As Kate heads back to the kennel, and her captive, she tries to figure out why he looks so damned familiar. When he had first spoken, and she gazed at his glassy-eyed, doped-up expression, she took him for a street junkie who had broken in looking for an easy score. But then, after she managed to shoot him with his own paintball gun and secure him in a kennel cage, and he stared up at her, his deep blue eyes a tad more lucid, she realized that she recognized him.
Entering the room, the man looks up at her expectantly. And then it hits her.
"Mike Kripke's basement," she says by way of explanation.
Breathing heavily, he just continues to stare at her. "What? What does that mean?"
Walking around cage, she tilts her head, taking in his appearance. It had been, what, ten years? He had aged--grown taller, filled out--as had she. Gone was that bad boy attitude that she had found so damned attractive at the time. Instead, it was replaced by something else . . . a vulnerability.
As she studies him, he stares up at her expectantly, looking all-the-while like a prey animal, caught in the sights of a ferocious predator. She has to admit, she likes having the advantage when dealing with an unknown element.
Or perhaps known. Time to see if her hunch is right.
She kneels down several feet from the cage, so she can look him in the eyes. "You're John Connor."
His manner changes from fear to wariness. Bingo.
She smiles, trying to disarm him with a look. "I'm . . . Kate Brewster."
He shakes his head, not understanding.
She feels a hint of irritation that he does not recognize her as easily. "We went to West Hills Junior High together," she tells him, not able to hide the annoyance from her voice.
He smiles and huffs a breath, scrubbing at his forehead. "Jesus."
She knows that while he remembers the school, he still does not recall her. Why does that not surprise her? Whereas he had a reputation for getting into trouble with the law--and not giving a damn--she had been far from popular in Junior High School. She had admired him from afar, the good girl crushing on the juvenile delinquent.
That's why, when he had picked her from amongst the group of giggling schoolgirls in Mike Kripke's basement all those years ago, she had been stunned. Not that she wasted more than a few seconds before going off to one of the many couches and sitting down with him. She had been incredibly nervous, but also extremely thrilled. She had never done anything like that, whereas she assumed he had made out with girls dozens of times, so she let him take the lead.
She remembered the way he had stared at her, a cocky smile lifting one corner of his mouth as he tossed back that ridiculous lock of hair from his forehead before reaching to cup her cheek. He had leaned forward and kissed her tenderly on the lips. She remembered that he had tasted salty--like French fries, or potato chips. He had paused then, meeting her eyes, looking for approval. She had smiled at him then, feeling more at ease. He had returned the grin before leaning in closer to kiss her again, just as gently, but gradually with more passion as she started to relax.
Glancing over at the man sitting before her, it is almost hard to believe that this is the same person. His clothes are worn and dirty, his hair unkempt, at least a few days of stubble darkens his jaw. But when she meets his eyes, she knows it is him--though they seem old, like the eyes of someone who has lived a lifetime. She recalls then how he had looked when she first found him in the pharmacy area. Tired . . . weary to the bone. More than just stoned. He had seemed weighed down, as though he shouldered a heavy burden. As if he had used the narcotic he ingested as an escape.
"What happened to you, John? Middle of eighth grade you just . . . disappeared. And there was that thing about your foster parents."
"Yeah, they were murdered."
She tenses. God, is she staring into the face of a killer?
"I didn't do it."
As he utters the words, she finds that she believes him. She realizes then that there is a great deal more to John Connor than merely meets the eye. And a part of her--Lord, let it not be that silly, smitten schoolgirl-- wants to figure him out. Find out what makes him tick.
Unbidden, a thought comes to her mind.
I wonder if he's still a good kisser?
Before her mind can wrap around that thought, the silence is pierced by the crash of breaking glass, followed almost immediately by dogs barking.
"What the hell?" she wonders as she gets to her feet and heads to the kennel door. "Is somebody with you?"
He shakes his head, worry visible on his face.
Unlocking the mysteries of John Connor will have to wait a little longer.
She spares him a final glance before leaving to investigate the source of the noise.
Fin