Disclaimer: Though I do have perpetually red eyes from staying up late to read fanfiction, I don't own Red Eye.
Corkscrews drilled through his fingernails. Boiling oil poured into his ears. A stabbed into his neck.
These things, mused the man who carried a license belonging to a said Jackson Rippner, would all be much more enjoyable than what he was currently engaging in.
Which was stalking Lisa Marisol Reisert.
Who had to be the most boring woman on the face of the planet.
Jackson downed another gulp of cold coffee, grimacing at the taste before glancing across the street again. Dear Lisa was in the same position she had been in the last time he looked (twenty seconds ago): curled up on her couch in her living room.
His first day on this assignment had been a Friday like today. After lounging nondescriptly in the Lux Atlantic bar for the majority of the afternoon to get a taste of her work habits, he had followed her home with the expectation of a nigh of clubbing or following her and a boy-toy around. That was what normal, healthy twenty-six-year old single women did on Friday nights.
But not this one. Dear Lisa had spent the night poring over a stack of administration forms.
It was a one-time thing, Jackson had reasoned. She was behind at work; she had to give up her free Friday night to catch up. Her boyfriend would probably show up with takeout or something to surprise her.
But no one showed up. Not a man, not a woman. Just Lisa, scribbling away at her kitchen table until one o'clock in the morning.
She slept late the next morning, which was finally something that Jackson had expected. Sleeping in was something that normal human beings did.
But once Lisa awoke at noon, she just shuffled around the house. Watched TV, ate a sandwich, vacuumed the house.
The trend continued. Lisa did not leave the house until Monday morning rolled around, at which time she reluctantly changed from her sweatpants into one of her numerous (with his binoculars, Jackson had seen them hung up in rows in her closet) black business skirts and silky tops. She went to work, did her job with friendly smiles and a guileless voice, then came home.
Jackson finally tapped the phone lines, expecting to find the reason for Lisa's lack of a social life. Perhaps her best friend was away on a honeymoon?
But no. All that he gleaned from Lisa's phone conversations – which consisted of a minimum thirteen calls per week from her father and one or two from the hotel or from telemarketers – was that she had a disgustingly overprotective father.
And that there was a human being beneath all that robotic dullness. He could hear the undercurrent of irritation and impatience just beneath her words when she assured her father that her life was going fine.
Both seemed tense about something. But they never mentioned it. Jackson, taking note of this reticence on his handy-dandy legal pad, brainstormed what the unmentionable event could be. Her mother? Neither Lisa nor her father had mentioned that family member.
Weeks passed slowly, day by mind-numbing day. Some days, the dreariness became so unbearable that Jackson contemplated just up and shooting Keefe himself so that he would no longer have to follow the queen of workaholics around.
But that would have reduced his paycheck by at least half. And that was unacceptable.
A car horn honked several blocks away. Jackson glanced over lazily, then directed his eyes back through Lisa's open window again.
And snorted. Complacent females. Had the thought never occurred to her that anyone could spy on her through her window? Anyone from a peeping tom to an internationally wanted middle man like himself.
And he had no doubt that there were not numerous male specimens who would refuse a peek at Lisa. She was certainly not painful to look at.
At this moment, he could see the light from the TV playing across her face in alternate shades of light and dark. It made her eyes glisten like wet jewels.
He had yet to figure out what color her eyes were. During most of his surveillance, he was too far from her to discern. The small detail was probably not extremely important, but one never knew.
He tore his eyes from her to make another note on his legal pad (the fourth one had had gone through since beginning the assignment. He probably knew more about Lisa that even her clingy father did). Come up with a plan to get closer and discern distinguishing features. Scars, tattoos – so that if it became necessary for him to dispose of her anonymously, he would already know what needed to be completely eradicated.
It seemed to him that her eyes would be dark. Or perhaps hazel.
Other than her face, Jackson had Lisa's physical features completely down pat. Bouncy, dark red-brown hair, Caucasian complexion, medium build. High heels were her footwear of choice, and the only time he had seen her out of a business skirt was when she donned her pajama pants, like now. It was almost as though she thrived on discomfort.
God, he wished she would do something. Even just a trip to the bar to order her customary Sea Breeze. But she only did that on Saturday nights.
God. Even a felon like him, wanted in nineteen states and three provinces, got out more than she did.
He suddenly keyed the ignition. The engine beneath him purred to life.
Lisa would not move from the couch until the early news ended at eleven. He was craving nachos.
Couch potato + nacho craving trip to grocery store.
His employers would not be pleased. Suppose Lisa the damsel-in-distress who was so integral to their messy plot was to somehow be compromised? (Yeah, sure, like anyone would want to kidnap/rape/murder Work Woman.)
But Jackson was sick of watching the Boring Channel 24-7. If something happened to Lisa, too bad. Then they'd just move on to that Cynthia broad. She would be more fun to terrorize than Lisa, anyways.
The sleek silver car zoomed off into the night.
Lisa found her fingers drumming restlessly on the arm of the sofa. She forced them still and tried to concentrate on the movie she was watching. Dad had lent it to her, declaring that she was going to bust her spleen from laughing, but the comedy had yet to extract so much as a giggle.
She sighed. Forced her fingers still. She needed to calm down. That car probably just belonged to someone visiting the Riveras.
But then why had it been parked in front of the Wilks' house? The Wilks were on vacation in Key West; Lisa knew they were because they had asked her to keep an eye on the house while they were gone.
Had the silver car been there last night? She tried to remember. But recollection was impossible; last night and the night before that and the night before that, she had not arrived home until four o'clock a.m. Needless to say, she had been too tired to even undress, much less notice a car in the dark.
Today, she had gotten home relatively early: seven o'clock. And she had noticed the car, sitting there like a big, shiny predator waiting to swallow the next passing-by jogger. Such a masculine show of power inevitably brought the memories back to the forefront of her mind. Hot asphalt, cold knife blade…
Please, just let it belong to someone visiting the Riveras…
Lisa's eyes slid back to the window. With a start, she realized that the car had vanished. She slid down the couch cushions in relief. Then realized that she was hungry.
All evening, anxiety had been coiling in her stomach like a cobra as she worried over that stupid car. But now that the cobra was gone her stomach felt rather empty. It growled at her. She grinned in a sheepish but happy sort of manner and jumped off the couch. Destination: fridge.
Her enthusiasm quickly dimmed as a survey of the fridge revealed that only two eggs and a bottle of expired tomato juice (left over from Dad's last visit, yuck) were available to satisfy her hunger.
Well…a now was as good a time as any for a trip to the grocery store, she guessed. After all, it was Friday night. The unsavory characters would be hanging around more exciting places like clubs and bars…right?
Tamping down her uneasiness, Lisa shimmied back into that black skirt she had worn that day and slipped on a camisole and jacket. She zipped it up to cover the ugly scar on her chest. Then she grabbed her purse and exited the apartment.
Ten minutes later, Lisa was pulling into Publix. It began to sprinkle as she jogged – as nonchalantly as she could, glancing back over her shoulder every few seconds – up to the entrance and commandeered a cart.
Lisa set off first to the bakery. She stopped in front of the shelves of doughnuts, pursing her lips as she stared down at the delicious treats and debated whether to buy glazed or chocolate frosted. Maybe she ought not to indulge in either; her figure wouldn't thank her for the extra calories, and neither would her bank account when she had to go shopping for bigger clothes.
An arm entered her line of sight. The hand attached to its end picked up the last box of chocolate-frosted. Lisa smiled wryly to herself – well, there was that decision made. She grasped a box of glazed and turned to place it in her cart, only to walk nose-first into a stiffly-starched chest.
A/N: I think this is probably only going to be a two-part story, since I don't want to go into AU. However, if feedback for this story is good, I'd like to write something longer and more in-depth. So…please review!