Keats, after arriving in Detroit, had used the last remainder of his small fortune to purchase and renovate a business. While that work was underway, however, he found himself blessedly idle, and he resolved to venture out onto the streets to see what fun could be had. This city was a beautiful monstrosity, lurching into existence to provide America with the factories and automobiles that it now demanded. One could get lost among the giant buildings. And one did. With no idea where he was, Keats gave up hope of finding his way back to his residence and began searching for a place to have a drink.

It did not take long to find such a place. The bar in question looked rough on the outside, almost like it'd been burned down, closed, and reopened at least two or three times. The original sign of "Detroit Distillations" was still evident, although someone had thrown up a ramshackle replacement saying "Ernie's Place". Still, he supposed he'd have to get used to such sketchy establishments until he fixed his cash flow problems. 

Strolling into the bar confidently, Keats ordered a pint. The young man was wearing a simple white shirt and trousers, with a green coat that accentuated his emerald eyes. Noticing a beautiful blonde sitting at the other end of the bar, he surreptitiously tried to fix his unkempt hair. Not at all confident that he'd succeeded, he sipped his beer and smirked at the woman. 

What a truly wonderful country this was.

He was hard to ignore, the younger man with the piercing green eyes and smirking lips. There'd been a confident swagger in his step as he'd come through the door, and it caused Chelsea to match it with one of her own. She knew that look, had seen it a hundred times on as many faces. That look that tried to say 'I don't want you', but really said 'your place or mine?'.

Was she ready for another one, though? Another young lover, who spouted beautiful lies while he used her up then eventually left her? Could her heart even take another hit? Her husband, Fiorenzo, had been the inner death of her, the one who'd started her downward spiral after she'd caught him with his lover. 

Knocking back the rest of her beer, she turned and addressed the attractive young man, point blank.

Yes, she would do this. She had to. Anything to quiet the screaming in her head.

"You don't often see green coats. It suits you," she said, twisting back on her barstool and lifting a finger to hail the tender.

"Green used to be my favorite color. I fucking hate it now. Name's Chelsea," she said, and as the bartender set her fresh beer down, he flinched, nearly knocking it over.

For one second, her blue eyes flashed black.

"You don't often see green coats. It suits you."

Keats, after putting a sizable dent in his beer, lifted his arms to accentuate the coat. He was just about to comment further when the woman continued speaking.

"Green used to be my favorite color. I fucking hate it now. Name's Chelsea."

Without a word, he slipped the coat off him, folded it, and placed it on the bar. Picking up his beer, he moved over to Chelsea.

"John. It's a pleasure to meet you, Chelsea. If you do truly hate green I can close my eyes, but then I'd have to live without being able to see you. And that would be a shame. So tell me... what brings you to this... establishment?"

With a smirk, he continued drinking.

What a wonderful country, indeed.

"I thought it was this cold beer, but I'm thinking now it might have been something else," she smiled. She was the most beautiful woman you've ever seen, if you wanted her to be. She was also the most frightening, if she wanted to be.

It was all smiles and flirty charm right now, though. Her eyes flicked to the folded coat, then to the torso it had been hiding. He wasn't a large man, but he was perfectly proportioned, wide in the shoulders, narrow in the waist. And the way he moved as he walked in told her he knew how to move with intent.

"And you? What brings you here? Are you a local?" Her eyes fell to his neck, the place where his unbuttoned shirt collar showed just a twist of chest hair. He fingers wanted to reach out and tug on it. Instead, she reached for her beer.

It was better, sometimes, to hide yourself behind what you were drinking. Not just metaphorically, but to let your eyes look over the rim. He studied the woman curiously, sizing her up. She seemed older than him, though not by much, and frankly when one was considering a woman this strikingly beautiful it didn't really matter.

"I am... not entirely sure how to answer that."

He smirked.

"I just moved here from overseas, actually. I was hoping to take a tour of the city, but I seemed to have lost my way before finding you."

"Who says you can't have both?" She replied baldly. His pupils dilated a bit and she grinned, finished her drink, and stood. 

"Come with me." 

She led the way out through the door into a hazy, overcast afternoon. They walked slowly through the park, down the riverfront, and past some of the shops that looked recently opened.

"I don't know much of Detroit, myself. Transplant from Seattle, honestly. I was here years ago, but so much has changed," as they walked, their hands brushed each other. When Chelsea stopped at a crosswalk to look for traffic, his hand came to rest on her lower back, then stayed there long after they'd crossed the street. Soon enough, they'd circled lazily back around to the bar they'd started from. When she turned to look at him, the hand on her back cradled around her waist.

"That's the short tour. Your turn, John. What have you got to show me?"

Keats left his green coat at the bar, slipping the bartender a twenty and promising to return for it later. It was a dubious proposition, but if he had to choose between leaving Chelsea and keeping his coat, well... it wasn't one of the more difficult choices in his life.

The hazy, grey skies seemed to scare most people away from the sidewalks, but Keats and Chelsea didn't bother to wait for blue skies as they made their way through the park and past the riverfront. The riverfront, in particular was an interesting area to him, since it housed the location of the shop that, hopefully, would be opening soon. The building itself was three stories and, despite the fact that the exterior was getting renovated, three men were hanging around near it exchanging harsh words with the contractors that Keats had hired. He noted the situation from across the street, but mentioned nothing to Chelsea as they continued their loop around to "Ernie's Place". As they walked, Keats slowly initiated more and more physical contact; by the time they've completed their circuit, she seemed comfortable and inviting with the hand at her waist.

"I don't know much of Detroit, myself. Transplant from Seattle, honestly. I was here years ago, but so much has changed."

"What brings you back, if you don't mind me asking? And I do have something to show you... although it will involve a little backtracking for us."

With a smirk, he took her hand and led her back on the route they'd previously walked. Hopefully, the thugs would be gone from the front of his store. And if they weren't.... well, he'd have to think of something.

"Well," she began. His hand clasped hers, and somehow it was an even more intimate act than if he had kissed her right there on the street. When was the last time someone had simply held her hand? Was it Fio? Pushing his face out of her mind, she made a conscious effort to enjoy the sensation. 

"Well," she tried again. "An unfaithful husband, an ugly divorce, and a desperate need for a fresh start," she said. Why hide it? And why not purge her whole soul, right here on the sidewalk? She was more than interested in this man, he wasn't at all like the others. There was something about him that made her want to tell him everything.

"I was raised poor, on a farm, my mother died in childbirth, and my father was abusive. As a late teen, I fled to the city, Vegas, and made quite a bit of many, very fast, as an escort." She turned to watch his face as she said this, and there was no judgment there, no appalled look. He was simply... listening.

"I met Fiorenzo while I was on a job. He was on a job, too. He killed the john. That night was my last, as an escort. We were in Chicago a while, then here in Detroit, then Seattle. He was my life, my love, and then he... wasn't. I caught him with another woman, which was something I never, ever saw coming," she said, completely devoid of emotion, but her hand betrayed her as her fingers squeezed down on Keats' hand relentlessly.

"I came back here immediately. I had some friends from the old days... actually, many more than I even realized," she laughed. They'd come out of the woodwork, so many of them, even people she'd thought had hated her, or had betrayed her, all those years ago. 

"I'm here working again. Not as a prostitute," she said hurriedly, not because of any distaste assumed with such a job, but simply because she didn't want him thinking he would have to pay her for her time. They had reached the storefront again by now, and to Keats' dismay, the thugs were still lingering.

Keats simply listened as the words flowed from her mouth like someone exhaling smoke, desperate for oxygen. For a strange moment, even stranger because he was in the process of glancing at her figure, he felt like a priest hearing a confession. She simply dumped her entire life at his feet, unceremoniously and seemingly without secrets. It was unexpected. It was strange. It was also strangely alluring. As she spoke, he gently rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb. 

"You've had quite the journey, Chelsea. You make my own story sound boring in comparison. 'Young man gets kicked out of university, flees to America'." 

He fake-yawned, mocking his own story.

"Still, we all have to start somewhere, I suppose."

He studied her curiously.

"You mentioned that, as an escort, you made money very fast. Would you say that that was simply due to your beauty? Or would you say that you had more skill than other women?"

Glancing around and spotting only a few passers by, still waiting for her answer, he moved slowly toward her until her back was against the brick wall of the building. Moving within a few inches of her, he whispered.

"When I kiss your neck, look to your left. I don't want those three thugs to catch us looking at them, but they happen to be camped out on the sidewalk of the building I'm trying to get to. I'm going to try to talk to them and get them to leave, but if it doesn't work, please give the police a call?"

With a grin, he dipped his head and, as she turned to look at the thugs, Chelsea felt a gentle kiss on her neck.

"I. Uh," Thinking had become so difficult, she had to replay what he'd just said before she could formulate an answer. Skill? Thugs? Police? Oh. 

"I. Was. Expensive," she said, but was that what he'd asked? As quickly as his lips had come to rest on her neck, they were gone again, and John was striding away down the sidewalk towards the ne'er do wells.

"Fellas. How we doing? Look, I'll give you each a ten spot if you go find another wall to hold up."

"...the fuck you say?" Thug One said, rising from his slouch against the brick. The other two rose from the curb and flanked him. John already has his wallet out.

"I said, ten bucks each if you skedaddle. I'm trying to impress that lady over there. This is my building."

"How about, all your cash, and maybe we don't cut you?" This, from Thug Three. Thug Two opened his mouth to speak, then looked over John's shoulder at Chelsea, who had stepped up behind John in eerie silence. He stayed frozen that way for a long minute before Thug One breathed a quiet 'Christ', and all three turned and ran, looking over their shoulders to make sure they weren't being chased.

John turned to look at Chelsea then, expecting to see her wielding a knife, or perhaps even a gun. It was only Chelsea there, though, bare-handed, the haze-filtered sun glinting through her blonde strands. 

Had he turned seconds earlier, he would have seen what caused them to run. Her eyes, now their peaceful ocean of blue, had bled completely black.

As soon as he'd offered them money, he'd regretted it. A foolish move, really. If he paid the three of them to leave now, there'd be half a dozen waiting to get paid tomorrow. And who knows how many the day after that? He wished he could bite the words back, catch them in midair and unspeak them, but it was too late. Beyond that, it didn't even seem like it was going to work today. As Keats took out his wallet and walked toward them, he did his best to give them an intimidating look.

Essentially, he was trying to convey "fuck off".

And off they fucked.

Surprised, Keats stopped short. He hadn't really expected it to work. Shrugging, he slipped his billfold back in his pocket. Perhaps Chelsea had scared them with some sort of weap- nope. Just Chelsea. Well, as 'just' as a woman like that ever got. 

Grinning at her, he extended his arm to her and led her into his building.

"The outside is still getting worked on. Ultimately, I decided on brick. There's something romantic about brick. Cozy and warm- like living in a pleasant chimney in the winter, and a cool cellar in the summer."

He shrugged.

"The inside should be done, though."

Keats deftly removed the key from an inside pocket and opened the door, appreciating the way Chelsea's hand slid down his back as he did so. Walking in, she could see a single wide, open room with expansive windows. And shelves and shelves and shelves of books of all types, although they didn't look particularly well sorted. There were also comfortable leather couches and chairs scattered throughout the room for privacy, although plastic still covered half of them. 

Keats spun and sat precariously on a pile of books in front of several other piles. He spread his legs and his arms wide, grinning.

"Not bad, huh?"

Chelsea spun in a slow circle, taking it all in.

"A bookstore?" She smiled at John when their eyes met again. "And here I thought it would just be another bar."

She moved along the titles, tilting her head to read what was on the spines.

"The Iliad. A Farewell to Arms. The Call of the Wild. Hmm. What's this one?" She asked, sliding it out from underneath the top two books that had been placed on top of it.

"The Kama Sutra," she said, stepping closer to John, and into the space between his legs. She turned the book so that the dust jacket was facing her, and opened it at John, somewhere near the middle. He glanced down at the pages, then back up at her again. 

"Can you do that?" She asked quietly, having no earthy idea what she'd just showed him the visual of.

"I don't know yet," he replied, his voice much deeper than it had been just moments before. He plucked the book out of her hands and sat it aside, his eyes never leaving hers. His own hands came around her waist, then, pulling her even closer, into the warmth between his legs. When he kissed her, his hands had slid up, into her hair. The kiss broke for a moment, and they stared at each other from an inch away, panting into each other's faces, and then the kiss resumed, with nearly lip- bruising force. He began pulling at her blouse as she reached for his trousers, and in moments, they were on the floor, with the haphazardly placed books cascading around them here and there. Chelsea's foot came up and knocked and entire stack over. It went unnoticed.

A loud groan slipped out of both of their mouths, connection made, and then they were rolling, each taking a turn in the position of dominance until John pulled her more firmly onto his lap and stood. Chelsea had a moment to consider the leg strength that such a move required as her ankles locked behind his back. There was a disconcerting moment where he was carrying her like this several steps across the floor, a hesitation, a moment of seemingly falling, and then her back was against a set of stairs. 

John had never stopped working, moving above her at an odd but not at all unpleasant angle now. She stared up at him, up at the books and the second level above him, and at the face peering down at her from there just as her eyes fluttered shut and her body convulsed around him. 

Priority achieved, her eyes snapped back open and she gazed up at the woman standing at the second floor balcony, the one she had so quickly evaluated and dismissed as a threat.

"Did I show you a drawing of a threesome?"

Keats had, perhaps, done more in the first twenty two years of his life than most people did who die of natural causes, but he had to admit to himself that he never thought he'd use literature as a bed. Chelsea was direct, and it was obvious that she was using him, whether it was as a distraction, revenge against her husband, or for other motivations. Frankly, Keats was more than happy to be used. 

The page she'd opened to in the Kama Sutra was... well, he was pretty sure it was physically impossible, and he had no intention of trying it. But the look in her eyes was unmistakable, and he (thankfully) got her to close the book and focus on something closer at hand. The crossing on the Atlantic had been a long one, and he hadn't had a woman since arriving in Detroit. He'd been consumed with business... but, for the moment, he was happy for the pleasant distraction as they fell, entwined, into the books. 

Overcome with lust, he still couldn't entirely ignore the books around them. The titles and pages fluttered around him as they repositioned themselves. As he frantically unbuttoned her blouse, she rested her legs on his shoulders and pulled his face to hers. At one point, during which he'd found an otherwise comfortable rhythm, he opened his eyes to see a copy of The Beautiful and the Damned had fallen onto Chelsea. Perhaps... no, it was definitely time to move.

Pulling her into his lap, he stood with her- unsteady but moving forward as her legs locked around him. He rested her back against the stairs for a moment, letting himself regain his strength as he continued to move into her... perhaps he could find a charming, nonchalant way to invite her to walk up the stairs? 

Focused on Chelsea, Keats was startled as he heard her voice apparently addressing someone else.

_______

Katherine MacLeod was affectionately called by her childhood nickname of "Kates" by her friends and family; this, however, was largely immaterial as the vast majority of her friends and family had been killed in Las Vegas. Scared that whoever killed her father might come from her as well, she took a midnight train going anywhere- and "anywhere", in this case, meant Detroit. She'd been educated better than most people she knew, particularly in medicine and literature, but after spending a year acting as a nurse for her father, she was determined to find work within her other area of interest. None of the libraries were looking to hire an eighteen year old with no experience, but one kind librarian had told her about a bookstore opening up on the old Riverwalk.

It hadn't been hard to persuade John Keats to hire her; she simply wanted enough money to survive and a purpose, and he was happy to provide her with both.

And so she was whistling happily as she swept and organized the bedroom that would eventually belong to Mr. Keats. The bed, a large, ornate four-poster, had just been delivered a few days before, and the other furniture was barely organized at all. No, she'd give the place a good cleaning, then Mr. Keats could find someone else to move his furniture for him. She was wearing denim pants and a simple blouse, clothes that made it easier to clean in, and her chestnut hair was tied behind her head in a simple ponytail. Kates froze as she heard the door open downstairs... God, what if it had been those thugs she'd seen outside? Her shoulders visibly untensed when she recognized the voice of Keats, but as she continued her cleaning she soon heard another voice downstairs... was Keats fighting with someone?

Raising her broom, she cautiously made her way to the balcony of the second floor and peered over the edge to find a very different side of her boss than she'd seen before. Chiefly, the backside. 

She saw right away, of course, that her boss was In Delicto Flagrante... but although she immediately felt like she should go back in the bedroom and close the door, Kates nevertheless felt compelled to linger, looking at Keats and the blonde woman in fascination. Kates had had a couple boyfriends, but she had never- the woman's eyes flashed up to her, and Kates pulled back, but there was something in those eyes that drew her gaze back over the lip of the balcony.

"Did I show you a drawing of a threesome?"

Kates, to whom a twosome was quite intimidating enough, thank you, immediately bolted into the bedroom and closed the door behind her. 

______

"Shit!" shouted Keats, as Chelsea gripped his shoulders, "Forgot she was here today. Kates! Sorry! Use the fire escape! Come back tomorrow! I'll... pay you double!"

A full body shiver wracked her when John cursed and yelled. Different reasons behind it, but the same ending result. Her feet slid down and hit the floor with a quiet thump after the unexpected bonus. John got up then, and Chelsea followed as he climbed the stairs to check on his associate. She was still standing there, broom held aloft, a cute little statue of silliness. When John made introductions, Chelsea, in only a half-open blouse, stepped towards her and offered her hand.

"Pleasure," she said, and meant it. It was the wrong time of year for it, but a tiny spark of static electricity popped as their hands clasped. 

"I should probably get going. Haven't eaten yet, and I'm feeling a bit... well. I'm off. I don't suppose one or both of you are interested in an awkward dinner with me?" She grinned. She would be seeing John again later, she had no doubt about that. They had unfinished business, at least on his part. Men left that way don't last long.

This new person, though. Chelsea couldn't put her finger on it, but she wanted to. 

Keats, noticing that Kates was not remotely following his instructions about escaping down the fire escape, stood a grabbed a large map from the cartography section, which he unrolled in front of his waist to stay at least somewhat modest.

"Kates, Chelsea. Chelsea, Kates. I'm so glad that we've all had a chance to meet like this."

Kates seemed uncomfortable in this situation, which Keats really couldn't blame her for. It's not he had ever worn a map around her before and, well, Chelsea was a whole different story- no bookstore pun intended. Grinning to himself. Keats slid towards the bedroom, keeping the large map between himself and Kates.

As she shook Chelsea's hand, Kates' eyes lingered for a moment on the other woman's, but Keats broke the spell.

"Chelsea, dinner sounds delightful. When you leave, just scribble down any location on the counter downstairs and we'll be there. But for the moment, you and I have a very important bit of unfinished business. One that I believe is protected by your American Eighth Amendment? Something about cruel and unusual punishment? Apologies again, Kates."

With a smile, he indicated the stairs and Kates, after politely taking her leave from both Keats and Chelsea, made her exit. As soon as the door clicked downstairs behind Kates, John dropped the map and materialized behind Chelsea. Kissing her neck, his hands traveled down her blouse, finishing off the persistent buttons, before sliding down her hips. He led her to the bed, or so he told himself, but it was Chelsea who pushed him back on it. Something flashed in her eyes as she straddled him, but Keats was far too busy staring at her body to notice.

_______

Thirty minutes later, Keats was lightly snoring in his bed. He slept with a hand resting on one of Chelsea's hips. His face expressed a peaceful, almost angelic contentment. 

She hadn't been sleeping... or had she? With a start, she sat up in the bed, taking a long moment to figure out where she was, and who she was with. John's hand slid lifelessly off of her hip, and he never stirred. 

He slept like the dead. Or the well and truly spent. Standing, she began the treasure hunt for her clothes, ending up downstairs where she found her heels. As she clambered into them, she grabbed a pen and scratch pad from along the counter she was leaning against, and wrote down a name and address of a lively little pub not far away. She needed food desperately, and maybe a drink. Dancing would be fun, she hadn't done that in a long while, and she was in the mood. 

Locking the door behind her, she left the bookstore and headed east towards the pub, on foot. 

Tonight was going to be good, she could feel it.