Damaged Goods

It wasn't raining, but he wore a trench coat and slouch hat. There was a suit beneath that, grey pinstripes, slim black tie...but Sam couldn't see much of him, or his face, except for the chin—a strong chin that jutted out, clean-shaved, but there was a livid curling scar that went down from the side of his lower lip, across the jaw, and disappeared down into his neck. She wasn't quite sure what made her so uneasy, staring at the man standing there—and then he raised his head a little to stare into glass eye of the peephole.

The left eye was gone, just a vacant socket, the lid drooping and not quite closed. There was more scar tissue there too, lines that raked the side of the face, like the claws of some beast...but no, these were too irregular, not spaced correctly. Intrigued despite herself, Sam opened the door.

He stepped in slowly, planting each foot deliberately. Stared at Sam hard with the one brown eye he had left, gazing appreciatively at her bare legs, at the bit of exposed skin below her collar that the robe displayed. Now that she could see him in the light, he was younger than she thought...maybe a decade older than herself, in his mid-to-late 30s. There were indications of muscle too, in the set of the shoulders, though he wasn't much taller than her. As she closed the door behind him, he lifted one arm and took off his hat, to reveal a close-cropped shock of grain-colored hair.

The arm ended in a shiny, mechanical, two-fingered claw.

"Klaus," he said, with some familiar accent—Pennsylvania Dutch, maybe—but perfect English. He watched her, to gauge her reaction to his prosthetic.

"Sam," she said. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Bourbon, if you have any," he said. "Otherwise, no."

"Bulleit okay?" Sam said as she stepped over to the drink cabinet.

"Yes," he said, a hint of surprise in his voice. "Thank you."

As Sam made her way to the kitchen to get some ice, and then to the liquor cabinet, she saw that Klaus had located the bedroom and stepped into it. When she had a drink in either hand, she stepped back into the bedroom...and saw he had begun to disrobe.

The trenchcoat was folded carefully across a chair, his hat on top of it. He had slipped off his shoes...loafers, Sam now saw...and was using some small hand-held device to help him undo the buttons on his long-sleeved shirt.

"Improvised explosive device," he said. "In Afghanistan. I was lucky, they said. Although I do not always feel lucky. It is one thing to be alive, but it is something else again to be alive and...my fiance, she could not handle it, you see. And it is very difficult to date."

"But you can still fuck, right?" Sam blurted out.

He undid the final button and pulled his shirt open. The scar from his chin went all the way down his chest. A part of Sam wondered how much of him was scar tissue at this point.

"Yes," he said after a moment. "Although we may be...limited...in some positions."

Sam **** a smile to her lips.

"Well, I don't see any problem then."

She wished that she had the confidence she projected...but honestly, as long as Klaus had a cock and a pulse, she considered limbs to be pleasant bonuses.