Birmingham, 1924

If it meant you could keep him around, keep him interested, you'd be a little more profound, more clever and clipped with your words, less clumsy and anxious, less sensitive.

You'd thought of the most perfect things to say to him, to illicit the desired reactions you'd seen a thousand times, I'd be the fox to your hound, just so you had an excuse to make him hunt you, you'd gladly take that risk, even if it meant just the slightest chance just to have him around you, you wouldn't give chase, simply let him catch you.

You knew his reputation with girls, girls stronger and more confident than you left broken, didn't survive him, his boisterous parties and raucous aftershocks, that swayed you from approaching him, though when you were in the Garrison your eyes still desperately followed his back, burning holes through the tweed waistcoat.

Your friends always teased you about how you only seemed interested in men far too old for you, but they dared not tease you within earshot of your latest obsession.

You wondered how he'd feel, his hands, his lips, his teeth, you didn't care if he'd draw blood, as long as you were held you didn't care if it was by teeth.

It was your turn to collect drinks for your friends from the bar, Arthur was right there.

Politely, you excused yourself into the gap at his hip, seeing his head turn in your periphery, sharp jaw, the shape of his nose, his chin, those blue eyes you so desperately needed to see you.

You felt like prey, keeping your eyes on the bar as you practically felt his eyes scraping over you.

"Need something, pet?" his raspy baritone echoed through your skull.

Oh Arthur, if only you knew.