"And I want it and I wanted it bad, but there were so many red flags. Now another one bites the dust, and let's be clear, I trust no one." Sia, Elastic Heart
...
"You clean that sink any more, and it'll double as a second mirror."
"That's the idea," I quip, not even bothering to look up from my work, though I can clearly hear the huff of exasperation that my best friend gives me as a result. "Not everyone is terrified of a little elbow grease, Karen."
"Ouch. You wound me."
"Good thing I'm a doctor, then."
"Says you," Karen retorts, the sound of heels clacking against the linoleum of the kitchen floor alerting me to the fact that she has decided to move to the space of countertop just beside where I stand, and lean her hip against its edge while simultaneously crossing her arms over her chest. "I've never witnessed this."
"I've got the diploma to prove it."
"Also something I've never seen—"
"Some people don't need proof for everything, you know."
"And some people make a living off of that sort of proof."
Smiling in spite of my half-hearted aggravation, I pause in the act of cleaning for long enough to shoot my companion a roll of the eyes, her answering laugh prompting me to shake my head a bit in renewed exasperation and amusement. Ever since I could remember, our relationship had been centered around this sort of mutual sparring, more often than not giving the impression that we were far less forgiving of each other than we really were.
You would be surprised at exactly how often that attribute actually benefitted us, no matter how counter-intuitive that may seem on the surface—
"Oh, right, I almost forgot!" I tease, pulling back from my work at the kitchen sink, and stepping around Karen's slightly taller frame so that I can toss the used rag into the washing machine just beyond the doorway to our left. "You're a reporter."
"Wow, Lex, getting senile on me already?"
"Maybe."
"You know they have medications for that, right?"
In lieu of a verbal reply, I settle instead for shooting Karen a look that told her I was very well aware of the litany of medical remedies for poor memory without saying a word, her answering laugh giving me every indication that she understood the meaning behind the look without a second thought. Once again, I am rendered grateful at how easily she interprets the mood without ever needing verbal proof to back it up—
I suppose that is just one of the many reasons I chose this girl to be my roommate.
Her other qualities aside, though, perhaps what I adore the most about Karen Page is that she has an inexplicable knack for taking the absolute worst of my days, and making them at least a touch more bearable. She had been there—always—since the very worst had happened, and for that, I was immeasurably grateful, no matter how much we may engage in these mock arguments, and give each other hell.
"So, you have to work today, or do you have the night off?"
"I'm off, actually," I reply, turning just a bit to face her, while simultaneously granting myself the ability to lean against the counter, with my head cocked just a bit to the side. "What did you have in mind?"
"Drinks at the bar down the road? Maybe some dancing if we find a man that fits the bill?" Karen suggests, a knowing smile crossing her features as she recognizes my sudden laugh, and sees it for what it really is. "Don't even think of backing out on me, Alexis, you've done that too much already."
"Fine. I'll go. When were you thinking?"
"How long will it take you to get ready?"
"Somehow, I knew it was coming to that," I retort, unable to resist the urge to smile even in spite of how I am still determined to make a show of feigning irritation. "I suppose you don't want me to finish cleaning first, before we go?"
"Damn straight."
"Then I'll go get started now. Meet you at the car in twenty?"
"Sure thing."
Whether I wanted to or not, at the start of the day, it looked like a night on the town was going to take up its remainder without my ever having planned it to begin with.
…
Hours later, with a semi-significant buzz from the numerous martinis both Karen and I had downed as though our lives depended on it , and a few dances under my belt courtesy of the equally intoxicated bar-hoppers in the vicinity, I found that I was actually having a semi-decent time, in spite of my former trepidation. Naturally, there was a part of me that remained convinced that I might still have been better off at home, perhaps with a glass of wine, and a good book.
Of course, I knew that Karen would never have allowed that so long as there was breath in her body.
"So—are you actually having fun, or what?" She asks, leaning over to nudge me in the side, and pulling back before my retaliatory swat can connect successfully with her hand as a result. "Hey! I think what you're doing qualifies as shooting the messenger!"
"The messenger deserves it for being cocky about her win."
"I do not!"
"You do," I press, reaching out to swat her again, and this time succeeding, the pout that she gives me in response only prompting me to smile as I turn back to the bar and throw back the last of my martini before going on. "But that doesn't mean I don't appreciate you for it, regardless."
"There it is. The thanks I have been waiting my entire life for."
"Smart ass."
"You know you love it."
"Do I though? I'm not so sure."
"Yeah, well, you should be," My friend retorts, nudging me once again, and this time finding herself surprised when I do not retaliate, my attention having been rather effectively diverted by the sight of the man seated across from us at the bar, who had now chosen to abandon said seat and slink out of the side door.
"Damn it."
"What? You don't agree?"
"No, I agree. We—would you just give me a second?" I stammer, hopping down from my own chair and snagging my purse from the hook built into the back, before I was off after the man without even giving Karen time to reply. I knew it was foolish, with so many potential witnesses—so much at stake, if the wrong person overheard. But in spite of that awareness, I was not entirely willing to give up, my heels clicking against the floor of the bar until I reached the same side door the man I followed had just exited through, and shoved it open to step into the bitingly cold night air on my own.
It only takes a matter of seconds for me to realize that whoever it was that had been watching us—watching me—has already made it halfway down the crowded sidewalk in a sure trek towards the ally running perpendicular to it, the fabric of his jacket flapping behind him, as he went. Belatedly, the thought occurred to me that this might be a ruse—that the almost careless manner in which he allowed himself to be followed, as though he wanted me to do so should be raising at least a dozen red flags that would prompt me to stop. But I knew the jacket he wore. I knew what it meant. And in spite of the fact that I was angry as hell that he was incontrovertible proof that I was, in fact, still being tailed in spite of numerous requests to the contrary, I found myself oddly touched at the gesture, regardless—
Or at least, I was touched, until I rounded the corner to follow after the man myself, only to find that he had disappeared, my pace slowing a bit as a result, and thus rendering me vulnerable to the assault that came next.
In seconds, I feel a hand grabbing roughly at my wrist, the instinctive scream that built up almost immediately in response dying rather quickly in my throat as I am subsequently whirled around to find my back pressed flush against my assailant, while my cheek jams against the brick of the alleyway and my arm is twisted behind my back until it becomes almost painful. For a moment, the reason why I came to the alleyway to begin with fades away, only to be replaced with an almost paralyzing fear that causes my heart to pound away against the cage provided by my ribs, while my mouth goes so dry that I very nearly choke.
And then I hear it—a soft, yet familiar chuckle that sends gusts of warm air wafting against the back of my neck, the shiver I give in response only seeming to provoke still more amusement as I feel my assailant press their body still closer to my own, if that were even possible, the voice that reaches my ears causing every muscle I possess to tense in anticipation of what I know I am expected to do next.
"Bad form, Hanson—I expected more."
…
Well hello there, angels! And welcome to another brand new story! Oops? What can I say, I started watching The Punisher over the past few days, and found myself hooked (of course) and then per usual, an idea for a new story came along, and here we are! I know I didn't get too far into the proverbial meat and potatoes, here, but I do hope that it's at least enough to catch your interest, because I am nowhere near done with this tale!
As always, I thank each and every one of you for the time you have taken to read this story, and give it a chance so far! I truly do appreciate the support, and I encourage you all to leave feedback if you are willing! I'd hate to continue writing something that no one was interested in reading!
As an FYI, I've decided on Kaya Scodelario as the face-claim for Alexis. If I end up bringing in an additional OC or two, I will update you on those claims we go!
Until next time? (I hope!)
MOMM