The Dame - 5. Chapter 5

Dorothy was out of the car before I could get the license plate number.

 

"Hey, hold up there."

 

She turned and graced me with a look of impatience but still had the good sense to wait. I moved in front and stopped her with a hand, "Where do you think you're going?"

 

Her green eyes flashed with anger but were quickly replaced with cool reserve.

 

"I'm going to get some answers. You can join me or not."

 

This dame was killing me. Part of me wanted to take her by the arms and shake some sense into her; part of me just wanted to take her in my arms and ...

 

With no choice I followed her to the door. My relief was short-lived that no one answered her knock as Dorothy grabbed the knob and opened the unlocked door.

 

"What d'ya think you're doing?" I hissed looking around the quiet street.

 

Without a flinch she replied, "Damian's up to something."

 

"Yeah, no kidding. That doesn't mean we should break in. Miss James, please--"

 

At that Dorothy pushed her way in dragging me behind by the wrist. I shut the door as quickly as possible, the less anyone passing by to see the better.

 

We stood there, my wrist still firmly grasped in her warm hand, in the middle of a small living area. It was nicely decorated but held no warmth, like a show model not a home. I found it hard to imagine Damian living here.

 

The bungalow was small with only the living room, kitchenette, small eating area and a single door to what looked like a bedroom suite. In the center of the living room, a floral-covered sofa with two matching chairs surrounded a small table upon which lay several glossy magazines. One lay open showing the tattered remains where a page had been torn out. Dorothy turned it over to reveal a cover of the DC Times magazine, a weekly publication on events both business and pleasure in the District. She stared at it long enough for me wonder aloud at that. "Oh, I have this issue. I'm trying to remember where I put it.", she replied vacantly.

 

While Dorothy moved to inspect the bedroom, I wandered around the place looking for anything that might tell us what Damian was up to. There was a phone resting on the kitchen counter, the center of the rotary dial displayed no phone number. Next to it was a pen and stack of note paper. The imprint on the top sheet from the writing of the previous note showed clearly even in the dim light of the house. I stashed the sheet in my coat pocket and turned to Dorothy as she emerged from the back room.

 

"If he's hiding anything, it's not here, " she sighed disappointingly.

 

I wondered what she’d hope to find but couldn’t bring myself to ask. We left without locking the door.

 

On the ride back to the city I tried to keep my eyes on the road afraid to look over at her but eventually they betrayed me. The day was turning toward night, she had the faintest trace of shadow on her chin. My hand moved on its own to brush lightly along her jaw feeling the rasp of that nascent beard. She flinched at the unexpected touch.

 

"Why do you do it?" I asked solemnly.

 

She turned away to look out the window and I was uncertain she'd even answer when she spoke.

 

"When I was young, strangers on the street would come up and tell me what a pretty child I was. My mama always smiled so happily, I thought it was rather wonderful." She let out a soft breath as if the act of speaking was like poking an old wound and in all likelihood it was. "I liked being pretty. But as I got older I learned that pretty boys weren't always so well liked." Her voice was low but I could hear the pain behind the words, I felt it in the back of my throat. She took a breath and soldiered on.

"Of course, girls like pretty boys. And I liked girls - oh, not in any romantic way - but I liked how they looked and dressed. I liked how they spoke and I especially liked how other boys looked at them. By the time I figured all this out it wasn't that big of a leap."

 

She turned to me then and spoke even more softly, "Then I found I liked how men looked at me. The way you look at me." After that she fell silent as we made our way into the city. I was mulling over everything she’d shared. So many questions percolated through my brain, my thoughts scattered over a hundred avenues all leading back to one thing. One pretty boy.

 

I found an open parking spot on the street less than a block from her home.

 

"Would you like to come in for a bit?", she asked still in that soft voice that held so much intensity.

 

As we walked the block in the quiet of the night, I pulled her onto my arm and held her there. She seemed to relax at that even if we arrived still in silence although I could hear my heart pounding with each step. Once inside, she turned to face me and I could see trepidation in those lovely green eyes. I didn’t like it. I preferred the confident sass, that playful smirk and the stubborn cant to her chin. And I wanted to scatter those painful memories to the wind. Damian was right - I did want to be her knight even if I felt a bit tarnished.

 

"I should go find that issue of the magazine. We can figure out what was on the torn page." She turned to go.

 

I grabbed her hand not entirely sure of myself but willing to take that step.

 

"You're not pretty." Her mouth formed an 'O' of surprise.

 

"You are beautiful." I whispered just before sealing my lips onto hers. They were much softer than I first imagined.