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Twelve years ago, Dee thinks, this man looked much more intimidating than he does now. It’s not because he looks more docile now, with the arrogance of his youth gone – no, the large scar running down his face is a considerable counterweight to that – but because she knows that, for all his experience on the darker sides of life and death, he is quite lacking in other areas.
For example, she can tell that despite her deliberate choice of dress – a simple variation on her usual attire, only cut so as to reveal a few more precious inches of skin – Shelly de Killer’s eyes are fixed on her face.
Luckily, this office is a handy place for her to change that.
“… And once the bodyguards have been distracted, I should be free to move inside, so I see no problem here.” He talks about it like it’s a task as mundane as sweeping up a sidewalk. It amuses Dee much more than it did when she was young and new to the world.
“Lovely.”
“Well, then—“
“Take them off.”
Shelly’s brain takes a moment to register that, if the look on his face is any indication. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your gloves. Take them off.”
Another pause on his behalf, a near-imperceptible twitch of his eyebrow and he does as she says.
She’s hardly being unfair, she feels. After all, she isn’t smoking right now, at his request. If any other man asked such a thing of her, she wouldn’t even acknowledge his presence in the same room.
“W… Well, then…” he attempts again, only to be stopped by her hand on his wrist, guiding him to her neck. Most other people would have to be crazy to do something like that – it’s not like he needs any help. She knows, though, that she has nothing to fear. In fact, she likes to imagine that even if she were his target, he would hesitate to do the deed; however, the most likely scenario is that he would do it with no hint of regret on his face. Shelly de Killer is a cold-hearted man; of that, she is well aware.
“—Miss Vasquez! This is…!”
“What?” A small smirk forms on her face as she leans closer. “What is it, de Killer?”
No sound comes from his mouth. Cold-hearted as he may be, he’s much like a confused puppy in her hands. She comes closer still, and now she can see his eyes trying not to drift downwards.
Twelve years ago, Dee Vasquez was not quite the same. She was no softer – no, “soft” doesn’t cut it when you’re trying to do business with the mafia –; she had simply never seen someone be killed so closely.
Back then, he towered over her.
He drove her back home.
The next morning, he could only stammer excuses – “I’m terribly sorry, I never quite intended that, I hope it was enjoyable for you, I really absolutely most definitely think I should leave now” - and ran away, as they say, with his tail between his legs. She has no idea how she didn’t see it then.
Today, he’s still taller than her, but she is used to death (Miguel flashes across her mind’s eye) and used to him - so used to him, in fact, that she’s not surprised when he tries to draw back from her lips.
“De Killer.”
“What?” His reply is slow, hesitant, and she knows this means she is doing it right.
“You know what I want.” She gives his chair a small push backwards, enough to catch him off-guard at a time like this.
Twelve years ago, Shelly was a more impulsive man – he blames testosterone and all the typical rashness of youth for his past mistakes. To this day, he isn’t quite sure if he should include that one night among them. Even if every one of his rational brain cells says yes, there’s always a small part of him telling him not to “sweat it”.
He wishes that part of him were not quite so laid-back. Others would probably find that wish curious, since he typically comes off as such a calm and relaxed person. Of course, that has to be true to some extent, considering that – even with so many things going through his mind – he manages to stop his fall with an outstretched arm.
His train of thought is broken again when Dee Vasquez gets up from her seat, comes to his side and leans down. She isn’t wearing as much as she usually is, he notices now. He can’t let himself notice these things, he knows, but good lord, she is…
With one finger, she gently pushes the chair – and him – on to the floor.
He could have easily broken her wrist.
“This might get in the way, no?” he remarks with subtle sarcasm – an attempt to regain his footing, he can’t even lie to himself about it – as he gestures to the chair.
“Don’t you think you had better do something about it, de Killer?”
That smirk of hers makes him no less uncomfortable – flushed, tempted – than before. He edges backwards.
He is still on the floor, now away from any hindrances, and she is lowering herself, creeping closer.
He could go for her throat.
Now she is kneeling over him, long legs spread apart, her face approaching his, her blood-red lips inviting him—
“How many times have you done it since?” Her tone is mocking, and this time she is the one who draws away. In return, the only sound to escape from Shelly’s mouth is a vague “grk”. Dee laughs, short and dry as always. “You don’t have to answer that. I can tell.” Her fingers tracing the outline of his ear and threatening to remove his monocle are, for some reason, the most uncomfortable thing about this position.
“… Can we get this over with, Ms. Vasquez?” Maybe, if he tries to act cold, he will be able to ignore the heat building up within him.
Not that he expects her to be fooled – Dee Vasquez is a clever woman. He knew as much even twelve years ago, when he was the one in control.
“If you want it… You’ll have to work for it, Shelly.” Their chests are touching and her breath on his mouth does nothing to put him at ease and since when are his fingers underneath her dress straps?
“May I remind you that I am not one of your ‘boys’, Ms. Vasquez?”
“I fail to see the point.”
“The point is—“
“There is no point. We both know who is in the lead here, Shelly.”
He can’t argue with that and, finally, he lets out a chuckle.
He could very well dislocate her shoulder. She knows that, too.
By the time her beautifully patterned bra is on display and his tie has somehow flown off to some other place on the floor, their mutual quips only continue so as to keep the atmosphere.
Not many people can read Shelly de Killer’s face; Dee Vasquez is one of the skilled few. Twelve minutes ago, she saw affection mixed with the confident satisfaction he never quite abandoned from his youth and now she sees a smile only she can decipher, where others see nothing different at all.
Another thing he is quite good at disguising, she notes, is his now more crumpled suit.
“Always a pleasure to do business with you, Ms. Vasquez,” he says, as normal as he can be, as he walks out the door.
“Always a pleasure, Mr. de Killer.”
When he is outside, she lights up a cigarette.