Paper Dolls

|chapter four|

a/n: angst, hurt, some comfort, descriptions of blood and wounds.

The day after Bridget's visit from James, Wanda came rushing down the hall with a note for her from the man himself.

That's how she finds herself sitting at the cafe Wanda waits tables at, nervously tapping the laminate countertop. Both her ma and da are working, while her little brothers are at school. She's supposed to be helping Wanda with her shift, instead of waiting for a ride to The Den.

The dress shop her mother helps run is only three blocks away. Bridget prays to every saint she can think of that Cora Maher doesn't decide to make the trip down to say hello. Wanda said she'd help cover for her, but it's hard to slip anything past Irish mothers.

A black Cadillac rolls to a slow stop by the curb, honking its horn. Bridget jumps up, gathering her small bag and downing the rest of her coffee.

"Wanda, I'll be back by 2, okay?"

She gets a thumbs up from her friend as she pushes open the heavy glass and wood door of the cafe. The same man who drove her home last night is here today. He gets out to open the car door for Bridget and she slides across the leather seating, surprisingly cool in the baking heat.

The driver notices her slight frown as he pulls away.

"The boss got called out to Harlem. He said to tell you that he'll make it up to you, whatever that means."

Bridget looks up, her eyes meeting his in the rearview mirror.

"Does that happen a lot? Him leaving last minute?"

The driver shakes his head.

"No, this is an unexpected thing. But the boss always goes where he's needed, no question."

Bridget studies the man, his dirty blonde hair cropped short. She can see a tattoo peeking over his collar. Once again, his observant nature has him noticing the scrutinizing expression.

"Sorry, I'm Clint. I work for James. I was the one who took you home last night."

Bridget gives Clint a small smile, watching the few cars that are on the road as well pass by.

"I remember. Bridget. Have you worked for James long?"

"10 years, give or take," he says as he turns onto the next side street. "Got hired by his father and stayed on once James came back from the front. The old man was dead and work is work."

"And what kind of work do you do? Besides driving?"

His green eyes meet hers briefly in the mirror as he smirks.

"I'd tell you, but I don't think the boss would appreciate me giving you the dirty details."

Bridget hums in acknowledgment, staring back out the window. The rest of the car ride is silent, the only sound besides the car itself is Clint humming from the driver's seat. She smooths down her pencil skirt; it's dark red and stops at her knees.

It's also a little tighter than the skirts and dresses she usually wears, showing off her hips. Bridget paired the skirt with a white short-sleeve shirt, tucked in. Wanda offered to let Bridget borrow it. She was hesitant, but she doesn't want to dress like a little girl anymore. She also wants James to see her in it.

The Cadillac pulls up to the same alleyway behind the club that Bridget and James kissed in the night before. Clint helps her out and knocks on the back door three times. The young guy from the bar, Peter, opens it for them.