Disclaimer: Don't worry; Tomorrow When the War Begin has not been abandoned.
…And I'm so high, I float on the wings of Beelzebub, ignoring their pleas: "Don't Jump." But my savior's too busy changing the world, saving the innocent, battling injustice to care of my vexation. Thus, when I crash… It'll be into her! BL
~x-X-x~
"Don't Jump!"
"Please, Get down from there!"
"Don't Jump!"
I could hear them. See them. Laugh at them, my little symphony of voices that tried without avail to halt my destination. Cold winds raked over my sweaty form and froze my soul into this fleshy cage. I had to admit, this was a pretty high ledge to be dangling over in the middle of the night. The roof of my mother's club was high enough to reach for the burning embers that she once called stars and far enough to tumble to a very dramatic death. And all I could think was how disgusting it was going to be when my blood splattered all over them.
'Them' being the spectators gathered outside of Tric. Fancy dresses didn't deter my plans to end this farce of a life. So when I wobbled on the cement border of the roof, I could have cared less. Life sucked: my marriage was in shambles, my daughter was suffering, my job was dead-end slave labor and I regretted my entire life. Everything I'd ever done came down to this moment and there was no one I really LOVED to talk me off the ledge. Still, thirty citizens beckon me not to flail myself off this structure if only to save the community on cleanup costs. But I was gonna jump because I could …
And I'm so high, I float on the wings of Beelzebub, ignoring their pleas: "Don't Jump." But my savior's too busy changing the world, saving the innocent, battling injustice to care of my vexation.
Thus, when I crash… It'll be into her and without reserve:
I walked off the ledge.
~x-X-x~
Kamikaze Pilots
She didn't think I would it.
BING, BING…Three teardrop chandeliers tinged loudly, their glossy crystals striking at every movement in the ballroom. The clicking echoed into hundreds of guests' ears like a silent alarm. Beautiful women in Dior gowns and well coiffeur males in the late Alexander McQueen tuxedos lent their eyes to the ascending double stairwell below the chandeliers. Tracing white ivory tiled steps, onlookers were presented with twelve young ladies of wealth. Golden rays spotlighted the new debutantes of Tree Hill, North Carolina in their elegant gowns.
The light fixtures skewed rainbow colors onto ceramic walls. Dazzling hues of red, green, blue, and pink fabric refracted from the staircase into the crowd. Ominous colors seemed to overwhelm the general population as firm hands created visors to block the light. Accompanied by the flashing lights of photographers and the celebration was a blinding extravaganza. Paparazzi moved between through the crowded party with the sleaziness and grace of a rattlesnake. Large cameras smashed into groaning guest and some even perched on the stools of the back entrance bar.
That's exactly where twenty three year old Lucas Scott could be found, sipping a Scotch on the Rocks …
Shaken, Not Stirred.
If only he didn't work for the Tree Hill Gazette, he wouldn't have to watch pompous socialites parade around.
Firm fingers wrapped boldly around his glass cup. The cylinder pushed towards his mouth, following his bawled up left fist. Narrowed lips parted wide: first introduced to six red tablets, then to dark liquid. Instantaneous melting dissolved the pills into a powder solute. Fermented drink splashed onto his tongue with the heat of a kerosene flame. Scotch scrapped his taste buds before rushing down his throat. Hammering thumps consumed his chest almost as traumatic as a heart attack, Thump, thump…
"SssAhhh," Shaking his head, the blonde winced. "That's the good stuff."
Palpations claimed his heart, blurring sordid instincts. Remnants of those red pills must have been settling in his stomach, course set for his blood stream. Fore, pounding exploded throughout his skull in a painful search for something – what he could not know. Flaxen lashes closed tightly until darkness shrouded him. Lucas hunched over the stool and laid his glass down onto the oak wood bar. It vibrated upon contact, but all he could hear was his heart, Thump, thump…
So intense was the beating that the Blonde barely hear the Manolo blahniks clicking from behind. Instead, it was a rasping hiss that quelled his inebriated state. "What's the good stuff? And where can I find some of it to get through this horrible night?"
"Huh?"
"Hello," It's snappy with a hint of bitterness. "Don't tell me your Precious P. Sawyer's bitching has finally made you deaf."
Brooke Davis - His ex-high school sweetheart? Was this girl who disappeared senior year, three days before the State Champion? He'd know that voice from anywhere: An unsettling whimper from heaven, the chime of an angels harp…Lucas looked up from his empty glass towards that sweet vixen. Blue gazes swam in hazel seas and a once pretty brunette was a lovely redhead. Her hair was darker than Rachel's but lighter as if the autumn sun rested on her shoulders.
Bright tint framed an angelic face, long tresses tucked up into French braided up do. There she stood in a simple black dress – understated yet refined. An Audrey Hepburn styled mock turtleneck gown coved her cleavage but allowed toned arms to be displayed. Silk material clung to the delicious curves of her body. Wrapped around wide hips and curved up to the smallest waist he'd ever seen, only. Only to mold over her precious and appetizing bosom which held a heart vulnerable yet well guarded.
Against he and Peyton.
"Peyton?" Confusion set in and the woman in front of his rolled her eyes. "No, asshole, contrary to popular belief in that little brain of yours, I am not a blonde whore…"
Um, so she's still mad. He couldn't help that thought. As if to read it, Brooke insisted. "Not that I care anymore."
Tiny fingers whirled around nonchalantly as she continued, "Nope, don't care at all. I moved on, just being here brings back old memories, that's all. If I wasn't Morgan Mirskey's, Bevin's sister stylist, for tonight, I would be home in Cali avoiding this hellhole. And apparently you would too, even though you live here. What got you all plastered anyway, Luke?"
He noticed she didn't take the seat beside him but opted to eye the stool disgustedly.
"This." He answered, choosing to ignore her expression. Blonde brows rose and cobalt irises rolled simultaneously. "A toast? To labels and the degradation of our youth. May they all live to fully appreciate regret?"
"Bitter much?"
"Ask me that when life isn't shit and maybe I can give you a proper answer."
Sadness filtered into brazen pupils and the whites of his eyes watered. Lucas stared up at the woman gracing his presence with pursed lips and a hard exterior. Did she feel nothing for him? For years, he'd always counted on her to be his rock – if not a friend. Today though, today that beautiful soul lent no support. Or so he though until she edged closer. Reddish tint blushed her cheeks and green highlighted eyes softened.
She knew of his turmoil, of Peyton's as well.
"Look," The Californian personal stylist moved closer to her friend. Sympathy or rather pity forced her kind hand onto the curve of his left shoulder. Tiny fingers squeezed him comfortingly. "I heard about Sawyer and I'm sorry for all you're going through."
The mention of his daughter's name bruised the poor blonde. His hands locked together uneasily, squeezing his fingers until they were purple and blue. The image of his little girl practically a vegetable drove the Brooder insane. Blonde tangles swung from side to side as he informed, "They want to put her in a clinic. Some sort of nursing home, but fuck them. I won't do that."
"Aren't there schools for people like –" foot in mouth syndrome. Dark lashes fluttered in empathy and shame. She didn't mean that his daughter was any different than any other child. "I just mean, she could be better there."
Crystalline irises narrowed, "I won't send my little girl away." That was settled than? The former brunette rolled her eyes in dismay. Lucas gave a disgruntled huff, "ugh, what?"
"What does Peyton think?"
"She thinks it's her fault." He sure thought her responsible. Pointedly, chapped lips spat, "And it is."
"Luke!" She gasped, ready to defend her ex-friend. Of course, that was until she realized that her hatred still ran deep. This could have been her husband – well, the man he used to be. "You're a good father, smart, kind." Brooke tilted her head, tossing a dimpled grin. "I might not be your biggest fan but whatever you need, I'll help you."
"You're always there for me." Mere contemplation spilled from his lips, "You know, when you lost Devin and left Jamara …"
His voice trailed off as an unsettling pain ripped through the Fashionista. Petite hands rose up past her shoulder to silence him. Bright eyes clouded with a teary reserve. He was ripping the band-aid from a new wound. Thinking of her family and the lost that accompanied their memory made her queasy. The pit of her stomach bubbled and she cried silently, "Stop it. Just stop talking about that."
He should stop but the concoction of vicodin and alcohol made him a rambling mess.
Rough hands snaked into gelled tresses, "I just wanted to say, I know how you feel." He could feel her uneasiness building but this had to be said. When she needed him, he wanted to be there but wasn't. "I wanted to call you and say I was sorry but Haley said – well, ugh, she said not to call you. But I wanted to help you, comfort you."
"I asked you to stop, Lucas. I'm finally okay, so don't bring them up."
"I know you're lonely, Brooke. So am I."
There, he said it. Whatever his motives, local journalist needed her to see that they still had the same heart. He needed her to know that he was avail – mentally. Brooke shrugged her shoulders, fighting back the emotions daring to unleash upon him. How dare he even think such vile things? She'd come to Tree Hill to her childhood friend and cheer comrade Bevin Mirskey a favor. No one was supposed to even know that she had returned.
Curse he big mouth and need to speak to that Brooding jackass.
"Where's the wife?"
"Somewhere…" It was his turn to shrug. Broad shoulder moved up then lowered in the suit jacket. "I don't care half the time." Damn that liquid courage, "Don't you ever wish things were different? You and me?"
She should slap him.
"Don't you love your wife?"
"Yes."
Brooke could barely make out his meek little mumble over the overzealous crowd. The ball was still underway, guests becoming more rowdy than ever. Furrowed brows were aimed at the Brooder in annoyance. Disgruntled, "Than stop trying to sabotage it."
"I'm this close from throwing myself off a building, Brooke." The blonde held up his right hand and squashed together his index and ring finger."This close from ending it."
"Than you're a coward."
"You don't think I'll do it?"
"Sure don't."
She didn't think I would do it but I'd show her… I'd show them all!
TBC
Just a Taste, You Know the Drill…
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