her mind for an appropriate response. She didn't find one until he began tossing her clothes at her.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"No need to bother with that," he said.
She pulled on her underwear, pulled her shorts up over top. "Sure I do," she said, pulling the T-shirt over her head. Her skin still tingled and the fog still crept back into the corners where she'd managed to wave it off, but it wasn't as intense. "You're my saviour." The words were thick on her tongue like soured cream, but she grinned at him just the same, hoping he could see it in the dark. Leftover bliss on top of post rape trauma made her dark humour creep to her tongue.
He took her by the bicep again, and yanked so that she couldn't help but get to her feet, stooping until she gained the air outside her grotto.
"Careful," he said to her comment. "Those are loaded words."
"Yeah," she agreed, chastened. Not everyone got her humour. "True enough." She wondered if he heard the slur in her voice and let her gaze fall to his boots. "Hey," she said as the point of a leather toe scuffed along the pavement. "You're that guy."
She couldn't tell what look might have crossed his face in the dark, but his voice took on a wary tone. "Does it happen often?"
She shrugged. "At least once a month."
"Then you're lucky I was here."
"I guess." Once a month was nothing to what some women suffered. "Does it happen on the west side?" She wished she hadn't said it in such a sullen voice. She even cringed as she heard the note of envy in her voice.
"Only if the lady wants it to."
"An odd thing to say, "she murmured.
"Is it?" He stepped into the hazy light of the street lamp and she could see the grin that twitched at the corner of his mouth. Hair that looked charcoal in the day appeared as black as tar at night. But his eyes--so glacial in the light-- didn't so much as crinkle in humour.
"Some ladies like that sort of thing," he said.
She crossed her arms over her chest, pulling away from his grip. "Being called a lady is a rarity in these days," she said. "If they can enjoy it, let them. Only a Westsider would be able to claim rape as a luxury anyway."
She stepped backwards, thinking to ease back into her cave, wave him away. "Now, since you won't accept my thanks, then at least get the hell out of here so I can get some sleep." She had about three hours of buzz left, judging by how she felt right then; she didn't want to waste it.
"Is that what they call it?"
She glared at him. "Call it whatever the hell you want." She made to stoop her way back inside but he chuckled in a way that made her turn her attention to where his hands bulged in his jacket pockets.
"I don't think so," he said. When his hands came out again, they held onto two separate metal hoops that she knew joined together to make one set of inescapable handcuffs.
The bliss still buzzed behind her ears, wanting to sneak down her spine, and even so she knew her brain was doing its best to push it out, to replace it with fear. She realized in the moment that he suspected the same thing: that she was foggy from her high and incapable of running.
"You bastard," she said and he shrugged amicably, stepping forward to snap the cuffs around her wrists.
"It's not a bad line of work," he said, chatting. "Rounding up miscreants with even a whiff of religious fervour."
She laughed outright, snorting at the end because the mere thought of it was ridiculous. "Religious fervour?" she asked. "Is that what you think I'm doing?"
"It's not for me to judge," he said. "But when the West side ends up with some idiot on a soapbox, proclaiming his soul is evolving, the Mayor tends to take notice."
"That has nothing to do with me," she said.
"Doesn't it?" He took her elbow. "It has everything to do with you. I've seen it."
"You have no idea what you see," she said, intending to resist, but feeling her legs move along with him as he pulled her with him.
She made the mistake of glancing toward the bridge as she
"Thank you," she whispered.
"No need to bother with that," he said.
She pulled on her underwear, pulled her shorts up over top. "Sure I do," she said, pulling the T-shirt over her head. Her skin still tingled and the fog still crept back into the corners where she'd managed to wave it off, but it wasn't as intense. "You're my saviour." The words were thick on her tongue like soured cream, but she grinned at him just the same, hoping he could see it in the dark. Leftover bliss on top of post rape trauma made her dark humour creep to her tongue.
He took her by the bicep again, and yanked so that she couldn't help but get to her feet, stooping until she gained the air outside her grotto.
"Careful," he said to her comment. "Those are loaded words."
"Yeah," she agreed, chastened. Not everyone got her humour. "True enough." She wondered if he heard the slur in her voice and let her gaze fall to his boots. "Hey," she said as the point of a leather toe scuffed along the pavement. "You're that guy."
She couldn't tell what look might have crossed his face in the dark, but his voice took on a wary tone. "Does it happen often?"
She shrugged. "At least once a month."
"Then you're lucky I was here."
"I guess." Once a month was nothing to what some women suffered. "Does it happen on the west side?" She wished she hadn't said it in such a sullen voice. She even cringed as she heard the note of envy in her voice.
"Only if the lady wants it to."
"An odd thing to say, "she murmured.
"Is it?" He stepped into the hazy light of the street lamp and she could see the grin that twitched at the corner of his mouth. Hair that looked charcoal in the day appeared as black as tar at night. But his eyes--so glacial in the light-- didn't so much as crinkle in humour.
"Some ladies like that sort of thing," he said.
She crossed her arms over her chest, pulling away from his grip. "Being called a lady is a rarity in these days," she said. "If they can enjoy it, let them. Only a Westsider would be able to claim rape as a luxury anyway."
She stepped backwards, thinking to ease back into her cave, wave him away. "Now, since you won't accept my thanks, then at least get the hell out of here so I can get some sleep." She had about three hours of buzz left, judging by how she felt right then; she didn't want to waste it.
"Is that what they call it?"
She glared at him. "Call it whatever the hell you want." She made to stoop her way back inside but he chuckled in a way that made her turn her attention to where his hands bulged in his jacket pockets.
"I don't think so," he said. When his hands came out again, they held onto two separate metal hoops that she knew joined together to make one set of inescapable handcuffs.
The bliss still buzzed behind her ears, wanting to sneak down her spine, and even so she knew her brain was doing its best to push it out, to replace it with fear. She realized in the moment that he suspected the same thing: that she was foggy from her high and incapable of running.
"You bastard," she said and he shrugged amicably, stepping forward to snap the cuffs around her wrists.
"It's not a bad line of work," he said, chatting. "Rounding up miscreants with even a whiff of religious fervour."
She laughed outright, snorting at the end because the mere thought of it was ridiculous. "Religious fervour?" she asked. "Is that what you think I'm doing?"
"It's not for me to judge," he said. "But when the West side ends up with some idiot on a soapbox, proclaiming his soul is evolving, the Mayor tends to take notice."
"That has nothing to do with me," she said.
"Doesn't it?" He took her elbow. "It has everything to do with you. I've seen it."
"You have no idea what you see," she said, intending to resist, but feeling her legs move along with him as he pulled her with him.
She made the mistake of glancing toward the bridge as she
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