I shook my head, grinning, as I left Callie's hospital room. What a crazy girl. Just got her appendix out and already demanding she be let out of the hospital, given a vodka tonic and a bump, even before the anesthesia wore completely off.

Five long hours ago I'd hauled her into the hospital from the club. When she started writhing on the floor, all of us just assumed she'd come up with some new moves in order to get some tips. Out of all of us she probably is the best dancer; must be from all that bellydancing. The music, as always, was so loud I couldn't hear her screaming until I got right up next to the stage to get a better look. I grabbed Jason, our bouncer, and got him to carry her back to the dressing room.

Her wails were a lot more noticeable once the sound was cut by the doors. "Get her onto the couch."

Jason put her down. "What, is she having a bad trip or something?" Of course, that was the first thing that he'd think of. Callie never goes onstage sober. Hell, most of us don't.

"I don't think so," I said.

Callie rolled onto her side and vomited all over Jason's legs.

"Awww, fuck! These are new pants!" he shouted. He stomped over to the sink. "Fuckin' junkie bitch..."

I crouched down, trying not to get any bile on me; the heels helped. The glow filaments in her hair cast a sickly yellow-green light on her face. My nose was pretty clear that night, and I could smell copper under the bile, like rancid meat. "Jason, I think she's puking blood. Smells like it. Can't tell for sure in this light, though." Then I noticed the way she was clutching her stomach. "Oh, shit, I think her appendix burst. Jase, call an ambulance."

That was when Massoud walked in. "No, no ambulances. Bad for business."

"No ambulance? Massoud, what the fuck are you talking about?" I shouted. "Callie could die!" At this point, Callie started moaning louder.

"No ambulance. If you want her to go to the hospital, you can bring her," he said. "I won't suspend you for going home early, even if we're short-staffed now with you two gone."

What a generous guy. Like it was Callie's fault her appendix burst. "Jason, can you carry her out to my car?"

"Shouldn't you put some clothes on her first?" he said, and that was the first time I really realized that Callie was buck naked, not even wearing a G-string.

"Callie, Callie honey, you need to get dressed."

She sobbed quietly. "No, just leave me to die."

Fucking drama queen. I looked around. The only robe I saw was Aurora's. Oh, well, she could buy another one. I wrapped the robe around her, tugged my dress down enough to cover my ass (I was glad I'd been between numbers) and led Jason out to my car.

It's an old car, an Ô11 Taurus - big and old enough that it has the backup gas engine, not that you could get gasoline anymore. I had Jason put her in the back seat and floored it to the hospital, hoping all the way a cop wouldn't pick me up.

At the door to the emergency room, an orderly, no more than 19, was standing outside. By the white cloud rising from behind him, I gathered he'd been smoking. I didn't think you were allowed to do that within 500 feet of a hospital - obviously this late at night he wasn't willing to walk all the way to the Smoking Zone, clearly marked in the parking lot.

"Help me," I said. "My friend's got appendicitis."

Callie had vomited again, covering the blue auto carpet with orange and red. Damn - that would take a while to clean up. The orderly reached in to pick her up and her robe fell away from her body. He stopped short and just stared at her for a minute. "Oh, wow."

I hit him - not hard, just enough to get his attention. "You can cruise her all you want while you're prepping her for surgery, OK? Pick her up and get her the hell inside."

Suddenly he was all professionalism, taking her in and putting her on a stretcher. At the doors that led from the waiting room to the medical area, a nurse stopped me. "I'm sorry, you can't go in there."

"But that's my friend!"

Her white teeth flashed as she gave me that smile they must teach all of them in school. "They'll take good care of her. Why don't you go sit down over there?"

The waiting room had the most uncomfortable chairs I've ever sat in, the TV was running typical late night/early morning fare of old Culkin films, and all the magazines were between six months and a year out of date. Hmmm...old issues of Time/Newsweek, or outdated issues of Cosmo? Given the choice between year-old stories on "Heroin Stalks our Youth Again" and predictions that we'd be out of Eastern Europe by Christmas (yeah, right) and the possibility of good sex tips, I picked Cosmo.

I managed to fall asleep sitting up. The sun was glaring angrily at me through the waiting room window by the time anyone from the hospital staff came over to me, and my neck hurt like hell. I was still trying to rub the kinks out on the way out of Callie's hospital room. I know some people love the morning. Perverts. Dawn is OK, especially if you're coming home on a misty morning, with the sun just going from black to purple-grey. But full-on morning? How ugly. That full-on eastern exposure sun has just got to go.

At least the cafeteria was in the basement, thankfully shielded from the bright rays. It even had a quaint little radiation shelter sign on the wall. How cute. My stomach was now in open revolt. I hadn't eaten in - how long? About the time I'd started working my way through those two grams of Hype - and it had worn off about the time I crashed in the waiting room.

Oh, Christ. Hospital food. How appealing. I grabbed a couple of packets of Rice Krispies, some milk, and two large coffees, and ignored the nasty look of the middle-aged cashier as I pulled out a wad of dollars from my stocking-top.

The cafeteria was nearly empty. I had my pick of tables. A couple of elderly volunteers sat in a corner, a few nurses obviously coming off shift ate desultorily in the center of the room. And sitting, leaning against the wall -

Leaning against the wall, as if for some kind of comfort, was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen.

His hair was short and black, shaved to the skin on the sides but a little too long on top to be military, and stuck up every which way. He hunkered into a big black leather jacket, under which he wore a Dead Heaven T-shirt. His lips were full and pink, with just a little pout, and his bright blue, heavy-lidded eyes glared malevolently at his coffee and banana.

Ah. He obviously felt the same way about mornings that I did. I knew I'd found my dining partner. As I got closer, I could see that the sides of his hair were not shaved - they were just short and so blond as to be invisible, as was the bottom quarter-inch of the rest of his hair.

I put my tray down across from him. "Your roots are showing."

He looked up at me through those long lashes, and I could see his pupils dilate as his eyes drifted down to my cleavage and back. Not unusual, especially when I was in this outfit, but I was still relieved to get that reaction. "That's because I don't want to get black dye all over my bathroom. I didn't know they kept emergency beauticians on staff."

"Not on staff, just visiting. Mind if I sit down?"

"What are you here for, anyway?" he asked, still looking down. "You don't look like you work here."

"I had to hustle a friend of mine here - her appendix burst last night." The Rice Krispies snapped, crackled and popped their way into the too damn early morning. "You?"

Those long fingers wrapped around the head of the cane beside him, lifted it for a minute. "Physical therapy. Almost done."

"Are you on your way to it, or did you just finish it?"

"Just finished. Seven-thirty every fucking morning."

I'd already bolted down half my cereal. In a minute I might actually feel human. "Jesus. Have you ever thought of turning the doctor in for war crimes?"

He flinched a little bit at that, and I wondered what button I'd pushed. "Can't. He's my dad."

I tried looking around the table a little to see what his legs looked like, but couldn't see them under his dark pants. "What happened, anyway? Car accident?"

He looked up through those long eyelashes at me, and broke off another bit of the banana. "Separatists."

Shit. He was military. I hadn't met anyone who'd come back from the war. "What happened?" I asked, then winced. Shit. I shouldn't have asked that question. He'll never want to come home with me now.

"My unit died. I didn't." There was a moment of silence. "Your cereal's getting soggy."

"Oh. Yeah." I looked down at my cereal, then back up at him. "You want me to take care of those roots for you?" His eyes narrowed for a second. He leaned back and just looked at me, from the top of my head down to my nearly bare cleavage, and back again. "My car's outside. I live just downtown."

He shrugged. "Sure. Why not?"

The car ride wasn't very comfortable. My brain wasn't working well with the Hype crash and lack of sleep, and he didn't seem real conversational. The smell of blood and vomit from the back didn't help any. I left the windows open.

My roomate had left for work by the time we got to my place. I immediately went to the kitchen. "Drink?"

"What have you got?"

"Vodka, gin, Jaeger, Wild Spirit, Jack Daniels..."

"I'd like a gin. You start early," he said from the living room.

"Hey, it's late night for me - I get off work at 6am." I pulled out the gin and began pouring. "With tonic or straight up?"

"What the hell, straight up."

I poured him a big glass of gin, downed one myself and refilled my glass. It would do wonders for taking the rough edges off the morning. I began to put the bottle away, but thought better of it; he didn't look like a single drink man. I decided to take the bottle with me.

"So..." I began as I walked back into the room, handing him the glass. I did my best to put a little sway into my walk, but whether he was watching my hips or the glass of gin I couldn't tell.

"So," he said, taking the glass from my hand and draining it in one gulp, then refilling it from the bottle I'd just put on the coffee table. The second glass was gone almost as quickly.

"Should we get to work on your hair?" I asked.

"Sure. Where's your bathroom?" he asked.

"It's just back here. Follow me." I grabbed a box of dye from the hall closet and seated him on top of the toilet. He put his glass, and the bottle of gin, on the windowsill. I opened the box and broke the dye release capsule in the container, then shook the container. "Do you want to change out of that shirt before I start working on you?"

He peeled off the T-shirt, revealing a thin, pale, but well-muscled upper body. He was lean and sinewy, with so little body fat that every muscle was well defined. There was a very light dusting of hair across his chest, a darker, shadowy trail leading from his navel down his perfectly flat stomach into his jeans, and several nasty scars. "You'll be able to wash the stuff off my skin, right?" He hung the shirt very carefully over the head of the cane he had walked in with, a cane that looked to be as expensive as it was old.

"Yeah, no problem." I tried to focus on his hair rather than the curve of his shoulder and bicep as I began applying the dye. "You realize we haven't even introduced ourselves yet?" I said, standing close as I worked behind him, close enough to feel his body heat. "I'm Zoe."

He took my dye-covered hand as if he would kiss it, but only held it gently, and attempted what he must have thought was a smile, something that in reality was much more painful than a grimace. "I'm Jack." He let go of my hand, but didn't stop looking at me as I continued dyeing his hair, even as he poured his third glass of gin. I couldn't help but stare at the glass for a minute; even by my standards he was a fairly impressive drinker.

Behind his eyes I could see something churning, deep still watered thought processes he might not even be aware of. He looked at the gin himself, obviously not sure if three glasses of gin before noon was more of a social faux pas than two. I made it easy for him and poured myself another, and he sipped before speaking again. "Thank you. I feel a bit like a gin leech."

"Not a problem, we always keep plenty of liquor round here." I pressed his shoulder to turn him so I could work on the back of his hair, letting my hand linger on his shoulder a second or two more than necessary. His skin was cool and so soft, softer than any guy or even any girl I'd ever touched. His back also had some nasty scars, and callouses on the shoulder. How did he get callouses on his shoulders? I wanted to run my hands over the scars, feel how his muscles moved under his skin. Involuntarily I looked away, to the ornate wooden cane decorated with a row of small shield shaped plaques, to his legs, to the gin, and back to him. Since I was standing behind him, it also gave me a chance to inconspicuously look at his left leg, which was stretched stiffly out across the tile floor. "Where's the cane from?"

"Germany; it was my grandfather's." His eyes drifted over the well-polished, honey colored wood. "He lived there with my grandmother when he was in the Army. Apparently you got little plaques along the way when you hiked places. I don't know if they actually went to all those places, or just got it as a souvenier."

"So you're from a military family?" I asked, turning him again so I could get the left side of his head. His hair was naturally a shade of blonde that most of the girls I worked with would have killed to have, and here he was keeping it black. I could sort of understand why - there was something about his features, even considering how pale he was, that would have looked fresh-faced and all-American with blonde hair, but with the dark hair looked somewhat dangerous - that is, until you got a glimpse of the freckles across his nose. He was still looking at the cane.

"There's a metal spike under that rubber tip. It was used for hiking off road, a way to get a little more leverage. See, my father collects canes, and these are the oldest ones I can remember him having. I mean, I always remember them being in the house, on display somewhere. I guess that's why I picked it when he told me I should switch to one of his canes instead of the ugly aluminum one from the hospital."

I'd finished my glass of gin; so had he. I reached for the bottle and refilled both our glasses. Then I perched on the side of the tub, trying to look small and kittenlike, helpless and desirable. The alcohol helped, I thought - everything had started to go all warm and soft around the edges and the cold porcelain against my ass and thighs seemed distant enough to ignore.

He looked into my eyes and stopped talking. I had no idea how he might have missed hearing my question, but it seemed he had. If he had ignored it, he had done it without missing a beat. Behind his eyes again were the deep waters - eyes such a clear, near transparent blue, yet hiding everything.

He fumbled in his pocket, opening a small metal case and placing a tiny, octagonal tablet in his mouth. He dry swallowed in what looked like a practiced movement. It was odd; I'd never seen anyone look sexy while taking a pill before.

"What are those?" I asked.

"Medication," he answered shortly. His jaw was set, his face like stone. I wondered if it was for pain, or for something else - I felt like I'd seen those oddly-shaped pills somewhere before - but he made it obvious that this was a topic I shouldn't push any further.

Another conversational dead end. Fortunately, he decided to save me from silence. "So, what do you do when you're not dying some drunk's hair?" he asked.

"I dance over at Joanna's." I tried not to feel defensive about it.

"Do you like it?" he asked, seeming just a little distracted.

"Yeah. I get to sleep all day, and the parties are fun. And I make enough money that I can live here instead of a trailer." I glanced at the little clock we kept in the bathroom. "Your two minutes are up - time to rinse that stuff out."

He looked confused. "Two minutes? That's all?"

"Yeah, that's all the time it takes." The stuff had been around for a while, and heavily advertised. He must have been overseas a long time. I wanted to ask him what he'd seen, but was afraid the only answer he'd give was "too much", or that he'd once again avoid the question entirely. I was afraid that any more questions might drive him away. "Time for you to rinse off. Do you want to shower?"

"I'll just use the tub," he said. He knelt awkwardly on the tile floor, his left leg nearly straight, and turned the faucets on, sticking his head under the tap and rinsing vigorously. The noise of the water closed all possibility of conversation. I let my eyes run over his back, his shoulderblade, the vertebra of his spine which were visible as he bent over. I wanted to know what the scars were from, what had happened to kill his whole unit, what dark and threatening thing was lurking in the deep waters behind those pale eyes.

When he was done, I draped a towel over his shoulders. He tried to stand up and lost his balance. I caught him as he started to fall.

He stood against me, my cheek against his bare, damp shoulder, and wobbled for a moment, then caught his balance, his hand skimming down my back and tightening around my waist, pulling me closer.

I felt his body shift beside me and his face come closer to mine. He looked as if he was about to ask me a question, but instead he kissed me. Our lips touched softly, hesitantly at first. When I did not pull away he kissed me again, more certain, but just as softly, his lips perhaps the softest of any man's I had ever kissed. Water droplets fell from his hair over both of us, creating little cold spots all over my body. For some time our hands softly, quietly traced over each other's bodies with an alcoholic fumbling. He leaned against me more and more, pressing my back into the cold tile wall, a contrast to his warm arms and body. Our tongues entered each others' mouths repeatedly; our teeth nipped at each others lips and tongues. He smelled of sweat and lavender. I dropped my head to kiss him at that curve where the neck meets the shoulder.

"Let's go into my room," I whispered.

He turned and polished off the remains of his glass, still keeping one hand slowly moving over my body, before picking up his cane and the gin bottle and following me down the narrow hall to my bedroom. My room was a mess, as always, and primarily lit by the fish tank.

With its deep red gravel and the soothing hum of its air pump, it was better mood music than any of my chips. Once inside I closed the door behind him. I didn't want to say anything and just pressed my body against his to kiss him again. As I dropped my mouth down to his neck, I said, "Will anyone get upset if I leave marks?"

"There's no one who cares what happens to me," he said softly. It wasn't self-pitying, just matter-of-fact. His hands kept moving over my body, now rough, now soft and gentle. He unfastened the catch at the back of my dress, sending the whole thing sliding to the ground and leaving me in panties, garter belt, stockings and heels. His hands slid over my breasts, his thumb flicking over my nipples and making my knees weak. I leaned against the door for support. "I didn't think these were real," he said.

I could feel the bulge at his crotch, rubbing against me. I didn't want to feel the rough denim of his jeans - I wanted to see if his skin was that soft everywhere. "Take these off," I whispered. He started to bend to unbuckle his boots, and once again began to lost his balance. I wasn't sure if it was due to his injury or all the alcohol. "Let me do this," I said.

I had never helped a conscious man out of his clothes before and found the act rather interesting. It made me understand the reasons some of my customers came to the club. I also realized that this was the moment of truth as he fumbled one-handed with his buckle, the other hand holding on to the lace and clutter covered top of my dresser. His jeans slid slowly down his long legs. I got on my knees and lowered his boxers for him, then moistened my lips. The dimness of the room disguised my nervousness, or so I hoped. I didn't want to be a failure. I wanted to be better than anyone else he'd ever had. I wanted him to forget about the war. I wanted him to lose that cool veneer, to shake loose that dark beast lurking behind those cool blue eyes. I wanted him to think of nothing but me, and how wonderful I made him feel.

He watched, mesmerized by my mouth as it moved on him, still holding on to the bureau for support. As I worked on him, I ran my hands over his legs. The left at first seemed almost identical to the right, a bit leaner, but generally of the same shape. When I ran my hands over it, I discovered it was a tangle of scars, odd feeling skin, and no hair.

Despite my ministrations to him, I'm pretty sure he knew what I was doing, but if it bothered him he didn't let it show any more than he had noticed my previously ignored question. I felt his legs begin to shake - standing this long seemed to be too much of a strain. I stood up and began pulling him gently toward the bed.

He pulled me to him again and kissed me, then pulled back and whispered, his mouth so close to mine that his lips brushed against mine as he spoke, "I'll do anything you want. Anything. Just please, don't make me leave." His tone was urgent and a little desperate.

I pulled my head back and searched his face. His eyes seemed just a little glassy as he looked at me. "Anything?" I asked.

"Anything," he said, sounding as if he was holding back tears. No threatening warrior was lurking behind those eyes. The question was, what frightened thing was hiding behind them, cowering, protected by his cool, harsh facade - and what was it hiding from?

He dropped his mouth back on mine, kissing me harder, as if he was trying to lose himself in my body. We stumbled toward my bed and eventually tumbled onto it, his mouth on my body wiping out any more questions I might have had about his leg or the war. I tried so hard to make everything better, to heal him with my body, to make him smile. Even though he seemed to enjoy himself, throwing himself into the act as if he wanted to obliterate himself through it, I never once saw him smile.

Afterwards, as our bodies cooled, I pulled the covers over both of us. He drowsily put his arm around my waist and pulled me closer, so my buttocks were resting in the curve made where his legs bent toward his torso. He kissed my hair. "Karen," he whispered dreamily as he fell asleep. As I turned to look at him, I finally saw the corners of his mouth turn up, just a little.

I lay awake, staring at the wall for hours, my stomach in knots, all hope of sleep lost. I wanted to wake him up and hit him for what he'd said, punching him until blood ran down that pretty face, kicking him in the gut till he doubled over in pain. I wanted to wake him up and fuck him until he forgot about her and thought only of me, dragging my nails down his shoulders and back until I left scars that would guarantee he never forgot about me.

Who was Karen? Why did thinking of her make him smile, when nothing I did could? Why did he think of her when he was in bed with me? I wanted another hit of Hype so that it wouldn't matter. I wanted to drink myself into oblivion. But his arm was wrapped so tightly around my waist I had no hope of getting out of bed without waking him, and if I woke him he'd leave.

I laid in bed and stared at the wall, fighting back tears, trying not to scream, while Jack pressed against me, smiling and holding me tight, dreaming I was another girl.