Chapter One
Senna saw him first as a silhouette, there on a short cobblestone bridge, spotted under a streetlamp.
She paused at the sight, her heart thumping. Her response was two-fold and embarrassing, as it always was when she saw something of the opposite gender and handsome. Shyness was her bane. It vied with every desire in his heart, and had kept her bound and gagged most of her life.
She was a lean eighteen year old with tawny hair and eyes green as emeralds. Her features were neither strikingly gorgeous, nor unappealing. They were often, however, mistakenly described as cold and distant. Her shy nature kept her apart from people, and she rarely met their gaze when she was forced to speak with them.
As Senna made her own silent way across the bridge a cool wind whispered by and she was glad for the corduroy jacket she wore. The night was crisp, the stars sharp as shattered glass. Above the bridge, the faux nouveau streetlights were large and yellow as small moons. Below rushed the flood-swollen river. It was fast and dangerous this time of year, enough so that town residents were warned not to let their children play near its shores. The wind carried up a bit of spray tasting of algae and wet stone.
Behind, Senna could hear the cheers and noise from the park, where an illuminated diamond hosted an impromptu baseball game. Ahead was the music and traffic of the town. Lives, it seemed, were being lived in either direction. The bridge, itself, however, was deserted and quiet, isolated but for Senna and the man, as if they'd been separated out from the world.
The man had his back to her. He was wearing jeans that were too loose and a blue jacket with a name of a baseball league on the back, neither of which gave much clue to his attractive figure. Most striking of all was his black hair, which was very curly, but looked rather smooth. It shone like dark waters.
He stood there, at the opposite rail, gazing out. What was he seeing? Senna wondered. The river was rushing towards him. Was he thinking of where those floodwaters had come from, the snowmelt off mountains? The country rills and brooks?
Perhaps he was dreaming of a lover who lived up river. For a moment, Senna selfishly imagined that she was that lover, sending her thoughts down river to him.
She'd always wanted that in her life, the silly mush of couples who thought obsessively about each other. She'd always wanted know what it was like to smile across a dinner table at someone because of a secret joke. Or to engage in some frivolous activity like roller-skating. To play sex games, to make another sing out in pleasure. To hold hands.
She'd always wanted that connection. More than anything. But she'd never had it and she figured she never would. Not like this man and his lover, whoever she was.
The man moved closer to the railing. Senna hastily stepped back into the shadows between streetlamps, suddenly afraid that he'd notice her ogling him and take offence. She started to drop her eyes, to turn away. To think up excuses should he see and question her.
And then she saw the man set his knee on the top of the granite balustrade and haul himself up onto the railing.
Senna felt herself turn to stone. She would later wonder why she didn't dash over and grab hold of him. Jerk him by the jacket onto the cobbled walkway. It would have been the wrong move, perhaps, but it didn't even enter into her mind.
Only one thing popped into her head at that moment. The strangest thing that had ever popped into her shy, tormented brain.
"Want to go out on a date?" Senna was not one of those inhibited sorts who mumbled or stuttered. She was the sort who said little or nothing. When she did speak, however, she was always clear, if not loud.
These words were both precise and ringing. They carried across the bridge, over the rush of the water, over the sounds of distant traffic, the shouts from the baseball diamond.
The man froze.
"Just one date."
She couldn't believe she'd said it the first time, let alone a second time, but that was her voice. At least, she thought it was her voice. It had never sounded that strong, that sure before.
The man did not shift from his position half up on the rail. Senna sensed that he was waiting to hear her step near so he could throw himself over. She stayed where she was.
"How long have you been there?" His voice was a little husky, like the rustle of fabric in a dark room. Not angry. Curious.
"Maybe five minutes. So, do you want to go out?"
Senna didn't know if she was more disconcerted by the question, which she couldn't seem to stop asking, or her bold tone. It was as if the man's intent to suicide had transformed her from a pathetic plastic spoon into a spork in shining metal. She'd never felt more confident in his life.
He moved at last, bringing his leg down from the rail and returning to the walkway. She'd captured his attention, that at least. He turned. A white shirt was half out of his pants and peering out from his blue sweater was under the blue jacket, outlining a long muscular waist. Above was a fine jaw line with cheeks red from the cold. She wasn't close enough to tell the color of his eyes, but he had a straight nose and wide, full lips.
For a moment, he just scrutinized her. Senna stood with hands in the pockets of her corduroy jacket, letting him get a good look at how very harmless she was in her high heels and tatty blue jeans. She was usually a little more meticulous, but she'd been in a black funk and hadn't taken much care with what she'd thrown on.
Normally, she would have been mortified to appear so slovenly before a man, but, once again, she felt oddly bulletproof. Her looks didn't matter in this instance, just what she'd said. She knew that.
"You can't stop me," he asserted, his tone testing. Probing.
She almost smiled with wonder. She'd confounded him. That was a first.
"No," she agreed. "A person determined to take their own life will find a way. You can interrupt them; watch them for seventy-two hours, but the second you turn your back, they will manage to kill themselves. People have hung themselves from doorknobs. Opened their veins with ballpoint pens."
"You seem well informed on the subject," he observed.
Senna shrugged. "I just want you to know that I'm not trying to enlighten or transform you. I just want to go out on a date."
He blinked, "With a suicidal?" He had very expressive eyebrows. "Though I suppose it does get you off the hook if you don't want to call him the next day or go on a second date."
She laughed, she couldn't help it. She slapped a hand over her mouth, horrified. Amazed. This man was prepared to throw himself over the railing into icy, rushing waters. She expected sluggish depression or defensive anger, not this dark humor.
"Why do you want to go on a date with me?" he demanded.
For the first time, Senna dropped her eyes, ducked her head. It was yet another revelation to her to realize that he'd been meeting her gaze this whole time, speaking to him as easily as she might a friend, not a stranger and a man.
A very nice looking man.
"Well...prisoners condemned to die get last meals, and terminal patients get last wishes." She flicked her eyes up. He was listening.
"A suicide," she went on, "ought to have a good memory to take with them into oblivion."
"You've got the wrong idea about suicides. Or at least about me," he countered. "If anything in life were tempting me to stay, that last meal or last wish, I wouldn't be planning to throw myself off a bridge."
So, he'd caught her out in a lie already. Or, at least, a half-lie.
"Let me take you to dinner and give you one last wish," she bargained. "And I'll tell you my real reason for asking you out. Or you can say no and I'll turn around and let you jump."
Senna said this with conviction, with no urge to beg or sway him. She would not draw out the argument. Even so, now that she'd spoken with him, she felt her throat tighten at the thought of letting him go. There was something about him that was so alluring. Like a dragonfly hovering above a pond.
His arms folded across his chest and he eyed her suspiciously.
"Dinner and a last wish could take a long time," he observed. "You could really drag it out...."
"Till dawn," she said. "Most dates, if they go well, really well, last till dawn."
"Till dawn," he echoed, contemplating that. "Where for dinner?"
Senna caught her breath. Her pulse raced and his nerve finally wavered. He'd said yes. God help her.
She brought her hands out of her pockets and spread them. "Your choice."
"Suicide's choice," she waved a hand. "I told you. Nothing appeals to me."
"Well," Senna thought desperately, "How about that little Italian restaurant a block or so from here? That way, if you change your mind during the meal, you can come right back."
A faint twitch touched his lips. Was that respect she saw in his expression?
"I know the place. All right."
"I'll stay on this side," Senna suggested. "We can meet when we get to the end." She wanted to assure him that she wasn't trying to get near enough to grab him and drag him away from the rail.
"All right."
They stepped in tandem down the cobbled walkway, her heeled boots tapping softly, his rubber soles squeaking now and then. She kept to his side when they stepped off the bridge, staying away from him until they'd both crossed the street.
Then she finally dared to approach him.
He quivered a little as she neared and she was sure he'd make a panicked dash.
He didn't. Senna's heart pounded very hard and her breathing grew shallow she stepped up. It always did this close to men. In her heeled boots she was about the same height as he was, able to look at him directly. His eyes were sea green.
She offered him her arm. A bit opposite, she knew, but he hesitated, and then slipped his arm around hers. Leading the way, she escorted him to dinner.
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