Prologue
It comes to him in flashes. Prompts.
Needles; flash. The smell of diesel; flash. Sirens; flash. Pain; flash, flash, flash.
Usually he ignores them. Shakes his head, bats at the cobwebs, weeds through the fog.
Sometimes, though, they persist. And of all the times for one to persist, it just had to be now.
It just had to be her.
"Un-fucking-believable," he says under his breath, sucking on the corner of his mouth. One of his guys makes side eyes at him, eyes a little wide (Bossman doesn't swear, not ever. Or at least, he never has before).
He ignores the looks he gets, and continues to gnaw at his lips as he stares at the prompt, and tries to block out the flashes.
Brown hair, blue eyes; driving fast, lights speeding by, blurred by the rain, the sound of her laugh.
Pale skin, lips too big for her face; a fist connecting with his face, the sound of her scream, and laughter, but not hers; crueler, harsher.
Flash; sitting underneath the bleachers, passing a bottle back and forth. Flash; arguing, shoving, unkind words, watching her walk away. Flash; sneaking into her bedroom, waiting for her to come home, her little squeal of surprise. Flash; a cloud of blue smoke drifting lazily over them, the orange glow from the end of their shared cigarette.
Of all the times, of all the prompts, why did it have to be her?
He starts to laugh, and he doesn't stop. Because it's too perfect, and it's too fucking funny.
And those blue eyes just stare back, not recognizing him, horrified like the rest of them. Blue smoke drifts around her again, seeping from her slack mouth, like it did those many years ago. A habit she never kicked apparently.
She looks different, and the same. She's wearing fancy threads now; well-fitted pencil skirt and a silky looking blouse. She's a carbon copy of all the other blokes out in the alley taking a smoke.
Of all the places to work at, of course she works at the hotel that Bruce Wayne owns, and of course she happens to be working on the same night as the fundraiser.
Serendipity. Coincidence. Fate. Dumb fucking luck.
Whatever it is, he's not the kind of man to ignore something like this. Because if he does, those flashes will gnaw and gnaw and gnaw at his mind, until he tries to scratch them out with his fingernails. He knows, because it has happened before; he has the scars to prove it.
But not now. He has bigger plans (if you wanna call them that). One girl is nothing in comparison to an entire city. Oh, but he'll get back to her, he'll remember. It might take him some time to sort through all the flashes and prompts and needlework in his mind, but he will remember. So he decides not to do anything just yet. He decides to let her simmer, marinate. Let her remember his eyes on her; let her stew in her fear.
Hell, maybe she will remember him all on her own. But probably not.
He's not Jack anymore. No he's not.
A/N
This is just a teaser. The rest of the story will be told with a slightly different voice/narrative as it will mostly be told from my OC's POV, and therefore it will be much less disjointed.
As well, this will be a relatively amusing story, but with lots of angst and sexual tension thrown in. In my opinion, the best comedies are the ones that can make you laugh and cry, and that is my goal here. I hope this reeled you in, and I hope you don't think that this trope is overused. I am planning a couple surprises for you so please don't abandon this yet.
Be cautioned however; I am notorious at keeping the updates going at the beginning, but then months and months stretching between them as my muse wanes. Look at any of my past incomplete stories (ie Rumour and Convenient Distractions for example). Not to sound like a review whore, but one way to at least try to counteract this is by giving me a review. Just a couple words really make an authors day, as well as give them the confidence to continue.
Anyway, enough yammering.
Cheers,
linnie