Chapter 7
Tom extended his hand as an introduction toward Daria and smiled. The shock of having Tom appear by her side in a grungy brew pub had rendered her speechless. She eyed his outstretched hand cautiously, and took it gingerly with her own.
"Morgan." Daria replied slowly, as she withdrew her hand and placed it on her lap.
"I haven't seen you around before, are you new in town?" He enquired, his emerald green eyes flashed; he oozed the old money charm she had familiarized herself with in the months prior to her death.
Daria's mind reeled. "He is not trying to hit on me."'
"Kinda." Daria replied dismissively, as she faced the front of the bar.
"Oh... Look, the reason I came over here is that I'm supposed to meet someone, and I'm a little late. I was wondering if you had seen her. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes... She wears a pair of combat boots just like yours." He pointed to her feet and smiled sadly. "Well not exactly the same as those...Her name's Jane."
A sorrowful look flashed quickly across Daria's features as she held a hand up to adjust her glasses; a habitual action she had yet to break, she had discarded her beloved frames, a few days prior. Before she had time to answer the woman in question walked into the pub and spied Tom at the bar. Daria turned her attention back to Tom and pointed to Jane.
"That her?"
Tom turned. "Thanks Morgan." he called over his shoulder as he strolled over to Jane.
---
Tom led Jane to a quiet booth seat in the far corner of the bar and sat down. Jane stood at the end of the table her arms folded protectively across her chest.
"What do you want?" she asked vehemently, she was not in the mood for social niceties.
"Please Jane, sit down." Jane slid into the opposite seat and waited. "I just wanted to see how you were, let you know that I'm here for you. I know what you're going through."
Jane scoffed. "That's a cop out and you know it. How would you know what I'm going through? You weren't even at the funeral, Tom."
"Jane, you know Fielding graduates a week before Lawndale. I couldn't get out of it."
"Couldn't or wouldn't? It's all about keeping the family name safe, right?"
"Jane, please," Tom pleaded.
Jane looked at Tom, he had gone to the trouble to look her up, to make sure she was okay; in fact, he was the only one that had, beside Trent. She sighed defeated and looked up at him. "I'm okay I guess. Thanks."
"So, did you get into BFAC?"
"I never submitted my portfolio." Jane looked down at her hands resting on the table.
"You could still..."
"I'm not going." Jane interjected. "Why be taught by two bit hacks that couldn't make it in the art world as real artists?" Jane reasoned.
"Look, my dad has a contact at BFAC; I could get him to..."
"I don't need your charity or your pity." Jane quipped, interrupting Tom again.
"This isn't charity and it sure as hell isn't pity, Jane. I thought you might need a friend to talk to, that's all." Tom's voice grew stern.
"I have plenty of friends I can talk to, thank you very much."
"Jane, Daria was pretty much it."
Jane stood and leaned over the table, her face inches from Tom's; he felt her hot, rasping breath graze his cheeks. Her eyes narrowed; her seething anger was evident.
"Go to hell Tom. I get your game, inviting me down here, in front of 'my kind' so they can witness your gallantry. The noble Thomas Sloane, descending from Crewe Neck to take time out to make sure poor Jane Lane is okay. Trying to buy my loyalty with offers of a college education 'cause I can't get in on my own merit. You really are just a trust fund brat. I don't need your connections, I don't need your pity and I sure as hell don't need your friendship. Get out of here and go back to your country club and your life of luxury."
Jane's voice had gotten considerably louder and all eyes rested on the feuding couple in the corner. Nobody noticed the slightly built, auburn haired woman slip through the crowd and out into the night.
