Page 14 of Contention

There’s a flash of pain and Kara blinks, feeling the aura of red finally begin to clear from her vision.

Calais sets his wineglass down with a twist of his lips, eyes flashing, hissingChristunder his breath. The next thing Kara knows, he’sreaching for herwith a handful of napkins, grabbing her by the wrist. His hand feels strong, gripping her small bones, and Kara feels her heart try to escape out her throat. “Don’t touch me!” She tries to pull away, only then seeing all the blood on her hand.

“Stop,” he commands softly, booking no room for argument with his tone, prying open her palm. “Deep inhale, slow.”

Kara didn’t even realize that she’d begun hyperventilating. Surprised by the calm order, she inhales slow and long, gasping when he pulls something out of her palm quickly. Calais gestures to the bartender and leans over the bar to drop a piece of glass into the garbage.

The bartender grabs a med kit and pulls out a large band-aid, handing it over to Calais before Kara can protest.

Her palm stings. With her breathing somewhat back under control, Kara sees the bartender cleaning away her martini glass, now not quite a glass anymore. Broken. She twists her palm over and notices a few minor cuts and one deeper slice, most likely where the glass shard had been lodged.

Her hand shakes and she blinks, feeling too hot, too cold all over. It doesn’t appear too deep, it doesn’t likely need a trip to get stitches, she rationalizes. “I have to clean this,” she utters numbly, staring as the crimson drips onto the bar, staining the napkins.

Without giving anyone another glance, Kara slips out of her seat and tears off towards the restrooms, clutching at her hand, high heels clicking loudly in time to the beat of her heart. She hears Calais say something after her, but her mind is already elsewhere.

Got to get clean, got to wash it away, can’t be seen with a torn-up hand, have to be perfect…

The ladies restroom is large, with five stalls, a few chairs, nice perfume and lovely lotions available for use. An upscale bar deserves an upscale restroom. The attendant gives her a concerned look, but Kara waves her away with her good hand. Kara doesn’t give a care for any of it, making a beeline for the sink. Turning on the water, she pushes her bleeding hand into the cold spray and winces.

Blood mixes with water in the white porcelain sink and Kara briefly resents that she let her anger get away with her in such a manner. Breaking a glass in her hand in public? Childish. Embarrassing. In front of-

Her fingers clench and she groans at the pain.He’sdone this to her.Hetook advantage of her when she least expected it. No doubt he thought she was a hooker working the street. What a joke. A guy like him? He could have hadanyone. Well, not anyone. A good girl knowstroublewhen they see it. There isn’t anythingniceabout the man.

That aloof attitude, paired with arrogance. Like he can’t be bothered to notice those squealing under his boot heel.

The voice of the bathroom attendant jerks Kara out of her thoughts. “Mister, you cannot be in here-!”

A smooth voice cuts her off, a hint of authority in the dark undertone. “Take a smoke break, come back in ten.”

In the mirror, Kara can see Calais holding out a stack of bills between his pointer and middle finger to the bathroom attendant. In other words; a lotta freaking dough. The woman glances over at Kara, as if she feels nervous about taking the money and leaving her alone with this strange man.

Kara gives her a hard look in the mirror; the woman doesn’t owe her anything and if she wants to take that filthy goddamn money, that’s on her.

And the womantakesthe money with an accusing look at Calais, glancing at the stack of bills before walking right out the door. It’s most laughable how unsurprising Kara finds it. With her nerves on fire, Kara turns her stare towards him in the mirror. Calais is like an ominous, suited shape, standing close to the door, the shadows hugging him in the dim light of the room. Kara tries to ignore the feeling of vulnerability that washes over her; she’s alone with him now. “So, you just treat all women like whores then, is that it? You’re charming.”

He turns his gaze from the door back to Kara, pinning her with that dark, ominous blue. “She took the money, didn’t she? Left you alone in here, with me. What does that say about her?”

Lips pulling into a snarl, Kara turns to face him, leaving the water running loudly behind her. “What does that say aboutyou?”

His face remains emotionless, that blank canvas that he wore when he first walked into court. That blank face that speaks of a person that can’t be fucked to care about others, serene and egotistical. Closed off and uninterested. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m wasn’t finished talking to you earlier and hiding in here isn’t going to change anything.”

Baring her teeth, clenching her hands, relishing in the feel of her sticky blood as it wells again in her palm, Kara hisses, “You’re not here to talk. You’re here togloat. I bet you find it funny. Watching me in court, knowing what you did. Like a freaking serial killer with a trophy on display.”

Calais leans his back against the door, looking at her from under lowered lashes. “None of it was personal, if that makes you feel better. The connection is incorrect. I’d already forgotten you. I didn’t even recognize you until you gave me that look.”

“What look?” It’s hard to keep herself in check. Kara has to force herself to unclench her injured hand; the pain only spurs her fury.

And she doesn’t wear anger well.

Or, perhaps she wears ittoo well. She wears it like a second skin that she’s at home in, a scarred costume flesh suit that shows all her battle wounds on display.

A slow smirk shapes his lips as he tilts his head back with lazy appeal, unconcerned by her display of aggression. “The one on your face right now.”

Wrath, she supposes. A sort of flame in her eyes. Her foggy memories of that night tell Kara that she certainly didn’t act like a sweet girl or a wilting flower waiting to be crushed; more like a snapping tiger. She can imagine the appeal from a distance, she supposes, though most of her past boyfriends quailed in the face of it.

Not that they were cowards, no. Yet even Kara knows what is acceptable behavior and what isn’t. Treating someone like a punching bag is tiring for the person putting up with it. It isn’t right, she’s no saint. She’s under no impression that her prior relationships failed because of the men in question.

No, they failed because of her and her alone. That, and her unending trail of baggage.

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