Thanks for the feedback, you guys are so great!

This is a lttle intermission to keep you reading (and to make up for the last horrific wait)

I mention the song "Peaceful, Easy Feeling" by the Eagles. There's couple of references to The Stand as well (by Stephen King, best book ever!).


First there were the vivid dreams. Then there was his cry, jerking her out of unconsciousness.

The feverish heat of the seedy hotel room had leaked into her mind, tinting everything in her nightmares with a red, feverish haze.

She was so lost, so scared but she was not alone. Not alone at all.

She was in the desert, the baking heat burned into her body and soul. There were eyes everywhere, surrounding, judging. Eyes in the dried shrubs, creatures in the cacti... She didn't know what it meant, she was so lost. Lost in that baking heat, wandering through the burnt orange sand, judged under a dark red sky full of stars and the bloated moon, bearing down on her.

Then there was the song, in her head. That old song, probably one her Father used to listen to. This knowledge fills her with inexplicable shame. Maybe it didn't matter anymore.

The lyrics fill the air... "I wanna sleep with you in the desert tonight, with a billion stars all around..."

And he's there. She knows this as easily as she knows her own name.

His arms encircle her waist from behind. He's freezing cold but it's comforting and she leans back into his touch, sighing with -

Pleasure?Happiness?Despair?

- relief.

"I thought you wouldn't find me."

"I'll always be here."

His words sound more like a threat than reassurance. She doesn't care. That's Jackson. Double sided, just like a blade.

His lips are pressing against the hollow of her throat, she moans and tilts her head back. He laughs softly.

"So cold," She gasps and shivers, "Why did you have to sell your soul?" Lisa doesn't know or care what it means, yet realising it's important somehow.

"Who says I ever had one?" There's something so disturbing about the way he says it, so filled with good humour, yet defensive.

She turns to him and he tangles one hand in her hair, the other slides down her neck like ice though it sets her on fire. She clings to him, pressing hard against his body and they both gasp at the contact. Their faces are inches apart.

"I can't believe that." She whispers and he grinds against her before responding breathlessly.

"It wasn't worth much anyway." He tries to sound detached, but can't disguise a note of sadness.

She meets his eyes, they are just as devastating in her dreams as they are in reality. She feels like crying, they're just as empty too. "Maybe not to you."

That statement is loaded with heavy meaning, but neither of them is particularly interested in exploring it at this moment.

His hands are everywhere. He says with that constant trace of humour "Stockholm syndrome's an ugly thing Leese."

She doesn't care what that means either because now their lips meet and she isn't capable of remembering where she first heard that phrase. She isn't even remotely capable of remembering her own name... She thinks those surrounding eyes are gone (lies). They fear him too... All she knows is him and that's a lie too.

She breaks away, "Nothing about this is going to be pretty, is it?"

His laugh is devoid of humour this time and he grips her waist so hard it hurts, "So what do you want me to do about it?" he growls into her ear and she shudders, a primal reaction.

"Kiss me."

So he did.

Then he screamed.


More like groaned.

She woke in a panic, heartbeat racing for several reasons. She shook off her most disturbing dream yet and thrashed in the confusingly unfamiliar bed, searching for Jackson. She was sure she'd find dead biker man hovering over her, or at least a friend of his. But all there was the smothering heat and darkness.

She noticed that the luminous red digits on top of the cheap TV read 05:13. Then she noticed Jackson.

He was still asleep. They hadn't pulled the curtains shut so an eerie night-blue glow illuminated his figure. He was lying flat on his back and had half kicked off the covers so he was exposed from the waist up. He was so beautiful. Deadly beautiful, pale and slim but muscular. She had time to register a litany of scars on his chest and was fascinated. A small circular one was a present from her father's gun. Another angry white dash across his neck was from Lisa herself. It made her wince yet feel strangely proud... Then there were others. Many others. One across his stomach looked suspiciously like a knife wound. She knew knife wounds of course. One bumpy, criss-crossing scar adorned the top of the arm that tensely gripped the sheet. It looked like a burn mark. His other arm was raised, placed against the makeshift pillow. She could see his exposed wrist and a faded former gash across it made her shiver.

She didn't want to know how he got them.

Maybe a little.

All she knew was one thing: he was killing himself.

She definitely didn't want to know what he was dreaming of. He was still making groaning sounds now, the ones she knew had woken her. The ones that resembled sorrowful whimpers. His face was tense, eyes twitching, frowning slightly. His head moved occasionally from side to side. No peace for Jackson, not even in his sleep.

Good.

But did she really think that? She was desperately trying to shake off her dream - nightmare - as it was clouding her emotions. She was starting to feel sorry for him, and that was plain wrong.

His moans were getting more frequent and louder now, sounding like sobs. He mumbled the odd word now and again, none of which were discernable. Lisa had the strangest urge to wake him as she hovered over him. Strange because he was so vulnerable, so this was her chance. She could easily knock him out, or steal the car keys. But somehow she couldn't bring herself to do it.

Getting too loud to ignore.

"Sssh sleep Jackson." She didn't move closer, didn't stroke his hair back or kneel beside him to offer comfort. This was all she could manage for now. It was far more than he deserved.

He stirred and sighed unhappily.

She shushed him softly once more but it didn't help. She could never get back to sleep with him doing this. A small bubble of bitterness formed inside of her. It was like he had done this on purpose. She suddenly felt more wary. Maybe he was faking this just to see her reaction?

"Jackson?" Her voice was tougher this time, it was her no-nonsense voice.

Forgetting to be wary, she knelt by the sofa bed. "Cut it out."

Of course he wouldn't respond to kindness, but this...

He woke with a start, the kind you cannot fake. Then, with hazy and fearful eyes, he grabbed one of her arms in a vice-like grip.

The other closed around her throat.