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True Romance
by Nicola
Rating: R
Spoilers: #3.17, 'The Frame'
As she walked through the door, her hair glowed red under the strange neon lighting. He thought that she was wearing a wig at first, but when she stepped away from the bar's sign, he saw her fade back to her natural porcelain tones.
She attracted attention, but not the dangerous kind. A dozen men, murky with drink and non-specific depression, glanced at her with automatic leers. They didn't see a terrorist or a murderer who could kill them in a heartbeat: she registered only as a Pretty Girl. Their attention flickered and reset before she had even reached his table. She slid into the seat opposite him and didn't say hello. He inclined his head at the bartender, who nodded and busied himself.
The bar was tucked away in downtown Los Angeles; placed in a mostly industrial sector. It was only there for those who cared to look. It was seedy and dark and anonymous. So carefully detached from LA life did it seem, that it could have existed anywhere in the world. The smothering heat and unravelling haze of cigarette smoke and secrets reminded him simultaneously of Barcelona, Istanbul, Vienna.
The barkeep brought them two shot glasses filled with creamy liquid. Lauren tossed hers back without hesitation, and then made a face.
"What is this?"
"Amaretto liqueur," he replied with a faint smile.
She rolled her eyes and gestured to the barman, who still hovered nearby. "Bring me a beer," she told him.
As she drank, she fitted her lips around the bottle neck, taking tiny, incongruous sips. Her lips still glistened as she replaced the beer on the table. Sark leaned closer. He could see a fine layer of powder on her face that didn't quite conceal the mess of blotchy stains beneath her eyes. Her left hand moved self-consciously across her face, and he reached out and grasped it lightly. Lowering his head to capture her thumb's knuckle in his teeth, he held her hand more firmly with both of his. She watched impassively as he kissed his way over her hand, gnawing and grazing lazily with his teeth. He drew blood, with a sharp bite, only once, as his lips covered the cold metal of her wedding band. She did not gasp, or react with anything but the unconscious squeeze of tiny tears from her eyes; swiftly removed with a rapid blinking of her charcoaled eyelashes.
Sark knew that she had been with him. He found it amusing and only slightly disturbing that he could recognize the particular afterglow. Her marital sexual activities were rare — and (an inference on his part, only) boring. Once, he had feigned jealousy, and she had revealed how seldom she and her husband made love. Since then, he had attuned more closely to her mood, behaviour, appearance; how they were changed by sexual circumstance.
Today: a pity fuck after her daddy's death. How romantic.
"Did he tell you he loved you?" Sark asked, faintly surprised to hear the question spoken aloud. Lauren still proved the most excellent distraction.
She pulled her hand away, and he could see blood pooling in the half-moon crevices between her fingers.
"He does love me," she replied.
Sark heard the barest tremor of uncertainty and pounced without hesitation: "Of course. It's why he arranged a date with Ms. Bristow mere hours after your separation."
Lauren blinked slowly, and Sark could see the tiredness pooling in her eye sockets; the tension stretched taut across her jawline.
If he were truthful — and it was neither in his nature nor his best interests to be so — the jealousy hadn't been so difficult to feign. Irrational envy like the swift slice of a knife, precipitated by a dangerous sensation of rapid descent.
Soon enough, he would take her away from here. Away from this dark bar in nowhere; away from her ailing marriage and her predictable sadness. In his breast pocket was a key to an expensive hotel room (extravagance had always been his weakness). He would give her candles and rose petals and chocolate. True romance that ended in screaming orgasm.
First, he wished the fully appraise her state of mind: the crumbling loss and confusion; guilt and the tiniest shock of elation; the pervading sadness and relentless sensation of falling. He wished to assess it, provoke it, taste it with the tip of his tongue.
"Things are so much better now," she was saying, her voice stinging with controlled bitterness. "Now that my father is gone, he can't bear to leave me. He thinks he can fill the void." Her laughter was a jarring shock. She, too, could play Sark's button-pushing game. "We made love like gods last night. Exalted," she spat the word.
Sark sat back, finally lifting his glass from the table and drinking slowly. She was drinking sloppily from her beer bottle now, with the same kind of messy haste as the drunks at the bar. He appraised her silently, and her eyes flashed back at him in vexation as she was denied a reaction from him.
In truth, there had been no extravagance to Bomani. The fire of choler and iniquity burned cold and precise in him: a single-mindedness so carefully controlled that Sark had been almost surprised to find strong arms pushing at his shoulders, and the sudden weight of embrace. Tongues devouring elsewhere, but no kissing: like a £20 rent boy on the back streets of London. A rent boy in a $1,000 suit; the sleekness of satin fading into exposed skin. Texture and friction; the slow grip and release.
Afterwards, Bomani had zipped up and strolled away. His only extravagance was the unconscious trace of an unreadable symbol; left by a single thumb dragged across Sark's pale shoulder-blade.
No messiness. No emotion.
"Why did you ask me here tonight, Sark? We don't have any schedules to discuss. I'm to stay at home and play domestic goddess. So why the meet?" She paused. "Or is this personal? We've been screwing for a while now; do we need to talk?" The sarcasm vibrated starkly from her words as she stopped speaking abruptly.
Sark mused vaguely: what to talk about? what to say?—
I want you (a given)
I missed you (truth)
I love you (lie)
"I let Kazari Bomani fuck me," he said finally. He unfolded his legs casually from under the table.
Lauren paused, as if to laugh, before twisting her lips into a silent sneer. She rolled her eyes. He saw the eventual smile that she tried to conceal behind her beer bottle, whose remnants she swallowed quickly.
"Is that supposed to make me want to rip out your throat — or turn me on?" she said at last.
"Well, I was hoping you would curb the former impulse at least long enough to act upon the latter," he replied.
He got up from his chair and bowed slightly to grasp her bloodied hand. She rose gracefully, and tilted her chin upward as she slipped her arm into his.
April 2004
Muse music: 'Killian's Red' by Nada Surf
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