The city was red: the sunset, the air, and the people, all of it. Red with passion and anger and heat. God knows why, though. It wasn't the treasured day in February, nor had any sort of tragedy struck. It was just a day, an evening, a night that demanded to be painted to the color of love and lust.

A young man, devilishly handsome and rightfully so, leaned against the wall of the alley behind his tenement building. His sleeves were rolled up, his suspenders hung from the top of his pants, and his tie was loosened. Had he been a bit older, he might've been considered a workingman just trying to catch a moment by himself; the lack of neat clothing appeared to be an attempt at keeping off the heat.

But that handsomeness of his was devilish in more ways than one. Anybody who knew the young man knew that his good looks were a trap. Once they'd ensnared you, you were his to do with as he pleased. He was a cruel brute, known for his vindictiveness, especially toward women. But, in a stunning turn of events, there was a woman whose fear of the young man didn't keep her away.

The term woman would have to be used loosely to describe her—she was more or less a girl still. Her brother would've argued that she was a child with childish dreams and childish desires. But there were things that her brother didn't know, and that hopefully never would've.

Her name was Josephine. She was lovely on the outside and used that to her advantage. That's how they'd met originally—Josephine and the handsome young man. She'd been given a hefty sum to entertain him, but something was different about her to him. She was too precious to give up.

So he asked her to come back, as often as she wanted, and they could do whatever she wanted or nothing at all, if that was her preference. She just had to let him know when. It wasn't too long before he was truly and properly in love with her. And everybody knew that he was in love. He was a smidgen less malicious, relayed far fewer insults, and had acquired a set of manners when dealing with people professionally.

This handsome, wicked young man's name was Oscar Delancey. And Oscar Delancey had found love. Now, he waited for that love in the alleyway. She appeared mysteriously at the other end and he recognized her instantly. She was as red as the city was that evening, save for her raven hair.

He went in toward the middle to meet her halfway. They stopped a few inches away from each other. "Red," he called her, as he usually did.

"Oscar," she greeted him, her voice low and sweet, like wild black orchids. Her red dress revealed much of her chest, and it moved as her breathing became heavier.

His own breathing became heavier as he reached for her waist and pulled her closer. "As much as I love that dress you'se wearin'," he began, low and husky, "I can't wait t' rip it offa you." He moved to leave a trail of kisses down her neck and along her collarbone.

She leaned to give him more access. "Just don't rip the seams," she managed to whisper. "You might be surprised to learn how expensive it was to get this thing made, and just for you, too." She guided his head back up face hers and brought their lips together.

And suddenly a pang of hunger hit both of them and they were inseparable. No, Oscar thought. Not yet.

"I'll do my best." He pried himself away from her and led her up the fire escape and through his window. Once they were both in, he shut the glass and, glancing to make sure no one saw anything, shut the curtains.

The morning was pink, a few shades lighter than the previous night. The lust was just barely there; now there was only sweetness, compassion, love. The young couple lay together in Oscar's bed, light peeking through the curtains. Josephine woke first. She looked over at her companion, who looked so much less snake-ish when he was asleep. He looked… at peace with himself. There was nothing troubling him when he slept and he didn't have to look at the hellhole that was New York.

Josephine inched off the bed and stood, looking around for where they had left their pile of clothes last night. She found her clothes and put them on, moving outside to the fire escape to put on her shoes. Little did she know that there was already someone occupying it.

Morris Delancey looked very little like his brother. He was equally handsome, yes, but in a different way. He had a look of perpetual sadness about him. He looked over at Josephine. "So. You're the girl my brother brings to his bed. Or are you just another one of the ones he pays?"

She swallowed, trying to gain courage. "He doesn't pay me," she whispered much more meekly than she had anticipated.

He nodded. "Thought so. You've been comin' here for a while now. I guess he didn't think I'd notice. Of course I did, though. I do kinda live here, y'know."

She looked at him, expressionless. "I'm sorry if we've disturbed your sleep."

Morris chuckled. "If I wasn't sleepin' well, I'd have other reasons… y'know, I thought you was different. He's changed a lot since meetin' you. Least, so everyone else would think. But I know my brother. I'se seen the things he's done, even as recent as two weeks ago. He ain't changed, not really. An' y'know… I thought you'd be the one to save 'im. But I guess I was wrong."

Morris climbed inside his own room then, leaving Josephine by herself with nothing but her shoes to keep her company. What had Morris just said to her? Had it been as god awful has she had heard it come out?

She put on her shoes. Whatever it was that he'd said, it couldn't have been true. Oscar loved her. He hadn't paid another girl since they'd been together—he wouldn't have done that, not to her. What they had was real. And Morris, he thought he was wrong about her being different. The hell she wasn't. I am a Kelly, she thought, and I got it on good authority that we Kelly's know a thing or two about being a little different.