"I've been in several things, I was in the drug business, then I was in the oil business but I'm not in either one now you understand? I had my own little business on the side, a sort of sideline... a rather confidential sort of thing...but you might make a nice bit of money." –J.G.

s$$$s

Jordan's P.O.V.

It's been a few days- one week since I've seen Mr. Carraway after all of it. I left the cab to West Egg with some emotion resembling grandeur and poverty. No calls came to me.

Perchance he's moved on since Tom and Daisy's remoteness- also Mr. and Mrs. Wilson's deaths- and perhaps he's even forgotten of Gatsby's passing.

In depths gaze at my career and for eight days it's all behind me. The world was now, how it's meant to be seen by onlookers. My regards to Nick, assuredly starving mess. Work has passed him, let his collar loose. The message delayed to me by his boss in hopes I'd stop calling to check in.

A new contract couldn't have made its way into place, for someone like him, of his background and lifestyle. No matter how keen and full of endearment, simply picking up a new job, as of late- never possible.

His house said it all too clearly, and I looked at it. The driver leisurely paid and my eyes rolled the goodbye. I stretched my shoulders and arms, twisting my hips and heaving a sigh. That ride was lengthy, and the driver was sluggish… No doubt in love of my being there in his out of date, cut-rate, cab car. The blistering air must have gotten to him. He must have been elated for actually trying to converse in boring verses. I wasn't listening to a word.

A simple black suit fit me nicely, no vivacities or floras or quills, no. I couldn't be likened to that Daisy in any means. No designs bestowed me, it was purely dark and slim, and that was all. I wore dark glasses to match- not optical- These were for style, and I rid myself of them to get an enhanced look at Nick's- well- it was small wasn't it?

It was an insignificant, simple hut squeezed between Mr. Gatsby's old mansion- /Yes, old. The man's been dead for days now./ –and the mansion on the right that hadn't belonged to Gatsby. Although the man- rich enough to own all the mansions on the block- god.

The turf was pleasant, noticeable flowers and fountain freshly painted. I looked in the windows as I approached the trifling home. The house wasn't lighted, no light at all shone from the inside. It gave it a sort of dampening and dubious look for my valid opinion, and enjoyable as it could have been to be lighted.

The door drew a knock from my gloved hand. "Nick- Nick, its Jordan. Let me in." I waited- "…" Harder knocks came to existence, and then, the drawing silence kept its vows.

Nick was unalike from all others, less expectant, not as much of assuming of things. He took my breath away and my feelings probed. I wasn't like the Buchanan's, pointless Daisy and arrogant Tom. The two were seamless together and I hoped they were happy, two fools of themselves were right. The beautiful fool and the polo player- I laughed- and Nick still wasn't answering.

There was no lock on the door, reaching for the handle. This wasn't safe of him. Heartless people were everywhere, and he's lucky Mr. Barton didn't know where he lived. The man I courted was hopelessly violent. Appallingly envious of Nick, a persecutor…very intimate...

I didn't have it planned to go anywhere far with him, but he did last longer than others who failed. I was hopelessly persuaded to leave him by Gatsby after Teddy nearly broken Nick's nose and caused a fight at one of Gatsby's parties.

Mr. Gatsby was kind enough to have his servants break it up- although nothing to break- Nick was unconscious immediately. Poor man, only speaking on my behalf…

Gatsby had my Mr. Barton escorted out, and the man actually asked if I was to come with him. With the host's eyes on me and the attention of the crowd and the delirious mumbling Nick, I laughed in his face and declined incredulously. A scowl there and he allowed himself to be led out by a few of the many servants.

Gatsby forbid him from his house, making sure to inform us that it was for safety precautions only- more concerned of the safety of Nick than anything else- Mr. Gatsby winked at me, and I remember the playful eye roll he gave me when I laughed in his face as well.

I remember his voice clear as day when he said it to me.

"Careful now, Ms. Baker. You're going to end up like Mr. Carraway here." he laughed in MY face, jabbing his thumb at the unresponsive Nick. His servants had sat him on a bench to our rear.

"You'd strike me, Gatsby?" –with good humor, I tantalized him.

Mr. Gatsby looked astonished at my inclination. "Heavens, no. I mean the amount of alcohol you two consume combined could double the power of my hydroplane tenfold."

"You believe I'm drunk, then,"

"Most everyone is, please take no offence to my words, Ms. Baker. My concern is of my people's safety."

"Your people? So tribal…"

"You believe that I'm brutish? Now the offence is to me."

"Believe me when I say, Mr. Gatsby, that Tom Buchanan has nothing on you." said I to him and took a swig of a drink I picked up from a place I hadn't a clue of. "What's wrong with that woman is beyond me. Such a fool. Beautiful inconsiderable damned fool." I muttered into my glass. Who I was talking about was all too known. He frowned, but then he smiled, chuckling to me.

"That is funny." he said,

I didn't know why he said that. "What is?"

"You know I've asked an endless list of people if they knew Mrs. Buchanan. All I got were stories and bad talk of her."

"Well, no one is perfect. You hold quite a few stories yourself."

"I lost my temper once." Gatsby told me, confiscating my glass and handing it to a servant, sure of himself yet. "Hit a man for calling her such a god awful name, I couldn't control myself. My heart was such a mess."

"Why tell me this? You're supposed to keep your calm and elegant stances. Why lower yourself in my standards to prove a meaningless point, Mr. Gatsby?"

"Because, Jordan." he took my hand inside his with a gentle squeeze of the fingers. The use of my first name rendered me without speech- staring my eyes down, I found comfort. "Because I-" his hand worn out and pale. He was a worker- to his bones- Born different- "I don't have to hide around you, I am happy you know who I am, Jordan."

"I am…" Surely things like this only happened in stories? "I am PARALYZED with happiness." A grand joke!

His hand slackened his hold on me completely, he stared as if he had just seen a ghost.

Laughing then, and left him standing there. Drunkenly, almost blind, I went to find my car. He must have ordered a servant to drive me home, because all I remembered was passing out in the back of a big yellow car and mine was driven to my own home the next day- He did look after his people, and have just yet to find out just exactly what was implied with such a claim…

-That was the last time I spoke to Gatsby before he died on us. I couldn't imagine how- The man was so young. Who could possibly look at him and just-

It was dreadful.

I pitied Nick most of this- Getting to know a man all this time to just up and end like this- Gatsby being shot and killed- Under such false pretenses. He didn't have to…to die-

"Ahem."

Startled, turning my head. A man stood a few feet away from me, snipping the hedges of Nick Carraway's home. He had on suspenders, and looked a bit poor, a little grimy and hot from the heat. He was a red head, with a bushy fiery mustache. I decided to ask him on the matter.

"Excuse me, is Mr. Carraway home?" I asked him, and he shook his head at me, continuing to use his shears to trim the leaves near the window. I shaped to be impatient and leaned over the small not so well built porch. "Well do you know where I can find him?"

"Next door."

"Why on earth would he be there?"

The man seemed to be getting annoyed with all of my excessive questions, and he didn't speak for a whole moment and more. Then he opened his mouth again for a final time. "He is most definitely mourning."

"Mourning…" I murmured and thanked him, turning on my heel in the direction of the mansion next door. Much like Nick's house, there was no lighting on the inside that could be seen from the windows. It was foggy out and it seemed as if the whole town was doing just that, just mourning.

s$$$s

"My life, my life has got to be like this, it's got to keep going on." –J.G.

Nick's P.O.V.

They were a rotten crowd. A damned ROTTEN crowd. To hell with them all. To hell with them all. I poured myself another drink, I lost count at how many- Damn rotten crowd… "You're worth the whole bunch put together…" I murmured, full of fond.

Thank you, old sport.

"Leave me alone!" I barked. The voice in my head grew quiet again and I ran a hand up my face to tussle my own dark, damp hair. He did that once. He ran his fingers through my hair and I just-

The casket- It was wrong- It looked wrong again. So I fixed it again, wiping the gold linings with a cloth from my pocket to make it shine. I was reminded of Mr. McKee with the lather.

His suit was wrinkled. It insisted on doing that, and I brushed it until it was perfect, nice and neat like he was. So impeccable and handsome, a dream to be held.

Flowers, there was the possibility of bringing in more flowers. Or- I think there were more than enough. Perhaps if I were to rearrange them into a pattern- Oh bold colors were lovely. Maybe one color should surround him, one vibrant color.

Green did him so much justice- An injustice is what that light was to him- He loved that little light… But I couldn't bring myself to draw back the curtains.

It was too bright in this room anyway, a dimming setting would make everything look like- Well, I suppose darker was a more appropriate theme to deal with, so I suppose the lighting was-

Don't fuss, Nick, I'm fine.

Fine, that was entirely- I was baffled by the notion, really- Nothing here was fine, he was always so modest but nothing was fine. He was dead, that didn't strike me as being just fine. That wasn't an equivalency to what was felt- "Fine, nothing will ever be fine-"

Nick, please, old sport- Everything IS fine, and you've done a splendid job, now just-

He was never attention-seeking, not at all. Surely the man flaunted his wealth but at the end of the day he was the same old person he always was- Guests were understandable, I figured he liked them. Where were they- Not coming- No one was coming? No one cared, because no one cared but me-

"Nick?"

"Get out of here!"

"Nick." Jordan persisted.

"GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!"

"NICK!"

I turned and fell silent; she stared at me with wide eyes. I must have appeared a mess. "Jordan…" I turned away from her, turning around to push closed Gatsby's casket. I had a feeling he didn't want to be seen like this, so weak and frail and broken…Shattered…Gatsby…

"Are you alright?" Jordan asked, stepping closer to me. I walked around the casket, to the stairs, plucking a few stray leaves from the stems of the flowers that looked out of place to me- Jay told me that once, that he just didn't feel that he could fit in, no matter what way he went.

"Fine." I said, tugging the collar of my shirt down to look somewhat even. I couldn't look so debauched, right? I've only been here for a few days- not even- No, I haven't been here that long.

"Are you sure?" she looked to me,

"Perfectly." I responded, buttoning my shirt up to look more respectable. "Why ask?" Starting to adjust the lapels of my dark blue sweater, I suddenly felt out of place in my concern.

"Nick…How long have you been here?" she was worried, perhaps frightened for me, or she could have thought it all in humor. "You look as positively frightening as a ghoul."

"Don't worry." My laugh was choked within itself. "There are no ghosts here. We're all friends. Just you, Gatsby, and I." I said and I watched the stream of liquid pour into my glass as I tipped a bottle dry.

"That's actually what I came to talk to you about…" Jordan said, finally taking notice to the disproportionate amounts of bouquets after bouquets and practically bushes of flowers surrounding the entire floor. I hoped she liked them; I put them all together kindly. They did bring the room out, and that was what I anticipated for. Jay understandably loved flowers.

"About ghosts?" I quirked and she pressed my hands down that stocked the alcohol.

"About Gatsby."

"Oh." I replied, "Gatsby's dead."

"Yes…" She lightened, and I was jumbled when she took my wine glass and bottle, setting them not so kindly on the stairs with a hollow noise throughout the case. The house was vacant, I sent almost all the servants away to bestow privacy between old friends. "He's been dead for some days now. Are you sure you're alright?"

"Ms. Baker, I'm fine. I find it ill-mannered that you keep asking something so ridiculous." I told her, I tried to get the drinks again but she thrust me away, a little too hard and I accidentally knocked over a vase- One I filled with bright green flowers. It shattered on the carpet and I called a servant to come clean it. Jordan pulled me to the side of the stairs and started to whisper bitterly to me.

"You've lost it."

"No I haven't its right here." I showed her my hand foolishly.

"You have the man's ring?" she exclaimed "Nick, this is morbid! You're losing your mind! Can't you see that?"

Whether her shaking me was working or I had come to, it must have been one of the two and I held my head in my hands, shaking myself long after she stopped. "I-"

"Gatsby is dead, Nick. Do you understand that?"

"Y-yes…O-of course…I-"

"He isn't coming back and there is nothing you can do to change what's past." She put her hand on my cheek instantly. My vision dashed to that casket, and she twisted my face to bring it back. "Now you need to get out of here and get on with your life."

"I can't!" I confessed, though loudly and pulling away from her.

"You had life before him." she pressed.

"He was my-" and I stopped myself. I found the notion incredulous. "-was my…was my friend…" The carpet abruptly became complementary remarkable.

"He was my friend too, Nick. We all cared for him."

I scoffed, pulling myself to the staircase, heatedly. "Not Wolfsheim…, Not Tom…, not that Daisy-"

"That Daisy is your cousin."

"She can go to hell."

"Nick!" She disciplined but I didn't care.

"And I mean it! Do you see her here?" I said, desperately, screaming. "Do you?"

Jordan's look was unstiffened. "No."

"Were you here?"

"Nick-"

"Were you?!"

"No, Nick, I wasn't." She huffed in defeat. "I wasn't here."

"Well why the hell are you here now? What right do you have?"

Jordan tramped towards me and a nerve was hit somewhere in her. She detonated on me and it wasn't a surprise. "I came here because I was worried about you! You haven't been returning my calls, you haven't been home in days, I haven't seen you, and Nick you've gotten fired from your JOB! Do you expect me not to worry about you, honestly?" She was exasperated. "Jay was my friend too, Nick. We've lost him but we don't want to lose you too."

I was overwhelmed in my stance. So I pointed out, "We?"

"That Daisy is worried about you too, believe it or not."

"And where is she?"

Jordan was reluctant. "Kapiolani." said Jordan tiredly. "She and Tom went to go restore their train wreck of what they call a marriage."

"They're just living on against the currents, I see." I sighed.

"Nick-"

I sat on the stoop of the grand stairs and Jordan sat beside me, her black dress cut that part of her knee was showing, and her leg. It gave me little interest nowadays. "What?"

"I'm sorry." She waited on tenterhooks and then, "I said I was sorry."

I nodded, slipping off the ring and rolling it around in my palm, studying the design of his initials.

J.G.

"A pleasant fake name."

I turned. "What?"

"Jay Gatsby." Jordan played at the syllables, and her mischievous look was back. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes, of course." I chuckled.

"He could have been a Charles, however..."

I looked at her. "Jay?"

"Of course." She confirmed and I had to disagree with a sad laugh.

"No, no way." I looked at the ring again and then back up at her to twitch a brow. "Really?"

Ms. Baker shrugged with a smile and I laughed again.

"Seems like a name for a war hero." She did amuse me.

"Hey, he was!" I teasingly scolded her. "He singlehandedly took out a whole-"

"Of course he did." Jordan said with sarcasm, and I sat up. "And I suppose you believe that he was a son to some very wealthy people, and that he actually did the commissioner of police a favor that was completely clean."

My eyes were widespread as could be at this point as I was struck by her gloved realization.

"Nick, stop being so foolish."

"Everything he said in the car was a lie?"

"Who knows?"

"He does." I thoughtlessly gestured and the led-like chill was back. We stayed inaudible and I stood and started to walk to it.

Jordan jumped up and grabbed me harshly.

"What on earth are you doing, Carraway?"

I showed her the ring in my hand and turned back to the closed casket without words. She unhanded me but didn't follow any closer.

"I can't believe you took that from him."

"Didn't mean to. It just…" I didn't want to sound like an even bigger creep than I undoubtedly was labeled so. "…slipped into my hand somehow. That's all." That was not a lie brought up, it really had, almost like sorcery. It amazed me when it happened, although now I found it quite odd. I stared at the smooth and almost gleaming surface of the casket before me, that beautiful kit. I closed my fingertips under the opening and pushed up and it opened. Jordan slowly joined me as I stared inside, and she stared too, mostly switching her gaze back and forth from me to him. I hadn't broken my gaze from him, not yet- I felt that I couldn't. There was no letting go of him.

"Nick-" Jordan started but I wasn't ready to hear her just yet.

"You know, he's said a lot of things to me."

"Oh?" She accepted the conversation with wavering interest. At least the woman was trying.

"Not all of which I understood," I said, slipping the ring on the respectable finger. "…But he said one thing, one thing I never understood although I've figured out everything else."

"What is it?"

I take care of my people, old sport. You watch.

I heard it clear in my head, and I didn't respond to her, closing the casket and there was nothing more to be said now.

s$$$s

"She makes it look so- so splendid, don't you think so, old sport?" –J.G.

By the time we exited Gatsby's palace it was nightfall. We talked and laughed as we left, and everything was right again. For the past few hours I've forgotten my troubles, forgotten my dead friend, and in this I found peace.

"He threw all those parties hoping she'd wander in one night."

But even then solace couldn't hold me. Jordan must have noticed the dropping of my expression because she changed the subject of whatever it was she was talking about.

"What are your plans for the rest of the night?"

I took a moment, "Nothing I suppose, just staying home and since I have no self-assurance, begging for my job back…I haven't really been home since-…." That was where I stopped.

"Why don't you stay with me?" Jordan asked, her expression covering restlessness. I pointed out the obvious.

"You stay at Tom and Daisy's house."

"Yes…I do-…But they aren't home!" she rushed out, "They won't be home until after their stay in Kapiolani and even then they won't-"

"No. That's alright, I'd rather stay where I am." I walked up my porch.

"I-" Jordan saw that there wasn't going to be a change in my decision, so she found the arranged rock path beneath her feet. "Alright then. I suppose I can't bag you and drag you off to where I want. Will you be alright?"

"I'll be fine. Always have been."

Not won over, she wished me well. "Goodnight ." Jordan turned but came back.

I blinked at her.

"A cab." said Jordan, blatantly.

"Right." I said and invited her inside where she sat in my living room and I called her a cab- She denied my offers for tea or anything else and after I came back from the phone I sat beside her. She started talking, revving my discomfort.

"I forgot that I couldn't just waltz next door and make Jay call me a cab." She said and I tried to cough louder than her voice, to block her out of my own ears. "He'd always roll his eyes at me and smile that charming, fake smi-"

"Cab's here!" I sat up immediately, traction of tires heavy on my driveway.

"Call me up." Jordan said to me and I felt nauseas. My response not given, she just said goodbye and the yellow city car drove off with her.

The color of the taxi made me churn, losing my steadiness of control on my weathered body. My house was my goal, it was never reached that night. My arm grabbed and pulled to the side was I, kneed, horrifically in the groin- and I was to my knees pleading.

I wasn't heard, instead thrown and stricken until a feeling of senselessness took me, then it was hard to breathe. A forced weight and pound to my already weak stomach made what I was holding in spew over one of the gentleman's shoes.

"You little-" A man raised his fist over me and I covered my face on a whim.

"That's enough." Another voice said in my defense, but I was stubborn, not wanting to listen. "He's done nothing."

"But your kicks-"

"I don't care of my shoes."

Then they were blocked from my thoughts, I felt myself shrink into my surroundings and let the weight on my heart give in. I cried out everything, how I was never going to see Jay again, and how nothing would ever again be right for me or with the world. All they heard was my pained wailing and I realized there was no way that anyone could make out my insane hollers. They blinded me with cloth and threw me in the backseat, starting to drive and the engine thundered as we drove. I sobbed to myself and- God…they stole Jay's old car…

It was when my head was lifted that I realized that I was not alone in the back of the car. My face was set on a lap, and I shivered at the touch of hands on my neck. I assumed the worst, that I was going to be strangled or my hair yanked on until it was no longer attached, but it wasn't done. The hand raked patiently through my hair, pausing to rub my neck, easing movements close to that of a massage.

The car drove on as the wind raged and the stranger's fingers lulled me into a much needed slumber. Once again I was left with a weight on me, and as rough yet gentle thumbs worked to ease my aching muscles I fell into a shady peace.

s$$$s

"Who is he anyhow?" –N.C.