I wake at my usual time, despite canceling my alarm and having stayed out much later than normal. The sleep came easily enough, but my thoughts were on MJ before drifting off, so it's no surprise to me that I dreamed of her again.
The surprising part was the dream took a different turn. Instead of reluctantly grabbing the loaves and scampering off like I remember her doing, MJ threw them back at me with a scowl. An oddly bewitching scowl. Then I watched, mortified, as she willingly left the alley on the arm of the same blond guy that had tried to buy time with her the night before. He had a sneering grin on his face and a malicious look in his eyes that my stomach is still knotted up over.
I throw my arm over my eyes in an attempt to block out the dream, but it's no use. The events of last night, and how they could have gone so differently, continue to play out in my head like one of those black and white movie reels from decades ago. Getting up and going to work, even though Rue is opening the shop for me, is probably the only thing that will steer my mind in a different direction.
I can't ignore, though, that I feel worse after finally meeting her than I normally would just having the dreams about her. I found out she's alive, how she's getting on, although it still makes me cringe. I don't want to think of her that way. But I also heard the sound of her voice, saw a spark of her passion, felt the determination she possesses to live. And there's no doubt I got an eyeful of her perfect body, yet it's strange that those aren't the images that are taunting me.
Her eyes, though. Remembering them I can see a storm cloud approaching, thundering through the sky. One that has the power to flood and devastate a landscape in its rage, or drizzle the sweetest taste of life into it.
This last thought is the one I choose to dwell on as I shower, make my bed and head off to the bakery to try and distract myself. There is really nothing I can do for her, so I might as well think the best of the situation, instead of dwelling on what I can't change.
"Peeta!" Rue gasps as I walk through the back door unannounced, her hand flying to cover the place where her heart beats. "You scared me. I wasn't expecting you." Her big, brown eyes look me up and down, landing on my face. "You look like you haven't slept at all. What are you doing here? I thought you were taking the morning off?"
"Just need something to do. It's kind of lonely at home." I notice the slight disapproval in her countenance, and I know she thinks I work too much. "What? You don't want my company?" I joke lightly. It falls flat because of my somber mood, and Rue must pick up on it.
"Wow. You must love Madge more than I thought," she says to me with a small amount of surprise in her voice.
It catches me off guard, the 'more than I thought' part of her observation. So I ask her, "What do you mean by that?" Rue's big eyes grow even larger at my question, and she looks down at the log of dough she's cutting into two inch-thick cinnamon rolls.
"I didn't mean that," she tells me, but I can hear in her voice she's trying to cover up something. I've been working with Rue for over a year now, and she's never been disingenuous with me, so I can spot it right away.
"Say it, Rue. It's okay. I promise I won't be upset." She glances up at me through the longest, darkest eyelashes, and quirks her lip to the side in a half-smile. The look instantly melts my heart like butter. She could probably ask for a huge raise right now and I'd give it to her, she's that endearing.
"Well, it's just that you two have always seemed like such great friends that genuinely love each other, but-" She stops, taking the tray of rolls to the oven. I wait for her, since the oven door creaks loudly when it's used, and I wouldn't be able to hear her anyway.
"It's just that, well, you don't seem 'in love' to me." Rue's innocent observation slaps me right across the cheek, like my mother's rolling pin when I tossed MJ the bread. What? How do I not seem 'in love' with my fiance? I said I wouldn't get upset, so I'm going to have to play it cool on the outside, because on the inside I'm quickly becoming offended. And hurt. Rue's always been such a good employee and friend to Madge and me, and this feels like a bit of betrayal.
"Can you elaborate?" I ask, purposely slowing my words so they don't come out in an angry rush. I can't, however, keep myself from enunciating the 't' at the end.
"Well, unless you've seen true love in action, you really don't notice it in anyone else." Can she be any more cryptic? Who hasn't seen true love in action? I've seen movies where guys go to great lengths to show the leading lady how much they're wanted. I have a few married friends that I'm sure will be together forever. I also have a few divorced ones, as well, but that's just because we live in Vegas and the temptation and ease with which one can cheat is just too much for some to handle.
"Can you elaborate more?" My patience is being tested, and with someone it should never take issue with. Something is wrong with me. I have never felt this anxious and irritable with Rue. She's so sweet and delicate, like a little chocolate bird that flutters gracefully from tree to tree.
"I've seen my parents in love my whole life," she says, and her face takes on a dreamy look. "They modeled what I want for myself." I try boring my eyes into hers to help her speed up the story, but she continues at her wistful pace, mixing up the icing for the rolls, the spoon methodically clicks against the bowl, breaking up the silence.
"They smile at each other bashfully, like they know secrets about the other one that no one else does. And they constantly touch in public. Innocent touches to the unsuspecting eye, but they communicate an intimate message to each other, you know?" No. Apparently I don't. "I know because I hear them at night sometimes," Rue laughs for a second, then coughs and looks away. I am definitely uncomfortable talking to innocent Rue about her what her parents do in their bedroom.
"Sorry," she says. "TMI. Anyway, with you and Madge - and don't take this the wrong way!" she exclaims, pointing the spatula at me and flinging bits of icing onto the counter. "I mean this purely as a friend to both of you." I nod, but I've been speechless so far. "You guys seem like great friends with benefits, but I don't see the spark of passionate, I'll-climb-the-highest-mountain, bring-you-the-moon kind of love there."
Huh. I guess I've never thought of it that way. I'm don't agree with her, although I know for sure my parents didn't model to me what hers did to her. With mine, there was always a chill in the room when they were both present, and I can't remember ever hearing them say they loved each other. I just assumed they did because they were married, and stayed together all their lives. I also assumed because Madge and I are so warm and affectionate with each other, that it was better than what my parents had. I never heard them through the walls, but Madge and me, we're different. Aren't we? The sex is good. I'm not complaining. It's been a little lacking as of late, but that's just because we're tired and busy. I mean, who isn't? I actually haven't thought about sex in the last two weeks until… well, until last ni-
"Earth to Peeta," Rue says, snapping her fingers in my face. I blink, pulling myself back from the rabbit trail I was on, and focusing on her for a moment. "What are you thinking about?"
What was I thinking about? Well, it started out with my parents, briefly switched to Madge, and somehow ended with MJ. "Just considering what you said, I guess. I think we're in love, though, I mean, you can't see everything we do." I know she means well, but I'm not quite ready to take advice from an employee who's almost a decade younger than me. And there's no way an outsider can tell me I don't love the girl I've chosen to spend the rest of my life with. I'm sorry, but that's only for me to decide. And I decide I love Madge, and I tell Rue so.
"I'm in love with Madge." But even as the words leave my mouth, they don't feel right. I love Madge. I test the phrase in my brain, and that feels right. After all, love is caring for others, putting them above yourself, considering their feelings, thinking the best of them, sharing pieces of your life. I definitely love her. I may not be in love enough for someone else, or even like Rue says her parents are, but I can get there. We're there, anyway. It just takes that extra, intimate touch. The laughing. The secret looks. Like Rue talked about. Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.
After our little chat, the rest of the day goes by quickly as I scurry about the bakery's kitchen, mixing doughs and shaping cookies, while Rue covers the counter and keeps the floors swept. I have a renewed vigor, an excitement about my future with Madge that I haven't felt before, and it helps keep my concentration on things I can do, instead of things I have no control over. Like MJ.
"You good to lock up?" I ask Rue, tossing my apron into the linen basket.
"Sure thing, boss," she says, and gives me a silly salute of obedience, then turns more serious. "Can I say something before you go?"
"Anything," I assure her. Nothing she says now can be worse than telling me I'm not in love with my fiance.
"You can't make yourself fall in love, Peeta." She's cute when she's concerned, and I know I need to hear her out so I don't hurt her feelings, so I let her speak. "You just… are. And it will feel like nothing you can explain to anyone. They have to feel it for themselves to know."
"Have you felt this feeling?" I ask, challenging her a bit. There is no way a sixteen year old has been in love yet.
"No, but I asked my mother. That's what she told me. I'll know when it happens," she says confidently. I nod my head, and leave it alone. I don't want to get into that conversation again.
I'm standing in front of my washing machine, sorting all my blues and grays, a color that takes my mind from the fact that Madge forgot to drop my clothes at the cleaners this week, and directs it straight to the eyes that haunt me - MJ's. I don't know what to do about her. Or if there's even anything I can do.
At the mere thought of her I'm frustrated again, and I find myself abusing my clothing by slam dunking the pieces into the machine. I search through the pockets of my jeans before tossing them in, too, and dump the contents onto a table nearby. MJ's card is crumpled at the edges, peeking out of some dollar bills and loose change. My heart skips a beat at the sight of it, and the jeans are discarded absently onto the floor, never making it into the wash.
Somehow, the card is in my hands again. It has a pull, some irresistible draw that I can't explain. Checking my watch I see the time is 4:30. I contemplate booking her again, and tell myself over and over it's a terrible idea. Even though I know I won't listen to myself, I try anyway for the next half hour.
I can possibly explain one charge on my card to the District Twelve Lounge, but two? I really hope Madge is the forgiving type. I've never done anything worse than leaving the toothpaste on the counter and occasionally picking Chinese when Madge is in the mood for Italian, so I have nothing to go on, but something tells me women don't look highly on this type of purchase.
I threw caution to the wind last night, so maybe that's why it's so easy for me to dial the number on the card and risk it all a second time. That and the fact I live in a gambling town. Sometimes it seeps into your pores without you knowing.
It's probably too much to hope that MJ will answer, but I allow it anyway. Disappointment comes in the form of a not-so-cheery, male voice.
"Yeah?" he says.
"Uh, yeah I have a card for MJ. I'm wondering if she's available tonight?" I ask as cool as I can. The phone is shaking slightly next to my ear and I hope my voice isn't in sync with it. The five seconds it takes for him to answer feels like aeons.
"She's available," he tells me. "What time?" I've never done this before, except for last night. Is it really this easy? There's no background check, no information needed it seems. What if I were an axe murderer? Don't they care about these girls?
"Name," he demands. I tell him, and he says I'm 'in the system'. Great. It sounds like I'm a criminal. He charges my card again, which is also on file, and hangs up after he gives me the time and place. I booked another two hours at the discounted price from last night, and I think I must be the only man in history to have spent hundreds of dollars on a prostitute, and ended up having no type of sex at all.
I take the next hour to finish the load of laundry, shower and shave, and pick out the right clothes. I've never had a problem getting dressed before, but I'm not quite sure what says 'I'm not here to have sex' while meeting a person who is there to have sex, other than stained sweat pants and a flour-dusted, oversized t-shirt. That seems to work for Madge.
I opt for another of Madge's favorite shirts, this time a red and navy striped one that she bought me a few weeks ago. There's no real reason for me to pick it, other than It's one of the only ironed shirts in my closet. It'll have to do.
The thought of showing up with flowers flits briefly through my mind, but right away I know that would be a terrible idea. She doesn't seem like a 'floral' kind of girl. I need some way to apologize, though. Some gift to offer to calm what I'm sure will be a door slamming in my face at the sight of me for a second consecutive night. After a few minutes of thought, I get an idea that I'm happy with and begin to make my way back to the Capitol Suite.
Even more nervous than yesterday, I rub my hands on my khakis and flap my shirt collar a few times to get some air to my neck and chest. Unbuttoning the top button of my shirt is the next step, since it seems too constricting around my continually bobbing throat. I have no clue why I keep swallowing since my mouth is dryer than the Mojave Desert.
I take a moment to clear my throat, then knock on the door. Silence. Stillness. Nothing happens. I check my receipt through the email D12 sent me, then my watch, noting i'm here two minutes late. She should be in there.
I knock again. Still nothing. I keep knocking, my knuckles turning red and sore, until I hear a loud sigh and the words "go away". I remember MJ saying she stared at me through the peephole last night, and she must have done it again, recognizing me. Wonderful. Make that the only man in history to pay for time with a girl and not even make it into the room with her.
"Let me in, please," I plead with her through the door. "MJ?"
"Go away, Peeta." She sounds serious, but the fact that she knows my name makes me more determined to get her to open the door. I'm certain we didn't exchange that information last night.
"I'm not going to hurt you, I'm just here to talk." The door swings open and MJ is there, hand on hip, braid slung over her shoulder, a genuinely bothered look on her pretty face. I can't believe I forgot how beautiful she is. It was just last night I saw her.
"You can't just keep coming here to talk, Peeta." God, my name sounds amazing on her lips.
"Why can't I come here just to talk?"
"Because, it's not what you paid for. And now I owe you sex. Twice. So come in and take your pants off or go home."
I can't say I'm not completely shocked by her demands. I want to go in the room, but not for sex. Two rounds, no less. Nope, definitely not here for that, I tell myself. Five times in a row. Deep breaths.
The fact that her satin robe is my favorite color, the pale orange of a sunset, bordered by seductive black lace, and her chemise is practically sheer with tiny underthings barely covering her private areas, makes calming myself more difficult. I need to sit down for a minute, so I walk into the room and past MJ, taking a seat on the chaise lounge at the end of the bed. I can feel her staring at me.
"Your pants are still on," she says, unamused.
"They're not coming off. I'm here because…" Can I really tell her why I'm here a second night in a row when I don't know myself? "Look, like I told you last night, or at least started to before you kicked me out, I regret not doing more for you back then. I know you said I did plenty, but I can't help feeling like I could have spared you from... well, from this," I say, spreading my hands out in front of me.
"What makes you think I don't want to be here?" she demands. I can see we're picking up where we left off last night, and I know I need to get control or she'll boot me again, so I pick up the room service menu on the nightstand and hand it to her.
"Order something," I say. I give her my best puppy dog eyes, the ones that used to get me extra cookies from my dad when my mother wasn't looking. MJ frowns and folds her arms over her chest, making it obvious that she's a completely different breed than my dad.
"I'm not sure why you're here, but it's not for dinner. So, take your clothes-"
"I am not here for that!" I raise my voice at her, hoping to finally make my point. I didn't mean to, but I'm tired of saying the same thing over and over and gaining no ground with her. She's so stubborn. And shocked-looking. It's the most vulnerable I've seen her face, and now I feel bad for shouting at her.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell, it's just that I can't get you to realize I'm not here for sex. I'm here because I want to be your friend, and I have no idea how to do that other than to buy your time to talk to you." That is as honest as I can be, and I'm expecting her to lash out at me again, but she doesn't. Instead she takes a seat on the chaise, where I was minutes ago.
The silence is thick and suffocating, but looking at her is like fresh air, so I keep my gaze leveled on her while I pick up the phone and order the most basic of room service entrees - cheeseburgers.
"Why are you doing this?" she asks me after I've hung up the phone. I pull a chair from the small desk opposite the room closer to her and take a seat.
"Because I care about you."
"How - how can you care about me? You don't even know me," she says, her voice every bit as unsatisfied as my heart when I look at her. She's full of questions I don't know how to answer. I just acted impulsively and found myself here, without a clue as to how I'm supposed to make this work.
"I can't tell you why. I just saw your picture and I knew I had to do something."
"What exactly are you going to do?" she asks me, her boldness making a slight comeback.
"I'm not sure. I guess whatever you'll allow."
"You're supposed to be the one in charge here and you're asking me what I'll allow? I must be the only hooker in history to leave their second night of work a virgin," she admits, a sardonic laugh escaping her pink lips.
"What?" I ask, the word coming out harshly.
"What?" she counters, clearly not understanding what she just confessed to me.
"You said you were leaving your second night of prostitution as a virgin." Even saying it a second time is unbelievable to me. There's no way.
"Is that so hard to believe?" Her defenses are back up, so I raise my hands in surrender.
'H-how... is that even possible?" She's gorgeous, and clearly she could have guys eating out of her hand.
"Maybe I've had more things to worry about than banging the guy next door. What's it to you, anyway?"
"I'm just surprised is all. You're a very attractive girl." That's a gross understatement, but the eggshells are scattered on the floor and stepping on one could be disastrous. "Anyway, don't you want your first time to be with someone who cares about you?"
"Nobody cares about me. I have no one, except my sister, and she's the reason I'm doing any of this. In a perfect world, maybe I would care, but my world is so far from perfect that it's not a luxury for me to worry about who the guy is that gets to say he was my first. Besides, I'm only nineteen. It's not that far fetched that I'm a virgin."
I don't know which part of her confession seems more unreal to me - the fact that she's so blase about giving her first time away to a potential douche, or that she thinks there's no one that cares about her. I know right away there's at least one person.
"I care about you," I tell her. She rolls her eyes, then considers my statement before responding.
"You're so strange," she says. I laugh, which makes her smile, and God help me, I've never seen such artistry in a person's features. It's as if the Creator himself spent hours perfecting this one girl, while the rest of us were cast from the same boring mold.
A knock on the door tells me our food is here. I rise from my seat and pull the large terry cloth robe from the closet, handing it to MJ. "Here. If it makes you feel more comfortable." I hope this doesn't insult her, and I'm relieved when she says thank you and wraps the large robe around her small frame, covering every part of her from shoulders to toes.
I tip the delivery boy and roll our food cart into the room. The fancy, silver dome is lifted off to reveal two of the juiciest, cheesiest burgers I've ever seen. The patties are perfectly charred on the outside, while the juices run down into the bottom bun. The waffle fries are a pile of golden deliciousness, hot to the touch and not too greasy, and the chocolate milkshakes are in enormous glass tumblers, sprinkled with dark chocolate, curly-q shavings, and topped with perfectly coiffed whipped cream and a bright red cherry.
"Dinner is served," I say. MJ's eyes are huge and I hear her stomach rumble as she hesitantly reaches for a plate. She plows through her fries first, eating fast enough to cause me to wonder when her last meal was. Surely she's eaten today. I don't know how to ask, so I don't. I just continue to watch her as she moves to the cheeseburger, and I smile when I see a dribble of juice run down her chin. Things seem to be going in the right direction and I want to keep it that way.
We talk a little between bites. I find out that her father died when she was eleven, although she didn't say how, and her mother went into a depression so severe she couldn't take care of her own children. MJ's sister was only six years old at the time, and she had to become a mother as a preteen.
My heart breaks at some of her revelations, although I'm sure she's holding back plenty, and now I'm desperate to go back in time and really do more, mother be damned. I should have brought her into the bakery, sat her at a table and offered her any and every treat she wanted from its glass cases. A whole new wave of guilt washes over me with every detail. I have to change the subject somehow or my heart will literally burst from the pain she's endured.
"So, what does MJ stand for? Is it code for Mary Jane? You know, from Spiderman?" She smiles at me again, then wraps her fleshy lips around the straw in her milkshake. I look away quickly, so as not to become aroused by the sight. She's becoming a friend, and friends don't think of each other that way. Especially the engaged ones.
"Actually, it stands for Mockingjay. It was the name of a singing group my dad was in a long time ago, The Mockingjays. He was the soprano of the group. They got their name because my mother would say that they sang so beautifully even the birds would stop to listen to them."
"Oh," I answer, nervous about asking for her real name. Now that I'm sure it's not MJ, I want to know it, but I don't want to scare her off like last night when I mentioned her sister.
I tell a few jokes to make the silence less awkward, but the only safe ones I know are the jokes my dad told me repeatedly while I was growing up, and they're lame at best, but I got a few smiles out of her. Mostly cringes.
It's time for me to leave, so I pack the plates back up onto the cart, gathering the dirty cups and napkins that fell to the floor. I know housekeeping will do it, but I'm stalling for time. I don't want to go yet.
"Well, thank you for spending the evening with me. I'm glad I let you this time," MJ says. There's a spark in her eyes, but her expression stays neutral.
"Thank you for not kicking me out," I reply. "If there's ever anything I can do for you-"
"I'm fine. Really. I'm grateful for your concern, but I can take care of my sister and me." There is no irritation in her tone, just sincerity, and I feel disappointed that she doesn't need me.
"Bye, MJ," is all I have left to say for tonight. Before she closes the door, she calls to me, "Katniss." I turn and look at her, confused. "My name. It's Katniss," she says, and it jogs my memory that she knew my name.
"By the way, how did you know my name?"
She gives me a look that I interpret as 'I guess you'll never know', and closes the door gently. It doesn't bother me, though, because she knew it, and she told me hers. Katniss.
I say it all the way home.
We can stop calling her MJ now! Woohoo! I was telling notanislander that it's hard to write Peeta realizing his feelings because I'm so used to him knowing that he loves Katniss no matter what. But he's got some obligations to tend to here. Eek! I wonder what he will do? Everlark is my endgame. If not, I would beg you to stab me in my sleep and just stop the story before I went any further. Come find me on tumblr! Same url there. I've been at 299 followers for like a week now, and I just need 1, ONE, to put me in the next hundred. I stare at it for way too long willing it to change. Lol. I obviously need help.
Hope you are liking the story! I'm not as happy with this chapter as I was the first, but I'll take your words for it. Lmk what you think! Pbg