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“I was expecting another slap, Mrs Tanner.”
“Why, because you think I’m a prude?” she mumbles.
“No, because we’ve only just met and I’m talking about fucking.”
“And yet, regardless of only just meeting you, you’re more real to me than my life has been. I’ve been living a lie. Sad, isn’t it?”
I don’t answer. I keep watching as the roads stretch out in front of us and think on those words. A lie. Years of her life failing to keep the man she married interested, regardless of her exquisite frame and face. I frown and reach for the drinks console, pouring two glasses of scotch. Maybe drink will help her relieve the feelings. At least for a while. Distraction usually works to a point. It gives a new way of dealing with situations, allows the sensation to dissipate rather than having to accept the reality of isolation and solitary momentum.
“Gray? Are you Gray, or Grayson?” I shiver, unsure why my name out of her mouth sounds so ominous.
“Gray.”
“Where are we going, Gray?”
“Hell.”
“What?”
I press the intercom and ask for us to be taken through Hell’s Kitchen. We’ll find some dive of a bar around there, let our feet stick to the semi-grimy surfaces. Not that it is all that grimy these days, but it’s the only version of real I have for her in Manhattan because my other version of real isn’t something that will ease any burden she holds unless she’s willing to lose her mind for it.
The car starts turning through the neighbourhoods, Tomcovering ground quickly and efficiently because of his job to protect me. I sigh. Protect me? I’m not even sure if I want protecting anymore. Protecting from what? The people who find me accountable for deaths? I probably should be held accountable for them. It’s my wealth that withholds the drugs they need, helping those who can’t afford it die quicker. If I was philanthropic I’d give it away for free, ease their suffering. I’m not. And life isn’t a free for all, nor is it fair. I know that all too well.
Maybe their suffering eases my own, gives me some morose sense of amusement.
“What are going to do with your life now?” I ask.
“What is there to do when your life’s just been rendered a fucking joke?” she mumbles.
“Build a new one. What do you want to do?”
“Grieve.”
“Pointless. And stupid. If you want a better, truer life, you should go and get it. Change it. Change you maybe.”
I knock the window, watching as Jackson’s gaze comes back to me. The car comes to a stop half a block past an old Yankees bar, and I watch Jackson get out, his eyes scanning the area for anything that might try breaking me apart. “You wanted real, Mrs Tanner. Here is all I have to offer you in Manhattan.”
She looks at the slightly dilapidated area outside the car with a blank expression and opens her door, hitching the skirt of her dress up to get out. I watch as she straightens herself down again, one hand reaching back to pull the wide belt around her black dress into place. She looks as out of place here as I do in these clothes. Ridiculous. Still, I get out and walk around to meet her, my own eyes shifting around the litter ravaged streets. She looks me over for a few seconds, still no real interest on her face, and then strides towards the bar half a block back.
Jackson keeps at our heels the entire walk back, his body obstructing my back from the world around us. I smirk at the thought, amused. This is probably the last place he wants to be with me. Too many threats, too many people wanting a cut of the money I’ve amassed, and far too many wanting the drugs I provide for the world. I turn to look at him, sensing the nerves in his normally impassive gaze.
“Sir?” He asks.
“Nothing,” I reply, looking back at her as she pushes on the door.
Her hand’s raised for the bar-keep before Jackson manages to close the door behind us, her body settling onto a bar stool.
“Tequila,” she snarls. “Bottle.”
I strip the tie from my neck and settle on one of the high stools next to her, part listening to the sound of an old baseball re-run and casting my gaze around the place. There’s nothing interesting to note, but I suppose it’s out of the usual for me. Not too busy. Lacking people, thankfully. I sigh and take in the atmosphere, thinking back to college years because of the bland buzz.
“You like baseball?” she asks. I shrug and take the bottle that’s placed in front of us, filling two shot glasses. “Rick liked baseball.”
“And you want to talk about him?”
“No.”
“Good. Drink your drink.” She does, her face screwing up at the taste, and then she slams the glass down on the counter again.
