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The girl lay sprawled on the desk, her eyes finding and taking in every minute detail of the detainment room. The door slammed open and in marched the detective; the door was then swiftly shut and locked behind him.
She smirked.
"Do you mind", he pointedly eyed the chair, the very same one in fact to which she was handcuffed to.
She blinked.
A spark flared in his eyes, anger briefly ignited.
"So then, Alyson Brigandi", at her name he eyed her again. Any surprise she felt at his knowledge of her identity was well hidden.
After all, it was only one of many.
After a moment she spoke, "So how have you been mark?"
It was a normal night out at the strip bar for Mark, until she came along that was.
The voice boomed above the din, "Introducing the latest sensation, Trickster!"
There was really no escaping the girl's enchanting appearance after that, every man's eye in the room was drawn to her vibrant hair, or was it her hips that drew the attention. Never minding which the other girls took the time to go out back and quickly freshen up.
Upon the conclusion of the routine there was a general appreciative groan as men inhaled, calming themselves and leaning forward for that last seductive glance of her swaying hips as she strode down the aisle and out of sight.
Needless to say after that girl the others seemed significantly diminished, so he left early but not before hanging around for a quick cigarette.
Loitering in the alley, he was not entirely blinded to the girl hanging around by the bars back door. Soon the figure flipped back their hood and a mass of red hair spilled out, he inhaled sharply and choked.
The new girl, Trickster was it, looked him up and down with misty eyes, and then she was turning, slinking toward him. She didn't walk she never did, she slinked as graceful as any alley cat.
Without stopping she reached up and captured his lips. His cigarette fell to the alley floor unnoticed as she led him away.
The girl on the table, Brigandi, was undeniably beautiful, emphasized more so by her sprawled and uncontrolled appearance.
She asked him how he had been, he responded by shoving her none to gently off the table, smiling with a grim satisfaction when he heard the thump of contact and the muffled exclamation.
Righting both herself and the chair she sat down, chin cupped in an upturned palm, other hand hanging limp on the arm rest, the handcuffs restraining its movement.
A red curl slipped into her eyes, she grinned, "Aw come on Mark, there's a right way to treat a lady now".
Another curl joined the other, its colour mocking.
Mark fingered the match box, twirling it around his fingers absentmindedly as he examined the hotel room.
An oriental inspired interior reflected the light of the rising sun, red beams casting around the room. He squinted at something that sparkled on the carpet. Then he rose from the bed leaving the rumpled sheets the sole occupant, and approached the object, kneeling down for a closer examination.
A small four leaf clover rested lightly on the carpet. His hand now reaching for the pendant remembered the feel of her velvet ankle as he removed her heels, stopping to finger the delicate anklet.
After finding and putting the same shirt and jeans on that he was wearing last night, he scanned the room once again. The Plaza Hotel was not known worldwide for being an inexpensive last resort place to crash, and its elegance showed in every last detail of the room.
The income of a stripper would not be able to buy a night in this Plaza, and this fact only affirmed his suspicion. She was the one.
Grey orbs gazed at him as he stood before the table, "Would you like to take a seat Mark? Put your feet up for a bit, you've been working hard these last couple weeks", her lips curved around the words as her head tilted toward the chair opposite her.
"Should I assume you will provide a willing confession?" he asked somewhat disbelievingly as he sat down, casually placing his folder before him.
She shifted her gaze to his papers, that characteristic smirk playing upon her features. He shifted his own gaze to the documents, flipping through them.
A few notes stopped his skim reading, he glanced up sharply.
"It's not getting any better?" his tone made the question sound like a fact. She looked from the documents to him, and he noticed her free hand lightly grasp her other wrist; unconsciously comforting herself.
She saw his line of sight and jerked her hands apart, straightening her position in the chair and leaning towards him suggestively. Her fingers covered the distance between them and as he watched straightened his folder.
"Another example of your incompetence", she said.
"You got away that night purely by chance, and you know it. If not for that mishap you would now be rotting away in one of our cells", he replied.
Somewhere along the line they had both leant forward, now their noses brushed and she breathed hard into his face causing him to shoot backward. She then extended her arm, lowering her chest and once again straightened the documents that had moved during their short conversation.
He was male that was his excuse. He could not help the direction his eyes wandered.
She smirked.
The smoke curled from his lips, the cigarette dangling from his fingers as his eyes scanned the courtyard.
The five story hospital loomed behind him, blending into the snowstorm that was brewing. A flake landed on his nose, he shook it off, shaking his torso in the process to dislodge the collection of flakes that had come to land on his shoulders and in his hair.
A wind howled through the small courtyard, whipping his jacket open, his gun swinging against his thigh as he clutched his jacket and threw the cigarette on the ground.
The smoldering butt crunched out under his boot as he stomped inside, shaking of the last of the snow as he entered the building. It was pure coincidence he glanced around when he did.
That colour was stunning when surrounded by the white of the hospital, blown wild by the storm; strands haloed her face, curling down in perfect contrast against her dark coat.
She strode across the foyer purposefully, swinging the stair door open and disappearing upstairs.
He became her shadow, lingering by the door of the ward she entered. The sign above the door was hard to miss, Oncology.
That smirk grew infuriating. Chest heaving, breathe shuddering he leant his head against the wall, facing down the concrete, replaying the scene from moments before. "She had asked for it, she had" he repeated to himself.
Eyes closed, the scene played out.
He had risen from his seat, intent on ignoring the somewhat awkward situation that he had created. Beyond time for her to be relocated to a holding cell, he then released her from the chair, only to replace the handcuff around her other wrist. It gave a satisfyingly audible click as it locked perhaps a little too tightly, causing Alyson to pull slightly away from him. He tugged her back sharply, pulling her against him.
That was his first mistake. His second was releasing her from his grip to open the door then shoving her through it before him. She saw her opening, and took it.
She pulled forward and spun around to face him before he could tighten his grip, using her surprise advantage to bring her knee forcefully into his crotch.
He doubled over and she ran. She would never have made it far; they were too deep inside the building. He admired her will to at least try, however that did not stop him from giving chase after her.
It did not take long until she was caught, although she struggled giving out a few black eyes and split lips and taking her own in turn. She had spat at him as she thrashed in his grasp, unwilling to give up for that one last time. He had lost his temper; she had slumped to the ground unconscious. The blood slipping past the corner of her lip matched the curls resting on her cheek.
They had no need to storm the ward; there was no where for her to go. She appeared to be asleep in the chair, drips hanging from her arms.
There was no movement from her when they handcuffed her to the chair. They read her rights to her immobile form.
When they had finished the officers left, leaving behind two guards at the entrance to the room. Mark was alone with her once again, he stood before her. She looked up at him and he could not help but notice the dark shadows under her stormy eyes.
He took a seat opposite her; it was going to be a long afternoon. Time passed quickly and soon her treatment ended. She was transferred to the bed, one wrist attached to the frame.
She curled around herself, shivering as waves of pain passed through her. He sat beside her bed, his hand resting next to her, not touching. He continued watching until she drifted into an uneasy sleep.
He was aware of being watched; raising his head from the bed he met her gaze. They echoed another meeting, six months ago. He saw her ghost now, waking and watching him.
"I need to pee", the words broke him from his reverie and he flushed, looking away. The handcuffs were undone and his hand rested on her shoulder, leading her forward. Their walk was slow as he realized her inability to keep a normal pace.
The blood had dried upon her face, leaving her looking ever more like the street rat she had been. She was smaller than before, the months of running and lack of treatment had taken its toll. He could not help but feel guilty as he looked at her protruding cheeks and the collar bone peeking out from under her top.
She entered the bathroom alone, judged to weak to attempt any form of escape. Leaning against the wall, he subtly listened to the faint sounds coming from the room behind him.
His eyes did not see the hallway before him; they were stuck in another time. The clock mounted high on the wall read 12:57 pm, the sixth of June, 2007. People passed him by, averting their gaze from the authority displayed on his belt.
His breathe visible before him; the heating on this floor had stopped again. His foot tapped impatiently against the tiles. Time changed, 1:13 pm. Suspicious he entered the bathroom, the mirrors along the left wall reflected six open stalls. Soft light glinted through the rectangular window, situated high up the wall above the last stall. Wind whistled through the gap it made, curtains would have been blowing.
A fist tightened in the mirror, it reflected a word, sending it echoing through the hall and out into the courtyard.
The girl smiled as she heard the faint cry on the wind, "Alyson!"
A door slammed behind him, followed by a shriek. It jerked him from his memories; he turned fast, pushing his way into the bathroom.
The scene was familiar to him; the long mirror along the left wall reflected the room. Six stalls, doors open and empty inside. The girl was new to this scene. She lay on her back, legs sprawled, face turned away from the door.
The man kneeling by her side touched her face, pulling it toward him. Her grey eyes stared out at him, her lips curved in a slight smile. Their breathe frosted in the air above her face as he stared into her eyes, her chest moving shallowly. As he watched she sighed, one last breathe from her lips curled in the air to mingle with his, and closed her eyes, head falling farther into his arms.
The crowd gathering by the open door, drawn by the shriek, watched in silence as the clock above them chimed the thirteenth hour; the day was the sixth of December, 2007.
Mark stared at her impassive face, remembering the red haired beauty that had lead him by the nose the last year, her smirk, her dancing eyes and her hair. That elusive shock of auburn hair that had been the first and last glimpse he made of her, he fingered a lock now.
Its colour spilled over his palm, spreading out around her pale face, its red stood stark against the tiles, innocent blood had been spilled and her soul now settled its weight on his conscience, home sweet home.