Chapter One
"Did you really kill a guy with your car?" Wide blue eyes stare up at Margaret Cohen and for a second, she's tempted to say yes as this little boy so clearly wants her to. When did kids become such a bloodthirsty bunch? She wonders, fighting a curve of her mouth at the memory of just this morning. But really, it wasn't quite the same getting a kick out of repeatedly chopping your brother's head off. It was only a video game after all.
"Who told you that?" She asks, evading the question. She pulls the bandage tighter around little Robbie's wrist and fastens it.
"Jessica. She said that you ran him over and now he's dead. Did you really, Doc Marty?" His eyes are filled with gory anticipation.
"Ah Jessica, little socialite homewreckerslashpillpoppinggossipintraining." Marty mumbles remembering the spoiled little blonde.
"Huh?" Robbie asks, his experiences with said socialites being limited to his pill-popping mommy.
"All done." Marty steps back and sends him back to his real doctor, Dr Matthews.
No, she hadn't killed Luke. Merely rear ended his Porsche. Repeatedly. Garnering herself community service as opposed to a murder conviction. Asshole deserved it and in principal, her parents had agreed with her. Lawfully though was another matter and daddy being a lawyer and all, it wouldn't look so nice if little girl didn't pay for her loosely termed crime.
It was either volunteer at the hospital or pay a hefty fine. Marty wouldn't lower herself to that. If she paid the fine it would be the same as admitting she was wrong and would they all take this bribe to make everything all nice and rosy again? Not hardly. She'd take her punishment. Hell, she'd eat dirt before she admit that she shouldn't have wrecked that spoiled jackass's car. Nobody messed with her family and she'd taken all she was gonna take of that Neanderthal picking on Seth.
She was a week into her community service and all in all, Marty had to admit that it was kind of fun, especially having the younger kids think she was a real doctor. Not that it was even a desirable career option. No, thank you. For all her violent tendencies, blood and guts made her queasy.
Slinging her purse over her shoulder, Marty spies a young woman crying in the waiting room. That was another reason she had no desire to be a doctor. For as much as Marty enjoyed helping people, there were those moments when the doctors do all the can and the patient is beyond hope. To have to face those left behind...Marty shudders.
"Father knocked the kid down the stairs. Paralyzed probably. No insurance." Amelia, the curly haired elderly nurse, who kicks Marty's ass repeatedly at poker, explains. "Same old, same old." Marty feels a new burst of anger.
"Some people don't deserve to be parents." Marty seethes, comforted in the fact that her own family life is a safe one, full of love. She comes into the administrative office and sits down next to Amelia so the crying woman doesn't see Marty dig into her purse for her check book.
"Margaret Cohen! What do you think you're doing?"
"Shh!" Marty insists peeking over the wood panel to see if the woman was paying them any attention. She wasn't. Marty slides the cheque over to Amelia.
"You can't solve everyone's problems with a check, dear girl." Amelia reminds her as she looks for the insurance forms for the little boy.
"I can try. Besides what else am I gonna do with it?" Marty whispers.
"You're parents are not going to be happy."
"Yes they are. I'm a brilliant child." Marty tosses the old woman a smile and a wink and then heads for home.
She'll make that money back in a couple of birthday's, Marty knows. No. She can't save the world. But she also can't stand by and watch some one suffer because of a lack of something she has in abundance.
" 'Night, Ms Cohen." Adam, the guard at the gate waves her into the gated community she calls home. As she pulls up to her house she yawns. Her bed is calling her name but a stronger urge is pulling at her. She locks her car in the garage and heads over to the pool house. Her fingers are itching to dance over a canvas. Half an hour, she'll allow herself only that. Enough to settle her unease and drive away the sad thoughts.
It works every time. Long black hair tied back, she slips on a paint splattered t-shirt. She goes out next to the pool and lets her fingers slide over the white paper that looks silver in the light of the moon. She doesn't need to see what she's painting. A lot of times it's more fun to paint in the dark and see what she's created in the morning. Within seconds, her tension is being released onto the easel. Painting is the only that calms her most of the time. Her mind slows and peace washes over her. Her mother bought her a new set of brushes but sometimes, Marty likes to paint with her fingers. Tonight, she needs to feel the stickiness of unknown colours on her fingers.
When her eyes start to drift closed, Marty knows it's time to call it a night. She cleans up and then debates going across to the house or simply crashing here. Her parents won't worry if she isn't in her bedroom. They've found her curled up here many times.
When not in use, the pool house doubles as Marty's studio. Her own private place where she can work in relative comfort, undisturbed.
She's barely aware of crawling into the bed before she feels the wonderful pull of sleep. Marty stiffens at the feel of warm skin against her back and the sound of deep breathing.
She is not alone.
There is someone else in the bed with her. Forcing herself to ignore images of Seth's comic book monsters, or evil demonic entities, Marty turns to face whatever is behind her. Coming face to face with a strange, sleeping male face. Marty begins to scream.
Wide blue eyes open in surprise and they both bolt off the bed, falling on opposite sides.
"Who the hell are you?" They both demand at the same time.
"I live here!" Marty replies she's searching for any sort of weapon under the bed and her fingers come grip one of her brother's golf clubs. For a moment, Marty is glad for Seth's habit of putting golf balls out through the door and into the pool. She swings at the man, taking in briefly that he seems to be roughly her age. He ducks, just barely escaping decapitation.
Marty runs after him. He's dressed, or undressed, as the case may be, in a white under shirt and white/or is it yellow? boxers. He ducks behind one of her canvases and picks it up to ward off another coming swing. She stops short of connecting, reluctant to rip through her painting.
He seems to take this as a good sign and holds the canvas close to his head to protect himself. He peeks out at her from behind it.
"Mr Cohen said I could stay here for the weekend. You can check with him. Now put that damn thing down!" He orders.
Marty pulls back and then narrows her eyes. "You first." She counters waiting for him to let go of her painting.
"Together. Deal?" He asks beginning to lower the painting.
"You're a friend of my dad's?" Marty asks him, slowly lowering the golf club.
"He's my lawyer." He shrugs. The commotion must have carried to the house cause she could hear people making their way to them.
"You're a criminal?" She asks raising the golf club again.
"He's letting me crash here. Relax!"
"Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaddddyyyyyyyyyy!" Marty screams angrily in a shriek that makes the not-so-much-intruder, jump and cringe, pressing his fingers to his ears.
"Oh no." Kirsten Cohen groans when she turns on the light.
"Who is this guy?" Marty demands, irritation overcoming her panic. Her mother rolls her eyes and turns to her husband.
Sandy Cohen enters the room followed by her groggy sixteen year old brother, Seth. "This is Ryan. He'll be staying with us for the weekend. I called and left a note for you at the hospital." Her father informs her.
"Well surprise, I didn't get it!" Marty throws the golf club on the carpet. "Jesus H. Christ." She shakes her head and drops onto the edge of the bed. "I nearly whacked his head off. Sorry about that by the way." She turns to the intruder/criminal/guest. He nods and then shrugs. Hmm. Not much of a talker, this one, Marty notes.