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Zoey in Distress	By : tooshoes Category: DC Verse Comics > Batman Views: 1809 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Batman or Gotham franchise, nor any of the characters therein. I will in no way profit from this story, except for the satisfaction that comes with sharing it.

Chapter List
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The next thing I know, I am waking up to a strange man groping my breasts.
I don’t remember having dreams, though I awake with a start, sweating and heart pounding. I don’t remember anything at all for a moment, and I have no idea why I’m in an ambulance.
“What the fuck,” I mutter as the paramedic quickly slides his hand from my nipple to an electrode taped over my heart. I take in my surroundings gradually as consciousness returns. The ambulance is driving with no siren, and I’m laying on a stretcher with my hands strapped to my side, and the only thing I am wearing is a man’s jacket with a silk lining. The jacket is completely open such that all of my goods are on display to the paramedic who is fussing over me. My hands are strapped to my side. The circumstances suggest that he is merely checking on my health, but my pussy is wet and hungry, telling me that things aren’t what they seem.
“Oh, you are awake … good,” he says, quickly closing the jacket and holding it shut because the buttons are broken off – that fact does not ease my suspicions. “You fainted. I was just checking your heart.”
“How was it?” I ask with an accusing smile that probably comes across as flirty – a natural consequence of my upbringing.
"A bit fast,” he says, now more professionally.
I blink, as the moment starts to hit me. This is much bigger than a man sneaking a touch. I’m in an ambulance. Something went wrong. Very wrong. My mind may be foggy, but I know that much.
“What happened?” I ask nervously, but suddenly the memories start flooding back.
“You were involved in an explosion,” he replies. “But you seem fine. I can’t find any injuries or physical problems. I think you just fainted.”
“What happened to Daddy and Marilyn?” I ask suddenly, as a snapshot appears suddenly before my mind’s eye of the two people I care most about lying motionless on the ground.
“We’ll be at the hospital in a minute,” he says, as he starts loosening the straps on my arms. “They’ll fill you in there.”
“No, please!” I urgently insist, as the memory becomes clearer. “Are they … dead?”
He doesn’t look at me when he says, “We found three men, all deceased at the scene, and two injured women, one of whom is probably already in the hospital.”
It feels like a puzzle that I’m in no mental state to put together. Three men? I know one of them is Daddy. They don’t need to tell me that, and I don’t care who the fuck the other two men are. But … if the women are all alive, then Marilyn must be alive. I feel dizzy. I don’t know how to process the sudden horror and relief at the same time. But my eyes show no such confusion, as the tears unload.
“We’re here,” the paramedic says as the ambulance comes to a stop, and the back doors swing open. Two men quickly grab the stretcher and pull it out and set it on the ground. They intend to push me inside the hospital, riding on the stretcher, but I see Bruce standing just beyond the door in the ER, and I jump off the stretcher and run to him.
The paramedics are surprised, but they do nothing to stop me.
Bruce is surprised, too, as I leap into his arms and cling like he was my closest friend during this tragic moment.
In reality, we don’t know each other at all. We merely shared the shallowest of moments a short time ago. He was a rich, handsome boy who I hypnotized for a moment, and I was just a drugged up nympho caught up in a role.
He pushes me back for a moment, and I’m waiting for him to set me straight. He’s looking right at my chest and says matter-of-factly: “You are still wearing my jacket.”
I don’t remember when he put the jacket on me, so I feel confused, and now that jacket is swinging open. Does he want me to give his jacket back to him? Now?
Instead, he pulls the jacket closed and puts his arms around me. He says way too politely: “That was terrible back there, but I’m glad to see you are awake again, Miss.”
Miss? He didn’t remember my name even after the DJ blasted it over the loudspeaker? No, of course, he didn’t, what did I expect? Why the fuck am I disappointed? This should be the last thing on my mind, but still I say, “Zoey. My name is Zoey.”
“Oh, so that’s your real name,” he says, and I hug him tighter. He DID remember. He guides me towards a receptionist. “I saw them bring a few dancers in here a few minutes ago. If you’d like, I’ll wait here with you.”
I nod thankfully.
The receptionist asks me a few questions about myself, then she asks, “Are you here to visit Marilyn Caruso? Is she your sister?”
“Yeah,” I reply, then hesitate. “Actually, she’s my mother. But her last name isn’t Caruso.”
The receptionist looks at me curiously and says, “That’s what it says on her ID. Anyway, you can take a seat over there. We’ll let you know when there is an update on your mother’s condition.”
I wonder why Marilyn’s ID would have the wrong name. Did Daddy help her get a fake ID, just like he had done for me? Why would he do that?
Bruce guides me to a seat, holding my shoulders as though I was a fragile thing, and he sits beside me.
The waiting room is mostly full, and I’m catching a lot of attention. I’m still naked under Bruce’s jacket, and since the jacket has no buttons I need to be careful to hide that fact while I’m sitting. Obviously, I’m not shy, but I’m feeling vulnerable right now, and this is not the right time to be flashing people. Even worse, my body doesn’t seem to care. The thought of exposing myself here makes my heart beat faster and gets my juices flowing. My feelings are so wrong that I want to puke, which is usually a sure sexual turn off. But not with this drug, apparently. I’m wondering when it will finally wear off.
Fortunately, a nurse sees my situation, and she hands me a blanket and hospital slippers. I thank her. I use half of the blanket for cover, and the other half I hold to my chest like a child with her security blanket. Now that the chaos appears to have settled around me, I can finally feel the trauma that life has dealt me.
“How are you feeling?” Bruce asks, as he presses close to me on the bench seat.
All I hear in his voice is sympathy. I look in his eyes, but I don’t say anything. I don’t know how to feel. I’m being torn by understandable grief and unforgivable passion, and I’m hoping he won’t hold it against me if he finds out. But I hold it against myself. My heart should be focused on Daddy’s death and worrying about Marilyn’s condition. Instead, I’m imagining his hands under my clothes, and I shift my position, hoping to feel if he’s still excited by me.
“It’s OK, you don’t have to talk,” he continues, then looks off into the distance, beyond the walls. “I think I know how you feel. I lost my parents a couple of years ago. It’s a dark part of my life I’ll never be over, but I keep looking for something to hold on to. Your mom is still alive. She’s fighting in there, and if she’s as strong as you are, I know she’ll make it.”
“I’m not strong,” I mutter, feeling ashamed that he has any faith in me.
“That’s not what I saw at the club,” he says reassuringly.
“What?” I reply with frustration that he doesn’t get me at all. “I was just doing the only thing I know how to do, what I’ve always wanted to do. I was born to take my clothes off. That doesn’t make me strong.”
“No, no, not that,” Bruce replies. “Don’t you remember? I’m talking about what you did with those thugs outside after the attack.”
I look at him blankly. I don’t remember anything after the explosion.
“You didn’t freeze,” Bruce explains with admiration. “You leveled two large men, each of them at least twice your size. They were huge, and you are, what, five feet tall?”
“I’m five foot one,” I instinctively correct him, betraying a sensitivity about my height, but now the moment is coming back to me, and my anger starts to focus. “Who were the men? Are they in jail?”
“Gordon arrested them, thanks to you,” Bruce reassured, “but they were thugs for hire. Somebody ordered this hit, and they aren’t talking.”
“Oh,” I say, and I clench my teeth, embracing the anger, which feels more appropriate than the other feelings bothering my body.
But then Bruce seems determined to comfort me, holding me close, kissing my hair and whispering over and over, “Everything will be okay.”
His hand is resting on my thigh, unsteady. I don’t know what to do with it.
Shame loses out to desire, and I urge his hand up my thigh, under the jacket. I stop only an inch or two away, wanting him to complete the journey into the damp warmth ahead.
I can feel the pressure in his pants now. We look into each other’s eyes. Both of us nervous. Both of us inexperienced. Both of us wanting. Both of us hesitating at this most delicate moment.
Then he says, “Shouldn’t you be thinking of your mother right now?”
The power that drug has over me disintegrates at those words. I cover my mouth with my hand and shame floods back into my eyes.
I don't know what's wrong with me. It's like everything I feel is magnified beyond my control.
Bruce looks away in disgust. I’m not sure if he feels that way about me or about himself and his own feelings.
“There you are, sir.” comes the voice of a much older man, interrupting this horrible moment. “And … you are with … her. Good evening, Miss.”
“Alfred, this is Zoey Caruso” Bruce says calmly, shaking off what just was, and we both adjust our clothes. “Her mother is fighting for her life in here somewhere.”
“I’m so sorry, Miss Caruso,” he says sincerely to me, then looks back to Bruce. “We may need to stay here for a while. The press is everywhere.”
“I’m not leaving until we know more about Zoey’s mom,” Bruce says firmly, reassuringly.
I needed to hear that. I swing my arms around him and bury my face into his chest.
“Of course, sir,” Alfred says pleasantly, but with just a hint of disapproval.
As if on cue, a doctor walks up behind Alfred, calling out, “Zoey Caruso?”
I stand up quickly, nodding. My heart leaps forward. I don’t feel ready for this.
The doctor sees my reaction and raises his hand to calm me. “Your mother is alive and resting comfortably. But I’m afraid she still has a serious condition. A CAT scan has revealed that she has some internal bleeding and an aortic dissection which will need surgery in the next hour or two, while we assemble a surgical team. We’ve had success with similar procedures in the past, but if she has any other local family, now would be a good time to contact them.”
A shiver runs through my spine. If that was the best the doctor could do to boost my confidence, then I know I should be very worried. Finally, I ask, “Can… I see her?”
“Yes, but not for very long. Not more than thirty minutes. We will need to prep her for surgery soon.”
He leads us down two halls, and as we approach her room, I can hear another doctor explaining to Marilyn the details of the procedure they are preparing to perform.
When we walk through the door, I see IV cords attached to her arms like cables attached to a home stereo. I am surprised how old she looks suddenly, with her mascara running from her eyes and pain relievers sapping her energy. Worry is etched into her face, but when she sees me, she raises a hand to stop the doctor’s extended string of worrisome words and smiles at me reassuringly.
She is putting all of her own worries aside to make me feel better, and I then I know the depths of my love for her, and the depths of her love for me. I also feel sure now that she is about to die.
“Mom!” I cry, hurrying towards Marilyn, wanting to hug her, but instead I grab her hand – the one that is not draped in IV cables.
“I’ll be fine,” she lies, but with truer affection than I ever heard from her. Then she smiles and says approvingly, “Looks like you’ve made a new friend.”
I glance at Bruce, who stands attentive and somber by my side. I smile back at her and nod. I don’t know if Bruce will even care about me tomorrow, but if it makes her feel better, I won’t deny her what might be her last wish.
Just then, I see a new person appear at the doorway. He’s standing back, urging us to continue our urgent dialog, but I stare at him as though he might have been responsible for everything bad that had happened.
When it remains quiet for an uncomfortably long time, he steps forward and says, “Hello, ladies, I’m James Gordon from the GCPD, working with my detectives to uncover who is responsible for this tragedy at the Kindling Club. I won’t take much of your time, but I have a couple of questions I need to ask while the event is fresh in your memories.”
Marilyn frowns impatiently. “I don’t remember anything at all. I think I was unconscious as soon as the explosion occurred.”
The policeman nods and continues, “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt you or hurt anyone else at the club?”
Marilyn shakes her head.
“Did anything unusual happen before the explosion?” he presses on.
She continues shaking her head, but points at Bruce, saying, “Only that this man came into the club looking for a good time, and my daughter gave it to him.”
Bruce and I look at each other, suddenly feeling ashamed.
Gordon now looks at Bruce, asking, “How is it that you were there today, Bruce? Do you have any insights about what might have happened.”
Bruce shakes his head. “I was just celebrating my birthday. I was feeling disgusted by the scene at Sirens club and wanted to try something different. Nothing seemed strange when I got to the strip club, except that Penguin was sitting at a table with one of the dancers, but I figured he was only having a good time like everyone else.”
Mr. Gordon pauses thoughtfully, then asks, “Does that seem odd to you?”
Bruce shrugs, “Probably no odder than I must have seemed to him when he noticed me.”
Mr. Gordon then looks at me, “Your name is Zoey, right? You were the dancer? According to a few witnesses, you jumped off the stage and attacked the thugs as they attempted to shoot up the place. What made you do that?”
I swallow, and I try to forget everything that is happening right now and remember that moment. “I don’t know, sir. I remember seeing shit flying everywhere and Marilyn and Daddy lying on the ground, and then I freaked out when I saw those men running in. I just ran at them and started punching.”
“Hell of a punch you have there, young lady,” he said, impressed. “But you said ‘Daddy’. Who is your daddy? Is he the owner?”
I shake my head, and I can barely speak as my tears have lodged in my throat. “Yes, but no, he’s not really my father. He’s like the father of all of us girls at the club… I mean, he was like our father.”
“No, he is her father,” Marilyn interrupts me. I assume she’s is just refusing to admit the lie that Daddy had been telling to the IRS for tax purposes, but then she adds. “You need to know this now, Zoey, before it’s too late. Joe really was your father.”
All I can do is blink and shake my head and ask, “What?”
Marilyn swallows. “There is more, and I hope you won’t hate us for this, but I am not only your mother. I’m also your sister.”
I shrug, saying, “I know that.”
“No!” she insists. “I really am your sister, because Joe is my father, too. That is why your grandmother wanted for me to have an abortion. She had refused to tell me who my father was when I was growing up, but I found out, and Joe didn’t even know, and I was too young and stupid.”
My mind goes blank. I can’t process this now.
Marilyn continues, “I know I screwed up big time, and I’m really, really sorry, but when you were a baby, you were so beautiful and perfect, I swore that I would protect you and never tell you the truth. But now, I don’t know, at least for your father’s memory, you should know the truth of what he really was to you.”
My tears are out of control so I can barely see. The magnitude of the loss is only now hitting me: Daddy wasn't merely the adorable grouch who took me in, fed me and protected me. He was also my REAL father, and I can never talk to him about this. I can never say goodbye.
The machines around me are starting to make odd sounds, and two doctors walk urgently into the room. “It’s time, Ms Caruso. We need to prepare for the operation now.”
Marilyn’s eyes dart around frantically in surprise, because time ran out faster than expected.
I kiss her on the forehead. “I love you, mom,” I say, suddenly upset that we didn’t say that nearly enough.
“I love you, Zoey,” she replies as the doctors disengage her stretcher from one of the machines, and, too quickly, they start rolling her into the hall.
* * *
Mr. Gordon asks Bruce and me several more questions, but we don’t have much more useful information to add, so he wishs us the best and begins to search for clues elsewhere.
Bruce, true to his word, does not leave my side in the waiting room.
Almost like clockwork, we receive about one update per hour on the progress of the operation.
First, we are told that my mom survived long enough to begin the operation, which I had never thought was in question.
Next, we are told that her internal bleeding is more extensive than expected, but they have it under control. I am sure that their next communication will be the one I dread.
Bruce doesn’t let me dwell on that worry. He asks me about my life and my mother, trying to draw out my happier memories.
Then, I sigh in relief when the doctors tell us that the most critical part of the operation was a success. They warn me against being too optimistic, and that further work is needed, but I was so certain that she would be gone by now, I can’t heed their advice. I collapse against Bruce in an exhausted heap.
He is still wide awake, holding my head while I lay on his lap. After several minutes, I feel movement of his dick against my neck.
Then I remember that I’m still only wearing his unsecured jacket and nothing else. The waiting room is empty, except for Bruce and me, and the air is warm, so the blanket I was using to cover myself has fallen to the side of the bench seat. It occurs to me that I might not be completely decent.
Now, I’m feeling that heat again, on my skin and between my legs. I thought that drug had finally vacated my body, but it has returned. If I wasn’t so tired, I would be cursing myself again for letting these feelings rise at such an inappropriate time, but my body is too drained to be excited by either the urges or the shame.
But I can feel that Bruce is having a more difficult time with those feelings. He wants to talk while I want to sleep.
He’s building a theory of who is responsible for the attack, and even as tired as I am, the triumvirate attack of worry, lust and curiosity won’t let me sleep. So, I shift about and listen to his thoughts.
“This town is crawling with bad actors with bad motives, so Gordon will have his work cut out for him,” He says, while rubbing my thigh up near the hip. “My bet is it has something to do with the Sirens club. Barbara Keen and Tabitha are trying to eliminate competition to their club, and the Kindling Club has been siphoning off dancers and customers for years. Those two would kill anyone who gets in their way. I don’t know why Selina is working with them. I thought she was better than that,” he says, his voice sounding tormented, but his hand eagerly rides under the jacket and strokes my waist. Then, suddenly, his hand withdraws, and he continues talking, more quietly now, “But Selina really had a tough life. I guess I can’t blame her. She plays at being bad, because she thinks she needs to. I … I can’t believe she could really kill a lot of innocent people. Maybe Barbara and Tabitha did it on their own.”
I feel bad for Bruce, because he seems really upset about something, so I roll my body slightly, letting the jacket open for easy access. I rub his stiff dick lightly through his pants with my hand, just wanting him to feel better.
For that, he shoves me off of his body and the bench, slamming both of my elbows hard on the lightly carpeted floor. I feel stunned for an instant, but I know it’s my fault. I let that drug get the better of me. “I’m sorry, Bruce. That’s not really me.”
He reaches down and helps me back onto the sofa, saying, “No, Zoey, I’m sorry, I have no excuse. I think I’ve been leading you on. I’m not ready for anything like that.”
I nod, reassuringly, eagerly seeking a mulligan, and when he tries to place me back on his lap, just like before, I hurry into place, and we don’t talk for a while, both of us eager to keep whatever kind of relationship we are building from careening off of a cliff.
There is very little left in my life to hold onto, it seems, so I really want this.
Soon after, we get another update: Nothing has changed.
I don’t know how to feel. Is no change good news, or is it bad news?
I fall asleep shortly after that, and when I finally wake up again, light is shining through the windows of the hospital and Bruce has fallen asleep with his neck awkwardly bent over the wooden armrest. I wake him up so he can find a more comfortable position.
When the nurses see that we are awake, they give us another update: Every operation has completed successfully. Marilyn is not out of the woods; she will remain in the operating room until the surgeons feel sure that no more work needs to be done, and she will be in a medically induced coma for at least a day while her body starts to heal. But the way the doctors are talking and smiling makes me feel very optimistic, now.
And there doesn’t seem to be much point in waiting at the hospital anymore.
Bruce calls his butler Alfred, and shortly after a chauffeur arrives to drive him home.
Bruce doesn’t even ask me what I want to do. He knows that my home is in the strip club, but he refuses to let me go back there to finish my sleep.
He insists that I come home to his mansion with him, and I can sleep in one of the spare rooms. What he considers to be a spare room feels to me like a mansion in itself.
When I finally lay my head down to sleep, it feels like questions are raining on top of me.
How should I feel about the family scandal my mom unloaded on me?
What does Bruce really think of me?
Who the hell are those bitches that own the Sirens club, and did they kill Daddy?
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Zoey in Distress