Dynamics of a Human Heart

Everybody's got a secret to hide

Everyone is slipping backwards

I can't remember if I like what I said

I can't remember it went straight to my head

I kept a bottle by the foot of the bed

I put a pillow right on top of my head

But I killed for love

-

The Chromatics "Kill for love."

"You've got to be five-finger fucking me!" Grey ran his hand through his hair, clenching his fist before jerking it away as Miranda carried Sam towards him.

Sam's response was to produce an impressive amount of vomit all over Grey's shoes and Miranda's dress.

Grey took a moment to assess the situation; he looked at his shoes and then shifted his gaze to Sam.

"Oops!" Sam smiled before she passed out, causing Miranda to topple forward with the sudden dead weight. Grey blocked their descent with his stick and the pair sank into a heap on the ground instead.

"Seriously, what do you see in her?" Grey took a drag off his cigarette and coughed.

Miranda looked up at him, "She's beautiful, intelligent, kind and a better person than you are."

"Yeah, and which of those virtues was she espousing when she declared your need for fat cock: her beauty? Intelligence?"

Miranda had had enough.

"Listen you pompous, arrogant, sadistic—"

"Or, was that your bird's way of being 'kind'? That how she usually treats those she loves?"

Miranda's expression crumpled under Grey's words and she hung her head.

"And as for being a better person," he stared at her for a long time, "that's not really all that hard, poppet," he finished quietly.

Grey extended his staff towards Miranda, "On your feet then, pet."

She looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes.

"Why? Why are you going to help us?"

"Because you're a moron, she's a drunk, and I'm an idiot, now grab the fucking stick."

She gripped the stick that was offered and began to haul herself to her feet; she reached out with her other hand, brushing against Grey's arm.

"Back off!"

Grey yanked the stick away from her and leapt backwards as if he had been scalded. She stumbled, nearly falling over, at the abruptness of Grey's reaction. When she found her feet, she jerked her head around to face the man.

"What the hell is your problem?"

Grey had his stick poised to strike, but Miranda would not back down. Not to him. Not anymore. The two of them just stared at each other. She was aware that they were both breathing hard as well. He clutched the stick in a white-knuckled grip and he was shivering violently. The fight hadn't bothered him at all, but this had him in a near panic.

"So, you can only touch people if you're hurting them, is that it? Are you truly

that

messed up?"

Slowly, Grey lowered his stick and exhaled a shuddering breath; he'd gone ghostly pale.

"None of your goddamn business."

Miranda blinked and then whatever it was over. Grey was himself again, calm and collected.

"Collect your bird and let's get across the street."

Miranda strained to pick up Sam, but without the other girl's help, she couldn't and she sank to the ground.

"I can't," she groaned.

"You can't? You seemed to be managing just fine earlier," Grey scowled at her.

"Sam carries most of the weight," she explained.

"Yeah, that makes sense," Grey exhaled a cloud of smoke as his face took on a pensive expression, "Stuck in that manual trolley means she's probably pretty Hench."

Miranda frowned at him in confusion.

"Muscles, dearie, she probably has big muscles."

"Oh, well yeah she does except—"

"Except her being passed out in her own vomit makes that a moot point," he tossed away a used cigarette and fished another one from his coat, "Okay, so she's a cripple, I get that. What's your damage?"

Miranda glared up at him, "I get tired."

"Then sleep more."

"I sleep over ten hours sometimes."

"Then fuck less."

Miranda wasn't even willing to dignify that with an answer but, for a moment, Grey's face lost its usual expression of disdain and anger into something resembling thoughtfulness.

"Chronic fatigue then, is it Binty? How long?"

"I don't know, since I was ten or so."

"Yeah? And what'd the family crow have to say?"

Another confused look from the girl.

"The soddin' doctor."

"They don't know what it is."

The look of disdain returned to his features along with anger, "Bloody useless people; couldn't diagnose a proper case of Chlamydia in the middle of a ten-penny knocking-house."

Miranda shot him a puzzled glance, "Speaking from experience?"

Grey snorted, "Trust me, Binty, my knocking-house days are behind me."

"What about your days as a diagnostician?"

Grey stopped in mid-motion as he was lighting his cigarette. Twin fires from the match reflected in his sunglasses.

"I've never been a diagnostician," he said finally, lighting his cigarette and putting out the match, tossing it aside as he took a long drag.

"Kind of weird though; that much scorn, that's professional, if not personal," she slowly got to her feet as Grey eyed her warily, "So, why would a chain-smoking alcoholic card shark with violent tendencies have any kind of feelings towards the subject at all: professional or personal?"

Slowly, Grey took another long pull for his cigarette, "Go play head-shrinker with someone else, Binty, unless you fancy carrying blonde, buxom, and bladdered all on your Jack."

"My

what

?"

"On. Your. Own, God take the time to learn the Queen's English would you?"

Miranda shook her head, trying to focus; it was hard to do so around him. Just one more reason she didn't like him.

"Will you help us?"

Grey coughed, "I think you mean 'will I help you

more'?"

Miranda gave him a level gaze and he gave her a look of sheer exasperation.

"Where's your motor?"

"My—"

"Your car. Where is your car?"

"I don't have a car."

"You don't—why not?"

"I don't drive."

"Of course you don't," a puff of smoke, "Okay, what about coaches or hacks?"

Another blank look.

"Bus or Taxi?"

"The buses don't run this late and I don't have any money for a taxi."

"What, you left your coin purse at your flat?"

Miranda didn't answer; she just turned her head and indicated the house they had just left.

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Grey scoffed, "God, I never thought I'd miss the Tube.

"I don't suppose you have any money to lend?" the girl asked, "I can pay you back."

"Two things wrong with that idea, Binty; one, your breadbasket appears to be bare, so getting a return on my investment is pretty bloody unlikely."

"And two?"

"I don't have any money. I

had

money," and it was Grey's turn to motion meaningfully at the house.

"Oh," Miranda had the good grace to look abashed.

"Yeah, 'oh'."

"Well, do you have a car?"

"I have...access to one, yeah."

"Well, will you give us a ride then?"

Grey gestured with his stick across the street, a street with a steady stream of traffic on it.

"And what, you're going to drag 'Our Lady of the Projectile Vomit and Loose Knickers' across a few lanes of traffic?"

"Her name is Sam!"

"Don't really care Binty."

"My name is

Miranda

!"

"Still with the not caring."

Miranda massaged her temples: the stress, the fear, all the smoke inhalation, and worst of all,

him

. It was like claws down a blackboard; she couldn't take it.

"Just shut up and let me think!" Miranda yelled at him.

"The time for thinking has passed, Binty," he exhaled a cloud of smoke and ground out his cigarette, "We need to act," he looked Sam over, still splattered with vomit and passed out, "We need to get you and your bird back to your flat."

Miranda swallowed her pain, her anger and her fear and was able to look Grey in the face.

"So, you'll help us more?"

"We'll see," he walked over to Sam, "first things first," he bent low to scoop up Sam.

"Be careful!" Miranda yelled. She couldn't see his eyes behind his sunglasses but she was pretty sure he was glaring balefully at her.

Grey snorted and shook his head before rotating Sam onto his shoulders into a fireman's carry with practiced ease.

Miranda drew up short, "Where did you learn to do that?"

"Less talking, more walking," was Grey's only reply.

Moreover, with that he proceeded to stroll into oncoming traffic without missing a step.

"Grey!"

Cars slammed on their brakes, the air was filled with the sound of screeching tires and blaring horns. Grey continued his walk, unhurried, as people hurled out various curses and profanities. He slowed his pace only enough to take a drag from his cigarette before proceeding to raise his hand back over his shoulder towards the motorists and extending his middle finger behind him.

That did not seem to improve the mood of those present.

Miranda followed behind him at a slightly safer pace, catching up on the other side.

"

Are you out of your fucking mind?

" she screamed at him. In her anger, she attempted to shove the man but he simply stepped backwards out of her reach and she wound up stumbling instead.

"Careful, Binty," he gestured towards the sleeping girl on his shoulders, "precious cargo and all."

Miranda narrowed her eyes in distaste, but she knew Grey had her and he knew it, too.

"All finished then with your righteous indignation?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Going to mind your manners, P's and Q's then?"

"Yes."

"Behave for the nice Englishman trying to save you ridiculous tarts?"

"I said 'yes'!"

"I know," he gestured at her with his cigarette, "But now you've said it three times. That makes it a promise and I am the last person on this bloody planet you want to break promise to, got it?"

"Got it," Miranda sighed.

"Then let's shift it, Binty."

"Don't call me—"

Grey stopped and looked at her.

"Never mind."

"Smart girl," and with that, the three of them of them headed down the street.

They had been walking a couple blocks when Grey spoke up.

"I'm not carrying your little chippy all the way there," he said as he looked around, "Besides carrying her like this is bone anyhow. It's asking for trouble."

Miranda looked around, her surroundings feeling less familiar than they had during the day.

"What kind of trouble?" she asked cautiously.

"The kind of trouble that makes her suitors back at the frat look like goddamn Battersea boys."

"Who?"

"It's what we call 'The Boy Scouts' back home: twice the wholesomeness half the homophobia."

"Are you serious?"

"What, about the Battersea Boys?"

"About worse people out here, than at the party!" she shrieked, rapidly coming undone.

"Do I look like I'm taking the piss?"

Miranda opened her mouth again, but Grey silenced her with an open hand.

"Don't ask, let's just move."

Miranda nodded, her chin set in stubborn defiance. She would get her lover safely home and then get as far away from this man as possible.

Grey focused on something further down the street, "Ah, and inspiration strikes."

There was a woman, a bag lady by the looks of her. She shuffled along slowly, as if each step were a tremendous effort.

Miranda stared as the man came up behind the old woman.

Oh dear god, what is he going to do now?

"Hello mum."

The other woman gasped, spinning around with a terrified expression on her face. Grey held up his hand.

"It's all right there, luv, not here to hurt you, promise."

The woman wasn't completely convinced but she looked a little less likely to stroke out at his feet.

"Ain't got nothin' for you, boy," she told him. "Nothing worth stealin' or takin'."

The way the woman placed special emphasis on the word 'taking' and her tone: a combination of shame, fear, and self-reproach, gave rise to a scenario in Miranda's mind that made her feel violently ill for a moment and even Grey's expression slipped a little, becoming a thing of disgust, anger, and something else.

Pity?

Miranda blinked and it was gone, Grey's features were once again calm, even friendly.

"Now, none of that, mum," he soothed, "No one will be taking your things or your ... dignity."

Miranda thought his voice sounded strained for the first time since she had met him as she approached the pair.

The other woman laughed bitterly and gave a toothless smile, "Boy, you're a fool: what dignity you think I have left?"

"Enough to matter!" he snarled suddenly.

Miranda jumped and the other woman almost fainted at Grey's tone.

"Is your boyfriend gonna kill me?" the woman asked Miranda.

Miranda tried to answer as assuring as possible, "Probably not, but if he shows his teeth, run and take me with you."

Grey composed himself, coughed and tossed his cigarette, lighting up one for himself, and then offering one to the bag lady.

"Fancy a fag, mum?"

She shook her head reprovingly, "Son, don't you know that those things will be the death of you?"

"Yeah, that's the scuttlebutt," he offered it to her again, "Take it anyways, you can trade it later for food or crash space."

Cautiously, the woman took the cigarette from him and put it in a pocket before staring at Sam.

"Why are you carrying that girl?"

"Oh, her?" he gestured with a thumb, "I'm afraid that in her case, 'one for the road' became 'one too many'."

The woman simply stared at him, puzzled.

"She's drunk, mum, very, very, drunk."

"Oh. So why then are you bothering me, boy?"

Grey shifted Sam's weight under him, dug into his pockets, and removed a pocket watch. It was tarnished but still held the lustrous gleam of gold,

"You've got nothing I want to steal," he handed over the watch, "but you do have something I want to

buy

."

"Buy?" she frowned, "what kind of foolishness is this?"

"I want to buy your trolley," he gestured to her cart.

"My cart, why?"

"Because she's getting heavy," he said as he handed over the watch, "and she can't seem to get her feet under her."

She peered at the watch, "What am I going to do with this?"

"You, madam, are going to take that to a pawnbroker named Max, he's on East Colorado Avenue, building number twenty-six, ninety-six. Tell him that you're 'calling in his marker from his busted full house the other night,' he'll know what you mean," he examined her critically, "Have you got all that?"

The woman's expression had slid from puzzlement into downright confusion but she nodded as she took the watch from him, "Yes, sir, I can do that," her tone taking a distinctly contrite tone over a sudden.

"That a girl," he nodded, "And if that if that morally bankrupt motherfucker attempts to pay you any less than five-hundred dollars for it, you tell him that I'm going to come by and harvest his guts for garters. You tell him that word for bloody word."

Both of the women looked stunned by the sudden turn of events: between the amount of money Grey was giving away and the brutality (and utter sincerity) of the death threat he had just issued, they were left in utter bewilderment.

"Yes sir," the old woman said, "I will."

"Repeat it back to me, verbatim."

"Umm...marker, busted full house, pawnbroker named Max."

"And the most important part?"

The woman swallowed once, "The man with the English accent will harvest your guts for garters if you give me less than five hundred."

"Close enough," he pointed at the cart, "So, we have a deal then? My watch for your cart? You can even keep all your aluminum and other knick-knacks if you wish."

She nodded, the hard right turns were coming too fast for the poor woman.

"Aces, could you help me please?" Grey asked.

"Yes sir."

Together, Grey and the old woman emptied out her cart.

"Do you remember the address?" Grey asked again.

"Yes sir, I do."

"Good, try to get indoors tonight, there's a shelter a few blocks from Max's, you know it?"

"Why are you doing this for me?" the woman asked him. He took a long contemplative drag from his cigarette.

"Because I've been in your shoes before, mum," he exhaled a cloud of smoke, "and no one did it for me. Fair enough?"

The woman nodded, "My name's Margaret."

"Cheers, Margaret," he replied, "My name's Mister Grey, my friends call me Grey."

"Hello, Mister Grey."

"To you, it's Grey."

"I'm very happy to meet you, sir."

"Likewise, mum. Best head off," he looked up at the sky, "Pasadena in September is nothing to write home about, but tonight's feeling a touch nippy.

She waved at him then looked past him at Miranda.

"You best hang on to this one, honey. They don't make them like him anymore."

"You're not wrong," she muttered under her breath

"God bless you, sir," the elderly woman called out as she left.

Grey coughed hard and nearly choked on his cigarette.

"Not bleedin' likely, mum. But thanks for the thought."

Miranda came up behind Grey, "So you can be a human being when you want to be."

"What can I say?" he casually tossed Sam into the shopping cart like a bag of dirty laundry, followed by his walking stick, "People who don't irritate the living fuck out of me tend to see my better side."

"Hey!" Miranda rushed over to the cart where Sam was; the unconscious girl was like a rag doll; bent over at the waist and half hanging out of the cart, looking ready to go completely over and crash onto the street. Miranda grabbed her and made sure that at least most of her was wedged in before turning an icy stare at Grey, who shrugged,

"What? She's full-on three sheets there, she's not going to feel a thing," he began pushing the shopping cart down the street, "and I guaran-goddamn-tee you that whatever aches and pains she gets from rough handling will be nothing compared to the hangover that's waiting for her."

"And now you're back to being a jerk," Miranda growled.

"And you're back to being irritating and thick headed, so happy to have this return to normalcy; now let's get it in gear already."

"She doesn't deserve this kind of treatment!"

"Neither did you, nor have you already forgiven your trim for using you as a study in public humiliation?"

That sent Miranda rocking back on her heels but before she could follow up, he had turned away from her and started striding up the street and she had to struggle to keep up.

"Besides," he added, "stupid should hurt."

Ten minutes of walking later and Miranda had had enough.

"Grey, where's the car? You said you had one."

"I said I had access to one, Binty," he took a drag off his cigarette and exhaled, "And I do." He gestured with the tip of his cigarette.

Miranda turned and frowned, "'Pasadena City College'?" she turned on Grey, "and I refuse to believe that you're a teacher. No administration would be

that

cruel."

"You'd be surprised, but no, definitely not a teacher," he took another drag as he began to push the cart into the parking lot.

"No way you're a student."

"Yeah, because what would a bottom-feeder like me want with an education?"

Miranda closed her mouth with an audible

clack

and her cheeks flushed in embarrassment and anger.

Even if it takes the rest of my life,

she thought

, I'm going to find a way to make him pay for this.

"What's wrong then, pussy got your tongue?" Grey gave the cart a rattle and Sam's head bounced up and down, "Whoops, guess that ship has sailed, eh?"

Miranda glared at him and kept silent: she was done having her words used against her.

Grey exhaled a cloud of smoke, "Yeah, didn't think so."

He pushed the cart into the parking lot. Miranda started to look about.

"All right, so which one's yours?"

"Just look for the most decrepit looking banger you can find, it'll be mine," he replied.

Miranda took a moment to translate the man's words before looking about. It took her only a few minutes.

"Is this it?" she asked.

"Describe it."

She frowned but complied, "Uh...Camry, two door, blue. Lots of mud and rust."