Sweet and Sour

Chapter 7 - First time for everything

Back at your apartment that evening, you distractedly pick at your dinner with your fork as you scroll on your phone. The rest of your day had passed smoothly. Wanda had rushed back to the front after Bucky left, just as shocked as you were about how that had gone. You could tell she was concerned, worried about just what exactly you were letting yourself in for.

You were too.

There had been no accompanying SUVs on your journey home and you had decided to trust Bucky when he told you the trailing had stopped, but you couldn't help the occasional peek over your shoulder to be sure.

You'd fallen down into a bit of a rabbit hole, scouring the web for anything and everything on James 'Bucky' Barnes. There were thousands of results. News articles, forum posts, photos, social media speculation, court transcripts. Violence, corruption, notoriety. It seemed he'd cleaned up his act in recent years, exploring more legitimate business options than mob activity – formal luncheons and galas rather than shoot outs and cement shoes. He had multiple companies in his name and owned a smattering of businesses throughout the city and along the east coast. Auto shops, nightclubs, construction. Still, there were suggestions that he wasn't entirely on the straight and narrow – with accusations of fronts and money laundering littered across the web, although nothing proven. Occasionally his business rivals seemed to disappear into thin air, their digital trail coming to an abrupt end with a small news article about them going missing and police 'doing everything they can'.

You shuddered as you considered the implications.

But he also did a lot of good. He donated generous sums to philanthropic causes and charities. He ran fundraising events and sat on non-profit boards. He'd opened a centre for children in one of the city's most deprived boroughs, and regularly paid college tuition for bright teens whose families couldn't front the cash themselves.

He clearly enjoyed the finer things that his line of work provided. There were endless pictures of his sports cars, sprawling property and bespoke Italian suits. He was often photographed at the finest restaurants in the city, beautiful women on his arm basking in the paparazzi's attention.

It was dizzying, intimidating. Worlds away from your rented modest one bed apartment and IKEA furniture, your simple job, your $30 hoodies and Target undies. A fancy night out for you was the local sushi restaurant, or vodka sodas at a dive bar with Wanda. You could barely afford a side salad at some of the places Bucky frequented.

One listicle that got your attention had the headline "The Dating History of  the Notorious James Barnes". It was an endless inventory of photographs of gorgeous women – socialites, models, It girls...the occasional actress. Each more beautiful than the last, long legs and perfect bone structures, draped in expensive gowns and showing off flawless updos. The kind of women who never seemed to have a bad hair day or a hormonal zit outbreak, just relentlessly glamorous and immaculate. The article spoke about his known womanising, his playboy reputation cemented as he became linked to more and more beauties.

You felt foolish. Here you were shamelessly flirting with Bucky, fantasising about him, giddy with excitement that he'd asked for your phone number. You were nothing like these women, you couldn't compete with them, or his chic lifestyle. You felt embarrassed for letting yourself get caught up, for briefly thinking you could fit into his world.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a buzzing on the table. Your phone is ringing, an unknown number. You sigh - probably a robot sales call but you answer it regardless.

"Hello?" 

"Evening, Doll" comes a low voice from the other end.

You jump to your feet, your chair squeaking on the floorboards as you feel yourself go rigid. You're hyper alert, fleetingly guilty as if he is somehow aware of your web sleuthing. Not that he could be annoyed even if he knew, he'd done his homework on you – you could do yours on him.