::SIX::
The Ferryman’s Lounge, like so many other places within the Midorian, was dimly lit, luxurious, and showing her age. I knew she would be here, there was never any doubt. I make a point of not looking for her when I come in. She’ll find me, when she’s ready to. The flush at her throat when I left her last telling me that she, if nothing else, is ready.
Stand at the bar for a moment, making a small but not very effective show of trying to get the attention of one of the three very busy bartenders. The object is not to get a drink at all, but merely to stand under the soft amber glow of the light by the bar, allowing myself to be seen, let her come to me. One foot resting on the rail at the bottom of the bar, enough to let the deep slit in the side of the skirt open, just a little. A hint of thigh, just barely enough to be noticed, almost accidental. Sweep my hair behind my ear again, my new nervous tic for the evening.
I hear her gentle cough, just a quiet clearing of her throat, before I see her. An increased flush of heat, for just a moment, before she stills herself. A soft smile, my expression neutral. Sort my papers into a neat pile, meaningless to any eye that spots them. Turn towards her slightly, the movement causing the slit at my thigh to deepen, before I shift again, and it’s gone. I don’t need to look at her to know that she’s noticed.
“You could wait here all night and never get a drink.”
“I was beginning to think that myself.” Let her rescue me, or at least think she has.
“What were you drinking?” She asks me, leaning in, just a little, rapping sharply on the bar, to get the bartender’s attention.
“Red wine, please.” Demure.
“Two red wines, please.”
“Thank you. I really think I would have waited all night for that.”
“Somebody would have noticed you. You wouldn’t have had to wait all night.” There’s a laugh in her voice. Testing the waters, a compliment that can be safely thrown out.
“Thanks.” I reward her with a smile, turning a little more towards her, as the bartender brings our glasses of wine. “Sarah. Sarah Brightman.” I offer her my hand, along with my alias. It’s always odd shaking a woman’s hand. It’s such a male ritual, and it doesn’t seem to matter how often you do it, it just seems strange. More so when you are shaking another woman’s hand.
I let her hold my hand for a moment longer, let her be the one to drop it. Her hands firm, and strong. The soft slide of skin over skin, at the end, before she released my hand, a female touch, belying the maleness of the gesture.
“Janette Harding. With UPA.” The last almost an afterthought, as though she had a need to say what it is she does.
“You’re here with the convention then. I had noticed UPA was covering it.” I let my smile widen, turning towards her fully, our knees almost touching. Recognition is something she craved. Vanity, always a sure way to a woman’s heart.
“Yes.” She looks sheepish, for a quick moment, not wanting to say that she had noticed me, at Dr. Baumgard’s speech. Not wanting to say that she had been watching me. At least not wanting to admit to it yet. “All my stuff is at my table, did you want to just join me there? If we have to wait for service, we may as well be comfortable.”
“Maybe it would be easier to just order a bottle from the bartender?” I say it casually enough but a flicker of eye contact can be read in so many ways. The subtle promise of more than just a quick drink. Make a move to pick up my own briefcase, putting the non important papers back inside. Making it clear I have already decided to join her. Making her mind up for her, without her knowing it.
Her smile is a little wider, as she calls the bartender back, and has him bring her a bottle of red. I let her carry it, let her hand cup my elbow, leading me to her table, a dimly lit booth, at the far edge of the lounge.
It was an interesting feeling, the smaller, what should have been more delicate, hand on my skin, through the silk. Janette’s hand slid, for just a moment, over the fabric, grazing the sensitive area at the back of my arm. Not so much interesting to me, but interesting in the reaction it caused in Janette. The intake of breath, that she tried to control. The slight tremble. The heat in her hand. Of course, none of these reactions were surprising. Silk on skin had the same effect on Riddick, the difference being that Riddick never felt he had to hide his arousal over it, but reveled in it.
She really didn’t want to let go, so I just slid further in, when we reached the booth, not stating that she should sit next to me, but making it clear that I had simply expected that she would.
I move in, simply enough. Asking her about her career, her exposes. Allowing her to tell me about herself. Rest my chin on my hands, leaning in, allowing her to open herself up to me. And she so desperately wanted to talk. To tell someone about what she was, and the important things she believed she did. All I had to do was lean in, and let her talk. Her words coming a little faster. Occasionally reaching out to touch her arm, or just smile at her. Intent on her. Before I ask about the present convention.
“What are you covering at the convention?” All innocent curiosity, my disarming smile. Her eyes flick to her briefcase, a soft sigh. She had been watching me after all, perhaps she believes that telling me so will make me leave. And she really doesn’t want me to leave.
“Actually, I wasn’t here so much for the convention, as I was here to talk to Dr.Baumgard.”
“The man who gave the lecture on, how did he put it, ‘spree killers’?” Her discomfort is starting to show, as I mentioned the very lecture at which she had been watching me. “What did you think of it?”
“I….” Her breath catches for a moment, unsure how to continue. My hand on her arm now, not holding, just resting, the thumb sliding over her wrist in a slow pattern, as Riddick has done with me, so many times before. “I saw you at the lecture.”
Tilt my head slightly, keeping eye contact. My thumb has slid up to the inside of her elbow, bringing us that much closer together. Done slowly, without a sound. Let her continue.
“It’s not the first place I’ve ever seen you.” Her voice is small, almost…afraid, but in awe as well. The feeling of getting close to something that you never expected could be so dangerous. And not being able to tear yourself away from it. Just a matter of who she thinks is the more dangerous. She’s leaning down to her briefcase, without moving her arm, so that I won’t stop touching her. It’s an eight by ten black and white picture. One taken from a rather effective piece of surveillance equipment, so the quality is superb.
Taken at a nondescript bar, on an outpost I have already forgotten. Riddick and I. On one of our dinner dates. Caught at a moment some time after dinner. His hand on my jaw, holding my face up to his before he kissed me. A master at hiding his emotions, there is no hiding the emotion that one single picture has captured. Love.
“You’re his lover, aren’t you?”
He’s still three days away from me. Three days. It feels like an eternity. I stop myself, realizing that my finger is tracing the jawline of the Riddick in the picture, in much the same way he is tracing mine, before the kiss.
“I just wanted to talk to Dr.Baumgard about it. I mean, I’ve read everything I could find on Riddick. Before all the files disappeared of course. It’s a little harder to get details now, but he’s a sociopath. I never imagined he could feel……I just…I just wanted to ask him if it were possible. And then I saw you.” I say nothing, letting her continue. She’s talking fast now. Wanting to explain, wanting to get over her fear. Wanting to find some way to keep me here. “Nothing has ever been known about Riddick’s wom…about you…I…well….It just never says anything at all in any files I’ve ever read about him that he was capable of that kind of emotion. It would make a hell of a story.”
You have no idea. So the woman has heard of Riddick. Hardly a feat for a reporter. She doesn’t appear to know me, or have any idea what I am. Other than being Riddick’s. Her own attraction to me is also clouding her judgement, but not nearly so much as her ambition. I can’t help but think of Dr. Baumgard, and his lecture. The fascination the press had with serial killers. I turn the photo to her, holding it up so that she has to watch it, the emotion so powerfully caught there tugging at her.
“You’ll never understand Riddick if all you do is look at what any file says. Riddick is here.” I say, tapping the picture. “Riddick is more, so much more.”
I drop the picture, face down, to the table, and take Janette’s hand, making her look at me.
“I’ll tell you about Riddick. The story of a lifetime. But I won’t do it here. Do you have somewhere more private we can go?”
I wait half a moment, playing out her indecision, her fear, before gathering my things. “I’m so sorry, perhaps this was a mistake….”
“I’m sorry, Sarah. Please, stay, we can go to my room and talk. Please?”
I make a show of looking at the door, looking sheepish, before consenting and allowing her to again take the wine bottle, and my elbow, and lead me from the lounge.
Inside I can’t help but smile.