Chapter 6: on this champagne, drunken hope

November 16th, 2020

01-11, S Guadalupe Street

Charlie breathed and seven years came out in the fog on her glass.

She placed a shaking hand on the bar to steady it, her ankles latched around each other. She spun away from Mike, his silence as oppressing as the heat outside. As though being dragged, her eyes fell to his left leg, the spot on his thigh where she had shot him in the dark, shot one of her best friend's down like a deranged animal. Where she thought she made a wound forever that would not heal.

Her heart pounding painfully, Charlie shook her head, the room wobbling.

"Shit, that was a stupid question. Never mind. I'll just— good luck, alright—,"

Charlie climbed to her feet, her hands still shaking, and slid past him, his back still hunched and his eyes low. Her cold hand touched the door handle, the smell of old firewood a hot mark in her memory— of all the places— all the times— why now— why did it have to be—

"Charlie." His voice was like wet gravel. It seemed to throw her forward, her head resting on the door, both hands clasped around the handle to hold her up. Her knees threatened to shudder but she stood up straight and cleared her throat. She turned, her head jostling haughtily.

"Yeah?"

Mike lifted his eyes and she knew that every moment, every firework, every warm brush of skin, every sweat droplet— he remembered. The good and the bad. Her thigh stung sharply, as if it remembered a wound that wasn't there. He looked through her and into a flickering tunnel of the past. Into Graceland's past. His eyes shone gold against the whisky glass. His wide palm rested on his knee like a used rag. Boots hooked on the metal bar on the seat, hand still grasping the shot glass, Charlie thought of a bizarre Mall-Santa. Like she could sit on his lap, whisper anything she wanted to him and it would be there, somehow, some way, he would make it right.

"Charlie," he began again, in his Mike way. "Do you want to see my apartment?"

Charlie blinked. She needed to go to sleep, to bed, to be rested for the morning. But without another thought, she nodded. If this was even a stumble in the direction of forgiveness, she would take it on a train.

Mike covered their drinks, put his hat back on and led the way back out the door. They walked in sync, his stroll an easy drawl. Charlie played with her purse's metallic clasp.

"Just up here," Mike muttered after ten minutes of walking in the greasy night air. Charlie followed him up a few steps to a glass door with card key access. He swiped it and after a beep, he held the door open and she went through. They went up three flights of stairs, and then at the end of a well-lit hallway, Mike slid the card again and disappeared into the room. It seemed like a decent enough place; definitely not a place where psychotic FBI agents killed old friends.

She entered the room just as he flipped on a light. It was a small apartment, the kitchen, living room and dining room all bound by the same four walls. Down the hall, she saw two doors, undoubtedly leading to a bathroom and bedroom. But even in his small space, he made it all his own. Pictures. Drawings. Magazines. Old movies. New movies. CDs and a speaker near the wall. It was well-kept, clean but remained homely. Charlie smiled. Mike was already in the fridge, his hat on the counter, knocking glass containers together in search of something.

"Do you want a beer?"

"I'll pass."

Mike took out a beer, popped off the top then proceeded to slump down on the couch. Charlie sat down in an arm chair across from him, her purse in her lap.

"Take off your shoes," he said almost sternly, but followed with, "you'll be more comfortable."

She slid the torturous high-heels off her aching feet and she physically had to fight a groan of relief. But she did sigh, her eyes fluttering. When she regained focus, she found Mike staring at her, the bottle rolling in between his fingers.

"You want to know if I'm still mad," he said quietly. "I didn't want to have this conversation in public because if there is a scene, we don't need the cops to be called."

Charlie's skin broke out in a panic heat, but her voice was calm and steady. "There's going to be a scene?"

"I said if. If there would be. Because I don't know how to react any more." He narrowed his eyes. "You should know, it still hurts."

"I'd imagine it does." She instantly regretted not taking him up on that beer. Her throat was dry, the salvia like wet balsawood in against her tongue.

Mike glanced away, nodded slightly. He leaned back in the seat and took a long sip.

"I didn't know how to react for the longest time. I was in such a shock that my best friend had shot me that when the anger set in, it set in like stone. God, I was so angry with you." He shook his head, his eyes rolling up to the ceiling. He almost laughed but he simply couldn't fake it. Not with her. "I was angry for the better part of these three years."

Her heart beat and a sharp pain shocked her nerves. For a moment, it hurt to breathe. It pumped again and the pain turned to rage.

"Well, I'm not sorry about it!" Charlie was on her feet, her finger pointing. "What I did saved your life, you rotten little—,"

"Sit down." Mike leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the gaze like cold poles jabbing into her. "I'm not done."

"I think I'll stand, actually, but go on." She crossed her arms and cocked her head. Ooh, he made her so mad, but shit, if she screwed this up—

Mike considered her, eyes falling from her pursed lips down her chest, over her smooth hands and then to the ground. He rolled his eyes, snickering darkly, before falling back again into the couch and took another sip.

"I was so angry I hated you. I hated you because you didn't trust me and you let Lauren's killer escape. Lauren's body wasn't even cold and you were selfish enough to think about yourself."

Charlie swallowed some painful curse words, her nostrils flared. "Me? You think I shot you because I cared about myself? I shot you so you wouldn't be flayed alive by some Russian murderer! If that's what he did to Lauren, just imagine what he would have done to you with an hour and a scalpel! What I did was for—,"

"So everything that ever happened between us was my imagination, then?" Mike slammed down the bottle on the table. Golden, foaming liquid erupted, drops flying ever where, but it wasn't the time or place to care. Mike was fuming, his ears red. "It was only me, who's brain went nuts every time we touched, who felt numb to the bone whenever we were close? You can stand here, in my house, after these years of stupid resentment, look me in the eye and tell me you never felt anything for me?"

Her heart stumbled and plummeted. Suddenly, her palms were wet and sweaty. They clenched and unclenched. She would have been more prepared of he tried to take a two-by-four to her face. Violence, she could handle, but this— this confession? A shiver ran up her spine and her hands twitched. Finally, they broke eye contact and she swallowed.

"Mike—,"

He rounded the table, his strides long and overwhelming. He had her pinned to a wall in two steps.

"Tell me it didn't mean anything. Tell me that you didn't shoot me because you can't stand the thought of me not being around. Tell me, please. Because, what finally stopped me from being angry was when I realized that I would have done the exact same thing."

He raised a hand, she expected a slap, but instead, it slipped around the curve of her jaw and he drew her gaze into him.

"I've been falling in love with you for seven years, Charlie. And I'm tired of saying no."

Charlie nodded, a lens of tear wobbling in both of her eyes. "It's been five years since that kiss . . ."

"Are we strangers now?" His lips hovered above hers, as though their breath was sweeter than either one of them remembered.

She threw her arms around his neck as he cornered her into the wall, lips caught in a frantic climb. Her hands ruined his perfect hair and his hands grabbed the back of her thighs. Her fingers dug into the smooth skin on the notch between his shoulders, threatening to pop the buttons on the front of the shirt. Without waiting, she pulled the collared shirt free and, while his lips kneaded her throat, she unbuttoned up the line. She trembled when he went behind her ear and licked the warm skin there. Her hand dipping into his pants, the white undershirt flapped loosely, the collared shirt already in a heap on the floor. He slid out of his shoes, socks, as she sucked on his earlobe. He went for his belt and when the metal hit the floor, Charlie turned, and his kiss fell wetly down her collarbone and into the crevice of her breast.

"This is dangerous," she moaned. "People— people— can get hurt."

"There's no one else left, Charlie," he growled and kissed her roughly on the mouth. She wanted to be mist in an autumn morning, so he could just consume her wholly. "It's just you and me."

His warm fingers tugged at the zipper on the back of her dress. She nodded, arms again around his head. The dress slid into a glittering heap on the floor. Immediately, her skin erupted with gooseflesh and she trembled.

"Christ, Mike, what are you doing to me?"

"I want to do everything." He bent down, their mouths still locked, and dragged her onto his hips. "I want to do everything to you."

He opened the door and the couple fell into the moonlight spread out on his bed, their skin translucent and heated like molded glass. And that's what they did all night, molding, turning, winding, bending over skin and hot breath and singing, racing thoughts. Fluttering over thundering hearts, over tingling toes until the sweat racing down their backs turned gold in the hazy morning sunlight.

November 20th, 2020

14-17 Miami, Florida

Paul Briggs opened his mailbox and read Charlie's latest postcard. A second name was signed at the bottom. He chuckled, shaking his head.

"Dumb ass kids."

*A/N THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR STAYING WITH ME TO THE VERY END. I swore this wouldn't be an unended fic, but for personal reasons that I'd be happy to discuss if anyone wished to know, I was tied away from my computer. So thank you for your support, your words of encouragement. Hopefully, the next fic won't be so drawn out because instant gratification is the only acceptable kind! Thank you, thank you and see you all next time!