Polly Solves the Riddler

Part 2

His feet thump rhythmically to her heartbeat, which is dashing against her ribcage as if it might break free any moment. They're going up now; the drive here was short and full of hushed voices. Polly made out what they said, but it was useless in the interest of understanding. Mostly babble about Scarecrow or Two-Face and their respective thugs.

They come to a door, she knows this by the feel of its wood against her bottom as she's used to push it open. Inside is warmer than outside. There's movement and more hushed voices as she's dropped to the ground rather painfully and made to face the other way. The ties are undone. She touches her tender skin without making an effort to remove her visual bonds.

It's removed for her. She squints against the bright light, the figures around her only long, misshapen blobs of black and shadow. Blinking, she studies the beige carpet to give her eyes a chance to adjust.

Citrus.

It lingers up into her mucus-lined nostrils. She wipes at her face, pawing at her eyes, and tucks her unruly hair behind her small ears. Someone begins to speak, a man from the sound of it, but he's hushed. A long, slender-fingered hand, one she immediately recognizes, is extended to her. She doesn't look up as she accepts the aid. Her knees ache with pricks from where the carpet's material made ridges on her thin-covered flesh.

The fingers hook her chin and bring her face upward. He doesn't speak; doesn't inquire whether she's ok or apologize for the manner in which she was delivered. Instead, he produces a hanky and dabs at her eyes and nose.

Anger flares up in the back of Polly's mind as she studies his aged features. Balling her small hands into fists, she hits him. His chest, arms, shoulders. He dodges some, but is hit by most. His face distorts into a frown as he catches her wrists. She yanks free of his grip; he doesn't attempt to maintain it.

A slap. Her hand connects with his cheek before she realized that was its destination. It silences the few who are speaking and wins a gasp from many. She blinks but bite back remorse.

She can see he's angry now, too. He appears about to say something, bringing a finger up in his usual manner, but she bats it away. Hooking her hand behind his neck, she pulls him into a kiss. He's resistant for a moment, but only a moment.

Their mouths move together in a familiar way. She parts her lips and he doesn't hesitate to slip inside. Her fingers fumble with her vest's zipper, pulling it off and dropping it to their right. She presses down on the backs of her Converse until her feet are free; she kicks one to either side. A tug at her sweatpants' ties allows them to slide down her slender thighs until they're pooled around her bare feet; she kicks them away, very aware that the others are watching. But Polly doesn't care.

Her hands are quickly at work on his clothes. She pulls his button-up off his lean arms and lets it drop to the floor behind him. Her hands pull at his tank-top and, though he tries to keep her from doing so, she tugs it over his head after parting their lips.

Their breaths come in shallow gushes as she shoves him back into his work bench. Her fingers are at work on his belt, button and zipper as he says, "Get out." His voice is full of breath and lacks its usual ice, but everyone else in the room shuffles out anyway.

"Polly," he says in a lower voice.

She shakes her head, tugging his jeans till they're wrapped around his thighs. Her eyes dance up from there, taking it in. He's slender, like she'd known, but in this light with his abdomen rising rapidly, he looks different. Agile like a predator. She plays her fingers through his chest hair and meets his gaze. His eyes are soft and big like the prey.