked. How did she make this look so smooth? It was anything but.

“Nobody that knows how I make my money gives a damn about how I define myself. Honestly, I don’t even know how to answer that.” She blinked at me from beneath lowered lashes.

“I give a damn. Go ahead. Tell me who you are.”

“Just like that, huh?” Her laughter was bitter. “Alright, um, I suppose I’d define myself as just another lost soul who doesn’t always do what’s best but always finds a way to look at tomorrow with hope.” She swallowed down another shot of tequila and swore. “At least, I like to think so.”