#dylanobriened

You'll make disappointing plans, you'll meet disappointing people. You'll become disappointing, but you expect it. You expect it, and though it all horrifies you, the hopelessness, the bleakness that is sure to be your future, you can feel the walls closing in around you, can hear the sand pouring into the other half of the hourglass, and you do not try to stop it.

-

You do not expect him, though. One day you are marching on towards the bleakness that scares you more than dying, skycrapers and funeral homes all in drab grays, and the next you are standing on the edge of a cliff with the wind in your hair. The explosion of color into your world hurts your eyes, but you are not blinded. The world is all crisp, cerulean waters hundreds of feet below you, and pale, robin's egg sky stained with bursts of tawny clouds, and tall emerald grasses that swish against your legs to the whistling tune of the wind.

He stands before you in a fine, bright suit, which changes colors every time you look away. There is not a single shade of gray in sight, and you are terrified.

But he unclenches your fists, rubs the circulation back into your fingers. His fingers, spindly and scarred and adorned with heavy, expensive rings, pet your jaw. The pads of them are warm against your skin. You find yourself smiling for the first time in ages, and though your jaw aches your heart soars, ratchets itself up into your throat and makes a home there. You find it hard to breathe for several heartbeats, and then suddenly. Suddenly, you can take a nice, deep lungful, and it feels like the first burdened breath you've taken in years.

He kisses the palms of your hands, mouths the half-moons bleaching the seats of them, and then laughs. Laughs with his face in your hands, and a smile that is genuine, and just for you. His eyes are warm, a strong coffee brown with startling swirls of maroon, or maybe it is the other way around, and they bore into you, at once pinning you to the spot and setting you free.

There is something Other about him, something that should set off alarms and warn you off, but instead of running away, you run towards. You run straight into his arms.

He breathes yes into your neck, and you feel yourself falling over the edge of the cliff. You are terrified, but with his arms around you, you would never want to be anywhere else.

-

The cliff is a metaphor, of course, but it might as well be real.

Your life has gone exactly as expected up until this point: mediocre schooling, mediocre job, mediocre life. You keep your emotions bottled up and your liquor free flowing, and you march pathetically on.

His presence in your life is abrupt and violent. He is in your life all at once and he changes you forever, like a plunge off a cliff. Like a car crash.

Literally. He fucking crashes his car into you.

-

Your day has been horrible. Not even par for the course horrible, but probably the worst day you've ever had. Nothing has gone your way, and more than once you've contemplated launching yourself out a window just to get away. But you don't do that, you do just as you expect you always will: you clench your fists and your teeth, and you blink back tears, and you march on.

When you leave your work it is late, and it is cold. You sit in your car with your fists on the steering wheel and you weep. You weep and you hit your steering wheel over and over, only stopping when you accidentally hit the horn and scare yourself to death. It stops the tears but leaves you numb, and it is at the same time Better and Worse. You mechanically put your keys in the ignition and head home.

The accident is not your fault. Despite your bloodshot, stinging eyes and the numbness turning your blood to ice, you are completely aware as you drive a little below the speed limit down the street. You look both ways, you use your blinkers. You even take notice of him driving behind you Before.

Before.

You come to a stop just as a yellow light turns red.

He comes to a stop with the front of his car smushed against the back of yours.

The numbness fades all at once, and your blood is suddenly on fire. Your eyes are teary again, but it is outrage blurring your vision this time, not despair. With quiet fury you climb out of your car and gently, silently shut your door. You feel a little blood dribbling down your temple, but you do not touch it. It is your crimson warpaint, and it is the same color as your vision. You wait for the other driver to get out of his car.

The suit he wears is a rich crimson color, and is fitted against his tall, lanky frame. Later you will liken it to the maroon swirls in his eyes or the blood on your temple, but at this moment in time it is just the color red and you are the calm before the storm. His cheeks are so sharp they could cut glass, and if you were in a better place you might lamely joke that the accident didn't crack his windshield, his alpine cheeks did. The apples of them are a sickly gold under the light of the streetlamps, and when he grimaces at the cars, his sharp teeth flash in the light. He doesn't look pleased, but he doesn't look harmed, either. You clench your fists against your side, resentful of that fact.

"Ma'am, are you okay?" he asks, and his voice is rough, deep. It's not what you expected, but suddenly you do not care what you expected. What you expected can fucking shove it because you are so fucking done. When you don't answer, he takes a few steps closer to you, his hands up and calmly extended. His grimace fades to worry and suddenly.

Suddenly.

You are not consciously aware of punching him. One minute you are blinking back hot, angry tears, with your fists clenched at your sides, knuckles bleached white, and your teeth clamped together. The next, you are holding your now bleeding fist to your chest, knuckles darkening and bleeding, and you are bawling.

They are not the same hopeless tears you shed in the parking lot of your shit job. Your tears are alive as they cascade down your face, falling like bombs from planes flying high. You turn your face to the sky and you yell once, and it echos off the cars, off streetlamps and buildings and the startled expression on his tan, taut face. It feels like it cuts its way out of your throat, leaves the taste of iron in your mouth. It's exhausting, like letting go of an emotion you've held onto for so long you fear that emotion is the only thing you're ever going to know, but your body feels lighter than it has in a long time.

When you come back to yourself, he's got one hand against his face and the other wrapped around the wrist of the hand you used to punch him. You're both breathing hard, standing in the middle of the street with glass crunching beneath your feet. You realize what you have done and you are terrified. You never expected to hit a stranger, especially one that looks like the man before you, with scarred knuckles and expensive clothes and a look in his eyes that says he's killed for less.

"You feel better?" he says on an exhale, and his voice is soft as it follows the mist of his breath. You imagine you can smell the blood staining his teeth and lips.

"Yeah," you whisper, sniffling and looking anywhere but his face. He is a handsome man and, quite frankly, kind of scary, and though the accident was not your fault you did punch him and you do not know what to expect. You are not sure whether you're more scared of him or the fact that you literally have no fucking clue what will happen next.

"You've got a shit left hook," he tells you. When you look up, he's smirking at you, his teeth stained red-orange. The blood on them is mostly his but you wonder if some of it isn't yours, too. Once you've made eye contact you find it impossible to look away, and you swallow hard. He looks like he wants to devour you whole, and you want to let him. He is the Unknown and you are so tired of following the same beaten, sad path.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Behind you, the streetlight cycles from red to green.

-

You end up not calling the police at his insistence. It's probably a bad move, more than likely a bad move, but you feel compelled by this man. You do not know what to expect, anyway. Why not go all in?

He tells you he can cover it, that it's his fault, he's got the money for it, and there's no need to involve the police. He says police like it's a dirty word, spits it out like it leaves a taste in his mouth that he doesn't like and wants to rid himself of. You push your hair back from your face with a shaky, bloody hand, manage not to flinch when your finger grazes the cut on your forehead, and don't question him. You say, "Yeah, yeah, okay."

He tells you to move your car into a nearby parking lot. He follows you closely, and manages not to hit you again. After you park and get out, he meets you at the hood of your car and you joke, "Thanks for not hitting me again." He laughs and laughs, splitting the cut on his lip that your fist caused. His laugh echoes off your fucked up cars and the streetlamps and buildings and his open, bemused expression. You look down and smile at your throbbing fist, scratch at the scabbing wound with your index finger. Absently you hope it scars.

"Couldn't have hit a tougher broad, could I? Your left hook still needs work," he tells you.

"Yeah, well, so does my car."

He's still laughing when he takes out his phone, scrolls through his contacts, and animatedly punches the DIAL button.The pair of you sit in near silence for a few moments, and it's surprisingly comfortable.

When someone answers his call, he launches into a swift and cryptic conversation. It would worry you on any other occasion, but you listen to the richness of his voice and let it lull you. You lean back against your car's hood and soak in it. Your shirt rides up and exposes your midriff, and though you do not comment on it, you feel his eyes taking in your skin and you revel in it.

He hangs up with a flourish and hops off the hood. Extends a big, tan hand out for you. It's warm when you take it. Even when you're upright, he doesn't let go of your hand. You're glad.

"I've got a shop that's gonna open its doors for us right now and tend to your car, and it won't cost you a dime," he tells you, and his smile is sweet yet sharp, the jagged edge of rock candy slicing your tongue before melting into sticky sweetness.

"You've got a shop, huh?" You should be worried about this finely dressed man. On the news they talk about scenarios like this, women out late alone with mysterious, dangerous men. The scenarios don't usually end well. Instead you find yourself enthralled. Eager to know how far down the rabbithole this may lead.

"I've got a shop. I've got people." His eyes flash in the lowlight and he takes a step toward you, hips swinging, his movements catlike. You hold your breath for a moment and wait for something. "And, like I said: it won't cost you a dime. Only a little of your time." He smirks. "While they work, you and me? We're gonna get a bite to eat. That sound doable?"

You exhale. "Considering you hit my car and I've got no means of escape, yeah, totally doable," you mumble, and you giggle embarrassingly when he hip checks you.

"You," he breathes. "You."

-

You're sitting in the manager's office at his shop, sliding yourself back and forth across the carpet while you wait for him to come back with the meal he promised. The main wall in the manager's office is comprised mostly of a single, giant window, and through it you can see two women and a man tending to your car. You cannot see your mystery man. You realize you do not even know his name yet. You make a thoughtful sound and continue sliding back and forth with your hips.

The mechanic you gave your car keys to has one eye and a chunk of his right ear missing, with tattoos spiraling up and down his arms. He sings in a language you do not understand while he works, and the two women working with him hum along absently. It's pleasant. They work on your entire car, not just the crunched rear of it that reminds you of a partially crushed soda can. One of the women works on buffing out a dent in your passenger's side door, the other climbs beneath your car to do God knows what.

They work quickly and efficiently in unison. The parts of your car they are working on have little to do with each other, but they are in sync and move as one, and you find it oddly beautiful. You're still watching them when your mystery guy raps his knuckles against the office door and startles you.

He smirks as he sets a bag of food down. "Not many people get to see them work, y'know," he says casually as he doles out takeout boxes. "Small place, I know, but they're one of the best places in town, and I'm not just saying that cause I've got a hand in it." He snorts and pulls a chair close to the manager's desk. "The owner, her name's Zofia. She's the one under your car. Her husband's name is Lucjan. Polish, the both of them. Met them while I was in Poland for - business." He smiles, the gleam of his wolf's fang incisor muted by the calm lighting of the office. "The other one? That's Alenya. Latvian I think? She's their girlfriend."

"Their girlfriend?" you ask. "Huh."

He's scooping out a forkful of noodles when he chuckles. "Yup. Zofia and Lucjan are prophetic with cars. Alenya? She can handle her own, but she's much better with numbers. This is her office."

The food, Ethiopian you guess, is spicy and wholly different from the stuff you're used to eating. The textures and flavors are new and you spend a while considering them in silence, rolling them across your tastebuds before swallowing them, savoring the taste. 

After a bite, you say, "This is probably...the weirdest day I've ever had. The best thing that happened to me today was getting into a car accident."

"I once knew a guy that said having his knees broken was the best thing that ever happened to him," he responds. His words are casual, like he didn't just nonchalantly introduce broken knees into the conversation.

You definitely should be worried. Instead, you pop a piece of beef into your mouth. "I can't really see how that would be the best thing ever, but, who am I to judge?"

"Kept him on the straight and narrow, y'feel? Also introduced him to Jesus, but that's really not my shtick." He swallows and waves his clean fork in the air. You can see a tattoo starting at his wrist, but you can't make out more than its black color before its swallowed by his suit sleeve. "I'm more of a here and now, master of my own universe kinda guy. Responsible for my own actions and those I'm in charge of."

"Are you in charge of a lot of people?" 

"You could say that."

"I probably shouldn't say this, cause the people in movies and TV know well enough not to say what I'm going to say - "

"There's people in movies in scenarios similar to ours?"

"Kind of? Okay, okay. What are you? Like...I'm not asking if you're some supernatural creature, cause that would be surprising but, y'know, weird. But you're obviously not some schmuck working in a cubicle. You know people that've had their knees broken, and one of your mechanics has one eye and part of an ear missing, so."

"What do you think I am? Say it."

"Did you just set me up for that fucking scene from Twilight? Are you gonna tell me you're a vampire? That you sparkle in the light?"

He throws back his head and laughs again, like earlier in the street. You watch the way his Adam's apple bobs, and only just barely keep yourself from launching over the desk to taste.

"You, God. Who are you and why didn't I rearend you sooner?"

"Oh! That's another question. Or, well, similar question: who are you? I've followed you halfway across town after getting rearend at fucking midnight and I don't even know your name. No one knows where I am or who I'm with. If you murdered me, no one would even know where to begin."

The smile on his face doesn't leave, but it grows a touch tighter around the edges, more serious. If you hadn't been looking at him you might have missed it. "Trust me, you've probably never been safer than right now."

You probably shouldn't believe him, but you do.

-

You find out what he is a few months later, after a few dozen meals and some spectacular sex. In hindsight, you probably should've seen it coming, but with Mads you do not know what to expect.

So you play it by ear, and find out that the guy you're banging and possibly, maybe, falling for, is only one of the biggest gangsters on the East Coast.

You didn't expect that. Go figure. But afterward the pieces all fit together like a puzzle that was waiting to be finished.

-

You're laying in his bed, warm, soft, expensive sheets against your back and his warm chest rising and falling against your ear. His heartbeat is comforting and you find yourself dozing. His scarred hand idly combing through your hair doesn't help you stay awake.

The knock at his bedroom door catches your attention, but you're ready to ignore it until he hums beneath you and gently slides away. You watch his bare ass move until it's covered by a simple black robe, and try not to pout as he opens the door.

"Way to ruin the afterglow," you mumble into the mattress. You know he heard you by the gentle quake of his shoulders, and you feel stupidly proud of yourself.

"Boss," says whoever interrupted.

Mads holds up a hand to silence them, looks back at you, then steps out of the room and closes the door. He's only gone a moment, but when he returns the calmness from before has vanished and in its place is quiet, barely contained fury. While he rummages around the room for his clothes, you sit up, but you do not speak, do not ask him what's wrong. You've asked before on occasions like this, and all his gives are cryptic answers. Usually they've fun to mull over, but right now you're sleepy and a little confused. The tightness of his shoulders does not bode well.

When he's dressed, fitted dark gray slacks and a form-fitting white button-up, he comes back to the bed, kisses you on the forehead, and says, "I'm sorry, but I'm gonna have to step out for a little bit. Business."

"Business," you sigh. You do not ask for clarification. You just return his sad smile and sink back down into the bed. "Wake me when you're back?"

"Promise," he answers. He kisses you again. The sheets are still warm, soft, and expensive beneath you, but you miss the lullaby of his heartbeat against your ear. 

When you manage to fall asleep again, your dreams are drab and gray. All but a slice of rich maroon here and there that you chase but can't seem to hold onto.

Mads does not intentionally wake you up when he returns. As you blink sleep from your eyes at what the bedside table clock says is 4:15AM, you notice two things: the smell coming off him is blood, and when he left he was not wheezing like he is now.

"Mads?" you call, and he spooks a little. The sharp movement jars whatever injury he's nursing and he groans in protest. Heart in your throat, you scurry out from beneath the warm sheets and rush to his side. The air in the room is cool against your naked body, but your blood is ice anyway. You hardly notice it. "God, what the - business? What kinda business, Jesus Christ. Fuck. Fuck."

You help him sit down on his side of the bed when he quietly asks you to. It kills you to hear him, see him like this. You catch your lower lip between your teeth and don't even notice when it starts bleeding. You probably wouldn't, if he didn't gingerly wipe the blood away. Your blood is fresh on his fingertips, but there's older blood beneath his nails. His knuckles are puffy and scraped up, fresh. "Complicated business," he mumbles.

"Yeah, I'll fucking say," you spit out. Without conscious input from your brain, your fingers start pulling at his soiled clothes, peeling away the layers to find the damage beneath, like some fucked up Christmas present. He hisses when you touch his hip and his ribs. You blink away tears. You're not sure if you're more scared or furious.

There's a fat white bandage going around his midsection almost like a cummerbund. Blood blooms a burnt red clay color through the bandage on his left hip. Your hands shake as you gingerly touch the area. Your fingers come back dry.

"What the fuck happened?" you hiss out. "Christ, you've been gone for - for hours and you've all fucked up, Mads, Jesus."

"Pills, in the medicine cabinet. Pain meds. Can you bring them to me?" He gives you a small, sad smile. Traces your jawline. He's so fucking quiet.

"Yeah, Jesus, hold on." On your way to the bathroom, you grab his robe from earlier and hastily throw it on. You spend a few seconds in the bathroom white knuckling the edges of the sink. After a few deep breaths, you open the medicine cabinet, find a large orange prescription bottle in a name you don't recognize. You do recognize the pain pills inside it, though, so you grip it tight in your fist and bring it back to him.

He's managed to pathetically toe off his shoes and socks. Pathetically is not a word you ever thought you'd use with him, and you do not like it.

Silently you shake two pills into your palm. There's a glass on the bedside table from earlier, and you hand it to him after he's thrown back the pills and watch his throat work as he swallows.

"Don't think you're getting out of this talk just cause you're gonna be doped up," you warn. You manage to keep your voice from quivering.

"They fucked up," he mumbles. You have to strain to hear him. "I already didn't fuckin' like 'em, but then they mentioned you and I just saw red and I...no one's gonna hurt you, you know that, right?"

"Why would anyone hurt me?" you whisper.

"They won't," he says, and his voice is full of conviction. He sits up a little, swallowing a protest. His eyes are a bright, feverish maroon when they meet yours. "I swear to you, they fucking won't. Tell me you believe me."

"I believe you, I believe you." When you touch his cheek he leans into your palm. The smile he gives you breaks your heart. "And after tonight, I won't let them hurt you. You're gonna tell me everything, do you hear me? Everything. I won't be kept in the dark with this, okay? Not if you're gonna go out and get - fuck, you're gonna tell me everything. In the morning, at breakfast. I'll make you an omelette just the way you like, bring it to you in bed. But then? Guess what you're gonna do?"

"Tell you everything," he says, laughing quietly. His laughter almost masks his groaning.

"Damn straight."

"Couldn't have hit a tougher broad."

"Damn straight."

-

You make him breakfast like you said you would, biting your nails the entire time. You half expect him to eat the omelette and still not tell you what he does, what he is. If he doesn't, you figure you'll cave for now, but you can't keep going on like this. Not if he's gonna go out and come back shot or stabbed, going on and on about your protection.

He mumbled in his sleep a lot, kept you awake. It was probably the drugs, usually he's silent as the grave. You couldn't understand what he was saying, but you know it wasn't a happy dream. You slid up behind him and spooned him close, careful of his injured side, and absently trailed your fingers up and down the knobs of his spine, across the bumps of his ribcage.

You think about that as you bring him his food, the way he mumbled in his sleep in a language you long to learn, if only just to be with him that much more. It takes a few pillows to prop him up well enough for him to eat, but once he's situated, he throws back a single pain pill and tucks into the meal with gusto.

You nurse a cup of coffee while he eats. Play with the belt of the black robe you haven't taken off.

"You not gonna eat?" He cuts into his omelette with the corner of his fork.

You pointedly take a sip of your coffee.

He says nothing else for a short while, just hums once and squeezes your hand. The tops of his are black and blue, his knuckles scabbed and an angry red. There's a vein ruptured on his right hand, casting his tan hand an ugly green-yellow-blue-black, like the ink of an octopus. You count the scars on his hands while you wait.

After he's finished, he delicately dabs at his mouth with a napkin. Then he takes his time folding it and setting it neatly on his plate. You almost say something as he slowly braids his fingers and rests his clasped hands on his abdomen, but as soon as your mouth is open you see the spot on the bandage where he had bled through. The blood is black now, old. The body of it is almost like a rose. You itch to change it, rid it from your sight.

"So," he begins.

"So," you agree.

"Have I ever told you what I do?"

"Are we - are we really starting there? You make it a point to keep me in the dark there, honey, and I'm - "

"Are you gonna let me tell my story?"

"Yes, Jesus, but don't - don't say that like I don't have the right to be scared, and furious, and - "

"I know," he whispers. He pulls his hands free and rubs them down his face. The skin of his palm hisses against his whiskers. He seems so much older there in that bed, propped up against pillows with a bandage fat around his waist. "God, I know. I was just trying to keep these two worlds separate. You and Other."

"Why, though? I don't want to be kept separate, from anything. If we're gonna - do this, if we've gonna be together, I won't stand for being kept separate. Call me a bitch, call me - "

"I'd never," he hisses.

"Okay, fine, don't call me a bitch. But don't keep me in the dark either. I don't know what's worse, Mads, I really don't."

He rubs his face again and leans his head back, studies the side of your face until you make eye contact. On impulse you kiss him, and he sighs into it. Touches your face reverently, then your hair.

"It's kind of hard to explain," he muses, curling a strand of your hair around his index finger. "Like there are names for the stuff I do, but I'm not really a fan of them. Too showy, I think."

"Says a man whose favorite outfit is a maroon suit," you tease.

"Hey," he laughs. "Essentially, I guess you'd call me...I dunno. A mobster? Maybe. I don't work for the Mafia, but I've got some ties. Mostly I deal with shit around here, political stuff, drug trade, gun trade, illegal goods. Not people, never people."

"A mobster," you say. The word feels funny in your mouth, but you guess it fits. "I always just thought you were a drug dealer or something."

"Eh. Mostly I keep rival gangs from fucking with each other. Set up deals, get shit moving. Supplies of clean needles. Guns with filed off serial numbers. Some other weaponry. Deal with scumbags around here, keep people in line. I donate to charity, too."

"Donate to charity."

"Do a lot of work for the community, more than the fucking government. More than the police. I keep these people safer than them."

"While dealing drugs."

"Not directly? But nothing's gonna stop them from using until they decide to stop. Might as well supply them good, clean product."

"So you're a considerate drug dealer."

"Not really a drug dealer, per say, but if you wanna go with that."

"Huh," you breathe. You tie the belt of the robe around your fist. Untie it. Retie it. "What about last night?"

He groans. "New gang, wants to move in. Don't like them. Not respectful. Dirty. I guess they thought they were gonna take me out. Tried to - tried to use you. As an incentive. Dunno if you know it? But they've been tailing you for a few days now."

You blink at him.

He just nods. "Yeah, wasn't a good move. If they hadn't brought you up, I'd - I'd probably have just kicked their asses. But the leader kept running his mouth. Shot one of my boys, stabbed me. I just...I couldn't."

"Did you kill him?" you whisper.

He looks directly at you. "Yes."

"Huh."

"Are you scared?"

"I probably should be."

"Are you scared?"

"No. Not of you."

He touches your face again, brushes his knuckles against your cheekbones. "I won't let anything happen to you."

"I believe it," you whisper. "But..."

"But?"

"You should probably teach me how to properly defend myself. How to shoot a gun. Clean up after myself, y'know."

"Should I?"

"Yup. I'm not gonna be some damsel in distress. If I'm gonna be with you, I'm gonna be able to protect myself. Protect you. Protect this little fucked up thing we have."

"Little fucked up thing?"

"Yup. Gotta work on my left hook, right?"

"Couldn't have picked a tougher broad."

"Damn straight."

-