A/N:

One shot, modern day AU. Elizabeth Swann has everything. She's the Prime Minister's daughter, engaged to England's formerly most eligible bachelor, and has a little bit of sex on the side with one of the world's most famous rock stars, Jack Sparrow. Everything is perfect until her life train wrecks one night in a New York City hotel room...

Addict

There are a few things that you should know about me.

One, I'm disgustingly rich. "Disgustingly" having the meaning of "I could buy you if I wanted to."

Two, I'm completely gorgeous, and know that I'm gorgeous. I'm so beyond vanity at this point that it almost cancels itself out.

Three, I'm engaged to Captain James Norrington, RAF, also known as Lord James Edward Norrington, formerly one of the UK's most eligible bachelors. He and Prince William were mates at Eton. Oh and to top it off, he is one hot piece of ass. I know, envy me.

Four, my father, Wetherby Swann, is the Prime Minister. So don't fuck with me.

Unfortunately, none of this seemed to impress the NYPD cop who arrested me, which in my book, definitely qualifies as fucking with me.

I should have stayed in London. I can get away with anything there. I'm Elizabeth Swann, tabloid darling.

In New York, apparently, who I am means shit.

Here's a tip. If you are going to get caught naked in bed with a suspected drug smuggler, do it on your home turf.

I however, have never been one to take my own advice, which is why I'm sitting in a holding cell in midtown Manhattan, waiting for some prick from the British embassy to come and bail me out.

I think I've made a real mess of things this time.

It all started when I was at a concert.

I'm always at a concert. Drugs have a lovely way of always popping up at concerts, and I have a fondness for cocaine.

It keeps my thighs thin.

But if I'm truly honest with myself, high quality powder wasn't the reason that I gassed up my father's jet and flew across the Atlantic. Even worse than the cocaine is my addiction to Jack.

Jack Sparrow, one of the greatest guitarists on either side of the Atlantic.

The first time that I met him I was sixteen, backstage at his concert in London. His band was called The Black Pearl. Money can buy you entry into any place. The first time I fucked him I was seventeen. My looks bought my way to Jack.

There was something about him, is something about him, beyond the dreds in his hair, beyond the leather pants that hugged his legs and crotch, beyond the way his lips moved over the microphone as he sang…there is something otherworldly about Jack Sparrow. There is some raw animal magnetism that makes me hate him almost as much as I want him.

He needs no one.

Every time he was in London I would go to his shows, and as he got more popular and the shows at home less frequent, he would come by just for me.

I'd say that I've had a shag in every five star hotel in London.

So why did I come here to see him? Why, with only three weeks until my wedding, did I come to New York? Perhaps to prove to myself that he would want me anytime, or anywhere. In the past two years since my engagement to James, it wasn't that Jack and I had stopped sleeping together. If anything, we'd seen each other more…but something had changed…even the way he touched me seemed to be more guarded.

As if I was the one he didn't trust.

"You'll be Lady Norrington," he had said one night a year past, in a suite at the Ritz Carton. "Bloody fucking Christ, that doesn't even sound real Lizzy. Sounds like something out of a fairytale, something someone made up."

I knew that Jack Sparrow didn't love me, just as Jack Sparrow knew I didn't love him. But I think he had been disappointed in me. Perhaps he had been hoping that I would stick it to my father and not take on the role society seemed to have dictated for me. Perhaps he thought I would stick up my middle finger with a giant "fuck you" to upper class London. Or perhaps he meant nothing at all.

So I came to New York, because I needed a hit of Jack.

Backstage at The Garden (at this point, even his bodyguards were calling me Lizzy), it was midnight by the time Jack finished his last set. I watched him swagger backstage, covered in sweat, his chest glistening through his open shirt, and I laughed.

He almost reminded me of a pirate.

As soon as he saw me he froze, his large dark eyes focused on me and only me. I must say, I had done an impressive job of doing myself up. Black leather Gucci boots, short as hell frayed jean skirt, and a leather bustier, also Gucci. Oh and no underwear.

"Hello love," were the only two words he said to me before he grabbed me by the arm and led me into a side hall backstage. He was smiling, which was a good sign. I lived for Jack Sparrow's smiles. A moment passed before he pushed me back against the wall, his mouth taking mine brutally (he always was a rough kisser), his hands fumbling with the zipper on his pants. I jumped up and he caught me, my legs sliding around his waste as he slid inside of me.

Bloody fucking hell that felt good.

I moaned like a whore and didn't really care if all of Madison Square Garden heard me. He smelled like rum, sex and sweat and I was high off of it, biting his neck and he thrust into my repeatedly, his grunts ringing in my ear.

We both finished—too quickly—and I sunk back down to the ground and if my bones were jelly.

Jack smiled. "Fancy meeting you here."

An hour later we were back at his suite at the Waldorf Astoria, naked and smiling, having just fucked two more times and snorted just the smallest bit of cocaine.

"So can I take it you've finally come 'round to that sense I know you've got?"

I swatted at his ass playfully. God, he had a gorgeous ass.

"What are you talking about?"

"Finally told your old man and that stuffy ol' Lord of yours to go shove it?"

My hesitation gave me away.

"Bleeding, Christ," Jack swore, getting up much too quickly, the cocaine propelling his cat like movements. "You're a real fine piece of work darling."

It was his tone that enraged me more than anything else.

"What the fuck Jack?"

"You mean to tell me that you flew across the fucking ocean to shag and snort a little coke, and you still intend to go back to that fiancé of yours?"

"Spare me Jack, you never had a problem before."

"How the fuck old are you! We've been doing this for years Lizzy. Years." He sat down beside me once more, his voice growing soft, his hands against my face. "We were always in London before. Where everyone could pretend that it didn't happen. You coming here, that makes it real, love."

I knew what he was talking about, and yet I didn't know. Coming here had been rash—but I'd had to see him, had to have him. Adulthood was becoming all too real for me too soon. I mean, shit, by this time next year I could be a mother.

"You can't have both, love."

Was it the coke, or had he just read my mind?

"As if there was a choice," I grumbled angrily, getting up from the bed and walking over to the window. Forty stories below, all of New York City was still alive, even at this time of the night.

"What's that s'pposed to mean?"

"Oh please, as if you ever offered me anything. You're Jack Sparrow! No woman can have you, there's no woman that you can't live without! You're completely free from everybody, and now you mock me for acknowledging it."

"You stupid blind girl." He spit the words out. "I'm asking you to be free with me."

"Oh that's the cocaine talking."

With an angry cry he pushed me up against the wall, my small shoulders completely encircled by his hands."

"Do me a favor Lizzy. For once in your life….just.fucking.listen."

He took a breath, as if considering his words carefully. "I can't promise you children or grandchildren. I can't promise you that I'll ever settle down, or that I'll always be faithful, or that I'll sober up anytime soon. But I swear, I swear on me life, you will never have to be anything other than what you are around me. And I will always make sure that you are taken care of. And who knows…maybe we'll be happy."

I stood stock still, his words penetrating but not really penetrating.

I let the silence grow too strong.

"Fine," he sneered. "Go back to Norrington, go back to your father, go back to the people that drive you so out of your damn mind that your snort up with a fucked up rock star to try and forget how bloody awful your life is. Well poor little rich girl. Fuck you."

He let me go and walked away.

"You're pathetic," he called over his shoulder.

I lost my mind.

Because he was right.

"Fuck you!" I cried, and threw a lamp across the room. It missed his head, but I was actually rather impressed by the distance. "I don't fucking need you. You're a joke. A grown man living his life like this, like an overindulgent adolescent, you fucking joke!"

I was screaming at this point, but I don't think Jack was listening.

And that's when six police men broke down the door.

So apparently, Jack had not only been buying cocaine, he had been smuggling it as well.

Well that's just bloody terrific.

Wish he'd told me that before I put myself at the seen of a federal drug bust.

Jack, as the detective told me, was apparently smuggling from smugglers, sort of a robin hood of…cocaine…or something.

And that's how I got here. 107th Precinct. New York, New fucking York.

"Miss Swann?"

Another detective stepped into the completely enclosed holding cell that I was in.

"Miss Swann, there is someone here for you."

And James Norrington walked into the room.

"James!" I cried, jumping up and running into his arms. He caught me in the embrace and we just held each other while the detective quietly slipped out.

"How did you get here so quickly?" I asked as tears began to slip down my face.

"Concord," he answered stoically.

"Oh."

I could tell he was upset, well, furious was more like it. He must have known that when they arrested me I was naked in a hotel room with Jack Sparrow.

Which doesn't exactly make for putting your fiancé in a great mood.

So I kissed him.

You have to understand something. James and I love each other, there is no denying that. He loves me and I love him—we love each other. I've never come out right and said that I've slept with other men, but James is no fool. He tolerates it, in fact, secretly, I think a part of him is turned on by it.

Which is precisely why his hand was beginning to travel up my skirt.

A part of James loves the fact that I can fuck one of the most famous, most desired men in the world, but I always come back to him.

"James," I said, my voice breathy. "James it's so dreadful here."

My hand traveled up his perfectly tailored black trousers and came to rest on his growing erection.

Did I mention that Captain James Norrington, stiff as a board and completely by the book, is a complete nympho? The man wants sex like there's no tomorrow. Ah, the secrets we all hide.

A few strokes of my hands and I had my darling fiancé exactly where I wanted him—on top of me, on top of a table, his fingertips bruising my hips as he thrust himself into me again and again and again. James is more than in love with me—he's addicted to me. Once I thought it would be his downfall, but then I agreed to marry him.

Apparently I'm also the cure.

You know it's funny—James makes me come differently then Jack does. With James it's more complete, more whole, more right. With James I feel like I'm just doing what comes natural, what should be.

I came pretty quickly actually—probably the stress of the night.

I twisted my hips, and James let out a completely animal like groan, coming right after me, his hands still clenching my hips.

"Wow," I said breathless. "That was hot."

His eyes went wide, and he wrenched himself away from me. I fixed my skirt around my hips and waited for James to tell me when we could leave.

But James said nothing; he just fixed his shirt and zipped up his trousers.

"James?"

Again, nothing.

"James?"

"You know, Elizabeth, you always manage to say the completely wrong, idiot thing. You didn't even apologize."

"For what?"

"For what? For what!"

I took a step back, I had never heard James raise his voice.

"I just flew from London for you Elizabeth! You've pulled some stunts before but this one tops them all. You've embarrassed me, your father—he's had to pull every string he's got to make sure they don't charge you with anything."

I felt a lump in my throat.

"What about Jack?"

He laughed. "Your friend is done for."

My stomach began to knot. "James—"

"And you don't even get it do you? The whole world would love you if you'd let them, and I—"

He shook his head. "Forget it. You know, some men would give anything for what I've got. And here I am the fool, the disgusting, shallow, fool at your sexual beck and call—and I'd give anything just to hear two sincere words come out of that lying mouth of yours."

It would have been less cruel if he had slapped me.

"James?"

"Ambassador Whitely will be here within the hour to get you."

He turned to walk away.

"Where are you going!" I cried, and none of us missed the edge of desperation in my voice

"To try and remind myself why I put up with you when I can still taste Jack Sparrow on your breath."

And he actually walked away. He turned his back and walked away. And I was alone.

I didn't even have a cell phone to call Jack on.

And Jack wouldn't answer, even if I did.

Above my head, a cold, florescent light flickered on and off.

I think I've made a real mess of things this time.