FicWad

Under Chicago's dirty streets ran a system of tunnels and sewers. Some people knew the routes better than others, of course, but most of them only used them when trying to not get caught. They stank of piss and blood and rotting meat in the summer's sweltering heat. She hardly smelled it. The stench killed the sense of smell after the first ten minutes or so.

"Hey hey hey!" She'd lost both shoes back there somewhere, which meant she was running through the mucky sewers of Chicago in her stockings. This wasn't the most ideal of situations; in fact, she'd have preferred the pigs. "Hey, lemme go! We're far enough okay?"

To be fair, "Dimitri" was also shoeless and had left his shirt behind in the backroom. They hadn't gotten very far, really. She'd been mostly dressed when the feds raided. She thought she knew everything there was to know about the speakeasy, having worked there for three months already, but he'd proved her wrong by tapping a place in the wall just as the feds broke into the front room. A hatch had swung back, revealing a long, dark tunnel and stairs that led down. Without a word, he'd grabbed her hand and dragged her along down to the sewers without so much as a by-your-leave.

He slowed finally. The only light in the place was from a small grating that led to the street above. He let her go and went to inspect it, glancing up as the moonlight fell through the gate and illuminated his face. He had a very nice face, she conceded. His complexion was dark, olive toned, and his hair was a shiny jet black. He had a bit of facial hair, the scruffy kind, but it looked almost too perfect to have been an accident. Not the overnight-to-be-shaved-in-the-morning type of shadow anyway. It was painted on by someone who knew how to make it look good.

His eyes were blue. Blue blue blue... You could get lost in eyes like that, her mother always told her. "You be careful gel. Them blue-eyed boys is sweet-talkin' devils."

"Ass," she muttered, rubbing the wrist he'd grabbed to drag her along after him.

"Sh!" His reply was short, and he gave her a narrow-eyed glance. Again with those damned blue eyes that she was sure saw a whole lot more than he let on. This one was dangerous he was.

"Where are we?" she whispered. A rat skittered somewhere off in the dark. She'd seen sewer rats before and shut her eyes and turned off her ears to the skittering sounds. Please just let them run away from us...

He glanced up again. For a Russian, he seemed to know his way around town. At least, he seemed to. Maybe he was one of those people who always acted like they knew exactly where they were, even when they were hopelessly lost.

"Corner of Dearborn and Randolf," he said, whispering as she had. "Near Apollo Theater." He wrinkled his nose as he said the name and then smiled, though she couldn't catch what the joke was supposed to be. She ignored it.

"I know the place," she muttered. This was about ten blocks from where they'd originally started out. Ugh. Her boss was gonna kill her.

She watched the smile fade from his face. It was replaced by a frown and he turned away, back up the tunnel. "We go this way."

"What makes you think I wanna go anywhere with you?" she sputtered, but he had already started walking.

"You want to stay here?" he asked without stopping or turning around. "You know way underground, do you?"

She had to run to catch up to him. "How long you been in America again?"

"Long enough."

"Ah."

They walked in silence for at least another three blocks after that. He turned a couple corners and she tried to keep track of where they were. Let's see... right onto... Lake? Or was that a left? Damnit, I can't /see anything in here.../

"What is your name?" he asked finally, breaking the silence and startling her out of her line of thought. Her head snapped up and she scowled at his back. Or what she assumed was his back anyway - his voice came from that vague shape just in front of her. Had to be him.

"Stella," she snapped.

"Stella is good name," he said. "You are more sober than most girls in speakeasy."

She shrugged. "It was early."

"I see. We stop here." And indeed he did stop. So suddenly that she plowed into him.

"Sorry."

"No trouble." There was another vague shape looming in the darkness ahead of them and then they were moving again. To her surprise, it was up a flight of wooden stairs, covered in muck and debris. She stumbled over them, getting a splinter in her toe on the way. She swore and his hand came up to cover her mouth and stopped. "Sh! There is hotel on other side of door." Though she squinted, she still couldn't see it. "When I open it, you will act drunk and hang on my arm. No one will bother us on way to our room."

She wanted to kick him. He was so casual about all this, but then he had to have been used to it. Bastard had to have been in America for quite some time, but he didn't look much older than herself. She wondered if he grew up in the gangs here in Chicago - and if that was so, why was he virtually scar free?

"Right right," she muttered. "I get the bath before anything else, got it?"

"Of course."

Light assaulted her eyes as he cracked the door open. It was a small lounge area, so the light was dim, but it was still more than her eyes had been previously adjusted to. She rubbed at them and then the door was fully opened and she went "on."

With a giggle she attached herself to Dimitri's arm and happily tripped him up as much as possible on their way through the lounge. The bartender barely glanced at them as they entered and left - the secret door near the back of the room sliding closed soundlessly. Nobody even bothered with a second glance as they left the lounge and headed for the lobby, which had even more light. She didn't have to act drunk when she stumbled in. The floor was slippery and marble and a massive crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, tinkling and lighting up the place with a vengeance.

This was an upscale joint, she realized as she played up the part of the raunchy drunk hooker. He pulled her up the stairs while she doubled over and played with his hair and giggled. She hadn't been in one of these places... ever. Not one of the bosses favorite girls, and not important enough in her background. This was a first.

He led her into a room on the third floor and shut the door behind them. "Bath is on your right," he said and moved to the bed, disrobing what was left of his ensemble as he did so. The lights were still off in the room, but the curtains were open. He still looked too good to be true in the moon and city light that oozed in from the street.

She shook her head, glad that he'd had sense to note that she'd been serious about that bath and headed for the room on the right. She locked the door behind her and turned on the tap. Ah, modern convenience - how she'd missed them growing up and this was a posh place. The running water was even warm and there were bubble bath salts. She used a liberal amount of them and let herself sink slowly into the tub, soaking up the sweet fragrant perfume and letting the grime from the sewers wash away. Her mother didn't hold with bathing often, saying there was nothing worse than soaking in your own filth, but Stella reasoned she'd never run through the sewers of Chicago before.

When she was finished she pulled down the fluffiest, whitest towel she'd ever seen, dried herself off and wrapped it around her. Another one she wrapped up in her hair to dry it before leaving the room and finding Dimitri in the main bedroom area.

He was asleep.

Damn him. She couldn't very well go back now. Her shoes were lost and her dress was in tatters, so she couldn't very well walk through the streets in it. Most likely everyone at the 'easy was on their way to the clink for the night. No where to sleep. No one to go to.

She could've kicked him again. At least in jail she'd have a cot to sleep on, the bastard. Well, there was nothing for it. She nudged him. "Move 'ver."

With a snort, he scooted to the edge of the bed, giving her room to lay down. "An no funny business unless you intend on payin' again," she told him, dropping the towels on the floor and curling up under the covers.

"Is late," he said, voice gruff and sleepy. "We will talk in morning."

She yawned. "Gotcha. 'Night."

"Good night."