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He wakes to find a black lipstick kiss congealing on the skin above his heart. He swipes it off with a drowsy growl and it leaves a waxy smear down his chest and across his fingers. When he touches his fingertips together they separate with a small, sticky sound, and his lip curls in disgust.
He kicks himself free of the sheets and lights a cigarette, squinting at the sun slanting through his blinds and into his eyes. What time is it? Time for a drink, probably, that time's never wrong. Probably could use some coffee first, though. And some clothes. Maybe not in that order.
He brushes his teeth, first, just to get the taste of her out of his mouth. He spits and the foam is pink; he licks his lips and wiggles his tongue along the insides of his cheeks, mapping a prickling constellation of pain. Damn, she got him good. He puts it on her tab.
--
Turns out it's half-past noon. When he's on the outside of his second cup of coffee and some breakfast, he tries to pull his thoughts together. He still wants to kill her. She's still a huge bitch.
Will she come back?
Does he care if she does?
It'd be nice to slam the door in her face, though.
Why didn't he kill her last night?
He takes a hard swallow of caffeine and narrows his eyes, trying to think through his headache. He's not losing his edge, he just knifed a man on the way here.
He's gotta admit, as far as dames go—
His head is starting to pound. That's probably enough thinking for one day. Best to keep it simple; next time he sees her, he'll kill her first, ask questions later. Good plan. Satisfied, he pays and heads out. He's got work to do.
Throughout the day he finds himself distracted by memory: her skin giving under his claws, her sharp smile twisting into a snarl. It's worse now—he swallows against the hate that rises in his throat—she's gotten under his skin. He spends a good half-hour throwing knives against the well-tattered picture of her stuck to the back of his office door. They all hit home (he knew he wasn't losing his touch) but none of them are satisfying.
--
He saves the most dangerous job of the night for himself and takes to the streets. Rain pounds against his hat and slides cold down the back of his neck. He shivers and mumbles a curse and lights another cigarette.
He jumps when it's plucked from his fingers. He turns and watches as it burns its way into her lungs. The smoke curls lazily between her parted lips, and she flicks the rest of the cigarette into the gutter.
That was his last one. He thinks she must have known.
In seconds he has her slammed against the alley wall with his best knife at her throat. She gives him a slow grin, digs fingers into the back of his neck, and yanks him forward until his lips are against hers. Smoke floods his mouth, his lungs. Her hips press against his as a drop of blood wells up against the blade.
She is a fever he's learning to live with, he thinks.